#to the point where i feel like my tether to reality has snapped. i feel like. im floating and i cant reach the ground.

[orcelito]

Sometimes I like looking at my ao3 stats page just to see the word counts of all my fics. Sometimes I forget that I wrote all of it. It feels like a different person did all that. Who am I now? Certainly not the person who wrote 70k words in 3 weeks. They're me, but not.

Who am I now? I don't really know.

[goldentournesol]

to be true, to not be true (part 1)

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: early in y/n’s and spencer’s relationship, y/n fears the growing distance between them, although what seemed to be possible infidelity, is actually much worse–for spencer.

Length: 2.9k

A/N: i wrote this in collaboration with one of my favorite writers on here, Mia over at @mggpleasedontlookhere​. She is so wonderful and hopefully you can see both of our writing styles here! 

masterlist

The sunlight streaming through the windows made the hairs on my skin dance in glee, although it was the soft breeze invading the space that contrasted the radiant warmth. An equilibrium was achieved–a needed balance. The same can be said about the nerves crawling about my stomach and the naive excitement that made me light-headed whenever I was around Spencer. I glanced up at him from where my head lay in his lap. The reflected glow from the TV danced across his features making my heart jolt. My stare caught his attention and he sent me a small smile, his hand leaving traces in my hair. It was his day off and I had no problem spending it in suffocating proximity with him.

“This is nice,” I breathed, leaning back into his soft touch. He hummed in response, almost in contentment, if not for the moment his eyes seemed far off, entangled in a distant thought. It was so brief, I might have missed it. His job took a lot from him and I knew that, which is why I never pushed him. Instead, I let the subtle aroma of morning coffee and fresh linen confine my senses, leaving me oblivious to reality.

Although not a few moments later, the ping from Spencer’s phone burst the fantastical bubble that surrounded us. My eyes lingered on the cartoon characters plastered on the screen but I couldn’t help noticing the way Spencer’s fingers would thump rhythmically against the floor. Adjacent to his palm, rested his phone, revealing several notifications as it came alive. Albeit I paid no mind to their context given I was enamored by the picture of me on his homescreen. A faint smile graced my lips at the observation, feeling a wave of warmth rush my cheeks.

“I wonder who that is,” I teased, referring to the image. Spencer must have misunderstood my point of reference, hastily explaining that new language that Morgan had introduced him to through text messages.

“Spencer, using emojis does not constitute a new language.”

“Considering its context, I would argue it is–I mean look at hieroglyphics!” I covered my face in amusement, running my hands over my eyes. A sharp exhale left my lungs as my chest filled with contagious giggles. It seems that I was too consumed in my fit of laughter to notice Spencer stealthily concealing the device and turning off his ringer.

“First of all, hieroglyphics is a formal writing system-”

“And does that not ‘constitute’ a portion of language? Also, isn’t texting a writing system in itself?” His lips formed into a sly smirk, thinking he’d gotten the best of me.

“You’re right in the way that hieroglyphics is part of the language, however it’s all but the ‘expression’ of that language.” I debated, gesturing to the air as I explained my point. For a moment our eyes met, and I could feel my playful resolve melt away under his gaze. Despite the pause in my confidence, my stubbornness shone through.

“All I heard was that I was right,” he jested, tickling the side of my waist. I jumped at his mischief, collapsing into pleas and begs as he continued his assault at my skin. My stomach churned in delight as my hands attempted to pry him off of me, the premise of our conversation vanishing into air like wisps of smoke.

-

Spencer’s days off were becoming increasingly rare, I’d barely seen him in the last two weeks, but we’ve managed to salvage enough time between cases for a date. The excitement buzzed through my veins as the clock ticked closer to 7 pm. I was growing restless in the apartment, obsessively checking my phone for the time. Spencer is usually right on time, if not early. Dread and anxiety clogged up my throat as I waited for him. For hours, call after call would be sent straight to voicemail. The weather outside seemed to be in tandem with the way I felt. The rain was as unforgiving as the tears that striped my face.

I was never one to hold a grudge. But it happened once, then it happened twice. Slowly, it became a habit and it was impossible to reach him.

I guess date nights on Thursdays were now obsolete.

He came over to my apartment maybe once whenever he was in town and even then he was nearly unrecognizable. His shy, loving demeanor was replaced by explosive irritability and general unease. I wished he’d just talk to me, but he continued to brush me off. He was being distant and strange, his behavior was so unlike him. Knowing him though, he was probably too stressed or busy to get around to doing simple tasks like eating a balanced meal. Spencer can be quite scatterbrained, and I hadn’t seen him in around a week. So, around lunch time, I made Spencer a healthy meal packed with proteins and veggies and decided to pop into the BAU and drop it off. It felt like a good way to cheer him up. Maybe we’d have lunch together at the park he always liked to visit. It wasn’t that far from headquarters. Hell, I’d even eat lunch with him at his desk at this point.

The walk into the BAU was strangely nerve wracking, I could feel my heart in my throat. I had an uneasy feeling in my gut but I took a deep breath and pushed the heavy glass doors open. My eyes scanned the bullpen for my boyfriend but I couldn’t find him. Standing there in confusion, I was only snapped out of my trance when someone bumped into me from behind.

“I’m so sorry–oh, it’s you! Hey Y/N, what are you doing here?” JJ said, closing the file she held in her hands and wrapping me in a one-armed hug.

“Hey JJ! I was looking for Spence, I got him lunch, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere? Do you know where he is?” I said as I pulled back from the hug, she began to say something but was interrupted.

“Woah hey, sunshine! I was wondering why it suddenly got so bright in here.” The deep voice of none other than Derek Morgan came from beside us and he was, of course, donning his signature cheeky grin. I couldn’t help but grin back, even though my chest was nearly caving in on itself.

“Did Spence come in today?” JJ asked Morgan, whose brows immediately furrowed.

“No, I haven’t seen him today. I think he might be coming in late, I’m not sure. He’s been kind of off, lately.” Morgan said, eyes searching my own for an answer.

“He has, hasn’t he?” I exclaimed and the two nodded in agreement, “I’ve been worried about him, maybe all that emoji-talk finally got to him.” I laughed slightly, but stopped when I found Morgan’s expression shift.

“What do you mean? I stopped trying to explain emojis to him like months ago, if the genius doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it.” Morgan shrugged, unknowingly allowing the literal caving in of my chest to take place. JJ noticed the change in me immediately.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” She asked in her usual caring manner, but I could barely hear her over the rushing of my blood in my ears.

“Nothing, nothing. Um, if he comes in today, can you just give him this?” I dismissed the conversation and handed over the brown bag with the lunch I made, disguising the sharp exhale that left my lungs. Before JJ had the opportunity to utilize her profiling skills, I gave both of them a cordial nod and left the office.

My steps felt heavier with every collision against the tile, albeit the loud thumping of my heart drowned out reality around me. My mind warped itself around irrational thoughts as my loyalty to Spencer attempted to retaliate against the invaders. The concept of Spencer as dubious and sly fell foreign to me. However, that lack of knowledge only added fuel to the imminent blaze that engulfed my head and stomach.

I swarmed with alternate realities, trying to make sense of the unknown. If Spencer was aware of my method of defining a solution, I would’ve been scolded by my naivety and illogical thinking. Oh to be a scientist–to have a mind like his. It’s a gift yet a heavy burden to carry. Is that it? Was that it? Does he not believe I’m capable of understanding a mind like his? Was I stupid? No. He had shared intimate momentos of his life before, so what was it? What can I not offer…What can I not promise to make him drift away like this?

It must have been me, right? I must’ve hit a boundary the last time we spoke! Or was it his work? No. By the time my thoughts stopped buzzing, I realized my feet carried me to the park I intended to visit earlier with Spencer. An unfamiliar pang hit my chest, sending reverbing waves throughout the cavity. A sort of ache rested in the core of my heart–something I didn’t think I would feel when reflecting on my relationship with Spencer–my Spencer. I guess I was so used to the warm bubble he fabricated that I forgot how cold the real world was.

Was that it? Did I stop being that for him too?

The thought of the slow degradation of our relationship sent a chilling shock through my veins while I swallowed pins and needles. My hand rested on a park bench next to me, letting myself use the wooden beams as support. Looking out into the far pond in the center of the park, I pulled myself to take a seat. The wind began to whistle through the trees, and the lake of glitter–the nickname I gave whenever the sun casted its glow onto the surface–lost all of its beauty. Crickets didn’t even dare to sing their usual melody and birds flew south to their homes. The breaths I took kept going nowhere, dissolving into nothing even though my chest expanded and retracted.

I pulled at the ends of my sleeves, tucking my knees into my chest as the air grew crisp. Questions of infidelity and unfounded justifications collided creating a mass of insatiable curiosity. My head coincided with entropy–it enjoyed the chaos–until suddenly it went blank. Every tether that kept me grounded vanished, my consciousness going into autopilot. I didn’t even realize the burn that resided in my eyelids or the wet streaks coating my cheeks–maybe from the dryness or something more. It was only the small drop of water landed on the back of my palm that pushed me out of the addicting trance.

Another one had landed on my forehead. And another one. And another one. I cringed as I felt the water drip from my head to the crevice of my ear. The clouds began to rumble a somber tune as it began to rain. Plucking myself from the bench, I made no hurry to make it back to the house. In a way, the droplets cascading the skin distracted me–seemingly blissful compared to the former events.

Once again, my feet held a prominent consciousness as it was the only part of me that was stable, leading me to the doorstep of my apartment complex. With what felt like a last ditch effort, I checked my phone for any new messages from Spencer. My heart lurched seeing a new notification pop up. To my surprise, it was from him.

With a deep breath and newfound hope, I unlocked the device, taking a moment to gaze at the picture of I and Spencer on the screen, before proceeding. My shoulders dropped, the tight squirming in my stomach halting. A hopeful smile crept on the corners of my lips, the previous distrust dissipating from my unreliable mind as I read the words displayed in front of me.

“Date night tomorrow?”

-

Tomorrow night couldn’t come quick enough. It somehow felt like I was holding my breath the entire day until I finally saw him. He was apologetic and sweet enough that it quieted my anxieties for a while. If he held any guilt or shame, it wasn’t apparent, or maybe he hid it well. Or maybe I was being ridiculous and reading far too much into things that could be circumstantial. But this was Spencer…my Spencer, the tenderhearted, gentle soul who made way too many corny physics jokes.

Dinner went by much smoother than I expected, but I still felt like there were things unsaid. The words felt lodged in my throat, almost like an itch I couldn’t reach. Either by mindless habit or by sheer deliberacy, we ended up in our favorite park. The very park that I found myself running to in a fit of frustration yesterday. Our feet seemed to know the way of our usual path along the pavement. I wondered briefly if there was a place I stepped in twice without noticing it. There was a lull in conversation and before I realized it, the words escaped me stealthily.

“Hey, Spence?” I started, and he took his attention off his shoes to look at me, “I, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something.” The way the words stumbled ungracefully from my lips had me cringing. He lifted a brow in intrigue and caught my eye, silently profiling me and my nervous behavior.

“Anything, love.” The use of the amorous term caught me off guard and I had to swallow under his intense gaze. I felt myself open my mouth, but the words died on my tongue as the blaring of his ringtone took the place of my voice between us. It was almost as if the scratchy melody startled him because the way he snatched himself away from me to look at his phone was worrisome.

His brows bunched together as he took a look at it, “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

Without waiting for my confirmation, he pressed the phone to his ear and took a few large steps away from me, as if the space would give him more privacy. I suddenly felt extremely exposed without him by my side.

The emptiness beside me lingered of his scent, almost mocking me, the words constricting my tongue. If I had a second longer, maybe the phone call would’ve been obsolete, maybe for the first time in a long time he would’ve been selfishly mine, even for another moment. I found myself suffocating in the same place I was yesterday like some poetic injustice. Perhaps I’m just a marionette, dangling from loose strings as the universe had their way with me. Frankly that would be less upsetting than watching Spencer slip through my fingers, knowing that it was possibly me who sealed that fate, and not some otherworldly being. It would’ve been my doing, and that’s something I’m not yet ready to realize.

Maybe it was my undying curiosity or growing twinge in my chest every second passed that led me to consult the moral figures weighing down my shoulders. At two opposing extremes, they debated the right course of action–or if doing the right thing was even the course of action to consider. Surprisingly in the end, it was my impulsivity that answered for me, wasting no time to stipulate consequences.

I shook off the twisting feeling in my stomach, pushing myself off in Spencer’s direction. I kept justifying my actions by telling myself that all I would be doing is checking on him, although the underlying motive was nothing under disguise. I whispered the same mantra to myself with every inch closer. I gritted my teeth as the antsy sensation traveled to my shoulders, slowing my steps to contemplate my reasoning.

What am I doing? A harsh exhale of detest left my lungs, leaving a light yet deserved burn in my esophagus. It seemed incredulous to me that I was willing to eavesdrop on my own boyfriend, although it didn’t seem like that minutes ago. I bit the inside of my cheek in shame, turning myself around.

Has this all been in my head? No, it can’t. Then why would he lie? He wouldn’t, but he did. Confusion set deep within me, however it was my guilt that left an everlasting mark. Maybe Spencer had his reasons, he would never deliberately fib–at least the Spencer I knew would never. But what if that’s it? Did I really know Spencer that well? The world around me closed in rapidly, my senses overwhelmed. Did I make him lie? It would make sense considering my recent possessiveness. Did he see that? Did I drive him away?

I bit down on my bottom lip, threatening to break the skin. I ran my hand through my hair several times, taking a few calming breaths to compose myself. No, I can’t think like that. This is Spencer, he’s my Spe–no, maybe he never was mine?

Unable to contain my contradicting thoughts any longer, I shifted around with a newfound determination. Pushing the bile building up at the bottom of my stomach, I prepared to march my way to him. My body set aflame with feigned confidence, hopefully enough to fuel the overpowering desire to know the truth.

To know whether the truth actually lied in the irrationality of my mind

To know whether the truth lied in the coarseness of my behavior.

To know whether the truth  lied in the prospects of Spencer’s job.  

To know whether the truth-

“I guess I’ll see you on Thursday!” Spencer smiled with endearment–a smile I thought was reserved for me. “It’s a date…”

To know whether the truth was that he was no longer mine.

part 2  feedback is always appreciated!

[crackinwise]

My pet AU is Kiyotaka and Mondo somehow out in the post-Tragedy Japan, surviving and saving people. Like either they didn't agree to stay locked in Hope's Peak for safety, or they survived the game and left with the others but didn't join Future Foundation. Major points up front, details divided into sections under the cut:

Mondo's objective would be to find his gang, and Taka's goal, besides finding his dad, would be repairing society while punishing those responsible for its destruction. But their direct task is keeping each other safe & helping victims along the way.

Mondo even stresses calling Taka "Ishimaru" instead of "bro" or his given name in front of others, so they might KNOW who's saving them. Taka caught on quick & is very grateful.

Taka would have kind of a breakdown reconciling who he is with what he has to do in a lawless world where every public moral is ignored. He keeps a small ledger of places they loot from, to compensate in the future.

At the start, Taka can only sleep burrowed against Mondo's chest or back, blocking out their damaged surroundings & pretending everything is as it was.

He cries in Mondo's arms one night after he couldn't avoid killing someone to save Mondo's life, and that's the tipping point. He thinks if he was better, stronger like his bro, he'd have noticed sooner & found a better option. Mondo is being so brave; he's Taka's rock and Taka wants to be as steady for him too. Their souls are already connected so obviously he just has to borrow more of Mondo's spirit, right?

That's how Ishida is created.

(In reality, Mondo just compartmentalizes and shoves down unhelpful feelings. You thought he needed therapy BEFORE all this, oh man-)

Ishida:

Taka ends up slipping into the Ishida facade for fight and flight; any time adrenaline kicks in and he feels he needs that boost. Sadly, that's most of their waking time. He guards Mondo and anyone they're saving like a fierce watchdog, and won't hesitate to bite.

He'll only come out of the role when he personally verifies it's safe and if Mondo can confirm it. Survivors are confused by the dual-sided Ishimaru switching right in front of them, but they're so grateful (and so much weird crap has happened) that it never phases them long.

Too many times, Ishida will go all day without a break. This means when their hideout for the night is absolutely safe, that it's okay to let go, Taka just collapses in exhaustion. But Mondo is there to catch him.

Mondo feels conflicted over the Ishida role because Taka is just a beast in it--it's very flattering and a little hot--but it also makes him worry more than before about Taka's health. He comforts Taka with a lot of praise and reassurances, and Taka sleeps lightly but otherwise fine.

Relationship: (slight mature warning)

When they touch, Taka swears he can feel the link between them flare to fuel them. Twin fires ignited. Mondo doesn't know about all that, but when their eyes meet it definitely makes him feel invincible, so, he can believe.

If they weren't already new boyfriends when The Tragedy hit, all this closeness makes sure of that soon after. Being together is their happiness and, for a while, their only link to pre-Tragedy lives. Vows not unlike marriage were exchanged one night. Where one goes, the other will follow. Anywhere. Always.

When they kiss, safe and alone, Mondo will ask what Taka wants; what he can handle that night. Sometimes it's just the kisses before passing out, sometimes it's more intimate touches to please them both after another hellish day.

Sometimes Taka will ask to be made love to, for obvious couple reasons, but also because Mondo inside him makes their tether feel stronger, more complete. Like going over the invisible line in bold marker. Taka believes any marks they can create with their mouths, any traces of themselves they can leave on or in each other, the easier they can find their bond and tap into it. (He had started a nervous habit of pressing in on lovebites to keep Ishida going when tired.)

Mondo tells him he doesn't need to find a poetic excuse for fetishes and Taka lovingly answers with a stomach punch.

Crazy Diamonds:

Mondo's gang members, the ones not dead or overcome with Despair, are slowly found and joined back up.

Any smaller and sturdier motorcycles are kept when found. If Mondo was able to keep his own in this version, it's a bit heavier than would be good for any off-roading--and much too loud for any stealth--but he refuses to part with it.

Every gang member respected Taka/Ishida the second they saw him fight beside their leader. Before Mondo says a word about him. They readily take orders from him in either form. The change in appearance was a surprise, but they're already used to some members wildly changing demeanor in or away from the gang, so it's easily accepted.

With the gang as backup to keep watch during downtime--after Ishida sized each one up and watched them for loyalty--the pair can feel a lot more relaxed. They joke about having a date in a blown-out restaurant they find, and they can finally enjoy a deep sleep.

When the group finds safehouses with more than one room, Mondo & Taka are given their privacy. Taka tries to insist everyone deserves a chance at privacy and they should rotate, but changing a gang's long-established hierarchy is a losing battle. And Mondo's not on his side because when they're alone he can be as sappy or touchy as he likes.

Legends:

Taka and Mondo save a lot of people over their journey and kinda become a legend that gets spread around and gives people Hope.

This area still needs work from me. Probably some research into Japanese myths and supernatural symbolism. A placeholder right now is something corny like "Two Men with burning eyes and thunderous voices will answer your cries for help. But if you're evil, the two will appear to you as One Demon and drag you down to the land of the dead."

There's also probably a need for costume changes since their color scheme is the same black & white of the Despair Remnants and monokumas killing people. Legend or not, it'd be easy for traumatized survivors to not know they're good guys at first.

Darker Moments: (blood, violence and vague attempted sexual assault)

After he killed a man to save Mondo, Taka luckily (he wouldn't use that word) doesn't have to again. Hurt? Yes. Beat unconscious? Yes. Maim? Yes, but some of the vile dregs of humanity are caught doing things that deserve worse--

--That deserve Mondo. Once when they were still traveling alone, a group of Remnants jumped them, managing to separate the two, and one knocked Taka out with a bad blow to the head. Mondo dispatched the others attacking him and got to Taka right as the Remnant was about to do something unforgivable.

Mondo snapped. He still doesn't remember what he did, he just remembers coming to in all the blood and dazedly picking Taka up to take him to a place he knew was safe.

Taka never finds out. He woke up a day later with a bandaged head and Mondo crying and kissing his hands. Mondo just told him he beat some and scared away the others.

Minor Details:

They try to always fight back-to-back and, to observers, seem to read each other's mind for where to move.

Taka/Ishida would use a sword or hand-to-hand. The pickaxe might just be a random pickaxe they find, if he uses it at all. Kinda hard to carry both a sword and a railroad pickaxe on your back, and I can't imagine it balances very well. (The size in official pics would be a 5lb head w/2-3lb handle.)

Mondo seems like he would use anything lying in debris to fight. Poles, pipes, chains. Aaaand maybe the knives he mentions in School Mode.

For any costume changes, Mondo would keep his jacket at least. A beacon for the Diamonds. Maybe a purple tank top, and different pants better for knife holsters. Unless the holster should wrap around his waist or hip instead?

Any changes to Taka's outfit would keep his armband. It's a reminder of his Talent and his goal to make Japan even better than before. Also wanna keep his boots or change to more rugged ones.

End Goal:

Obviously they'd end up in Towa, after the events of Ultra Despair Girls. They're reunited with Takaaki and Takemichi. Maybe they help set things right there a bit, or Makoto would get word to them about his plans vs Future Foundation's. Look at me, do I look like someone that knows how to end things?

There is no way you read all that. (I love you if you did.) But feel free to use all or any bits of it in your own works. Almost positive I'll never get to compose all this into a coherent fic format. I might update in short scenario posts under a 'Tragedy-survivor au' tag if I think of anything.

If you have a question or want something expanded upon, ask away.

[elidelochans]

For the Elucien week drabbleathon, can I have Lucien finding out about his bio father and talking through his feelings with Elain?

ELUCIEN WEEK

DAY 7: FREE CHOICE

Okay so this is kinda funny to get this. I actually have this in my docs that's a multi chapter fic. The feelings bit with Elain is spoilery for the story itself so I can't share that...yet. But what I can do is show this part. Basically in this story, Elain finds out of Lucien's parentage through a vision and this scene below is what happens after that. It's set to be a few parts. Where Lucien deals with this information and then Lucien and Elain playing matemakers lmao. The chapter after this is where we deal with Lucien and talking to Elain I can tag you in it whenever I post this story to tumblr.

TRIGGER WARNING: very, very slight mention of child abuse

The three of them settled in the sun-lit room. For an office it was worlds different than Rhys' in the river estate back in Velaris. That room was a standard four walls. This one, Helion's office in the Day Court was a rounded room. Tall ivory columns wrap around the circular area. There were no windows, it was simply an open space allowing the sunlight and the warm kiss of its rays inside to dance along the tiled floor. Elain adored the sun peering in at every angle and the soft breeze that followed. She only wished they were here for better circumstances.

Glancing between the High Lord of Day and her mate, the resemblance was uncanny. From their posture, sitting regal yet with an air of recklessness to the silken strands of hair, matching grins, and the shape of their eyes. Mother above even their nose was the same. There was no denying her vision wasn’t false. They scarcely were.

When she told Lucien of seeing Helion and his mother, he refused to believe it. He was Beron's son unfortunately. His mother would never hide this from him. Elain pointed out to him that he did in fact cleave an unbreakable spell to come to her aide that day in Hyberns. No Autumn court member, high fae or otherwise had done that. Lucien attempted to pin it on the bond. Elain dismissed it bringing up his tendency to glow when in the throes of passion. The seer had once asked her sister if this common for faes to glow while being intimate. Feyre told her it was power from the High Lord of Day. Elain never could make sense of it. Why her mate glowed like a fire bug in the summer seasons until her vision. Lucien claimed it could be from a crossed lineage years ago.

“Lucien...you said you never felt like you were a Vanserra. That there was something wrong with you.”

“Maybe this is why. Because you’re not a Vanserra. We go to the Day Court and ask Helion says no then fine.”

There was panic and fear in his russet eyes when he looked at her. “What if he says yes?”

Elain crossed the threshold to her love taking his face in her hands, resting their foreheads together, her fingers lacing with his. “Then I will be there with you and together we will hear him out.”

With reluctance he agreed and now they were here, an awkward tension like a dense fog slowly filling the silent room.

Lucien leaned backed in the golden chair, hand flexing at fae speed on the arm of it, his equally golden eye whirring as it zeroed in on Helion. The High Lord's brows quirked up in amusement, a roguish smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

"I've always wondered what that eye of yours could do. What it could see." Elain's cheeks flushed a vibrant pink, Helion's gaze fell on her offering a wink, "Petal." He purred, "Is it alright if I call you petal?"

The smile he gave her could turn someone's insides into liquid heat. No wonder he had as many lovers as there were clouds in the sky. She chuckled before answering, shifting in her seat, "Elain is fine."

"Ah, I see. We don't want to upset your mate and have him feel left out."

Helion turned to Lucien who remained silent and watching. A steely gaze on his father, Not father and his boots tapping with the same ferocity as his hand. Elain reached through the bond feeling wave after wave of anxiousness roiling through him. It was enough to make her feel nauseous like they were in a sea of turbulent waters instead of seated, far away from any ocean. His heart, she could tell, was battering so quickly Elain was surprised it didn’t fling directly out of chest. There was something else she noticed in the bond. Realization. He knew. And Lucien was not handling it well in his mind. Elain poured her affections down the bond then overlapping her hand with his. Sweeping a thumb over his knuckles. A silent statement to say, I'm here.

Elain smiled tenderly, noting the appreciation in his russet eye as Lucien glanced at her fingers. Sliding in between his own, squeezing them in reassurance. He repeated the action to her, holding tightly as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Then his eyes met hers. The nervousness etched on his beautiful face softened. Her heart fluttered as it always did when he looked at Elain this way. Like she was his home. His comfort. His everything. Just as he was hers.

Helion coughed a bit too loudly to be real, breaking their moment, "I hate to break up this lovely storybook moment petal. If this is about the Pegasus who ate Rhys' shirt. One Rhys should come and two he left it in the stables. If you’ll excuse me, I do have a party to prepare for and guests will be arriving shortly.” Helion made to stand.

"Sit.” Lucien snarled. Helion’s eyes widened at the pitch and the bite of the one word. “We don't know anything about a Pegasus. We're here on our own accord." Lucien curtly stated.

The two high fae stared each down as Helion slid back into his chair. The fog thick tension is now so deep a knife could only strike it. Helion lifted a hand over his heart " Unfortunately, I don't take mated mates as lovers. I'm honored you thought of me to share your bed." He teased with a lovers grin. The fire in Lucien’s eye was a roaring flame. He was several seconds from exploding. Elain has seen him angry, furious, but nothing like this. If he wasn’t her mate, she’d be frightened at the burning rage beneath him.

"I find that odd. Being if Feyre or Nesta were here you'd take the chance." Elain challenged feeding off the energy her mate emitted.

"I-" His eye shuttered briefly before meeting Elain's again, "Sweet petal," he crooned before he could speak again Elain cut him off feeling Lucien's waring feelings churning through the bond.

"There's a reason you'd deny me. Us. I think it deals with a vision I had and Lucien." She gripped her mate tighter feeling his hand grow clammy yet white hot beneath her own.

Helion grew quiet, brows pressed together, his tanned chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Holding a stern gaze with Lucien. "Of?"

"The past."

Helion blanched, the color of his skin fully drained. All hints of the easy going High Lord faded into nothing. A mask of steel replaced it.

"What did you see?" His voice faltered, shaking and strained. He cleared his throat, aiming for a deeper tone in his voice. One that caused anyone to listen and obey. If an ominous storm with roaring thunder that streaked the sky in lighting had a voice it would’ve sounded like this. It came through gritted teeth in a low predatory growl. "What did you see?"

"You will not speak to her like that." Lucien snapped. Slamming his fists on the desks sparks of embers shot from his hands. Elain jumped back into the chair. Helion had the good sense to look startled for a moment, "Unlike you or my mother, she doesn't keep things from me." then Lucien added that and the steeled features returned.

It was Helion’s turn to stand and move for move copy his son’s actions. “Listen boy. I will rip your throat out if you insult your mother like that in my presence again are we clear?”

Lucien scoffed. Not the usual playful scoff Elain had grown accustomed to. This was laced with malice. “You don’t think I’ve heard threats like this before? My entire life? "I've been beaten for saying less.”

Elucien watched as the emotionless expression Helion wore quickly faded. Now his face crumbled. Pained with grief, the glow in his eyes gone as he stepped away from Lucien. Her eyes darted between the two. This wasn’t just protecting a secret she realized. There was love here. For the lady of the autumn court, and for his son. Her mate.

"I'm sorry." Helion let out in a defeated sigh. "Forgive me. forgive us."

For as fast as that heated anger ripped through Lucien, it seemed to to die down. Like the loud sigh for Helion somehow cooled her mate down.

"I-" Lucien turned to Elain unsure of what to do. Elain did not respond the whites of her eyes rolled up, her body falling back into the chair.

Mate.

The word seared in her head, when thrust back into the past, seeing Helion and the Lady of the Autumn Court together. As if her inner eye was speaking to her, revealing a part neither Lucien nor herself were ready for. Now she felt it. The golden spark tethering two souls. Pure, protective, unbreakable love. Seconds later she came back to reality.

Lucien no longer standing at the desk but kneeling in front of her. Calloused palms on hers while he searched her features.

“Elain?”

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze landed on Helion who took a step back.

“You’re mates."

“There are things bigger than telling you the truth. Stakes are high dealing with him and a situation like ours. This conversation cannot happen here.” Helion drew a finger to follow as he stood. “Ears are everywhere in Prythian. You should know this.” He fixed a sorrowful look on Lucien. “We will talk in my inner office.”

elucienweek taglist: @ladyvanserra @helion-ism @bookologist @firestarsandseneschals @thecrownlands @rarephloxes @elucienweek @nestaisgod

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic  

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.” 

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze. 

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.”  Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile. 

It’s been a real headache of a night. 

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm. 

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right. 

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County). 

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes. 

“Like-- like-- with a combine?” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.” 

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big. 

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold. 

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks. 

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow. 

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole. 

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering. 

“What?” Dean demands. 

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive. 

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?” 

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.” 

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on. 

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks. 

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!” 

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out. 

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth. 

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground. 

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat. 

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

[escriveine]

Panic Attacks, in 3 Acts (Act II)

Content Warning: explicit discussion of panic attacks and related anxiety disorder NB: There will be 3 acts because that’s the number of different kinds of panic attacks I’ve personally experienced. A panic attack is, at its most fundamental, a story.  And what that story is — or may mean — depends almost entirely on your point of view.

Act II: The Lasso Way

There are certain telltales that you only see afterwards.   I don’t mean the hindsight related to a recent panic attack, wherein you replay the time leading up to it,  ruminating over what happened, what went wrong, what inflection points you missed (those fleeting instants where we like to think we could have changed course to a better outcome, had we but known they were approaching).  I’m talking about the bigger division of life into Before I Ever Had a Panic Attack (of this kind) and After. Watching Ted Lasso last year (2021 being well into my After time), I picked up on the telltales that insinuated themselves into the narrative in much the same way they would in a real-life panic attack. The sensory overload. Familiar shapes of people and objects smearing into streaks of color, sounds elongating and overlapping into an arrhythmic cacophony. Cold sweat forming in the middle of relentlessly trembling palms. Reality slewing into a microcosm of shallow, tight breaths and the syncopated tattoo flailing in place of a steady heartbeat. As the panic attack gathers steam it becomes more and more obvious to everyone around you.  There’s an edge of hilarity to it, really. The herky-jerky movements of your eyes tracking those colors and sounds you alone are mis-perceiving, the bellows action of your lungs moving huge gulps of air in and out to little effect.  The slip and dip maneuver you instinctively execute like you can either fade into the background away from the overwhelming stimuli or outrun the panic that’s rushing through your veins like a fucking shockwave. Once you’re out of the room, the show’s over as far as most everyone else is concerned.  Honestly, it probably happened so fast it was barely a funny little blip on their radar; the kind of glitch that people ellide and smooth over all the time.  Sometimes, though, just sometimes, you get lucky — though it feels like anything but good fortune in the moment — and some concerned soul follows you out.  Sometimes you get a Rebecca. Maybe your Rebecca has had a panic attack in the past; maybe they saw one happen in person before; maybe they were just paying enough attention to know you were in distress, not doing an absurdist bit.  Regardless, your Rebecca sees that you’re caught in what amounts to a horror boss fight loop.  Then out of the bedlam comes a low murmur, a steady rhythm of reassurance overriding your fractured control signals until you can see and hear and breathe again.  A hand on your shoulder becomes both tether and beacon back to the reality you left behind for those fleeting, yet excruciatingly endless moments. And then you’re back in your own skin, shaken by the sudden snap back to whatever passes for normal these days.  It was an awful trip, but this time you didn’t have to struggle through the long, strange journey all alone. Because your Rebecca noticed.

Read Act I: The Invisible Woman

[procrastinatorimagines]

Okay Part 7

Fandom: One Chicago

Series: Okay

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 (Final)

Pairing: Matt Casey x Halstead!Reader

Warning/s: fire, attempted murder

Word Count: 3,033

Summary: After narrowly escaping certain death you decided to turn your life around and become a firefighter, and although it wasn’t easy, you survived your first week at 51. Now, the strange circumstances of your very first fire lead you to a second, deadlier act. As you dig deeper, aided by your brothers and your new firehouse, you begin to realise just how in over your head you might be.

Tags: @alievans007 // @louiselikeswriting // @killjoys-make-some-noise-na-na // @sesamepancakes​

By the time you woke up your head was pounding and your mouth was dry, your ankles and wrists chafing against the ropes that tied you to a beam in the room you were in, where ever that was. You weren’t sure how long you’d been out, but as your eyes slowly focused in on your surroundings you noticed a small window on the opposite side of the room you were in, the night sky partially visible through a crack in the newspaper that had been used to cover it up.

This was bad, very bad, you thought, panicking as you tried to desperately to free yourself from your restraints, which actually seemed to do more harm than good. Taking a very shaky breath you tried to focus, breathing in and out of your nose slowly...

This had happened before, it had all happened exactly like this before. Only, this time, you weren’t alone in the dark.

When your vision began to focus and the roaring in your ears subsided slightly, you saw a figure out the corner of your eyes, looking to see Lily. Your breath immediately caught in your throat; she was as pale as a ghost, eyes red and face wet with tears and snot. 

“Lily,” you whispered, drawing her eyes to you from where they had been fixed in the distance. She looked to you, shaking uncontrollably, but you saw it then, something in her eyes. Hope? Did she think you were going to help her? 

You were, you were supposed to help her, that’s why you came here in the first place. Breath Y/N, you told yourself, focus, think, you needed to stay under control for her sake. “Hey Lily, where’s Paul? Where’s your dad?” You asked her as calmly as you could, not wanting to alarm her anymore than she was, if that was even possible.

She opened her mouth to reply when the door to the basement banged open, making you both jump as a man stormed down the stairs. He was erratic, mumbling to himself as he waved around a gun, pacing as he reached the bottom of the stairs and ignoring you both completely. 

“No supposed to happen like this... all her fault...” you caught him say, “all your fault, all Jennifer’s fault!” He aimed the gun at Lily, raising his voice as she flinched back as far as she could while restrained. 

“Hey!” You snapped at him, unsure of where such a steady and powerful voice came from inside of you as Paul jumped, apparently only just realising that you were also in the room. “Do not point that gun at her,” you demanded, catching him off guard as he looked between the weapon and his daughter, a moment’s pause gone as quickly as it came as he turned it to you instead. Far from ideal, but the better alternative.

“Listen to me, I’m a firefighter, okay and my brother Jay he’s a cop, he could help-” you began, rambling slightly, not really thinking about what you were saying as you tried to convince him to put the gun down.

Mention Jay seemed to be a bad idea, you realised it the second the words were out of your mouth, Paul’s grip tightening on the gun as he eyes flared with panic. “Cop, cop, no, no cops...” he repeated, very much appearing to have had some kind of mental break. Could he even be reasoned with?

Looking around as he began pacing again, more on edge than before, you noticed the canisters of kerosene along the wall by the stairs; he was going to burn this place down, with you and Lily in it.

“Shut up! Just shut up and let me think!” Paul yelled at a still crying Lily, and outburst that only made her cry harder.

“That’s enough, she’s a kid for god’s sake, your kid,” you tried, grating your teeth and hating how powerless you felt. You’d failed her hadn’t you? 

“We were happy before she came, she isn’t even mine, she ruined everything...” he told you, his logic making absolutely no sense to you. Still, you had to try and get on his level if you had any chance of de-escalating the situation. You’d learned that much from Jay at least.

“Okay, but how is that Lily’s fault? She did do anything, you don’t have to do this, it’s not too late,” you took a shaky breath as his eyes flicked towards the cannisters, only half listening to what you were saying. His mind had been made up when he lit that first fire, maybe even before then, it was like reasoning with a brick wall.

“Yes, yes it is,” he said with way too much conviction.

“No, wait, let’s talk about this,” you tried desperately, pulling on your restraints in vain as he wandered towards the cannisters, gun now slack at his side. 

That was when you caught it, a sharp pain in your hand as you winced, moving your hands slower to feel a now wet nail sticking out of the beam you were tied to. Your hand was bleeding, but you could barely feel it, shifting slightly so that the nail was rubbing against your restraints. Stall, a voice in your head screamed, stall.

“Talk? So you can buy time until your boyfriend can come save you?” Paul laughed in a vaguely unhinged sort of way, thankfully not noticing the confusion on your face as he continued, “is that who you were calling? Because it didn’t say - what was that name? Jay? - on your phone screen.”

You schooled your features as much as you could before he could turn around and wait for your answer. Matt. You’d called Matt. He’d know, he’d know you were in trouble, right? You hoped he would, he had to suspect you wouldn’t have gone straight home, and that that call was strange. 

Stall. You worked through the aching in your wrist, the nail catching your flesh more than once as you powered through, working the rope with everything you had.

“No, I mean, yes, my boyfriend, but he has nothing to do with this, I swear-” you hoped that sounded convincing. You’d already made the mistake of mentioning your cop brother, but if you told him you’d had a fire captain o nthe other end of the line you didn’t know how he’d react. You had to put all your faith in Casey right now, hoping to hear sirens at any moment.

“Daddy...” Lily sobbed, voice small and strained, raw from the crying as she tried to get her dad to look at her, but even when he glanced in her direction, he never met her eye. Your heart was breaking even more than you thought was possibly, stabbing pains shooting through you like the nail in your hand, but you persevered, your sheer anger and stubborn determination numbing the pain and quietening your own panic and fear.

“I have to do this, have to do this now,” he seemed to decide, nodding to himself as he put the gun in his waist band, your eyes draw to him as you worked at the rope, you were so, so close... But not close enough.

Paul took a couple of cannisters at a time, opening the caps and dumping them all over the floor, your feet jerking back as the strong smelling liquid splashed near you. “No, no, please you don’t have to do this,” you begged him.

“It’s done, I’ll finally have justice,” Paul said, your nostrils flaring in rage as you tugged harder at the ropes, your blood on them making them harder to keep steady.  Bastard, you growled to yourself

Paul turned without another word, taking the final cannister and pouring it up the stairs behind him. He took a packet of matches out of his pocket once he reached the top, the first attempt at striking it snapping the match.

Your mind was tugging you back to that other basement then, your senses slipping there too as your vision doubled and the all too familiar smell of kerosene filled your lungs. You’d cheated death once, and now he was coming to collect...

“Daddy please!” Lily cried out, cutting through you like a knife, hauling you back to the present as you willed yourself to focus, scrunching your hand into a fist. You dug your nails into the large cut on your palm, the pain keeping you tethered to reality as the second match flared to life. 

Then, well, then everything happened so fast you could barely process it. Your hands snapped free of the ropes just as the match fell from Paul’s finger tips, the top of the stairs lighting immediately as you clamoured towards Lily, ignoring the pain as you forced her restraints free. 

You looked to the already fast approaching fire as Lily stood, grabbing your leg with her arm and hugging you tightly. You didn’t have long, you knew, the poorly ventilated room already filling with smoke. 

There was only one this for it, you realised, what Casey would probably call your Halstead instinct kicking is as you threw off your jacket. “Lily, Lily look at me,” you said hurriedly, crouching down and wrapping her in it so it was over as much of her body and head as you could make it, her terrified eyes meeting yours. “I’m going to pick you up okay? Whatever you do, keep your head in my shoulder and do not let go, okay?”

She nodded quickly, sensing the urgency as you drew her into your arms, her small ones wrapping around you. There were no good option, but Lily had the best chance this way, and she mattered more. 

Here goes everything, you allowed yourself a split second to prepare yourself, and then you ran.

The stairs were still standing, for now, but they wouldn’t be for long, the fire dancing down the railing and walls as you pushed yourself, step by step, you ran up the stairs. 

Paul hadn’t bothered to shut the basement door, why would he? So you bolted for it with everything you had, you body absolutely screaming at you in fear and pain as you maintained an iron grip on the child in your arms.

And then you were out on the otherside, stumbling but forcing yourself to keep steady as you oriented yourself, the fire still all around you. You put Lily down quickly, patting her down as well as yourself, making sure you weren’t on fire. 

You needed a door, or a window, you didn’t really care. Taking Lily’s hand you looked to her. “We’re going to run, okay?” She nodded, taking your hand with a vice like grip.

A noise to your left drew your attention, making your way down the hall, barely staying up right as the burning in your legs flared up your body. You looked down as you felt your feet nearly slip on a substance, more accelerant?

This had taken place over a matter of seconds, a minute at most, and Paul was still here. You found him in the main hall, pouring the final drops of a kerosene by the entrance. There was a moment, when your eyes locked, both of you realised the other one was right in front of you before either of you sprung into action. 

You’d dropped Lily’s hand at the same time as Paul had dropped the cannister, his hand reaching back for the gun you knew was in the back of his waistband. He was fast, but damn if you weren’t faster. 

The fire had reached up from the basement and into the hall, you wouldn’t have long before it connected with the kerosene currently soaking your shoes, and then this place would go up like an inferno. 

Paul had just pulled out his gun, drawing it around his side, when you reached him, catching his wrist before he could point it and slamming his hand back into the wall. He shoved you back, definitely having the upper hand in terms of strength. “You shouldn’t be here, this is all wrong,” he told you, taking a swing at you with his gun still in hand.

You ducked, the swing wide and uncontrolled as you threw a sharp punch in his gut, building on your momentum and his loss of balance to aim another tap into his throat, kicking him back straight afterwards into the opposite wall. 

“That might be the first thing we agree on,” you snarled, moving quickly as he tried to hit you again, his gun hand twisting around, a suprised cry of pain escaping his lips as you expertly flung him over your shoulder, wrist so twisted he lost his grip on the gun. 

Sure, he was stronger, but you were a Halstead. 

He hit his head on the wooden floor and went down, Lily’s cry drawing your attention as you noticed the smoke filling the hall. 

You kicked the gun away and released Paul, who didn’t appear to be getting up any time soon, rushing back to Lily and yanking her arm, dragging her away from where the fire was fast approaching you.

That’s when you heard it, that glorious sound that made you feel like your chest was cracking open in relief. Sirens. There were sirens approaching. 

Pulling Lily forward you both scrambled towards the exit, the fire reaching the kerosene on the hallway rug as it flared to life with new found direction, hungry to consume everything in it’s path. 

The front door was right there, you could make it. Throwing open the front door you practically pushed Lily out, nearly tripping as her feet met the concete, breath in fresh air. 

Police cars were coming down the street, as well as fire engines and an amulance. 51. 51 was here, and so was your brother you guessed. 

Fresh air hit your face as you took a breath of freedom, and then you paused. Something tugging at you deep inside. Looking back over your shoulder you saw Paul, still lying on the floor as the fire quickly approached, devouring everything in its path. 

It would be too late, you knew, by the time 51 had arrived and put on their gear, the fire would have consumed him. The fire that he’d let consume the lives of two other innocent people, the fire he’d tried to turn on his daughter repeatedly, the fire he’d tried to use to end you, too. 

Every fibre of your being was screaming at you to leave him, but you knew, you knew you couldn’t. So you ran back into the burning building, hearing Lily scream as you reached Paul, grabbing him under his shoulders and hauling his with as much strength as you could manage. 

You’d gotten him outside onto the porch as truck pulled up, Stella barely stopping, let alone putting it in park, before Casey jumped out the door, barrelling towards you with a sense of pure urgency,

“Y/N!” He yelled, practically crashing into you as you dropped Paul, who was just beginning to stir. His hands found your upper arms, looking you over and breathing heavily.

“I’m okay,” you tried to tell him, your breath ragged as he led you away from the burning house, two other firefighters and a paramedic coming to take Paul, along with three officers. 

“I was so worried, I thought...” he trailed off, unlistening, one hand going to the side of your head, still worried. 

“Casey... Matt, I’m fine, I’m alive,” you grabbed the hand on your face, giving it a squeeze as you saw relief wash through him. 

“Y/N!” A small voice called, Lily rushing towards you both and she wrapped you in a big hug, buring her face in you as Casey took a step back.

“I’m okay Lily, we’re both okay,” you knelt down, ignoring the pain in your legs as you wrapped her in a big hug, picking her up as Foster signaled you to bring her over to treat. 

Boden was already giving orders to truck, seeing that Casey was too preoccupied as he followed you and Lily to ambo 61, the air getting clearer as you passed the small girl over to your friend. Foster gave your hand a squeeze, nodding to you as you nodded back. 

As soon as she was out of your arms you nearly collapsed, Casey steadying you as you sit on the edge of the ambulance, signalling Sylvie to come check on you.

“Oh my god Y/N,” she gasped, grabbing her med back.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, but she shook her head.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said with an authority you weren’t going to argue with as exhaustion washed over you.

“How is she?” Casey asked Sylvie, eyes not leaving you.

“She needs to get to med, she has a potential concussion, serious burns on her legs and she definitely needs stiches on these,” Syvlie said, wrapping up your hands as you winced, coming down from the addrenaline that must have kicked in as you started to feel everything.

Casey opened his mouth to say something but he was interrupted. “I’m riding with her,” a voice cut in, Jay, appearing at your side. Casey took a respectful step back as Jay gave you a hug so tight you couldn’t breath, “I’ll let Will know you’re coming in, god Y/N, we were so worried, what the hell were you thinking?” Jay breathed.

“Sorry, I’ll try not to get kidnapped... again,” you replied, but he didn’t seem to appreciate your attempt at humour. 

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Casey told you with a smile, eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to walk away.

“Hey Casey,” you called, pausing in his steps as he looked back at you, “we got him.”

Casey smiled, eyes full of pride, “you got him Y/N,” he told you, nodding to you before heading back to truck, something unsaid hanging in the air. 

Sylvie made you get into the ambo, Jay by your side the whole ride. 

You’d got him, Lily was safe, it was finally over.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 18.5

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 3.2k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

act two ➻ part 8.5

​​​

Jongho doesn’t need to be told what’s going on. He senses it before Yeosang even comes to the door, feels Yeosang’s presence outside the door, the heat of his emotions, and the slight panic that courses through his veins. He doesn’t need to be told that Mingi is having an episode because he can feel it. Which is why when Yeosang goes to knock on the door, Jongho opens it a breath too soon, and Yeosang nearly topples forward and trips over the air. Jongho doesn’t need to reach out and catch him – Yeosang stays on his two feet just fine – but he does regardless, rough hands hitting the much smaller man square in the chest to keep him from falling forward. He doesn’t need to ask, yet he does.

“Mingi?”

“Mess hall.”

“Okay. Did he hurt anyone?” Jongho has the questions memorized. No matter how many times he says them, the answers rarely change, and he knows Yeosang well enough to pick up on the emotional cues. That’s how he knows Wooyoung is fine before Yeosang even opens his mouth to tell him so.

“No, I got Wooyoung out of there before he could.”

“Hongjoong?”

“Tried already.”

“Yunho?”

“Couldn’t help.”

“Ah,” Jongho exhales, even though he already knew the answers to those questions before asking them. He’s the last resort. He always is. Hongjoong demands priority – he needs to feel useful somehow, but it always backfires and hurts him in the end. Then comes Yunho, the ever desperate healer, the arrogance that drives him to believe that he can fix everything and everyone – including Mingi. The reality, however harsh and cruel it may be, is that none of them are Jongho. None of them understand Mingi the way he does. None of them are Berserkers. It’s just a simple fact, but one that they can’t seem to wrap their minds around, which is why Jongho is always the last resort.

He pushes past Yeosang to step into the corridor. His steps are hurried but not frantic; there is no panic or worry in his bones as he walks towards the mess hall. It’s routine almost. Perhaps someone else might feel bitterness or some sort of resentment towards this system they have. Not Jongho though. He bears no hatred or thinly veiled anger about the arrangement they carry out. Part of him feels the tuggings of responsibility when he looks at Mingi. When he looks at Mingi and sees… something. Something different, something painful, something raw and broken.

When Mingi first joined the crew, the others all expected Jongho to understand him. To read him like a book and take him apart with ease. He hadn’t been able to do that at any point in time. Because he and Mingi are not the same, never have been and never will be. Jongho was raised by a loving mother and father. A mother who was a Berserker just like him, who took care of him and looked after him without any hesitation. Taught him everything there was to know about what it meant to be a Berserker. Mingi, on the other hand, was not given that luxury. His father never loved him; he loved money. Power. Blood. And that’s what Mingi gave him, because it was the only thing he knew.

The mess hall is quiet when he steps inside. Not empty, but quiet. Hongjoong stands at the edge of the room, leaning up against the frame of the entrance with arms crossed over his chest. Disappointment radiates off him in waves, but not directed at anyone except himself. Yunho stands beside him with a similar stance, although he can’t look at Mingi’s curled form. The room is otherwise empty, and that’s probably for the best. And Mingi. Mingi lies on the floor, not near the center but somewhere off to the side between a few tables. He’s on his hands and knees, back curved in a way that is painful to look at, and as Jongho draws nearer, he can see the tremble in his shoulders. He doesn’t think to ask what happened. It wouldn’t be necessary anyway. He barely notices that Yeosang is no longer hot on his heels and following his steps.

“It’s too much of a burden to put on his shoulders.”

Hongjoong doesn’t verbalize the words, but he can feel them regardless. Words that have been muttered and whispered against hot ears when they think Jongho can’t hear them. None spoken with malice or hatred. Just… concern. Worry. Fear.

“He’s so young. Why do we push this onto him?”

Because Jongho understands him. Knows Mingi better than Mingi knows himself. Feels the things he feels, even if they were raised differently and experience it differently. He understands the control, the taut thread keeping Mingi tied to sanity, and how it threatens to snap. And when it wavers and trembles — that is where these episodes find him.

“I’m the captain. I should handle this myself.”

Hongjoong doesn’t understand it. The things that he wishes to understand are things that he can never hope to grasp.

“I’m a healer. A medic. This is my job.”

Yunho fails to realize that it isn’t his responsibility. It is his job, but not his burden to bear. He sees Mingi as something broken, when Mingi isn’t broken at all. Mingi is a bird that never learned to fly, a slave without a master, a boy robbed of his innocence too young. Not broken.

Jongho hesitates near Mingi. The older man doesn’t shift or make any indication of acknowledging him. The emotions are there though, and that’s how Jongho knows that Mingi is fully aware of his lingering presence behind him.

“Mingi,” he starts, tone so soft and quiet that he can barely hear it himself. Ever so slowly, he lets himself squat down beside Mingi’s body. Heat. It radiates off him in waves. Then in the corner, concern from Yunho, the lingering taste of disappointment from Hongjoong, and nothing else. Patience is a challenging game to play, even harder when it comes to Mingi, but necessary. Thus, Jongho waits. Watches the way Mingi’s shoulders tremble from effort, the tethered thread in his mind wavering but never breaking. He’s fighting it so hard. “Mingi, can you hear me?”

“I-I… can’t. Can’t. Need. N-Need it.” His tone is desperate and fragile. Nothing like the cruel and heartless killing monster he seems to be. Mingi brings a hand up to clasp the back of his neck. His nails tear at the skin in attempts to break it and draw blood.

“No, you don’t.” Mingi’s fingers falter. He hesitates. For a moment, his nails cease their warpath on his skin.

“I want to – want to k-kill.” Mingi lifts his chin a little. He doesn’t look up quite yet, and Jongho knows it’s because he can feel the lingering emotions at the other side of the room. He is more afraid of losing control than he should be. The danger is minimal. Mingi won’t kill either of them. Hongjoong knows it, as does Yunho, and Jongho as well. Mingi is the only one who doesn’t trust it.

“You don’t want to, Mingi,” Jongho insists, letting his elbows find purchase on his knees. Jongho gets it on occasion. The sudden urgings that Mingi suffers from – the need to take control over all the emotions hitting him from all sides. It manifests itself differently for every Berserker. For Jongho, it takes the form of guilt. Brings all his wrongdoings to life and places them before his eyes in a way that’s almost tangible. He can never overcome it alone, and that fact almost makes him feel weak. Yunho’s soft hands in his hair, San’s mellifluous voice in his ears, Seonghwa’s mint-like scent that permeates his senses until the hallucinations pass, Hongjoong’s emotions hitting him square in the chest and reminding him that this is real. It isn’t violent. Emotional, yes. Painful for himself and only himself. But for Mingi, it manifests in violence. Anger and every emotion on the spectrum of rage.

Mingi’s fingers draw away from his neck, but he brings the hand down to his other arm a second later. His nails dig deep, he’s desperate to break skin, he’s burning for the red that will flow from his flesh. Jongho can’t let him have it. If he does, then that thin thread of sanity will snap. Years of progress down the drain. A hard reset. He reaches out, hand brushing against Mingi’s shoulder blades.

Mingi jerks at the touch, almost as though he’s been burned. He doesn’t verbally cry out, but Jongho hears the pained cry in his movements and emotions. It hurts every time. A small and nagging sensation that never leaves Jongho alone, one he will think about for hours if not days after this. Mingi cries out for help and support but pushes it away at the same time. Desires help but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“Mingi,” Jongho exhales as he brings his hand down on the man’s shoulder blades again. Mingi jolts at the touch, hand drawing up but not coming down on Jongho. He prepares himself for a hit and everything, but it never comes. Instead, Mingi brings his closed fist down on his own head, smacks his skull with too much force, an expression of pure anguish on his features. He’s fighting it. Jongho knows that Mingi’s mind is screaming for blood. To close his hands around Jongho’s throat and try to end it. The desire to kill… it’s not Mingi, but rather the Brute of Kebos. The monster his father created. It’s not Mingi. Jongho has to remind himself of that over and over again. It’s the only way he can look Mingi in the eye every day. His tone softens as he speaks. “They’re loud, aren’t they?”

“So loud. S-So loud. Can’t think. C-Cant–” Mingi cuts himself off, unable to finish the thought. Yunho once told Jongho that Mingi didn’t feel emotions. Just didn’t have the proper mind for it, and that he would have to be taught how to handle things. Jongho dared to tell Yunho to his face that he was wrong. Mingi feels emotions. He has them. It isn’t that his brain is wired the wrong way. It’s that he was never taught how to understand them. Mingi doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings because of that. Jongho can read him like a book, feel the heat radiating off him in waves and know what’s going through his head even if he blocks it out. Mingi’s emotions are overwhelming, even with Jongho’s resilience and restraint. All that to say – the pain Mingi is in now is enough to cripple Jongho and bring him fully to the ground. The aura is overwhelming, and for a breath of a moment, Jongho isn’t sure he can do what he’s supposed to do. The face of his mother taunts him at the edge of the room. He responds by closing his fingers around Mingi’s wrist, stopping the hallucination from blossoming as well as stopping Mingi from hitting himself any more.

“It’s okay, Mingi. They can’t hurt you here,” Jongho murmurs even though he knows that isn’t the brunt of the issue. Mingi’s wrist goes slack in his grip. For a second, Jongho thinks that the episode has passed, but then weight slams against him, and pain blooms in his chest. He falls back against one of the metal tables. Metal scrapes against metal, creating a loud and abrasive screech, then the floor disappears out from under Jongho. He doesn’t have time to defend himself. Mingi’s fingers close around his ankle, yanking back harshly until Jongho hits the floor. Pressure hits his chest. Jongho doesn’t even process it at first. Mingi’s knee stabs into his chest and pins him to the floor with little effort. However, Jongho is stronger than Mingi. They both know it. Jongho could flip their positions and have Mingi facedown on the floor in seconds. That isn’t what this is about though.

Progress.

“Mingi!”

Steps forward.

“Stop!”

Steps backward.

Yunho and Hongjoong are shouting, voices getting louder as they move closer, but Jongho manages to bring a hand up to stop them. They have zero reason to listen to him and no incentive either, especially because Mingi has one knee square in the middle of Jongho’s chest, the other pinning his right arm down, and both hands wrapped tight around Jongho’s throat. Perhaps he should be scared of what might happen next. Afraid that Mingi tightens his grip and chokes him to death. Both Yunho and Hongjoong are exuding so much fear and panic that it clogs Jongho’s senses, and if it’s affecting him that badly, then that means that Mingi is having a much worse time with it.

Yet despite having his life dangled before his eyes like this, Jongho isn’t afraid that Mingi might kill him. Maybe he’s psychotic for that, or perhaps he just trusts the fact that Mingi doesn’t want to do this that much. Yes, it has to be the latter. He lets Mingi keep him pinned to the floor, hand still raised in Hongjoong and Yunho’s direction and keeping them warded off for the time being. Mingi’s nails dig into the flesh of his throat.

Pain.

Pain, but not from the small crescents Mingi leaves in his neck.

The pain radiates off Mingi’s shoulders. He’s fighting himself so hard, fighting the instinct to kill, the urge to kill, the need to kill. He’s fighting the other part of himself, the one his father forged in blood and dark arenas. Mingi doesn’t know that he’s feeling pain necessarily; he merely knows that he’s hurting. He knows the strain hurts and burns, makes his skin crawl and itch, makes even breathing become a laborious task. Jongho lets his free hand move towards Mingi – each inch breached is slow and calculated as not to scare the man – and lays it atop the ones clasped over his throat.

“You can’t hurt me, Mingi,” he whispers. Mingi’s resolve flickers. For the briefest moment, he believes Jongho, eyes trailing over his own hands like they don’t belong to him.

“It… it hurts.”

“I know it does. Everything hurts, right? They’re loud in your head, telling you to kill.”

“Blood. They w-want blood.” Mingi’s fingers twitch around his neck. His nails dig a bit deeper, and Jongho feels them breach skin. It isn’t deep enough to draw blood, which is for the best because the second the first drop falls, Mingi will fly into a rampage.

“You don’t have to give it to them, Mingi.”

“They’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“You’ll hurt me if you do.”

Mingi freezes at his words. His hands loosen a bit but don’t move away from Jongho’s body. It’s the last thing he wants, because as cruel and heartless and merciless as Mingi is, he doesn’t want to hurt Jongho. Doesn’t want to hurt Hongjoong or Yunho. Any of the crew. He wants to protect them; he just doesn’t understand how to do that because of the war that goes on in his mind.

“I… did I not already hurt you?” Mingi inquires, gaze curious as he tilts his head to the side. “Your emotions… they – they feel – I hurt you.”

“You didn’t. Tell me what you feel.”

“I don’t know what I feel!” Mingi argues, a spike of anger shooting out towards Jongho. He can barely choke out his next words thanks to the sudden clench of Mingi’s fingers around his throat.

“What I feel. M-Mingi, tell me – tell me what you feel from me.” He’s pushing hard, and perhaps it’s too much of a burden to put on Mingi’s shoulders like this, but at the same time, it’s not enough. Mingi is caught off-guard long enough for Jongho to gasp several deep breaths of air.

“You’re… warm.”

“Does it hurt?” This is the only way Jongho knows how to communicate with Mingi. He can’t name the emotions off one by one because Mingi wouldn’t understand what any of it means, but he does know how to talk about how he’s feeling without naming anything directly.

“N-No.”

“So, are you hurting me?”

Mingi shakes his head ever so slightly. Denial. This time, he believes it for more than a second. Mingi withdraws his hands from Jongho’s neck, letting him fully breathe again, and Jongho rolls out from under the taller Berserker before he can be pinned once more. He doesn’t move because he fears having his life in Mingi’s hands. He would gladly give his life over to the man time and time again if it meant protecting the others from harm. The storm that swirls in Mingi’s dark red eyes calms for the time being. The waters are peaceful. The voices are quiet. And Mingi… Mingi cries. Not for the first time, and not for the last, but he cries nonetheless, hands trembling as he holds them close to his chest. Behind them, the panic and fear radiating off Hongjoong and Yunho slowly dissipates. It grows calm again.

Jongho draws closer to Mingi, kneeling beside him and pressing a hand again Mingi’s shaking ones. It doesn’t stop the trembling or offer any comfort in the slightest. Jongho doesn’t expect it to. Mingi doesn’t understand comfort, only the need for it. But they’ll just keep trying until they find something that works. Like what Hongjoong does next. The short captain walks towards where Jongho and Mingi are and squats down in front of ashy-haired Berserker.

“You pulled yourself out of it, Mingi,” he says, tone quiet but clear. It carries weight with it, one that Mingi picks up on within an instant.

“I al-almost–”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t kill anyone. Didn’t hurt anyone.” A smile twitches across Hongjoong’s lips, soft and gentle as he gazes down at Mingi’s slumped form. “I’m proud of you.”

The simple four words hold more than should be humanly possible, but Jongho supposes that it makes sense since he and Mingi aren’t wholly human. Mingi’s tears halt only long enough for him to offer an awkward yet grateful smile. Hongjoong eats it right up. He reaches across the gap between him and Mingi, not concerned for a second that Mingi could snap his arm in half at the slightest trigger, and drops his hand to the mop of hair atop his head. A small ruffle of the locks, fingers gently combing over Mingi’s scalp, then pulling away. Jongho wants to imagine that Mingi leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as an overwhelming sense of peace washed over his body.

✧✧✧ a/n: surprise?? this is definitely one that was unexpected for me but i was struck with a sudden realization and plan for mingi’s character progression and how he functions as a character, and this idea wouldn’t leave me alone so i just had to write it and post it today because we’ve got regular chapter tomorrow osidjafoidj but i hope you guys like it!! i think this is the most important interim chapter and has a lot of impact on mingi’s character in the main plot sooo yee lemme know what you think!

if you would like to, you can take the survey here!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​​ @sugarrimajins​​ @atinyinwonderland​​ @2504-life @hanseggroll​​ @sparklychangbin​​ @jeong-uwu​​ @jeonartemis​​ @anothershorthuman​​ @xxbluestrifexx​​ @burberrylucas​​ @haotheheckk​​ @noonawriter​​ @lostscenarios​​ @nlost21​​ @mirror-juliet​​ @okokokok123-45​ @purple-aeon​ @theoinkypiglet​ @toothlessshiber​ @atinyarmyx1​

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[untaemedqueen]

The Lions Den

Mafia!Jiminx Wife!Reader

Genre: Mafia!AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst

Chapter 15.

Warnings: Smut, Blood, Guns, Knives, Excessive Cursing, Excessive Alcohol Intake, Smoking (Cigarettes and Cigars), Mental Health Issues

Warnings In This Chapter: Fighting, A Health Scare

A/N: Listen to me when I say, please DO NOT HATE ME! NO BABIES OR CHILDREN WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS CHAPTER! Shout out to my forever squad @ppersonna​, @xjoonchildx, @ladyartemesia.The champs!

TagList- @ayyyocee​​, @mysugabear03, @wisebtsgot7prune​​, @imaforeigner​​​, @yeonkiminnie​​​, @stories1907​​​, @ppersonna​​​, @brilee64​​​, @gooplibrary​​​, @vivpurple7​​​, @xjoonchildx​​​, @brightwingr5​​​, @yaniposts22​​​, @rjsmochii​​​, @taeslittletiger​​​, @pjmcth​​​, @bts-chub​​​, @kpoppingthempills, @kim-ji-hyeons-world​​​, @jikooksgirl19​​​, @yoong-i​​​, @ruinsofangels​​​, @absolutefantrash​​​, @chiminies-noona​​​, @eclectically-esoteric​​, @simplybree​

There's something soothing about the sound of crickets. 

It usually brings one peace and calm. 

Tonight, the sound is like grating nails against a chalkboard. It sets you on edge. To distract yourself you’ve taken to digging non-existent dirt out from underneath your fingernails. You don’t want to look up, to look at anyone because to do that you would have to truly take in the reality.

And, the reality is that you’re all fucked. Not a single one of you was safe. This family you’ve grown into, became a part of something with this amazing man who saved you from the treacherous slave circle you were sold into- you are all doomed. 

For the first time, the meeting is taking place outside of the room you all convene in on the third floor. 

All seven mafia men, their women- apart from your sister, and you were sitting in the sitting room.

You can hear the wooden boards of the floor creaking behind you as your husband paces back and forth. His hand is tucked beneath his chin as he stares off into the far distance. 

Digging your toes into the Persian rug you bought not too long ago, you tilt your head back to the lip of the couch to watch him in his constant struggle. It’s heartbreaking to watch, to see him so stressed and know there is nothing you can do.

Even if you could do something, he wouldn’t want you to.

“What are you moping about?” Jeongguk slurs as he looks everyone over. 

Your eyes flicker to him as he leans back against the base of the couch.

“What do you mean moping? We’re all in fucking danger.” You hear Taehyung mutter as he rubs his wife's stomach. 

“Oh boo hoo. Danger. This is nothing. Like ducks off a water's back or whatever.” Jeongguk scoffs as he lifts his hood up. 

You cringe at his words and cringe even harder as Tae sits up straighter. 

“Yes. Jeongguk, danger. My pregnant wife is in fucking danger. Jimin’s pregnant wife is in danger. We all have someone we fucking care about who is in danger.” Taehyung says loudly, his hands turning into fists as he tilts his head to the younger man sat on the floor.

“Come talk to me when they die.” Jeongguk says, his voice uncaring and distant.

“What did you say?” Tae asks quickly as he stands up.

You press your hand hard to the youngest’s shoulder as he goes to stand up. He falters with a groan as the men around the room begin to creep closer to the action.

“I said come talk to me when they die.” Jeongguk says before chuckling to himself and looking over at you.

You grit your teeth before slapping the back of his head.

“I’ll fucking kill you. You hear me? Don’t you dare ever-” Taehyung barks out as he steps onto the coffee table.

“Oh, big man coming over here. Look at him. Y/N do you think he’ll really do it, noona? Will Kim Taehyung kill me?” Guk asks, cutting off his older brother. 

Pulling out his knife, Taehyung begins to advance on Guk before being pulled back by Jin and Namjoon.

“That’s enough, don’t listen to him.” Jin tells the younger man before narrowing his eyes at Guk and pointing his finger at him. Jeongguk covers his face with his hood before snorting. A noise only you could hear and it infuriates you to no end.

“Shut the fuck up.” You seethe quietly through your teeth as he throws his arm over your thigh.

“Whatever.” He mumbles.

Although the silence is terrible, fighting amongst the family is worse.

“We just all need to think of someone who would do this an-” Namjoon begins to say before being cut off by Jin.

“But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because, whoever it is still has the upper hand. Sure we can think of a person who would do this to us but there are still a million questions. Why would it be us? What have we done to piss off another family? What the fuck does Kyul being on our payroll have to do with them?” He rambles and you stare at the polished glass of the coffee table as he speaks.

You look at your family as they begin to fight with one another. Watching them dog at each other like it was one of them that’s done it. 

All the women are silent, visibly nervous and you can’t do anything. You are physically at a loss. Nothing you can say will help the situation, nothing that you do will help either. 

As for your husband, he’s still pacing in lalaland. He could give a pacemaker a run for its money. 

Eyeing Hyejin, you take in the way her hands are balled up into fists. The way she takes deep breaths as she looks at the ceiling. She’s about to pop a gasket.

“Hye.” You call to her as Taehyung fights with Yoongi.

Her eyes snap to yours and you can see them becoming glassy as the seconds tick on. 

It makes you snap. Your best friend, in emotional turmoil and all this screaming isn’t helping.

“HEY!” You bellow at the top of your lungs. 

Hyunah looks over, pursing her lips impressed before lighting her cigarette. 

“That’s enough! You’re fighting amongst your family, don’t you realize that?!” You yell as everyone gets quiet.

Jimin’s head whips over to your screams before putting his head back to look at the ceiling. 

“We are not the enemy! You yelling at one another, making small little digs and comments against your brothers is the absolute worst thing you could be doing right now. We need fucking solidarity! Not bitching and fucking fighting like you’ve stolen each others toys!” You tell them as they slowly sit back into their chairs. 

Hyejin busts out into tears and her husband shuts his eyes before hugging her tightly to his body. With a thick swallow, you look them all over before standing. 

“It could be a bunch of fucking families. It could be the Im’s. It could be the Kim’s. The Bangs. The fucking Yakuza from Japan- I don’t care. I need you all to get it the fuck together. Immediately.” You say as you slam your hand on the coffee table.

Yoongi clears his throat before wrapping his arm around his wife's shoulder. 

“Hyejin, Jenny and Three. Go in the kitchen.” You point to the open door and without a second glance they’re off.

Pressing your hands together, you press them to your lips before turning to your husband. 

He’s still contemplating, still muddling over what must be done. And, in the meantime, you need to get everyone on the same page.

“Are you all here? Mentally? Are we able to carry on without throwing toys out the fucking pram?” You ask them all. 

Hyunah gives a gentle snort as she pulls from her cigarette.

“We received body parts of someone who was on our payroll. Now that’s a message. They could have come to the front door and written ‘You’re Next’ in lions blood and it still would have been as clear. Someone is against us and this isn’t the time to be yelling and screaming at each other. In fact, they’d probably like that. They’d love to see us fall apart. Whoever it is, they know about us. They know that we have families that we care about, people that we adore and they’re targeting us. We cannot- I’ll repeat that in case you’ve fallen deaf. We CANNOT fall apart.” You tell them as you pull your hands away from your face.

“Do we all understand?” Hyunah asks the boys as they all hum in agreement.

You walk over to the golden caddy, feeling all eyes on your back as you pour a glass of whisky.

“Well what do you want us to d-” Hoseok’s voice goes silent as Namjoon shakes his index finger wildly in his direction. 

Your feet pad gently over your husband before extending the glass of liquor in his face. His eyes slowly move to you and in his irises you can see every stunted and wild emotion in them. He runs his hand lovingly over your cheek as he grabs the glass of whisky. You both stare at one another for a minute, his back deliberately to the guys as he bites his bottom lip nervously.

Your face never changes. You know they can see you and even if you have all these feelings fluttering inside of you, you have to stay strong. But, you let him go through his emotions freely. 

He wants to cry. To scream. To run. But, you’re here. Keeping him tethered to this earth. 

He takes a large gulp of the liquor as he stares at you, his thumb constantly caressing the apple of his cheek. 

There’s this non-verbal conversation you’ve gotten into as you look upon one another. You’re drinking in his dread, pulling his fears from his heart. Just the sight of you calms him, brings him this gumption and drive to do what’s right.

Family is family. 

You fight for it.

He finishes off his whisky before kissing your forehead. 

Turning around to the guys, he takes in their hunched backs and their forms that are wrought with nerves. 

Jimin holds his hand out to you and you take it willingly as he walks you both over to the couch. With a huff, he sits himself down on the couch before pulling you into his lap. His lips traipse over your bare shoulder for a minute before he leans back.

“We’re going to have Casino Night.” He finally says.

Not the first sentence that you thought you’d hear out of his mouth but, you’re intrigued to know where he’s going with this.

Everyone gives him their full attention as his hand lands on your flat stomach. 

“We’re not giving in. We’re not showing weakness. And, I bet you that at Casino Night, we will see the family who is holding Kyul over our heads. It has to be someone in the Seoul circuit, they knew Kyul was working under our pay band- we will find them. And, we will make them pay. We live under the same roof, same neighborhood. We’ll call in some lions to come and stay at the house to make sure we’re feeling very safe. We will get through this, like everything- with guns and knives and give hell to pay.” Your husband says, his hand caressing at your stomach as he looks around at the other members of his group that he holds dear.

“No one is going to get the best of us because we are the best. We’re not going to let some small time pricks come into our house and tell us how to fucking cook. We’re going to do what we always do- Win.” He says as the front door opens. 

Your sister and three little munchkins come waltzing in and it’s a sight for sore eyes. 

You take in your daughter, chocolate ice cream smudged around her lips and cheeks. You melt at the sheer sight. 

Wrinkling your nose, you stand up as she runs over to you.

“Watch the baby.” Jimin calls to her as she hugs you tightly. 

“Did you have fun, buddy?” Jin asks his son as he pulls him onto his lap.

Jisuk nods happily as he hugs his father around the neck.

“What do you have in your hand there, Won?” Hoseok asks sweetly to your daughter as you wipe her face of the ice cream remnants.

Your sister tilts her head seemingly confused as she sets Minseok down on his feet. He takes small steps towards his father, earning bright smiles from Jimin and the others.

“Man gave me a paper, said it was for mommy and daddy!” Hawon cheers as you stop wiping her face.

Your eyes land on your sister who widens her eyes, “I didn’t- I didn’t see anyone give her anything!” She says.

Taehyung stands up before kneeling in front of Hawon. 

“Give Uncle Tae the letter.” He says calmly.

She smiles wider before shaking her head and clutching her fist tighter.

“Oh Jesus.” Jimin mumbles as he hands Minseok over to Namjoon.

He darts over to his daughter before kneeling beside his best friend.

“Give daddy the letter please, Hawon.” She giggles loudly before shaking her head and running around the room.

“Hawon, this isn’t a game baby, please give daddy the letter!” You call to her, your voice peaking with nervousness as she opens the letter.

White powder falls onto her as Jimin grabs the letter from her hand. 

The gasp inside of the room is audible, everyone scrambles to stand up and the two kids are out of the room with your sister in a flash.

“Oh my God!” You cry out as Jimin tugs off your daughters clothes.

“Is it anthrax?!” Hyunah calls as she stands up.

Your heart is beating so voraciously, you can barely hear her. 

Like time is moving in slow motion, you pull your powder covered daughter into your arms knocking your husband out of the wag before dashing into the kitchen and turning the water on.

Tears brim in your eyes as you sit Hawon down into the sink. She can feel your nervousness, see your tears and she begins to get frightened herself. 

“Mommy?” She whimpers as you douse her in the lukewarm water.

“It’s baby powder.” Yoongi calls from the living room as Jimin runs his hands over her small limbs. You can't even remember him following behind you.

He breathes a sigh of relief and you crumple to your knees before wailing loudly. 

You feel arms wrapping around your body in an instant and you know it’s Hyejin from the feeling of her skinny arms.

“Shhhh.” She shushes you as she combs your hair behind your ear. 

“I’m going to fucking kill them.” You cry out feebly as you press your hand to your heart.

Hawon begins to cry as Jimin kisses the top of her head multiple times.

“It’s okay. Mommy was just scared.” He whispers, his voice cracking as he holds her tightly. 

Burying your face in your knees, your nails begin to dig into the flesh of your palms. No one would be getting away with this. 

No one.

[maxthommusic]

DDLC SPOILER POST

OKAY. WARNING. Doki Doki LITERATURE CLUB SPOILER POST AHEAD. DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU'VE PLAYED DDLC AND PROBABLY MOST OF DDLC PLUS! TOO.

YOUVE BEEN WARNED.

IM GONNA START TALKING.

OKAY?

OKAY>

OKAY<

OKAY...

I can't get Doki Doki Literature Club out of my head. I've tried writing a post here about it several times, always walking away from it, because it always kind of turns into a review of sorts; or if not a review, I start going down the rabbit hole of what it all means and my posts read like the strings of yarn stretching across a conspiracy board, constantly stretching back and forth, back and forth. But therein lies the exact beauty of DDLC. It's deep inside my head. I can't drop its tethers; instead I carry it with me day in and day out, playing the music in my head, thinking about the characters and how they fit into the greater narrative. DDLC is, quite frankly, just one of the greatest games I've ever had the pleasure of enjoying, and I simply want to gush about it.

What's incredibly unique about DDLC is that it grabs hold of a theme and sticks with it through all of its many tendrils. While there are plenty of layers to this very thematically complex experience, I feel that we always come back to the overarching concept of "selfishness."

Sayori first decides to hang herself because we either deny her love or force our love upon her. Yuri commits suicide because she cannot help but be madly in love with you, going insane due to the greed that she has to own you. Natsuki has a complete meltdown and snaps in two because she needs your attention; she fatally needs you to play with her. Then Monika is completely motivated by selfish desires too -- she's tired of being overlooked by you, the main character. She wants all your adoration and decides it would be better to remove everyone from the game than try and deal with her obsessive compulsion. But probably the most intense application of "selfishness" is the one is imposed on the player. Purely by starting a "New Game" you are subjecting these girls to a violent future because if the Plus! content is any true indication, nothing bad will happen if YOU don't selfishly play another round. By breaking the fourth wall, the game becomes self-aware in many, many ways and part of the narrative IS your contributions to the game. Read the e-mails among staff, check the unlockable artwork and their captions, do the Side Stories -- EVERYTHING is connected. The entire presentation IS the story; your involvement, included. And if you check every corner of the DDLC universe, you'll find so many stories and realities tucked away that I can't remember the last time I encountered such a rich, carefully planned, thoughtful narrative.

Part of what you uncover is the potential truth that everything is probably okay as long as you don't get involved. It's only when you start a New Game and insert yourself into the story that the sentient Monika starts going off the rails with her jealousy. Yes, it does seem apparent that all the girls are struggling with something in their personal lives; but aren't we all? It's a beautiful story about finding something to ease that pain, to cope with it. No one is there to try and change the other person, they're there to support them. And in that way, DDLC is really lovely and endearing. What I can't figure out, though, is who is the real villain. Is it you, MC? Is it something in the code related to whomever becomes Club President? Is it, plainly, Just Monika?

From here I'll have to keep my tinfoil hat from slowly materializing... and it's about here where I decide to delete a post after I've rambled too long... but the lingering point I'm trying to make is that DDLC is an entire universe filled with heartwarming stories, made all the more poignant due to the horrible future that lies in wait for everyone if you decide to play. By breaking that fourth wall, Team Salvato makes you a participant, thereby turning Sayori, Natsuki, Yuri and Monika not just into NPCs but friends. Team Salvato asks the ultimate question: what is the place of fiction in our lives? How can fiction be powerful and what's its purpose? Like the Club, maybe we're all just looking for a place to feel comfortable, accepted. We seek out new stories so we can experience the lives of others and maybe gain some perspective about our own existence. By playing DDLC, Team Salvato tries to present you not only with modern existentialist questions, but also offers a salve for whatever may ail you. Using intensely graphic horror mechanisms to convey that message is just part of the grisly fun.

[musicfren]

They’ve got a bad reputation (they’ll get a standing ovation) part 2

HI HAVE I, TOLD YOU, THAT, @nottesilhouette IS THE MOST FRIGGEN AMAZING WRITER IN THE WHOLE WORLD? God...why do we do this to ourselves, friggen 3400 word story in the span of 2 days...this is entirely exclusively my fault pay no mind  Read part 1 here. Happy @felinettenovember y’all, time for slep!

...oh, dear gods, why is Felix here? The spotlight burns into his face like shame, regret bubbling up in his stomach. He doesn’t remember challenging Marinette but he has, apparently, and now everyone’s watching and he has to-- he has to-- fight. Defend himself. 

Or breathe, if he can manage it.

One seems easier than the other. Well, here goes nothing. Felix steps forward and calls engarde. 

“Ophelia did nothing but obey the men in her life!” He cries, stepping forward, gesticulating wildly. The crowd gasps, and Felix doesn’t understand why until he realizes he's still holding the sword prop, white-knuckled grip around its hilt. Marinette’s eyes go wide with surprise and Felix nearly blurts out an apology right there. But then a glint of something sharper flashes in her gaze, burning with determination and suddenly Felix isn’t feeling quite so confident. It’s too late to quail now. He steps forward and matches her, still talking. “She’s hardly enough of an independent person to qualify as a character.” 

“What would she be, then?” Marinette’s voice is steady, calm, and Felix is wildly, irrationally envious of it. He can’t work out how to make his statements come out smooth, suave like she’s managed, so he goes for the next best weapon: rage.

“She’s little more than a symbol, a prop,” he spits, and the crowd reacts appropriately. Something in his chest loosens at the idea that he’s performed correctly. Something in his heart wrenches.

Marinette sends him a snide look. “You would know. You’re a model mannequin.” 

They’re circling each other now: Felix is brash, forceful, cutting broad slashes through the air with each sweeping generalization he makes. Marinette is steady, precise, pulling apart the stitches of his defense with needle-fine precision. His pulse quickens; a glance at the audience shows she’s winning their favor. This isn’t the clever riposte and quick banter they expected, and Felix is coming across as dim-witted at best. 

“Well, what is she then? You have so many judgements, it’s time you raised an opinion of your own-- or do you have no policy but to raze mine?” Felix pushes her back, scrambling for repost. He needs to be interesting, he needs to be clever, he needs to-- turn it back onto Marinette before the crowd realizes he’s faking, that he doesn’t want to be here, that he’s… scared. 

His tongue sours at the words, and he hates himself for saying them. Marinette shoots him a glare full of challenge, and for an instant he considers conceding right there. Marinette believes so strongly in her cause, and Felix is desperate to apologize, to reconcile, to just acknowledge the points she’s making. But he’s trapped now, caught in the reputation he’s built for this audience and his own pride, and he has nowhere to go but forward. 

Or backwards, apparently, because with each point Marinette makes, crisp and concise and clear, Felix finds himself frantically retreating further and further.

“Ophelia is the only person in the play who recognizes that Hamlet needs help.” 

“That’s not true--”

She cuts him off with a slice.  “She’s the only person who notices and tries to stop him, who cares enough to call him out on his actions, to hold him accountable to the promises he made before his mad plan, to who he used to be.” 

“The entire argument is milquetoast--” He stabs desperately.

“They speak of beauty and reputation, of expectations and the way one’s actions will never outweigh the image others have of them.” 

“They speak of madness and prostitution!”

They’ve become locked in combat now, their blades darting in the scant space their words leave behind. The crowd presses forward, squeezes the stage almost to bursting. Nino presses his face to the camera lense, not wanting to miss an instant.

“The argument is framed against women but its themes are centered on Hamlet’s own realization of the position he’s found himself in. It breaks the adrenaline rush long enough to show him, in all his grief and desperation, the reality he’s constructed for himself. They speak of agency!” 

“Ophelia has none!”

“Ophelia reminds him that he does!” Marinette’s voice finally raises. “Ophelia reminds Hamlet who he is, what he has, if only for a moment. Ophelia grieves for him, for his loss: of his father, of his sanity and dignity and agency. She acknowledges that he is a liar, but remembers the man he used to be, the person he put work into being.” 

“She laments the loss of his attention, nothing more.”

“To write her statements off as such discounts the tone and the manner with which they are intended; she is returning his madman’s accusations with compassion and reason, she is the only person who has done so, who will ever do so.” 

“Why should I take her seriously when no one else does?!” It’s a mad, desperate response as he finds himself teetering at the edge of the stage, and he’s unbalanced. He swings again, unhinged. 

“None of the men in her life-- not her father, not her brother, not god himself-- take her seriously until she dies.”

“She trips into a river.” Finally, Felix is in charge of this conversation; this, Marinette cannot deny. It is his strongest point, and the only point that matters. He steadies himself, holds his sword like a shield to defend his statement. 

“Her death is not an accident. Her death is the culmination of the climax. Her death is the reason anyone stops long enough to notice how far gone Hamlet is! Her death tethers Hamlet to the person he used to be, who loved her once, who remembered what it felt like to choose what he did and who he was.” 

“That makes her nothing more than the physical manifestation and harbinger of Hamlet's descent into madness,” and Felix puts on a smirk because he knows he should. 

Felix wishes he was being honest, passionate the way Marinette is being. Felix wishes her voice didn’t seem so far away, calling from a world he remembers existing in but can’t find his way back to anymore. Felix wishes he was talking to her in a realm even close to reality instead of the mirage he’s operating in, desperate not to fall through. 

Instead, he steps forward from the edge of the stage and keeps his sword aloft. “She’s trapped in the societal confines of traditional womanhood. She’s nothing more than a woman in a world where that doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right.” 

Marinette stops moving forward to meet him, drops her arm. Felix is thrilled, and sick and confused, doubly so when he notices the ferocity in her expression. It is not one of someone who has given up. It is one of someone who is about to pounce.

“You’re right, she is nothing more than a woman in a world where that doesn’t matter. No one cares what she has to say. So she makes it matter. She dies, and she is finally heard. You’re right, and she’s a genius for the way she wields it like a weapon.” Marinette smirks, matching his smugness with self-assured pride, and taps his wrist with her sword. His own slips easily out of his grasp, and he trembles; with what emotion, he cannot place. “Being able to do the work of all these men in 58 lines doesn’t make her less of a character, Felix. It makes her more of one, and more power to her for what she’s able to notice that no one else will. It’s not her fault men can’t manage it.”

 Felix finally snaps. “My sense is not less than yours!”

Marinette pauses, and very very slowly, grins. It’s terrifying, predatorial. She rakes her gaze down his body, and he shivers. “I had thought to agree but this battle of wits has proven very much so the opposite. When she blows him a kiss and winks, Felix collapses where he stands. 

It’s over. The tension the assembled students have been holding in their collective lungs for the last five minutes erupts into cheers and thunderous applause.

“Bravo, bravo.” says Nino, pushing through the crowd, most of whom are still frantically scribbling in their notebooks. Felix can scarcely bring himself to look up, his face burning with humiliation. The room around him is rapidly becoming a confusing blur of angry lights and prying eyes.

“You guys were amazing, I’ve never seen anything like that before! Honestly I should turn this in just like that.” Nino moves around to get a few more shots of their faces, lit up under the harsh theatre lights.

“No way!” shouts someone from the crowd, “I’m turning it in first!” “--can’t believe how easily Marinette just eviscerated Felix! I thought he was good at literature but--” “--she’s so clever, he could barely keep up--”  “--he’s not very good at this, is he--”

Someone else laughs and soon the whole crowd is bickering, arguing over who will lay claim to Marinette’s mental prowess and Felix’s mortification. 

“Enough, ALL of you! That was completely uncalled for. This wasn’t for you to take advantage of. None of you-- none of you-- bothered to state your own position, your own opinion. All you did was encourage my attacks, which were honestly in poor form.” Marinette hardly stops to breathe. “And anyways, I’m only more coherent because I’ve done weeks of research on this character. Felix kept up to someone who wasn’t just thinking on her feet, and his points still had credibility-- do you know how many literary analyses I’ve read on his position just to try and work out how to defend mine?” Marinette leans over and offers Felix a gentle smile and an outstretched hand. He gratefully accepts.

Felix takes her hand and pulls himself up with it, and stands shoulder to shoulder with her, looking out at the sea of chastised faces. “And now you think you can turn in our work-- her work, really-- and our performance as your own as if you have any claim to it-- it’s disgusting. Marinette poured herself into caring about this, and… and I should’ve listened to her, but I don’t get to take credit for the work she’s done to be this person. I need to do the work myself. You’re manipulators and thieves if you think you deserve any part of what she’s done.” 

“Hey, everyone is manipulated by something. Hamlet, Claudius, Horaito… you would know, right?” Marinette looks at him again, soft and shy and concerned through her lashes.

Felix swallows hard, glances at the cameras still rolling. Yeah, he would know.

“Thank you.” He says, stumbling and trying to hide the way his legs are shaking. “I, um… I guess I’d better put these swords away before someone stabs themselves.”

Nino slaps a hand on his shoulder so hard he nearly falls back down again. “Felix, my man! Get that grumpy black uniform off you!”

“Um… what?” Felix turns in confusion, head still spinning.

“You, my friend, are stage-hand no more! We’re still missing a Hamlet, and I know I’ve found the perfect one right here!”

“...WHAT?!?” 

As the world around him starts to blur, Marinette slips her hand into his and squeezes, shooting him a fond, amused grin. “You’re going to do great, Felix. I’ll see you on stage.” She presses her lips to his cheek, soft, warm, and… the scene fades to black to the sound of cheering.

[septic-dr-schneep]

JSE - Given Time (Part 12)

Previous chapters: [x]

A/N: You know how I said I would wait to post this? I lied

Three and a half weeks.

Three and a half weeks since Marvin had wrenched awake with a ragged scream, feeling like someone had punched a hole in his chest.

Three and a half weeks since he’d half-stumbled, half-crawled from his room to the others, everything in his body singing, Wrong! Wrong! Danger!

Three and a half weeks since they had broken down Chase’s door to find nothing but his hat, phone and wristwatch strewn on the floor. Weeks of terror, rage, grief and determination warring within Marvin as he drilled through every tome on his shelf, searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign.

By only the sixth day his fingers were bloody with papercuts and burnt from entangling too many spells at once but the others knew better than to try stopping him. They were far too busy with their own search methods.

Jackieboy had scoured the city, cashed in as many favors as he could spare, dragged as many police officers as he could get his hands on into the search. It was a testament to how much of their faith he had earned, working with them over the years. “He’s my friend,” he said, and that was all they needed to know.

Schneep contacted every hospital, every urgent care, every house caller he could think of in the city, then as many as he knew in the Ipliers’ city. Dr. Iplier had sworn he would do what he could on his end, though who knew how much?

Whenever he wasn’t on the phone, Henrik was crying into scarred, shaking hands. “I wish it were me. If the monster has him, if Chase must endure what I did…” There were nightmares and horrors in his eyes that wouldn’t let him elaborate. “I wish it were me. I would take his place, I would endure it all again if it would spare him!”

Jameson, meanwhile, did the work that was left by the wayside: food, water, blankets when the others finally passed out with their desks as their pillows. After the initial panic he seemed to go into shock. China-pale and puffy-eyed, he drifted from task to task in a daze. His speech slides were scarce, his signs nonexistent. On the rare occasion that he rested, he prayed.

There were no traces of static lingering in Chase’s room—not a speck, not a flicker. Emergency calls and hospital reports of stab wounds came up empty. Chase’s gun was still in its locked drawer, as were the bullets. There was no note to detail a goodbye. When Marvin grit his teeth, swallowed his pride and bitterness and called Stacy, she said that neither she nor the children had heard from Chase in a couple of months.

That should have been a relief, a sign that this wasn’t another attempt. Chase wouldn’t dare try to leave this world again without telling Brianna and Connor that he loved them one last time. Nevertheless the fear churned, always, in the back of Marvin’s mind.

What if he did try to reach the kids but couldn’t get through, so he gave up? What if he doesn’t have his gun because he’s going to try some other way? What if he took the note with him so it would be on his body when he’s found?

No. No. I would know. I would have felt it.

That tether he held, that thin lifeline tangled up around Chase’s soul was all that Marvin could count on every day. Chase’s face card, the King of Clubs, could not locate him, aimlessly fluttering up and down the streets. With every dead end the card’s enchantment found, Marvin was taken back to the days of watching Schneep’s card tumble in the wind, unable to reach him in the pocket dimension where Anti had stashed him away.

That train of thought found a new track.

Three and a half weeks since this new twist of their living nightmare began and at long, long last, they had found something solid to stand on.

Marvin’s plan had been to utilize his soul bond with Chase from the start, combing through dimensions one by one, searching for any pang, any sensation. Yesterday afternoon, however, Dr. Iplier had called Henrik to pass on a message.

“The Host is well aware of the Septic Egos’ trouble. Marvin the Magnificent approaches it on too small a scale. Pocket dimensions will prove trivial, fruitless…but the Host Sees beyond. For the price of a future favor, he may be of assistance in locating Chase Brody’s thread of reality.”

It was the easiest debt they could ever agree to. Another nine months with a hole in their household was not an option.

Marvin emerged on the opposite side of the portal, the opposite side of the universe, with Jackieboy tensed for a fight beside him. Schneep was quick on their heels, machete raised for an upswing, and Jameson had his sword cane drawn before his feet even hit the rocks. It wavered in his hand, however, as he laid eyes on the city in the middle distance.

“Jeepers…That truly is Elvery Heights. It’s the spitting image of our own…yet darker,” he murmured in wary disbelief.

“I don’t understand. Should this portal not have taken us straight where we should be? We are on the outskirts,” Schneep demanded.

“The Host wasn’t about to do all our work for us—and it’s probably better that we haven’t been dropped into the middle of a fight,” Jackie pointed out. “We know nothing about this place. We should find our bearings first.”

“We should find Chase; he’s waiting for us somewhere in there and I’m not going to waste any time sightseeing! We need to get in, get out and get him home!” Marvin snapped, pushing past him into a jog toward the far street. “I’m going to West General, Schneep; if he’s hurt, the Anti of this universe would probably dump him there for you to find!”

He had hardly sprinted ten feet before Jackieboy caught up with him. “Marvin,” he began in a warning voice.

“I feel him now. He’s here and he’s frightened,” Marvin snarled, dodging the hand that grabbed for his shoulder. “Isn’t this how you felt when Schneep was gone? Can’t you understand, you of all people?! Wouldn’t you do anything to get him back, no matter the risks? You would’ve plowed right in too if you knew where he was and I will not hesitate to do the same! Chase is—”

“I know. I know, Marvin.” Jackie matched pace with him, gaze steady, low voice unfaltering. “But even if I had found out where Anti kept Henrik, I would’ve been an idiot to go alone, with no reconnaissance and no plan. I don’t doubt for even a second that I would’ve gotten us both killed.”

“I don’t plan to make that mistake.”

“It would be an even bigger mistake to leave us behind! He’s not just your brother. You think JJ wouldn’t do whatever it takes to save his dad right now? But he’s keeping it together and coming along with a level head. We’re all here to help you.”

Muscles twitching in his jaw, Marvin quickened his stride. I’m coming, Chase. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hold on.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

All of the buildings, the streets, the parks, shops and walkways—They all seemed to be “right” but Henrik couldn’t shiver away this uneasy chill from his back as he followed Marvin and Jackieboy toward the hospital. It was his hospital. Shouldn’t he feel at ease, knowing this street so well? But as intricate as the familiar surroundings may be, they didn’t hold up well when he truly looked. It was like an optical illusion or a spot-the-difference game, everything further skewed as he ventured further in.

The passing cars were few and far between, the pedestrians dotted across the street so rarely that it was startling to see one. None of them smiled. None of them even seemed to care about each other’s existence. Unlike the civilians at home, these people didn’t give a second glance to the “quadruplet” Egos passing them. They didn’t bat a lash at their attire, didn’t bother meeting their eyes.

“You feel it creeping up on you too, doc?” Jameson shivered beside him, leaning on his sheathed cane to keep up. “The cold? The strangeness of it all? I can’t rightly put my finger on why but this place feels…ill, like the heart has drained from it. I find myself hoping that the hospital will show happier signs of life!”

“I hope that too.” Thanks to those words his patients’ faces were already flashing in his mind as they stopped before the double doors. “Okay…it looks normal enough, the way I know it…”

“You’re obviously the one who can get in and check around for any sign of him the fastest without being suspected,” Marvin announced, wasting no time to steer him forward by the shoulder. “You know where they keep the patient logs, right?”

“If they keep them where they do at home, yes, but that is an ‘if’,” he reminded him tersely. “This is a different world, Marvin; we do not know if I even work here, if I have ever worked here. Hopefully my coat and expert doctoring will let me pass through at a glance but if it doesn’t—”

“Henrik? Is that you standing dillydally around I see? I thought you were scurrying out to fetch our coffee twenty minutes ago!”

All other fears fled his mind at the call and left him paralyzed at the sound of that voice. Marvin and Jameson retreated a few feet, taken aback, but Jackieboy wasted no time shouldering defensively between him and the approaching figure.

“What’s going on? Henrik?” Albrecht repeated, glancing curiously between the rigid pair. “If you don’t hurry to the shop, our break will be over before you’re back.”

Henrik could only stare at his old enemy, openmouthed, drawing a blank on any possible response. The mere fact that Albrecht was unmasked, ungloved and clean of any bloodstains was enough to render him speechless. Jackieboy didn’t suffer that malady.

“What are you doing here, Doll Maker?” he barked.

“That’s the Doll Maker?” Marvin breathed, glancing at Jameson as he tightened white knuckles around the head of his cane.

“Well?” Jackie spat, eyes burning. “Have you been waiting for us to arrive? Are you the one who’s taken him?”

A snort of bewildered concern escaped Albrecht as he shifted back, hands lifted placatingly. “Very sorry, sir, but I imagine you think of someone else. I have never heard of any ‘Doll Maker’; I do not know why you call me that. Do you need a doctor’s help? Who was taken from you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Are you trying to mock us?”

“Not at all! If you are looking for a patient, you can ask the front desk in there—or if you would like to wait just a tick, my friend Dr. Schneeplestein and I can gladly listen to your story and see if there is anything we can—”

A nearby crash, splash and clatter cut him off before he could finish, making them jump. As he spun sideways Albrecht lit up, calling out, “Oh, hello! There is the coffee! I—”

“Schneep,” Marvin whispered.

Jameson flinched. Jackie swore.

Albrecht wavered uncertainly, glancing to and fro with the same disbelief mirrored on the others’ faces. “W-Wait. Wait a moment…How can there be—?”

As the steaming brew collected in a puddle that stretched for his shoes, Henrik remained absolutely still, unable to breathe. On the other side of that gap, his other self, bony, pallid and haggard, stared him down with sunken eyes that still shone as cold and sharp as razorblades.

“What is this?” he hissed.

___________________________________________________

@viostormcaller  @misslennie9  @obsidiancreates @plutoandpolaris  @rainidaydreamer @alvie-ashgrove @subtleshenanigans  @victory-cookies  @happysingingturtles @c4link @ashphoenix06  @a-humble-narcissus  @jackskeptically @burningbirb @theblackphoebe  @hexatrash  @realcanadianmoose  @o-0notsteph0-o @help-trashbin  @blitzindite  @rats-this-username-is-taken @lildevyl  @droidreamer  @number1120 @bookwormscififan  @wynterst0rms @awesomekattyk  @the-weirdest-fangirl-blog  @epicfangirl01 @rammypaige @the-spawn-of-loki @isa-ghost @rabbitsartcorner @totallynotanti @thesinginggal @akiacreates @veryanxiousdev @stardustdragon130 @10th-no-name-person @immabethehero @rataccoonn @darkiplurrr @smolswolpotato @gay-but-still-feral @definitely-asexual-volcano @0-chaotic-potato-0  @jade-orade @nagrom10714

@egopocalypse 

[fedtothenight]

this competition asked to write a short story in the dystopian genre and my entry's below - don't rb!

the sweetest fruit

The boy gasped, straining against the padded frame of the jeep just as the vehicle slowly came to a halt. ‘Look!’ he shouted, pointing at a spot about a hundred feet from the group. ‘Look, Mum! That’s so cool!’

Half-instinctively, his mother had already grabbed a fistful of his tank-top, ready to yank him back. She had spent the entirety of the trip sitting as still as possible, facing forward, eyes stubbornly fixed on the self-cooling top of the car in a pointless effort to fight her motion sickness: her patience was already wearing very thin without her eight-year-old personal safety hazard trying to get himself killed.

‘Ethan, for the love of God,’ she snapped. ‘I already told you to stop leaning over the frame! Do you realise how dangerous that is?’

‘No, Mum, you’ve got to look!’

‘Emma, darling,’ her husband whispered, a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘You should really look at this. It’s magnificent.’

Whatever it was, even her fifteen-year-old daughter - who had spent the last thirty minutes texting her friends back home without so much as a glance at the scenery - was jaw-slacked, so she slowly got up on her wobbly knees and peered over her shoulders.

In the shadow of a tree, protected from the sweltering heat, two lions were feasting on a zebra. Perhaps belatedly, as it’d taken her a second to drink the sight in, she realised that the poor thing was still alive: writhing as blood, red and hot and pulsing, gushed out from where the bigger lion - the male - had bitten into its back.

The smaller one, the female, soundlessly sank its teeth into the dying animal’s neck, and the latter gave one last weak kick, finally falling limp. When the lioness stood again, it was almost impossible, from this distance, to see her eyes amidst the bloodied mess on her face.

‘Oh, my God, Matt,’ Emma said. ‘This is beautiful. Nature truly is beautiful.’

‘You don’t really get to see this kind of show anywhere else today,’ their guide said from the driver’s seat. He sounded proud, as if he’d hunted and fed the zebra to the lions himself.

Alberto wasn’t wrong, Emma reasoned. Given that they were parked in the middle of the privately-owned biggest North American savanna, he - or rather, his employer - was the one effectively feeding the lions. Like feeding mice to cats. She glanced at her children, glad they could have a window on a reality that was long gone. To think it would have taken a trip around the world to watch this spectacle - imagine the motion sickness then! If only, she considered wistfully, there could be a way of replicating glaciers just as accurately.

‘Honestly, it seems a bit unfair that they get to eat real meat,’ Ethan said at the dinner table a few hours later. He was picking at his plate, moving the fried grasshoppers they’d been served for dinner around, but not really eating any. ‘While we are stuck with insects and microprotein or whatever.’

Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. She was tired and sunburnt, her sensitive pale skin suffering under the blistering sun of the region, so different from the temperate weather back home North. She had a splitting headache, too. She was, yet again, at the so-called end of her tether. ‘Ethan…’

‘You should be glad you get to eat at all,’ her daughter said at the same time. ‘There’s a reason it’s illegal to eat meat. These animals are here for show, anyway. They were originally from Africa.’

‘Shut up, Becca,’ Ethan mumbled. ‘Everybody knows there are no animals in Africa. There’s nothing there.’

Becca’s cheeks were tinted pink, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Of course there were animals. There were animals everywhere before the Climate Crunch.’

‘Both of you, stop it,’ Matt interjected. ‘Ethan, your sister is right. You should be grateful that we are here in the first place. That said…’ He leant forward, voice down to a whisper: ‘I have a surprise for you. Or, well, Richard has a surprise for us. When he arrives tomorrow, he’ll bring us real meat. Bovine meat.’

‘But it’s illegal,’ said Becca.

‘It’s technically illegal,’ Matt acknowledged. ‘It’s not if you know how to get some and no one from Animal Conservation finds out. Do you think our president only eats insects? Please, Becca. Use that big brain of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Ethan snickered. ‘Use your brain, Becca.’

‘That is too generous,’ Emma said. ‘Inviting us here in the first place was, when even he hasn’t gotten here yet. Now this. I wouldn’t know how to repay him.’

Truly, all she felt was jealousy. Her guts twisted with the sheer force of it. Yes, she had known that Richard was comfortable. The gated, heavily guarded estate spanned for thousands of acres, comprised the 5000sqt villa they were staying at (five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a cinema, marble floors and solar panels on the rooftop), an indoor swimming pool inspired by vintage photos of Amalfi, two indoor tennis courts, and the savanna they’d explored earlier in the day. ‘The biggest conservation area in North America since they repurposed the Midwest,’ he’d bragged in a video call, two weeks before. ‘You will love it. The holiday you deserve. Make yourselves at home.’

But meat? He could get meat?

Matt’s family had designed DeNuketify, which was basically the only effective way of purifying ocean water from whatever nuclear waste Japan kept spewing so that it could be used and, most importantly, drunk. They had managed to flee the continent with the last handful of greencards about the time her family did, too, taking their precious Queen’s accent with them to found Nova London. She was the governor of Nova London now, for God’s sake. The bloody queen herself was long dead but she was alive, and yet, yet - they had never had meat.

‘We don’t have to, Emma,’ Matt said. ‘We just need to remember how lucky we are to enjoy this meal, this house, this holiday. Look at that,’ and he nodded towards the TV screen again. ‘Actually, Alexa!, volume up!, I think the Italians have finally surrendered.’

The war correspondent’s voice grew louder. She - they, Emma reminded herself: Becca always told her not to assume anyone’s gender - was wearing a dust mask and reading from a bundle of documents. ‘The last military hospital in the island of Palermo was destroyed four days ago by a Canadian airstrike,’ they were saying. ‘The rebels surrendered soon after, followed by the group of extremists in the Nebrodi island. Etna had already surrendered last year.’

‘It’s important to remember that these actions were necessary to finally put a rest on the instability of the region,’ they added. ‘Canada will fund a complete restoration of the Southern archipelago. The remaining civilians will be provided with a shelter and then, when the time comes, a suitable job. Nova Italia will be the sixteenth Canadian state, the fourth offshore. There are also hopes to extract petroleum from the seabed of the sunken city of Gela.’

‘Watch them make it into a holiday hotspot,’ Matt commented. ‘The weather is still nice there.’

‘Ooh, I heard about this.’ Becca picked her phone back up and started furiously typing away. ‘There’s this journal entry soldiers found over there, under the rubble, that’s gone viral. It was translated into English. Wait, I’ll pull it up. Alexa, volume down.’

‘I’m not sure I want to hear it,’ Emma said, uneasy. ‘We’re on holiday. Should we not watch a movie? Something funny?’

Becca waved her away, as if she was an annoying fly. ‘It’ll be good practice for my drama class.’

Matt didn’t help—he simply shrugged, half-apologetic, as if to say: Let her do her thing.

Becca made a show of clearing her throat, too, before she started reading from her phone—her high voice now grave, studied, as if she were speaking to a larger audience: ‘I wonder what peas taste like.’

Right then, the scene on screen changed to footage of what looked like a destroyed village, something out of an apocalyptic movie. Emma found herself unable to look away.

‘Nonna used to say that her own great-grandmother grew them in her garden. Figs, too,’ Becca read. ‘They say they were the sweetest fruit.’

Emma wondered if this journal was actually written by a child or a teenager. It didn’t sound like an adult at all. She couldn’t help but picture a girl, a brunette, not much older than Becca, perhaps a rebel, or a trainee nurse on the sweet cusp of adulthood, holding this journal of hers, or perhaps a gun. It violently reminded her that her own daughter, too, would have to serve her time in the Forces in three years.

On screen, the Canadian soldiers walked among the ruins, zigzagging between torn up clothes and discarded weapons, surely looking for surviving rebels under the rubbles.

‘Isn’t it silly that we can hear the fighters overhead and that all I can do is think about food?’ said Becca. ‘I wish we could also eat figs and be happy.’

On screen, the camera zoomed in on a long-forgotten man's shoe, some crumpled photographs, on a pile of bodies in black bin bags.

‘Grandma - I miss her - left me a poetry book, too, from T.S. Eliot. I hope the book is with me when I die, so I can give it back to her when we meet again, afterwards. So I can tell her that T.S. Eliot was wrong.’

On screen, one of the soldiers approached and showed a little trinket to the camera: a bloody, heart-shaped locket that must’ve once been golden, hiding the miniature pictures of two brunette children that would never have a name.

‘That’s enough,’ Emma said. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. ‘Stop reading.’

‘The world may have not ended with a bang, but it didn’t end with a whimper, either: the world didn’t end at all. Sometimes,’ Becca finished reading, ‘I wish it had.’

‘What a load of rubbish,’ Matt scoffed. ‘Everyone should feel lucky to be alive. I bet this journal is a fake. Alexa, turn the TV off.’

As the screen faded to black, Ethan finally popped a grasshopper in his mouth. ‘I can’t wait to have meat tomorrow.’

[atinybitofau]

M I N G I ➟ mafia au

MAFIA HUBBY MINGI 2.0

part one

• “Who’s that?”

• San works for almost anybody.

• that being said, trains Mingi’s men when needed to.

• so when he decides to show up during a car show rehearsal organized by Mingi himself isn’t surprising at all.

• loves to roam around for shits and giggles too.

• but seeing a woman briefing experienced mechanics at their car hoods seemed more than just shits and giggles to even the likes of him.

• Wooyoung wipes at his greasy hands and smiles at the floating hitman. “Mingi’s girl.”

• “Mingi’s girl?” San whips towards him in question.

• “Haven’t you heard about X?”

• “That racer guy that shredded him months ago?” San chuckles at the memory of rumors. “Who hasn’t?”

• “Well THAT racer guy happens to be a girl. And sex on legs over there happens to also be Mingi’s new wife. Her first appearance out of the dark doesn’t just surprise you, you know. Everyone here can’t take her eyes off her.”

• and neither can Mingi apparently,

• now approaching you

• who just like you, stands out from the bustling gang crowd,

• custom leather trench coat and fancy ring on his finger to add to the awe.

• the people in the room gawk as their boss and leader wraps an arm around you,

• shocked more or less that a man of his demeanor could get shieldless like that.

• “Hey, baby.” you keen at the sound of his voice, turning your head to kiss him back on his lips. “Thank you for coming today.”

• you fit under his arm like he promised.

• where you belong at most.

• “You know I don’t mind.” you hand a wrench to one of his men you helped in front of you. “But I can’t say the same about the stares I’ve gotten since I walked in here.”

• Mingi’s peeved when he hears your displeasure.

• only wants the best for you.

• would give you everything you’d dream of.

• just for his queen.

• he turns his head in the space over yours to say something into your ear so only you can hear. “Do you want me to do something about it?”

• “No.” you place your hand against your husband’s chest, the once greed for the limelight gone once his attention was all you craved for. “Mr. Song, you have plenty of things on your to do list to do rather than what I’d like for you. I’ll be fine.”

• he growls, eyes glaring like a dog at the men who stared behind the both of you. “Mrs. Song, you know I’ll do anything to make you the happiest woman alive. If you’d just tell me what that is, perhaps you would be happy.”

• you turn up and lay a kiss against his stubble jaw before reassuring, “I am happy, Mingi. I already am.”

• but he thinks he isn’t enough for you sometimes.

• still hates himself for relying on an ally— Seonghwa to watch over you while you finish your studies.

• to his discontent always.

• trying to convince you that you could stop studying all together.

• but you aren’t greedy anymore.

• you have what you need.

• him.

• what fame, fortune, and class could never buy.

• “Mingi-ya.”

• you two are interrupted by some familiar faces. “Now I think you’ve forgotten to enlighten me with your current affairs. Who’s this little gem you’ve managed to snag for yourself here?”

• Mingi protectively towers you,

• body close to consuming yours as the men smile in your direction.

• “Choi San.” your husband forces an airy chuckle. “What a pleasant surprise.”

• “Not as pleasant as yours I see. And what’s your name, gorgeous?”

• you look up at Mingi.

• knowing better than to play with his temper.

• especially in the eyes of other men.

• “Go on, baby.” he whispers lightly by your ear. “Introduce yourself.”

• “Y/n.”

• the cunning man keens. “Ah. The scientist from south side. Seonghwa has spoken of you as well I think. Though Mingi’s affairs were never boastful enough to strike an interest, those rings tell another story.”

• “Ha ha. Enough patronizing, San.” Mingi rolls his eyes at his playful friend. “This is my wife you’re speaking about me to.”

• “It’s nice to know Mingi’s settled down.” San admits genuinely. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask us.”

• the one beside him, as you came to as know Wooyoung—

• Mingi’s best driver that you’ve met countless times,

• keens at you too.

• “A race here and there won’t hurt anyone either. We’ll leave you two to it. See you lovebirds later!”

• you feel glad.

• knowing Mingi was surrounded by good people despite his.. situation.

• and how yours had turned for the better upon falling in love with him yourself.

• you can’t imagine what your life would be without this man.

• and his eyes tell you the same.

• “I’m sorry for them..” Mingi walks you away and towards nothing in particular. “They’ve known me for so long and like to embarrass me here and there.”

• you giggle at the flustered state you only manage to get him in, shocked others were able to as well.

• “Your friends are kind.” you kiss him again, never being able to reach his lips if he weren’t offering them to you. “And I’m grateful for you and them. Even if they like to tease you.”

• he brings your face in his large hands and kisses you tenderly.

• “I promised you the throne and you always show less of a role than me. You used to want it.” he mumbles with a sigh. “Am I not worth as much anymore?”

• Mingi was everything he needed to be.

• ruthless, sinful, and fatal.

• but in the times he’s reminded that you were his everything?

• he’s everything he wants to be.

• “I’ll stand beside you as your woman, my love.” you revel in his attention, only liking the lime light when it reminds everyone of who he belongs to. “But your role can never be shared. Not a competition to me.”

• he sighs in relief against you.

• peppering you in endless kisses.

• reminding you too of who you belong to.

• “You won my heart, y/n. What more of a race than that?”

• he leaves again.

• because he has to do his own bidding as the mafia king.

• but you’re just a college student that won his competitions as a masked street racer.

• now you’re back to reality— college. waiting till the clock strikes so you’d be back in his arms again.

• you miss the attention you get from your husband dearly.

• hoping for too much after a not-so exciting fight from the both of you a couple days prior.

• his extravagant entails to keep you safe sometimes getting the better of him.

• but you’re surprised when you see San and Seonghwa standing by the rails of the stairs,

• looking disheveled than ever.

• “As much as I love you guys picking me up from school in place of Mingi, I’d much more love to see my husband trying to make up for his own fights.” you glare into their worry. “.. Is he alright?”

• “Try not to make a scene..”

• “As long as he’s not dead, sure.”

• Seonghwa glances to his satan clone, “I wouldn’t say dead..”

• you take the wheel after Seonghwa informs you,

• that your husband recklessly put himself in a line of fire,

• distracted at most by his roaming thoughts.

• how his head hadn’t been screwed on straight for the past nights after your fight.

• you’re racing against everything,

• a long time since you’ve been behind the wheel like this.

• the two in the back in awe by your abilities.

• but you’re more stern on seeing your god forsaken husband.

• not willing to spare him even if things aren’t good between the both of you.

• “Baby?”

• you sigh in relief when you see Mingi staring out the bedroom windows eyebrows furrowed,

• face tethered and bandaged and wounds fresh still.

• he doesn’t answer you when you walk over to meet his glare, sitting beside him on the edge of your shared bed.

• “Baby, look at me.”

• “I don’t see why you’re here.” he coldly snaps his hand away from you, showing his true colors in light of his situation. “Only pitying me when I’m sick.”

• you roll your eyes. “Don’t act like a child, Mingi.”

• his jaw clenches as you scold him for his attitude. “I don’t know what Seonghwa told you but this has nothing to do with you.”

• “Sure.” you lean your hand on his bed, eyebrow cocked up. “Because you always put yourself in a fire fight after I tell you never to.”

• he growls at you. “You do things I tell you not to too! Don’t spin this on me.”

• “Mingi, you sound ridiculous.” you sigh sitting yourself in between his legs, hands upon his jaw. “Stop being so temperamental. I only asked you to lay off the eyes while I attend Hyemi’s bachelorette party next weekend and you’re going out on a whim trying to make a point.”

• yes.

• that’s how trivial the issue was.

• “And I told you already that you going to that bachelorette party is my eyes or nothing at all. What more now that every single enemy I have knows what you look like? Not to mention the disgusting men that’d be present trying to yearn at the likes of you.”

• “You’re worrying for nothing, Mingi. I can take care of myself.”

• “Out of the question.” he snarls at you. “With me as your husband, you don’t need to take care of yourself. That’s my job.”

• you roll your eyes and chuckle. “Fine. If it means keeping you from doing stupid irrational things, you may do as you please.”

• of course it bothers you.

• how possessive your husband gets.

• but he is your husband.

• you also can’t blame him.

• “And in return, don’t ever go into dumb firefights with your men if you aren’t needed. You know better.”

• you ground him as his hands longingly reaches for you, forehead against yours. “I’m sorry..”

• Seonghwa and San watches from the doorway,

• how the younger melts in your hands.

• how well you’d actually be taking the throne beside Mingi—

• maybe doing his job better than he could.

• but Mingi’s boss for a reason.

• and your his for one too.

• “I love you.” you mumble against him. “Just to remind you, you won my heart ages ago. And not a single thing would make me lose to you. Not one.”

@atinybitofau

[kbstories]

impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Kamino Arc, Kidnapping & Aftermath, Hurt/Comfort, Bakugou Gets A Hug

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Content warning for kidnapping, aftermath of violence. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

i’m gonna die (sent 19:08)

no seriously i’m this 👌🏻 close to losing it bro (sent 19:08)

aizawa’s voice is so zzzz and it’s like sir,, i’m begging,,,, (sent 19:09)

a little bit of energy. just a little bit (sent 19:09)

A nudge to his side, somewhat urgent.

shit brb (sent 19:10)

“Dude.”

Kirishima keeps his voice down to a hiss, shooting a glance at Aizawa’s turned back just in case. Hidden behind his pencil case, his phone shows Bakugou has read his messages – near-immediately, as always – before Kirishima locks the screen. His own face is reflected on sleek, innocent black.

Next to him, Kaminari is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Don’t dude me, dude”, he whispers back. “Texting in Aizawa’s class? D’you have a death wish?”

Next to Kaminari, Mina leans over her desk, clearly curious and uncaring of her notes crinkling quietly under her elbows. “You? Kiri, paragon of wholesomeness and sunshine, breaking the rules? Lemme guess, it’s because of Bakugou.”

Next to Mina, Sero joins the fray with a muted headshake. “So brave yet so reckless. Truly inspiring.”

“You can say that again. That guy’s scary, man.” That’s Kaminari again. He leans in conspiratorially, nodding at Kirishima’s phone. “You got Blasty’s number? How? He almost bit my head off when I invited him to the 1-A chat.”

“Uh, yeah? We’re besties. But guys…”

If they were anywhere else, Kirishima would let out a whine. All he wanted to do was keep himself awake by texting his bro, is that such a crime? Especially since Bakugou’s the only one of ‘em who is actually allowed out there, where the fun stuff is happening. It’s downright cruel to have a new challenge dangled in front of their eyes like the juiciest steak only to be dragged away to the equivalent of plain steamed broccoli. Or something.

Point is: Kirishima’s bored enough he could cry and Aizawa, bless his insomnia-plagued soul, is making it about a thousand times worse with his monotone mumbling while he continues to write whatever-the-fuck in chalk to illustrate his point.

Three mouths open simultaneously in what Kirishima knows will be a too-loud bout of teasing – a frantic gesture of his hand to shut up, shut up, shut up has identical grins bursting on his friends’ faces.

Grins that disappear the instant the familiar sense of Aizawa’s quirk washes over them. Uh oh.

Aizawa doesn’t even have to say anything. Not even a brief pause registers in his lecture yet Kirishima snaps to attention so hard his buttcheeks clench as he furiously scribbles down what’s on the board. Some sort of… diagram? (It’ll make sense later, Kirishima hopes. And if it doesn’t, there’s always his equally draconic tutor-slash-best-friend he can poke into helping him eventually.)

After a semester at U.A., everyone in 1-A is whipped enough that not a single word is breathed between them for a good fifteen minutes. Aizawa talks, they take notes.

Then the adrenaline wears off and Kirishima finds himself drifting once more, fingers automatically flicking the home button. There, over Crimson Riot’s confident grin, three new messages.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

pay attention (received 19:14)

ffs (received 19:14)

hope aizawa murdered your ass (received 19:16)

No surprises there. Well, the fact that Bakugou has deigned to reply just before a training exercise kind of is, and he even triple-texted which makes a sappy part of Kirishima’s brain think he must’ve rubbed off on him over the past months. The day Bakugou Katsuki discovers emojis can’t be far off now and it will be Kirishima’s greatest achievement to date.

He bites his lip to suppress an amused noise at that. Ignoring the incredulous stare from Kaminari to his right, Kirishima types.

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

haha! i lived bitch (sent 19:32)

minus the bitch askdjfhsk sry (sent 19:32)

i’m just tired af lol (sent 19:32)

how’s things on ur end tho? (sent 19:34)

no asses left unkicked i’m sure (sent 19:34)

👊🏻💥💥 (sent 19:35)

Kirishima gets about a solid second to feel good about furthering his pro-emoji agenda before his phone is snatched away by rigid, white cloth. Wide-eyed, his gaze is met by a flat expression that exudes more exhaustion than any human should rightfully have to feel.

“Kirishima”, Aizawa says, as calm as ever. “How kind of you to lend me your attention.”

Lord have mercy. Whichever hell Aizawa is about to unleash on him, Kirishima will be in it for a while. And when that’s over, it’ll be Bakugou’s turn to have a field day with it.

Somehow, Kirishima is actually looking forward to that last part.

*

Then, a voice rings out in their heads. Aizawa jumps into motion. The villains strike.

Afterwards, all Kirishima can do is stand there and watch the forest burn. His phone is silent, held between fingers that won’t stop trembling no matter what he does. He unlocks, checks, locks, only to do it all over again a few minutes or seconds later.

Around him, everything is spinning out of control. Reality is too loud, too bright, already overwhelming where it waits to be acknowledged beyond the soothing green interface of his chat with Bakugou.

The messages are still there. Marked read until they aren’t, and Kirishima stares at that subtle difference like it’s the last thing tethering him to the ground. Blue tick, his best friend is fine. Grey tick–

Bakugou let Kirishima take a photo of him, once. Kirishima had complained about his profile picture being that creepy default silhouette, especially once they started texting on a daily basis. So Bakugou sighed and leaned over the tiny table of the café, his chin propped on one hand and his coffee in the other. He’d kept still just long enough for the shutter to go off and called him a clingy bastard right after.

In the soft morning light, there’d been something warm in his typical glare. It’s still there, tucked away in the top left corner of the screen. Fond, red eyes, looking straight at Kirishima ever since.

Higher and higher, the flames reach for the sky with greedy, cobalt fingers, bright enough to take the stars with them. And Bakugou?

Bakugou is gone.

*

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

hey (sent 23:01)

it’s a long shot but (sent 23:03)

are u there? (sent 23:03)

these are going thru so ur phone is on and i thought (sent 23:08)

idk (sent 23:08)

please respond man (sent 23:37)

please (sent 23:58)

katsuki? (sent 00:40)

*

Nitro!! (Baku 💣💥)

fuck (sent 3:24)

*

Bakugou Katsuki

um (sent 6:13)

the pros asked for ur number to track it and stuff so i gave it to them (sent 6:13)

turns out almost nobody has it?? so like (sent 6:20)

if u want a new one after all this it’s on me (sent 6:21)

pls don’t be mad haha (sent 6:21)

fuck that actually (sent 7:05)

be as mad as u want baku (sent 7:06)

u can do whatever ok? when u come back (sent 7:09)

free pass. i won’t guard this time (sent 7:09)

just come back (sent 8:00)

they’re looking for u so u gotta come back (sent 8:02)

* 

Baku 💣💥

sry i just (sent 19:55)

ok still going thru (sent 19:55)

that’s good right? (sent 19:57)

i need it to be good (sent 20:05)

yeah (sent 20:06)

*

Baku 💣💥

it’s saturday (sent 2:33)

please be ok (sent 4:46)

i miss u (sent 5:00)

*

Baku 💣💥

we’re on our way katsuki (sent 12:45)

just hold on we’re coming for u (sending…)

wait (sending…)

oh (sending…)

*

Bakugou is quiet.

When all is said and done, injuries patched up and police statements given, Kirishima waits and Bakugou looks… tired. Small. Glancing back at the precinct with eyes a little too wide, a little too hesitant to truly belong to him.

Whatever he’s searching, if he finds it or not – Kirishima can only guess as Bakugou’s shoulders slump further and he mutters, “Let’s just go.”

In retrospect, he was probably talking to his parents. The Bakugous came for their son in a car as expensive as they come, white with chrome highlights and an interior clad entirely in tasteful, beige leather; it’s an aesthetic that’s the antithesis to Katsuki’s. Their expressions are full of love, though, brows drawn in concern carefully left unspoken. His father opens the back door for him first, going for his own in the front, while his mother ruffles Bakugou’s hair within the one-second-window he allows for the touch before shrugging it off.

“Welcome back, brat. We missed ya.”

Familiar phrases laden with far too much weight. From the outside in, it’s just that: Mildly exasperated parents picking up their kid after some school thing that dragged on into the night, or perhaps a late hangout with a friend. No one acknowledges the nightmare-ish three days they’ve left behind by the merit of time passing and the world spinning on and nothing else – the countless people injured or dead, an entire district torn asunder in a conflict much bigger than any of them, especially Bakugou.

Bakugou, who shuffles onto the backseat without saying much of anything. It’s only after Kirishima trails after him and Bakugou’s eyes meet his own over his shoulder that Kirishima realizes that’s what he’s doing.

Then Bakugou’s gaze softens and he kicks the door of the car open wider. “Um”, Kirishima pipes up, the noise of keys clinking together drawing his attention to one Bakugou Mitsuki. “Is it okay if I…?”

She snorts and ruffles his hair, too. “Kid, after what you did tonight, a ride home is the least I can do for ya. C’mon.”

Kirishima bows politely, a mumble of “Thanks, ma’am” waved away immediately. A moment later, Kirishima’s hand is being grabbed and he’s dragged inside. “Get a move on”, Bakugou mumbles, staring pointedly until Kirishima rights himself and digs for the seatbelt with his free hand. The click of the clasp snapping in is oddly loud in the ensuing silence.

It doesn’t last. The moment the engine purrs to life and the lights go off, a heavy guitar riff screeches from cleverly hidden speakers in perfect surround sound and Kirishima jumps. He’s the only one in the car to do so.

“Whoops, my bad”, says Bakugou’s mom as she turns the music down the slightest amount, her smirk – so familiar and yet not – clearly visible in the rear-view mirror. Next to her, Bakugou’s dad chuckles and shakes his head.

Bakugou himself is turned towards the window, the hand against his chin barely hiding the tiny smirk there. Kirishima lets him have it. Anything that’ll replace that lost expression from earlier is good in his books.

“So. Eijirou, right? Nice to finally meet ya.” Mrs. Bakugou checks in with him via the mirror. Her hand rests on the gear selector. “Where to? We’ll bring you home first. I’m sure your parents are worried.”

And oh fuck, Kirishima hasn’t even thought that far ahead yet. When he snuck out of the house a lifetime ago, all his mind was able to process was getting to Bakugou, saving Bakugou, bringing Bakugou back. As much as both his mothers are angels in their own right, they’re also easily worried and twice as buff as him. There haven’t been many occasions which called for them to throw down for their son but they totally would if given half the chance.

If they catch wind of even a fraction of what Kirishima got up to tonight, someone will have to pay. Kirishima’s willing to bet his most prized, limited-edition Crimson Riot figurine that that someone will end up being all of U.A., nationally famous pro heroes or not.

Before any of that can make it out of his mouth, Kirishima’s hand is squeezed and… Oh. Bakugou’s still holding it. Their skin isn’t touching; Kirishima’s sleeve has been pulled down to prevent that.

(It’s one of those things Bakugou does, tracking who and what gets in direct contact with his sweat and how to neutralize it in time. It makes Kirishima’s chest ache that, despite everything that happened, he is still aware of small things like that.)

“He’s crashing at ours tonight”, Bakugou tells his parents rather gruffly. Still looking out the window like there’s nothing unusual about that at all, and Kirishima gapes at him in complete and utter surprise. Bakugou’s grip only tightens.

“Got a problem with that?”

Just like that, Kirishima finds himself able to process speech. “Nope! Not at all. Uh, that is– Mrs. Bakugou, Mr. Bakugou, can I?”

Bakugou’s parents look similarly caught off-guard. To their credit, they merely blink and look at each other, shrugging. Again, it’s the mother who speaks. “That’s Mitsuki and Masaru to you, kid. Let’s go home, then.”

And that’s that. They set off, the car’s movement a quiet thrum that’s drowned out by complicated drum solos and vocals barely scraping past outright growling. Any other day, Kirishima would’ve been ecstatic to finally get to meet the Bakugous. He’d hoard bits and pieces of knowledge about them – such as the fact that Katsuki’s taste in music runs in the family, what the hell – like a dragon does gold coins. The notion that Bakugou invited him to their first sleep-over ever would be the biggest treasure on that pile, for sure.

Because Bakugou Katsuki is anything if not cautious: with his quirk, with his time, with his trust. Because, after days of pacing his room and worrying himself sick and crying until exhaustion took him out, their plan worked.

They pulled it off, Bakugou is back and alive, and Kirishima’s allowed to stay by his side a little bit longer.

He’s here because Bakugou wants him to be and that… feels better than Kirishima can properly put into words. So, no, he doesn’t boast about it, he doesn’t have the energy to – but Kirishima notes and appreciates it nonetheless, relief forming a ball of warmth and light that radiates within him like a tiny sun got stuck between his lungs and his heart. Bit by bit, it melts the tension off Kirishima’s bones until all he can grasp is the steady presence of Bakugou’s hand in his and how heavy his eyelids feel.

Kirishima could sleep for a week straight and still crave a nap afterwards. Probably.

There’s something he has to do before he crashes, though. With a gentle squeeze, he frees his hand to grab his phone and winces at the dozens of unread messages and missed calls that greet him. Both the group he has with his family as well as the one for 1-A have been running hot most of the night, reducing his battery to a pitiful 12%.

Opening up the chat with his moms, Kirishima scrolls to the bottom of the increasingly worried barrage of texts and hesitates, his fingers hovering over the keypad. Once he starts typing, he’ll have about a minute before shit really hits the fan.

💪🏻Kirishima Power 💪🏻

guys i’m so sorry!!! (sent 21:58)

i know ur worried and stuff and i swear i’ll explain later ok?? (sent 21:58)

 just wanna let u know i’m safe!! staying over at baku’s tonight (sent 21:58)

he’s here and safe too (sent 21:58)

🙏🏻🙏🏻 (sent 21:59)

He pauses then, reading that last part over and over again. Safe. Safe, safe, safe. A smile cracks Kirishima’s lips apart and it remains there, steadfast through the flood of new messages rolling in.

*

Bakugou’s room is both everything Kirishima expected it to be and at the same time… not.

It’s huge, for one, the typical bed-wardrobe-desk setup expanded by a couch and a beanbag, a TV with a variety of game systems hooked up to it, a handful of shelves filled to the brim with books and manga and oh, a whole freaking drum set taking up a corner by itself. The walls are plastered with band posters and signed set lists and – less blatant but still there – the odd All Might merch Kirishima knows Bakugou would strangle him for mentioning, so he doesn’t.

What comes out of his mouth is: “Dude! I didn’t know you played drums. That’s so cool!”

Everything is kept in the triad of black-orange-green Kirishima recognizes from a certain hero costume. A few discarded shirts aside, it’s really tidy. So much so that Kirishima feels ashamed of the state of his own room just by seeing this.

The feeling is compounded by Bakugou picking up those shirts and throwing them in the hamper first thing, a quiet tch indicating he’s annoyed by it. Kirishima isn’t up to outing himself as an unrepentant walking mess in comparison – instead, he makes a beeline for the bookshelf with the manga, eyes drawn to a row of covers he’d recognize in a heartbeat.

“Wha– I’ve been looking for these for ages! They’re sold out every time I try to catch up on ‘em.”

A short glance at Bakugou is answered with a shrug and an eye-roll: It’s Bakugou-speak for do whatever the hell you want. Kirishima pulls out the volume he stopped at and leafs through it.

It’s meant as a distraction for Bakugou, a space for him to drop the put-together façade and breathe without people constantly fussing over him. It’s honestly what Kirishima would rather be doing right now (exploring his best bro’s room be damned) but it’s not what Bakugou needs. Well, what Kirishima thinks he needs.

It’s hard to get a read on him without the constant snark and pointed glares. With some dinner in their bellies and Bakugou’s parents now safely downstairs, the expression that fits nowhere on the Angry Bakugou Face catalogue is back. Kind of uncomfortable and so… absent.

Kirishima is really starting to hate that expression.

It’s entirely accidental that Kirishima actually gets into reading. One chapter turns to three, turns to five, and the troubles and worries whirling ever-tighter in his chest ease for a bit until–

Woosh. A soft, balled-up something knocks against the back of his head. Kirishima startles and almost drops the manga, a vaguely alarmed noise stopped short by the sight of Bakugou in sweats and a well-worn, black shirt. His hair is wet. Wild as ever. At Kirishima’s feet: A similar outfit including a towel.

“Bathroom’s that way. Leave your clothes out by the door, I got special detergent for the nitro. Shampoo and shit’s in the shower, there’s a toothbrush for you by the sink. Use it.”

Kirishima opens his mouth.

Bakugou sighs. “It’s just a fucking toothbrush, Kiri. Wreck it for all I care.”

Kirishima closes his mouth. He nods. His phone is quickly dug out of his pocket and set aside, then he slips out to shower.

A good fifteen minutes later, he opens the door to let out a gust of steam and sees his clothes are gone. The hallway is empty, half-lit by the light coming from downstairs. The Bakugous have been as nonchalant about their spontaneous guest as Bakugou himself; even so, Kirishima tries not to linger or make too much noise as he sneaks back to Bakugou’s room.

“Baku. I’m back.”

Bakugou gives him a grunt of acknowledgement from where he’s fitting some sheets over the couch, folded out to provide a decently sized bed. There’s a pillow and a pile of blankets next to him, wrapped in fresh linen as well. It’s unlikely he’s stopped doing stuff since Kirishima left and if he is about ready to crash in five to ten minutes, he can’t imagine how Bakugou is doing right now.

Y’know, the guy who just survived being kidnapped by Japan’s newest and most notorious villain menace. No amount of pretense can make that simple fact undone.

Kirishima pads over to help, the offer to take over already on his lips but– Too late. The last corner is already being tucked in and laid flat with grim-faced efficiency. Left with nothing else to do, Kirishima sits down on the very edge, eyes downcast and fingers fiddling with the hem of his borrowed shirt. There’s some sort of band logo on it, an English word written in that typical death-metal-font that looks like someone dumped a bunch of white sticks in a pile and called it a day.

It’s soft. A little loose and frayed around the edges.

“Hey, Baku?”

Taking the blankets, Bakugou dumps them in Kirishima’s lap. “Mh?” He makes to step away and Kirishima doesn’t think, just reaches out and catches the back of his shirt.

“Dude, seriously. Just… sit down for a minute. Please?”

And Bakugou… listens. He stops, he frowns at Kirishima for a moment like he’s trying to figure out what his deal is, he sighs like he’s been presented with the world’s most aggravating puzzle – and then he tells Kirishima to scooch. “What? I’m not gonna sit on the fucking floor”, he says.

Kirishima can’t keep the relief off his face as he gladly makes room on the couch, leaning against its arm and tucking his legs in. Once Bakugou has settled, cross-legged with an elbow propped on the backrest, Kirishima throws the blanket over both of ‘em. Might as well get comfortable while they still can.

“Okay.” He steels himself with a long, slow breath. “I know you hate this kinda thing and we’re both tired and… stuff. Still, though: Are you okay?”

Bakugou gives him a look, which– Okay, fair. It’s a dumb question with an obvious answer. Kirishima doesn’t back down, though, humming to buy himself some time to rephrase.

“Like… It’s fine if you’re not. Okay, I mean. And if you’d rather go the fuck to bed and not think about this for a while that’s fine, too. But that was pretty rough and you’ve been, um, quiet. And stuff. So, I’m kinda worried. Y’know?”

Kirishima pauses. A bit lower, he mumbles: “And I missed you. So yeah.”

At some point, he dropped his gaze to his hands, limp and useless in his lap. Kirishima swore not to be a coward anymore but it’s hard, to speak and ask about things in full awareness he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

All he wants is for Bakugou to be okay. That’s all that matters, at the end of a day like this.

“I’m not”, Bakugou says, tentatively. Like he’s making up his mind as he goes. “I’m not gonna waste your time with ‘I’m fine’. I’m not. This shit’s fucked up.” And again he sighs, sounding so fucking tired Kirishima’s heart squeezes in sympathy.

“I haven’t slept in three fucking days; my shoulders are killing me from using my quirk and sitting chained to that stupid chair and whatever the fuck else. The League scouted me specifically because they thought I’d make a good villain and fuck them for that. Fuck them. But it’s just… It’s whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

Whatever Kirishima expected, it’s not that. He looks up and into Bakugou’s eyes and–

He can’t mean that, can he? Kirishima searches his face for evidence to the contrary, traces the tension around Bakugou’s mouth and the exhaustion smudged under his eyes and the line between his brows, growing deeper under Kirishima’s scrutiny. It all reads defeat. It hurts.

They won, right? A childish voice within Kirishima can’t help but cling to that even as he looks back down. They won, and things are supposed to get better when you win.

“People got hurt. People died, Kiri. Heroes, too.” Bakugou takes a shaky breath, a hand going to his hair and rubbing it roughly. “Fucking… Best Jeanist was there and nobody at the precinct wanted to tell me if he’s alive or dead or what. All of Kamino Ward is fucking gone and All Might–”

Bakugou’s voice cracks right down the middle and it hurts. Like there’s a beast tearing through Kirishima’s chest to rip out his heart and throw it to the floor, stubbornly beating as it bleeds out.

Kirishima wants to say something. Anything. All he can hear is Bakugou’s breathing but it’s all wrong, off-rhythm and thread-bare and upset, and any doubt what that means is erased as Bakugou’s hand clenches on the sheets and he sniffs, wet on the exhale.

“Baku–”

“Don’t. Kiri, don’t–”

He’s always been like that, ordering him around and demanding things when politeness dictates to ask for them instead. His tone is as close to pleading as Kirishima’s ever heard from Bakugou, though, and it twists him up inside to the point he feels distantly nauseous.

“Don’t look.” Bakugou isn’t supposed to sound like that. Not now, not ever. “Okay? Don’t f-fucking– Don’t look at me right now.”

“Okay”, Kirishima says. “I won’t.” His own voice is a mess as well, trembling all over the place. “I won’t, Nitro. I won’t.”

You’re safe, is what he wants to tell him. It’s okay, you’re safe now. That’s not what Bakugou is asking of him. Kirishima can’t stop himself from crying because it’s always been hard not to when the people he loves are doing it, but… He tries. For Bakugou, he’ll always try.

Through eyes heavily clouded by tears, he sees Bakugou’s hand tighten, knuckles going white and bloodless. Painfully tense, and Kirishima can’t stand the sight of that, either.

He shuffles a little closer to place his hand over that fist, careful to only touch the back of Bakugou’s hand. Kirishima whispers, “I’m here”, and Bakugou audibly swallows. He lets him slip his fingers in-between his own.

Holding on, just as he did in the car and when they met in mid-air, that desperate instance that decided whether he would make it out alive or not.

Bakugou holds on even as he breaks for good and his shoulders shake with his sobs. As he continues to breathe in gulps of air that sound strangled and desperate, through tears that leave a pattern of uneven dots on the blanket. By morning they will be gone without a trace: The sun will come up, the world will continue to travel around it, and time will reveal the road they walk on as they walk it, step by step by step.

Just because it’s meant to pass doesn’t make this moment any less real. Any less important. Kirishima sits there and listens to his best friend cry. He remembers days spent without him and the mad dash to save him. He thinks of dumb questions and obvious answers.

It’s hard to tell if this is one of them, so he gathers all his courage and asks: “Katsuki. Can I hug you?”

Just like last time, Bakugou doesn’t say anything. He laughs, a watery, humorless thing – and he pulls at Kirishima’s shirt to crush him to his chest. His arms wind around Kirishima’s neck, Bakugou’s face pressing against his hair where Kirishima won’t be able to see him.

It’s fine. Kirishima’s great at hugs; he can totally work with that. Clenching his eyes shut, he adjusts his grip around Bakugou’s waist so he can rub his back, following the bumps of his spine. Up and down, over and over. Bakugou goes boneless in their embrace, not about to let go anytime soon and neither will Kirishima.

Eventually, Kirishima tucks his head against Bakugou’s shoulder, blinking sleep from his eyes. Safe. He doesn’t fight the sharp-toothed smile on his lips. Bakugou mumbles, “Fucking sap”, nearly drowned out by their collective sniffling.

It sounds a whole lot like thank you. Kirishima’s smile only grows.

>>Chapter 5

[scullydubois]

Only the Light (ch. 3)

Description: Missy moves in with Scully post-One Breath/Scully’s abduction. In this chapter, Scully goes through her morning routine and gets a surprise...

part 1 here. part 2 here. tagging @today-in-fic​.

“Only the Light” won the poll, so it’s now the official title! Yay! Thank you for voting and thanks for all the feedback--I love your comments. This part is the longest yet (and the best imo)--enjoy!! 

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

She floats outstretched through the sky as if it were the community pool she and Missy used to frequent as children. She tilts her face toward the sun, feels the warmth of it washing over her. Her eyes reflect the brilliant blue sky, mini-oceans in themselves. Her back is to the city, and she’s so high up she can’t hear one bit of the noise on the ground. She hopes this is what heaven is like. If this is heaven, she has nothing to fear. 

And then she’s falling, a casualty of gravity. Hell has found her. It always does. This is an unfortunate truth she must live with. The sky races past her and there’s a pit in her stomach so deep she thinks she must be breaking the laws of physics, her body stretching like a rubber band about to snap. Surely she is not a human being anymore. Surely she won’t be by the end of this.

The ground hurdles toward her. She can’t see it, but she knows. She wonders what shape they will find her in, or if she will even be found. She hopes for her family’s sake that she’s in so many pieces they can’t put her back together. It’s easier, she thinks, when the body doesn’t look human. Burying a radiant-looking thirty year old is sad. Burying a mangled mess of a corpse is a relief. 

As if on cue, her alarm chirps. She awakes in one piece and punches the alarm, reality whisking away the horror of her dreams. Sweat saturates her silk pajamas, leaving a morning dew of sorts on her sheets. The blankets were thrown off at some point during the night. She does not remember doing this, so she can only assume it was the work of the demonic force in her brain.

Waking up in a puddle of her own sweat has become commonplace since she was returned. The first time the heat was so stifling she thought she must have had a fever that broke, but the mercury thermometer in her bathroom said otherwise. Her body seems to have a mind of itself these days. 

For the time being, her mind is still functioning, so she pulls herself out of bed to get ready for work. This routine part of her day is a privilege she relishes. Very rarely does she get to function on autopilot.

It goes like this: first, she slips off her pajamas and changes her underwear. It is at this point without fail that she realizes she hasn’t bought a new pantyset in years, and wouldn’t it be nice if she did? This mental note slips away by the time she buttons her suit jacket and tucks her undershirt into her slacks.

Next, she switches on the bathroom light and performs the typical tasks of self-care--brushing her teeth, washing her face, and whatnot-- that some might find tedious or annoying. For Scully, they are soothing. She spends too much time thinking about aliens and not enough thinking about herself. She’s not sure she believes in either, but god, it would be nice to try. 

Veering close to the latest possible time at which she could still expect to beat DC traffic to the office, she brushes her hair (no time for a hundred strokes), dabs some concealer under her eyes, and swipes on her favorite lipstick. No need to go all out; she knows where she stands.

Finally, she opens her closet and stares at the rack of heels. They’re uncomfortable and damn inconvenient for an FBI agent, but Mulder’s tall and she is not. She had a fraction of her current pairs before she met Mulder. No coincidence. 

She chooses the tallest pair she owns because she needs the confidence boost. They’re headed to a nursing home in Massachusetts today, so hopefully there will be no running in the woods involved. 

She click-click-clicks down the hallway. The scent of strong coffee permeates the air. She turns the corner, and there’s her sister with a pot of coffee and two plates of scrambled eggs. It is seven o’clock in the morning, and they were up at 3am last night. The last thing Scully expects is for her sister to be cognizant, let alone to have cooked. 

“Good morning sunshine.” Missy slides a plate over to Scully’s usual spot at the table and pours the piping hot coffee into a ‘Kiss Me, I’m A Doctor’ mug. 

Scully pinches herself. No, she’s not dreaming. This is too happy to be one of her dreams anyways.

“This is a surprise,” she says as she takes a seat at the table.

“Well, I fell asleep on the couch and woke up at 5:30. I figured it’s been awhile since someone’s cooked you breakfast.”

Scully takes a sip of the coffee. 

“I don’t even cook myself breakfast.”

“Exactly.”

Melissa tops off Scully’s mug. 

“Is it strong enough? I couldn’t drink mine without adding about a half a cup of milk, so I figured I must be doing something right.”

Scully is so grateful to be waited on that it could be a milkshake and she wouldn’t complain. It is strong enough though, stronger than the milk and sugar mixture someone calls coffee at the FBI. 

“It’s perfect,” she says, meaning it.

“Good. I saw the end of that movie, by the way. You were right, it’s a real snoozefest.”

Scully laughs. “I actually like that movie. That’s why it helps me fall asleep.”

Missy scoffs. “They spend the entire movie pining over each other just for one chaste kiss at the end! Where’s the fun in that?”

“Probably shortly after that chaste kiss.”

Missy smirks, pleased that she’s gotten her sister to make a sex joke at seven o’clock in the morning. She softens her voice-- 

“I did want to talk to you, though.”

Scully finishes chewing the forkful of scrambled eggs in her mouth. 

“I have to leave soon or I’ll be late.”

“Late for what? One of Mulder’s slideshows?”

Scully sits back. Maybe Missy has a point.

“I’m sure you’re tired of my questioning,” Missy says, “so I won’t ask you another thing. Say what you need to say.”

Say what you need to say. So simple, yet so powerful. It occurs to Scully that no one ever gives her this type of shameless permission. They shouldn’t have to, but she’s never been one to talk out of turn. What a relief to have the freedom to speak plainly. 

She exhales. She has spent the past weeks playing back the few memories she has of her disappearance--she won’t call it the other word--and trying to decipher what happened to her. She is no closer to figuring it out than she was when Mulder gave her necklace back, but it might help to share what she does remember.

She launches into it, her memories flowing out in one long stream.

“You know, when I was in the hospital, I kept having this vision that I was in a lifeboat. There was a rope tying it to the dock and on the dock were all the people I loved, the people that were around me. You and mom and Mulder and the nurses.”

Melissa listens sympathetically, shocked and relieved that her sister is opening up.

“But I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything but sit there in that boat and hope that somehow, the tether wouldn’t snap.”

This is the most vulnerable Missy can remember seeing her sister since the passing of their father. There are a respected few who have witnessed Dana Scully reveal the inner workings of her mind. It’s a rare honor to witness Dana Scully reveal the inner workings of her heart. 

Scully continues.

“And then it did snap, and I had...I can only describe it as a near-death experience. Dad was there...He was in his uniform with all his medals and he told me that he loved me and—that we would be together again, but not yet.”

Missy nods along.

“So I guess...that kept me from going. That’s how I knew I had to stay.”

“Wow,” Missy breathes.

“From then on, I could hear everything you guys were saying. I heard you and mom telling me that I was below the criteria of my living will and I was trying to give you a sign…”

Her voice breaks. 

“I was so scared you would pull the plug on me.”

“Oh my god, Dana.” Missy engulfs her in a hug. “I am so sorry.”

Scully breathes into her sister’s neck. Her hair smells like the strawberry shampoo they used when they were children. She wonders if Missy still uses it, decides that now is not the time to bring that up. Instead, she lets go of the hug first.

“I started thinking, if I am below the criteria of my living will, maybe that’s the right thing to do. Maybe if I ever truly wake up, I’ll be so damaged I won’t be able to work for the FBI or have anything resembling a happy life.”

She sighs. “And you and mom said your goodbyes, and I was thankful, actually, that I got to hear them because so many people don’t and you just...never know with my profession.”

She bites her lip to keep from crying.

“And then sometime later I heard Mulder come in, and his wasn’t a goodbye. He touched my hand—I could feel it but I couldn’t respond—and he told me he was there. And I could feel his sadness, but I could also feel his hope. And that was all I needed, was hope.”

“He gave you the strength to wake up,” Missy says, partly as a question. 

“Or the courage to.”

Melissa considers this. She remembers how solemn she felt going to Fox’s apartment that night, delivering the news that her sister was weakening. This must be how nurses feel when they tell loved ones to say their goodbyes, she thought at the time. When he said he wasn’t able to go see Dana in the hospital, she was furious. How can you be so naive? she thought. Are you so afraid of pain you refuse to feel your own feelings? She realizes now this sounds like something she might say to her sister. 

Melissa decides not to mention her involvement in any of this. After all, she hadn’t succeeded in convincing Fox to go to the hospital. That was his own choice. Instead, she says--

“He was really looking out for you, you know. He was a soldier for your cause.”

The edges of Scully’s lips turn up the slightest bit.

“I don’t doubt it. Mulder is nothing if not a good soldier.”

Melissa thinks back on meeting Fox. She said that Dana had talked to her, that her soul was there. He didn’t believe her.

“Fox was exactly what you said he would be,” she tells her sister, “and somehow I was still surprised by the sheer force of his determination.”

Scully chuckles. 

“Well, I don’t exaggerate these things. If anything, I downplay them.”

“No kidding.”

Melissa wets her lips, letting silence rest comfortably at the table with them.

“You’re really lucky you know, to have him as a partner.”

Scully nods. 

“I know.”

And she does.