#you know a fic is dark when i add more than five tws

[simpstantruther]

Hungry Heart ch. 1 | (Mullet) Stanley Pines x Reader

(Sorry, should have posted it this way the first time. First time posting fanfiction to tumblr).

Summary: Stan needs to go to Oregon. You need to get to California. Stan has a car. You have a cunt. (Can I make it any more obvious~)

Tags: 80s Americana Roadtrip Partners-in-Crime Stan x Reader fic. Smut. You can fix him, but you're worse.

TW: Alcohol Use

Preview:

His voice gets surprisingly soft. “Can I take you home?”

“You kiddin’ me?” You spit out the ruined lime slice. ”I thought you were a bum. What home you gonna take me to? Lovely spot under a bridge?"

“I got a motel room.” He adds defensively. “It’s somethin’.”

Read on AO3.

Your arms stick to the bar top. It’s sticky enough on its own. It smells like fruit cocktail and jaeger and all the other sickly sweet mixings that bar tops get coated in, with a lovely note of pissy beer over it all.

But it’s sweltering, even with the door kicked out and the flies starting to buzz inside. There’s a sheen of sweat over all your bare skin, sticking your thighs uncomfortably to your wooden stool. Your jean shorts are too short, and the high waist is digging into your ribs. 

You hate Dallas.

Stupid bartender cut you off two songs ago.

You hate this stupid bar, too.

You weren’t drunk. Not really. Just buzzed enough to tell him to shove a broken bottle up his ass when he snapped your bra strap from across the bar.

But he let you sit at the bar anyways. He was sweet like that. You feel pitiable, alone like this. Maybe he can tell. Maybe he hopes that if he lets you stay and no one else picks up the slack, you’ll let him take you home.

You’re not drunk enough for that. And you can afford to be choosey. Daddy always said you were a pretty girl. He told you to kill yourself before you weren't, but that was besides the point. 

You look at the stained mirror backing the bar. Dark circles under your eyes. Your hair is a mess. Your eyeliner is from three days ago, a dark stain under your bottom eyelashes. You're young, but you don't want to guess how much longer you'll have left by dear old dad's measure. Not the way you're living.  

You're not drunk, you're just reminiscing. 

“Got a wife and kids in Baltimore jack—“

You snap over to the juke box, playing the same fucking song again for the fifth time. Some mulleted asshole with sweat and beer stains over his white t-shirt croons along poorly, drunkenly leaning against the wall beside it.

“I go for a drive and never come back—“

“Not a-fucking-gain.” You groan, head in your hands. 

“What? Who’s got a problem with Springsteen?” He barks. The mellow rock continues without him.

You don’t turn. You’re not drunk, just a little on edge from the heat. You slide off your stool painfully and stumble. And okay, you’re drunker than you realize.

You point an accusing finger at the blurry man who stomps toward you. 

“If I wanted to hear someone butcher Bruce Springsteen songs, I’d toss quarters at the poor bastard with the chipped cup outside. At least he knows the god damn lyrics—“ 

You blink as he comes into focus. 

Dammit. 

He was cute, in a bring-me-home-and-disappoint-your-parents kind of way. Or if Kurt Russel had like, a really bad year. Square jaw. Scruffy chin. Bulbous nose, broken at least a few times. Baby beer gut. Big, broad shoulders. Narrow hips. God. Was he wearing fucking football gear or something? 

His lips stay parted like the mouth-breather he is. He looks you over too. Your loose tank top has a fallen strap, the hem hangs low over your chest. With your arms crossed, your tits look better than they are. His eyes fall to the bit of lace on your bra peeking out. It’s fine. That’s what it’s there for. 

You swallow thickly, feeling sweat crawl down your neck. 

“You played the same song five times in a row. Don’t you know the fuckin’ lyrics by now?” You mutter quietly, just enough to make him lean in and listen.

You feel his hot breath against your ear, trying to talk over the music. It smells like tequila and cheap cigarettes.

“You wanna teach it to me, Sweetheart?” 

You huff with amusement. A jersey dirtbag just like you, so far from home? What are the odds. 

He stands over you.

You imagine your thighs around his big dopey ears for a second, but the idea of his stubble tearing up your already irritated inner thighs feels unappetizing.

“Nah. Learn it yourself.” You turn. His meaty hand grabs your arm. 

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t know.” You tilt your head. “Can you?” It’s a genuine question. You both glance at the bartender who curls his lip.

“Hermano! One for the lady, por favor!”

Surprisingly, the bartender nods. You both cling to the bar, like the railing of a ship tipping over.

“He’s Italian.” You mutter under your breath, watching the bartender mix you another vodka-soda.

“Huh?” He leans his elbow on the bar beside you, his other hand coming around your other side. He’s like a furnace. You are sweating out his beer through osmosis. 

You nod to the flag hung behind the bartender and fan yourself with a damp coaster.

“It’s an Italian flag. The Mexican one has an eagle.”

“I know. I did time in Mexico.” He says it like he’s proud. Like you should care. Stupid cute smug grin. 

“Small world!” You turn towards him.

“Gettin’ smaller.” He looks amused and he coils a strand of your hair around his finger, now leaning his arm on your shoulder. “You serious? You got locked up there?”

“No.” You say, deadpanned. He laughs. You feel it, tucked against his chest.

“You’re funny.” 

“And you’re just an asshole.” You say as you sip your drink, faster than you should. 

He shrugs one shoulder dismissively. “So, you from Jersey?” He asks, knocking back a shot of tequila with only a grimace. “You sound like my Ma.”

“Born and raised. You?”

“Born and raised. Small world. Why’d you ever leave Jersey?”

“To leave Jersey. ”

He sucks his teeth. “Ain’t you got a family or somethin’?” 

“What, are you gonna kidnap me?” He laughs again. His laugh is stupid, loud, makes you wanna laugh with him. Maybe just at him. You shrug. “Followin’ my old man out west.”

“New family?”

“New everything.”

“Lucky guy. It’s harder than it sounds, starting a new life.” He sighs bitterly, nodding as the bartender refills his shooter. “Some fuckers have all the luck.” 

You hold your glass out to him. You long since drained it of alcohol, but the ice remains. You suck on one melting cube in your cheek and crunch it between your teeth. “To the unlucky bastards, then.” 

He tuts his tongue and takes the empty glass from your hand, replacing it with another shooter.

“That’s better. To the unlucky bastards.” 

You hate tequila. 

But you love free liquor.

“Salud.” You wince as it burns down your throat, shutting your eyes tightly for a moment before you open to see him watch you with his elbow on the bar top.

“Love seein’ a beautiful chick knockin’ back tequila like a champ.” He smirks.

“Love it from a distance. You’re in the splash zone.” You groan, setting back down the glass and snagging a lime from behind the bar to suck against your teeth. 

“I don’t scare easy.” 

You narrow your eyes. “You want me to yak on you?”

“If you would do me the honors.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lose his easy smile.

You smirk briefly. “Freak.” 

“I get that a lot.” The smile loosens. Just a bit. He swallows and you watch his adam’s apple bob. His voice gets surprisingly soft.

“Can I take you home?”

“You kiddin’ me?” You spit out the ruined lime slice. ”I thought you were a bum. What home you gonna take me to? Lovely spot under a bridge?"

“I got a motel room.” He adds defensively. “It’s somethin’.”

“Livin’ large.” You draw out the vowels condescendingly. As if you’re any better. “You ain’t worried I’ll rob you blind in the night, big shot?”

“Don’t got much. And if you can sneak it past me, I figure you deserve it.”

You look over him again.

You consider it, you really do. He could have been worse. You’ve had worse. Half the nights you spent on your way west were spent banging for room and board. Or at least picking guys drunk and rich enough to pay for the taxi home and pass out before they remembered to touch you. 

You should be dead. A dozen times, you wished you were. Easily, you could have been. And no one would go looking for you.

You have a feeling he understands what that’s like. Poor bastard.

But tonight, you paid for a room. And for the love of God, clean(ish) beds to yourself were in short supply. The T.V. in your room was busted and the liquor store was closed. You came here for the lovely conversation.

“Sorry. Not tonight, buddy.” You avert your eyes. “But thanks for the drinks.”

He frowns and nods, not happy with the rejection clearly but respectful enough to accept it anyways.

“Well, I’m in town a couple more days. If you need somethin’, give me a call, okay sweetheart?”

He fishes out a business card from his front jean pocket. It’s wrinkled and damp with sweat. 

The Loveshack the card says.

You pick up the card and turn it on both sides. 

“Cute.”

“I’m in room eight.” He eyes the card nervously. “Or ask for Lee.”

“Lee.” You repeat. “Thanks, Lee.” You hold your hand out to shake and give him a fake name. He holds your hand and your eyes. 

“I mean it. Give me a call.” He pleads.

You huff with mirth, sticking the card in your pocket. You haven’t heard a boy beg for a call like that since highschool.

“Alright, alright.” You slide off your barstool again, slightly more graceful than the first time. 

“Goodnight, Lee.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Stupid.” You smirk at eachother as you step back towards the exit. You know he’s waiting for you to turn so he can stare at your ass.

Bruce Springsteen croons you out as you leave the bar. You hear Lee belting along. 

“Everybody’s got a hungry heart. Everybody’s got a hungry heart.”

[the-whispers-of-death]

hi, Ive been writing and want to post fics in the future and I saw your post about tagging fics correctly. I’m not super knowledgeable on that could you give some examples on how to correctly tag fics? and then especially with dark fics, smut, fluff etc. as well?? sorry if you’ve already posted something about it I couldn’t find it ☺️

I haven't really made a post on how to properly tag posts (I say posts instead of fics because I'm talking strictly about Tumblr writings and not Ao3 works) but I'll do it now!

(NOTE: This post became so long that I'm too lazy to go through fully and edit it. So beware of any typos.)

How to Properly Tag Your Posts:

So I'm assuming that you already know how to tag posts in general. There's a section at the bottom of the post where it says "add tags to help people find your post" and you can just add up to 30 tags.

It's recommended that you at least have five tags, as the first five (I believe it's five, I'm going based off of memory of me seeing that somewhere) are specifically used to push your post out into the Tumblr world for everyone to see. That's not to say you can't use more than five, it's just that five is like the minimum you should use if you want people to see your posts.

Onto how to properly tag your posts.

How To Properly Tag "x reader" Posts:

First, I will be talking about how to properly tag your posts using the example x reader posts (because this issue was the start of this entire thing).

If you're writing with a female reader in mind (ie you use she/her pronouns to refer to the Reader or you use feminine terms ((good girl, wife, girlfriend, waitress, queen))), you should tag your post as female reader. Now there's many different ways you can tag it as female reader:

fem!reader

fem reader

female!reader

female reader

f!reader

f reader

x fem!reader

x female reader

x f!reader

There's also tagging it as "(Character) x female reader" (any of the female reader variations listed above). "(Character)" is just used in place for the character in which the reader is romancing/in a romance with. Just input whatever character is being romanced and voilà!

For example, if you wrote a Simon "Ghost" Riley fic with a female reader, you can tag it: "simon ghost riley x female reader" or "simon ghost riley x fem!reader".

(NOTE: I believe the use of capitalization ((or lack thereof )) is key to posts being tagged correctly and showing up in that specific tag, simply because after posting, any tag that I've had something capitalized is lowercase when posted. I don't know if this truly makes a difference, but I try my best to just do lowercase when tagging anyways.)

Now for any other reader (male reader and gender neutral reader), the same thing applies but with those variation of male reader tags and gender neutral reader tags: male reader, mreader, m!reader, gender neutral reader, gnreader, gn!reader.

How to Properly Tag Dark Fic Posts:

Now tagging for dark fics! Here are the most common tags I see when seeing properly tagged dark fics. (Before I scroll.)

dark fic

darkfic

dead dove

dead dove do not eat

tw: (input whatever trigger here)

cw: (input whatever content warning here)

Not a lot, but again, I don't read a lot of dark fics. I'll expand on trigger warning (tw) and content warning (cw) tags because I know how I worded that might be confusing.

So for example, say you're writing something with stalking. You'd tag it as "tw: stalking" or "cw: stalking". So basically anything you feel like you need to warn readers ahead of time before they go further into the post, you tag it using trigger warning or content warning followed by that thing.

Also, I believe it's good to add content/trigger warnings onto the post itself as well as tagging it with the content/trigger warnings. Just so that those who like dark fics can see what is in the post instead of looking in the tags (if the post is very long and doesn't have a "read more" thing, then a reader will have to scroll all the way down just to see the tags).

How to Properly Tag Smut and Fluff:

And lastly, we'll be talking about to properly tag smut and fluff. (Because there's also a problem in the COD fandom where smut isn't properly tagged.)

When tagging a smutty fic, it's important to not only tag it as smut, but also to tag what you may see in the post. (Similar to dark fics, but you don't have to put tw/cw in the tag.)

Examples of this would be:

tw: smut (I know I said you don't have to put tw/cw, but I do this tag simply just to cover my bases)

smut

bottom reader

bottom male reader

top reader

top male reader

sub reader

sub male reader

dom reader

dom male reader

x bottom reader

x bottom male reader

x top reader

x top male reader

x sub reader

x sub male reader

x dom reader

x dom male reader

(input whatever is being done in the post ((ie: oral)))

I'm going to stop there, because if I continue, the list will be very long and I've covered the gist of it. (Hopefully).

Now, again, I recommend also labeling in the post what's going on in the post, just because I know from personal experience that I don't really check the tags (until I've hit something where I'm like "is this tagged correctly, because this post should fall under my tagging filter) and it's just so nice to know what type of reader (bottom/top or sub/bottom) the post is written for.

Now for fluff, it's easier because you can just tag it as "fluff" or "sfw". Not much needs to be done for tagging fluff. You can just tag it as fluff.

Some More Things of Note:

I have two more things to talk about. The first being the "read more" feature.

The "read more" feature can be put on your post when you start a new paragraph/start writing your post, as a whole set of options appear when you make a new paragraph/click on the "type here" when staring writing. (At least on web you can do that. On mobile, the read more feature is down at the bottom, right below where you can enter the tags.)

The "read more" symbol looks like this (and it's the same symbol on both mobile and web):

(Forgive my terrible screenshot abilities.)

Just click that symbol and it'll have a squiggly line with the words "keep reading" in between (and after posting it'll just appear as the words). The reason to use this post is when you have a very long post, as it will help others when they stumble upon your post while searching in a particular tag.

The last thing I wanted to talk about was the content label of post.

You find content label at the bottom right next to post (when you're on the web) or at the top right next to post when you click the meatball menu (when you're on mobile). The default is set to "For Everyone" but you can change it to mature (and select why it's mature, either for sexual themes, violence, or drug and alcohol addiction). Changing the content label of your post to mature can help give an extra security measure in addition to tagging your post.

So say you're writing a dark fic or smut, you can choose to change it to mature for violence (for a dark fic) or change it to mature for sexual themes (for smut). Just toggle on whichever you feel best fits the post and if the reader has that specific content hidden, it'll hide the post.

Anyways, that's all I can think of right now. I hope this post helped you!

(EDIT: I can't believe I wrote this post and forgot to talk about angst! Anyways, I hope whoever asked this is still reading this post, so they can know this answer.

So for angst, I'd follow the same steps for tagging dark fics with the tags being: tw: angst (again just to cover my bases), angst, and then input whatever tw/cw you want.

Again, I'd also label it on post that it has angst and then the content warnings for said angst.)

[backwards-readings]

The Door that was Never Supposed to be Opened.

Chapter 4: A Bird in a Cage

{Chapter 1} {Chapter 2} {Chapter 3}

{A/N: This was originally posted on AO3, if you would like to read it there you can find it HERE. I'm going to be straight up with you and tell you that this is pretty much a self-indulgent self-insert fic. I'm not gonna lie. If you don't like that, that's cool, have a good day. But if you're DTF with it, let's get right into the story.}

{Art Credit: this lovely artist

++TW: There are depictions of Suicide. Please, if it is a sensitive topic for you, skip this chapter. I'll add notes on the next chapter a quick summary of what happened without going into detail. I want you to be safe more than I want you to read my writing. If you're struggling with thoughts of harming yourself, please reach out to someone you trust. If you're in the US, you can call 988 to talk with someone, or text HOME to 741741. There's help. There's hope. Be safe, please.++

The next few days I am consumed by anger. I scribble more sketches in my book, but the strokes are dark, and in places the lead of my pencil rips the paper. I tear the pieces of the ruined paper out of the book in strips, balling each strip up and throwing it into the unlit fireplace. I sit on the floor for a bit, staring at the torn pieces of paper sitting in the soot. Tears begin to form in my eyes and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. All this just because I wanted to help someone. I pick the journal back up and begin drawing again, this time taking time to carefully sketch out the face of the man in the basement.

My tears stain the page around the drawing as his face takes shape. I stop when I get to the hair and set down the journal, leaving the drawing unfinished. His face already haunts me, the hopeless look follows me when I close my eyes. The hopeless look that I’ll soon have as well. I stay sitting on the floor, numbness creeping across my body. A numbness that starts in my hands starts spreading across my body, taking hold of me. A tightness creeps into my chest and something tells me it’s here to stay for a while.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The next few days I don’t even bother getting out of bed unless it’s to use the bathroom. What’s the point of putting in an effort to eat and drink water if you’re just going to be stuck in the same room for possibly the rest of your life? Ms Downard comes in a few times and clicks her tongue at the untouched food, taking it away and replacing it with fresh food, but she never says anything to me.

The first two days my stomach grumbles, and on the third day my stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots, but I don’t care. Better to starve to death than to live out my years in this god-forsaken place. After five days of staying in bed and not eating, Ms Downard finally addresses me.

“Honestly, you think a hunger strike is going to do anything for you? Eat, don’t eat, Master Burgess doesn’t care. It would just be one less thing for him to worry about. One less thing for me to worry about, too. Lord knows I don’t have to bring you fresh food every day. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, not asking for anything in return.” She lectures me but I don’t respond. If this is her idea of kindness then I don’t want it.

“Nothing?” She huffs “Fine. I don’t care. Have fun sulking in bed until you wither away into nothing. I don’t care.” She leaves a tray of food on the table and leaves, the click of the lock a bitter reminder. That night I take a few bites of the bread that she left, but I throw it up as soon as I get it down. I crawl back into bed and cover myself with the blankets, a chill clinging to my bones that I just can't shake.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

I’m so tired but can’t sleep. I try again and again to eat, but only a few bites make me sick to my stomach, no matter what it is. I drink the water left for me but it doesn’t seem to stay my thirst. I run a bath and sink into the water, the sting of the cold water doing nothing to wake me up. I wash up slowly, letting my hands and feet get wrinkly in the water. After my bath I sit wrapped in a towel on the bed, not waiting to put on the dirty clothes I’ve been in since getting imprisoned. I’m clean, but I don’t feel like it. My chest is still tight and my skin crawls with invisible dirt and bugs. I try to eat a bit of bread again and this time it stays down, feeling like lead in my stomach.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The next morning, there are clean clothes laid out for me on the table next to my tray of food. It’s a servant's uniform just like my old clothes were. They’re ill-fitting, probably left over from one of the girls who left. The sleeves cover my hands, and I trip over the skirt. There’s no apron to put over the plain dress, but I don’t think I would put it on if there was. I have no need for one as a prisoner. I sit down at the table and eat a few bites of cured meat that sits on the tray, the salty flavour causing me to nearly gag. I eat a little of the bread, hoping that it will calm my stomach, and sit on the bed with my journal and draw.

Once again, my drawings turn from inanimate objects to him. No matter what I do, I can’t get him out of my head. I hate him for it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t even be locked up. But instead of minding my own, I had to try and become his saviour. I scribble him over and over again, his features flooding my mind. As I create him over and over again, anger begins to bubble. He haunted me when I was free, and now that I am captive he is all I can think about.

He may not have actually been a devil, but he tricked me just the same. If he is such a powerful being, why didn’t he warn me this would happen? Why didn’t he tell me? He let me try to help him when he probably knew the outcome. That bastard might have even wanted this, envious of my freedom. I get up and throw my book across the room, sick of drawing. Sick of everything turning back into him. It hits the wall and falls with a loud thunk, but does nothing but make me more angry. I begin to see red and next throw the tray of food that has been given to me, and then push the vanity in the room to its side and let out a yell filled with anger.

I stand there, seething for a moment before my seething hot anger is replaced with ice-cold sorrow. Tears fall from my eyes faster than I can wipe them away and I sink to the floor, unable to stop the convulsions of cries. I curl up on myself, my sabs raking through my body like waves crashing into rocks. I don’t know how long I lay there for, but eventually my ragged breaths even out and I lay on the floor in silence. My eyes wander around the room, taking in the destruction of my fit, and they fall on the broken mirror of the vanity, shards of the silver-backed glass strewn across the floor.

I drag myself towards the broken glass, grabbing a shard that fits perfectly into my hand- as if it was meant to be. My head throbs with every heartbeat as I palm the glass, feeling the sharp edges. They may have taken away my freedom, but I am not helpless. I don’t want to live caged like an animal. I can’t. I won’t. I hold the shard in my hand, shaking as I sit up and press the jagged edge into my wrist, a hiss of pain coming from my lips as it bites into my skin. Tears well in my eyes again as I watch a stream of blood trickle down my arm, landing in my lap. I dig deeper, pain clouding my vision before I remove the shard and move it to my other arm, my hands shaking more and more. I repeat the process, digging into my flesh until I have to bite back a scream. I remove the makeshift blade and drop it in my lap, holding my bloody arms out in front of me. My eyes begin to feel heavy, and I lay down, not caring about the shards of glass on the carpet that dig into my skin.

Despite the pain, a small smile graces my lips as I lay there. My eyes land on the book I had been drawing in it, the pained stare of my drawing subject meeting my eyes. I don’t remember drawing him looking like he was pitying me, but then again, I had drawn him so many times, that I probably just forgot. I close my eyes, ready to let the darkness take me, to embrace death like an old friend, but instead, I hear a voice. Soft and comforting, like a warm breeze on a summer evening.

“Oh, you poor little thing.” The voice says, and I use what little strength I have left to open my eyes. A woman kneels in front of me and gently brushes a bit of my hair from my face. The woman has dark skin, and her beautiful curly hair hangs around her face. Her eyes are soft and kind, like she knows every hardship you’ve ever been through, but wouldn’t dare judge you for them. She smiles at me kindly, and I blink slowly, trying to figure out if my loss of blood is causing me to hallucinate.

“I’m so sorry for what they’ve done to you.” She says, cupping my cheek with one hand as she brings her other hand down to my arm, gripping my wrist. But I don’t feel any pain. Instead, it feels like warm water is being poured over my wrist, and I feel a bit stronger, but nauseous.

“I did this…” I say, my voice cracking as hot tears roll down my face.

“No, dear. You are not at fault for your death. You saw the only possible way out and you took it.” She says, moving her hand to my other wrist. I feel the same feeling of water running down my arm and I gag, rolling a bit more onto my side as I dry heave.

“I know, I know. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” The woman says, gently stroking my back. “You fought a battle that was stacked against you from the start, and you should be proud of how long you held up against it.” She says softly, gently pulling me upright.

“But I’m not ready to take you yet, Patricia Everly.”

[hansolmates]

busted in busan 

summary; you’re snowbound at the airport, when the only thing you want is to be homebound. your anxieties heighten as the snow rises, worried that you won’t make it in time for christmas where your fiancé and his parents expect you—picture perfect. when all flights are cancelled due to a massive storm, you have to turn to the hands of an unlikely, hard-headed hero who knows the fastest way out of busan (and into your heart) pairing; jungkook x (f) reader genre/warnings; a christmas detour!au, fluff, angst, slice of life, strangers to lovers, enemies to lovers, pining, this is a total romcom, hallmark movie galore! tw–microcheating (or not however you look at it) mentions of sex, making out, profanity w/c; 10k   a/n; for @suhdays​ holiday hallmark event! this event was totally up my lane, i couldn’t wait to post it! a huge thank u for @eerieedits​ for making this wonderful fic banner! this is totally unedited, i’ll to go back to it tonight but pls enjoy! for those of u who need a little more christmas charm this year, this is for u

if you loved this icy couple, please consider giving it a like n’share!⛄⛄⛄

“The Korean Air 1102 flight from Gimhae International Airport to Incheon International Airport will be delayed six hours due to the intense weather conditions. Please be on standby for any further updates.” 

You’re twitching, fighting the urge to nibble on your nails because you’ve just got them done for Christmas. They’re a sleek champagne gold, because your fiancé insisted that they’re far more mature than your usual red and brown reindeer art. This is awful, and is only going to get progressively worse as the snow builds and builds. Right now the weather isn’t that bad, the snow isn’t even sticking to the ground and—oh. 

Gnawing at your lip, your fingers brush over the cold window, a clear view of the landing strip you should currently be boarding. The touch is icy, and the pads of your fingers are enveloped in little rings of fog at the sudden warmth nudging the glass. Upon closer inspection and a squint of your eyes reveal that in fact, the snow is now sticking to the ground. Big, fat clumps are covering the freeway and destroying your Christmas plans. 

Your fiancé will understand if you’re a little late for their Christmas Eve party, but you’re not sure if his parents will. You’ve been on livewire all week, wanting to at least spend the morning of Christmas Eve with your family back home. Knowing that your fiancé’s Christmas Eve party would run until very late, you booked a noon flight with enough time to get ready and impress his parents. Evidently, it was an ill-prepared idea. 

Immediately falling into your terminal’s line, you hope that you can talk with the receptionist in hopes they could put you at ease. 

“How soon will you announce our flight’s departure?” A sad smile. 

“Is there any way you can put me on the next possible flight?” A shake of the head. 

“Will the weather let up?” A frown. 

Every bit of rejection weighs you down, and you’ve run out of questions to ask. For a receptionist, she’s not very receptive. 

“C’mon lady, you’re holding up the line,” a voice tugs you from behind, “you’re not the only one who’s gotta get down to the city on Christmas.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, wanting to slap the rudeness off this man’s face. Instead of falling back in line, you move to the side to glare at him. He’s unfortunately attractive, albeit in a rugged sort-of way—nothing like your fiancé. The leather jacket that he carries tall is worn and crackly at the collar. Wavy dark hair he constantly has to hold back, a gesture that looks flirtatious and to your chagrin the receptionist is definitely recepting to him. 

“Your refund should be processed in about two to four business days, Mr. Jeon,” the receptionist murmurs, the simultaneously sultry and chirpy voice making you twitch in your spot. Maybe if you drank a cup of tall, dark and handsome you’d be getting the same kind of treatment. 

“Thanks,” he replies shortly, and it’s then you notice the extremely large luggage next to him. It’s the size of you, and despite the broad shoulders under the baggy jacket, he lugs it with careful force, making sure not to bump into anyone as he wheels it away from the counter. 

It seems that your trainers have a mind of your own as you follow him down the terminal. He side eyes you as your feet pick up the pace to match his long legs, but he waits for you to say something first. 

“Why did you ask for a refund?” you ask, frowning at him, “the flight is only delayed.” 

He scoffs, “Do you see the snow? They’re just saying it’s delayed so they can hold onto your money a little longer. Besides, it’s a win-win. I get my refund sooner and some other poor sap can take the ticket and wait until five in the morning.” 

“Five A.M.,” you exhale to yourself, slowing down. 

It would be too late by then, far too late. Your shoulders slump, people start to bump into you without a care. 

“Besides,” you hear his voice say from your stricken form, “I had a backup plan.” 

That’s when your feet start to burn up, and you whip around to pump your legs, catching up with the man who’s already far down the hall. “What kind of backup plan?” you blurt, raising your voice because the crowds are starting to get noisier and deeper the further you follow him. 

He hooks his lips into a confused frown, “You’re awfully nosy.” 

“I’m in a pinch, my fiancé’s parents will kill me if I don’t show up to their party tonight.” 

“Your fiancé’s parents… will kill you?” 

“That’s an exaggeration,” you cough, immediately feeling self-conscious, “they’d kill me with their eyes. They’re really big, really pretty corporate people. They have high expectations for their future in-law.” 

“Ah, and you're the country pumpkin who managed to sweep the rich guy off his feet?” 

“Something like that,” you reply, rocking on your heels, “my dad was his dad’s former secretary, and we grew up together.” 

The stranger with a plan stops in front of a long line. It’s so long that you’re not entirely sure where it leads to. People are piling out the door two at a time, and you can see they’re trying to get through the process as fast as possible. The window leading outside is blurry and caked in white ice. He hooks one leg over his luggage, the metal and plastic case is so high that his feet barely touch the ground. Like a kid with a flat scooter, he wheels himself through the line. 

“These lines are for busses going in the direction of our flight,” he jabs a finger out the door, “if the flight got cancelled I was just going to ride one of these,” out of his pocket he pulls out two tickets, flicking it in front of your face.

“Are there any tickets left?” your eyes bug, and you immediately pull out your phone to reserve a spot. 

“Nah, been booked since last month.” 

It’s then that your eyes zero in on the second ticket he has in hand. Both tickets are addressed to the same name. You lower your phone in your pocket, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you have two for yourself?” 

He pats his luggage as a response. 

“That’s not fair!” 

“It is when you buy it, sweetheart.” 

“A literal human could be in that spot, wanting to go home for Christmas!”

“You’re just salty you don’t have a ticket, don’t take it out on my luggage,” he feigns a pout, rubbing the handle of the heavy container, “you’re hurting it’s feelings.” 

It doesn’t take long for you and the stranger to reach the end of the line. To others in line the two of you look like two companions bickering good-naturedly, but in reality the only thing you want to do is slap that smug smile off his face. 

“You want my ticket,” he states. 

“I want your luggage’s ticket,” you bite back, staring petulantly at where he sits comfortably between the handle. 

Unbeknownst to you, the man’s face morphs into a teasing grin upon seeing you glare a little too hard at the silver and black case. It just so happens that your eyes gravitate to the middle of the luggage, at the apex between his long legs leading up to a pair of black sweats. Despite the soft, baggy fabric you can see how the bulge of his thighs outline the thin cotton, looking large and inviting which—

Fuck. You’re engaged. Why are you checking out some stranger’s thighs? Your fiancé also has nice thighs, think about those! 

“How much do you want for it?” you cough, crossing your arms and turning to the side to hide your flaming cheeks. 

“Who said I was offering?” 

“I’ll pay that and then some.”

“With your rich-boy’s money?” 

If your hands were not digging into your elbows and you weren’t so concerned about your gold-foiled manicure, you’d deck him. Do the holidays normally make this person so snappy? He simply flips his hair, and you catch the shaved ends of his sides. 

“Three-hundred,” he says easily, and if he notices you staring he doesn’t say anything, “including any extra fees for my luggage.”

“Done,” you hold out your hand for him to shake. 

“I’m Jungkook, if you care,” the man named Jungkook adds wryly, practically swallowing your small hand with his larger one. You shortly reply with your name, and he merely nods, “a thank you would suffice.” 

“Thanks,” and it’s then that you manage a scarily pretty smile, one that Jungkook finds both alarming and amusing. It’s a catered smile, one that you’ve trained yourself to accomplish after hours in the mirror in fear of your fiancé’s parents seeing right through you. It’s the smile you give during work when you don’t give a shit but you need to suck it up. It’s a 9/10 success rate. 

“Scary,” he shivers, and then you realize he’s the 1/10. 

The only bus for you two to pile on is one of the smallest. Probably half the size of a regular coach bus, but at this rate you don’t care. You’ll fly by hot air balloon if the weather wasn’t so crappy. 

“Taehyung!” you startle at Jungkook’s sudden belt, and he does a big, beefy-chested bro-hug to the driver. Ah, so he has connections. You watch the two interact from your corner, pulling up your hood to stop the rapidfire snowflakes from pelting your eyes. 

The driver is a classically handsome thing, dark eyes and dark fluffy hair. His paperbag pants look absolutely frigid however, and his teeth are chattering as he regards Jungkook with annoyed eyes. 

“Listen, so plans have changed—”

“As always, Kook.” 

“—and I need you to do me another solid. Do you have room in the compartment for my babies?” 

“The answer is, and always no. That’s why you bought two tickets.” 

“I know but,” he gestures to you with a jab of his thumb, “like I said, plans have changed.” 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung frowns, “trying to do some Christmas miracles? In this snowstorm?” Taehyung shakes his head, eyes flickering to the running bus. Most of the ticket holders are already on it. “I can save you two a three-seater, but there’s no room in the compartment. It’ll be a tight fight but—” 

“It’s perfect. You’re dynamite, Tae,” Jungkook even has the audacity to reach his hands out and squish the driver’s cheeks, much to his distain. 

The two of you are ushered quickly into the bus, leaving you in the very front diagonal to where Taehyung is sitting. The three seats are tiny, it probably barely fits Jungkook’s thighs with the large luggage nestled in the other two seats. The two of you suggest to put the luggage out in the aisle and take turns holding it, but Taehyung interjects that the luggage is a fire hazard. 

“But not a human,” Jungkook decides, and he gestures for you to sit down in the available seat. You’re practically shoved against the window as Jungkook manages to squeeze his gargantuan luggage in the other two seats. He’s tall enough to grab the metal rungs of the bus, steeling himself in the middle of the aisle.

Taehyung doesn’t fight with that, and finally puts the bus into drive. Pulling out of the airport feels akin to leaving the eye of the storm. It’s going to be a long journey, and it makes you worry as to whether you’re going to make it on time or not. 

Your favorite pastime is watching the window on a long car ride, especially when the snowflakes crystalize and melt away through the warmth of the vehicle. However, you’re irked. You thought Jungkook was a bit of a wank, a little too full of himself and far too mysterious for your own good. 

Exhibit A, the luggage that’s currently threatening to wheel over and crush you against the glass. You wonder what’s so special about this luggage that Jungkook so desperately wants to protect, even so far as to buy its own seat. Sneakily, you lean over to smell the zipper. Surprisingly, it smells a little vinegary, the fumes getting you a little lightheaded within seconds. Your eyes dart to Jungkook, who’s currently engaged in conversation with Taehyung. You tilt your head and sniff again, confirming the slightly rancid smell. 

It’s then you take in Jungkook’s form once more. He dresses a little schlubby, his clothes are old, his eyes are sunken in, and his luggage is filled with weird-smelling things. 

Oh no. Is Jungkook a drug dealer? 

Your fiancé’s parents would surely have a fit if this man gets arrested and you come up in the report as an accused accomplice. It makes sense, he would want to make sure that his goods are in his view at all times, and it explains why he so easily gave you his ticket for triple the actual price. 

A giggle interrupts your thoughts. Yes, a tired, yet bubbly giggle. Jungkook’s face is pressed against his bicep, and you catch the fluttering of his eyes as he tries to keep up with Taehyung’s rambling. His grip is starting to loosen on the metal bars, and you’re worried that he might accidentally slip, or not hold tight enough in the event the car takes a sharp turn or slips on black ice. 

“J-Jungkook,” it’s the first time you’re saying his name out loud, tasting it on your tongue as you regard him steadily, “why don’t we take turns sitting? I don’t mind standing for an hour while you sleep.” 

He regards you with a sleepy smirk, shaking his head against the fabric of his jacket. “You’ll be flung in two seconds, besides can you even reach the handles?” 

Good point, but Jungkook is far more muscular and if he does end up flying he’ll crash through the window and further hinder your commute. It’s why you choose your next words carefully, and you convince yourself it’s the only reason as to why you propose your solution. 

“I’ll sit on your lap,” and since it sounds super weird coming out of your mouth, you tack on, “I’ll put your jacket over your lap as a barrier.” 

He slacks, regarding you with a scrunched face. “Is the jacket supposed to make that situation any better? I’m fine standing like this.” 

“This ride is going to take hours and you’re barely on your own two feet,” your point is made when the bus topples over a speed bump, and Jungkook looks awfully small as he moves to grapple the top bar with both hands, “my fiancé doesn’t get jealous, I’ve sat in plenty of friend’s laps before.” 

“We’re not friends,” he blurts with a raise of his brows.

“Yes, I know that,” you’re a little insulted by the curt reply, but he still looks rather horrified that you’re proposing the following, “I don’t like it either, but I’m sitting in your seat and now I’m feeling guilty as hell.” 

It’s a lot of shuffling and shifting after that. You try not to laugh as Jungkook rips off his leather jacket, folding it into a perfect square, ironing out the corners of the crinkly fabric as he gestures for you to take a seat. You try not to take note of how sturdy his thighs are, or how the muscle stretches across the seat so well that there’s no way for you to fall between the cracks. 

“You’re going to sleep anyway,” you try to assure him, side eying him as he presses his forehead against the window, “it’ll be like being with a dead body.” 

“Didn’t know you were into necrophilia, but whatever floats your boat,” Jungkook mumbles, eyes immediately fluttering shut. 

At first it was easy, ignoring the fact that you’re sitting on top of a human. The drive seems endless however, Taehyung driving further and further into a sea of white ice. You force yourself to thread your fingers together, sitting on the very edge of his knees with your back ramrod straight. Eventually, you tire out and relax against Jungkook’s lax body. Your face is centimeters away from Jungkook’s. Long, dark lashes, and a strand of equally dark hair falls in front of his eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the blaring heater, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. 

Hm, for a drug dealer, he smells pretty. 

Despite the weird-smelling luggage that looms over the two of you, the white long-sleeved shirt he wears is soft to the touch and smells fresh. 

You huff, and shift in your seat. 

“Stop,” Jungkook mumbles into your shoulder, and you don’t have the heart to look at him. 

“I’m sorry, it’s cramped,” you reply. 

“I get that, but you don’t have to—hike yourself so far up here,” he sounds almost embarrassed saying it, and his hand shuffles to adjust his belt. “Literally can’t sleep because you’re making me pop a boner.” 

“Why, I’m engaged!” 

“God, I know. It’s like your personality trait or something,” Jungkook retorts, “just because you’re engaged doesn’t stop my body from reacting. I’m sure your fiancé has reacted like this, stop acting like a blushing virgin.” 

You tense, your eyes glued to the window in front of you. How do you even make a comeback to that? Wringing your hands in your lap, you feel your palms sweat with nerves the longer it takes for you to reply. This causes the gears to run in Jungkook’s mind. 

“Holy fuck, have you two not—” 

“Shut up,” you hiss, turning your body around to slap him in the chest, “shut up shut upupupshutup!” 

You make seething, burning eye contact with Jungkook. You expect him to have a shit-eating grin on his face, teasing you for your relationship. Instead, Jungkook is wide-eyed, mouth parted open like a confused guppy and his big bug-eyes looking stricken. He says nothing. 

The road starts to get bumpier, and the drive swerves from time to time to avoid black ice. Neither of you are relaxed. Combined with the heart of the storm, your heart is currently wrung on electrical wire, pumping blood with a fervor you cannot stifle. 

“I’m going to put my arms around your waist,” Jungkook murmurs softly, and you lift your arms slightly to see him lace his fingers over your belly button. “Like a seatbelt.” 

You sigh, relaxing in his hold. Now it’s awkward. He feels compelled to hold you to keep you safe, even though he clearly finds it awkward you’ve already put him in this position. 

Jungkook isn’t so bad, you think as you let your gaze linger on his hands. They anchor you to his lap, making sure you’re not jostling during the ride. He may have a razor sharp tongue and gets under your nerves just for the heck of it, but he’s kind of nice. Under the prickly leather jacket, there’s a softness to him you can’t help but gravitate to. 

It’s dark outside, save for the speedily descending flakes and the dim lights of the highway. You’re sitting on the lap of a total stranger, yet it’s a stranger who’s holding your waist like he’s a seatbelt, a stranger who’s making you feel safe to say the words that have been haunting you for the past few months. 

“I’ve tried to initiate sex,” you finally say. “I don’t know why he doesn’t want me, it’s already been two years.” 

Your eyes turn red with bloody horror. Your vision blurred by the insanity of what you’ve just blurted out to this surprisingly kind stranger who’s offered his seat (both times) to you. 

“I didn’t mean to word vomit like that. Forget I said anything—” 

“Must be his loss,” Jungkook cuts you off, and when he says it doesn’t feel impolite at all. However, Jungkook doesn’t continue on, doesn’t give you rhyme or reason, just lets you linger on his reply like a madwoman. 

Maybe it’s because you’re so touch starved, maybe you’re just seeing things, but for some reason Jungkook’s fingers feel more apparent against the seam of your jacket. They tighten a fraction, drum around the metal zipper that holds the thick fabric together. Your palms feel like a fountain, and you try to ignore the burn between your legs, the liquid heat betraying the commitment that sits on your finger. 

You’re engaged to be married, you chastise yourself. All eighteen carats that symbolize that bond glare at you, bright and eager to make you feel guilty. The whole reason why you’re on this cramped bus ride is to get to your soon-to-be husband. Some pretty stranger with strong hands won’t change that. 

“We’re here! Finally!” Taehyung cheers, and you realize now that you’re parked into a tunnel surrounded by other buses. 

Jungkook and you wait until everyone steps off the bus. The pads of Jungkook’s fingers play an unsung tune, absentmindedly drumming to a song you can’t put your mind to. 

“God, you can’t just pay the extra money for someone to take care of this?” Taehyung hauls the large luggage in the aisle seat, and you feel like you’re being revealed under a curtain, doing something you’re not supposed to be doing. 

You hop off his lap, scoop your backpack in your arm and scramble off the bus. The cold, winter air bites into every available pore in your body, replacing the warmth that Jungkook gave in the tiny bus. You hike the collar of your oversized turtleneck higher up your chin, prickling in shivers as you wait for Jungkook. 

“I don’t remember Seoul being this, empty,” you say to yourself, frowning at the lack of humans past the bus station. You peer curiously at the dark, dark road off the terminal. There’s no flicker of light, or a skyline filled with bustling sounds and flickering head beams. 

“That’s because we’re only halfway there,” Jungkook walks past you, luggage in tow. 

“What?” you pull out your phone, it’s already 4PM and it’s pitch dark outside. 

The snow is beating down as you two speed walk out of the hangar, reaching a nearly vacant parking lot save for a pure white minivan. You barely notice the vehicle with all the snow, blending in perfectly as wave after wave of ice beats down on it. The pops of rust by the tires, gaudy orange stripes is the only thing you can focus on as you try to make it to the car as fast as possible. 

“Get in and start the car,” Jungkook practically shoves the keys in your hands, gesturing for you to take the passenger seat. 

When you enter his car, you’re hit with a scent scarily identical to the one in Jungkook’s luggage. You nearly gag when you inhale too much, and your eyes flicker over to the lemon air freshener attached to the exhaust, trying its best to mask the smell. You vaguely remember all the warning stories your parents told you as a kid—never enter the white van. 

Ohmygod, you’re in a white van and all of Jungkook’s drugs are in the back. 

You shake your head, willing the car to start as you arch your back over the console to start it up. You’ve been around your fiancé’s parents too long, letting them fill your head with judgemental gab and crazy assumptions only rich people have about people lesser than them. 

Once the car spurs to life, soft holiday music plays from a pop station. The front window of the car is absolutely covered in snow, you can’t even budge the windshield wipers to scrape the layer of ice off. 

Suddenly, a blanket of ice slides off the window, swept to the concrete. You’re met with Jungkook’s toothy smile and horror-esque stare, and you have this jerk reaction to nervously laugh and jump in your seat. Your nails dig into the cheap fabric of your seat as Jungkook’s scary expression melts into a more softened one, as if happy to have gotten you to laugh in such sucky times. Jungkook continues to brush your windows, meticulously making sure no ice can cause any damage as you two go into the night. 

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” Jungkook whips the door open, throwing the snow brush at the space between your feet. 

As soon as he shuts the door, your stomachs growl simultaneously. 

The two of you break into a quick laugh, giggles that overlap the twinkly holiday chimes and the packed snow crunching under Jungkook’s boots. 

“After McDonalds,” Jungkook declares, setting up the GPS for a quick pitstop to the nearest fast food joint. 

Ten minutes into the drive, you pull into a generic food joint, too starved to find gourmet McDonalds. You make it a point to flick your card and lean over his body to meet the cashier, telling him you’re spotting the meal. Jungkook doesn’t complain, and tells the cashier to add in a vanilla sundae for good measure. 

Color yourself impressed, but you can’t help but gawk as Jungkook expertly sets up his food on the dashboard like a five-star meal, with fries in the cupholder and a burger unwrapped perfectly to catch any spills and to keep his fingers from getting greased up. For such a terrible snowstorm, he pulls out of the joint gracefully, a brief intermission in your long journey. 

“So, is my fiancé’s place far from where you need to be?” 

Jungkook shrugs, a stray fry hanging from his mouth. “It’s not far, not close either. I don’t mind, I like driving.” 

“Do you drive around a lot?” 

“Yeah, for work. It’s a little annoying that I have to spend Christmas alone, but it is what it is.” 

Pausing on your speculation, you take a big bite of your burger. You were hoping that your conversation would spur on a little more detail about his drug-esque job. However, all you start to feel is the heaviness of your fast food meal, stemming from your chest and filling your grease-filled stomach. 

“You’re spending Christmas alone?” you say, and you don’t mean to sound so sad saying it, but the thought of him being alone tonight makes you feel pinched with pain. 

“I can practically feel your puppy-eyes,” Jungkook shakes his head, not even needing to look at you as he focuses on the road. “I’m fine, don’t you worry.” 

“Do you wanna come to the party?” you offer, trying to sound as neutral as possible as you throw the suggestion on the dash.

“Not my thing,” Jungkook scrunches his nose, “with my line of work, I prefer to lay low.” 

Trying not to feel a hurt by the sudden (but expected) rejection, you practically eat your burger whole, eyes glaring on the road. You surmise it’s a valid excuse, drug dealers aren’t exactly one for highly-populated areas and with your fiancé’s reputation, you’re sure his parents would smell Jungkook’s reputation in a micro-minute. 

The drive isn’t anything special. You’re sure if it were spring, the foliage would be pretty and the sun would be setting into melty orange hues by now. It’s all black and white, boring shades that are aggressively pelting at the van and hindering your evening. 

“So, what other character traits do you have?” Jungkook cuts through your semi-brooding, as easily as one slices through butter, “other than the obvious that you’re engaged, and that you’re getting married. And oh yeah, you have a fiancé!” 

You scoff at his cheesy joke, folding your arms together. “I like spending time with my family. Watching movies under a weighted blanket. Plants.” 

His stare dips away from the road for a fraction, enough for you to catch that he’s rolling his eyes, “Fascinating. Not a plant person myself. I like those cute little succulents though. Had a bunch of those in college.” 

“I am also a ramen connoisseur,” you say pointedly, turning up your nose. 

“Ah, are you?” you smile a little when you see Jungkook’s eyes light up at the mention of food, “what’s the criteria for good ramen?” 

“Deep, creamy broth. Also, the egg. Gotta look like a custard-y, eggy sunset. It’s just,” you smack your lips together, mimicking a chef’s kiss, “perfect.” 

He chuckles, and goes on to tell you a story about a ramen shop he’s visited on his travels. It’s one he declares that you need to visit, one he still dreams about often. It takes a ferry and it’s a bit of a trek, but he says it’s worth it, and the eggs are as custard-y and sunset-y as you’d like. 

It’s between pockets of his story and pulling yourself out of this little bubble of a van you realize:  are you flirting with Jungkook? 

The longer this trip goes, the more your stares linger. They linger like the snow that sticks to the ground, unable to do nothing but cling. Layer after layer of confusing feelings, building up to a blizzard that you’re unable to quell. 

“So, your family’s also going to be at your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook asks, poking at yet another one of your personal facets. He’s being blatantly nosy, yet neither of you seem to mind. 

“Oh, no,” you shove your hands in your pockets, “they wanted to stay back in our hometown with the extended family. Y’know, the older members can’t really travel as much as they used to.” 

“Ah, so you’re splitting up your time,” Jungkook drums his hands on the wheel, eyes drooped slightly as he continues along the monotonous road, “your fiancé couldn’t make it?” 

“Couldn’t,” you reply lightly, “just, y’know, work.” 

“Been there, done that,” Jungkook replies, “I’m sure he missed out though. What’s your family like? Are they the type to bake cookies until 3 A.M.? Oh, or do they get wine drunk and talk shit about their annoying cousins—” 

“Jungkook,” the words fly out of your mouth before you can even think, “I’m engaged.” 

The weight of your words holds differently now. A whole day has passed with this man, and you’ve developed an attachment that simultaneously scares and thrills you. Not an hour goes by that you have to think to yourself that you’re taken, to the point that you can’t even tell what’s in your head and what’s being spoken out in the air. 

Instead of a snippy comment, a snarky retort of, “I know, I know!” like you anticipate, Jungkook stops the car. 

There’s no human trace for miles, so it doesn’t scare you when he slows down and pulls off to the side. He gears the car into park, roughly pulling the handle. He lays his arm over the steering wheel, turning his body so he can face you fully. The heat in the car suddenly feels too cloying, and you shrink in the seat as he leans in on you. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, and from the looks of it, he’s genuinely hurt. 

“I—Jungkook,” you plant your feet on the ground, trying to find some power in this situation, “I mean I, we—you just can’t keep doing this.” 

“Do you feel like I’m trying to steal you away? Or, seduce you or something?” Jungkook is starting to talk himself into a stupor, eyes flickering from the window, to you, to behind you, and back to you. It’s almost jarring, seeing how self-conscious he starts to get without the presence of an audience. Gone is the smooth talker that you met at the terminal, willing to haggle it all for your cash. “Are you uncomfortable? Is it weird I have a crush on you?” 

“Wait, you have a crush on me?” 

He reels back, nearly pressing his head against the window. Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deep from his lungs. “Adults still get crushes, y’know.” 

“Yeah, but not to people you met eight hours ago.” 

Jungkook arches a brow, “People fall for people in the most unlikely of ways.” 

That singular statement hits you, hard. 

Jungkook looks like he wants to get out of the van. He seems stuffy, and he unzips his coat and shoves it under his legs. 

“You’re cute,” he echoes the statement like he can’t believe that in a short amount of time, he’s attached to you, “you seem to have good taste, you love family, and your personality isn’t half bad,” the last bit is meant to be teasing, a lighthearted way to end his bout of emotion, but it only makes you ache further, “And it makes me upset knowing that you have to keep convincing yourself that you’re in a relationship that isn’t as fulfilling as you hope. This whole drive, you’ve been anxious about going to his parents, worrying that you’re not going to make it on time instead of relaxing with your family. Where you actually want to be.” 

“I also want to be with Jimin,” you say weakly, a half-hearted attempt to defend yourself. 

You never mentioned your fiancé’s name until this point. It makes Jungkook stiffen a little, finally putting a name to the man that’s supposed to have your heart. It makes the relationship concrete, palpable. 

“I’m sure you do,” Jungkook smacks his lips, evidently sealing the conversation to suffocate under the snow. 

Jungkook puts the car into drive, sliding back into your current route. 

“And to answer your question, Jungkook. No, you having a crush on me is not weird,” and smaller, quieter, you reply, “because it’s weird that I might have a crush on you, too.”

You know that Jungkook catches your statement, because he cranks the volume of the radio harder, effectively shutting you out.  

The first thing Jungkook says when you finally reach the Park’s house is: “Wow.” 

His van looks completely out of place, parked on the side as limos and Escalades drop off more and more people into the large estate. It’s pouring with elegant piano music, and the large window in the middle of their home reveals a century-old chandelier, crystals beaming and winking against the hundreds of guests that lie underneath. 

The rest of the way driving was almost painfully fast. After that awkward wave of emotion, neither of you said anything. Well, you didn’t at least. Jungkook attempted to clear the air by singing along to the Christmas songs on the radio, but it only further attracted you because to your chagrin—Jungkook’s a pretty good singer. 

The estate isn’t in Seoul persay, it’s a sizable plot of land that definitely comes from old money. It’s decked up like the North Pole, lit up and tiny crystal lines dotting the expanse of the rooftops. The snow certainly adds to it, and many guests are outside taking pictures of the picture-perfect holiday show. The blizzard has finally subsided, leaving a clean blanket of snow across their yard.

You scoff to yourself. What they find to be a Christmas miracle only derailed yours. 

Jungkook stares at you while you send a quick text to Jimin. You tell him he needs to come fast, because you don’t want his parents to see you all sweaty and dressed like you’ve been traveling for hours. 

“Oh, uh,” you finally take a look at him, and you immediately regret it because you’re getting sucked into his gaze, “I think you put my bag in the trunk?” 

“Right,” he shakes his head, “follow me.” 

He tilts his head down when he’s outside, as if the snow’s going to start back up and drown him. Your thumb scratches the ring on your finger as you hop out of the van, effectively popping the bubble the two of you have been sealed in for the better half of the evening. Is this going to be it? Is the last you’ll see of Jeon Jungkook? 

All those thoughts evaporate when Jungkook opens the trunk. 

There’s no drugs. 

In fact, you don’t even know what to think. The van is absolutely filled, wall-to-wall art supplies and canvas carefully lined up like Tetris blocks to avoid damage. The floor of the van seems to receive the brunt of the messes, and you catch recent paint stains and spray cans stacked to the side. It explains the smell. 

There’s some clear cases in a corner, protecting completed prints that are already framed. Your eyes cling to a vibrant hyacinth, coral and satin blue petals bunching in the middle of a black background. It’s absolutely gorgeous, if it wasn’t for all the paint lying around, you’d think it’s real. 

Jungkook’s an artist. 

“Holy shit, I thought you were a drug dealer,” you blurt, and you want to smack yourself in the face. 

 “Excuse me?” Jungkook jerks his head towards you, “did you think I was a drug dealer this whole time?” 

“N-no,” you frown petulantly, letting Jungkook loop your arms through the straps of your backpack. “Maybe. You were very shady.” 

He laughs, a genuine laugh. It confuses you, the way he tucks his hands in his pockets and bends his back over to look up at you through his dark lashes. It’s like nothing’s wrong, like he’s trying to erase the past eight hours and leave with no qualms. You don’t know if that comforts you or terrifies you. 

“So, you were willing to let a potentially dangerous man be your travel partner for eight hours so you can make it to your fiancé’s party?” Jungkook’s eyes flicker over to the front door, “you must really love him.” 

“I do,” you say the phrase like it’s second nature. Rehearsed. Practiced. 

“Merry Christmas,” Jungkook pulls out his hand, and you don’t hesitate to grasp it. 

Liquid heat sparks through your skin, one that tingles from where his large palm encases yours, all the way to your heart. 

“Merry Christmas,” you echo, and your feet feel like lead as you back away from him. 

Jungkook waits until you go inside the house, even though the valet is side eyeing him and mentally telling him to leave already. Turning your back to him is rough, like you’re without snowshoes and you’re trudging through snow. 

The goodbye feels rushed. Your heart is cold and heavy. Unfortunately, by the time you realize you haven’t paid Jungkook for his bus ticket and the ride, it’s too late. Jimin has already pulled you in his awaiting arms, and Jungkook has peeled out of the driveway. 

“You look awful,” Jimin coddles you, dusting the invisible dirt off your jacket. You know Jimin means well by the statement, but you can’t help but feel a little unsupported by his words. You did all you could to make it to Jimin in time for this party full of faceless, nameless people. And yet, Jimin inadvertently manages to put you down for finally making it. 

The hallway is relatively empty, save for one staff member who cleans the wet linoleum floors whenever someone with snow steps in. You can easily make out where the heart of the party is, the tinkly holiday music playing from the speakers, along with all the bodies huddled by the extra large Christmas tree that is brimming with presents. 

You do feel like a wet noodle, in comparison to Jimin and Namjoon’s complementary pinstripe suits. Jimin’s deep burgundy suit pops in the endless hallway of marble and light wood as he quickly leads you upstairs to a spare room for you to change. Namjoon’s more muted grey still looks stunning on him, cutting his tall figure nicely. You think it’s cute that Jimin made an effort to match with his assistant, not making him feel out of place in this big party. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Namjoon interjects softly, gesturing to the garment bag hanging on the boudoir, “I picked out your dress.” 

“I’m sure whatever you bought is beautiful,” you assure softly, stepping fully into the room. It’s an extra bedroom, you’re assuming it might be yours. 

“We’ll give you some time to freshen up and get ready,” Jimin squeezes your arm, a touch you can barely feel due to the puffiness of your down jacket. It’s just an awkward escape of air to you, a sssttt that you catch Namjoon hiding his smile for, “we’ll walk around a bit and bring you some food.” 

“I want cupcakes,” you blurt impulsively, and the two of them laugh on their way out the door. 

Once you’re finally alone, you strip yourself bare. Jacket, shirt, socks, underwear. You make quick work of taking a hot, damp towel to wash your arms and legs, scrubbing your face of any oil and dirt from the day. You wrap yourself in an indulgent fluffy robe, the plush material comforting you as you flop on the bed. 

It’s been a day. 

You take a five minute cat nap, the weight of the day taking its toll on you. When you finally flutter your eyes open however, you see him. 

It’s not exactly him, it’s his art. It’s mounted right atop the headboard, a large blown up painting of a tiger lily. The orange and gold flecks flicker and go perfectly with the decor of the room. The piece is longing, aching for you to go back to two hours ago when you could’ve phrased your words better, balm the situation into something to salvage. This must be a sign, you think. Upon closer look, you see the signature Jeon JK etched in silver in the corner. Who knew the Parks were buying Jeon Jungkook’s work, the world is smaller than you’d originally thought. 

It ignites you. You rip the zipper of the garment bag, pulling on the slinky glittery gold dress Namjoon picked out for you. It’s gorgeous, and you don’t know how he managed to find your proportions, but you figure an assistant of his caliber has access to many things. You don’t have much time, so you slap on some light makeup and swipe some highlights across your eyes. By the time Jimin returns, you’re pulling your hair up and out of your face. 

Jimin walks to the bed with a pretty red velvet cupcake, “You look beautiful,” he says immediately, and you follow to sit with him at the foot of the bed. 

You don’t hesitate to grab the cupcake from his tea plate, nearly shoving it in your mouth. You definitely need a rush, something to curb you over for the plans you have tonight. “Sugar sugar,” you chant like a mantra, and you don’t care that your lipgloss is smudged and crumbs cling to your cheeks. 

Jimin just rubs circles onto your thigh, letting you eat and relax. He knows you’re not a fan of these kinds of parties, preferring to wallflower it, preferably at  a wall closest to the buffet. His touch is comforting, and you chew slower in order to prolong the inevitable. It takes a beat for you to finish your cupcake. 

“I need to talk to you,” the two of you blurt at the same time, and you point and giggle at each other like you’re still five year olds tinkering in the sandbox. 

Jimin pouts, “Can I go first? Mine’s kind of important.” 

“Mine’s also really important,” you don’t mean to invalidate Jimin, but you really need to get this out. “I might explode if I don’t say this now.” 

The blonde scrunches his nose, obviously weak to your unusual distress, “I guess I wouldn’t want that.” 

You clutch his hand, the hand that holds the plain wedding band he picked out for himself two years ago. Your eyes flicker to how your ring kisses his, “Jimin. I love you, like really love you. I can’t imagine my life without you, you’ve been my best friend since we could crawl. But as I traveled down here, I realized that even though I love you, I think I’m not in love,” you wince at how cheesy that sounds, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not good enough, but the whole trip down here made me realize I don’t think I can commit to this.” 

“Oh, thank fuck,” you gasp, watching relief wash over Jimin’s features. You’re not even done with your whole spiel and he’s already unbuttoning his blouse, “this makes what I’m about to say a whole lot easier.” 

“Jimin,” you trail off, squeezing his palm, “what do you mean?” 

“I mean, I think I’m in love.” 

Your jaw slackens slightly, seeing the sweat that lines Jimin’s slicked back hair. He must’ve been thinking about this all night, waiting for you to tell you this. Your chest aches, weighing in on all the sudden facts. “Who is it?” you ask. 

Jimin shrugs, “The man who does my taxes and makes sure I sleep at least seven hours a night.” 

“Namjoon,” you conclude, eyes moving to the sealed door. You think Namjoon is waiting out there right now, silently supporting you two as you go through this. Of course, Jimin’s parents would be livid if anything would tarnish his reputation. A broken engagement would be sticky to cover up, and Jimin falling for his assistant is a headline right for the books. 

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispers, despite the room being vacant he feels the need to keep his words short, “You came all this way to hear this. But I guess we’re on the same page, huh?” His soft fingers make a beeline for your ring finger, removing the diamond band, “And by the way, I love you too. Which is why we’re going to come clean in the morning and work this out with my parents, together. I’m sorry if you felt obligated to follow me all this time just because our parents did.” 

“Hey, like you said, we’re in this together. Both in and out,” you chastise, pulling your engagement ring from his grasp and holding it to the light. “Can I keep this? Instead of an engagement band, it can be our best friend band. I’ll even get it re-sized so it can go on another finger.” 

Jimin pulls you into his arms, crushing you. The silky material of your dress bunches and rides, but you don’t care. The two of  you can’t help but be a little crybaby-ish about it, feeling much like your younger-selves when you had to pull each other out of trouble. 

The two of you walk out of the bedroom hand-in-hand, and Namjoon is leaning against the banister in the hallway, a soft smile melting on his tanned skin. 

“I’m so happy for you,” you gush, hugging Namjoon tightly. You’ve only known the man for a few months, but you can tell he’s taking care of Jimin and that’s enough for you. 

“I… really thought you’d be more upset.” Namjoon marvels, patting your back. 

Jimin interjects, “I think she’s found someone hotter than me.” 

“Impossible!” 

You could stay at this party, lay low until you and Jimin have to confront his parents in the morning. They suggest to get all the food they need and sneak out to the home theatre. The three of you hustle it down the stairs to another part of the house, in order for you to make your getaway and avoid Jimin’s family. 

“Hey,” you stop in front of another painting, pulling the two men to a stop. Your eyes lock on a framed droopy peony, tipped with pink dye. You realize you can’t stay here, not when someone’s home alone tonight. “Namjoon, I need you to locate someone for me.” 

Jungkook does not expect to see you at his front door. 

You’re stunning, and look as breathless as he feels. The liquid champagne number that hugs your frame does things to him, and he’s strangely attracted to the fact that you paired this expensive dress with your snow-drenched trainers. 

You showing up at the wee hours of the morning was the last thing Jungkook thought would happen. It’s nothing short of a holiday event, you look like you’ve just walked out of a gala and then ran a marathon to reach him. 

He thought when he said goodbye, it would be the last time you’d cross paths. At first, he was okay with that. After all, feelings come and go, and spontaneity only works a percentage of the time. Seeing you presently however, throws all those half-hearted concedings out the window. 

“Hi,” you finally say, drinking from the fact that you actually found him. 

“Hey,” Jungkook breathes, “you look, beautiful.” 

“Thanks,” you smile. 

“So, is this about you not paying me back for the ticket?” Jungkook suddenly feels guilty, having dipped out of Jimin’s manor once he saw him appear at the door. It was unrightful jealousy, and because of that he needed to drive away as fast as possible. “Because honestly, it was me messing with you. I really don’t need the money.” 

“I figured, from the fact that I had to take the elevator up to the penthouse of the building.” 

“So then why are you here?” Jungkook wobbles on the balls of his feet, unsure of what to do with himself. 

“My ex-fiancé is in love with someone else,” you lay your cards out just like that, and Jungkook’s unprepared to deal.  

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry—” 

“Let me finish,” you cut in gently, “my ex-fiancé is in love with someone else, and that’s okay. We’ve been best friends since we were little, and we want nothing but happiness for each other. And for me? Happiness is right in front of me.” 

You bite your lip, and Jungkook fights down the urge to run up and pull you into his arms. You must be so cold, running out without a jacket and rushing to his home. However, he lets you finish, and he holds himself down by clutching the door frame as casually as possible. 

“I also have a big, fat crush on you,” you say boldly, “and I had to tell you as soon as I could. It took a twenty-minute phone call and some serious leverage from Jimin’s company to figure out where you lived. That receptionist is definitely not letting me use my frequent flyer miles next flight.” 

“You harassed an airport receptionist just for me?” he smiles wanly, placing a hand on his chest, “I’m touched.” 

“You make me excited to try new things, to be spontaneous and do things for myself,” with every statement you take a step further, and soon enough you’re in his dimly lit apartment. The plush couch in his living room looks awfully warm and comfy, and the light music that plays from his speakers is soft and soothing. “So, let’s spend the holidays together and see where this goes. And go to your art gallery tomorrow, because I did research you on the drive and found out you had to rush here because of a big show.” 

“So you’re actually a stalker?” Jungkook teases, tugging you over to the couch. 

He takes the lead, plopping himself on the couch first and inviting you to sit next to him. You take a detour and plant your body atop of him, and with an ‘oof’ the two of you are sinking. 

“A stalker and a potential drug dealer does sound like a promising pair,” Jungkook jests, his hand palming the silky material of your ruched up ball gown. 

“I’m sorry,” you pout, wrapping your fingers around the long tresses of his hair, “can you please stop bringing that up? It was judgemental of me.” 

“I like when you’re judgemental,” he pokes your puppy-faced cheeks, ruddied with embarrassment. “I like picking fights with you and getting you all riled up.” 

“Will you rile me up now?” 

Sexy, he thinks. He figures a vixen has been hidden under you, one suppressed by a complicated engagement and many other factors he’d love to learn about in the near future. The situation at hand however, is far more pressing. Your body is finally warming up, and Jungkook tries to ignore the weight your body is causing, re-igniting an ache he felt hours ago when you two were squished against each other in the coach bus.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you declare, and you look a little frustrated that Jungkook is taking so long to process this information, “and I hope I take your breath away.” 

You taste like sugar and the softness that comes with the holidays. It’s tender and oh-so comforting, and Jungkook can’t help but squeeze your hips closer as your lips brush fervently against his. The feeling is both new and old, and Jungkook figures you’ve finally uncoiled a flame that you can no longer quell. 

Soon enough your kisses turn hungry, and Jungkook has to remind himself that you two have only known each other for a total of twelve hours, and he isn’t sure of what’s appropriate to jump to due to the speed of your relationship. Once he feels the first roll of your hips, a liquid heat that Jungkook can’t help but return back, he pulls away from your soft lips. Not too far, but a few centimeters apart so that Jungkook and you can catch your breath. 

“We should take this slow,” he starts, trying to make a reasonable impression now that you’re a guest at his home and finally settled from their long trip. “I really, really want to get to know you. And you’re so beautiful and I really do want to have sex but—” 

“Jungkook, I have not had sex with someone in two years,” you speak with a depraved tone, as if it’s been centuries since you’ve been touched. He can’t help but throw his head back and laugh, “a night full of sex sounds like the best last-minute present ever.” 

You bring his hand over to your core, the shiny glassy material of your gown doing nothing to hide the glimpses of pleasure you’re minutes away from experiencing. You whine desperately at the thought, and Jungkook’s a goner. 

“Well, I guess I’m about to pull a Christmas miracle,” he murmurs against your lips, ready to work his magic. 

[thxngam]

@icantthinkofausername613 asked, so here goes part 2 of sam seaborn-centric fics! i was gonna add onto the last one but that would be a rlly long fic, so @d1sasterbi, here’s part two of your ask!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592--Three wins by sloganeer: sam, during three elections! pretty short but it’s a good read :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66650--Five Things That Weren't Comforting by out_there: similar to a fic I put on pt 1 called called Sunshine Days but stil different! 5 AUs of stuff that never happened (personally, the second AU is my favorite) to Sam. it’s some great writing!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66645--Initial Conditions by out_there: sam during SGTE, SGTJ from josh’s persective! it’s got some fairly explicit sex though in the middle, and i’m not ever sure it’s super sam-centric, but it’s definitely enough to qualify for this list. also, it’s so good! like sam and josh’s relationship, the way it’s written, i just...it’s so good.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66649--The Right Word by out_there: clearly, this author is good! from’s sam’s pov as he tries to make sense of his relationship with josh and his view of writing and diction, yknow all those writerly things! a really good peak inside his head.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755--Everything he almost had by Punk: a kinda sad AU where bartlet isn’t so great and toby gets out and..well a lot. it’s a really good look at an AU version of sam where he’s not quite so sam-like with his ideals and his righteousness and his energy. this is quite good, i really suggest reading it

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495248--By Your Side by UndeadRobins: so cute and from sam’s pov so here it goes! it’s so good! a 5+1 of josh being a clumsy idiot and sam going with him to the hospital. very good and also sucha contrast from the last rec lol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162224--The Future Belongs by ETraytin: a way-in-the-future fic of the next gen of Seaborns to be president. very sweet! it’s just...it’s nostalgic for some reason, and it’s so cute and happy i just...ugh. it’s so fuckin positive lol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925696--an american girl raised on promises by rillrill: female! sam. so good - sam has some, uh, questionable beliefs (internalized misogyny who?), but it’s such an interesting look at the character from a different lens. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494772--Change by polyamorousgraysexual: sam and bartlet. sam had such interesting parallels with bartlet when he was there and this is sort of a culmination of all those things in one straight conversation. it’s got a fair bit of humor also it’s (i feel like i keep saying this but it’s sort of the point of this list) a nice examination of sam? like why he does what he does? it’s in 2nd person though, and while i’m not always a fan, that works rlly well for this fic!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950648--Learning How to Fly by Avon7: Sam’s thoughts on his inauguration. it’s like...so in character. it’s got all of sam’s twisty, wordy mental stops in one internal monologue on the biggest day of his life in the AU. so good. also what i think sam would think/say in canon if we ever got a seaborn for president scene in canon (idk why we would but if we ever did, this would be what happened)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791685--Vere Vivere by ninjalanternshark: literally i’ve put this on so many lists. trans sam, and a lovely character study of him becoming who he always was and his career. i just...i really love this fic. sam’s a great character in canon, but AUs like these always my heart happy :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407673--Driving The Future by AndreaLyn: technically sam has literally no lines in this fic. but it’s also literally about sam. so. josh and leo have a conversation about Sam’s “lateral career slide”. I swear it’ll make sense if you read the fic and I like it so here ya go. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/322850--Heart, Temper, Touch by @snowdarkred: another female!sam fic but also she’s a lesbian and people are bigots. it’s sam and her relationships with the rest of the senior staff and bartlet and how she navigates her career and her sexuality. this is a wonderful fic, it’s like...oddly gratifying. ive put it on more than one list, it’s so good!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/218297--Five Months by candle_beck: sam being hyperfixated on five months of his and josh’s relationship. it’s wonderful and so true to the character. sam hyperfocuses on these things and this is a really great fic that translates that to established-but-not-by-much samjosh

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11769843/1/Seaborn-for-America--Seaborn for America by Every Shade of Blue: so i dislike ff.net bc it’s format makes my eyes hurt and its tagging system is abysmal. all the same, i adore this fic and just about all of this author’s tww fic, which is mostly sam-centric if you’re interested! sam is gonna be president but is oddly surprised that nobody else is surprised.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180788--Half Light by an orphaned account: this fic is sad and does not have a happy ending but it’s got mallory in it! i’m also pretty sure i’ve answered another ask abt this. sam on his career, the events of 20 hrs in America (that’s what those two fics are called right?), and josh

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152565--Just a Cough by Nkala99: sam’s got asthma. like an idiot, he doesn’t tell his coworkers. is this an AU? yes. do I care? nope. should you read it anyway? yeah.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651001--Dark by WaterSoter: sam, after he’s been told the president has MS. so good and kinda heartbreaking? it’s written really well but it’s so sad to me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/326546--turning speechless by @snowdarkred: an extension of the parallels between Sam and Bartlet. tw for child abuse. really really good! 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159944--Articulation is to Reciprocation by @cauldronoflove: literally THE sam fic. if you read none of the other fics (which, shame on you), read this one. it’s sam’s whole ass thought process with humor and feelings and banter, i just...what can i say? i love this fic, i love this author, read it. read it twice

so this is long af and i considered breaking it into three but that seems excessive, even for me. if yall want me to do rec lists for the major senior staff i can try? i mean that might be fun. idk, lemme know.

anyway, i realy suggest you read all of these (and the fics in part one! the OG ask is here (https://thxngam.tumblr.com/post/650354718322966528/do-you-have-any-favorite-sam-centric-fics-for)). read them all. read them twice. and as always, leave a comment/kudos when you like something! it’s simple, free, and an easy serotonin boost for these authors!

[livingforcoopsandoknutzy]

if there isn't a second part where I don't see Remus being comforted by his team and Greyback getting his ass handed to him I will set myself on fire (jk you're not forced to do anything I just loved your protective!sirius fic so much)

Don't set yourself on fire and thank you so much!! <3

Characters belong to @lumoenous

TW: injuries

Sirius hadn't wanted to leave but Remus was sleeping and Dumo had asked him to tell them how Remus was doing.

He was only slightly shocked to see most of the team sitting in the waiting room, but it sent a wave of affection and appreciation to see them all sitting there.

The cubs were all sitting together, Logan was curled into Leo's side seemingly asleep Finn playing with his dark curls as he talked quietly to Leo with his eyebrows furrowed.

James was sitting with Harry in his lap, bouncing him gently as Lily whispered to him and ran her fingers through his hair.

Dumo was talking to Thomas and Kasey who were both shaking slightly, from the cold or worry Sirius couldn't tell.

With the lump in his throat renewed, he went and sat on the floor in front of James and took Harry from him. The rest of the team got quiet as Sirius rested his head on Harry's tiny chest while Harry cuddled in to him cooing.

"Is- is he okay?" Thomas asked, quieter than Sirius had ever heard him. Sirius laughed suddenly, a hysterical, oh-god-i've-lost-my-mind, kind of laugh.

"He's okay. He had five cuts that needed stitches and he had hypothermia so he's drowning in blankets but he's okay. He's asleep right now." Sirius said quietly, staring at Harry instead of looking at anyone else.

He looked up when he heard a dull thud and saw Kasey with a murderous look on his face, his fist having slammed down on the armrest. Natalie grabbed his hand and ran her thumb over his knuckles.

"Who the hell would do that? Why would anyone do that to him?" Kasey said angrily glaring at the floor.

Most of the team seemed to have taken on that view as well. "Who could he have made that mad?" Finn asked with poorly masked anger that woke Logan up.

Leo shushed Finn and rubbed Logan's back as he opened his eyes tiredly. "Wha?" His tired voice slurred slightly and Leo sighed and kissed his head.

"Nothing babe, we were just trying to figure out who did it." Logan tensed for a second before sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

"He-" Logan cut himself off and slumped in the back or the chair. Sirius looked up at him slowly. "Did he say something to you?" Logan swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

"He was probably too tired to tell you but he told me not to say anything until he did." Logan said quietly, his voice sounding as if it had aged five years. Sirius felt his heart sink, it must have been bad for Remus to want to tell him himself.

Sirius sighed and handed Harry back to James. "Okay I'm going to go see if he's awake," he turned and looked at Dumo and the cubs. "Can y'all come with me please?" They all stood up and followed. Logan was moving a little slower than the rest of them so Finn and Leo fell into step beside him on either side.

"Why am I coming?" Dumo asked Sirius as they walked back to Remus's room, Sirius glanced back to Leo, Logan, and Finn before answering Dumo. "I was planning on asking him and I thought he'd probably want the cubs there too so he doesn't have to explain it twice because they mean a lot to him. You're here because if it's bad I don't think Leo will be enough of a peace maker to wound all three of us down."

Dumo nods in understanding as he walked into the room Sirius gestured to. Remus was awake when they walked in, his eyes sleepy in a way that informed Sirius he'd just woken up.

"Hey guys." He said in a scratchy voice that normally would be a turn on for Sirius. Leo smiled at him and took a seat in one of the chairs by his bed, Logan sat in his lap tucking his head under his boyfriends chin while Finn took a spot in front of their chair, his back against Leo's legs.

Dumo sat in the chair on the opposite side if the bed and grabbed Remus's hand before letting go.

Sirius sat on the bed next to Remus, careful of his bruises and stitches. Remus just put his arm around Sirius and cuddled closer. Sirius shivered when Remus's cold skin met his.

"You're warm." Remus said with a sigh and Sirius pulled him closer trying his best to warm him up.

"You feeling any better?" Logan asked from his spot of Leo's lap. Remus nodded, smiling fondly at the three of them.

"I'm okay just a little cold. Did you get them to check you?" He asked and furrowed his eyes when Logan snuggled closer to Leo without answering. "Check what?" Finn asked looking between Logan and Remus.

"Nothing I'm fine." Logan said, his face sufficiently hidden in Leo. Sirius felt Remus huff. "C'est de la merde, prends une couverture." Remus tried to take a blanket off but his fingers were shaking so Sirius took it for him and handed it to Logan who shook his head.

"No. You need it more Loops I'm fine." Remus rolled his eyes and adjusted his head on Sirius's chest. "It's my fault you were out there for so long, just take the blanket."

Logan sighed but Leo took the blanket and dropped it over him, tightening his arms around his cold boyfriend.

"Who did this?" Sirius asked softly, kissing Remus's brown curls. He rested his face there, breathing in the comforting smell. Remus fell silent, his body tensing as his arms tightening around Sirius.

"You can't freak out baby." He said and then added to the rest of the room. "None of you, specifically you Finn because you'll get Logan worked up too." They all nodded, listening to Remus intently. Sirius felt Remus let out a breath against him and his hand found Sirius's.

"I was getting the stuff together and it only took an hour and so I was on my way home and I was walking cause it was nice outside, as I'm sure you all know I love cold weather, and they cornered me. He just, they just punched me a lot a-and they hit my face with their skates. I'm okay though." He added quickly when Sirius let out a low sound.

Sirius took a few calming breaths as he realized who it was that hurt his boy. "They left after a while, he said that it he couldn't get me to stop playing he could break us up." He whispered as he lifted his head and turned to look at Sirius.

Sirius gave him a confused look and held him closer. "How the hell does he think he can do that? Il n'est rien, tu es tout pour moi." Remus laughed sadly and rested his forehead against Sirius's.

"He thought that if he left scars all over my face you would leave me. He thought you'd think me weak. Je l'ai fait aussi pendant une minute." He added softly, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see Sirius.

"Re, no. I would never, mon loup. Tu es belle tu as toujours été et tu le seras toujours. He can't change that." Sirius said fiercely. "I love you for you, how you look is just a plus." He adds trying to lighten the mood slightly, it worked and Remus let out a wet laugh.

Sirius wiped the tears off his face before looking at the cubs. Leo had tears falling silently down his face as he subconsciously hugged Logan closer to his body as his hands found Finn.

Finn was positively fuming, which as Remus had predicted was affecting Logan too. Logan had been relatively calm albeit sad but now he had his fists clenched and he was shaking, this time it was evident anger.

Sirius gave Dumo a pointed look and Dumo nodded slightly as he walked over to the boys. "Alright, Finn you need to calm down, Logan you do too. You'll set Remus off again and inadvertently Sirius too if you keep it up." Logan swallowed thickly and nodded, clutching Leo's hand. Leo bent down and whispered in his ear as he rubbing his thumb comfortingly over Logan's knuckles.

Finn stood up abruptly. "I'm going to go cool off for a second." He mumbled storming out of the room. Leo and Logan watched him go with troubled expressions. "You can go after him, it's all right." Remus said softly.

The two of them hesitated before nodding and going after Finn. Leo hesitated again at the door. "The team will want to see you, is that okay?" Remus laughed and nodded and Leo turned to follow his boyfriends.

Dumo stood up and hugged Remus carefully. "I'm glad you're okay Loops and I'm sorry for what happened. I'll give you two a minute before you get bombarded." He winked before he left and Sirius and Remus laughed.

Sirius adjusted them so he was sitting up and Remus was tucked under his arm, his head resting on Sirius's chest while Sirius rested his chin on Remus's head.

"You okay?" Remus asked after a minute of comfortable silence, Sirius couldn't help the incredulous laugh that escaped him. "You're in a hospital bed with stitches and hypothermia and you're asking me if I'm okay?"

Remus laughed as he playing with Sirius's fingers. "I guess when you put it that way it sounds funny but I know it made you worry all day so I'm sorry." Sirius frowned and lifted Remus's chin with his finger so their eyes met.

"Don't apologize for this, any of this. None of this was your fault in the slightest." He said sternly, trying to get the point across. Remus smiled at him and brought Sirius closer so their lips could meet.

"I love you so much." Remus whispered against his lips and Sirius smiled into the kiss. "I love you too mon loup."

They broke apart as eight people stumbled in. Lily was by Remus's side in seconds, her eyes rimmed in red. "Re," she cut off when he voice wobbled.

Remus held out a hand and Lily clasped it in both of hers. "Oh god Re, everyone was so worried and we couldn't get a hold of you." Lily broke off again and squeezed his hand helplessly.

Remus smiled at her, it was tired but it was there. Sirius had to appreciate his strength to talk to all these people while he was in this state.

"I'm sorry to have worried all of you, but I'm okay. Really." He added when everyone gave him disbelieving looks.

Dumo shook his head while Natalie smiled sadly. "Don't apologize, it's not like you did it on purpose." James said, holding Harry on his hip.

Harry was making grabby hands towards Remus but James was holding him tightly whispering 'not right now' repeatedly. Remus smiled fondly at them.

Kasey and Thomas were bouncing slightly, both being uncharacteristically quiet. Remus cuddled closer to Sirius and smiled at them. "I'm alright I promise. They said I can leave when they get my temperature back up."

Everyone nodded and a tense silence fell over them. "Is everything set for tonight? I was going to go back to finish a few things but I didn't get to it." Remus said, breaking the silence. Leo laughed from where he was standing behind Finn with his arms wrapped loosely in front of Finn's chest.

"Don't worry about that Loops, Moody finished everything. We're leaving at eight tonight if you're out, if not then we're probably going to leave when you get out." Logan said standing next to Dumo, he gave Remus a fond smile.

Remus huffed a laugh. "Y'all don't have to wait for me!" He said chuckling while everyone laughed. "Yeah, like we could get Sirius out of this place before then." Sirius nodded his agreement and Remus laughed, butting Sirius's chin gently.

They all talked and laughed for a while and Sirius just listened, content to have boyfriend in his arms while they were surrounded by their team.

Eventually when everyone left and it was just Remus and Sirius again as they drifted off to sleep.

Sirius was glad he had someone he depended on as much as Remus, even of it caused him stress.

He would choose Remus and the anxiety that came with loving someone so much over a day without anxiety if it meant no Remus in a heartbeat.

[zukkaoru]

shhh i’m not on my phone at work got a second wHAT

35:) ramble to me, babe

35. ramble about any fic-related thing you want

corey this is so vague i don't even know where to begin skjgdfhdj uhhhhh what do i want to ramble about,,

WAIT OKAY I GOT IT

okay so back in like. february i think i did another ask game like this and someone (jo?? maybe???) sent an ask about meta/foreshadowing/hidden references for this ultraviolet morning light and at the time, only the first two(?) chapters were out so i couldn't talk about the foreshadowing, bc it was all leading up to the end of chapter six. but i can talk about it now bc the whole fic is up!!

i'll put it under the cut bc i know it'll be long + spoilers for those who haven't yet read tuvml

fic writer ask game

okay so first. all of the foreshadowing for the drowning scene. maybe i did already have a list of these in my google docs in case anyone every asked, maybe not, i won't say

anyway. i added in water/drowning imagery with zuko specifically in this fic, because of the drowning scene, and especially bc in the atla world, water imagery would generally be used with characters from the water tribes rather than someone from the fire nation. so it wasn't just me liking water-related words and shoving them onto zuko for no reason; it was intentional

chapter one:

- He really can’t think of anything more beautiful than Zuko drenched in moonlight - This is what fire feels like when doused with water. - It burns like fire consuming Sokka’s entire body, like he’s been dunked underwater and the surface has frozen over and his lungs are about to give out, but he’s going to keep hitting the ice anyways like he’s strong enough to break it.

chapter two:

- It washes over his body all at once, like a wave pulling him under the surface of the ocean, until his limbs are numb and tingly and his head sways. He’s completely frozen in place, eyes staring straight ahead but not really seeing anything. - He would’ve rather stood across from Azula in the Agni Kai arena and let her shoot him full of lightning, rather been dropped in the middle of the ocean

chapter three:

- Zuko searches the tumultuous ocean that is his mind for the right words - Zuko was telling them about Azula never quite getting the knack for swimming despite their annual vacations to Ember Island when they were little, and Sokka was so happy.

chapter four:

So he lets the words sink, lets them drown in the knowledge that he no longer has the right to talk to Sokka in the same way he used to.

chapter five:

The moonlight pours over him, drowning him in a soft white glow.

chapter six:

But…my doctors have told me that spending the rest of your life letting yourself drown in guilt isn’t going to help anyone.

also, people picked up on vai being a double agent, but no one picked up on the fact that she was a waterbender, even though i did hint at that too:

- Her brown skin is almost as dark as Sokka’s and her face and arms are covered in freckles. - It reminds Sokka of himself a little; the bright blue eyes of a waterbender but no bending ability to speak of. - How can you get better than a play with dragons, a star-crossed love affair, sun and moon symbolism, and a villain who has a secret past that ties them to the protagonist?

beyond that, there are also a lot of parallels/call backs to previous chapters/foreshadowing to future scenes just in general. the funniest one (and also completely unintentional one) is probably sokka and katara calling each other their least favorite [sibling]

“You’re my least favorite sister,” // You are, and I say this from the bottom of my heart, my least favorite brother ever. chapter 1 // epilogue

but there are. several more. and i'm not sure how many of them people picked up on so i will add them all bc i love them <3

Zuko would get himself arrested, kidnapped, killed, whatever if it would keep Sokka safe. // “I would give my life for [Zuko] without a second thought.” … “But would he do the same for you?” chapter 4 // chapter 6

When Sokka’s hand began to retreat, Zuko had reached forward, grabbed it, and whispered, “Please stay.” // “Don’t leave me.” Sokka says it like a prayer … like he would repeat it until he couldn’t remember anything else if it meant Zuko would keep holding him. “Just… stay.” chapter 5 // chapter 7

So they sit - Sokka and Zuko - on the roof of some abandoned building in the outskirts of the city. // “But now I’m pretty sure we’re just destined to be Sokka and Zuko” chapter 5 // chapter 7

“I just don’t think he’s trustworthy enough for this. … when he proves that he isn’t as reliable as you think - when he proves that he’s only ever going to let you down - I’m going to say I told you so.” // “Zuko is kind, and he is trustworthy and reliable. He’d never purposefully let me down” chapter 3 // chapter 6

this ^ was one i was hoping people would pick up on bc it makes the drowning scene/sokka pleading for vai to not hurt zuko that much angstier, but i'm not sure anyone did so now i'm putting those lines right next to each other so you're all forced to confront the pain <3

Is he still in love with Zuko? Is being in love enough? // But what good is any of that? Love isn’t always enough. // “It doesn’t matter who or where feels like home, it doesn’t matter if we’re in love. When you’re next in line for the throne, love isn’t enough.” chapter 3 // chapter 4 // chapter 6

Zuko warms his other hand on instinct, and apparently it was a good call because Sokka squeezes it tighter and presses closer to Zuko. “I forgot my mittens at home,” // I love you doesn’t always take the shape of those three words. … Sometimes, it’s Have you eaten today? or Don’t forget your mittens again! chapter 1 // chapter 6

this ^ is also one i thought people might pick up on but idk if anyone did or not. but it made me🥺🥺 when i wrote it

[religion tw for the last part]

okay i could leave it there but corey gave me an excuse to ramble and i've made the post this long anyways so one more thing! i explained this to corey a while ago when we were having dinner together but i find it very funny so i'm sharing it with all of you i say like anyone has actually read this far

i accidentally made zuko a Christ Figure in tuvml

"but grace, surely that's not possible," you say. "surely there's no way zuko is a christ figure! there aren't any christian themes in tuvml. you didn't even have anyone try to convince vai to forgive zuko or have anyone convince zuko and sokka that they should forgive vai! how could you have a christ figure in your fic???"

let me set the scene. it's 2019, you're a senior in high school, and you decided to take ap literature for the possibility of college credit. your teacher has this book called how to read literature like a professor that he has his classes read chapters from, and one of those chapters talks about Christ Figures in literature. one of those chapters also talks about baptism symbolism, and mentions how oftentimes, characters who are christ figures will go through a baptism of some sort - being "born again" after a scene where they come out of the water

do you want to know what zuko does in this ultraviolet morning light?

he goes into the water. and then he comes back out.

and do you want to know what i had sokka say about zuko shortly before he took a dive into the baptistry water?

Zuko looks away from him, resigned, like he’s ready to die as atonement.

see. i grew up Christian, i went to church every sunday and i have spent the majority of my life memorizing Bible verses either for awana or bible quizzing and. sometimes i just drop biblical words into my writing sometimes bc they're words i've heard since i was a kid, and they're words i learned make you sound smarter at church. so of course i throw them around while writing. i use them in essays, i use them in poetry, and i use them in fan fiction.

so was i trying to make zuko a christ figure in my fic? absolutely not.

but i had sokka say he looked ready to die as atonement (for the sins of his people), and then i had him go into the water, nearly die, and have to be "brought back to life" by suki's cpr, being "born again" after a "baptism" and

well

accidental christ figure zuko i guess

anyway. this went on for a while and i'm not sure anyone bothered reading all of it which. valid.

thank you corey for letting me ramble skjdgfdjgh i'm not sure this is coherent, nor should it have all been in one post, but whatever

[neerasrealm]

you write poly stuff?? 😏 could I be so bold as to request a three way makeout session with slenjack? bonus points if slender is really worked up and tense or tongue gets involved 😉

YOU'RE HORNY YOU'RE HORNY YOU'RE H O R N Y

deadass this fic reads like the opening to a smut ggghdhs tw for some graphic kissing and a lotta sex jokes

LJ’s room smells of candy, and feels comfy and warm. Maybe it’s the dim lighting and the glowing stickers slapped on his walls and ceiling, or maybe it’s because he’s hugging you close against his soft, plush body and kneading his equally soft lips against yours. His lips taste sweet and sugary, and his boney black hand runs up your back as he kneads against you. Your lips break and his hands grab your hips. Your foreheads touch and he giggles softly.

‘’I luv ya…’’ he murmurs before pecking your lips again. You laugh quietly.

‘’I know you do.’’ you cup his face in your hands and look into his eyes. They’re a very, very pale blue. Almost white. The only speck of colour left on him. They seem to shimmer as he hears you speak. You move in to kiss him again and-

‘’Knock knock knock.’’

LJ turns his head away from you and over to the door. You huff quietly in frustration. Rude, you’re trying to kiss a clown in here. Who the hell thinks they have the right to disturb you?

‘’Hello dear,’’ Slender says as he pokes his head into the room. Nevermind, disturbance forgiven. Slender can interrupt clown kissing sessions whenever he wants. He just has that power. His head moves slightly. ‘’Oh, hello to you too, love.’’ he says, presumably to you. It’s kind of hard to tell with his lack of eyes. He steps into the room. ‘’Mind if I join you two?’’

‘’Nah, we weren’ doin’ anyfin’ impor’an’ anyway.’’

‘’Rude.’’ you murmur back. You were about to pull out your best lines just for him! Jack needs to learn to appreciate a good pickup line when he gets one.

Slender laughs softly as he scoots himself onto the bed next to the two of you. Jack rolls his eyes and grabs him, tugging him over to the two of you. This man has so much dignity that he refuses to crawl on a bed like a normal person. Terrible. Jack’s arms stretch and hug the both of you tight. Really tight- you’re sandwiched between both of them. Not that you’re complaining. You got a face full of clown tiddy. Delightful. Slender’s arms wrap around the both of you and he hums, pleased. You’re squeezed even tighter between the two giant cryptids you call your lovers.

‘’Mmm- guys-’’ you murmur, squirming below them. They pull apart and look down at you. Ah, the joys of being the human in the relationship.

‘’Sorry luv.’’ Jack says with a laugh. Slender reaches down and combs a hand through your hair.

"Sorry dear," Slender murmurs. "I keep forgetting how small you are." He adds with a chuckle.

"I'm not small, I'm human sized." You reply defensively. "We can't all be eight foot tall Eldritch abominations."

Slender laughs more and pats your head. "Of course. I'm sorry."

His hand withdraws and you shift around, sitting against Jack's chest, facing Slender's. "Alright, continue what you two were doing."

Before Slender gets a chance to protest Jack grabs him and yanks him forward, sandwiching you again between the two of them. He knows exactly what your game is LJ leans up, kissing Slender softly. Slender wraps his arms around the both of you, squeezing you in between them. You reach up and unbutton his blazer, then slip your hands under it, caressing his hips and hugging him against you. You lean up and nuzzle your face against his chest, his tie swinging in front of your nose. You smile wide and inhale deeply. He smells like petrichor and the pages of old, worn books. And wine. If Slender wasn’t an eldritch being that (presumably) can’t get intoxicated that’d be concerning. But instead it’s just another aspect of him you love. You open your eyes and look up at the two of them. Despite Slender’s lack of mouth, the two of them move against each other almost in sync. Jack tilts his head a bit, deepening the kiss and pressing against him more. It's- less of a kiss and more Slender getting his face eaten by a clown. You still love the sight though. Seeing them being so passionate with one another is one of your favorite things. You love them, and they love you as well as each other, and you couldn’t be more thankful.

‘’Mmh...Slen,’’ Jack pulls away from the kiss ‘’Ya feel tense. Ya okay?’’

‘’Hm?’’ Slender’s hand slides down your back as he looks at Jack. ‘’No, I’m okay. A little tired I suppose but-’’

‘’A li’le?’’ Jack gives him a suspicious look. ‘’When’s th’ last time ye blew off any steam? Er tried ta relax?’’

‘’Well...I took Slendra to the park the other day.’’

‘’Tha’ wuz five days ago.’’

‘’Well- how about when the three of us watched a movie together?’’

‘’That was last week.’’ you pipe up. Jack gives Slender a dissatisfied look. You move away from Slender and give him the sternest look you can. He looks away from you both nervously.

‘’Maybe I’ve been working a tad hard- but it’s nothing, honestly.’’ he murmurs. Jack glares at him.

"Ya ‘ave ta be careful wiv yerself, Slen…" he murmurs. Slender sighs.

‘’I’m sorry, love…’’ he murmurs. Jack pecks a kiss onto his face again.

"It's fine." He murmurs. ‘’We’ll jus’ ‘ave ta make ya relax.’’ he adds with a grin. Slender blushes. You pat his chest because well- it's the only thing you can do. He moves a bit, giving you more wiggle room. You lean up and drape your arms over Slender's shoulders, resting them directly on top of Jack's. You close the gap between the two of you and kiss his mouth- er- where his mouth should be. He leans against you, tilting his head as if he had lips for you to work with. You hear Jack chuckle gently behind you. His head rests on your shoulder, grinning lazily as he watches the two of you. His arms move a bit, and you assume he’s rubbing circles into Slender’s back. You pull away from Slender for a moment and catch LJ’s eye. A smirk curls up your face and you lean into Slender again. You kiss him gently, making him melt into you, and then slowly...you slip out your tongue and lick where his mouth would be.

You’re abruptly shoved away while Slender makes a series of loud clicking noises that you definitely weren't expecting from him. He coughs, clearing his throat and looks away from you both. His face is flushed a dark grey. It’s silent for a few moments before you hear raspy laughing next to you. LJ chuckles, softly at first, and then louder until it’s full blown wheezing and cackling. You fight a smile, then let out a soft laugh, and then chuckles, until eventually you’re howling with laughter over- well, nothing really that funny. Jack hugs you tight, cackling into your shoulder while you wipe at tears.

‘’It’s not that funny.’’ Slender mutters. The two of you wheeze together.

‘’I’ kinda is.’’ Jack wheezes out. ‘’Ye go’ so flustered ye star’ed speakin’ fae-’’ He adds before breaking into chuckles again. You grin. So that’s what that was.

‘’Damn I’m better than I thought.’’ you murmur. Jack wheezes beside you, burying his face in your shoulder.

‘’Aw fock I love ye.’’ he wheezes out. You grin wider. Slender makes a ‘hmph’ noise and frowns.

‘’Neither of you can ever behave yourselves, can you?’’ he grumbles.

‘’You like it when we misbehave.’’ you reply with a wink. He flushes a darker colour and glares at you before looking away again. He folds his arms and makes another couple of quiet clicking noises. You glance at Jack for a translation. He shrugs at you and sits up, looking at Slender.

‘’So...do I ge’ ta lick ya too or-’’

‘’Yes but I’m going to hate every second of it.’’ Jack snickers and leans in to him. His grey tongue flicks out and licks where Slender’s mouth should be. Slender’s face scrunches up in disgust and Jack pulls away. ‘’Disgusting, thank you.’’

Jack laughs and leans in again, kissing Slender. You wind your arms around Slender and kiss along his jawline. He lets out a quiet, pleased sigh at the joint attention. Jack’s hand combs through your hair. You lean down a bit, pecking kisses down Slender’s neck. Carefully, you reach up and loosen his tie. Slender inhales sharply. You know him too well at this point; he gets especially flustered about his tie being touched, for some unknown reason. You loosen it just enough to undo the top button of his shirt and lean in, peppering kisses on the newly exposed skin. You hear a couple more clicking noises, followed by Jack making a gravelly hum.

And then you hear it.

The sound of ripping flesh, right above you. Your eyes widen in horror at the unexpected noise. Slowly, you cast your eyes up and stare in shock.

Sitting above you, you see Jack panting, his eyes closed and Slender...you shiver involuntarily as you stare up at him. His face is ripped open, exposing a jagged hole that forms a mouth. His true mouth. Hanging out of it is a long, black tongue. You stare in shocked horror. His mouth- his true mouth, is something you’ve only seen twice before. Once when you walked into his office without knocking, and the other when he actually sat you down and tried to calmly show you it. You don’t want to admit it, but the image of Slender’s mouth, especially his tongue, has haunted you ever since. So actually seeing it up close and personal...is certainly an experience. Your stomach lurches and you swallow as you stare at Slender, who slowly looks down at you. His tongue quickly retracts back into his mouth.

‘’Sorry dear.’’ he murmurs. His voice is deeper with his true mouth exposed, and his voice seems to swarm around you, seeping directly into your skull. It’s accompanied by a slight ringing noise, like a second voice mimicking him. His mouth closes, the skin of his face melding back together like nothing happened. ‘’I didn’t mean to scare you-’’

‘’No no it’s okay!’’ you cut in quickly. Slender recoils slightly. You gulp. ‘’I know Jack is used to it- right?’’ you look over your shoulder at your other boyfriend. He nods. ‘’So I can get used to it too- and it doesn’t really scare me much! I just- wasn’t ready-’’

Slender fiddles with his hands. ‘’I don’t want to scare you off- I-I know it’s a lot and you’re a human and you’re so fragile and-’’

‘’Slen.’’ he’s interrupted by Jack, who reaches up and caresses his face. ‘’It’s alrigh’...ye’re no’ g’nna. y/n’s g’nna luv ya no ma’er wha’.’’ his voice is soft and loving. Just by listening to him you can hear over a century’s worth of trust of love. Slender relaxes. He looks over at you, not saying a word.

‘’I’m not scared.’’ you say gently. Very slowly, you lean in to Slender, gripping his shoulders gently. His hands brush against your hips as you close the gap between the two of you. You kiss him again, lips gently brushing against smooth face. Jack’s arms wrap around the both of you, his hands running up Slender’s back and rubbing circles into it. You pause for a moment and gently run your tongue against where his mouth was previously. You hear the quiet noise of flesh ripping again, then feel a meek, black tongue brush against your lips. You tilt your head and open your mouth for him. Slender’s tongue slides into your mouth and quickly begins to explore. It runs along your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, the top of your mouth- everywhere. You don’t fight against him, you want him comfortable, and melt against the kiss. Slender’s hand reaches up and cups your face, tilting you up against him. You groan into the kiss. Any and all anxieties you had previously have melted away. Now the only thing you’re focused on is the feeling of his tongue in your mouth.

Much to your disappointment, he moves away, leaving you gasping for air. While you’re catching your breath Jack leans in and kisses Slender. It’s only fair he gets his turn, you suppose. You lean against Jack again. Your breathing is shaky, and you feel adrenaline rushing through you. Before you're able to fully compose yourself however, Jack's hand cups your face and pushes it over towards his. Your lips meet unexpectedly and you shiver. His tongue drags along your lips and you open your mouth for him.

Jack's tongue is much thicker than Slender's, and much rougher. Slender's tongue was gentle, curious, but Jack? Jack is well acquainted with your mouth by now. You push your own tongue against his, fighting against him. He grabs the underside of your face, forcibly holding you in place as your tongues wrestle. He's far too forceful and you know you don't have much of a chance against him. You moan against him and he pulls away, a string of saliva hanging between you two. Gross.

Jack's face scrunches up in disgust. "...didja 'ave fish fer lunch?"

"Yes?"

"Bleh." He shakes his head at you disapprovingly and reaches into his sleeve, pulling out some strawberry flavored candies. "Ere, eat these will ye?"

You glare at him. "Rude." You mutter as you take the candies. You eat them only because they taste nice and definitely not because you want more clown kisses. He snickers.

"This is what I lived with for over a century." Slender says with the most deadpan expression a faceless man can give. You laugh. Jack leans in again and gives you a quick kiss, his tongue running around your mouth only for a couple moments.

"Alrigh' we're good."

"At least take me to dinner first." You mutter. Jack wheezes again and, surprisingly, Slender chuckles. You watch him shrug off his suit jacket and neatly fold it up beside him. Jack leans into you.

"Th' jackets comin' off, ya fink we're ge'in' i' tonigh'?" He whispers before receiving a light slap from one of Slender's tendrils. He lets out a small yelp of surprise and rubs at his cheek where he was slapped. "Wha' wuz tha' fer?!"

"For not getting your mind out of the gutter." Slender replies, removing his tie. You chuckle. Slender's tendrils reach over and grab you both. You're set down gently in Slender's lap, his hands gently holding you by the shoulder and back, while Jack is plopped down behind Slender.

"Wha're we doin' now?" Jack's head rests on top of Slender's shoulder while his striped arms curl around his body, hands running down his white shirt curiously.

"I'm going to relax with my two partners, and we're going to stop making sexual remarks about one another."

"No promises." Jack chuckles back.

A tendril curls up and pushes your chin, tilting your head up. Your mouths meet again, and you hear the ripping once more. It's less scary now that you know what it's leading to.

His tongue carefully slips into your mouth, running along your teeth and your own tongue. You push gently against him, taking in the feeling of him. His tongue is thin and smooth, and slides curiously around your mouth. He tastes of wine and something sweet. You can't identify what it is but the flavor is almost intoxicating.

His tongue curls and wraps around yours, constricting it almost like a snake. You shudder and melt into him, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. His tongue unwinds and instead slowly slides to the back of your mouth. His tongue slides down your throat and you shudder violently, your body convulsing from the overwhelment of the situation.

Involuntarily, you moan against him and his tongue withdraws from your throat. He pulls away from you, breathing gently. "Are you okay dear?" You breath deeply for a few moments, trying to remember what planet you're on before giving a slight nod. "Was that too much?"

"It-" you glance aside. "It...was a lot…but I think I'm okay." You smile up at Slender and Jack, who's peeking over his shoulder at you. He smirks a bit.

"Ye don't 'alf know 'ow ta trea' some'ne, do ya china pla'e?"

Slender turns to him. "Oh shush. You'll get your turn." He murmurs before turning back to you. He leans in again and peppers gentle kisses along your face and down your neck. You feel his tongue against your throat, making you shiver again and let out a small sigh of pleasure. He moves up again and gently holds your face in his hands. His forehead presses against yours and he feels deliciously warm against you. The smell of petrichor envelops you again, this time accomplished by the smell of flowers, probably from Jack.

"I love you." He breathes. His voice seems to fill your skull, making your thoughts hazy and dumb. You relax into him, letting his warmth envelop you.

"I love you too…" you murmur to him. "Both of you."

Slender's hand gently runs down your back and you hear him clicking again. And although you don't speak fae, something tells you they're sweet, affectionate nothings.

[belit0]

The Beginning of the End

Chapter 1

This is a project I have, where I want to develop two of my most important OCS, Indra’s children. Since Kishimoto did not give us anything about how this beautiful man created the Uchiha clan, I made my own version of the events, and here I come to show you! Plus I’ll add a third OC of mine, Indra’s wife (I did not feel like a [x reader] situation was fitting for this fic)✨🖤

Rating: E

Pairing: [Otsutsuki Indra / FEM OC]

TW: probably tons of them, but I don’t just yet

Thanks a lot to the amazing @art-blocked-gremlin for giving this two boys life!! Check out Art’s blog!!✨🖤🧙🏻‍♀️

Kuro (left) and Hikari (right). Indra’s twins!

An explosion was what woke both brothers up in the middle of the night. The room was lit up with an intense red color, from the flames that swept across the night sky from one moment to the next. The twins sat up in their beds, but their reactions were incredibly different.

Hikari was stunned as he had never witnessed such a display apart from the demonstrations of his father and mother as they both trained with murderous intent and skills.

“Why are mum and dad training at this hour, Kuro?”

The other brother, however, was aware of the facts that preceded those flames.

Kuro was always the closest to Indra, trying to follow each of his steps and imitating all of his attitudes perfectly. Both twins were arduously instructed from an early age by their father in the art of Ninjutsu, turning them into two young prodigies. But Hikari maintained his innocence intact, which his brother did not, and that distinguished them completely from each other despite being almost equal physically.

The twin who was closest to Indra developed a special and unique bond with him, sharing moments with him that his brother did not experience. Hikari, on the other hand, was always more likely to bond with his mother, and gain power from a less aggressive yet tactical point of view, without getting his hands too dirty.

It was during one of the moments alone with his father that Kuro heard the story of an extremely evil man, who had been pursuing his father with a thirst for revenge for years. This evil man, as told by Indra, tries to kill him and his family, after betraying him when they were teenagers. He will do everything to see him suffer, torture his children and wife in front of his eyes, and kill him slowly.

That day, this twin found out that their father trains them from a young age with such ferocity so that they will be able to defend themselves if one day the evil man finds them. After hearing Indra’s words that day, Kuro understood that it was his duty to protect his brother’s innocence at all costs, and that if the occasion ever arose, it would be his duty to get rid of the evil man.

At the age of 8, Kuro knows that those flame-leagues dancing outside the window do not belong to a mom-and-pop training session. Kuro knows that the evil man came to get them, and that things got ugly.

Before they can act or move, both twins hear hurried footsteps outside their room, and look intently at the door. After a few seconds, it opens, revealing an Indra dressed in his shiny, heavy armor, with two crossed swords on his back and his hair down. Both children know that seeing their father in this appearance means that a dangerous confrontation is approaching, for that protection they see on his shoulders, chest and back has been kept unused for years, as have his blades.

“Dad? Where’s Mommy?”

Hikari does not want to believe that their peaceful life is threatened, and that his father was forced into his war position again.

“My sons, come here.”

Quickly obeying the demand, both twins move into Indra’s arms, to be lifted in the air a second later. With his two children in his grip, the Ōtsutsuki uses his teleportation technique, and soon the corridor of the house is illuminated by a blue flash, while the three of them disappear.

One second later, they appear considerably away from the house where the pair of children have been raised, in the middle of a forest. Indra places his heirs on the floor, and holds them both by the shoulders, kneeling on the floor to stare into their eyes.

“Children, eyes.”

Understanding the request, the twins activate their Sharingan, and with increasing anxiety they wait for more words to understand the situation.

“Kuro… Hikari… I need you to be strong… Time is short, and your father has to take care of something urgent… My sons, my young boys. You are both warriors, you both carry my eyes, and this will guide both of you today and forever…”

“B-Bu-ut d-da-ad where’s mommy?!”

“She’s fighting Hikari… your mother is the strongest woman, and both of you must hide until we come and get you… Can you do it for us? Can you hold on together until mother and father defeat the evil man, Kuro?”

“Yes, Dad, we can… But… please… don’t… don’t leave us alone.”

"We wont ever leave you alone… you are my legacy, you are the black flames that run through my veins… Dad will always find you, I promise to return for you.”

Holding each child behind their head, Indra drew them into a hug, where he ran his arms behind their little backs.

“Be the strong ones, remember the power of your eyes… you, my two young boys, are my very soul, protect each other”.

“Yes dad.”

Both twins answered in unison.

By separating them from his embrace, Indra wiped away Hikari’s tears with bitterness, those his son was trying to hide from his eyes to look strong in front of him. He himself knew that if he kept saying goodbye to his children, he was capable of reaching the edge of sentimentality. Those kids were the cause of his soft side, a side that he never considered possible to have after the things he had lived through.

Bee had softened him up quite a bit, but the birth of his twins and their existence was something that brought unexpected happiness to the life of the Ōtsutsuki, something that washed away much of the accumulated meanness of years to give way to a light that he hardly remembered anymore.

“Go and hide, wait for us, go!”

And so both brothers ran in the middle of the night through the forest. Barefoot and wearing their bedding, they held hands, and dodged every tree and bush thanks to their Sharingan’s vision. Neither of them knew where they were going, but with his father’s words etched in his mind, Kuro guided Hikari as far as possible from the explosions heard in the distance.

Suddenly, the lattest stopped, and placing his hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath. As the two breathed in agitation, a huge violet light shone on the horizon, along with an orange flash. The flashes of both colours constantly flickered as if colliding with each other in the air.

“Come on Hikari we have to keep moving!”

Kuro rushed his brother by the wrist, panicking at the terrifying display that danced across the sky. If one of those lights belonged to their father, he didn’t know, for Indra never wanted to share much of his past with his children beyond the story he told one of them.

They returned to the trail, trying hard to find a place to take refuge until their parents could come for them. Neither of them knew the true story of what was happening, and the only thing the children had at that moment was each other. Their hands were tightly intertwined, sharing the feelings of anxiety and panic through their union.

Eventually they found a cave, shallow and hidden among some trees. Sitting together, interlocking their arms and leaning their backs against the cold rock, they both shivered and closed their eyes, hoping that it would all be over soon, hoping to hear the voices of their parents sometime before it was too late.

“Kuro… I’m scared…”

“Nonsense, Hikari… mom and dad are the strongest people on earth… on the planet… on whatever comes next…”

“But… but… what if there’s someone just like them?”

“…”

“We never saw daddy fight… What if he’s not as strong as we thought, brother? What if…”

“ENOUGH ALREADY.”

“Kuro…”

“You’re insulting our father… he must have reasons why he doesn’t want us to see all his skills… Do you really think he can only use the Katon he uses when he trains with mom?”

“But…”

“They are both much stronger than we know! They will murder the evil man and come looking for us soon!”

“It’s okay to admit that you’re scared too, elder brother.”

“I’m not… What did you call me?”

“Elder brother… you are taking care of me like one would take care of one’s younger brother…”

“It’s okay to admit that I’m five minutes older than you, younger brother.”

“Shut it, fool… I wonder if dad had any brothers… We know mom didn’t, but what about father Kuro?”

“If he had any brothers we’d know about it. You know he had always been alone until he had mom and us. Why are you wondering?”

“I don’t know… we just don’t know anything about his life. Aren’t you curious?”

“I tell you what, when they come looking for us, we’ll ask him anything we want about when he was a kid. Deal?”

“Deal!”

Both twins laughed in the middle of the night, ignoring for a second the tragic scenario that lurked outside their safe bubble.

Suddenly, a disembodied voice spoke from somewhere in the cave, and the two children huddled together, for that sound was certainly not coming from either their mother or father.

“I can attest that Indra had a younger brother… I can tell you the whole story if you want, children.”

A chill ran through Kuro’s body, and by his side he felt Hikari shaking uncontrollably.

“W-WHO ARE YOU?! WHERE IS OUR FATHER?!”

With the Sharingan activated, the twin scanned the darkness, looking for the source of sound, the threat. Suddenly he found a man, tall and dressed in a white coat.

“Papa, papa, is that them? Is that them?”

The voice of a third child echoed in the cave, and both twins were stunned. Where did a child come from and why was he asking for them?

“Yes, son, they are your cousins.”

“NONSENSE, WHERE ARE OUR PARENTS?! SPEAK UP BEFORE I KILL YOU.”

“ Certainly you are my elder brother’s sons, I have no doubt about that. I would expect nothing less from Indra’s kids.”

“ ANSWER ME!”

Kuro was beginning to lose his patience, and with him, Hikari was growing more and more courageous in the face of the stranger’s evasive responses. They couldn’t be afraid of such a situation, their father had trained them to deal with such things, and they had to live up to their knowledge.

It was the boy who claimed to be their cousin who spoke first.

“Papa, are you going to tell them that their mum and dad are dead?”

The boy tried to whisper it, but in the silence of the cave, the words reached the twins’ ears easily.

Hikari turned pale in his place, dropping his arms and staring at the ground as his mouth and eyes opened wide.

Kuro tensed, all his little muscles contracted, his eyes fixed on the stranger in front of them, and he took a fighting stance. It was he who continued to speak.

“NO, DON’T LIE TO US, OUR PARENTS DIDN’T DIE NO!”

“Children I… I’m sorry…”

The stranger looked down at the ground and hugged his alleged son.

“NO, NO, NO, LIES, LIES, LIES!”

“You will come with me and- ”

At that moment, something inside the twins’ minds broke. Their hearts exploded into a thousand pieces, and their lives became blackened without warning. Hikari looked up, staring at the stranger as his brother was doing. The two children glared at their enemy with intensity, pain and agony in their red eyes.

A thick drop of blood slipped from the right eye of both of them.

An unknown and terrifying pattern was drawn in the eyes of Indra’s sons, who mourned the death of their parents by unlocking new powers.

In a second, the cave burned in black flames, which were born of Kuro’s will.

In a second, both twins were covered by a grey skeleton surrounded by matching chakra, born of Hikari’s will.

-To be continued-

[shealynn88]

Fic Writer Questions

Tagged by @fandom-hoarder .  Thanks so much!

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

121

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

257,052 (over 20 years)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Yuletide is responsible for most of the one-offs, my main fandoms are Supernatural and Veronica Mars.  Otherwise, I’ve written for Angel, Blade, Bones, Buffy, Constantine, Daddy Long Legs, Dancing With the Stars, Dead Like Me, Dexter, Elektra, Firefly, Friday Night Lights, Good Omens, Grimm, Haven, Heroes, Sherlock, Teen Wolf, The Chronicles of Riddick, The Fault in Our Stars, The Guardian, Travelers, Tru Calling, Venom, iZombie

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Bottle of Red (Venom (Movie 2018)) (2060 words) - Anything Venom is way more popular than any of my other stuff.  You Venom fans are THIRSTY.  And I love you for it.  :D The Little Death (Teen Wolf (TV)) (3058 words) - TW fans, ALSO thirsty, and I love YOU for it.  I’m still not 100% with the characterization here, but I think it’s def. closer. The Light Will Guide You Home (Supernatural) (4622 words)  Destiel - I’m really proud of this one - AU, tentacle creature Cas with feels, and it’s what got me into the original  works anthology I’m in--Add Magic to Taste, with Duck Prints Press! What the Mark Demands (Supernatural) (1305 words)  Wincest - one of my favorites, honestly.  Pure smut, but there are feels.   Paved With Good Intentions (Supernatural) (2837 words) Wincest - Soulless Sam still gives me happy chills, okay?

More questions answered below!

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try to.  Sometimes I’m overwhelmed and I don’t, but I always, always, always treasure them!!

6) What’s the fic you’ve writtenb with the angstiest ending?

When Living is Another Kind of Dying (Supernatural/Heroes crossover)(767 words) - I love this one.  It’s super old, I wrote it on LiveJournal.  But it’s solid, it imagines a world where Dean goes to avenge Sam and gives Peter That Scar.

7) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

I mean, a huge number of my fics end happy.  But I’ll say this because it’s also based on happy, sexy art and that’s awesome:

Adulting 101 (Supernatural) (2988 words) DCJ - A sweet AU where Dean meets Jimmy in Sioux Falls and then meets Cas and doesn’t know what to do...until he does.

8) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I think they’re all sort of equally crazy, probably?  Here, have most of them:

Playing Dice in the Dark (Supernatural/Good Omens)(2927 words) Destiel - Dean and Cas are Crowley and Aziraphale.  Follow them through the ages.  There is some dark, torturey stuff handled in a lighter, Pratchett-y way.

Phoenix Out of Blood (Supernatural/Heroes) (7583 words) Gen - early season Sam and Dean meet 5 Years Later version of Claire Bennett and they go on the run.  A lot of feels, historical Dean/Jo, honestly an underappreciated fic.  :)

Of Squints and Vampires (Angel/Bones) (2653 words) Gen - a very old one and not fantastic, but still fun.  A demon gets shipped to the Jeffersonian.  I did this for a doppleganger group a million years ago.

Drown Out the Clamor of Silence (Buffy/Tru Calling) (2681 words) Harrison/Faith - I loved this one, so dark and weird!  Harrison meets a girl who looks like his sister but isn’t, and it ends up being both traumatic and healing, somehow.  Another one for the doppleganger group.

9) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Ah, yes.  I wrote my first dark Wincest, full of non-con on both sides (demon!Dean), and people had massive issues with my tagging of who topped and who bottomed, which I found hilarious since it was rape, all the way down, but apparently who puts what into who was the main source of anger.  I don’t tag for topping and bottoming anymore.  

10) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

So. Much. So much smut.  I don’t know what kind?  the smutty kind?  Usually with feels?

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nah, I’m not that big.

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Once!  It was a Veronica Mars fic, five million years ago. 

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

I can’t.  I just can’t.  There are too many.  Spuffy, Weever, Destiel, Wincest...anything trust based and a little fucked up is right up my alley.

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Grimm Series - I started this, and loved it, but I lost track of the series.  It was going to be fairy tale based, Juliette/Renaud and Nick/Monroe endgame.  I love the beginning of it.  Maybe I’ll get back to it, it was so fun, and honestly, pretty darn good.

16) What are your writing strengths?

I write a good sentence.  I think I have good flow and good characterization for the most part.  I’m solid when it comes to smut.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Plot.  All the way, I’m terrible at plot and not great at pacing.  BUT, I’m actively trying to improve and I think I am!

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Depending on the situation, either type it in the other language and have the response show what it meant, or type it in italics and then ‘he said in Russian’ or whatever.  Is it right?  I dunno.  I don’t do it very often.

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

I wrote fanfic for a high school assignment for Farenheit 451, which I’m fairly certain was brilliant, and then the first time I knew what fanfic was and did it on purpose, it was for the TV show, Witchblade.  It was so long ago, I think I posted it on a forum and I don’t know where it is anymore.  

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Can one choose a child?  Gah.  There are so many, honestly.  If you get this far and want a rec, I’ll rec you one based on your interests, just send me an ask.

[bloody-wonder]

what are your top five andreil moments?

first of all how dare you

now i have to choose only five?!?!??!

well that’s impossible

and i haven’t re-read aftg since winter so i’ve probably forgotten a lot of andreil moments but i guess i’ll just write down those which stayed with me

(honorable mentions to their first meeting - it was very cute)

5 when andrew touched neil’s back after the first riko roast at kathy’s show

neil has just roasted the ever living shit out of riko on live tv and stood up for kevin when andrew couldn’t, so this i interpret both as a sign of gratitude and as andrew losing control of his hands for a moment bcs when neil’s being feisty it makes andrew wanna touch him :) this is in book one when they have no deal or anything yet, no rules, no excuses to touch and though andrew still touches neil a lot it’s usually in an ironic, mocking, maybe even vaguely threatening way. this one touch on the back however wasn’t mocking nor threatening. this was just andrew’s hand acting against his will, and he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to laugh it off. also when they get back to palmetto andrew offers neil a deal so this moment right here must be the one where andrew, consciously or not, decides - i like this one so much i have to keep him.

4 the dialogue in wymack’s apartment when neil throws “better luck next time” back at andrew

i’ve written about it already here https://bloody-wonder.tumblr.com/post/628157705054470144/hi-wanna-make-a-post-about-andreil-and-the

3  “and i am nothing. and as you’ve always said you want nothing”

do i even need to explain? if you listen very carefully you can hear the sound of andrew regretting his choices

btw andrew didn’t ask yes or no bcs contrary to what all the fics would have you believe he doesn’t ask it every time before kissing

2 “the only one i’m interested in is you”

aka the ultimate proof neil is demi. this is such a calm before the storm moment cause it’s on their road to baltimore: during the bus ride they’ve been talking for several hours, telling each other about their lives, specifically bcs andrew challenged neil to talk about something other than exy. neil realizes he likes andrew’s eyes and finally tells us what color they are. then andrew wants to know if neil’s gay to which neil says that no andrew’s the only person he’s attracted to. andrew acts like he’s having none of it ofc but i like to think that deep down he feels both flattered and honored. this is all so soft and fluffy but the next thing we know neil’s gonna get kidnapped.

1 “you’re a pipe dream”

yeah yeah i know i’m a basic bitch

but like? can i even put it into words? well i’ll try

first of all - pipe dream has three levels of meaning. firstly as a hallucination induced by drugs which seems to be the meaning andrew and neil are using in this dialogue. secondly as an unattainable goal, an impossible pursuit which is what andrew really wants to say. and thirdly, etymologically the idiom “pipe dream” comes from the fantasies experienced when smoking an opium pipe - so on the purely visual level andrew saying “pipe dream” evokes the image of smoke that corresponds with how they both are smoking. i always imagine him saying that line while blowing smoke bcs Drama and Aesthetics. 

and THIS people call “bad writing”! THIS!!

anyway

the dialogue before the line itself is also very powerful. it’s where neil tells andrew that he cares for him and it all rings so true bcs it happens after neil, being a martyr that he is, basically sacrificed himself to riko for the chance of saving andrew - which means that his words aren’t hollow bcs they are only there to explain the deeds. neil’s line “if i had the chance to stop it but did nothing how could i ever face you again? how could i live with myself” has inspired another one of my unusual interpretations which is this: 

(TW cause i talk about proust)

i doubt very much that when neil agreed to riko’s terms he really believed that riko would keep his end of the deal and call proust off which means andrew would suffer either way regardless of whether neil would go to evermore and suffer too. so the choice was not between saving andrew or doing nothing, it was between andrew being the only one who would suffer or neil suffering as well. so from rational point of view there isn’t any reason to add more casualties to those which will happen either way. but neil’s reason is that if andrew must go to the dark place, he mustn’t go alone, he mustn’t be alone in his suffering. so in the end, neil couldn’t save andrew and he didn’t but what he could do and did is stand by him. bcs if he hadn’t done this pointless irrational martyr grand gesture, he wouldn’t be able to face andrew ever again or live with himself. and i can only imagine what andrew must have felt when neil was telling him all of this, when andrew realized that neil went to the dark place as well and did it for him. 

which must have prompted him to say something as raw and poetic as “you’re a pipe dream” = “you’re too good to be true”

tl;dr i don’t know why people want them to say ily so much when this dialogue exists and is already way better then some overused cliched phrase

[bigskydreaming]

So just out of curiosity, what inspired the whole Beacon Bay idea? What kind of sharks and dolphins are they? This entire thing is very intriguing to me and I can't wait to see more.

So first off, anyone who’s ever played soundingboard to my original stuff like Moukie or Adam can attest to the fact that I’m ocean obsessed, so there’s pretty much nothing I’m interested in that isn’t a mere two or three steps removed from an ocean/merfolk/sea witch AU in my head. Gimme anything and like, five minutes, and I can make it ocean themed. Space operas included. I grew up near the ocean, been surfing for ages though of course I haven’t in years, blah, but like. I’m a big fan of the deep blue sea. Its just....neat. ghaskfhalkfhla

So I’ve always had a bunch of ocean-set concepts. This particular AU came about from like, smashing a couple of them together to preserve them when my plans for doing original stuff with them fizzled out, at least for the time being. Cuz the other thing about me is the way some people like, take their fanfic and file off the serial numbers to turn it into original novels, I more often do the reverse, lmao. When I have something I can no longer do something with original-content-wise, for whatever reason, but I still like the idea, I turn it into fanfic so I can still play around with it whenever I want and like, have purpose to that, so I don’t feel like I’m wasting time by still ‘indulging’ in that concept or whatever.

Like my Batfandom fic By Lost Ways, as I’ve mentioned before....that actually started out as an original high fantasy novel set in my ‘Tales of the Citadel’ shared universe. BUT the setting ended up being similar enough to a sci-fi project I wanted I to move forward with, ‘Waveriders’ (the one with the sky pirates and the ATLA-style benders only instead of evoking the four classical elements, waveriders could each ‘hack’ a different kind of wavelength, that one) like....basically, the projects FELT similar enough in setting and various superficial elements that I started to feel derivative of myself moving forward with both, so I picked Waveriders and then recycled the setting and a lot of the plot of the sky-set fantasy novel for fanfic, just for fun.

Same thing here, though Beacon Bay is basically the mash-up of two different shelved original projects. Basically, its the plot of a CW-style show about teen sirens and the sea witch making like the Fagin to their Oliver Twists, from a pilot I wrote years ago.....it got some interest but I refused to make it less gay because lol have you met me, so it ultimately never went anywhere but I still liked the plot. 

And then remember the werewolf books I mentioned awhile back, that had the mongoose shifters in them? LOL. Yeah, so I’d written two and a half novels in that series and had this whole expansive worldbuilding of twelve different shifter clans each with their own innate magic, patron deity/creator, etc, but all my agent and editor contacts at the time were like yeah sorry, shifters are over for now, and I was like wow, can’t believe cancel culture’s real and publishing cancelled werewolves, wtf, rude, and then I was like eh, still wanna play in this universe especially with the dolphins and shark shifters which I never even really got to in those books, so I’m just gonna air-lift them out of that and drop them smack in the middle of my CW siren plot and fanfic away to my heart’s content and call that ‘being productive’ when I feel like it.

Anyway, found family was a big theme of those books and the world-building I did there in general, because again, have you met me, I’m not predictable or anything (shhh, the word is consistent), and one of my initial things there was I wanted the various shifter types to all have innate magic, because for literally no real reason that I can discern other than Whimsy, I have always been Team Werewolf in vampires vs werewolves, and I was tired of werewolves always being by default the underdogs in those narratives. Even if that does make for a good pun.

SO, I wanted to come up with werewolf magic that felt natural and organic to werewolves, like nothing too flashy or obscure, but that would make them a legitimate threat even to other supernatural creatures. And I made it so each of the shifter types were granted an active and a passive magic by the god that created their type of shifter, and with werewolves, their active magic was that of the pack gestalt. I took the idea of ‘their whole is greater than the sum of their parts’ that TW kinda briefly touched on when presenting (but never really doing much with) the idea that the more wolves in a pack, the stronger that pack was.....and I decided okay what if being part of a pack upped stats all across the board AND all shifters have a SLIGHT innate resistance to magic, being innately magical beings themselves? 

So a werewolf pack, with enough pack members, would thus not only be formidable in strength, speed, senses and speed of healing....but compound that innate shifter resistance to magic, which in a single shifter is negligible, like, just enough to make them slightly harder to track with magic or curse or whatever.....but in a whole werewolf pack, that adds up to make the pack effectively immune to foreign magic. Vampires can’t compel them, demons can’t possess them, witches can’t curse them, etc. So a lone werewolf, not part of a pack, is formidable, but nothing another supernatural being can’t take on. But a lone werewolf who IS part of a pack....different story entirely, because now most other supernatural beings, no matter what their USUAL strengths, are reduced to taking on that werewolf hand to hand, as their own supernatural gifts or spells or whatever, like, aren’t gonna do them any good against these particular foes. And werewolves are USED to fighting with just brute physical strength and attributes, which gives them the edge against opponents who are more used to being able to fall back on magic in battle.

But as much as I like sticking to a theme, I like to diversify that theme where possible, so when it came to the other shifter types, I wanted to similarly come up with ways where ‘the whole would be greater than the sum of their parts’ but in like, entirely different ways.

So with dolphin shifters, their ‘passive magic’ (in quotes cuz that’s not quite the right word for it but whatever) is that they’re all empaths, with their more active magic being weather manipulation. Their empathy is a two-way street....they project emotions as well as just feel other peoples’, which ties into the fact that their patron deity was Dionysus. Dolphin parties....legendary. But in an extremely wild, dangerous and Bacchanalian kinda way. In terms of Beacon Bay specifically, this is a bit of a problem for the BB dolphins, as the closest thing they had to an official Triton (the dolphin shifter version of an Alpha) was Peter, but they were like nope, not loving this guy, and kinda drove him out of town in the AU S1 backstory of this ‘verse, which means Scott and the others are kinda just making it up as they go along, and don’t really know the ins and outs of BEING dolphin shifters. (Derek is....elsewhere, in this. Mostly). 

So bottom line is they have reputations around school for being loud obnoxious goofs and trouble-makers, constantly playing hooky and such, but its because they don’t really know HOW to safeguard against spilling their emotions onto everyone around them so they try and err on the side of being the life of the party whenever possible, as that’s better than the alternatives in their opinion. And when they’re just having bad days and bumming hard, the whole pod will just skip school and glomp around the bumming pod member whilst self-caring, rather than like, accidentally bum out the entire school.

But their weather manipulation magic is where the gestalt idea comes into play with them, as I love weather manipulating powers, but I didn’t want to make them all Ororo Munroe, y’know? Only Ororo Munroe can be Ororo Munroe. Don’t make me scoff. I’ll do it. I’ll scoff so hard. SO I went with the idea of weather control married to manipulating storms via song and was like, okay what if a dolphin pod is like, a symphony of shifters. 

Basically, its like each individual dolphin shifter is a single voice in a chorus, and there’s magical equivalents of being a baritone, an alto, etc. Like, none of them can whip up a storm on their own. Its more that each of them can summon or conjure a PIECE of a storm with their song, with it being different for each of them....symptomatic of their magic as an expression of them as an individual. So for instance, Scott’s song is ‘tuned’ to lightning. He can call down a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky.....but he can’t summon so much as a drop of rain to save his life. Literally. Its an actual plot point at one point. Whereas Isaac’s song is all about calling down rain, Boyd’s is more of an arctic wind, and Erica’s kinda summons a pressure front that in harmony with the two of theirs can whip up a mean waterspout. And then Corey’s all about conjuring fog banks with low visibility while Liam can whistle up a strong, gale-force wind but sucks at using his song as a precision instrument. Etc, etc. But the real magic is when they all use their voices and magic in concert....as a group, they can summon huge magical thunderstorms.

Also, one thing I love about using different kinds of shifters is the opportunity to explore enhanced supernatural senses that aren’t just keen sight, smell or hearing. So the dolphin shifters aren’t like wolf shifters in being able to detect chemosignals or anything like that....in fact, their sense of smell isn’t much different from anyone else’s. But they do have an ability to use what’s effectively supernatural echolocation even above water, and their sight is adapted for optimal viewing underwater, making them particularly good at seeing in the darkness even on land. 

(Also, related but somewhat tangential to both the shifter senses and dolphin ‘voices’....all dolphin shifters have a strong talent for mimicry, but this isn’t technically a form of magic, more just a combination of their control over their voice and their keen senses of pitch, etc).

The shark shifters, on the other hand, have some of the keenest senses of all shifters. Not only is their sense of smell even better than a werewolf’s, they’re sensitive to changes in pressure, for one thing. Which means on land, they can even feel changes in atmospheric pressure.....so like, the shark shifters of Beacon Bay could be in math class and then ‘feel’ a sudden drop in air pressure and thus even before some strange weather phenomenon occurs, they’re groaning like ugh fucking A, what the hell did the damn dolphins do now.

Also, their magnetic field perception is such that they can kinda ‘sense’ when people are around, just by being aware of the approaching magnetic field of another living being.

And then with the sharks, I was looking for ways to lean into the associations we have with sharks and blood, but subvert them to be less macabre and more communal. And another big theme of mine in general is like, I am DETERMINED to go to my grave shouting at the top of my lungs “Its THE BLOOD OF THE COVENANT IS THICKER THAN THE WATER OF THE WOMB, NOT BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER, HOW DID PEOPLE GET THAT SO BACKWARDS ITS SUPPOSED TO BE THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF HOW ITS USUALLY STATED!”

Like, that’s just...HUGE pet peeve of mine. Its like nails on a chalkboard, lmfao, that drives me nuts. That phrase is usually cited by people using it to express like, the idea that there’s no greater force than family, specifically BIOLOGICAL, ‘blood’ relations, but its literally meant to be the exact opposite, that the blood of CHOSEN bonds, of covenants, of vows or promises, is a greater force than the water of the womb, ie being born of the same womb, as in biological siblings. The entire point of the phrase is biology ain’t shit, family is what we choose. And somehow it got turned ENTIRELY around.

(Note: Okay, so for the record, its not ‘somehow’, there’s actually a very clear reason for why that particular interpretation gained so much momentum, and that’s because for a long time it was conflated with an old German proverb from like a thousand years ago that basically translates to “kin-blood is not spoiled by water.” Which basically was meant to mean that nothing can ‘dilute’ blood relations, not time, not distance, not water. So that phrase DOES correspond to the idea that ‘blood is thicker than water.’ Problem is, there isn’t a direct trace from that particular proverb TO most USAGES of ‘blood is thicker than water,’ which when you throw in the OTHER phrase, which in its entirety is “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” what you end up with is a lot of people SAYING that one when they actually MEAN to say ‘kin-blood is not spoiled by water’ and that’s where the meanings get switched. But I fucking digress. Per usual).

Anyway. So combine that particular pet peeve with my found family fixation AND the fact that this is about magic and magic means I can do whatever the hell I want, fuck your biological connections mwahahaha.....I decided to base shark magic on the idea of the blood-ties of family....but CHOSEN blood-ties, as in blood of the covenant ties.

What I mean is okay, so it first of all just made sense to me to have shark shifter communities be heavily focused around adoption, because like....let’s be real, shark shifters going around biting people to change them into shifters, and then people magically healing from....shark bites....was going to attract a lot more attention than people turning after being attacked by other types of shifters. Not to mention the fact that not only are shark attacks always big news, part of why they’re big news is because they’re actually pretty rare.

So, shark shifter communities were never really gonna propagate via lots of random shark shifter attacks turning people. So the way they DO expand and grow is by, well, family. Both biological AND adoption...as well as of course shark shifter communities taking in people who ARE attacked by rogue shark shifters, when that does happen. 

But bottom line is, there’s an additional element in play in shark shifter communities, beyond just the gene pool....and that’s like, a magical tidepool of talents, let’s call it. Because I do love me some alliteration. But also tidepool of talents is just a cool phrase, IMO.

Anyway, the main part of shark shifter magic, and how THEIR whole is greater than the sum of their parts, is that any shark shifter can draw upon or channel the talents, skillsets or knowledge of anyone else in their communal family. And whenever that family gets added to, the talents, skillsets and knowledge of the new addition gets added to the pot, so to speak. So shark shifters are kinda all like Rogue, if Rogue’s focus was less on the superpowers of other people and more on things like Beast’s scientific knowledge, Cyclops’ strategic skills or Cable’s weapons expertise.

And then their ‘passive magic’ is a form of psychometry whenever they come into contact with blood. By touching even just a drop of someone’s blood, they can get a vision of how that blood was spilled or even get a sense of where the person who spilled it is now.

As to the types of sharks and dolphins they all are, for that I went with the thing about the shape you take reflects the person you are.....all the shifters here are full shifters, and there’s no genetic component to their shifting, its purely magical, so like....just because Peter turned the various dolphins of BB doesn’t mean they all turn into the same kind of dolphin he was. In fact, I don’t even know what kind of dolphin he was on account of I don’t really care tbh, lol. Whereas Erica’s an Atlantic spotted dolphin, Liam’s a pygmy killer whale which looks like an orca just tiny in comparison and is actually a dolphin, and I found that combination of factors hilarious, etc, etc.

Same thing with the shark shifters. Even among biological relations, there’s a ton of variety of shark types. Like the twins aren’t even the same type...Ethan’s a blue shark and Aiden’s a bull shark, Tracy’s a tiger shark and Hayden’s an angel shark. Danny’s actually a throwback to an unnamed prehistoric shark, not Megalodon big but big enough to shut up Jackson when he goes on about being a great white shark. Shark and crocodile shifters are the two oldest shifter clans, old enough that literal dinosaurs fall under the umbrella of their shifter type, and thus occasionally show up even in modern generations.

[kidneys4karev]

Jolex depression fic pls

My first jolex prompt... and my first jolex fic. I had so much fun writing this?

Talk me Down

TW - depression, past abuse

That night she dreams in shades of blue. It's the lone coloured wall from her room in the facility, far nicer than the hospital's inpatient rooms. Temporary holds didn't need pretty walls and childrens stickers, or the soft toys Jo pinched between her hands to avoid the alternative of the target being her own arms. Temporary holds were just it- temporary, which couldn't be said for the facility, where the walls were blue or yellow or pink and abstract paintings started to move if you stared at them for too long. Where people were stuck, and Jo was stuck.

But the facility was supposed to make people better, and for the most part, it had. Her meds had evened out, the ones she'd take in the morning with a blue gatorade for the energy that sleeping five hours couldn't get her. Therapy helped too, as little as she wanted to admit it- Jo wasn't exactly the kind of person to ask for or even allude to needing help. She hadn't needed people before, and God, it had taken a lot of deprogramming to remind her that now she had a whole damn village.

She was getting better. Back at work, holding steady, Jo was getting better.

And yet when she wakes up from her dreams of faded blue walls and abstract paintings, Jo knows that it's back. 

There's a heaviness set deep in her bones, an aching that irradiating from everywhere and nowhere. It's a vice, her own ribcage a weapon turned against her, tightening around her lungs until she's suffocated slowly. Her own husband would later find her blue in bed if she couldn't draw in proper breaths, but Jo knows that's not the case, because the way she's drowning is nothing she can touch or stop or fix in the safety of the OR in her dark blue scrubs. It's a mental battle with physical symptoms and God, Jo's tired of it.

Really, Jo's just tired.

Her alarm rings throughout the loft, invasive and far too loud, each beep ringing in her ears. She lets it go on anyway, despite how grating the noise is to hear. 

One Minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

No one comes to turn it off, so she concludes that Alex's out, at the store, getting coffee, sorting something out. Knowing him and Meredith, one of them's probably having some sort of crisis over an early bottle of tequila. Either she's having boyfriend troubles and called him, or he's having issues and called her. He probably had issues with her- maybe already knows what kind of day it is. What kind of week it is.

When the beeping becomes more unbearable than the act of moving to turn it off, she rolls over and shuts it down.

Hazily, she thinks the time reads 5:30.

-

This time she dreams in indigo, a darker colour than the facility walls, rather the blue that landed her there in the first place. Paul's face lurks in the shadows, and she's there too with her arms painted violet and blue and a nasty shade of yellow. Most of that time she's blocked out, violent memories stored at the back of her mind where she won't have to face them until her next therapy session. Still, that's years of moments she's been robbed of, negative ones or not- it's her life and her trauma and her brain denied her the right to see it.

Still, she remembers fragments last night. The murky in between where he'd take her out for dinner and grip her too tightly when she'd laugh at another man's jokes. It's moments like those, peaceful on the surface, threatening underneath, that are usually lost on her. It's the safety she felt buying her first ever house at 34 Cherry Lane, and the fear she felt the first night he turned her home into a crime scene.

She wakes from the indigo to Alex coming home, the usually faulty lock clicking behind him. He's seen her still in bed and she knows it, despite her closed eyes and quiet prayers that he'll leave her alone.

But, unfortunately, in Jo's current opinion, Alex is a far better husband than that.

She can hear his footsteps slowly make their way over to her, stopping a few feet from the bed.

"Jo, it's nearly 7. C'mon." His voice is calm and steady, but Jo knows him far better than that to believe it. He's hoping she'll reply, a muttered 'five more minutes' or at least a pillow shucked at his face. He can only hope for that, laziness and sleepiness and mild irritation, because Alex knows what the alternative is.

She hums under her breath instead, something she hoped would somehow translate to 'leave me alone'. Judging by the silence, the abrupt halting of footsteps and all, Jo assumes that Alex got the message. He's seen this far too many times not to recognise it for what it is.

"Alright. You need anything?" Again, he's trying to sound casual, but it's all a poorly built facade. Alex worries, always has, always will, and it's evident by the sharp intake of breath. Despite that, she can't even bring herself to reply- luckily, her husband seemed to catch on.

"You want to talk about it?" He asks. Again, Jo doesn't respond.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Nothing.

He exhales slowly, likely nods to himself, knowing him, but she can't exactly confirm with her eyes closed. It doesn't matter anyway- she can't think about her husband's feelings without a pang of guilt, and she really can't deal with that on top of the fog.

“I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything,” he adds, though he must know by now that it’s futile. She won't call and they both know it, but who would Alex be if he didn't try, right?

“I love you?” She knows what he’s doing, trying to provoke a response, but to her it sounded more like a question than a statement. Like he was asking if he loved her, doubting it at any sign of distress. Jo didn’t blame him- she wasn’t so fond of herself either.

It's only when the door clicks shut, cool breeze reaching Jo from the briefly open front door, that she distantly wishes she'd just spoken to him. About the facility walls and the paintings and the new memories of indigo and violet and unstable houses, but she didn't and she won't, no matter how much she knows it'll make things feel better. She doesn't tell Alex because the horrors of 34 Cherry Lane died with Paul, and Jo thinks that secrets are best kept behind blue lips.

-

He comes home early.

Time passes both agonisingly slowly and all at once in a state like hers, where the hours seem to drag on endlessly one moment, and yet the time between Alex leaving and returning seems painfully short. Disorientated, it isn’t until she sees the time that she realises he’s only been at the hospital for 13 hours, and that despite the occasional stumble to the bathroom, she’s been asleep for that long too.

Whatever- she closes her eyes and tries to fall back into her slumber, made impossible by the sound of Alex crashing about in the kitchen. Whatever he was doing, Jo didn’t know, nor care, just willing him to shut up or leave or cease to exist for a fleeting moment, just enough to return to somewhere where she doesn’t have to feel for a while.

She pulls the pillow over her ear and shoves her head into the mattress to block it out.

For the most part, it worked, though it was unclear whether the sound was properly muffled or just that Alex got the message. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but almost as quickly as she’d fallen asleep, her husband was shaking her awake again.

“You need to drink something,” he said, his voice soft, as it had been that morning. “You haven’t eaten or drank anything today, and you need your meds. C’mon.” His tone, though gentle, clearly left no room for arguments, one hand holding out a couple, small pills, the other with a plastic cup clutched in it. She exhaled slowly, propping herself up on an elbow, taking the pills from him. She washes them down with the milkshake, mildly dazed, nearly dropping the cup in the process. It’s good, something chocolatey, and it tastes damn better than the crap the hospital cafeteria offered. Still, she only drinks half of what Alex required, pushing it and him away simultaneously.

“How’re you feeling?” He asked, clearly concerned.

Jo answered him by passing out.

-

He takes four days off of work, and though she didn’t ask him to, she knew there wasn’t any room for discussion. Part of her was glad for the company, relieved that she wouldn’t be as alone in that apartment as she felt, had someone to ground her, but mostly she was pissed off. His presence was testing her patience, despite knowing he meant well, only wanted to keep her safe and make sure that she was okay, so instead of snapping at him, she opted to ignore him. She fell into a routine in those days- wake up, stumble to the bathroom,  take her meds, drink half a milkshake, sleep, repeat. He was stressed, she was tired, but it worked nonetheless.

When he has to go back to work, he sends Link, and God, she resents him for that even more. Link’s her best friend, but he doesn’t get this like Alex does, hasn’t seen her like this before. He tries his best, bless, makes stupid little comments about the TV or himself or Amelia or Alex, tries to make her smile, usually to no avail. Still, she lets him be, puts him through uncomfortably long silences that he no doubt hates more than she does, and likely scares him half to death when he finally goes home. Alex is at a loss and she knows it, but she can’t bring herself to care.

On day eight, Alex makes her crappy box macaroni, the stuff she practically lived on in highschool, still enjoyed far too much to be healthy. She manages the entire box, spread out over two sittings, making him reheat it the second time, and could’ve sworn that she’s never seen him look so happy over two dollar macaroni. The next day, she eats that and crappy takeout for dinner, watching old cartoons on the couch. On day ten, she doesn’t do any of it.

On day eleven, she watches Upstream Color on her TV just to have something to watch. She doesn’t half understand it, doubts she would on any other day, let alone one where her brain struggles to catch up to her feelings. Despite the confusion, she finds it pretty, albeit a little pointless- arctic blue seeps into her dreams, the colour of the hospital sheets that night her kidney nearly ruptures. It was starting to seem that everytime Jo closed her eyes, she was back there, replaying one horrific night after the other, with her husband- her good husband, the one who would never lay a hand on her, she had to remind herself- unable to do more than watch helplessly. Despite that, she wakes on the couch to Alex’s indigo blanket draped over her and can’t help but crack the tiniest of smiles.

-

It takes one week, four days and twelve hours for Jo to recover enough to have a conversation with him. By this time, their blue, bruised eyes have faded slightly, back to their surgeon-standard tiredness. Alex, though worried, has learned to stop watching her all night, and Jo’s slept so much that she’s not quite sure she can physically sleep anymore.

That night she theaters between her world and his, curled up on the couch with her black and white cartoons looped on the TV. This time there’s no vodka in her system, and her laughter’s not wild enough to convince her best friend she’s manic or broken or lost, but it’s enough to draw him from the bed to the couch.

He’s looking down at her, wrapping in the indigo blanket she’d claimed as her own somewhere along the way. It was his, originally, something she’d clutched and wrapped around her for months now, insisting it was nicer than anything she owned, acting like it wasn’t the way it smelled just like him. Sometimes when he was away, or on long, drawn-out shifts, she’d wrap it around her shoulders and pretend like it was him, or on the nights where she missed him dearly, but couldn’t stand to accept his arms.

Tonight, it was just a comfort, something she’d just picked up out of habit. Come to think of it, she was pretty sure that Alex had left it on the couch for her, considering that definitely wasn’t where it had been that morning.

She glanced up at him, knowing he was hesitant to sit down, to bother her before she was ready, wondering whether to push her or leave her alone. She made the call, patting the couch beside her, moving over to make room for him to sit down. Instantly, she moved to the side, leaning against him until her head was on his lap, his hands finding their way to her hair. Slowly, without prompting, he started to braid her hair- she had no idea where that idea had come from, but it wasn’t as though she was going to stop him. It felt nice, despite that fact that her hair was probably gross and greasy from her severe lack of showers.

“You feeling any better?” He asked eventually, breaking their comfortable silence. He’d been itching to ask her, and she couldn’t exactly fault him for it, despite how much it irritated her. She hummed in response, eyes still trained on the TV.

“Yeah,” she breathed. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling, brown, blue-circled eyes lighting up at the simple prospect of his wife getting better. 

“That’s good,” he replied, trying to sound encouraging. That too irritated the crap out of her, but God, she wasn’t going to ruin the mood now- ruin his mood.

They lapsed into another silence, and despite that resolution, she couldn’t help but overthink. Should she be apologising? Her therapist has explicitly told her not to, that it was out of her control, something she couldn’t help and shouldn’t be held accountable for, but Jo wasn’t so sure about that. When delivering bad news, surgeons still apologised, were still held to a fault for not being about to save the life of whoever’s care they were charged with. This was still a drain on Alex’s life, whether it was down to her or not (which part of her was still convinced it was).

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, eyes fixed straight ahead, scared to look behind her and make eye contact, “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“Jo, this is exactly what I signed up for,” he insisted, his hair-braiding coming to an abrupt halt. “You said this might happen again, we knew that. I knew that. But when I married you, I made a vow. In sickness and in health. That hasn’t changed, Jo. It won’t change.”

She turned her head, eyes meeting with his. God, it was so obvious how tired he was, despite the improvement in sleep. Tired mentally, just like her- maybe not the way she was, but that didn’t change that fact that she’d been a shell of a person these past few days, and that had to have taken some sort of toll on him. However, she could also tell how Goddamn sincere he was- he meant every word he was saying, and that had never been more clear to her.

“For better or for worse,” she added quietly, the corners of her mouth turning up into the slightest of smiles. That set Alex off, who’s face morphed instantly from a frown to the brightest of grins. If Jo didn’t know any better, she’d have thought he’d received some sort of promotion, rather than a stupid smile, but of course, that didn’t matter to him. A victory was a victory, no matter how big or small it was.

“I love you,” he said, his voice soft in a way she knew was reserved for her and her alone. Even when they were just friends, best friends, the way he spoke and acted around her was always different than with everyone else, in a way that made her feel loved rather than lied to or singled out. For the first time a man knew how to love her, and how to show her that he loved her.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

[thanks--for--listening]

In my darkness I remember

as promised, part one of my two part dinahxhelena fic! tw for panic attacks and slight blood mention. also on ao3. ( @sinand-misery )

~

A lesson: nothing is ever easy, even when it should be.

Helena heard the voice in her head as she thought about the fight. Ten to three. Outnumbered, but not outmatched. Night sky around them, full moon above them. Open space — nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Fighting was as much about math as it was about muscle and skill, but men like these were all brute strength and unhinged rage, no finesse, no technique. The odds favored the wrong group.

The first problem was small. Her crossbow jammed just as she was about to take out goon number two. Grunting, she tossed it aside, let her combat training take over. 

A lesson: rely on nothing but your own two hands. As a child, she’d questioned why she needed to know how to fight if she could kill her enemies with her bow before they got close enough to hurt her; now she was grateful for the beating she’d received for asking, for the training that followed. She was prepared. She could handle them without it. They, however, didn’t seem to know that. 

The sound of her crossbow hitting the floor must have given the impression that she was a sitting duck, and suddenly instead of three men coming at her, she had five. With her bow, five was still manageable, but without it...her arrogance wasn’t so strong that she couldn’t admit that was pushing it, even for her. It was why part of her was relieved when Dinah came over. 

A lesson: never lose your concentration during a fight. She couldn’t remember how often she’d been reminded, the amount of times she’d hit the ground and heard him yell focus, child. The enemy would never play fair. Any moment could be the last, so she must never let her guard down, never get trapped in the belief that she was invincible. She knew, yet she found the memory slipping away when she fought with Dinah. Alone they were each a force to be reckoned with, but side by side, their strengths playing off each other? They were electric. They seemed to dance around the men in front of them, Dinah bringing a rhythm to her fighting that Helena easily followed. They took down one, two, three, four men without hesitation, and Helena found it difficult to notice anything but the woman beside her and the men on the ground beneath them.

A lesson: always make sure you know where everyone is in a fight. 

It was staring at the men they’d defeated that made her remember. As Dinah fought the fifth, Helena scanned the parking lot. All the strength and skill in the world wouldn’t help her without strategy. She’d learned the hard way what happened when you lost count, when you let one of your enemies slip your mind. So she hesitated, let Dinah finish the last guy as she saw four men on the floor, two down where Dinah had been earlier, one down and one about to go down by Renee. She counted again, then one more time, before swearing to herself and turning around. 

She spotted him right as the knife flew out of his hands. She didn’t need to do the math to know where it was heading, didn’t wait for her heart to drop to the pit of her stomach before turning toward Dinah, reaching her right before she could finish off the guy in front of her. Helena felt the knife place itself in her back right beneath her shoulder, sliding into a spot just beside her spine. It sent shivers through her whole body, and she couldn’t stop a cry from escaping as she tried to force her legs to stay standing. She grabbed a knife of her own and threw it backwards, the thud of a body hitting the ground telling her she found her target.

Her hands were on Dinah’s shoulders, and she knew that without her there, she likely would have collapsed already. Her eyes were closed, and she was trying to tell them to open, to make sure that Dinah had beaten the last guy and that Renee was still alright, but her body wouldn’t let her, and so she stood there with her eyes squeezed shut, now the sitting duck they’d thought she was. She felt a trail of blood make its way down to the small of her back, the sensation so unsettling she felt herself shiver again, her whole body shaking in a way that made her feel all too fragile. Her breaths were too labored, and with every one she silently begged: open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes. 

Her body didn’t listen, not until she felt the hands on her face. She watched Dinah come into focus, felt the warmth of her palms as she cupped her cheeks. She stared at her, and she usually knew what everyone around her was feeling, but right now her face looked like it was written in a different language. Dinah never felt anything quietly, but this one was uniquely strong, and Helena was so caught up in it that she almost didn’t notice the army walking toward them. 

What had been empty space was now filled with cars, groups of men unloading out of them endlessly. Dinah glanced at them, then turned back to her, a new but equally foreign expression on her face. She placed her hands on Helena’s, and it was only when she brought them up to her ears that she understood. 

Before she could protest, she turned around and screamed. Dinah’s screams weren’t something you heard, they were something you felt, and she could feel it now, the earth vibrating around them. It paralyzed her, kept her standing when she could barely feel her feet beneath her. Maybe it was the fatigue, or the blood loss, but Helena thought everything was bigger. She was louder, higher, stronger than the few times she’d used it before, and she wasn’t stopping, even as the men dropped and stayed down, even when no one was left standing but them. She screamed and screamed and screamed, her voice a cacophony, a symphony, a brutal combination of strength and beauty and horror and pain. 

The end seemed to echo like the last note of an opera, the vibrato visible as it made its way across the parking lot. Helena watched as Dinah began to drop, and before her body could lunge forward she saw Renee already there, ready to catch her. 

“You alright there, Huntress?” She asked, but as she looked up she must have seen the knife, and maybe it was worse than Helena thought because her face went white. “Oh, fuck.” Helena wanted to tell her she was fine, but all she could see was Dinah on the ground. Dinah unconscious. Dinah not moving. 

“She usually wakes up,” she whispered, and she wanted to look at Renee, a voice from a lifetime ago whispering that it was rude to not look someone in the eye when you were talking to them, but her eyes were glued and her body was still. “She should be waking up now.”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Renee mumbled, and Helena finally forced herself to rip her eyes away from Dinah because the words she just heard didn’t make any sense. When she did, she saw that Renee wasn’t looking at her anymore. She’d brought her phone up to her ear and was staring at the street behind them, waiting in anticipation before whoever was on the other line had even picked up. “Quinn,” she said, “we got a situation.”

— 

“Lay her down on the couch,” Harley commanded as they walked into the warehouse Helena now called home. She watched as Renee and Harley made their way across the room. Harley had shown up in five minutes in Dinah’s car, an irony that Helena was desperate to remember for when the woman in their arms woke up. 

“She should be awake by now,” Helena said again. She’d lost track over how many times she’d mentioned it during the ride here, but it was as if her brain had short-circuited and it was the only thing she could think, the only thing she could say. 

“I’ve seen this before,” Renee huffed as they put Dinah down. “I think she blew her powers out.”

Helena didn’t know what to make of the words, so she kept her mouth shut. A hundred questions drowned in the pain from both the knife in her back and the sight of Dinah lying lifeless on the couch. She felt the urge to reach back, to yank it out and solve one of her problems, but Harley seemed to read her mind, because she was in front of her in an instant. 

“I know I’m a genius, but I gotta say that a broken Canary is a liiiiiitle out of my wheelhouse.”

“She’s not broken,” Helena whispered, but Harley acted like she didn’t hear her. 

“You, on the other hand, I can fix.” She started trying to walk Helena toward the table they’d designated for medical purposes, but the idea of being farther away from Dinah was more distressing than the knife. 

“What happened before?” She called out to Renee, Harley literally dragging her toward the table. “How long did it take for her to wake up?”

“I’m not sure,” Renee said, but she sounded far away, farther than she should. “And it wasn’t Dinah who I saw blow her powers out.”

Before she could process Renee’s comment, she felt a pinch in her arm. Instinctively she reached for it, but Harley was faster, caught her wrist before she could grab the needle she saw in Harley’s other hand.

“What did you do?” Her tongue felt heavy as she spoke, and when Harley led her onto the table she found that she couldn’t resist it. 

“Sorry, Princess.” Harkey’s words sounded blurry, and as her eyes shut she vaguely heard her add, “You’ll thank me later.”

— 

Even with the sedation, the dreams didn’t relent. It started with a memory, one that was only a week old. The house had been quiet all day except for Dinah, who walked around singing a melody under her breath as they waited for night to fall. Helena didn’t mean to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. There was something so beautiful about the way she always let herself accompany the silence. Helena disappeared in it, but Dinah wove herself into the noiselessness until the two managed to coexist, despite the apparent contradiction. She froze when Dinah noticed her watching, but all she did was smile. 

She’d asked what the song was, a desperate attempt to avoid having to explain why she couldn’t take her eyes off her, and Dinah had smiled more, had grabbed her speaker and her phone and then Helena’s hand. She dragged her to the center of the house, told her she had to lie down and close her eyes to truly appreciate it. Helena complied instantly, shocked herself with her own willingness to put herself in a vulnerable position simply because Dinah asked her to. Before she could interrogate that realization, Dinah pressed play, and Helena was pretty sure she stopped breathing for the next four minutes. It felt rude, somehow, to do anything that would possibly interrupt the man singing through the speakers. The song was so gentle, so soothing, that with her eyes closed she could almost imagine herself floating, lying in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by nothing but water, not afraid but at peace.

She felt Dinah lay down next to her, felt their arms brush up against one another, and she hoped Dinah had her eyes shut too because she could feel the heat on her cheeks. When the song ended she looked over and saw Dinah still lying on the floor with her eyes closed, a smile lingering on her lips. 

When she did open her eyes, Helena expected her to act the way she had in that moment — gush about the song, send her a link to it, tell her to try listening to it when she couldn’t sleep. Instead, this Dinah opened her mouth and screamed. Her face shifted from relaxed to horrified, and Helena felt as if her body was being torn apart. As the sound waves hit her, one after the other after the other, she felt rather than heard the words: Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

Helena woke up angry. 

She discovered that she was on the med table, that she was lying on her stomach and that someone had put a pillow underneath her head. Her back throbbed as she sat up but she ignored it, her eyes already searching for the couch. 

She saw her the minute Renee walked into the room. 

“Has she woken up yet?” She asked in lieu of any sort of greeting. 

“Hey, easy there,” Renee ignored her question as she walked over. She went to help, but Helena waved her off as she put her feet on the ground and waited for the dizziness to pass. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Renee sighed, which was answer enough, although she still said, “No, she hasn’t.”

“What time is it? How long was I out?”

“It’s been about twelve hours. You just missed breakfast.”

“It’s morning?” She turned toward the window, just now noticing the sunlight shining through. 

“Yeah, whatever Quinn gave you really knocked you out. If you woke up before she got back, she said to tell you to, and I quote, ‘calm the fuck down and eat a bagel before you pass out.’” 

“Where is she?” Helena asked as Renee handed her said bagel. 

“Apparently our breakfast selection wasn’t up to Her Majesty's standards.”

“She can’t leave,” Helena’s voice was frantic and she could feel her rage rising. “What happens if Dinah wakes up? She’s supposed to know what to do, she—“

“Woah, woah, it’s okay,” Renee said, and Helena desperately wanted to shake off the hand that now rested on her shoulder but the pain in her back stopped her. “Harley already looked at her and said her vitals are fine. She’s just...knocked out. Recharging. All we can do is wait.”

Helena just shook her head, forced her lips together and wouldn’t let them separate. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to be any further away from Dinah than she already was, but she knew this feeling all too well, and no one deserved to be on the other side of her when she got like this. Instead she stormed off, ignoring Renee’s protests as she made her way downstairs. 

—

She lost count almost immediately. The sound of her fist hitting the bag in front of her became white noise, her movements so repetitive she stopped feeling the pressure against her wrists. She could still feel the skin on her knuckles breaking, made sure she didn’t go numb to that pain as each punch hit its target, her gloves discarded on the floor behind her. Her eyes were open but all she saw was her mistakes, each moment a lesson she should have learned by now. Catching a knife in the back: a lesson. Dinah screaming even though she knew she hated screaming: a lesson. Dinah going down and staying down: a lesson. Everything that had gone wrong could have been avoided if she wasn’t so—

“If you tear your stitches, I’m not giving you any anesthesia when I redo them.” Helena stopped for just a second when she heard Harley’s voice, before picking up again. She could feel the throbbing in her back as she punched but she welcomed the pain, let it remind her of her failures, of the ways she let everyone down and—“

“Hey. Princess.” The name made her stop again, look back at Harley. “Seriously, that’s gonna hurt like a bitch if you keep trying to kill the punching bag.”

“Good. I deserve it,” she huffed, noticing for the first time how out of breath she was. “And don’t call me that.”

“Well, there’s certainly a lot to unpack here,” Harley said as she jumped onto a stack of mats against the wall, her feet dangling above the floor. “Which should we address first?”

“Leave me alone, Harley.” She started punching again, each swing more ferocious than the one before it.

“Ooh, so I get to pick?” She was back on her feet, wandering their training area as if it was literally impossible for her to sit still. “As much as I would love to dig into the family trauma directly, I think I’m gonna have to start with ‘ruining all of Harley’s hard work because I can’t process my emotions without violence’.”

“Harley, I mean it.”

“I mean it, too. Do you think being in pain is going to somehow change the fact that Dinah’s unconscious?” Helena could feel the rage bubbling deep in her gut, and she tried to breathe through it but it was a flame inside her, and every breath only gave it more life. 

“It’s my fault,” she managed to say, and her words were quiet but she knew Harley heard her. “I deserve it.”

“What’s your fault? Do you blame yourself because Dinah went full Canary? Because that’s kinda her signature move. Ties in with the whole bird metaphor pretty nicely.” 

“She doesn’t like it!” she said, louder than she meant to, and her hands were flying, railing into the bag in front of her with no sense of pace or purpose, and she knew it wasn’t safe but she couldn’t stop. “She did it for me and she doesn’t like doing it.”

“Do you want her to have done it for you?” Harley’s question hit her like the knife in her back, and every word after only twisted it more. “Does the fact that she’d put herself in harm's way for you make you feel all warm inside?”

“Harley,” She warned, the tension in her body tightening like a rubber band waiting to snap. She knew she was taunting her, but she also knew it was working. 

“Or maybe, watching Dinah collapse and not wake up brought back some memories you’d rather forget about the last time people you love fell down and didn’t get back up. Maybe it is about the family trauma after all.”

“STOP IT!” She hit the bag in front of her, and this time the pain was blinding. She fell to her knees, barely registering her impact with the floor as she reached back for the wound she was confident was now bleeding. 

She saw the shoes first, looked up to see Harley standing above her. She slowly sat down, waited until they were at eye level with each other, before quietly asking her, “Feel any better?”

Helena didn’t have enough resolve left to lie. “No.”

“That’s because you’re acting like you’re angry. But you’re not angry. Not really.”

“What,” She panted, “would you call this, then?”

Harley put a hand on her shoulder, and again Helena wanted to shove her off but again she lacked the strength. “It’s fear, Princess. You’re afraid.”

Part of her didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “Afraid of what?”

“Only you can answer that. But my guess? Losing the people you care about. Having people to care about in the first place. The idea that if you lose them, it’ll be your fault, and there’ll be no one to track down on a thrilling vengeance-filled adventure.”

Helena just sat there. She willed her brain into silence, practiced the meditation techniques she’d been taught because she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about anything Harley said. Anger was easier. Anger was familiar. Anything else… 

“But what do I know?” Harley spoke again, and Helena had to force herself to look up at the woman in front of her. She smiled, but in a kind way, an expression she didn’t see on her face very often, at least not when Cass wasn’t around. “I only went to Med school. And speaking of Med school,” she ran to the mats she’d sat on earlier and came back with what looked like a fancy first aid kit, “turn around so I can redo my beautiful work.”

Helena complied, but she kept her eyes on Harley as she reached for a syringe. “I thought you weren’t going to give me anesthesia this time,” she said quietly. 

“Well, I wasn’t, but now that I know you want to torture yourself, I’m not gonna let you.”

“You gonna knock me out again?” Helena asked as she turned her head forward, felt Harley wipe away the blood making a trail down her back. 

“And risk getting stuck listening to Renee yelling at a TV for the next four hours because a group of grown men can’t run a ball over a line? Yeah, I don’t think so. You’ve got to suffer through that one with me.”

Helena almost smiled at the thought. “You should have seen her face when I told her that real football is played with your feet, not your hands.” Harley cackled, and the sound gave Helena the confidence to ask her, “Why did you sedate me the first time? I’ve been stabbed before and removing the knife isn’t that bad.”

“First of all, how frequently are you getting stabbed?” Helena tried to shrug, which turned into a flinch when she remembered where exactly this stab wound was located. “Second of all, it wasn’t because of the wound. Not entirely, at least. But it was easier to fix if you were calm, and without Dinah here that was the best option I could think of.”

“What do you mean, without Dinah?”

“She’s the only person who can make you actually relax. Even you have to have noticed that by now.”

Helena kept her mouth shut. As Harley worked, she welcomed the silence, let it into her mind so she wouldn’t have to think about things she’d rather ignore. Silence was a comfort, and she embraced it. 

“You want me to fix up those hands, too, Rocky?” 

Helena shook her head, waited until she knew Harley was finished before telling her, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Helena turned back, and they stared at each other for a minute, before Harley sighed. “Trust me, I’ve dealt with much worse than you.”

“But what if I had hurt you? I wasn’t thinking, I was just reacting.”

Harley just laughed. “I hate to break it to you, Princess, but you don’t scare me.”

She didn’t want to think about what did scare her. “Why do you keep calling me that?” She asked instead, and she knew she was a coward by avoiding all the hard bits but she didn’t care, not today. This was already more than she’d planned on speaking anyway, and she didn’t think she had the energy to go any deeper than a nickname right now.

Harley shrugged. “That’s what everyone used to call you. You know, back when you were just a Bertinelli and not a crossbow killing machine. Even after, whenever people wrote about you or the family, the name stuck. You became a bit of a legend around here, and legends aren’t allowed to be normal. So in life and death, you became Gotham’s Princess. Eternally immortalized in childhood innocence, guilty only of having the wrong last name.”

“I know,” she said, memories of scourging through old newspapers in Italy flashing through her mind, “but you don’t have to remind me all the time.”

“The history behind it might suck now, but that isn’t going away, so you might as well make the most of the title you’ve got.” She winked at her as she stood up, and added, “Besides, how else can I remind you that I was a Queen, and I outrank you?”

Helena flipped her off, but she didn’t mean it, and by the way Harley laughed she guessed that she knew. 

“No more punching shit!” Harley called out as she walked back upstairs. Helena just sat there, laid down on the mats, letting the familiarity of the training gear diffuse her anger in a different way.

— 

By the time the sun set, Dinah still hadn’t woken up, and Helena could tell that even the others were getting anxious now. They kept watching her, as if their eyes had the power to do anything more than stare. Dinner was uncomfortably quiet, even for her, and no one would say it but they all knew why. 

“Well,” Harley said as she stood up, “as much fun as this has been, I’ve left Cass to her own devices for far too long.” 

“You know you could bring her here—“

“No.” Helena didn’t raise her voice, but the others looked at her as if she had. The word was the first thing she’d said since her confrontation with Harley in the basement that morning, and it wasn’t unusual for her to go that long without talking, but it stuck out today, was exposed as an oddity without anything else to fill the space around her.

Renee looked confused, but before she could push her on it Harley said, “Yeah, I know. Not today.” 

“Before you go,” Renee called out as Harley went to leave, “help me carry her to the bed. Not you, Bertinelli,” she said as Helena started to get out of her seat. “You sit your wounded ass down before we have to stitch you up a third time.”

“‘We’? You nerds might fight as a team, but only one of us has a PhD.” She shook her head as she and Renee walked over to the couch, and Helena heard her mumble under her breath, “When you challenge the legality of certain actions it’s a ‘Harley’ problem, but suddenly you save the day and become a ‘we’.”

Helena almost smiled, until she saw them lift Dinah off the couch. Her whole body was limp. Instantly she was hit with the feeling of recognition, so strong time itself stopped existing. Dinah looked dead, looked like everyone who had come before her, every person she had loved who had met the same fate, and only Helena knew what it felt like to watch, to pretend to be among the rest, to be carried that way but still feel the weight of the world, the burden of existence. 

Helena didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She blinked as she gasped for air, was met with the concerned looks of Renee and Harley. She watched their mouths move, knew they were talking to her, but she couldn’t hear anything, and for the first time in years the silence scared her. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to remind her body it was alive. 

When she opened her eyes again, she felt the world shift into focus, just slightly. She still saw the two women in front of her, but now she felt them. Harley had a hand on her wrist, checking her pulse, but it was Renee, with the back of her hand resting against her forehead, checking for a warmth Helena knew wasn’t there, that made her flinch. It was too close to what she remembered, too much, all of it, everything was too much she couldn’t think she couldn’t breathe she couldn't—

The hands on her shoulders hit her so hard she felt her back twitch. She didn’t remember closing her eyes but now she opened them again, saw Harley’s face in front of her. She still couldn’t hear, but with only one face to focus on, she forced herself to use her training. Reading her lips, she saw Harley tell her something about breathing, which she realized she wasn’t doing. Somehow that made her angry. Something so inherent, so essential to existence that it was almost never done intentionally, yet she had to be reminded to inhale, to exhale, to allow herself to survive. She was weak, and her weakness would endanger everyone she cared about, would lead to their demise. It already had. 

The thought sparked something in her, and instead of holding her breath now she was taking too many, and she knew she was doing it but she didn’t know how to stop. She’d felt fear before, unimaginable fear, unfathomable fear, and yet this was something entirely new. It was suffocation at her own hands, drowning in oxygen, sinking into an oblivion she created. It was a unique kind of agony, caused by a wound she didn’t know how to heal. 

She felt the hand across her face, the sting making her freeze long enough for her body to catch up with her mind. She looked up, saw Harley’s face and finally heard her say, “You with me now, Princess?” She nodded slightly, and her chest still felt heavy and her breaths were shorter than they should be but at least now she was aware. When Harley told her how to breathe she listened, until the world came back to life, until she could feel everything again, from the burn on her face to the wound on her back to the dried tears on her cheeks. She wiped at those the moment she recognized them, prayed the others didn’t notice. She wouldn’t have them believing her to be weaker than she already was.

She didn’t know how long they sat there, just breathing. Harley had a patience she’d never seen before, and she wondered if this was what Doctor Quinzel had been like before the asylum and the acid and everything that followed. Renee sat next to her, held her hand, and her embarrassment was overridden by the comfort it gave her, so she didn’t pull away, not until time came back and she felt like herself again.

When Harley seemed satisfied in Helena’s ability to breathe on her own, she walked to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle, and told her, “You’re going to drink this whole thing before you go to bed.” Helena nodded as Harley handed it to her. “You want me to stay tonight?”

Helena shook her head. “I’m fine,” she added, the humiliation now left with nothing in its path. She took her hand out of Renee’s and instinctively reached for the hair tie on her wrist. “I don’t even — I mean, I’ve never—“

“It’s fine,” Harley said, and she was still mostly in Doctor mode, but Helena could hear bits of the Harley she knew coming back. “You had a panic attack. It’s a totally normal response to an increase in stress or a particularly traumatic experience, both of which you’ve had in the past 24 hours.”

“Yeah, I had a girlfriend who used to get those all the time. Took medication for it and everything. Although no one ever slapped her across the face,” Renee said, giving Harley a look that was both frustration and confusion.

“Admittedly, my method of stopping said panic attack may not have been entirely ethical.”

“Oh, you doing something unethical? I’m shocked.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“So what, you’re just going to slap her every time it happens?”

“It’s not gonna happen again,” Helena snapped. “And I don’t need drugs, there’s nothing wrong with me.” 

“Taking medication doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” Harley told her, and if she’d had any more energy Helena knew her blood would be boiling but for now she settled for a simmer. 

“I’m not weak. I don’t need them.”

“No one’s saying you’re weak, but you have a history of trauma and no healthy long-term coping mechanisms, so it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that should you seek some sort of method of therapy, medication might be prescribed.”

“You think I need therapy now?”

“Therapy isn’t bad, either, Princess. It’d be like going to PT. It’s just for your brain instead.”

“But—“

Harley sighed. “If Dinah went through what you did, would you tell her there was something wrong with her?”

The simmer disappeared just as quickly as it arrived. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. 

“Then there you go. And don’t worry,” Harley said with a grin that was borderline sinister. “Therapy or no therapy, you’re as sane as I am.”

“That’s reassuring,” she mumbled, and Harley looked at them, before slumping her shoulders in defeat?

“Really? None of you caught that Harry Potter reference?”

“Do I look like someone who’s watched Harry Potter?” Renee said, and Helena kept her mouth shut, tried to hide the fact that she had no idea what they were talking about. 

“Ugh, where’s Cass when you need her? She’s the one who showed me the movies in the first place. See, unlike this lot, the kid actually has interests outside of vigilantism.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re one to lecture us about having hobbies, Quinn, considering yours are just as violent as ours.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, and she pretended to look annoyed but Helena could tell that’s all it was: pretend. Harley turned toward her, and her face softened. “I’m serious about staying, though.”

Helena shook her head. “Cass needs you. I’ll be fine.”

Harley stared at her for a minute, before shrugging and heading toward the door. “Let me know when Sleeping Beauty wakes up, I wanna wear a wig and convince her that she’s slept for five years.”

“Good night, Harley,” Renee called out as the door closed behind her, and suddenly the quiet was too much again. Helena looked down at her hands, at the hair tie she twisted around her fingers over and over and over again. She couldn’t remember when the habit started, or why she did it, but she couldn’t stop doing it, either. 

“You wanna stay up for a while?” Renee asked, and there wasn’t pity in her voice but Helena swore she could hear it anyway. 

“I think one of us should stay in Dinah’s room tonight. In case she wakes up.”

“That’s not a bad idea. This your way of saying you want the first shift?” 

Helena nodded. For a minute neither of them spoke, before she finally asked the question that had been on her mind all day. “It was her mom, wasn’t it? The person you saw who blew their powers.”

Renee sighed, and Helena felt a little guilty for asking now but she also wasn’t sure she could go to sleep without knowing. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep once she did know, either. 

“It was back when her mom was running with that little crew of hers. You probably don’t even remember you were so young, but they used to go out and do what we did, just more publicly. And one day —I’m not even working, just happened to be walking by — a fight breaks out, and they all squad up, including Canary. Most people ran away, but I lingered, waited to see if I could help, which—“ She laughed, and Helena was too captivated to try and guess whether she was supposed to laugh with her or not — “they’re out here fighting some Meta and I think my gun and handful of years as a beat cop are gonna help save the day. So I’m delusional, but I’m there, and this guy just would not go down. I mean, they threw everything they had at him and he barely flinched.” 

Renee paused, and Helena didn’t have the patience to wait for her. “Is that why she did the scream?”

“No.” Something about the way she said it made Helena put her guard up, although she wasn’t sure what she was protecting herself from. “Before that, one of the guys on their team went down. Kinda like you did last night. Alive, but not in great shape. And we never really knew, but the rumor was that he and Canary were...you know, ‘a thing’, or whatever your generation calls it now. They liked each other, as more than teammates, and when he went down…” she looked back at the bedroom, where Dinah slept undisturbed. “She screamed longer than I’d ever seen or heard her do. And she took the Meta down, but as soon as she finished she dropped. One of her teammates ran off with her before the rest of the crowd could see. But I saw. And The Canary didn’t make any sort of public or private appearance for a week and a half after that, even when the team did.”

“Oh.” Just listening to it felt wrong, felt like a betrayal to Dinah somehow, even though it was Renee’s story. 

“So I don’t think Dinah will sleep for a week, but once she does wake up, I think we should be prepared for her to be out of commission for a while.”

“Do you think she’ll wake up soon?” She hated how small she felt as she asked but she was too tired to do anything about it. 

“Yeah. I think she will.” Helena didn’t think Renee was lying to her, but she also didn’t think she fully believed what she was saying. She didn’t call her out on it, just nodded and promised to wake her for a second shift. 

She waited until Renee went off to her room before gathering up the courage to walk into Dinah’s. When she did, she sat on the floor, back against the wall near her head. For an hour she barely moved, just stared at Dinah or the wall in front of her. She waited, until she couldn’t hear Renee moving anymore, until she found courage that only the early hours of the morning could give, before pulling out her phone and finding the song she’d shown her, the one she’d dreamt about. She pulled out her headphones, closed her eyes, and clicked play. 

[adobe-outdesign]

The Draw of the Pipes

The ink is not alive, there are not voices coming from the newly-installed pipe in his office, and Grant Cohen is not crazy. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Loosely based off of the DCTL lore, but modified to play nicer with canon.

(AO3 link here.

TWs: Unreality, suicidal idealization, accidental self harm, body horror, and some mild/unintentional ableism from some characters. This is a fic about someone with depression losing their mind, so there’s a lot of talk about mental health related issues. Approach with caution if these themes may bother you.)

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Distribution fees, $9,842.31. Marketing and publicity, $10,372.12. Special projects, $64,921.98...

The door opens.

Grant sighs, setting his pen down neatly at the edge of the paper. “Mr. Connor, please knock before you enter. I’m in the middle of tallying this year’s revenue and I can’t afford any distractions.” And for that matter, neither could Joey.

“Sorry. Just came in to tell you you can move back into your office now.” The taller man leans against the frame of the door, removing his ink-stained gloves. “The pipe’s in place. We’ll need to put the wall back later, but it might be a while at this rate.”

Grant presses his hands against his temples, trying to fight off his incoming headache. “Remind me again why we’re wasting money doing this when we can barely afford to pay our taxes this year.”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t ask questions, I just do the work.”

“I know. I was being rhetorical, see.” Of course it was Joey’s fault. When wasn’t it?

Grant stands up from his temporary desk, silently rounding up papers and jogging them into a neat pile before following the mechanic back to his usual office. He nearly winces as he enters the room, eyes going straight to the mess that the construction had left behind.

“You couldn’t have cleaned after yourself a little?” The entire back wall had been torn down, bits of drywall scattered about on the floor, with a massive pipe filled with black ink set back into the cavity. “Garish” would’ve been the nicest word he could use to describe it.

“No point when we have to reconstruct the entire damn wall again anyway.”

Grant just shakes his head, setting the receipts down on his desk. “I guess.” Maybe it would seem less intrusive if he just didn’t look at it.

Thomas turns to leave and then stops, standing in the doorway. “By the way, I should warn you that you shouldn’t get too close to the pipe. High ink pressure, exposed wall studs, that kind of thing. Could be dangerous.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already had to pay off several lawsuits from employees getting injured by exploding pipes.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but it probably did anyway.

“I already sent out a memo to the office telling everyone to stay out of the utility shafts. Nothing else I can do.” He pulls back on his gloves. “There’s a shut-off valve back by the right side, behind the drywall. You can use that to stop any leaks. Or refill your pens. But don’t-” Thomas pauses, looking back at the missing wall, as if there was something else he wanted to say. “Just don’t get too close to it unless you need to, all right?”

So am I supposed to touch it or not? Grant just shakes his head, too exhausted to discuss exactly what the mechanic meant by that. “Trust me, I have no intention to go anywhere near it,” he finally states.

Thomas nods, finally leaving, and Grant turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He felt like something had been off about the conversation, but he didn’t realize what it was until later.

Not once during the entire conversation did Thomas look him in the eye.

__________________________________

Someone is knocking at the door, and it’s not making his headache any less painful.

“Are you still working?” someone asks, and he recognizes the voice of David, one of their auditors.

“I’m always working. You can come in,” he adds as an afterthought. David swings the door open with a bit more force than necessary, jacket already draped over one arm.

“Me and the fellas are headin’ over to Verdi’s to unwind,” he explains, leaning his arm against the back of Grant’s chair as he speaks. “You should come with! Bet they’ll be a lotta cute dames there.”

Grant attempts a thin smile, though it probably looked like more of a grimace with how much his head hurt. “David, I just got a divorce.”

“What do you mean, just? That was eight years ago!”

He ignores that statement but considers the offer for a moment. Going out for a drink certainly would be nice. Forgot all their financial problems for a bit, forget his headache...

“That doesn’t matter. Anyway, I need to stay here. I have to get these claims down to insurance by tomorrow afternoon or else we’ll all be in trouble.” In reality, he didn’t want to go because the last time he went out drinking he had ended up completely bent and crying into the arms of Toby, their paymaster. The man had acted sympathetic enough at the time, but Grant hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since.

“Your call. But hey, if you change your mind you know where to find us, okay?” David throws his jacket over his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came in.

Time passes. Grant listens to the Bendy-shaped clock on the wall as it ticks down the minutes. God, he hated that clock. Joey had given it to him as a ten-year work anniversary present and had presented it as if it was a big deal, when in reality Grant was sure he had walked down to Heavenly Toys five minutes before to pick it up. Now it swings back and forth idly, as if mocking him.

Tick, tick, tick...

His writing was getting a lot lighter.

Grant leans back in his chair, looking at the pipe for the first time since he had fully moved back into his office. Thomas had said he use it for refills, but he had also said to stay away from it. Which one was it?

He studies it for another moment, contemplating and flipping his pen between his fingers, before sighing and getting up. If the damn pipe was going to be in his office, the least it could do was save him a trip up to the Art Department.

The pipe makes a strange groaning sound and he stops, remembering the multiple claims they had filed over the last few months regarding pipes exploding, but nothing else happens. It was just the glass creaking, he scolds himself.

He turns the shut-off valve slowly, and a smooth stream of jet-black ink flows from the nozzle and into the well in his hand. Grant returns to his desk, unscrewing the fountain pen. It was a bit of a hassle to refill it, but it was worth the effort - it had been a bar mitzvah gift years ago, and it was a finer pen than any others he had used over the years. He dips it into the well, twisting the end to draw the ink up into it, then screws it back together.

He takes out a handkerchief to blot off the top and somehow, while turning it around, stabs himself with it.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, holding his now-bleeding hand. He had refilled this pen hundreds of times before and had never managed to hurt himself with it. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to do that.

He gently blots away the spot of blood, revealing a tiny puncture wound with a bit of black under the skin from where the tip of the pen had struck him. Grant shakes his head, annoyed at managing to injure himself while doing something so mundane, and goes back to his writing.

He had never written with ink that flowed so nicely, or looked so dark.

__________________________________

Grant swore his headache was getting worse, and the knocking at the door isn’t helping.

“Come in,” he calls out, lifting his hands from his head. The door opens a crack and in steps their file clerk, a timid young man in a cardigan holding a stack of reports.

“Your, uh, secretary told me you could take for a minute.”

“Yes.” He waits for a moment, but the man doesn’t seem eager to speak. “Well, go on. I don’t have all day. I have a meeting in 5.”

The man startles, like he hadn’t been expecting him to speak. “Uh, right. On these papers, sir, I think you got one of the numbers wrong?”

“What? Here, hand it over.” Grant briskly takes the sheet and sets it down, using his pen as a guide as he mentally calculates. $4,592 plus $319 equals $4911, that plus another $6,793 was $11,704, and that plus another $211 was-

$11,915. Not $11,825, as he had written down on the sheet.

“I’m- No, I’m sorry, that’s wrong.” He shakes his head and crosses out the number, recalculating the rest of the amounts quickly, the corrections looking bold and black compared to the rest of the ink on the page. He hands it back to the man. “Thank you for catching that.”

The younger man mumbles something about it being no problem and quickly darts out. Grant stares at the papers scattered about on his desk, head pounding.

He had worked at Joey Drew Studios for ten years, and had spent another 15 working in the finance business. He had never gotten a number wrong before.

__________________________________

“I’m not happy, Grant. Want to know why?”

Joey stands beside him, studying the “work hard, work happy” poster above his desk, which had partially fallen down at some point. The fact that he nearly had a foot and a half of height over Grant was intimidating enough, and sitting down only made the difference feel more extreme.

“Why?” he asks, not that he really cared but because he knew that that was what Joey expected him to say.

“Some people in the studio are starting to talk as if we’re in some kind of financial trouble! And they say they got that information from you!”

“Mister Drew, they were in overpay,” he explains patiently, scratching the wound on his hand. “I had to explain to them why we couldn’t provide them a check this week-”

“DAMMIT, THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!” Joey suddenly yells, slamming his hands down on the desk. Grant was very, very used to Joey’s sudden turns of mood, but somehow the sudden noise still manages to make him jump.

Joey takes a deep breath and is instantly back to his cheerful self, like flipping a light switch. “When people think there are problems, they start to get worried! And when people get worried, they start to leave! And if you don’t want to join them, you’ll stop talking about it. Got it?”

“I- Yes,” he breathes, looking down at his desk. Joey slaps him across the back, which was probably meant to be a friendly gesture but instead feels more like he just got hit.

“Good man! And make sure to make those Bendyland payments soon. Bertie won’t get off my back about it!” Joey chirps. He disappears out the door before Grant has a chance to object.

Well, it was official. His headache had been upgraded to a full-on migraine.

__________________________________

“I’ve told him before that we can’t afford to keep spending money like this. But he won’t listen to me, so there’s nothing I can do except cut the budget to other departments. And then that makes everyone blame me, see, even though I’m just trying to make sure we don’t all go bankrupt and end up out on the street.” Grant leans back in his chair, taking a drag off his cigarette. He didn’t normally smoke much, but right now he needs something to take the edge off. “And this migraine isn’t helping anything either.”

"Maybe you should take a break, sir. When was the last time you took any days off?” His secretary didn’t really need to sit there and listen to him, but she always did regardless. He appreciated it more than he tended to admit.

Grant sets down the cigarette in his tray, rubbing at his eyes. Why was he always so tired anymore? “I don’t have any more vacation days, if that’s what you mean. Used them all earlier in the year.”

“What about sick days?”

He scratches at the spot on his hand where he had stabbed himself absentmindedly. Was it just him, or was it bigger than it was initially? “I’m not sick, I’m just tired. Besides, I used all of my sick days up already.” He wouldn’t admit it, but most of those days had been spent on times where he physically couldn’t bring himself to get up out of bed. “And I can’t afford to take any unpaid ti-”

A thin, shrill scream cuts through the air, nearly causing him to double over in pain from his migraine. It was terrified and loud, like it had come from somewhere in the room with them. He jumps up from his desk - then stops, looking at Carol, who hadn’t budged an inch.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what, sir?” She straightens her glasses, black curls bobbing as she looks around in confusion.

“The- What, you didn’t hear it?” No, she had to have heard it. It was so loud...

 She walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, redirecting him to his desk. “Try to take a break and relax, Mr. Cohen. All of this stress isn’t good for you.” She says it kindly enough but there’s an edge to her voice, like she was concerned, or possibly even scared.

It was just stress. Of course.

__________________________________

At first, Grant thinks it’s an error. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been miscalculating things a lot recently, or maybe there was just an extra investment made at some point that he forgot to account for. He doesn’t start to seriously consider the debt a possibility until he recaculates everything, and even then he tries to convince himself there’s an alternate explanation, even though he knows it’s a lie. He stares at the papers in front of him.

$48,128 short.

Grant checks the numbers, checks them again, over and over until his vision is blurry and his head is pounding harder than usual. He may have made a mistake earlier, but not now. Between the overdue Bendyland payments, the taxes they still owed, and the massive amounts of money Joey had spent on that damn Machine, there wasn’t even close to enough money to possibly cover everything.

He scratches at the ink on his hand again, which removes the scab that had formed there. Grant was certain now he wasn’t imaging the stain getting worse - it had progressed from a small barely-noticeable spot into an ugly black mark about the size of a quarter.

As Grant stares at the final calculations he scratches at the spot more aggressively, digging his nails into it as hard as he can as he thinks about getting fired, about what would happen when Joey found out. He can feel the panic attack coming on but he can’t do anything other than hold onto the table for support. He’s sweating, hyperventilating, his chest hurts, his vision is swimming, it’s so loud-

1-2-3-4. He forces himself to breathe deeply, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but the debt. Slowly, the attack passes, and the noise that he had been hearing slowly dims and then disappears. He couldn’t afford a panic attack, not now. What he needed was a plan, something to tell Joey so he might not fire him on the spot. They could file a bankruptcy claim and see if they could win back enough in the settlement to pay off their investments, maybe try to save at least the animation department and work up from there...

But first, he’d have to tell Joey.

He continues to stare at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick on the wall.

__________________________________

One thing he had learned since he started working at Joey Drew studios was that everything was his fault.

Not literally, of course. His job was simply to budget the numbers as best he could and advise Joey on how to invest his money, which he never paid attention to anyway. No, it was the way everyone else perceived things that made him a scapegoat. If someone got an overpay notice and his name was at the top of it, they would blame him, simple as that.

That’s not to say everyone did. His fellow accountants knew he was just the guy trying to keep the company afloat. Some of the department heads understood as well, especially the ones who he had already spoken to, but even their sympathies dried up when the budget cuts started happening.

Grant leaves his office as little as possible, only darting out to use the bathroom or to grab his lunch. It’s still not enough to hide him from catching the angry expressions and whispered conversations in the break room.

“Company will go under any day now...”

“Finances slashed our entire department’s budget in half, yet we’re still expected to produce the same amount of toys! How do they think that’s even possible?...”

“I’ve been in overpay for over two weeks! I’m about to go down to Finances and strangle that Cohen guy myself, I tell you...”

He wanted to scream at everyone, tell them that he couldn’t do anything about the budget except tell Joey not to spend so much and that money didn’t grow on trees, and if it was up to him he’d give everyone a month’s worth of paid vacation and a raise! But he couldn’t do any of those things, so he just spends his time hiding in his office, waiting for the day to be over.

He was tired. He could barely sum up the energy to make something to eat - his last meal had been a piece of slightly stale bread from the fridge. He couldn’t bring himself to have any water, either. For some reason the thought of trying to drink it repulsed him.

He has so many meetings anymore. Angry face after angry face, demanding to know where their last paycheck was or why they had been let go due to downsizing or why they couldn’t hire any new help. All he can do is explain as patiently as possible that there’s nothing the Finance Department can do.

They think he looks terrible, he can tell just by looking at their expressions when they walk in. He spends all day sleeping, yet the constant nightmares keep him restless, jolting him awake. The one where he melted alive, that was a common one. The one where millions of finance reports pile up on his desk and cut him open when he tried to touch them, that was another. And of course there was the most common one, the one with the strange demon creature with overly long arms that either ripped him apart or dragged him under a pool of ink, depending on the dream.

“Why can’t you do anything about this?”

His head hurts, and he’s so, so tired.

__________________________________

Grant studies the memo in front of him. It was some sort of mandatory form to be filled out by all employees, and when he had first got it he had set it aside, figuring it was a standard evaluation form or something. It was only upon actually reading it did he realize how strange some of the questions are. For every straightforward question asking about how their experience in the office could be improved, there was a question about how often they worked late or how many family members they had.

Who is your favorite Bendy character and why? Choose from Bendy, Boris, Alice, or the Butcher Gang. Grant just shakes his head, wondering if Joey had finally lost it. Still, the question was marked as mandatory.

He tries to think back to the cartoons he’s seen. Despite working in the studio, he rarely saw the finished products they produced - the only time he bothered to watch them was when they were screened for the entire studio after completion. They were amusing enough, he supposed.

Grant rolls his pen between his fingers as he thinks. Finally he writes down “The little spider fellow. He’s charming in a way.” He resists the urge to write “Why are you making us fill this out?” under the comment section and instead folds it up, setting it neatly on his desk so he can drop it in the mail boxes on the way out.

As he sets the memo aside he notices that his injured hand looks worse than it did earlier. He holds his wrist, inspecting it under the dull glow of his desk lamp. The black area had gone from a tiny pinprick to a large black splotch covering most of his palm. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel slightly numb and cold to the touch.

Maybe it was infected. Could infections cause headaches? That would explain some things. He didn’t know much about medical care, but he did know that infections should be drained and cleaned thoroughly to make sure they healed correctly. 

He digs around in his desk, retrieving a letter opener from one of the drawers. It was one of the nice ones, with a carved wooden handle and a long pointed metal top. Almost more of a knife than a letter opener, really.

Grant takes out his handkerchief and lays it to the side of the desk. Cut open near the most infected part, drain any puss, and then wash and bandage the wound. Easy.

He selects a spot slightly above his palm and gently slides the metal point into the skin, wincing at the pain. He wriggles it a bit to make sure the opening is big enough, then sets down the letter opener and squeezes gently.

There is no puss, or any sign of an infection. What there is is a lot of blood. And then he realizes that his hand isn’t black, and it never had been - the wound was still a tiny pinprick in the center of his hand. What there was was now a much larger-than-intended cut on his palm, bleeding profusely.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pressing the handkerchief against the spot. It’s soaked through within seconds and he quickly pulls off his neck tie, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Stupid, stupid. What the hell was he thinking?

Grant darts out of his office and takes the back way to the restrooms, keeping his head low and his hand close to his chest to avoid any questions from onlookers. He carefully unwraps his hand as he slips into the men’s room, and for one terrified second he wonders if the bleeding will actually stop. He breathes a sigh of relief as he unwraps the blood-stained tie, revealing that the wound had clotted and dried.

He washes the area carefully, then splashes some cold water on his face. The previous injury was still just a tiny speck in the middle of his palm.

It was just a hallucination, he reassures himself, rubbing his face with a hand towel. He stares at his own tired eyes in the mirror.

No, only crazy people had hallucinations.

And he certainly wasn’t crazy.

__________________________________

Grant had long since given up on trying to get Joey to meet with him by asking him directly, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was just flat-out ignoring him. He had instead tried sending a memo to his secretary, asking her to slot him in as soon as possible. Apparently that had worked, as Joey had unexpectedly barged into his office that morning, slamming the door open so hard Grant was almost surprised that it didn’t fall right off its hinges.

“All right, all right, I’m here. What do you want?” he demands, quickly brushing out his suit. He looked disheveled, and there was ink splattered haphazardly on his hands and face. “For all of your ‘time is money’ talk you sure do like wasting mine, Cohen!”

This was not good. Joey didn’t take bad news well when he was in a good mood - trying to talk to him about the debt when he was already irritated was sure to end badly. “Mister Drew, it’s about our current budget-”

“Hmm? The budget?” Joey licks his finger and rubs at one of the spots at his hand, not looking at the accountant. “I told you, just pull the money from the investors!”

This would be easier if it didn’t feel like someone was pounding a stake into his head. “Mister Drew, as I explained in my earlier memo we don’t have enough funds from the investors to-”

“Isn’t it your job to handle the damn budget? Pull the funds from Heavenly Toys, I don’t care! Just make it work!”

“You see, we can’t cut funding to the Toy Department because-”

“It’s always the same with you! Complaining about taxes and budget cuts and everything else under the sun! Stop dragging me all the way down here and do your goddamn j-!”

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN FUNDS!” Grant screams, standing up from his chair so fast that it crashes back onto the floorboards. He stands there, breathing heavily as Joey stares at him.

He had worked at the studio for ten years. He almost never yelled at anyone, as he considered it unprofessional, unnecessary.

And he sure as hell didn’t yell at Joey Drew.

“I’m sorry,” Grant mutters, slinking down to avoid the taller man’s gaze. Joey was at least looking at him now - really looking at him, like he was just now noticing how terrible he looked, or the ink splotch that once again seemed to be covering his palm.

“No, go on.” He can’t read Joey’s expression.

Grant takes a deep breath. He had mentally rehearsed what he needed to say dozens of times, but his outburst had left him struggling to remember any of it. “We can’t pull funds from the Toy Department because there are no more funds, Mister Drew.” He pulls the piece of paper with the damning final calculations on it and holds it out to Joey, who grabs it with enough force to crumple it. “Couldn’t even cover it if I fudged the numbers.”

Joey remains silent, looking over the sheet. Grant clears his throat. “The best thing to do would be to file for bankruptcy. If we aim for a Chapter 7 case, we could have exemptions cover the debt, so we’d be able to keep the studio’s property. And it takes less time to complete than a Chapter 13 case, see.”

The other man rises from his chair, sliding the now-wrinkled calculations back onto Grant’s desk. He puts his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, digging his fingernails into his sleeve. “How did this happen, Grant?”

Grant was used to Joey screaming at him. He could handle Joey screaming at him. This weird pseudo-calmness was not something he was used to. “I tried to warn you, Mister Drew. About the overspending-”

He stops speaking as Joey puts more pressure on his shoulder, making him wince. “You see, I’m not very fond of people letting other people steal from me.”

This conversation was not going at all like he expected it to, and the sudden twists were catching him off guard. “What? Mister Drew, I didn’t-”

Another squeeze on his shoulder cuts him off. “Oh, but you did! If I put someone in charge of watching my house while I’m gone, and they let someone walk off with my $3,000 Kandinsky, whose fault is it that my painting is gone?”

He leans down close to Grant, close enough that he can smell the aftershave he put on this morning. “Fix. It.”

Joey stands up and slams the door so hard on his way out that it sends that godforsaken Bendy clock smashing onto the floor, breaking it into a million tiny pieces.

__________________________________

“Be quiet,” Grant insists, even though logically he knows there’s no one else in the room with him. He can hear all kinds of noises though - people screaming, crying, whispering so quietly he wasn’t even sure there was any whispering at all. He struggles to focus on the typewriter in front of him, the words on the page blurring over.

“Be quiet!” he snaps at no one, and the noise seems to quiet down a little. He eyes the pipe on the back wall warily. It sounded as if the noise was coming from-

No, that was crazy people talk. There were no voices - he was just overstressed and tired. Grant takes a moment to rub at his tired eyes before turning his attention back to the typewriter.

We regret to inform you that Joey Drew Studios is going to be significantly downsizing within the next few months... 

His head feels like it’ll split apart completely if he doesn’t press his hands against it. Does the wording of this memo even matter? Everyone already hated him; it’s not like breaking the news that they’d all be out of a job soon would somehow make them change their opinions.

He turns his attention back to the pipe. The pipe... ever since that damn pipe had been installed he had been having these headaches, hearing the voices. But that didn’t make sense, did it? It was just a pipe full of ink.

“Stop it,” he hisses, one hand still pressed against his head. He uses his other hand to wipe away the sweat dripping from his brow as he stares down the pipe, as if expecting it to respond somehow.

The whispering... he can almost make out words, if he pays close enough attention. Something inside of him is pulling him towards the pipe, calling to him. He sets his head on the back of the chair, and as he does so he notices that his entire hand is black now-

Get outside. Get some air. Grant stands up unsteadily, knocking the chair over again and nearly tripping over its legs. The room swims unsteadily around him and there’s ink dripping down from the ceiling, from the walls...

The floor rises up to meet him and he grabs the trashcan from under his desk at the last second, retching into it. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in his mouth as he opens his eyes again.

Ink.

There’s ink splattered over the inside of the trashcan, dripping from the crumpled papers inside and splashed up onto the metal edges. He wipes off his mouth and there’s more ink on the back of his hand, dripping onto his clothes. He can taste the saltiness of it in his mouth-

He might have screamed - he didn’t remember. Someone was grabbing him, dragging him away from the floor...

__________________________________

Grant wakes up slowly, waiting a moment for his eyes to focus. There’s wooden boards composing the ceiling above him. Still in the studio, then.

“Where am I?” he manages to croak. His voice is sore and his whole body aches. There’s something soft under him. A cot, maybe. A hand is holding out a wet towel and he takes it, pressing it against his head as he lies back down.

“You’re in the infirmary,” a voice he doesn’t recognize explains. “Your secretary brought you down. You have a fever.”

A fever. That was all?

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

__________________________________

Grant spends the next two days lying at home in a confused, feverous haze. He can’t tell if what he’s seeing are hallucinations or fever dreams, if he’s awake or asleep. One minute there would be ink dripping from the walls; in another there would be a strange looking demon in the corner of the room. The pan he had dragged in by the bed yielded no more ink, just water and stomach acid. You’re not crazy, he reminds himself, staring at his mostly-black hand. You’re just seeing things because of the fever. The sickness was comforting, in a weird way, just because it gave him an excuse.

By the third day the fever has broken, and he checks the thermometer just to be sure. It yields a normal temperature, but instead of getting up continues to lie in his bed, staring up at the moulding on the ceiling. Part of him feels disappointed that he didn’t die from the illness, and yet another part feels guilty for thinking that at all.

The very idea of going back to work is overwhelming - even the idea of taking a shower feels like too much right now. But this was unpaid sick time, and he couldn’t afford any more of it. Skip the shower, he reasons, managing to sit upright. He manages a quick change of clothes - an undershirt and a vest, but forsaking his usual tie and sleeve garters. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror.

Grant barely makes eye contact with Carol, just mumbling an apology for scaring her as he slinks back to his office. He eyes the trashcan warily, but Wally must have taken out the garbage since then, as there’s a fresh bag in place of the old one. He sits down, straightening the papers on his desk. There wasn’t any ink to begin with, he scolds himself, shuffling through finance reports and several statements from the IRS. Something dark catches his eye and he starts moving papers aside, sliding the page out from underneath the stack.

It was the jet-black ink from his pen, certainly, and it’s his handwriting. He can even pick out a few familiar sounding words from the scratchy jumble of words - “taxes”, “48,128 short”, “time is money”. The pen was pressed down so hard in some areas that it had torn straight through the paper. But he didn’t write it. He didn’t remember writing it.

Grant abruptly crumples the piece of paper and throws it into the trash can, pulse pounding. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. I must have written that when I was ill, he rationalizes, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling around his shoulders.

He leafs through the rest of the papers with a sense of dread, but there’s nothing but bankruptcy forms.

__________________________________

Grant hadn’t noticed it with everything else going on, but his headache had dulled considerably when he was resting at home. Now it was back in full force, and the ticking of the clock only seems to aggravate it.

He glances at it to check the time, only to remember with a start that it had broken permanently when Joey had slammed the door earlier. He shakes his head, combing his fingers through his greasy hair. Didn’t matter. He was pretty sure it was after five, at least.

There was screaming, and it was so vivid it was hard for him not to run off to try to find the source of it. It’s not real, he reminds himself, turning to glare at the pipe in the wall. No, don’t look at it. Focus on the bankruptcy filing, but the words blur and become meaningless the more he looks at them.

“Hello?”

Grant almost writes off the voice as another hallucination, but it sounds vaguely familiar, and after a few minutes of grasping at thoughts he realizes it’s the voice of Sammy, their music director. He didn’t know him very well, but they had spoken a few times about budget issues regarding his department.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

Normally Sammy’s voice was nice sounding, smooth and calm. Now it feels like every word is pounding a nail into his skull. He winces, clutching his head with both hands.

“Now’s not a good time. Come back later. Please.” Grant’s aware of how pathetic he sounds, but right now he doesn’t care. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, not in this state.

“...Very well, then. I’ll be back later,” Sammy mutters. When Grant finally lifts his head, the room is empty.

Strange. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

__________________________________

“So we’re going to be keeping parts of the department, see? And if we’re keeping the animation department, we’ll need some sound to go with the cartoons.” Grant scratches at his hand, focusing on the papers before him. “We’ll need to downsize, though. Probably sell off some instruments as well…”

Jack leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks ominously under his weight. He takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing a rather obvious bald spot under his hat. “I guess. Never been very good at firing people though.”

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” 

Jack leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes drift downward. “What happened to your hand?”

“My-?” Grant holds the appendage up, inspecting it under the dim fluorescent light. It was completely black now, like he had dipped it into ink and the skin had stained long after it was washed off. He stares at the cut on his hand, a reminder that this was yet another hallucination, that there was no ink.

And yet Jack was staring at him, normally cheerful face lined with concern. What was he looking at? The original puncture wound, which had long since scabbed over? The cut across his palm? Or maybe-

“I, uh, cut it. On some glass from one of the pipes,” he mumbles, hoping that was a decent enough explanation for whatever Jack was looking at.

Jack shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Sammy had stains like that all over his body,” he confides. “Then he went crazy and disappeared.”

“Yes, well, I’m not crazy, so-“ Grant stops mid-sentence, suddenly taking in what the lyricist was telling him. Sammy had disappeared months ago - that’s why he was talking to Jack about this in the first place, because he was filling in in Sammy’s absence. How had he forgotten that?

“What?”

“Sammy. Sammy was in my office last night, he…“ Grant stands up to look over Jack as if he expected to see Sammy still standing there, but there’s nothing except for the pipe.

 Jack’s expression is somewhere between discomfort, concern, and fear. “Uh, no offense, but maybe you should consider taking some days off. I’m sure spending all day cooped up in here can’t be good for you.”

“He was here. He was here, I heard him-“ Grant looks around helplessly before slumping back down in his chair, holding his throbbing head. “He was here! You believe me, right? He was...”

__________________________________

The thing about rumors was that once they got started, there was no way to stop them. And after that meeting with Jack, there was all kinds of speculation being passed around that Grant caught in snippets and whispers in the halls. That he had gone crazy; that he had had a mental breakdown and that’s why he was out for a few days; even that he had rabies.

Perhaps the only thing worse than the rumors were the response people had towards them. Complaints and anger, that he could handle at this point. What he couldn’t handle was those complaints being replaced with sympathy or fear or sometimes both. People treated him as if he was fragile, like he would break if they said the wrong thing. Soft tones, simple wording, smiles from people who were supposed to be concerned for him but seemed to be more concerned of him. Grant hated that more than anything. He was not crazy, and he certainly wasn’t a child.

At their weekly department meeting, he puts everything into his performance. Dressing as best as he could, talking in fast tones and quickly and efficiently telling everyone what to do and how to do it. It was exhausting, but he was fairly certain he had convinced a good portion of the staff that he wasn’t crazy as they left the room.

“Nicely done, sir,” Carol greets, setting her ever-present clipboard down on the desk. Her appearance was impeccable as always, and it only made him look worse in comparison.

“You think so?”

“Better than your last few meetings have been, at least.”

“I’ll take it.” Grant rests his head on the desk, closing his eyes momentarily. “How many more meetings do I have today?”

There’s the sound of a paper flipping over as Carol checks something on her clipboard. “Six.”

Six meetings. He had only done one so far and he already felt like he was about to pass out; six was surely impossible. “Can you reschedule?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’ve already rescheduled most of them earlier this week, sir.”

Grant sits back up, struggling to get the desk back in focus. “I know, I know. Forget it. I’ll try to figure something out.”

Carol studies him for a moment with her sharp eyes. She was all business all the time - it was almost impossible for Grant to imagine what she was like outside of work. “With all due respect, why haven’t you quit yet? It’s obvious you can no longer function at work anymore.”

Quitting. God, how he had fantasized about the idea of barging into Joey’s office and handing him his resignation, savoring the look he’d imagine he’d have on his face as he told him off for all of the terrible decisions he had made as a CEO. The very thought of it made him feel better, at least for a fleeting moment. 

“I have. It’s just...” he admits, then stops, not wanting to say any more.

“I take it that’s not an option?”

Grant remembers how proud his parents had been when they had heard what a high-end job he had snagged, how they had bragged about him to all of their family members. And he knows, deep down, that he simply will not be able to find another job as high-profile as this one, not like this.

But he can’t say that.

“I don’t think anyone will be eager to employ me after finding out the last company I managed financially went bankrupt,” he mutters, which isn’t a lie.

Grant sits in silence for a while, rolling his pen between his black fingers.

“I... I can hear things, sometimes,” he mumbles. He’s not really sure why he’s telling her this, other than the fact that she was there and listening and he felt like he needed to confide in someone. “It’s like the ink is... alive, or something. It wants me to be with it, I think, or a part of it-” He cuts himself off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry. That doesn’t make any sense.”

There’s another uncomfortable bout of silence. Eventually Carol sits down on the edge of the desk, setting her clipboard in her lap. “Have you considered seeing a professional?”

She doesn’t say more than that, but he understands what she’s implying. “No, I can’t. If I told anyone else... they’d lock me away, I’m sure. I’ve heard of what goes on in those asylums of theirs; I wouldn’t make it out in one piece.”

“There’s no family members you can contact?”

He thinks about how disappointed his parents would be if they saw him like this, so tired and pathetic that he couldn’t even manage to do basic things like showering. He can picture the looks on their faces - his father’s stern look of disapproval, the disheartened look on his heartbroken mother’s face.

“No,” Grant mumbles.

She sighs, standing back up and straightening her pencil skirt. “I’ll try to clear your schedule for today.”

He nods, brushing his hair back. “Thank you.”

“And do try to at least eat something. You look thin.” With that she dismisses herself, leaving him alone in the room.

Grant stares at his pen, trying to remember the last time he had had a proper meal.

__________________________________

He was becoming increasingly good at avoiding people, slinking through the less-used halls and cutting through utility shafts to avoid the crowds. Now it’s inevitable that people see him as he shambles into the break room, and he does his best to avoid eye contact as he grabs a bag of nuts from the only non-bacon soup vending machine in the place. He fills a paper cup from the bathroom and finds a small secluded table tucked into the corner.

It couldn’t have been that long since I ate, or else I’d be dead by now, Grant rationalizes, but it feels like it’s been weeks since his last meal. Even when fasting he at least felt hungry; right now he feels nothing. In fact, the water seems downright repulsive, like a cup of lukewarm saliva. He tries to force himself to drink it, but a sudden convulsion causes him to gag and choke.

He straightens up, still coughing, and realizes that Thomas was watching him from the far table, with a look on his face that Grant couldn’t quite identify. As soon as they make eye contact Thomas looks away, quickly gathering his things from the table. But that one second is enough to know.

“Wait,” Grant manages to choke out between coughs. “Wait!” He abandons the table, scrambling after the mechanic as he darts around the corner of the hall. “What do you know about the ink! What-”

He stops short.

The hallway should have lead to the Art Department. Thomas should have been there. Instead he’s standing in an empty balcony in the center of a huge room with chains hanging from the ceiling. He brushes his fingers over the handrail in front of him, wondering if this was another hallucination, but it seems solid and cool to the touch.

Grant glances behind himself, realizing that the hallway leading into this room was completely different than the one he had just exited. Stop it, he insists to himself. Stop being crazy.

Cautiously he steps forward, walking around the perimeter of the balcony as he tries to get his bearings. There are no handrails in this section, just chains hanging down from the ceiling and descending into the darkness below. He leans dangerously close to the threshold of the wood, wondering what was so big and heavy to need that much support...

A loud grinding noise cuts through the air and he startles, stumbling back away from the edge at the last second. As the thing raises up, he notices the spicket first, then the pipes, then the ink flowing from it. The Ink Machine? He knew what it was - heck, he was the one who budgeted for all three versions of it - but he had no idea how huge this incarnation was. He leans closer, lost in thought. Why would Mister Drew spend that much money on something that just made ink? Joey’s spending may have been irresponsible and stupid, but he wasn’t irrational.

A cold sensation pulls Grant out of his thoughts, and when he looks down he sees that everything is covered in a strange black pattern, like spider webs. He runs his hand over the pattern on his clothes, but the darkness merely covers his fingers instead, like it was a shadow. No, no. Not now...

Grant takes a moment to breathe, willing the illusion away as he works his way back towards the hallway, dragging his hand against the walls to guide himself. The room seems to be getting progressively darker, and he can feel the hair on his neck standing up. Something was wrong-

He turns around.

It takes him a moment to realize there’s something standing on the other end of the balcony. Its body is emancipated, and so black it blends straight into the darkness, making only a few details visible - its face, its bowtie, the glove on its right hand. It looked like Bendy in a twisted way, like a terrible caricature.

It turns towards him blindly and starts slowly limping forward, one of its legs sticking to the floor and pulling away in long, gooey stands. Ink drips from it and puddles around the floor as it moves, the shadows on the walls seemingly following it. Run, Grant thinks to himself, knowing that he could outpace the creature easily. Instead he just stands there, paralyzed. He can feel something urging him towards the demon, the same strange draw he felt towards the pipe in his office. It was calling to him, and he couldn’t move-

Grant slumps down on his knees in a helpless panic as the creature approaches, getting close enough that he could see the drops of ink running down its skeletal figure. It tilts its head, its drawn-on smile vibrating, as if it were studying him. Slowly, it reaches a disturbingly human hand down towards him, sliding the ice-cold appendage under his head as he struggles to breathe. It curls its fingers, hooking its hand under his chin.

It turns its head again and taps his head up, once, like he was a child who had just said something amusing. It takes a step back, smile still vibrating, and walks directly through the wall beside him, the shadows vanishing with it.

Grant doesn’t remember how he found his way out of the department, or if anyone tried to stop him. All he remembers is running, running, running...

__________________________________

He had spent the weekend lying in bed, trying to lull himself to sleep, even though sleep just brought more nightmares of the strange demon creature. If he wasn’t asleep, he was crying; if he wasn’t crying, he was debating on overdosing on the pills in the medicine cabinet. The only real thing that stopped him was remembering that he had had the foresight to hide those pills on the top shelf when his depression had been less severe, where he would need a stepstool to get to them, and it was too exhausting to even think about fetching it from the garage.

And it was while he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, that he finally decided he had to quit. He simply wouldn’t survive otherwise.

The plan had sounded good in his mind - he would go into work on Monday, pack up his things, leave Joey a resignation notice, and check himself in somewhere to get help. It was only now, hitting the down button on the elevator, that he realizes that he couldn’t handle going back to work again.

As Grant steps onto the elevator, he notices the look the other occupant is giving him. Lacie, he realizes, one of the Bendyland workers. They had gone out drinking a few times before. Now she’s inspecting him with those sharp eyes of hers, taking a cigarette out of her mouth with gloves that were stained with either grease or ink.

You look terrible, he scolds himself, slinking into the corner of the elevator. When he was doing well mentally, he was an incredibly well-kept person - suit vests, ties, even taking the time to comb his mustache - because as far as he was concerned one’s appearance was as important to the job as their performance. Now he’s still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing on Friday, unbathed and unkept. Lacie continues to study him, as if she was debating on saying something, but the elevator screeches to a stop and she exits with commenting.

Carol doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised when Grant tells her that he’s quitting, nor does she seem bothered by him practically begging her to cancel his meetings for today. She just nods, her black curls bouncing, and he suspects she had already known this was coming for a while now.

Within the first half an hour of work he realized what a mistake this plan had been, and by the end of the first hour his head was pounding with another migraine. The walls swim dangerously around him as he pulls the cassette recorder from his desk drawer and sets it on his desk. Joey had distributed them around the entire office, claiming that they should use them to “express their feelings”, whatever the hell that meant.

Grant had only recorded one tape before, but now it seemed appropriate to do another, as surely a recording of his resignation would be better than a letter. He turns on the tape and tries to speak, but the words get lost among a sea of noise and screaming and he can’t remember what he needed to say or why he was saying it. He slams his hand down on the stop button and jerks around towards the pipe, which sits motionless in the wall.

“STOP IT!” Grant screams, even though he knows that the ink isn’t alive and that that’s crazy and everything he’s doing is crazy. He slumps down onto the floor, tears running down his face as he holds himself, as if he would fall apart into a million little pieces if he didn’t. “Stop it,” he begs. “Stop it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The silence in the room is almost deafened by the noise in his head, but slowly he can make out a voice, a whisper, urging him to come closer. He can feel it, the need to be closer to it, to be a part of it. He shakily rises to his feet and stumbles forward, pressing his blackened hand against the cold glass.

The relief is instant - the overwhelming call of the ink is gone, the migraine suddenly subsided, and he understands that this is where he needs to be. He squeezes himself into the little cavity beside the pipe, curling up and resting his head against the glass. The noise is deafening, he can hear thoughts that aren’t his or maybe they were, but none of that matters anymore.

Grant drifts in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep some bearing on reality. He thinks he can hear the clock ticking but he has no idea what time it is, and it feels like it’s been days already but maybe it’s only been a few minutes.

He slowly comes to again and realizes that someone is standing there, trying to pull him out of the crevice. He struggles blindly against their grip. No! I need to be here! he wants to insist, but he can’t find the words. The figures shushes him softly and he hazily remembers how Carol had found him during his fever. Was he sick again?

He goes limp and the figure drags him out across the floor, propping him up against the wall. They roll up his sleeve and he can see that his entire lower arm had turned black, spreading out from his palm. His hand had tiny drops of ink clinging to the outside of it, and the veins above the area were dark. He wonders in a haze if the rest of his body was turning black as well.

“There, there, my sheep,” someone whispers, and some confused part of his brain recognizes Sammy’s voice again. His skin is icy to the touch as he puts a hand on the back of Grant’s neck, pressing something against his lips.

“Drink this,” Sammy insists, and he does so. The liquid is thick, salty tasting, and it burns his mouth slightly. He struggles to sit up, suddenly feeling a bit more lucid.

“Sammy...?” he manages to ask. The music director is covered in ink - it’s coating his entire body, dripping onto the floor, puddling around the Bendy mask he was wearing. Sammy merely shushes him again, wrapping his arms around his torso and dragging him to his feet.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and Grant nods, leaning against him for support. Sammy would bring him to the infirmary. He would be fine...

They walk slowly, Grant struggling to keep track of the hallways they were passing through. Some of them were familiar, some of them weren’t, some seem to lead to areas that logically they couldn’t connect to,

Finally they walk into a large open room, almost completely barren except for a few massive pipes running along the ceiling. Sammy guides him over to a nearby support beam and carefully pushes the other man away from him.

“Where-?” Grant mumbles, struggling to think, to processes what was going on. Something was wrong. They were supposed to go to the infirmary, weren’t they? Why were they here? He grabs at Sammy’s shoulder, only to recoil in disgust as his hand sinks into it, like he had just plunged it into a jar of molasses.

In one swift movement Sammy twists around behind the accountant, grabbing his hands and pulling them behind his back. Grant utters a protest and manages to pull free for a moment, but his movements are confused and uncoordinated and he merely ends up collapsing onto the floor.

“Easy, little sheep,” Sammy soothes, picking him up and dragging him over to the support beam, Grant struggling weakly as his hands are forcibly tied behind his back, then again against the pole. “Soon you will be in the hands of our Lord.”

Sammy seems to disappear for a few moments, and when he returns there’s a new voice with him. 

“...It won’t work anyway! And I don’t need another corpse on my hands!” Joey, that was Joey’s voice. Why was he here?

“He's already infected. We need to sacrifice him now, so our Lord can save his soul-”

“Damn it Sammy, stop talking like a lunatic!” Joey snaps. Grant can hear him pacing, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. After a few moments the noise gets louder as Joey approaches, kneeling and cupping the other man’s chin with his hand as he forces him to look up.

“Grant, look at me,” he demands. Grant opens his eyes slowly, struggling to get Joey’s face to come into focus through the haze. It was hard to breathe, like his lungs were filled with water, and he was so tired...

He gives up and closes them again as Joey removes his hand, mumbling something under his breath. The other man stands back up and is quiet for a few moments, the only noise in the room coming from a persistently dripping pipe.

“Do it quickly,” Joey snaps at Sammy as he leaves the room. “You know how I feel about this.”

Grant can feel someone tugging at the rope around his wrists, loosening it. “What’s going on?” he manages to choke out. Words seemed almost impossible to form, the sentences breaking apart in his mind and falling from his lips in confused jumbles. Confusion gives way to fear as he struggles against the ropes again, but he only manages to fall sideways, hands still bound.

“Don’t be afraid, little sheep,” Sammy whispers, grabbing him by the shirt collar. “It will all be over soon enough.” He drags him a short distance across the floor, then forces him to sit upright in a kneeling position. There’s a screeching noise behind him that stabs into his mind, sharp and painful.

In front of him is a vast black area, expanding endlessly outward, and it takes Grant a moment to realize that it’s not the floor that’s black, but rather a huge empty space that’s been completely flooded with ink. Looking up reveals the cause - a shattered pipe, dripping ink into the basin rhythmically.

Something slams into the floor behind him with a heavy crash and a burst of steam, and he manages to turn around enough to see the Ink Machine, lowered so it was sitting on the floor. It’s on now, and the noise it’s making is awful, like the machine itself was screaming.

Sammy grabs him from the back, forcing him to lean forward, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of some sort of strange symbol on the floor beneath him. The ink is less than a foot away from his face now - it’s impossibly black, blacker than anything he had ever seen before. The only movement on the surface is a few small ripples created by the tears rolling down his face, which are lost instantly in the black void. He wants to struggle but he can’t, not with the ink beckoning to him.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep,” Sammy whispers, shoving him into the abyss.

The ink is ice cold, and the shock of it makes Grant involuntarily gasp, his last bit of air escaping from his mouth and disappearing up into the void. He can feel the ink getting into his lungs, into his throat, but he can’t struggle and it’s not because of the ropes binding him. His lungs burn, everything burns, and it was dark, darker than he would have thought possible.

He stops feeling the burning sensation after a moment, and then he stops feeling anything. He just keeps sinking, deeper and deeper...

__________________________________

It was cold. Cold and wet.

Someone was grabbing him, pulling him away from the wetness, and he squeaks in protest. It wasn’t fair! He wanted to go back to sleep!

He can hear the person speaking, but he can’t make out all of the words. Something about asking if he was awake. Of course he was awake! They just woke him up, didn’t they?

“Edgar?” they try again. He burrows his way into their lap where it’s warm and tries to look around, but he doesn’t have eyes yet. Whoever it was sounded nice, friendly, but there was a strange edge to the way they speak that he can’t place. He knew that voice, yet he didn’t.

The ink making up his body suddenly spasms, twists. All Edgar can do is squeak in pain as the ink contorts, warping itself into a different shape. His limbs stretch out, refining themselves into fingers, forming into bone and flesh. He stares, transfixed. Hands. He hadn’t had hands before, had he?

His thoughts are abruptly cut off as the figure swears, shoving him off of his lap. He hisses angrily, wheeling around to face them. Part of his face burns, and he can see now in blurry black-and-white. In front of him is a massive machine, spilling gallons upon gallons of ink onto the floor from its spicket. In front of that is the man, who steps back away from him, recoiling in disgust.

“Damn it, I knew it wouldn’t work,” he mutters under his breath, and Edgar recognizes the man as Joey, except that wasn’t possible. He didn’t know this person, did he?

Joey squats down on the floor, suddenly cheerful, holding out his hand in front of him. “Why don’t you come here?” His voice is friendly, but his face is not. Edgar backs away, dragging himself on his half-formed legs.

“Grant, come here.” The cheerfulness is gone now.

Edgar puts his hands over his head, which was pounding with a stabbing pain. He can’t think straight. Grant. That was his name, wasn’t it? No, he was Edgar, he had always been-

The pain reaches its peak as his head abruptly rips open along the top, forming teeth and a tongue. The human scream that spills from it isn’t his. He claws at the new mouth frantically, ink spilling into the floor. No, no, this was wrong-

“I said COME HERE, DAMN IT!” Joey storms forward, reaching a hand out to grab him.

He doesn’t have fangs anymore, but he remembers how to bite. There’s a metallic taste that fills his head and a sickening cracking noise as his teeth clamp down on Joey’s hand. He screams, recoling, then draws his foot back and drives it into Edgar’s side. The spider releases his grip as he skids backwards over the wooden floorboards, squeaking in pain.

“SAMMY!” Joey barks, clutching his injured hand and backing away from the inky figure on the ground. Edgar slowly lifts his head, looking behind him. Some sort of inky mass is rising from the sea of black in front of them, as if the ink itself were trying to escape onto shore. Slowly it refines into a masked figure, who lays another mass of ink on the ground gently. They slowly move whatever the thing on the ground was into a horizontal position, ignoring Joey completely.

“Sammy!” Joey snaps again, voice tinged with pain and rage. “Lock that... abomination up somewhere!”

The masked figure raises his head for a moment, studying Edgar through cardboard eyes before looking back down again. “Whatever form he takes, it is our Lord’s decision, is it not? It is not our place to go against His will.”

Sammy lifts some part of the mass up, and as the ink drips down Edgar can make out a hand. Sammy gently draws it across the figure’s chest, then does the same with its other arm. Edgar perks up. Someone dead? Some of his best friends were skeletons. Maybe they would want to play with him.

Edgar glances back at Joey, wondering if he would try to grab him again. Insead the man takes a few steps back, face contorted in revolusion, and Edgar realizes that he was scared of him, scared of his own creation.

He cautiously drags himself across the floor, unable to stand fully on his half-formed limbs. Unlike Joey, the masked figure doesn’t seem to fear him at all. “It’s okay, little sheep,” he murmurs, moving aside so Edgar can get close. “You can look.”

Edgar nudges the body once with his hand, then pushes against it with both limbs, trying to get it to wake up. But it remains motionless, save for the ink slowly dripping away and puddling down around it.

“This body was poisoned,” Sammy explains. The corpse’s mouth is still wide open, black even on the inside, and Sammy slowly pushes it shut. “You would have ended up like me. Trapped in the abyss, lost... But through the grace of our Lord, you were saved. Your soul was still there, so He graced you with a new body, a new form. You should feel very blessed... do you understand?”

He didn’t, not really.

Edgar stares at the corpse, transfixed. Something stirs in the corner of his mind, except he’s pretty sure it’s not his memory. He remembers it being cold, noisy, hard to breathe. He was drowning-

A body. A dead body. 

His body.

Both minds scream and claw at themselves in a panic, trying to get the ink off as it once again writhes and reforms. A searing pain shoots through the left side of their face, and half of the world is suddenly in color. Another throat and mouth form, this time in the correct spot, and they nearly choke on the excess ink. They manage to stand up as another limb forces its way out of their side, transforming into a gloved hand.

Get to the office, call for help...

Edgar isn’t sure why this is so important to his other mind, but he can feel his other self’s desperation as clearly as if it was his own. He rises to their newly formed legs unsteadily, his entire body aching. He looks around, half expecting Joey to still be standing there, but the room is empty save for Sammy and the Machine.

They stumble out of the room as quickly as they can, Sammy making no attempt to stop them. The winding hallways are strange and foreign to Edgar, but Grant navigates through them effortlessly, sometimes walking bipedally and sometimes scampering on all of their limbs. The halls swim around them dangerously, dripping ink - even their own body drips and leaves trails of it through the halls. They drag themselves through the doorway, eyeing the pipe on the wall uneasily, but the ink no longer calls to them. It no longer needed to.

Tape player. Use the tape player, call for help...

He grabs at his chair and uses it to pull themselves upward, blindly hitting buttons as another convulsion overtakes them. Grant tries to speak, but the noise catches in their first throat and comes out as nothing but a whimper. He starts tearing at the stitches over his mouth in a panic, a third limb starting to form out of their right side.

He thrashes around blindly in pain, unable to scream, knocking something off the desk and shattering it. Edgar is scared, crying, but the noise comes out as a strangled snarl. Ink separates from their back and starts to split down the middle to form two separate limbs, then stops. Grant struggles to stay lucid, to stop transforming, but he can’t do either.

Help, he tries again, but something is blocking one of their throats and he can only whimper again, gasping for breath. They clutch the table for support as the ink solidifies, forming flesh and bone, forcing them to cough up the thick ink that had been choking them. There’s excess ink dripping off of them, in their lungs, breathing for them. Edgar slumps forward onto the table, gasping for breath, mashing buttons on the recorder until it finally turns off. They lay there for a long time, Edgar crying, Grant in shock.

They start to write.

Over the walls, the floor, using the ink dripping off of their body. They write everything they can’t say, covering every inch of the surface, writing until their fingers are bleeding ink and they’re too tired to move. They write until the walls are as inky and black as they are.

It takes Edgar a long time to realize he’s screaming, and then he realizes that it’s his other mind screaming, the noise dying in their first mouth and coming out a nothing but a muffled whine. It hurt their throat a little, but Edgar just lies on the floor, not daring to move.

He stays there for a very long time, waiting patiently until the horror his other mind feels numbs back into shock, until the screaming quiets and then stops. He gets up slowly, cautiously, making sure the movement wouldn’t cause them to start screaming again. Their whole body aches, but he forces himself to move forward, slipping out the door.

This room gave them headaches.

__________________________________

Edgar was pretty sure that something was wrong with his other mind.

He doesn’t ask, of course, because Charley and Barley got annoyed with him if he asked too many questions. It was just a suspicion he had.

For one, his other mind had very confused thoughts, ones that didn’t make any sense to Edgar. Most of them were repeated, over and over; he couldn’t always remember if they were real or were just dreams. Sometimes he didn’t think at all, which was scary for both of them. On the other hand if he thought too much he’d send them both into a panic attack, so Edgar tried to distract him if he started thinking sad things again.

He pounces on a can of bacon soup, which he had been using as a toy for a few days now, because even though they were hungry Grant had refused to let him eat it. It springs out from under his hands and goes flying into the far wall, smacking Charley in the process. Edgar lets out a garbled giggle in delight, snatching the can from a distance before Charley has a chance to take it from him. Charley snarls, smacking his hand with his pipe in a rather un-Charley-like way.

Edgar had seen that kind of thing happen with his friends a lot. Suddenly they wouldn’t be his friends anymore and he’d have to wait patiently for them to wake back up, which wasn’t easy as he hated waiting. His other mind almost never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to, unless they were in danger or he felt Edgar was doing something foolish. Edgar suspected he was simply too tired to fight back.

He didn’t know much about his other half. He had learned from his memories that his name was Grant, and that he used to work here. He also liked numbers - he counted every day, keeping track of the minutes and hours as they passed, even though Edgar suspected he had lost count several times already. He wasn’t really sure why it was so important to his other mind anyway.

He tosses the can above his head with their mechanical arm, which ricochets off a rafter in the ceiling and clatters to the ground in front of him, and he stares at it, feeling inexplicably sad. His other mind was sad all the time - sometimes if Edgar was happy Grant would feel it, but sometimes if Grant was sad it would seep into Edgar’s feelings and make him sad too. And sometimes they’d even stare thoughts - he can hear him now in the corner of his mind. He was so tired. He needed to lie down, needed to rest...

Edgar stares at the can in front of him. It didn’t seem very fun anymore.

He picks it up carefully and sets it on one of the nearby hallway shelves, where hopefully it would be safe until he was ready to play again. He picks out a spot on a couch to lie down on, burying his head under his arms. His head hurts, which it does sometimes if he lets Grant think for too long, and he scratches at his second mouth unhappily before curling up to sleep.

Maybe Grant would want to play tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so sad then.

Maybe.

[lovelylogans]

love light gleams

masterpost | chapter one | next chapter

christmas eve will find me where the love light gleams i’ll be home for christmas if only in my dreams

-bing crosby, i’ll be home for christmas

part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen 

words: 57,686

notes: the way i came up with virgil’s dad’s name is, in fact, the nerdiest naming shortcut i’ve ever used. also, i used a middle name generator to come up with virgil’s middle name and That popped up and then i went back and did it again and that popped up and i Literally Couldn’t Resist. many thanks to @teacupfulofstarshine​ and @ for talking this work through with me!!!

virgil checks the time, again. yep. still 8:27 in the morning. still three more minutes. still he’s just sitting here, waiting, staring eagle-eyed at the last remaining people having breakfast or the people on coffee runs to see if they need anything else, just to have something to fill the time. 

he ends up just restacking the donuts in the little cake stand—it seemed a little crooked, and sure, the rest of the diner has been polished up nicely, but it’s just—they’re uneven. it’ll be noticeable if someone looks closely.

how many times have you seen dad rearrange the donut stand, he scolds himself. they won’t care, you’re overreacting. it’ll be fine. they’re your parents.

he doesn’t really stop, though. once he’s started it, he may as well keep going. 

it takes all of a minute and thirty seconds. 8:28. two more minutes. maybe he should wipe down the counter again, even though he did that five minutes ago. or top off the coffee pots, even though he did that seven minutes ago. 

he ends up going back into the kitchen to see if they need to add anything extra to the usual supply run that happens each week, checking the fridge and the freezer and jotting things down on the notepad he’s got hanging up on the kitchen wall—they should probably get more condiments—when he hears the bell jangle, and a familiar voice booms, “taylor, you old tightwad, you better not have done away with my son to buy our lot next door, i haven’t forgotten those threats!”

virgil grins. he hears taylor spluttering irritably at his mom. just like old times.

"where’s my son?” she calls.

“kitchen!” virgil shouts, finishing his scrawl as soon as possible, capping the pen and darting to the door of the kitchen, catching the doorframe and leaning so the diner comes into view so he doesn’t look like a little kid running to see his parents, even if that’s how he feels.

his mom is already crossing behind the counter, his dad trailing in her wake, and he steps forward in time for her to wrap her arms around him.

“there’s my baby,” she says, and virgil closes his eyes, really, genuinely feeling like a kid for a second, just for a second—she still smells like cinnamon and lemon-scented cleaning supplies, even after not working in the diner for half a year, and she’s wearing the same soft plum sweater he’s seen her wear hundreds of times with the same puffy black coat she wears in the winter.

“hi, mom,” he says, muffled by her shoulder.

she draws back, smiling, and keeps her hands on his shoulders. she still has the dark hair that virgil inherited from her, the bright blue eyes that virgil didn’t, the mischievous smile that got passed to his siblings. “happy birthday, bunny.”

“ mom,” he grumbles, ducking his head, and she laughs, ruffling his hair.

“i’m allowed to embarrass you, i’m your mother,” she says.

“virgil,” his dad says, mild as always. still with the brown eyes virgil got from him, the brown hair that’s just enough lighter than virgil and his mother’s that it’s a noticeable difference, tanner skin, from the italian side of the family (his last name used to be palmisano, before he changed it to danes after he got married to virgil’s mom, virgil is technically a family name, along with one of the... other parts of his name) the calm demeanor that virgil really wishes he had, sometimes.

“hey, dad,” he says, and his mom tugs virgil closer so that his dad can hug him, just for a moment, before he places a hand on his cheek.

“are you all right?” he says. “you look peaky. pale.”

“i always look pale, ” virgil points out.

“not coming down with anything?” 

“no, dad.”

“sleeping eight hours a night?” he says, narrow-eyed, and virgil hesitates for just a moment too long.

“ cinnabun,” his mother scolds.

“i’m running the diner!” he says defensively. “if anyone should know how busy that is, it’s you two, but i’m fine!”

his mom pinches his other cheek, so now each of his parents have a hand on his face, framing it. “no, you’ve definitely lost weight. three meals a day?”

" yes, mom,” he says. 

“prove it,” she challenges. “sit down, we can have breakfast.”

“in a second,” he says. “i’m just gonna make sure everything’s set before i take a break. you can make the rounds and dad can go sit in a booth and gossip with mrs. torres about how i’ve been doing lately, i’ll bring you some coffee.”

his father looks mollified—which is fair, mrs. torres is a pretty frequent diner customer and a prolific gossip and as such will probably know a lot more about virgil than virgil might even know about himself—so with their coffee in hand, his parents go to make the rounds. since a lot of virgil’s regulars are their old regulars, they’re saying hello to everyone and catching up on all the happenings of the town since they’d moved away.

his dad is deep in conversation with mrs. torres (probably somehow trying to ascertain the exact amount of sleep he’s been getting based on how often the diner’s been open early or late) and his mom is cheerfully picking a fight with taylor over all the associations he’s part of in an attempt to rise in power in the town.

virgil inhales deeply, smelling the coffee, the bacon, pancakes and syrup. it’s just—it’s nice. it’s back to the old times. it’s just like how things were before.

he serves some breakfast, and tops off coffee, and he’s hauling a tray of pancakes and french toast and omelets to a table full of businesspeople when the bell jingles again. he glances over, balancing the tray on his shoulder.

“hey,” virgil says to patton gruffly, and patton smiles at him—logan’s hidden by the way he’s been placed in the baby carrier strapped to the front of patton’s chest, but he can see the massive pom-pom on top of his winter hat moving, so logan’s probably awake and not crying, which is frankly miraculous.

“morning,” patton says. “um—happy birthday.”

virgil blinks. “how’d you—?”

“maria,” patton admits. “plus you mentioned it when we met. twenty-three, right?”

“right. well, thanks,” virgil says, and gestures to the dining room with his free hand. “you two settle in, i’ll bring you some hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton nods, and heads for a booth as virgil heads for the table and finishes serving breakfast, checking that they don’t need anything else, and virgil heads back behind the counter.

just in time to see his parents both wandering slowly over to patton’s booth, zeroing in on the baby. they probably think they look subtle. virgil quickly fills up a mug with hot cocoa/coffee, so he can rush over and make sure his parents don’t steal logan. 

“i haven’t seen you, are you new in town?” his mother is saying by the time he drops off the mug.

“he is,” virgil says, leaning his hip against the booth. “patton, sorry in advance, these are my parents, mark and meredith danes.”

“oh!” patton says, and shakes hands with his mom, and then with his dad. “very nice to meet you both.”

his parents are exchanging a glance, one of those Married Couple looks that no one else can understand. 

“so, how long have you been in town?” mark asks.

“um,” he says. “a month or so?”

“why sideshire?” meredith asks, and patton exchanges a slightly panicked look with virgil. virgil clears his throat.

“um, so, patton, look out, they’re definitely going to try and steal logan because they’re desperate for grandchildren.”

“you should have some kids,” mark says.

“ dad,” he says pointedly. “i’m twenty-tw— three, plus i’m single, i’m not about to have any kids. i’m busy dealing with the diner.”

“well, they could help out,” mark says.

“half the reason we had you is because of the free labor,” meredith says fondly, and virgil rolls his eyes.

“if you want grandkids, bug wyatt, he’s oldest,” virgil says pointedly. “or essie! she’s getting married, bug her!”

“aw, it’s cute that you think we aren’t doing that too, bunny,” meredith says.

“ mom,” virgil groans.

“bunny?” patton says, amused.

“we all have food-based nicknames,” virgil grumbles. “they ran out of material by the time they got to me.”

“ cinnamon bun has the good fortune of offering even more nicknames, mister,” meredith says.

“oh, sure,” virgil says. “wyatt and essie and silas all get relatively normal ones, but by the time you got to freddie and i it’s snickerdoodle and bunny, this definitely isn’t eldest child favoritism.”

virgil isn’t just talking about nicknames here, but he digresses.

“why cinnamon bun?” patton asks, glancing between virgil and his mother, a smile on his face.

“he always fell right to sleep whenever we swaddled him, so we basically always swaddled him,” meredith says. “and he just looked like the sweetest little bun of a baby.” 

“as such, he became cinnamon bun,” mark adds. 

“that’s—”

“don’t—”

“ sweet,” patton finishes, and sticks his tongue out at virgil, who lets out a theatrical groan at the pun, mostly because patton gets very satisfied with himself when he does. 

his parents look thoroughly charmed. logan, however, makes a squalling noise of protest.

“oh, hey there,” patton says. “hey, i just fed you, you okay?”

he frees logan from his carrier, and holds him in his arms, and virgil sees both his parents melt, absolutely weak for the presence of a baby. he’s pretty sure the reason for his and freddie’s existences were partially about, yes, free labor, but also they wanted to have a baby around the house.

his parents are exchanging another one of those Married Couple looks. virgil wants to ask, but patton’s making comforting noises at logan, and he quiets a little.

“you just wanted attention, huh?”

“oh, he’s precious,” mark says.

“how old is he?” meredith asks. 

“two months on the third,” patton says. “so i guess a month and a half, give or take?”

his parents make the appropriate cooing noises, though virgil’s pretty sure that they’d react the same way if patton had said any passage of time from birth.

patton rocks logan a little, more and more, until logan’s quiet again. his parents are Looking At Each Other like that again.

“patton, would you like to join us for breakfast?” meredith says, and patton looks up, startled.

“oh, you don’t have to,” patton begins.

“i’m honestly trying to figure out the best strategy to get you to let me hold the baby,” meredith admits breezily, no shame, and patton laughs.

“well, you can now, if you want?”

so meredith swaps seats so she can slide in next to patton in the booth, and carefully starts cradling logan, and mark gets up too, straightening the hem of his sweater vest.

“virgil,” mark says. “why don’t i follow you back into the kitchen, to help get things settled before you take a break? i want to see how it’s doing.”

that makes sense—his dad’s domain was the kitchen, while his mom had been out front. so virgil nods, and he gestures vaguely back toward the counter.

“don’t steal logan,” he tells his mom.

“no promises,” meredith says without looking up from logan, and virgil and his father fall into step together.

“i didn’t really change much,” virgil says, when they’re in the kitchen. “just rearranged the cabinets a little, and—”

“virgil,” his father says, voice serious and quiet. “how old is that boy?”

virgil hesitates, looks around the kitchen—mostly empty—and pitches his voice as soft as his dad’s. “sixteen, but he turns seventeen next month.”

his father lets out a slow breath, and says, “his parents?”

“he’s a runaway, so i don’t know them,” virgil says. “but from what i hear, it’s not good. he moved here because when he was running away he happened to come into the in the diner, and it was—”

he breaks off, remembering it, and all the things that had happened since; how patton hands had been shaking for ten minutes on either side of his first attempted call home, which he’d hung up on before the phone had even gotten through its first ring, and how virgil had made the excuse of taking a break to sit with him when he called and the way patton’s voice trembled after. how he’d used a burner phone he bought in the city to be sure they couldn’t track his call to sideshire. how he’d held logan tight afterward in an attempt to calm himself down.

how scared patton had been. of losing what tenuous new start he’d had in sideshire, of losing his newfound independence, of losing logan, of any legal action his parents might take. how helpless virgil had felt to comfort him. 

so virgil might not know what his parents are like, but jesus, if patton’s that scared of going back—

“it’s not good,” virgil repeats. 

“not—” his father begins, looking incensed.

“no,” virgil says quickly. “no, no—i mean, they sound like assholes, but i don’t think they were abusive.”

his father’s face smooths back into its usual placid expression. 

“and he’s living... where?”

“at the inn,” virgil says, and scowls. “in the poolhouse.”

“in the—?”

“not maria’s choice,” he says. “she offered him a room, or at least somewhere that’s at least inside, but he didn’t want to take away business. i mean, i offered—“ he gestures above their heads. “but, i mean, i don’t blame him for not taking it, it’s for one person, not two people plus a baby—”

“not the lot next door?” he says.

“dad, that’s no place for a baby, it’s under construction,” virgil says, and his father sighs.

“i know, it’s just—“ his father frowns. “it gets too cold here, in the winter, and i can’t imagine a pool house has much in way of insulation.”

“we’re trying to work on it when we can,” virgil says. “but—i mean, it’s been a pretty mild winter so far, thank god, maria and i have been planning on tugging them in for a sleepover when it gets too cold.”

a familiar voice coos, “oh, what pretty eyes—i know it’s not everything, but he really is a cute baby, patton.”

“well, thank you, ma’am,” patton says, and the kitchen door opens to see patton holding logan again, his mom staring lovingly at the baby.

“we’re eating back here, aren’t we?” meredith says.

“i—yeah, yeah,” virgil says. “um—just here, i don’t think all of us will fit into the office, what do you—?”

“no,” meredith says, cutting him off. “you’re not working, it’s your birthday.”

“ you’re not working, you both retired,” virgil says.

“ none of you are working, it’s family time,” sarah says exasperatedly, sweeping past them with a tray, and his parents laugh.

“retired?” patton asks, glancing between them. 

“well, relocated,” meredith says. “we’re making a new diner but taking a step back from running it day-to-day, you know.”

“not open yet, but it will be soon,” mark adds. 

“what’s the estimate on that again?” virgil says. “you wanted all of us to come down for the opening, right?”

“all of us?” patton says. 

“siblings—wyatt, esther, silas, winifred, and i,” virgil says. at patton’s startled look, he gives his parents a Look. “yeah, virgil doesn’t sound so out of place with all that, does it?”

“we like old-fashioned names,” meredith says, unrepentant. 

“i mean, i can’t talk, my name is patton,” patton says.

“and what a lovely name it is,” meredith says. 

“well, thank you,” patton says. “i thought so too.”

“speaking of all those old-fashioned names,” mark says dryly, “virgil, do you know when your siblings are coming to town?”

“freddie’s coming tomorrow, silas and essie and annabelle are coming on the twenty-third, and wyatt can’t get off work until christmas eve, so he’ll be there in the morning,” virgil rattles off. 

“ah, wyatt,” mark says.

“darn wyatt, coming in late for family bonding time because he’s held up by being a surgical resident,” meredith quips.

“whoa, really?” patton says. “what kind?”

“orthopedic,” they all chorus. 

“still a resident,” virgil adds. “but he’s doing well.”

“that’s great,” patton says sincerely. “a surgeon, wow.”

“we knew as soon as he kept picking out operation for game night,” meredith jokes, and patton giggles. 

virgil’s found himself trying to make him laugh a lot, over the past month—when he does, it seems like the new bags under his eyes and the almost-always-furrowed brow disappear, and the transformation’s practically magic. eyes crinkling at the corners, smile wide and bright, carefree and happy. he looks like a kid, just for a moment. like he should.

it seems like, after seeing patton laugh, his mom picks up on that mission too.

she’s cracking jokes left and right—telling old diner stories, resorting to puns and knock-knock jokes, at some point, which patton sure doesn’t seem to mind—as sarah ends up taking their orders and his dad takes his turn on holding logan.  

mark danes is usually a pretty straight-faced, non-reactive kind of man, but every time he holds a baby, it gets pitched out of the window. virgil basically sees his dad melt into a puddle of syrup as he coos softly at the sleeping logan.

he kind of pouts a little when he has to put him down to eat.

after sarah darts off, meredith asks, “so what are you two planning on doing for the holidays?” and virgil freezes, just a little. he has been very carefully Not Asking that exact question, but now—

“oh,” patton says, and laughs a little nervously. “um, i’m not sure yet? working, maybe, i think maria mentioned something about holiday overtime pay—”

“you can’t work on christmas,” meredith says, aghast. “maria wouldn’t make you—“

“well, no, but since i don’t—i mean, i’m not really—“ patton fumbles.

“right, so, work is a potential plan,” virgil cuts in, mostly out of pity, in an attempt to take some of the attention of patton. “could you pass me the syrup?”

patton does, obligingly, and by the time he’s set the pitcher in virgil’s hand it seems like he’s a bit less spooked, a bit more settled.

“i guess i haven’t thought about it very much,” patton says. “it’s not very—i mean, i’m not much of a christmas person, i guess.”

virgil frowns. “you’ve been singing logan christmas songs since december started.”

which is true—logan does not seem to be a fan of “frosty the snowman” or “i saw mommy kissing santa claus,” considering he cries whenever patton tries to sing them, but he likes “deck the halls” and “god rest ye merry gentlemen.” virgil’d had no idea a baby could be so opinionated about music.

patton flushes, and virgil immediately feels bad. patton clears his throat.

“i don’t know my plan, really,” patton finishes in a mumble.

“well, if you’re looking for a plan,” meredith says, “surely virgil’s brought up—”

virgil could kick her—he would, if the counter wasn’t in his way—and hisses, “ mom, he doesn’t have to—”

“did you not offer? virgil danes, we raised you to have manners , for god’s sake, don’t tell me—“

“—well i didn’t know if we were still doing that, there isn’t as much space in the apartment as there was in the house—“

“—oh, and you expect the diner will be open on christmas, we’ve always done it in the diner, don’t try to pass off lack of space as an—“

“—well i didn’t know, usually you’re in charge of christmas stuff—!”

“—we’re having it in your diner this year, virgil, it’s not ours anymore—”

“ dear,” mark says, equable even as patton squirms a little in the face of virgil getting a parental lecture, “let’s remember that it’s virgil’s birthday, he has a friend here, and there’s still almost a week to christmas, shall we?”

meredith settles back with a huff, picking up her fork and knife to pointedly cut a triangle of pancake, and virgil, feeling his face heat, nudges at his hashbrowns with his fork, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

“i was going to bring it up once i knew the whole plan,” virgil mutters, and his mother sighs—a familiar sigh, one that’s been decreasing since his teen years, but one that still grates anytime he hears it—and takes a sip of her coffee before she speaks. 

“it is your first time planning the family christmas,” she says. “sorry. long night of travel. you know how it is.”

he does. his mother, impetuous and quick-tempered and a direct inverse to his coolheaded father, was quick to snap but quick to calm—these kinds of squabbles with his mom tended to look bad, from the outside, but most every member of the danes family knew these fights are over and forgotten as soon as someone says sorry. 

at least, it’s over and forgotten as soon as someone said sorry with his mom. mileage on that ranged when it came to the other members of the danes family, considering all of them have been called some variation of “an impossible, bitter, surly, stubborn, infuriating killjoy” by taylor doose at least once in a continuation of the “doose vs danes” family feud that had been going on for two generations. granted, those two generations consist of taylor, meredith danes, and meredith danes’ children, so it’s not as impressive as it sounds.

“it’s fine,” virgil says, and it is, mostly. since he’s the only member of the danes family who’s prone to keeping arguments in the back of his head and running them over and over and over to see if the thousandth time he thought about it meant that he’d suddenly discover exactly why they hated him and why he was bound to be disowned. he’s also the only member of the danes family with anxiety. so. even though he might think about how everything is about to go wrong and collapse around him—

“it’s fine,” he repeats, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. or at least, he thinks that, but his mother relaxes her shoulders and smiles at him, sheepish and apologetic, and... and it really is fine.

patton, observing this, seems to relax a little, too.

“patton,” mark says, cutting through any of the remaining awkwardness, “you wouldn’t happen to know maria’s christmas plans, would you?”

“she said she was going to visit her son, i think?” patton says uncertainly, and both mark and meredith make noises of recognition.

“oh, i wonder how john’s doing in—was it santa fe?”

“santa barbara,” virgil corrects absently, and the rest of the breakfast continues with virgil catching up his parents on the latest of the sideshire gossip, patton chiming in, when he can. 

when they’re straightening up the dishes once they’re done, and virgil offers another refill for everyone, patton checks the time and says, “mine better be to go.”

“right, work,” virgil says, making sure that his cup is half-caf—he’ll probably notice, he always does, somehow, but honestly, the kid should cut back on his caffeine intake, it’s ridiculous—before he hands it over.

“well,” his mother says, offering her hand to shake. “it was very nice to meet one of virgil’s friends, patton—“

“— mom —”

“—and since i’m apparently still in charge of christmas plans, if you find yourself free, we’d love it if you and logan stopped by,” meredith says, chipper, and patton blinks.

“um—?”

“only if you want to,” virgil says hastily, but his father raises his voice just slightly to say, “well, since all the kids are coming and none of them have blessed us with grandchildren—“

“— dad—”

“consider it?” mark continues. “especially since maria won’t be in town, and it’s baby’s first christmas, and all. i know he won’t remember it, but a parent does—”

“ dad, seriously—“

“well, think it over!” his mother declares, as she ushers patton toward the door, “and have a wonderful day, and no matter what you decide, i would love to see your precious little logan again—“

"o kay, thanks, mom, i think patton gets it,” virgil says loudly. “you don’t need to walk him all the way back to the inn, you can go back to interrogating mrs. torres now.”

virgil takes over the ushering and ends up ushering both himself and patton (and logan, by proxy) right out the door.

“uh,” patton says. “so. those are your parents.”

“i am so sorry,” virgil says. “i think their social filters skipped a generation and then all got crammed into me for an overabundance of filter, or something. i think that’s what anxiety is, right?”

patton laughs, soft. “they were nice,” he says reassuringly. “really, i liked them.”

“seriously, you don’t have to feel pressured if you don’t wanna come,” virgil says. “they can be kinda pushy, but if you don’t wanna come, i can—”

“virgil,” patton says. “i—just let me think about it?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “yeah, of course. um. i hope you two have a good day at work.”

“you too,” patton says, and virgil watches close enough to make sure that he and logan cross the street safely, to take a deep breath, and to re-enter the chaos that is having part of his family in town.

oh, great. now he gets to look forward to everyone in his family in town.

⁂

“ah, patton!” maria says, and patton comes to a stop, smiling the best he can at her. she’s nice. she’s incredibly nice. patton is still a little nervous around her, but that’s because she’s, you know. his boss? and landlord? even though he knows that she’s incredibly nice.

“hello, ma’am.”

“oh, when am i going to break you of all that ma’am nonsense?” maria says warmly, before handing him a slip of paper. “now, i’ve got your schedule for the day written down, here, but if you wouldn’t mind meeting me in my office for lunch?”

“oh!” patton says, and winces when his voice cracks. “um, okay. did i do something wrong—?”

“no, no, nothing of the sort!” maria says hastily. “you’ve been a model employee. since you’ve been here a month or so, i just want to talk about how you’re settling in, that’s all. very routine.”

“oh,” patton says, and tries for a smile again. “um, okay! sure. when should i drop by?”

“noon will work just fine,” maria says, and smiles warmly at logan before patting patton on the shoulder. “now, pip pip! we’ve got a lot of work to do. it’s a new day!”

“yes, it is,” patton says, and opens up the schedule. he thinks that they’re made only for him because one, he’s newest, and on decreased hours since maria had pointed out that patton wold still be on paternity leave if he’d started working at the inn before logan was born, but two, he’s just been really forgetful lately, probably since he doesn’t sleep that much anymore. he isn’t sure how much of it is logan crying, or general insomnia, or being kept up at night by his head, or the fact that his “bed” in the poolhouse is a busted old pull-out bed that was a reject from one of the rooms; maria keeps telling him that she’ll get him a mattress, but he made her promise not to rush it, or anything, so he’ll get a proper bed when a customer damages one. but, anyways, he’s been very forgetful, and he really only remembered that it’s virgil’s birthday because maria mentioned it on his way out the door. 

which he feels terrible about. sure, virgil didn’t mention the exact day of his birthday, when they met, but he still should have asked people. he didn’t even get him anything, and with how fast his funds are depleting, even with a job, he isn’t going to be able to get him anything nice. and virgil really deserves something nice, because virgil’s been so kind to him. 

really, everyone in sideshire is being kind to him. it’s kind of weird. because they’re not like his parents or his parents’ friends' version of kind, the “i’m being nice to you now so you’ll do something nice for me later” kind of kind, but real, genuine kindness.  

cindy in the kitchen had given him a ton of old baby clothes that might last logan until he’s two, swearing up and down that they’d been meaning to drop everything at goodwill for ages now and really patton was doing them a favor if he just swung by their house and picked it up, their wife would be glad to see them gone, she’d been lecturing cindy about it for ages.

hector with landscaping had been sealing up all the drafty parts of the poolhouse during his breaks, winking at patton and making him promise he won’t tell maria, because apparently hector was supposed to do that three summers ago and he’s really just catching up on late work, and patton doesn’t want anciano hector be in trouble with the big boss, now, did he? plus he’s promised to take a look at the clawfoot bathtub in the poolhouse where patton bathes, where the water never really heats.

pauline with the front desk had sniffed at his hair and said he looked like an unkempt puppy and given him a haircut, for free, and then a ton of her husband’s old sweaters, because patton had to at least look like he was proud to work at the inn, saying all of this sternly, even though when patton left he’d found three twenties slipped into various pockets that she refused to take back every time he’d tried to confront her about it.

rafael with repairs, after hearing he was trans, had donated some of his old binders for patton to use once he’s done with nursing logan, since he didn’t need them anymore, and had promised patton that this was a good place for trans people and if he needed anyone there was a group of trans or otherwise non-gender-conforming people in town who met up at remy aserinsky’s coffee shop once every month and he could give patton some of their numbers if he wanted and patton had nearly cried . (well, patton’s close to crying a lot these days, but all the post-partum research he’s been doing says that’s normal. even without.... everything else.)

and that’s just people at the inn alone, the big things they’d done, not even counting all the small, little kindnesses along the way—saving him a seat at lunch, making sure patton got whatever kind of cookie he wanted, helping pick up the slack with any rooms patton had forgotten, before he’d had a written schedule, picking up logan and bouncing him and cooing at him, and now logan has a cadre of honorary aunts and uncles and godparents. 

not even counting the store-owners who point patton to where to find sales or coupons or tell him when to swing by so he gets the old food they discard and donate at the end of the day. not even counting just the neighbors, who always wave or say hello or murmur at logan, and—

and virgil. god, virgil, who’s feeding him and helping with logan and now inviting patton and logan to his family christmas, who’s there to listen and hug patton, if he needs it, and patton—

patton’s overwhelmed, is the only word for it. he’s bowled over by the level of kindness here. it’s a level of niceness that patton would have thought impossible, like it’s a completely unattainable utopia. people are kind here like it’s a given, like it’s thoughtless to be good, kind, gentle. they’re kind in the way that patton wants logan to see, growing up, to learn about helping people and being nice like it’s a given, and not an exchange of services. they’re kind in the way that patton desperately wants to be, but he knows he falls short every time, and—and he doesn’t even know how to start paying people back for everything they’re doing for him.

so that thought’s rattling around his head all morning along with everything else—really, it’s been knocking around up there for the past few weeks—so distracting that it’s nearly noon before he remembers that he’s due in maria’s office and he nearly swears before he hastily finishes making the bed of the latest room and dashes up the stairs, swinging around the doorframe, one hand bracing logan’s head.

“hi!” patton pants. “am i late?”

“right on time,” maria says and gestures. “please, take a seat anywhere you like.”

patton hesitates, eyes going to one specific spot, and maria laughs.

“i put that there on purpose,” she says reassuringly, rising from her desk and settling on the patterned, childish rug with, well—a nice spot for logan to lie down, really.

“um, okay,” patton says, and lifts logan from his carrier, unbuckling it, before he gently sets logan on his back. logan blinks up at him, considering, before he sticks his fingers into his mouth. patton sits back, and tries to make eye contact with maria, just for a moment. well. tries.

“adorable,” maria murmurs, eyes soundly fixed on the baby.

“sure is,” patton says proudly. 

“and he’s doing well?” maria checks.

“other than the colic? healthiest little baby there could be, the six-week doctor’s appointment was a few days ago,” patton says. he’d swapped the appointment’s time three times to make sure that he wouldn’t have any surprise parent drop-ins, but they might have been notified by the insurance company that he’d gone, so. “he’s eating plenty, gaining weight, growing even more to make up for how small he was, since he was a preemie, you know—on track for all his milestones. early, for a few, actually.”

“oh?”

“yeah! apparently, it’s a bit weird that he started vocalizing early, that isn’t supposed to happen until about two months. oh! and i think he’s starting to recognize himself, yesterday he kept smiling and babbling and waving at whoever that strange baby in the mirror was. he seemed a bit confused that there were two of me. i think he’s due to start laughing any day now, too!”

“how wonderful,” maria says warmly. 

“yeah, he is,” patton says, beaming. 

“and the... other part, of that day?” maria asks, arching her eyebrows. “you were hoping to meet up with logan’s other father. christopher, wasn’t it?”

“yeah,” patton says quietly, looking down at logan, who removes his fingers from his mouth and waves an arm at him. “yeah, it’s christopher.”

mostly, kind of stunned to see patton. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had told him that yes, running away was a serious, permanent thing. mostly, kind of stunned that patton had a job, and a place to live, and no intention of returning home. mostly... well. mostly, stunned that out of the pair of them, it was patton who was going to legally sever himself from his parents. but... well. patton probably wouldn’t have to grocery shop for diapers or formula or anything a nearly-two-month-old baby could possibly need for about three months, along with a few things that logan is distinctly not old enough for—he’s pretty sure that the stuffed animals are okay, but the toys with little parts aren’t, and also that the brandy christopher got him (”you know giving a baby brandy to help with teething is an old wives’ tale, chris.” “didn’t say it was for him, mac.”) is going to turn into a christmas gift, or a donation to the inn’s kitchen, or something.

bittersweet. that’s what it was. it had felt so distinctly like an ending, for the two of them. patton and logan had both started crying during the drive home— home . to sideshire. patton guesses this is home now.

“he was good,” patton says. “supportive of, you know. the plan.”

maria surveys him for a few seconds, before she says, “well, that’s good, i suppose. do you have a preference for lunch? i can’t remember what’s on the menu today.”

“i don’t have a preference,” patton says quickly. he doesn’t want to put anyone at the inn out any more than they need to—who cares if he doesn’t like cassoulet, it’s food that they’re giving him, right? he doesn’t want to be ungrateful.

maria smiles at him, says “all right,” and buzzes for cindy to bring in some food and coffee. 

they drop off a tray of sandwiches, and chips, and some cut-up fruit. okay. patton can stomach that. it’s unexpected, sure, considering the usually fancy menu that the inn boasts, but—but patton can stomach it.

“so, patton,” maria says, picking up a sandwich. “how have you been liking it here, so far?”

"it’s been fantastic,” patton says honestly. “everyone here is so nice.”

“i’m happy to hear it,” maria says, and she continues to ask him questions: does he knows his way around now, are his hours are good, would he like to switch up his schedule to better care for logan, now that he’s nearing the end of both paternity leave and shadowing the other housekeepers, have any guests given him any problems, is there anything he’d like to suggest to better the inn? 

she and patton eat their way slowly through about half of the sandwich platter (turkey bacon, basil chicken, ham and cheese, italian deli) and maria continually pushes fruit in his direction.

“i swear you and virgil are ganging up on me,” patton says ruefully, accepting the grapes she’s nudged toward him, shortly after the melon, strawberries, and cantaloupe that he’s already eaten. 

“you’re a growing boy,” maria says, blasé, and patton smiles a little at that.

“now,” she says, picking up yet another sandwich, “tell me about your plans for the future, what you’d like to do here.”

“oh,” patton says, startled. “um. to tell you the truth, i haven’t really—i haven’t really thought about it very much?”

“well, rightfully enough, you’re sixteen,” maria says. “plenty of things you could do, if you wanted, and you’ve only been here a month.”

“do you have any advice?” patton asks, because sure, he may have only been here a month, but he knows that maria is smart.

“well,” maria says. “i’d wager you don’t want to be a housekeeper forever.”

patton smiles sheepishly. “no, i don’t think so. i mean, it’s great here! but—”

“but you have quite a life ahead of you, i can tell,” maria says. “you’d be capable of plenty, you’re an intelligent young man.”

patton looks down at logan, face burning, and pretends to occupy himself with making sure that logan’s comfortable. intelligent. right. 

“well, i don’t know about that,” he mumbles.

“well, i do,” she says firmly. 

she’s just being nice, patton thinks. 

“i’d like to keep you on, for as long as you like,” maria continues. “if for mostly selfish reasons.”

“i—i would like that,” patton says. “thank you.”

“now,” maria says. “i know i mentioned working on christmas, but i’m afraid that won’t be an option—there aren’t many guests staying, so it’s down to a skeleton staff. it will be up until after new years, i’m afraid, but christmas day seems like it’ll be out of the question, in terms of pay. it’s first come, first serve, and we have some employees who volunteered for it rather early this year, i hope you understand.”

“oh,” patton says.

“i hope you have plans,” maria says.

“i—well,” patton says, “i mean, virgil invited me to his family’s christmas, but—”

“oh, good!” maria says. “you deserve a nice christmas break. i’ll let cara know. their christmas dinners are wonderful, you’re in for a treat.” 

“i—i’m sure i am,” patton says.

“on another piece of christmas business,” maria says, and digs around in her suit pocket, handing over an envelope. “we did very well this year, so here’s your christmas bonus.”

patton hesitates. “i—i can’t take that—”

“well, of course you can!” maria says. “everyone else is getting one too—”

“but everyone else isn’t living in your pool house,” patton says. “i mean, i-i’m grateful, of course i am, but i’m not paying enough for rent as is, and—”

“i take your rent out of your paycheck,” maria says softly. “the pool house is in disuse anyway, the most we were using it for was storage and we have a unit for that, regardless.”

“but—“

“patton,” she says, and then, firmly, “if you won’t take it for yourself, then take it for logan. put it toward toys, diapers, his college fund, whatever you like. children are expensive.”

a beat, and then she adds, “and if you won’t take it, i’m afraid i’ll have to use the check to buy logan a drumset when he is old enough, and you will think back on this conversation and rue allowing me to keep it.”

patton huffs out a laugh and, reluctantly, takes the check.

“thank you,” he mumbles to the ground. 

“you’re quite welcome,” maria says, and then, “some mail came for you today.”

she reaches up onto the desk, and hands patton a manila folder.

patton’s mouth goes completely dry as he takes it. “oh.”

he swallows, and opens it just enough to slide out the sheaf of papers to see the heading— PETITION FOR EMANCIPATION —and swallows again, suddenly feeling dizzy and very grateful that he’s sitting on the floor.

“now, i know you didn’t want my john tangled up in it, but he has a friend who’s still in a firm in-state who knows this kind of law, and is willing to do it as a favor,” maria continues. patton slowly slides the papers back into the folder so he doesn’t see the heading.

“right,” he says.

“i know you’ve been struggling with whether or not you want to do this, but whatever you decide is right for you,” maria says gently. “do not let them change your mind. you will have help here, always, and not just from us in town—you can apply for temporary family assistance, if you like. but i looked into it and it would be much more likely if you were living with a relative—”

patton’s already shaking his head. 

“state administered general assistance, then, i think it’s called,” maria says. “the lawyer—rachael, i can’t remember her last name—could probably help walk you through anything to get any help you and that sweet boy might need. i could give you her number.”

“right,” patton says, voice barely a whisper. “okay. thank you.”

maria sighs, before she reaches over and gently pinches the squishy part patton’s cheek.

“oh, my baby,” she says, “i know this will be hard for you, and i am so sorry. there is not a person in the world who deserves this level of heartbreak less.” 

patton sniffles and swallows. he feels the strong urge to look away, to bury his face in his hands, and he could—maria’s hand on his face is in no way restrictive—but the cool, reassuring weight of maria’s hand is too comforting to discard. maria gently swipes her thumb across his cheek, erasing whatever tear track there might have been. 

“whatever you decide, just... just know that you and that baby will be able to stay here for as long as you like. all right?” maria says softly. 

“all right,” patton whispers. “thank you.” 

maria smiles at him, sad, before she pats his cheek. “all right. would you like some cookies? chocolate is the fastest way to defeat sadness, you know.”

patton sniffles, again, and picks up logan, just to hold him close. “i—yeah, okay. sure. i’ll have some cookies.”

⁂

virgil has a morning routine half because routines and habits help with virgil’s anxiety, and half out of necessity.

he rolls out of bed and drags himself into the shower. he gets dressed in whatever combination of purple, plaid, and black that he wants to wear for the day. he gets a cup of coffee, because the timed coffee machine that he got himself after he moved into his apartment was frankly a blessing. he eats breakfast—usually a protein bar or an apple or something small, which his parents would probably disapprove of, but it’s fine because he makes up for it by having an early lunch to beat the usual lunch rush—and then descends the stairs to the diner, where he kicks on all the coffeemakers downstairs and turns on the lights and then unlocks the front door, for all of the workers on morning shift, and then retreats into the kitchen to start, well. cooking.

he’s on his way to unlock the front door when he draws back and tries not to shriek.

there’s someone sitting there, leaning back against the door, so he can’t see their face, with a winter coat and scarf and hat so he can’t even see their hair or skin color or any identifying factors.

virgil hesitates, before he moves to unlock the door and knocks gently against the door. please move please move please move please don’t be someone who died of exposure on my stoop—

they get to their feet before they dramatically spin and throw the scarf away from their face, revealing an impish grin that has haunted virgil since he was born, basically, and virgil slams his hand against the door as soon as he notices that she’s laughing, before he throws open the door.

“you asshole, i thought you were someone who decided to camp on my stoop and die of hypothermia to make some kind of anti-junk-food statement!”

“aw, i love you too, v, the most babiest of brothers—“

“—i am not a baby, i’m twenty-thre—”

“—gimmie a kiss!” freddie sings, attempting to box virgil in with some kind of hug. “kiss, kiss, kiss—“

“—ow, get off , you’re demon sent straight from hell to torment me—”

“—do not make me jump on you i will jump on your back and hang on until you acknowledge that your favorite sibling is back in town with some outward display of affection—“

“—okay first of all saying that you’re my favorite sibling is a stretch—”

“—well, it sure as hell isn’t silas, we both know wyatt is an alien, and considering essie is further from you in age, this means that you’ve clearly bonded the most with me—”

“—and second of all, if you jump onto my back i will throw you onto this tile floor, you see how mom and dad aren’t here to stop me and this is my diner now?”

“what are you, a professional wrestler?” freddie says, and virgil manages to squirm free and makes a hasty retreat to the counter. or, well, he tries. freddie is hot in pursuit.

“you realize that if you don’t now i’ll start this again during breakfast rush!” freddie taunts. 

virgil weighs these options, before he heaves a massive sigh and, making a show of how grudging he is, leans over to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. 

freddie gasps, and clasps her hands under her chin, making a show of beaming up at him with a loud “ awww!”

virgil looks like a more even blend of their parents—dark hair, brown eyes, pale—whereas freddie much more favors their mom, dark hair, blue eyes, that same mischievous smile.

“aw, you do love me.”

“i said nothing of the sort,” virgil says, scowling.

“and that i’m your favorite, which i totally expect to be reflected in my christmas present,” freddie continues, bouncing behind the counter. virgil makes a sharp noise at her, making a cutting motion with his arm, as if to make a barrier to prevent her from following him.

“bar!”

freddie looks offended.

“unless you’re volunteering your services in the kitchen, in which case—“

freddie scuttles to a barstool, and virgil stifles his smile. freddie’s loudly and frequently expressed distaste for kitchen-work meant that she was always out front waitressing or handling orders with their mom.

“coffee!” she demands.

“absolutely not,” virgil says. “you’re already like this at five in the morning—“

“yeah, because i haven’t slept for twenty-seven hours,” freddie says. 

“how is that my problem,” virgil says, “and also, what is wrong with you?”

“if you don’t give me caffeine, i’m tattling,” freddie says.

“if you keep complaining, i’m tattling,” virgil says, “guess which of ours is going to go over better?”

“you’re a snitch,” she accuses.

“who brought up tattling first?” virgil demands.

freddie then resorts to the deeply mature and time-honored tradition, a response that frequently gets shared between siblings—she sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry.

virgil rolls his eyes, and he’s about to keep this sibling bickering thing going, except the door opens and sarah walks in, yawning, so that gets put on pause as sarah wakes up enough to see who’s sitting at the counter, so virgil gets to escape into the kitchen as the whole reunion thing goes down.

if the theory that virgil inherited an overabundance of filter is wrong, then he thinks that whatever social butterfly gene that usually gets distributed, freddie stole his in the womb, absorbing enough of it that there wasn’t any left for him nearly two years after she was born. she’s always been gregarious, noisy, chatty, managing to talk to anyone about anything. virgil thinks that freddie probably doesn’t know the meaning of the words shy, subtle, or embarrassment. she has no fear of making a fool of herself when she talks to anyone, and virgil means anyone.

case in point: she’s friendly with isadora prince. virgil would say friends, but he thinks that remus is closer with her than freddie is, especially since freddie’s been... god, who even knows where freddie’s been lately? virgil’s sure he’ll get his ear talked off about her various exploits since he’d last seen her.

and she does—between ducking back into the kitchen and running out orders, freddie keeps a stream of constant chatter going like she doesn’t really care if virgil’s there to listen or not. apparently, she was last in atlanta for a casting call, which she says was a bust with a grin and a shrug like it doesn’t really matter, and she’s been awake for twenty-seven hours because she’d gotten on the wrong bus and had a detour to st. louis—

“fred, even hearing you talk sometimes just skyrockets my blood pressure,” virgil says, trying not to cringe.

“what doesn’t?” freddie says pointedly.

“how did you confuse sideshire with st. louis?” virgil says.

“oh for god’s sake, i didn’t confuse them, it’s not my fault the bus depot doesn’t know how numbers work—“

the bell jangles, and then, “is that my snickerdoodle?”

freddie rolls her eyes at virgil, not quite able to tamp down her grin, and spins around to see their parents. 

now that he’s not the center of it, virgil can appreciate that it is kind of funny to watch their parents fuss and fret over freddie; is she eating, is she sleeping—

“she was just telling me that she hasn’t slept for twenty-seven hours,” virgil says, fake-innocent, and squints at the clock in the corner. “twenty-eight now, i bet.”

freddie dramatically cries out “TRAITOR!” as their father immediately nudges freddie’s coffee cup toward virgil to take away and “winifred jane,” their mother scolds, and virgil cackles.

“i told you what would happen if you kept complaining!”

“what are you, a cop?” freddie demands. “what happened to youngest sibling solidarity?!?!”

“payback for scaring me.”

“ everything scares you!”

“scaring me on purpose, then!” virgil says, and ducks into the kitchen to dump out freddie’s cup when she starts looking murderous.

when he risks peeking out again (silas may not be his favorite sibling but freddie is definitely the one to look out for when it comes to retribution) his parents and his sister have clustered away into a booth. freddie, upon seeing him looking, proceeds to flip him off under the table, so he can see, but mark and meredith can’t. virgil tamps down his grin. 

another time-honored tradition started back up, then.

not that he’d ever tell her this, but. it’s nice to have freddie home.