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a11eya · 2 years ago

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TITLE: lights will guide you home

CHAPTER: 6

PAIRING: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

SUMMARY: Soul-lights aren’t as common in this day and age as they were in the past, before quirks, but they’re common enough that people do still find their soulmates.

At thirteen, you meet Bakugou Katsuki, and he lights up for you in orange and gold. You tell him he's your soulmate. He sneers and tells you that you aren't his. He makes your adolescence miserable until you part ways.

You meet again as adults, late at night, in a grocery store, over a pile of bok choy. He apologizes for how he treated you when you were children.

(In which you have a choice—to reject Bakugou's apology, reject him, or to let him show you the man he's become, to learn with him what it means to love and forgive.)

TAGS: soulmate au, trope inversion/subversion, slow burn, getting together, falling in love, fluff, aged up characters, pro-hero characters, eventual smut, mild bullying

NAVIGATION: Series Masterlist

It’s a weeknight, after dinner, when your coworker messages you.

Is this you????? They send you a link to a tweet.

The tweet reads, Dynamight dating someone? 🤔 and there are two pictures attached.

You tap the first image and zoom in.

It is you. It’s at the pet store, you realize. This first picture is of you and Bakugou from behind. The second picture is the both of you from the side, though it’s blurry because Bakugou’s in motion, angled in a way that blocks your face from view.

There are a few interactions with the tweet, people retweeting it with commentary. Some people are saying that it looks like you could just be some random office worker; you’re wearing office attire. You think those people seem like rational, reasonable human beings. Others are analyzing the distance between you and Bakugou standing next to each other, estimating in centimeters, and say it’s too close, that you must be romantically involved. You think those people are a little unhinged.

There are other, meaner comments, but you skip over those and close out of Twitter.

You stare at your phone blankly. The screen goes dark, and a rock settles in your stomach. You hadn’t even thought of the repercussions of being in public with Bakugou. With Dynamight. It’s stupid. That day, you noticed people looking, but you thought they’d been looking at him. Not both of you.

You jump a little when your phone goes off in your hand. It’s Bakugou.

Speak of the devil. You hope he’s calling to tell you he can make this go away. You don’t want this kind of attention.

“Hello?”

“Don’t lose your shit. D’you see the dumb gossip rags?”

“What gossip rags?” you ask. There’s more?

“Nosy assholes took pictures of us at the pet store the other day. You might’ve seen stuff on socials. A couple of the shittiest magazines are talking about it.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling like you’re listening to him from far away. “Yes, my coworker just sent me a tweet with pictures of us from that day.”

You can feel your heart rate rising. Hearing it confirmed in Bakugou’s gruff voice makes it real in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

“Yeah, I—” He sighs harshly, stops. “Where are you?”

“What?” Your brain takes a second to load. “I’m at home. Why?”

“I’m coming over.”

“What?” you repeat, feeling like your thoughts are moving through molasses—slow, viscous. You shake your head, trying to clear it. It sounded like he’d said he’s coming over.

“You heard me. What’s your address?”

“Bakugou. Don’t come over. Why do you want to come over?”

He exhales, and it crackles the line. “Look, I know you’re thinking up a bunch of shit in that squirrely head of yours—”

“Squirrely?” you say, making a face.

“—and you needa knock it off. S’gonna be okay. I’m gonna take care of it.”

It’s what you wanted to hear, but actually hearing it makes your mind empty, the buzzing anxiety quiet. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

After a moment, you say, “...Okay.”

Your voice is softer than you’d like it to be. It embarrasses you.

You wonder if the people he saves as Dynamight feel this way. So relieved that it feels like you could float, like Uravity.

“Good,” he says, and there’s a quiet lull. “My PR team’s gonna be in contact with you tomorrow. Call or message me if—if anything changes.”

“Okay,” you repeat. Your heartbeat is no longer so loud. You can hear the rustle of his clothes as he shifts on the other end of the line. “Goodnight?”

“Night,” he says, and hangs up.

In the morning, as you’re leaving your apartment for work, you get that call from his PR team. His manager introduces herself as Ikeda.

“I’m sure Bakugou’s given you a brief, inadequate explanation of the situation,” she says dryly, and you let out a surprised laugh. She continues, “Before we go any further, do you have any questions about or have any concerns for your immediate physical safety?”

“I—no?” Alarm creeps into your voice. “Should I be concerned?”

Her tone shifts from brisk and business-like to something more sympathetic. “Your privacy has been violated, so it’s very understandable if you’re feeling unsafe. Many pro heroes’ family and friends feel this way when similar situations occur, and many pro heroes feel this way too. I’m here to tell you that we can assign security to you, effective immediately, if you feel their presence is necessary or even if it would ease your mind. It’s protocol.

“However, none of the pictures in circulation reveal your face or any distinguishing characteristics, so my team and I aren’t too worried at this point, and we feel you shouldn’t be either. But again, if you have any questions, please ask. I would like you to make informed decisions.”

“Thank you. I’m feeling… okay,” you say, though truly, you’re overwhelmed and trying to process. You picture people in suits following you around work and grimace. “And I’ll pass on the security, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.”

“And I don’t have any questions so far.”

“Alright. And if you change your mind, contact me at this number. Someone will always answer.” Ikeda pauses. “Alert us, please, if something comes up, even though you may feel compelled to alert Dynamight instead.”

You’re confused. Why wouldn’t you tell Bakugou? “Can I ask why?”

“He has a history of responding to perceived threats with… overwhelming force. Even if the threat doesn’t warrant it.” Ikeda mutters something you don’t quite catch, but it doesn’t sound complimentary.

You imagine Bakugou showing up at your apartment, or at work, and absolutely destroying some paparazzo for taking pictures of you, or something. You wince.

“...I’ll do that,” you tell Ikeda. “Um, I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m going to have to run soon. I need to get to work.”

“Oh! No, no, sorry to hold you up. One more thing. Actually, two. First, can you meet me and my team at the agency after work today? We need to hammer out some details to help us navigate how to proceed moving forward.”

“Sure.”

“Wonderful! Just give your name to the front desk and they’ll take care of the rest. Thanks for being flexible. The second thing is about your soulmate situation.”

You feel yourself tense up, shoulders creeping up to your ears. Bakugou had told her? Who else had he told?

“Are you and Bakugou planning on going public about it any time soon?” she asks. “I can’t get a peep about it out of him. Hoping you’d throw me some crumbs.”

“Uh, no,” you say. Why on earth would she think you’d go public about it? Not only would you likely receive unwanted commentary on your soulmate pairing being one-sided, but you’d also be exposed to general public scrutiny. Just these pet store pictures freak you out. Maybe you and Bakugou are… friendly now, friends maybe, but it’s not worth it.

“Not planning on it,” you say firmly.

Ikeda sighs. “Right. Well, we’ll plan for it when the time comes. But that’s a conversation for another time. Thanks for your time. I’ll see you later today.”

You say goodbye, and you begin your commute to work feeling like you’d just been hit by a car. Ikeda had thrown so many things at you in one phone call that you’re struggling to wrap your head around it all. You’re also paranoid that you’ll somehow be recognized; you find yourself jumpy and self-conscious on the train, walking through the streets to your office building.

What’s worse is that despite your efforts you’re late for work, which throws your whole day off. You’re so out of it worrying about the pictures and the meeting with Ikeda later today that your boss calls you into her office to ask what’s wrong.

By the time the end of the work day rolls around, you’re exhausted, mentally and emotionally. The last thing you want to do is meet with Bakugou’s PR people. You want to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep until you have to get up for work again tomorrow. Maybe you’d call out.

But you told Bakugou’s manager that you’d be at the agency. So you go.

When you approach the receptionist desk, you make eye contact with one of the girls working it. You remember her from last time, and she seems to recognize you too.

“Hi,” you say, banishing the semi-permanent frown you’d been wearing all day and summoning up a feeble smile. It’s not her fault you’re having a bad day. “I’m here to see—”

“Dynamight, right?” she says brightly.

“Oh, uh—”

“He’s waiting for you on the third floor. Take a left out of the elevator, and it’s the first room on the right. Let me get the elevator for you. You need access to use it.”

You follow her until you’re standing in the elevator, biting your tongue, knowing the time to correct her has passed. She takes in your expression after tapping her card against the sensor in the elevator and furrows her brows.

“Would you like me to show you the way?”

“No, I’m okay, I think I can find it,” you say hurriedly, rearranging your expression to a more neutral one. “Thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome! Have a good one!” she says, stepping out right before the elevator door closes.

You stare at the floor numbers lighting up above you. Maybe she meant Bakugou’s team is waiting for you.

You follow the receptionist’s directions—you really should get her name the next time you see her—and tentatively knock on the door. It opens almost immediately, and you look up and up to meet Kirishima’s gaze. You startle. What’s he doing here?

He smiles at you, oblivious to your confusion. This close, you can see that his teeth are sharp and his eyes are red, like and unlike Bakugou’s. They’re kind as they take you in.

“Nice to see you again!” Kirishima says, gesturing you in and closing the door behind you. “Wish it was in better circumstances, though.”

He studies your face, concern crossing his own. “Are you okay? How’re you holding up?”

“I’m—I’m still up, I guess,” you say, smiling weakly.

Kirishima reaches up and pats you on the shoulder. “We’ll fix things, don’t worry. C’mon, take a seat anywhere.”

“Thanks,” you say, and follow him deeper into the room.

The room’s set up like a typical conference room, with a long table at its center with chairs circling it. A screen is at the far end of the room, and standing next to it is a tall woman in a sharp business suit, tapping away at a tablet.

Bakugou is leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed. He’s in joggers and a plain shirt, just like Kirishima, and it makes you think they’d just wrapped up their workday too. His lights flare erratically; one moment, they’re dim and close to his skin, and the next they’re bright and flickering like a flame. It’s both distracting and mesmerizing.

Bakugou glances at you briefly, a quick up and down, before looking at the woman.

“Hey. Let’s get this shit going,” Bakugou tells her.

The woman tears her eyes away from the tablet, mouth set in an annoyed slash, but then she sees you. Her expression smooths out.

“Oh! You’re here. Yes, let’s get started.” She gives you a big smile. “I’m Ikeda. We spoke on the phone.”

“Nice to meet you in person,” you tell her. “Thanks for the call. I appreciate the info you gave me.”

Kirishima sits on one side of the table, opposite where Bakugou’s standing, and closer to Ikeda. You choose a seat not quite across from Kirishima, and you have to pass by Bakugou to get to it. As you settle into your chair, you get that prickly awareness you feel whenever he’s around. But it’s comforting, having him at your back, in this room with two people you don’t know very well.

“It’ll just be the four of us today,” Ikeda says, “and the meeting should be brief. I know you’ve had a long day.” She looks at you sympathetically.

She taps at something on her tablet, and images appear on the screen behind her.

“Here are all the images taken that day that we were able to compile. Our team has contacted all websites and individuals hosting these images and requested their removal. We’ve also taken steps to request deindexing of these images from search engines. This should slow any further spread of the images, but as you know, it’s impossible to scrub images completely once they hit the internet. And there’s the matter of the gossip magazines that’ve posted articles.”

The images on the screen switch to the articles you’ve avoided searching. Their headlines are blatant clickbait, speculating about the nature of your relationship with Bakugou and fanning the flames of jealousy generated by his fans.

You avert your eyes. You don’t even want to know what Bakugou’s thinking.

“As such,” Ikeda continues, “my team has determined that our best bet is to lean into the theory circulating that you’re an agency employee assisting Bakugou with a task.”

Kirishima blinks. “Will that really work? What would Bakugou have needed help with?”

“They were in a pet shop, and they were photographed carrying items for cats. We’ll release some social media posts stating that Bakugou was purchasing them for a pet.”

“I’m not getting a cat,” Bakugou growls.

“You don’t have to,” Ikeda says. “It’s just a cover story.”

“But how long would Bakugou have to keep up the cover?” you ask. All eyes in the room turn to you, and you grip your chair’s armrest reflexively, responding to the sudden attention.

You clear your throat. “I mean, cats are a long-time commitment. Lots of them live for fifteen plus years, sometimes twenty… It’d look weird if you say you’ve gotten a cat but then never mention it again, right?”

You glance at Bakugou to gauge his reaction, and he looks like he’s bitten a lemon.

Ikeda sighs, rubbing her temples. “Maybe we can say the items were a present for a friend. We’ll have to think about this further.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, feeling bad. “I didn’t mean to shoot down your idea. I’m fostering some kittens right now and the logistics of caring for them are on the brain. Maybe your idea’ll work. I doubt anyone would care enough to check if Bakugou’s telling the truth.”

Ikeda’s eyes sharpen. “I’ve never fostered any animals, so correct me if I’m wrong, but—fostering means you take care of an animal for a specific length of time, right? But you don’t keep them?”

“Yes,” you say slowly. You make eye contact with Kirishima, trying to see if he knows where she’s going with this, but he looks as confused as you feel.

You offer, “I’m only fostering them until they get adopted.”

“That’s great! We’ll use that, then,” Ikeda says, putting her hands on her hips.

“Wait, I think I missed something,” Kirishima says, furrowing his brow. “What’re we doing, exactly?”

“We’ll frame things so that Bakugou’s fostering some cats. That’s why he was buying those things at the store, and he was getting assistance from an agency employee. We can acquire some cats Bakugou can take pictures and videos with for social media. Then, in a couple weeks, we can announce Bakugou’s fostering is complete and plug some cat adoption organizations while we’re at it. What do we think?”

“Shit sounds stupid,” Bakugou says, and you can almost hear the sneer in his voice. You haven’t heard that in a long time.

“I like it!” Kirishima says. Out of the corner of your eye, to your left, you see Bakugou step forward. He plants his hands on the table, glaring at Kirishima.

“No,” Bakugou says, baring his teeth.

Kirishima frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “C’mon, Bakugou. It’d be good press for you. Boost your image! Everyone loves baby animals! And it’d be a good way to support local organizations. We can turn this situation into a positive!”

“That’s dumb as fuck. Let’s just sue the assholes who took those pictures and wrote those articles and move on.”

Ikeda rubs her temples. “That’s not how it works, Bakugou. You were in a public space, so photography of you is valid, and the images don’t damage your reputation. Pursuing legal action isn’t an option.”

You’ve been quiet during this exchange, and you’re hoping to keep it that way. If you could become one with your chair or sink through the floor, you would. But, as if sensing your reluctance to participate in the conversation, Ikeda looks at you and asks, “What do you think? Feel free to weigh in.”

“Um, I don’t think I should… It’s a decision that’ll affect your agency’s business, isn’t it? So…”

“Fuck that,” Bakugou tells you. He’s looking at you, and you blink at him, startled. “Tell me what you think.”

Kirishima leans forward, catching your attention. “Don’t worry too much! Just be honest. You’re involved in this too, and we wanna hear if you have any opinions.”

You worry at your bottom lip. “Okay… Well it seems like a decent idea. Better than the first suggestion, probably. I don’t mind if the story is that I’m an agency employee. And…”

You tilt your head back to look up at Bakugou. He’s gravitated closer from where he’d been standing a couple chairs down. He’s standing nearly next to you.

“If it’ll make things easier, we can use my foster kittens. Maybe featuring them will get them adopted faster,” you say. Tentatively, you smile, tilting your head. “Free my furniture from their evil clutches faster?”

Bakugou gazes down at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed. You look back at him, waiting. He turns away.

“Whatever. Fine,” he says.

“Great!” Ikeda says, smoothly inserting herself back into the conversation. “I’ll take care of the details. I’ll send some paperwork along to you digitally. Then all you two need to do is take a couple pictures and videos of Bakugou with the cats. Please have them ready by the end of the week!”

#we cracked 3k--the most for a chapter--w this baby /pats chapter #you have bakugou and kitten shenanigans to look forward to next chapter hehe #us @bakugou this entire fic: how can you be so nice but also so mean and grouchy????#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugou x you #bnha #character: bakugou katsuki #fic: lights will guide you home #soul-lights #jess scribbles

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starryeyedwolves · 2 months ago

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Watch Me

It started, like many things between Sirius and Remus, with a bet.

They were in the Gryffindor common room, the hour late enough that only the Marauders and a few upper-year stragglers remained. James was lazily flipping a Snitch between his fingers, Peter was attempting to teach himself how to do card tricks and failing miserably, and Sirius—well, Sirius was bored. And when Sirius Black was bored, chaos usually followed.

“I’m so bored I could kiss someone,” Sirius declared dramatically, flopping backward over the arm of the couch, his legs dangling in the air like a cat who had never heard of dignity.

Remus didn’t look up from his book. “Then go find someone to kiss. I hear the Bloody Baron’s free.”

“That’s cold, Moony,” Sirius said, mock-offended. “You wound me.”

James snorted, catching the Snitch again. “You’re always going on about kissing, Sirius. Bet you couldn’t even make Moony blush.”

Remus’ eyes flicked upward for the briefest of seconds. “Please don’t make this a thing.”

But it was already too late.

Sirius sat up like a wolf catching the scent of prey. “Is that a challenge, Prongs?”

James grinned. “Bet you a Galleon you can’t do it.”

Sirius smirked, a slow, dangerous thing. “Watch me.”

Remus sighed and snapped his book shut. “I hate all of you.”

Day One:

Remus was late to Charms the next morning. He slipped into the classroom quietly, hoping not to draw attention. He found a spot next to Sirius, who had—oddly—saved him a seat.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sirius said with a grin so wide it should have been illegal.

Remus narrowed his eyes. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“No, you’re intentionally weird. That’s worse.”

“Just trying to brighten your day.”

Remus eyed him suspiciously, but the class began before he could question it further. Sirius behaved unusually well—taking notes (or at least pretending to), passing Remus his quill when he dropped his own, and even whispering helpful corrections during their paired practice.

It was unnerving.

By the time class ended, Remus was thoroughly suspicious. As they walked out, Sirius leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “Nice jumper. Brings out your eyes.”

Remus blinked. “Did you just—compliment me?”

Sirius shrugged and smiled. “Is it working?”

Remus stared. “Working for what?”

Sirius only winked.

Day Two:

Remus walked into the Great Hall for breakfast and found his plate already loaded with his favorite things. The others were seated, snickering quietly.

Sirius beamed. “Made sure you got the good bacon before James devoured it all.”

Remus squinted at him. “You never serve anyone but yourself.”

“Thought I’d try something new.”

James snorted into his pumpkin juice.

Remus sat, cautiously poking at the food. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on?”

Peter coughed loudly and muttered something about “owls” and “library fines.”

Sirius leaned his chin on his hand, smiling at Remus like he hung the bloody moon. “Can’t I just appreciate you, Moony?”

Remus stared at him. “No.”

But despite himself, a blush crept up his neck. He ducked his head, pretending to butter his toast.

James kicked Sirius under the table and mouthed, one point.

Day Three:

Remus was in the library, blissfully alone, until Sirius appeared and dropped a chocolate bar onto his open book.

“Peace offering,” Sirius said.

Remus looked up. “For what?”

“For whatever crime I’m inevitably going to commit to make you blush again.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “So you admit it.”

Sirius winked. “You’re clever, Moony. But I’m determined. Also, I have chocolate.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Sirius plopped into the chair across from him and unwrapped his own chocolate. “Ridiculously charming, maybe.”

Remus huffed. “That’s debatable.”

“You’re debating it, though. That’s a start.”

Remus tried to focus on his textbook, but he could feel Sirius’ eyes on him the entire time. It wasn’t even the challenge that bothered him now—it was how convincing Sirius was. Like maybe he meant it.

Like maybe he wasn’t just trying to win a Galleon.

Day Five:

Remus was halfway through brushing his teeth when Sirius burst into the dormitory wearing nothing but a towel and his usual overconfidence.

“Morning, Moony,” he said, stretching, towel threatening to slip.

Remus did not blush.

He did, however, choke on his toothpaste.

Sirius grinned. “You alright there, mate?”

Remus spat into the sink. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Death by attractive roommate? Not a bad way to go.”

“You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”

“I was being subtle?” Sirius asked, genuinely surprised.

Remus glared. Sirius just laughed and sauntered off, towel swinging.

James called from behind the curtains of his bed, “That was a two-pointer, easy.”

Day Seven:

They were out by the lake, lying on the grass. It was late afternoon, the sun dipping low and the sky tinged gold. James and Peter had gone back inside, but Sirius and Remus lingered.

“I’m calling off the bet,” Remus said suddenly, not looking at him.

Sirius propped himself up on one elbow. “You’re surrendering?”

“I’m just—tired. I don’t like being messed with.”Sirius frowned. “I’m not messing with you.”

Remus finally turned his head. “Then what are you doing?”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment. “Trying to figure out if I can tell you the truth without ruining everything.”

Remus sat up. “That’s not cryptic at all.”

Sirius laughed softly. “I like you, Moony. Not just in a mate way. In a ‘bloody hell, he looks good even when he’s correcting my grammar’ way.”

Remus froze.

Sirius looked up at him, eyes more vulnerable than Remus had ever seen them. “I made the bet to hide it. Because I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same. But then I kept doing things, and you kept almost blushing, and I realized—I didn’t care about the bet anymore. I just wanted to keep making you look at me like that.”

Remus blinked. “Like what?”

“Like I’m not a total lost cause.”

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and touched Sirius’ wrist.

“I thought you were flirting to win a Galleon,” he said. “So I tried not to blush.”

Sirius’ mouth twitched. “Tried and failed a few times.”

Remus smiled, small and shy. “I like you too, you idiot.”

And that was it. That was the thing that finally made Remus blush, right down to the tips of his ears.

Sirius saw it and grinned. “Told you I could do it.”

Remus leaned in close. “You earned that one. No bet.”

Then he kissed him, soft and sure, and Sirius forgot all about the Galleon.

The Galleon sat in the center of the Marauders’ dormitory table for two full days, untouched.

James stared at it like it might sprout legs and walk off.

“You’re not going to take it?” he asked finally.

Sirius, lying upside down on his bed, a quill dangling from his mouth, gave a distracted, “Hmm?”

“The Galleon. You won, didn’t you? Moony blushed so hard he looked like a tomato.”

Remus, from his corner, muttered, “Still here, thanks.”

Sirius rolled over, letting the quill fall to the floor. “Keep it, Prongs. You need the money more than I do.”

James narrowed his eyes. “You’re being disgustingly noble, which makes me think this is less about the bet and more about the fact that you’re dating him now.”

Remus choked on his tea. “We’re not—”

Sirius sat up. “We’re not?”

Remus gave him a look, and Sirius smiled like he’d been told Christmas was coming early.

“Oh,” James said, smirking. “So we are.”

Peter finally looked up from his magazine. “Are what?”

“Together,” James said.

“Like, snogging?”

“Like, more than snogging,” Sirius said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Remus groaned and buried his face in his book. “This is going to be unbearable, isn’t it?”

James grinned. “Unbearably adorable.”

The first few days were awkward in the way only teenage feelings could be. Sirius kept catching himself reaching for Remus’ hand in hallways. Remus kept pretending he hadn’t noticed. They sat a little closer, talked a little softer, smiled a little more.

It was like learning to walk all over again—except this time, every step risked falling face-first into each other.

And maybe that was okay.

One evening in the common room, Sirius leaned against Remus on the couch, legs thrown over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Tell me a secret,” he said.

Remus didn’t look up from his book. “That’s not how secrets work.”

“Come on. One little Moony secret.”

Remus glanced at him. “I’ve already kissed you. Isn’t that enough vulnerability for one lifetime?”

Sirius poked his side. “Please.”

Remus sighed. “Fine. I hated you, third year.”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

“Your hair was longer than mine and shinier. I found it offensive.”

Sirius grinned. “So you have noticed my hair.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Regretting this already.”

But he didn’t move away.

The war crept closer with each headline.

But between the cracks of chaos, life still happened: Remus and Sirius walked to class side by side, fingers barely brushing. Sirius would lean in during breakfast, whispering ridiculous theories about McGonagall’s secret punk band. Remus would laugh with his whole face.

They kissed in quiet corners and behind curtains in the library, hearts racing like they were still afraid to want this, to name it. But wanting didn’t care what they were ready for. It took root anyway.

One night in the Astronomy Tower, Sirius brought a blanket and a bottle of something purloined from the kitchens.

Remus lay beside him, watching the stars. “We’re not the same boys we were in first year.”

Sirius turned to look at him. “No. We’re braver now.”

“Or dumber.”

“Or in love,” Sirius said, without fanfare.

Remus was silent for a long time.

Then: “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Sirius pulled the blankets up around both of them. “You’re the least dangerous person I know.”

Remus gave him a skeptical look. “You do realize you’re in love with a werewolf, right?”

Sirius smiled, brushing a kiss into his hair.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “And he’s in love with me too.”

Graduation came in a blur. War didn’t wait. They joined the Order. Got assignments. Saw friends fall.

But they also got each other.

James and Lily moved into Godric’s Hollow. Peter drifted.

Remus and Sirius found the flat by accident—a “To Let” sign crooked in a dusty bookshop window. Sirius insisted. Remus resisted. Then he caved, as he always did when Sirius looked at him like that.

They bought mismatched dishes. Painted one wall blue. Burnt a dozen meals. Grew a life, not despite the war, but defiantly in the middle of it.

The first time Remus says “our place”, Sirius almost drops his mug.

They're in a tiny flat two floors above a Muggle bookstore, the walls still bare, the furniture a chaotic mix of secondhand charm and whatever James and Lily could sneak past Mrs. Potter without her noticing. The place smells like dust and cloves and something that might be hope.

Sirius is sitting cross-legged on the floor, unpacking books into haphazard stacks while Remus stands by the window, shirtless, steaming tea in hand. The late-afternoon sun makes the scars on his back glow like cracks in glass.

“So,” Remus says casually, “we’ll need a charm for the front door if we’re going to keep Order files in our place.”

Sirius looks up.

“Our place.”

Remus freezes. “Did I say—?”

“Yes.”

They both go still for a moment.

Then Sirius grins.

“About damn time.”

They argued. A lot. Sirius left towels everywhere. Remus read too much and spoke too little when he was stressed. But they always found their way back to each other in the end.

Love didn’t erase the hard parts. But it anchored them.

One night, Sirius asked, "If I died tomorrow, what would you want me to know?"

Remus didn’t hesitate. "That you made everything make sense. That you are loved. Without condition."

Sirius kissed him until the words stuck.

They got missions. Dangerous ones. They came back to each other, every time.

"Bet you a Galleon we make it out," Sirius

They made it out.

The war ended the way most storms do—not all at once, but in slow, broken breaths.

Voldemort fell.

Not vanished, not destroyed, not forgotten. But gone enough that Death Eaters started hiding instead of hunting, and the Order stopped whispering at night.

Sirius and Remus returned to the flat with dirt under their nails and blood still dried at the collars of their robes. Neither said anything for a long time. They sat on the floor, backs against the kitchen cabinets, knees touching.

“Did we win?” Sirius asked eventually, voice low.

Remus let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I think we just survived.”

The weeks that followed were strange. A blur of funerals and debriefs and the weird, guilty freedom of not having to look over your shoulder anymore.

They slept through most of it.

Remus took to waking up before Sirius just to watch him breathe. He'd sit in the window with a book, not really reading, sipping cold tea while sunlight tried to warm the hardwood floor. Sometimes Sirius would roll over and mumble something—always soft, always half-conscious—and Remus would smile into his mug.

One day, Sirius walked in from the post with a small box.

“I bought us mugs,” he said, holding them up.

One said Mr. Moony. The other said Mr. Padfoot.

Remus blinked. “Are you proposing?” Sirius grinned. “Not unless you want me to".

There was a beat. A pause. A choice.

Remus leaned against the table. "Ask me when you mean it. always mean it".

So Sirius did. That night, over burnt curry and half-drunk wine, sitting in pajama bottoms and old t-shirts.

“Marry me,” he said, holding out the same mug.

Remus took it.

They didn’t sign papers. They didn’t wear rings. They just started saying “our place” and “our bed” and “I love you” in the kinds of ways that made it clear they meant forever.

Sirius cooked breakfast. Remus made the tea. They learned to dance slowly in the kitchen, even when there was no music. Sometimes they talked about the war. Sometimes they didn’t. Healing didn’t ask for a straight line.

One night, Remus sat beside him on the fire escape, blanket around their shoulders.

"Do you think we deserve this?” he asked.

Sirius nudged their knees together. “We made it. That’s enough.”

Remus leaned his head on Sirius’ shoulder. “I used to think I wouldn’t survive this.”

That winter, snow fell thick and slow over the city. Their flat smelled like cinnamon and dust. The world was still bruised, but it was turning. They lit candles at the windows and stayed up late reading to each other. They kissed quietly, like they were still learning how.

“Bet you a Galleon,” Remus murmured one night as Sirius pulled him close in bed, “that we’ll still be here in fifty years.” Sirius laughed into his collarbone.

“Watch me.”

And he did.

#the marauders #marauders #marauders fandom #marauders fic #marauders fanfiction #peter pettigrew #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #remus and sirius #remus x sirius #wolfstar #wolfstar fic #wolfstar fanfiction #my fic #my fic writing #my writing

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officialairmanfandom · 3 months ago

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Conor’s initiation to the Battering Rams

Back on the Little Saltee, Conor fell into the habit of practically attaching himself to any sort of warmth or comfort he could find. Huddling up to the little hole in the wall to savor the tiny amount of sun that occasionally break through, sometimes he would even stick a small diamond in there to collect a tiny amount of heat so he could press it to his face. Conversing with the friendliest guards he could find. Using bits of hair and string he found to patch up his clothing and blankets. Sleeping on top of his clothing so it would be warm in the morning. Even asking for some guards to tap the ends of their cigars into his hands so he could cradle the hot ashes for a moment. Filing a seashell into a comb to brush the snarls out of his hair. Once he even gave a guard one of his diamonds to heat his slop before it was delivered, unfortunately it was only slightly warm by the time it arrived in the lunatic wing, but it had still been a lovely birthday present.

But the day that had been the warmest during his entire stay on the Little Saltee, was the day he took the ink.

The Rams had a small area dedicated to their meetings and initiations in a hollowed out part of the mine that required swimming under a stone passage to access, Conor nearly inquired about the amount of oxygen in the space, but he was answered by the sight of several cracks in the rock that a slight breeze wormed through.

As he sat in a circle of a dozen of the burly men that made up the Battering Rams, Conor gently held his folded shirt, looking wearily at Otto Malarkey for any sort of reassurance The tattoo artist was an older man, but wether he was 40 or 60, Conor could not tell. The man moved with slow and intentional grace, prepping the homemade ink and sharpening the needles on a coarse stone. Conor watched this process with great interest, completely fascinated by each step. After the tattooist finished cleaning the needles with the flame of a small candle he pushed the back end into to a smoothed and polished stick. “Stay still boy.” The artist grunted around his freshly lit cigar, thick, fragrant smoke filling the little cave as he loaded the needle with ink.

Poor Conor, he really did make an excellent effort, but as the first tap against the stick forced the needle under his skin, Conor tensed his arm and flinched further into the needle. A short cry came from the boy as the sharp object jammed into the delicate muscles just beneath his skin. An uproarious, deafening laughter ripped through the cave. Malarkey slapped his knee, lighting his neighbors cigarette with his own as they watched the tattooist scold Finn. The boy wiped away the few tears that had managed to escape from his eyes, and bit his lip as he listened to the surly old man berate him, for a moment Otto was worried that Conor would back out, or worse, start crying. But he was pleasantly surprised when Connor threw back his head and barked out a laugh that undoubtedly hurt like hell when the old man yanked the needle out of his arm where it had embedded itself quite firmly. The old man prodded at the purple bruise that had quickly formed on Conor’s arm. “I thought Otto said you were a smart one” the tattooist criticized through his thick Irish accent. “Funny,” Conor said through gritted teeth as he readied his arm again. “He told me the same thing about you.”

The next several ‘taps’ of the needle went straight through to his bone.

Nearly 2 hours filled with loud conversation, crass jokes, and painful jabs from the tattooing needle went by. Despite the searing pain and near constant jokes at his expense, Conor felt relief, and an odd sense of comfort. He had found unexpected safety and kindness in the most vicious corner of the miserable place called Little Saltee. That’s not to say these sheep were in any way docile, the moment the artist was done he slapped the tattoo so hard that Conor thought he would pass out, he almost yelped, but the punch that came from the next Ram knocked the wind out of him before he could make any sound. The pain became worse as each man tried to show up the one before in the brutal final step of the initiation. for a brief moment Conor thought the Rams were trying to kill him, but when he looked to Malarkey the big man winked and slapped a handful of sand into the fresh tattoo. “Fair enough” Conor thought miserably.

After each man had had their turn tormenting the boy, someone shoved a lit, half smoked, cigar in his hand and poured the rest of the bottle of whatever mystery alcohol they had been sharing between them onto Conor’s bloody pulp of a shoulder. He let out a sharp hiss as the liquid sterilized the wound. Malarkey threw his hand over Connor’s shoulder, getting in one last slap with the motion before he pulled the young man into his armpit “WELCOME TO THE BATTERING RAMS BROTHER!!!” he roared, causing a ground shaking chorus of hoots hollers, and cheers to sound through the cave. Conor’s blood boiled with excitement within his veins, as he raised his fist and joined in on the chaos. But in the back of his mind, he had found comfort in the presence of his brothers.

#airman #airman book #eoin colfer #fandom building #conor broekhart #airman memes #conor finn #the battering rams #otto malarkey #initiation #tattoos #special thanks to my marine veteran dad for telling me how all of his initiations went.

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writerlola24 · 1 year ago

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Captain Gerard’s return has ruffled all members of the 118. It appears that the ‘new’ captain has returned to finish what he started, making all members of the 118 miserable. But this time around, Evan Buckley fights back.

Or whenever Captain Gerard targets a member of the 118 Buck is ready to pull that line of fire back to himself. What better way to do so than drop dirty innuendos at your homophobic boss?

——————————————————————————————————

Chapter One

Chimney

The 118 is spread out doing house chores. Chimney glares and uses more force than necessary in pushing the mop across the floor. If only he knew his comment a week ago would come back and bite him in the ass.

“Missed a spot there Han,” Captain Gerrard chims from his perch on the balcony. Chim grits his teeth and the plastic of the pole squeaks at the added pressure he forces upon it.

“I would’ve thought you would be better at this by now,” Gerrard pokes again. Chim stills for a moment and contemplates chucking the mop at his ‘Captain’ when a new voice chimes in.

“Captain Gerrard, I’m ready for hose inspection sir,” Buck calls out from his station beside the truck. Gerrard’s eye twitches.

“I’ll be there in a minute Buckley. Surely a man with your experience can handle a simple fire hose,” Gerrard responds, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Well I’m not just good with a hose sir, I’m also great at brightening your day,” Buck retorts with a bit more cheeriness than would be believable. Chim stifles a laugh and sees Hen double over in the back of the ambulance where shes restocking.

Eddie and Ravi pause their cataloguing at the air tanks with bated breath, looking between Buck and Gerrard.

Gerrard sets his coffee down and stalks down the stairs. Buck simply turns his back and leads the way to the perfectly rolled hose. Of course Captain Gerrard makes him redo all his work, but Bucks retaliation has the Captain monitoring his every move until the alarm rings.

The 118 load up and head out. Captain Gerrard reassigns Buck away from hose duty after that.

——————————————————————————————————

Chapter Two

Ravi

The team has caught on quickly to what exactly Buck is doing. It didn't take a genius to see that with every remark made by Captain Gerrard towards one of their own, Buck was quick to draw the mans attention to a new target, himself.

The 118 could only hopelessly stand by and watch the slow motion car crash that was Evan Buckley versus Vincent Gerrard.

Ravi and Eddie are in the gym when it happens again.

“PANIKKAR!” Gerrard bellows into the room. Ravi startles and nearly drops the weight on his chest but Eddie catches the bar.

“Yes captain?” Ravi calls standing at a stiff attention.

“I thought I told you that you were on bathroom duty until further notice,” Gerrard growls.

Ravi opens and closes his mouth a few times.

“He completed his duties before we came in, sir,” Eddie states, he stands at Ravi’s side with his hands on his hips.

“Tell that to the biohazard in the second stall,” Gerrard grits. Eddie opens his mouth with a twisted snarl when he feels a hand on the small of his back, tugging at his shirt.

“That was me sir, so its only fair that I fix it. After all, I am very good at cleaning out pipes,” Buck deadpans.

Captain Gerrards face spasms in a complicated array of emotions.

“Well then get to it Buckley,” Gerrard relents before storming away.

Ravi heaves a relieved sigh and gives Buck a grateful nod.

“I don't know how much longer I can do this,” the youngest member whispers.

“Don’t worry, Bobby’s working on his reinstatement as we speak,” Buck encourages with a placating shoulder pat.

Ravi walks away, leaving Eddie to glare at Buck.

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” Eddie whispers.

“Doing what?” Buck asks with an exaggerated confused expression. Eddie sighs and shakes his head.

“I just don't want to see you getting hurt, Buck,” Eddie says.

“He can’t hurt me. And I won’t let him hurt all of you. I can handle it Eds. It's not like he's been able to get to me. If anything, I think I can get him to quit before too much longer,” Buck whispers with a conspiratorial grin.

Eddie sighs, “Yet Buck. He hasn’t gotten to you yet.”

Buck shakes his head before jogging over to the storage room and making a show of swinging around the toilet plunger as he all but skips past Gerrard to the bathroom.

———————————————————————————————————-

Chapter Three

Hen

Hen and Chim take refuge in the ambulance after a medical call. Hen is glaring at a valve mask when the tell-tale signs of stomping boots can be heard.

“I’d take that rebar now,” Chim mutters in defeat when Captain Gerrard rounds the ambulance door.

“Wilson! That valve mask failure was your fault. Do I need someone more competent to supervise the equipment checks?” The older man baits.

Hen was already on the verge of tears after nearly losing a child due to the faulty mask in her hand. Luckily her quick thinking had her patching the hole and makeshifting the equipment so that it still worked. The child survived, but they lost precious seconds all because of a hole the size of a pinprick at the seam of the valve.

“Don’t worry Captain Gerrard, I’m always trained in mouth-to-mouth, in case you need resuscitation,” Buck chimes from the rig, slamming the door a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“Buckley,” Gerrard responds with a warning tone. Over the past couple of weeks its been a battle of wills on who would break first.

Gerrard assigned Buck every possible demeaning task to which the man was overly happy to do and made into quite the ‘bordering-on-calling-HR’ spectacle. He was struck from hose duty, bathroom duty, mopping, and Gerrard knew better than to have Buck pole polishing anytime in the future. No matter the task Buck was assigned, so far, he got the upper hand on Captain Vincent Gerrard.

The problem was that most of Bucks quips were nonreportable. Everyone was aware of the double innuendos, but everyone was also aware that nothing was a fireable offense.

Buck holds up his hands in a placating manner, “I’m just trying to be helpful sir! I’m like a fire hydrant, always ready for when you need me.”

“For the love of-“ Captain Gerrard spins on the soles of his boots and storms away in frustration.

“And another point to team Buckley,” Chim hoots. The team morale appears lifted as Hen reaches out to take Bucks hand, a silent ‘thank you’ exchanged between the pair.

“That's like what….12-0?” Ravi asks joining the scene.

“Something like that,” Eddie responds with a chuckle.

———————————————————————————————————-

Chapter Four

Eddie

It was only a matter of time before someone other than Buck snapped back. Today, it was Eddie.

“DIAZ! I told you to pair up with Pannikar, NOT Buckley!” Captain Gerrard shouts through the radio. Eddie huffs a sigh of annoyance. Captain Gerrard did find an achilles heel with Buck, his partnering with Eddie, and was exploiting that button whenever he possibly could. The problem was that in times of crisis, the Buck and Eddie team worked best and this was a time of crisis.

“DIAZ! You are defying a direct order. Do I need a translator for you to better understand me?” Gerrard bellows. Eddie growls in rapid Spanish and turns his radio off.

“BUCKLEY! Tell Diaz to turn his radio back online and get your asses out of there! You’re both getting written up for this!” Gerrard screams over Bucks line. Buck gives a whole body groan and pounds through the door in front of them after a hurried ‘LAFD Coming in.’

“Copy that Captain Gerrard,” Buck calls into the line.

Eddie spies the children and mother huddled in the corner of the bedroom. Buck takes the unconscious mother while Eddie scoops up the children. The building is about to cave and Buck nudges Eddie towards the second story bedroom window. Buck shouts out that they’re changing their exit plan and the duo work together to scale the side of the home while carrying the civilians. Ravi and Chimney are setting up the crash pad while Hen is grabbing all the oxygen she can onto the gurney. The second fire station arrives as Buck and Eddie make it to the ground with the civilians.

They just finish handoff to Hen and Chimney when Captain Gerrard is in their faces, spittle flying at them as his veins pop.

“What the hell were you thinking! You defied a direct order and put this entire fire house at risk because you’re too stupid to understand basic Engli-“ Captain Gerrard is cut off quickly by Buck shouldering in front of Eddie.

“You can’t really blame me for wanting to pair with Eddie Captain Gerrard, he’s hotter than any 5-alarm fire,” Buck says with false nonchalance.

“You’re already on thin ass ice Buckley, don’t think for a second i don’t know what you’ve been doing with all your little remarks and insertions,” Gerrard hisses stepping up nose-to-nose with Buck.

“Wherever his ass is concerned is the only place I’d like to insert myself, sir,” Buck quips without missing a beat.

“THATS IT! YOU ARE DONE BUCKLEY!” Gerrard bellows, snatching Bucks helmet from his head and throwing it across the lawn.

“And what is it that I have done, sir?” Buck asks, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms.

“You have been insubordinate! You have been inappropriate! And you keep spreading your perversions all over my station!” Gerrard lists.

“Please explain to me how I have been doing any of those things, sir,” Buck asks with a challenging expression.

Gerrard opens and closes his mouth. Aside from today with Eddie and Buck defying a partnering order, Gerrard had nothing on Buck and they both knew it.

“Perhaps you would like to come with me to the board so that we can both review our accounts of my behaviors and the environment that's being created,” Buck proposes with a defiant smirk on his face.

“You are playing a dangerous game, boy. You are playing with fire,” Captain Gerrard warns.

“Well Captain Gerrard, I do resonate with fire. It’s hot, dangerous and uncontrollable,” Buck whispers in a low growl.

They stare nose-to-nose until the other units Captain calls Gerrard over to debrief. Captain Gerrard mutters something indescenable under his breath before shouldering past Buck and away.

“I might actually be in love with you Buckaroo,” Chim says, sidling up to Bucks side.

“Me too,” Eddie adds.

“Me three,” Hen tags.

“Same here,” Ravi says.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 show #911 abc #911 fic #vincent gerrard #hen wilson #ravi panikkar #chimney han #118 firefam

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 2 years ago

Text

Thanks (m, cold)

Hi guys, thank you again for voting on which scenario you wanted to see for this fic! It's a bit of a slow burn, and idk how I feel about the ending, but Elijah is staunchly miserable by the end so hopefully that makes y'all happy 😅 let me know if you like it 🫶

Ps I've been writing this for literally the past 12 hours so I cannot look at it anymore, I'll read it over and edit errors in the morning but I need to get it out before it drives me insane lmao. 5.5k words under the cut :)

CW: male snz, colds, coughing, fever, contagion

There was nothing quite as depressing, Elijah decided, as the days leading up to Thanksgiving dinner service in a restaurant. Well, unless you were Greyson.

“Goooood morning, boss! Two days til the Big Day; are you pumped?”

Elijah turned his chair slowly towards the door, where the chef stood grinning unironically. He thought, not for the first time, that Greyson was likely some sort of dog in a past life – a golden retriever, or possibly a lab. One of those ‘no thoughts, just vibes’ dogs.

“Am I pumped?” Elijah asked, glaring at Greyson. “For a day that should be spent drinking shitty beer and eating my weight in carbs spent instead putting on a fake smile for people who don’t even think of us as human? For people who go out to eat literally once a year, and make sure they do it on a holiday so they can feel powerful by forcing a restaurant to serve them, then complain about the price and stiff my servers? Am I pumped to barely break even, even though the restaurant will be packed from ten am until close, because those same people staunchly refuse to pay more than eighty bucks a head to stuff themselves silly? Am I pumped to listen to my staff complain all day, despite the fact that when each of them was hired, they were told in no uncertain terms that they would be working holidays?” Elijah clicked his pen closed loudly, stood to let Greyson through, and sat with him in tandem, his face set in anger the whole time. “No, Grey. I am not, in fact, pumped.”

Greyson broke their eye contact to wake his computer, the lecture obviously unexpected. “Clearly I should’ve read the room before opening my mouth,” he said, glancing back over at his boss briefly. “My bad, boss.”

Elijah, embarrassed that he’d let himself sink into such a state about something as stupid as a holiday service, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Fuck. Sorry, Grey. You just caught me at a bad moment. I had two servers call out for today, I’m fuckin’ sweating because we really need everyone here for Thursday and neither of them are sure they’ll be good to come back in two days.”

“Hmm,” Greyson hummed, his eyebrows threading together. “That’s weird. I had Victor and Elise call out on my way in.”

Elijah felt his heart thump in his temple. “Did they say why?”

“I didn’t ask,” Greyson said, turning his chair to face his boss. “But I guess I should’ve. Did the servers say why they couldn’t come in?”

“Some sort of fever-cold thing, is what Jason said he had. Ashley just said she felt like shit.” Elijah pressed his fingers into his eye and sighed. “I need a cigarette. Care to join?”

Greyson, never one to turn down nicotine in any form, stood from his chair. “Thought you’d never ask,” he said.

The two of them walked through the empty kitchen in silence, Elijah entirely too wrapped in his own thoughts to continue their conversation. There was an ongoing joke, a trope, at this point, about holidays in the restaurant; everyone was always sick for them. Last Easter, the servers all had bronchitis, and a couple of Valentine’s days ago, Greyson had so many cooks call out with the stomach flu that they’d had to hire last-minute temps to fill in on the line. Despite doing nearly 300 covers, they barely made enough to cover the immense labor that seven temps on a holiday cost.

“Lij,” Greyson said as the two of them stepped out the back door and sat on the milk crates littering the loading dock, “it’s not going to be like Valentine’s. I can see your fuckin’ gears turning.” The chef pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, handed his boss one, and lit them both up. “Relax.”

Silence, once again, fell upon them as they smoked and watched fat snowflakes disintegrate on the asphalt. Elijah hoped that Greyson was right, that everything would be fine and he was overreacting – but he knew better than to hope. More likely than not, it was going to be what it always was on holidays: a shit show.

Matt and Mark, hand-in-hand until they spotted their bosses by the door, turned the corner and waved to their counterparts in tandem like well-trained circus animals. Elijah couldn’t help but smile as their fingers unwove from one another.

“Morning,” Elijah called, stubbing out his cigarette. Greyson did the same, and the two of them stood to let the younger men into the building.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Mark asked rubbing his hands together as he pushed the door open. Elijah shrugged as he held the door open for the other two and walked in behind them.

“My rage keeps me warm,” he said, prompting a laugh from Greyson and an eye roll from the younger men. “How’re you guys?”

Mark shot a look at Matt as they all walked towards the office at the front of the kitchen. “I’m well,” he said, pointedly. Elijah nearly stopped in his tracks when he glimpsed Matt glaring at his boyfriend.

“Matt…?” Greyson asked, an attempt at giving his sous chef a get-out-of-jail-free card. There was silence as the three of them turned, expectantly, towards Matt.

“I’mb good,” the sous said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. Elijah audibly groaned, Mark winced, and Greyson bit his cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity.

“Well, you certainly sound great,” Greyson said, palming Matt’s shoulder aggressively. “Would you like to go home and sleep that off?”

“Yes, he -”

“Ndo,” Matt said, cutting Mark off and shooting him a look. “I wandt to help prep.I’mb – hh! hh’NGTSH-uh!” Matt turned and pulled his coat up over the bottom half of his face to sneeze, then quickly gathered himself and stood up straight. “I’mb fine,” he said, convincing no one.

Elijah closed his eyes briefly and sighed through his nose; fortunately or unfortunately, he knew exactly why Matt hadn’t called off.

The week prior, Elijah and Greyson had dolled out raises and bonuses for the staff; this year was Matt’s fifth as sous chef. Greyson had basically written a dissertation of why his sous chef should be given a new title – Executive Sous – along with a significant raise and bonus. It hadn’t taken much convincing; Elijah knew exactly how hard Matt worked, and staying at the same restaurant as a sous chef for five years was nearly unheard of in this city, especially for someone as young as Matt. He and Greyson had agreed that Matt’s loyalty to the restaurant deserved to be compensated, and had surprised him before his day off with the new title and pay.

Matt had been surprised – shocked was probably a better word for it, honestly – and had confided in Elijah after Greyson had dipped early to meet up with a date that he felt like he didn’t deserve the raise.

“You do,” Elijah had said, laughing lightly. “We wouldn’t have given it to you if you didn’t deserve it.”

The younger man had shaken his head. “I just… I mean, Greyson is here way more than me. I get two days off mostly, and he doesn’t let me work longer than ten hours. And I love it here, you guys don’t need to, like, worry about me leaving if that’s what this is about.”

Elijah had given Matt a confused look. “Greyson should be here more than you, first of all he’s a partner, not just the chef, and secondly, he gets paid very well to be here eighty hours a week. That’s his choosing. You’re his employee – if you were here as much as he was and getting paid significantly less, that wouldn’t be fair. And we’re glad you love it here, but that’s not why we gave you the raise. We gave it to you because you’re a hard worker, and you deserve to be compensated for what you do.” Elijah had smiled at Matt, patted his knee, and finished with, “Don’t sell yourself short.”

Matt had just smiled back and nodded, but Elijah knew he hadn’t changed his mind about ‘being undeserving’. Elijah knew, via background checks that were performed by his off-site HR company, and via Mark being a blabbermouth the second he got a glass of wine in him, that Matt had been a bit of a troubled kid; he’d been bounced from one foster home to another as a kid, and then one juvenile detention hall to another as a teenager. Only when he’d dropped out of high school and gotten a job as a dishwasher at a Denny’s did he finally decide it was time to shape up. He’d worked his way into the diner’s kitchen, then a slightly nicer kitchen, and when he was 20, he’d shown up at the front door of Elliot’s in an ill-fitting suit with a speech about how he was ready to work somewhere that he could hone his passion, even if they couldn’t pay him a dime. Greyson had hired him on the spot, not even consulting Elijah, despite only having been the executive chef for a few months.

Elijah knew Matt felt that he owed Greyson, not the other way around, and this promotion and raise was the nail in that coffin of doubt. He knew there was no way Matt would go home, no matter how shitty he felt.

Greyson just shrugged at his sous chef’s denial of being sick. “If you want to stay, I’m not going to make you leave,” he said, walking into the office and changing from his sweatshirt into his chef’s coat. “Just don’t sneeze on the food.”

Matt rolled his eyes and stripped off his jacket to put his own chef’s coat on. “Yes, Chef,” he said, coughing into his elbow. Mark and Elijah exchanged sidelong looks.

“Are you feeling okay?” Elijah asked his junior manager. Mark smirked, hiked his laptop bag further onto his shoulder, and started towards the dining room – his makeshift office.

“Never better, boss,” he said, pushing through the swinging doors. “Never better.”

***

“So, is he coming in tomorrow?”

Greyson lolled his head to the side, hands still on his keyboard, and deadpanned Elijah. “The fuck do you think?”

Elijah pulled a hand down his face and nodded. “Yeah, okay, just wanted to check.”

While Matt had been relatively fine the first few hours of the shift, by the time the last guests had eaten, the sous had been so staunchly miserable that Greyson had marched his ass into the office, thrown his jacket over his shoulders, and pointed towards the back door. “Go. Home. Now.”

“Chef, I – HTSHH! Hh-! GTSH-uh!” Matt wrenched to the side, collapsing into a post-sneeze coughing fit that made the cooks flinch from five yards away.

“You’re not fine,” Greyson insisted. “You’re sick, and you’re going to get everyone else sick.”

Matt nodded, miserable, and hung his head. “Sorry, Chef,” he muttered, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Go,” Greyson said. “And come back when you’re well.”

Mark had taken Matt home in an Uber, and the cooks and servers had been able to leave relatively early, which left Elijah, Greyson, and a bottle of whiskey between them on the desk to figure out how they were going to handle the rest of the week.

Greyson sighed and reached for the bottle as he pushed away from his computer screen. He took a long pull and handed the bottle to Elijah, who followed suit. “I just… I don’t understand why he’d come in that sick,” Greyson said, pulling his hair to the top of his head and securing it with a rubber band from their drawer of office supplies. Elijah had to pull the bottle away from his lips to laugh. “What?” Greyson asked.

“You, of all people, can’t understand why he came in sick?” Elijah asked, incredulous. “You?”

“What do you mean me?” Greyson asked, snatching the bottle back. “If anything, he learned it from watching you.”

“Oh, spare me, Greyson,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “For awhile there, you literally came in sick three weeks a month.”

Greyson scoffed. “At least I’ve never passed out on the kitchen floor.”

“Yes, you have.”

“No, I almost passed out. You actually fuckin’ swooned. Collapsed in a puddle. Full damsel in distress.” Greyson took another pull and placed the bottle back on the desk. “So don’t come for me unless I send for you.”

Elijah guffawed at this. “Who taught you that saying?” he asked. Greyson shrugged.

“I heard one of the servers using it. I like it.”

“The servers are twenty years old, you dinosaur. The last thing they want is Grandpa Greyson using their jargon.”

“Fuck off, if anyone here is a grandpa it’s…” Greyson stopped suddenly, held up a finger, let his eyes flutter shut, then let out a shaky breath. “Fuck, that’s annoying.” He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand, then raised an eyebrow at his boss, whose face had drawn into concern. “What?”

“What was that?” Elijah asked, glancing over at the bottle of whiskey they’d spent the past hour sharing.

“I just thought I was going to – oh,” Greyson’s eyes widened. “No, dude, relax, I’m totally fine. I feel great.”

“‘Buzzed’ and ‘great’ are two different things, Grey,” Elijah said. He reached up to feel Greyson’s forehead, prompting the chef to lean back in his chair.

“Great as in healthy,” he insisted, shooing Elijah’s hand away. “Seriously, I’d let you know if I – HRRTSHHH-ue!” He caught the sneeze in his elbow – barely – and choked back an irritated cough. From the crook of his arm, he heard Elijah swear.

“I’m going to end your fuckin’ life, I swear to God,” Elijah muttered, pushing the bottle further onto Greyson’s side of the desk. “You let me drink from the same bottle as you, you dick.”

“I’m fine, Elijah, Christ it was one sneee – hh! - hh…” Greyson tipped his head back in anticipation, then lowered and shook it when the feeling once again dissipated. “See? Totally fine.” He sniffled – convincing, Grey – and immediately changed course. “Plus, it’s alcohol. It’s an antiseptic.”

“It one million percent is not,” Elijah said, rubbing his temples in defeat. “Greyson, you cannot be sick. We cannot be sick. How the hell are we going to be able to run Thanksgiving?”

“Elijah,” Greyson said, “listen. I am fine. Everything is going to be just fi – ITSHH-ue!” Greyson pitched forward into his palm and cringed. Elijah, begrudgingly, slammed the box of tissues they kept on a side table in front of the chef.

“Bless you,” he said while Greyson cleaned himself up. “And, I mean this from the bottom of my heart: fuck. You.”

***

“Hhh-! Huh… hnnn.”

“Bless you.”

“Oh, screw you, Lij,” Greyson muttered for the millionth time that day. He grabbed what felt like his hundredth tissue and blew his nose – only for the feeling to reignite. “Huhhh! Hhh...hh… guhh.” Greyson rubbed his nose again and angrily spiked the tissue into the trash can beneath his prep station.

“Bless you,” Elijah said again, mocking.

“You kndow,” Greyson said, turning towards his boss, who was seated in the office, not looking Greyson’s way. “Karma is going to combe for you for being an asshole to mbe.”

At this, Elijah glanced towards Greyson. “Karma? No, karma is having a cold and not being able to sneeze because you let your friend drink out of the same bottle as you when you knew you were getting sick. That’s karma, and you got what was coming to you.”

“Fuuhhh! Huh! Hh...fuck,” Greyson grumbled, coughing into his shoulder.

“Karma is also giving your sous chef a lecture about being sick at work, only to be get sick and have to come into work because you’re technically the most well of all the sick cooks and chefs.”

“Are you finished?” Greyson asked, throwing his hands in the air. “I get it. And to be fair, I did ndot kndow I was getting sick.” The chef sucked in painfully through his nose and collapsed into coughs once again.

“Mmhmm,” Elijah mumbled. When it seemed like Greyson wasn’t going to be able to stop the coughing, he took pity and got up to make the chef tea.

“Here,” Elijah said, slamming a paper cup in front of Greyson. “Drink it. Sickie.”

Greyson, unable to come up with a proper comeback, just did as he was told. “How mbany on the books tonight?” he croaked. Elijah sighed, pulled up his phone, and slid it towards Greyson. “Fuck,” Greyson said when he saw the number.

“All the people in the city who aren’t coming in tomorrow decided tonight was the night, apparently,” Elijah said, taking his phone back and putting it in his pocket. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked, in earnest.

Greyson nodded. “It’s ndot too bad,” he said, taking another sip of tea. “Just wish I could fuckigg sndeeze.”

Elijah huffed out a laugh. “You’re sure you don’t want to call Matt in?”

“Definitely no – hh! Huh...hhhITSHHHZUE! Oh thank fuckigg God – HUHHESTCH-ue! Hh! Hnn...HuhhhETSCHH-ue! HTSSHH-ue!”

Elijah whistled, long and low, and pushed the box of tissues towards Greyson. “Wow,” he said. “Bless.”

Greyson rolled his eyes as he took a handful of tissues and cleaned himself up. “See?” he said once he’d thrown them away and washed his hands, “Good as new. HTSSHH-ue!”

Elijah chuckled. “Sure, Chef,” he said, moving towards the doors to the dining room. “Whatever you say.”

***

In his thirty-nine years on earth, Elijah had learned a lot about himself. He’d learned that he was a hothead, and he had to really think about the repercussions of what was going to come out of his mouth if he wanted to keep the person he was talking to in his life. He’d learned that he was incapable of whistling, juggling, or any other party trick – but he could pull out a fantastic rendition of Queen’s Somebody to Love during karaoke, and that was enough to make him seem like he was fun at parties. He’d learned that he loved to have his own space, and should he ever find a partner, he knew they’d have to have separate bedrooms. And he had learned exactly what it felt like when he was getting sick.

Like… really sick.

When Greyson said things like, “I didn’t know I was getting sick,” it truly did not register to Elijah. Maybe it was because Greyson’s illnesses always seemed to be some sort of mixed bag – starting differently every time, with symptoms that varied wildly – or maybe it was because he just didn’t tune in to how he was feeling. Greyson always said he basically tried to ignore his body until it forced him to pay attention; maybe that was something that Elijah needed to attempt. Because Elijah… Elijah knew exactly when and how badly he was getting sick every single time.

It had started that afternoon, mere hours after he’d given Greyson shit about exposing him to this illness, the way it always did – with the type of sore throat that made you feel weak in your knees. Elijah had swallowed, then immediately felt dizzy with the pain that surged in his throat. Oh, he thought, touching his neck. Oh, no.

He was, of course, a creature of habit and attempted all his usual ways to quell the pain – cups of tea hidden in paper sleeves, lozenges he hoped Greyson was too stuffed up to smell on his breath, handfuls of ibuprofen – to no avail. By the time dinner service came around he could hear the rasp in his voice and, despite the ibuprofen, could feel the ache in his joints that meant he’d already made it to stage two; fever.

This was how he knew he was going to be down badly. If he could ride the sore throat past the fever and straight into congestion, he might be able to get away with just a normal cold. But if that fever set in before any other symptoms, it was all over.

“Yo,” Greyson said, approaching his boss post pre-shift. “Cand we quickly talk about the semantics of tomborrow’s buffet before people get here?”

Elijah lifted his heavy head from his pre-shift notes and blinked in Greyson’s direction. “Okay,” he said, brilliantly. Greyson’s eyebrows knit together, concerned.

“You good?” he asked, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. Elijah nodded slowly – surely, if Greyson was able to push through this illness with such ease, he was just being a baby about it. He swallowed through the knives in his throat and nodded.

“Just a headache,” he said. “What do you want to talk through?”

“Just wanted to see how mbany cooks you think I should have on the buffehh....ETSZHCHH-ue!” Greyson directed a massive sneeze into his elbow, and Elijah’s head about exploded with pain.

“Christ,” Elijah muttered, pressing his palm into his eye. Greyson muffled a cough into his sleeve and shook his head to clear it.

“Fuck, ‘scuse mbe,” he said, looking back at his boss. “Umb. Did I get you or something?”

Something like that, Elijah thought as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re just loud, and my head hurts.” He pulled out his phone, looked at the cover spread for the next day, and said, “Three cooks on the buffet. One for omelets, one for prime rib carving, one for dessert bar.” He looked up at Greyson for his confirmation. “What?” he asked.

“You just… look like you’re in pain,” Greyson said, carefully. “Did you take -?”

“Yes, I took ibuprofen,” Elijah cut him off. “Go make sure your guys are ready for tonight. Take a decongestant so they can understand you. I’ll be back there in a minute.”

Greyson pursed his lips, but didn’t argue. “Yes, sir,” he said, and left Elijah to brood.

By some stroke of luck, the third inevitable stage of Elijah’s illness didn’t hit him until after they’d finished service. He was checking the lead server’s station so she could go home, when suddenly it felt like a thousand bees collected in his sinuses.

“Yeah, looks good Riley, thanks, see you in the mo – IGTSHH-uhh! HSTSH-ue! HhhhINTSZH-ue!” Elijah wrenched to the side, the sneezes so sudden he barely had time to cover his mouth.

“Yikes,” Riley said, taking a step away from her boss. “Bless you.”

“Thanks,” Elijah muttered, pinching his nose to quell the itch.

“You pick up whatever has everyone else out this week?” she asked, taking off her apron. Elijah shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Have a good night.”

With all the servers gone, Elijah slunk back into the kitchen and sunk into his office chair, his head in his hands. He was not prepared to do a whole holiday service feeling like this. This was nightmarish, and he’d only felt sick for nine hours. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was going to be -

“Hey, bless you,” Elijah sat up and turned around at the accusation to see Greyson standing at the office door with his arms crossed. “Could’ve heard those from fuckin’ space.”

Elijah rolled his eyes, painfully. “Whatever,” he said, powering his computer up to finish the night’s paperwork. “You’re one to talk, I don’t think you’ve gone three seconds without -”

“HRRSHH-oo!” Greyson cut him off with a comically-timed sneeze directed into the collar of his shirt.

“-that,” Elijah finished.

Greyson grabbed a tissue and wiped his nose. “Yeah, but it’s been well-established that I have a cold. I was under the impression that you were still -”

“HTSHH! HRSHH! Huh-! HuhhESTZHH-ue!” Elijah once again collapsed in on himself, head both buzzing and pounding, the explosive sneezes grating the back of his throat.

“- well,” Greyson finished, and moved into the office to sit by his boss. Just as Elijah looked up from his lap, Greyson slapped a hand on his forehead.

“Enough,” Elijah said, pushing Greyson’s palm off. Greyson put both his palms on his knees and gave Elijah a knowing look.

“So, you’ve been sick all day, or…?”

“Greyson,” Elijah said, clearing his throat, “I’m fine.”

“You have a fever, Lij. Like, a pretty significant one.”

He knew, and he had known, but the words made Elijah’s eyes well and his throat close all the same. God, he hated having a fucking fever and all the stupid, ridiculous emotions that went along with it. Elijah took a breath, closed his eyes to collect himself, and addressed the chef.

“I’m not feeling 100%,” he said. “But I will be fine. You are sick – if I’m not 100%, then you must be at like 10% at this point.”

“I don’t have a fever,” Greyson pointed out, taking Elijah’s hand and placing it on his cool head. “See?”

Elijah bit his cheek to keep from snapping. “Alright,” he said. “Whatever. Still, you need to go home; it’s a big day tomorrow.”

“I will when you do,” Greyson said, shrugging. Elijah, completely spent, and done arguing, just turned off his computer – paperwork be damned for the night.

“Fine,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “Let’s call it a night.”

Greyson, clearly confused, just raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Alright boss,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “See you tomorrow.”

***

If there was one thing Greyson knew about Elijah, it was this: if you wanted him to admit defeat, you had to corner him.

When he woke up at oh-dark-thirty that morning, Greyson felt lucky that he was no worse for the wear then he was the night before. Was he stuffed-up to the gills? Yes. Did he have an incessant, grating cough? Yeah. But ultimately, it was a cold, and he’d work through far worse many more times.

So, despite the fact that it was still dark out, Greyson donned his hoodie and set out for the restaurant. On the way to the early-morning subway, he called Matt.

“...Hello?” Matt answered on the third ring. “Chef?”

“Mbornin’ sunshine,” Greyson said, coughing into the receiver. “How’re you feeling?”

“Uh…” Matt said, attempting to gather his bearings. “Better. Am I supposed to be at the restaurant now? I thought I was scheduled at eight.” Greyson heard him push back a blanket and plant his feet on the floor. “You sound like shit, by the way. Sorry about that.”

“Inevitable,” Greyson said, a brush-off. “And you aren’t scheduled til eight, but I have sombe very important, pre-work, Executive Sous shit I ndeed your help with.”

“Sure, boss,” Matt said, and Greyson could hear him changing clothes, using mouthwash, and whispering goodbye to Mark. “Anything you need.”

“Good man,” Greyson said, pausing at the top of the subway steps. “Could you pick up cough drops, Mucinex, and a hot water bottle, if you see one? Oh, and a real blanket. I’ll Venmo you some mboney.”

“Uh, sure, boss. Is this… for you?”

“Not for me,” Greyson said, coughing into his sleeve. “For Elijah. He’s down bad.”

“Oh. Oh, shit,” Matt said. “Yeah, okay, for sure boss. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, mban. Hey, I’mb about to head down to the subway, text mbe if you have any – hh! HTSHH-ue! Fuck, sorry,” Greyson wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Mbaybe grab more tissues while you’re there,” he amended.

“Sure, Chef. Bless.”

“You’re the best, Mbatt. Always knew you’d make a perfect number two.”

Greyson could hear the eye roll through the phone. “Don’t get sappy, old man,” Matt said. “See you soon.”

***

To say Elijah felt like shit would’ve been the understatement of the century.

When he woke up that morning, Elijah was fairly sure he was dying. The fever he’d crawled into bed with hadn’t budged, his sinuses were packed, and he’d officially acquired the final gem on his sick-as-fuck gauntlet: the cough. This day was going to be absolute hell.

Elijah did his level best to get ready for the busy service; he managed to take about half a shower before he had to sit down, dizzy from exertion; he’d gotten one contact in before sneezing so hard he almost poked his eye out and settled on glasses; he’d even found the strength to put on a pair of pants, though a button down was entirely too much for his shaking hands, so he settled on a cardigan that looked passable enough. God he hoped the servers – and Mark – would be able to hold down the fort out front, because this was nothing short of tragic.

Unwilling to deal with the subway and unable to drive safely in this state, Elijah settled on calling an Uber to work. It was early, a little before eight, but he knew if he didn’t get there now, he’d never make it.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” the driver said, leaving Elijah to immediately regret his decision not to drive. “Pretty early to be up and at ‘em. You heading to see family?”

Elijah cleared his throat as best he could before begrudgingly responding to the driver. “Ndot quite,” he said, his voice strained and congested. “Worki – HGSTHH-ue! HRSSH! ETSZCH-uh!” Elijah attempted to hold back the sneezes, unsuccessfully. Sans any tissues, he wiped his nose on his sweater sleeve. “Excuse mbe, sorry.”

“Working and sick on a holiday?” the driver said, shaking his head. “That’s rough, man. Bless you.”

Elijah’s face flamed, but he was in no state to deny. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Thangks.”

The rest of the drive was in blessed silence, and Elijah made sure to tip the guy extra for being exposed to whatever plague he was walking around with. When he finally pushed through the back door of the restaurant, Elijah felt like he’d already lived a lifetime today; he really wasn’t sure how much he’d be able to take.

“Elijah!” Greyson’s voice reached him before Elijah could even see his face. “Happy Thanksgiving, you sick old fuck!”

Elijah turned the corner and almost burst into tears – there stood Greyson, his face pale and nose bright red, and Matt and Mark looking no better, outside of his office; his office that had been, essentially, turned into a cozy-looking bedroom.

There were blankets on the floor, the chairs removed, and medicine on the desk. The harsh office light had been shut off, and instead one of the lamps from the host stand glowed gently from behind the computer. And, perhaps most heart-rendering, in Greyson’s hand was a bowl of steaming soup, and in Matt’s, a cup of tea.

“I know you hate working the holidays, and feeling like shit is just insult to injury,” Greyson said, setting down the bowl so he could guide Elijah into the office. “So we thought we’d mbake it just a little less shitty.”

Elijah allowed himself to be lead in, unable to find the words to thank his friend. He turned into his elbow to cough, a welcome respite from the tears he could feel threatening to spill over. “Grey,” he said when he’d gathered himself. “I… this is so… you guys…” he swallowed around the lump in his throat and shook his head. “I don’t kndow what to say,” he said, looking up at Greyson. “Thangk you.”

“Ah, save it,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his friend’s back. “You’re always looking after us. Call it our Thanksgiving to you.”

Elijah smiled a little, punched Greyson’s arm lightly, and allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. Heading to see family? the Uber driver had asked him. Maybe he had been, after all.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #coldfic #snez #snzblr #male cold #male snz #male ocs #original character

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jaminster · 6 months ago

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Hello, I come from the notes on the "reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements" post, so I'm not a regular follower, I apologize. I see you write fanfics, is there any fanfic you've written that you want to talk about? If not, is there a fanfic you've reading recently you want to share? Hope you have a nice day!

Hello! I'm so excited to answer this Ask because they're not common, and just want to thank you for showing interest!

I would love to talk about my latest fanfic that's still a WIP, called "Yearning Melody". It's in the Left4Dead2 fandom and a slow-burn romance between two of the canon characters: Nicholas and Ellis! The fic is set in Chicago in the fabulous 1950's and Nicholas is a miserable crooner (singer like Frank Sinatra) who's trying to escape his taunting past, while Ellis is a simple mechanic who's moved to Chicago recently with his buddies (Keith and Dave) to run a autoshop, and happens to be a big fan Nicholas (especially the covers he sings)!

The fic is slow-burn and I mean slow-burn so unfortunately it's a little slow pace, basically torturing myself at this point, but I've got a whole plot planned for it and it'll help with both of their development! It's a little serious in a way because of the issues these characters have/will endure in the future fics, but it's fun to write!

I know this type of fic isn't too popular or interesting, but I read this really great fic called New York New York written by @bigbadsnakedad, which inspired me to write something set in a similar period but with a different plot (NYNY is about mobboss Nick and mechanic Ellis). Really good fic and I've reread it a million times, so I recommend it if you're interested in things like that.

I also plan on writing another fic sometime in the future about Ellis getting the Jockey strain and just exploring one of my fav characters going through the scary stages of becoming a Jockey. I don't know if this will be a ship fic, I haven't properly sat down and planned it, but maybe it'll be a ship fic. Who knows! Just wanna write a scary fic like that tbh.

Also there's this amazing writer named @daddyellis (Rowan) and he's written a million Nellis fics. He's got this massive series called Synchronicity (The Choices We Made That Day) with 3 works so far and it's bloody delicious, but his most recent writing is The Sweetest Façade. Overall just check 'em out if you're interested in the L4D2 Nellis fandom!

Another amazing writer is @grimmywrites, who's also somewhat inspired me to write something like Yearning Melody. She's got a load of fanfics under Nellis and she's written for other fandoms too! Currently, the fic that's one of my favourites is Pollice Verso (I've doodled some things for that fic too) and it's a historical story set in Anicent Rome, about gladiator Nick and son of senator, Ellis. Overall, she's an amazing writer!

Now remembering another amazing long-term fic that’s being written by @ladyred-ms, called Blind Man’s Bluff! It’s one of those rare fics that have been going on for many years, and the plot thickens with every new chapter. It’s taught me a lot of stuff and helped me get out of a tricky situation by first making me realise said-situation. This fic does have some heavy scenes but it’s perfectly and accurately written in my opinion, so please do check it out if you’d be interested in something like that.

Anyways, thank you so much for letting me yap about my silly fic and all other amazing writers, I really appreciate this ask and it's made my year honestly (LMAO) because I've been having a rough time. There's a hundred other authors who've written amazing fics under Nellis and L4D2 overall so yeah! Thanks again for the Ask, I hope you have an amazing day too! <3<3<3

#l4d2 #left 4 dead 2 #yearning melody #anon ask #sobbing at this ask #made my day #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #idk how to tag this #but i really appreciate this ask you have no idea thank you so much for showing interest in my work #sometimes i crave such support #<3 #love you anon #ask

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teamprettystevie · 10 months ago

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A little bit of angst and a sprinkle of some hurt/comfort to get through the week

1. (Some People Say) You Can Never Go Home Again by chicklette

Steve lets himself be held, lets the thick arm embrace him as he presses his face into Bucky’s neck. “I don’t want to do this without you,” Steve says, not caring that he’s getting Bucky’s shirt wet, not caring about anything more than holding on and never letting go. “Please don’t make me do this without you.”

Bucky goes back into cryo after CA:CW. Steve does not win at coping.

2. They're Blue For You by Kian

When Bucky's memory starts returning, Steve is advised to keep his distance in order to protect Bucky from people who might think Steve's judgement is compromised if they knew how they used to be. Natasha picks up the slack in helping Bucky adjust, which Steve both appreciates and tortures himself over. Bucky is confused and worried, but doesn't know how to get through to Steve. Thankfully, one can always rely on Tony Stark to put his foot in his mouth in ways that eventually turn out for the best.

Or, the one where Steve hurts himself unnecessarily to protect Bucky from shadowy government types, gets super jealous of Natasha, Clint plays a deeply grumpy Cupid, and Bucky eventually puts an end to all this tomfoolery by bludgeoning all opposition with the brute force of his personality.

3. Now wait, wait, wait for me by CoeurDeFaux

And Steve Rogers will ignore it all, he will run until he can't breathe, until the tears blur and everything he is and has become falls away and he reverts back to that barely five foot, one leg in the grave, piece of nothing he started as.

4. Breathe Underwater by StilesBastille24

“He’s had it tough,” Steve forced himself to say. “Stuff like that changes you. I think – I think for him I’m just a bad memory now.” It was gutting to say out loud. It was Wednesday and Steve was miserable.

Natasha studied Steve for a moment, the way she studied a tactical mission. Finally she shook her head. “That sucks.”

It was Wednesday and Steve was blindsided by how much he appreciated Natasha Romanoff’s friendship.

5. Like the Dead Sea by StilesBastille24

It cut Bucky to the core and he hated that more than anything. That as much as he could let Steve down, as he could get things wrong, he was still Bucky Barnes enough to care so very much about Steve Rogers.

“Steve,” Bucky said with a tired sigh, “please not tonight. I can’t do it tonight.”

“Can’t do what?” Steve asked.

“I can’t pretend tonight. I can’t be someone I don’t remember how to be, not tonight. Try me again tomorrow. I’ll muster it up, I swear. But tonight, I am so tired, pal.”

6. why are we always stuck and running (from the bullets, the bullets) by inevitablemeow

“I’m tired, Buck,” Steve whispers, like it’s some heavy, shameful thing that he doesn’t want to breathe life into. “I’m tired.”

Bucky rakes his eyes over Steve’s face, catching on all the little things that have started to change as their bodies approach sixty together. The white of age shows in Steve’s hair and beard, now, blending with the blond to make it lighter than it’s ever been. He’s got the hint of crow’s feet, too, made more pronounced by the tired frown his face is pulling.

And Bucky knows he looks much the same. Short brown hair streaked with white, stubble that grows in more gray than anything else. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes are deep, now.

Old men, the both of them. Even with as slow as they age, the fact is they’re over a hundred and twenty years old. It’s an awfully long time to be alive.

or; It's time.

7. Put it in the Smithsonian by Whendoestheshipsail

After Bucky falls from the train, Steve gets Bucky's letter. In 2012, Steve's therapist suggests he writes one back.

8. Give This Man a Hug by need_more_meta

Thor strolls into the Avengers Compound with a load of beer, and no one can refuse an impromptu party. He also brings a flask of alien liquor for certain superhumans who are immune to earthly alcohol.

Which is how they all learn a secret about Steve Rogers, namely: how much this man needs a goddamn hug.

9. I Still Love You, I'm Sorry by Sam_Haine

Bucky and Steve have one of their worst fights ever. Bucky goes no contact, while Steve spirals in his guilt for what he'd done. It's not pretty for either of them and as it turns out, therapy might actually be a good thing.

10. If You're Reading This, Steve Rogers by fallendarlings

Nobody tells Steve it's okay to cry.

Nobody touches him.

Nobody remembers Steve Rogers is a person under the mantle. It's okay. He hasn't felt like a person since he watched Bucky fall.

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hyp-fixator · 1 year ago

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Yo.. Me and @yamodii-official wrote a lil somethin with Skydrone and Varcity (all of Yam's part will be in the chat text!)

TW! gun mention, blood, swearing, implied abuse (of sorts, I think)

"see the problem with glock is that he's stupider than the other children" he was only seven when he heard that "he is a liability because he's slow!" he was 16 then "you're only likeable when your drunk" 23 now here he was. standing above someone who'd treated him with the same respect as a bug. like someone without a shred of smarts. like an idiot. and now. Blackrock, Lost Temple, everyone had something to fear. he grabbed skydrone by his horns and brought him up to his face. making sky's eyes meet his. "can't dance your way out of this one eh?" he threw him down. sky let out a yelp similar to an injured dog as he hit the cold hard floor. Glockno- Varcity kicked sky straight in the ribs and then got down low "you go back to that shit hole and tell them i'm still kicking, capich?"

Coughing up his deep indigo blood onto the frigid, miserable stone beneath him, Skydrone looked up into the obsidian eyes of malice. Tearing his lazy gaze from the figure above, he searched for an exit. Legs aching with cramps from running from this monster, his eyes locked on the fuzzy wall, light seeping through the hallway turning off, painting it a cold marble white. It was multiple meters away from his current crippled position, but it was a spark of hope in this dimly lit concrete box of a storage facility. Massaging his now swollen ribcage, Sky rose himself to his knees, leaning on his scarred arm as he glared daggers up at Varcity. "And what kind of authority do you think you hold over me in order to demand something so foolish?" His injured grin leaked a smeared stream of his blood as he continued, "You're acting like a child on a deranged playground, claiming to own others and demanding them to follow orders that could kill them. You know nothing about the circumstances over at Blackrock, and deserve no knowledge about it's current status. You left. cut out of the circle. You aren't going to get any information, especially out of me, moron." Skydrone grinned. It's been awhile since he got caught, let alone beat up. It wasn't a good experience, but an exhilarating one after so much monotonous and successful work. Varcity's face twitched with irritation. A tough grimace shot across his face before his arm shot forwards, grabbing the tie of Sky and stopping an inch close before he ended up bashing Skydrone's skull in with his own forehead. Barking out the order again, Varcity's voice stabbed with irritation, the shiteating grin growing on Sky's face as he placed a calm hand on Varcity's face, pushing away the bulldog-man. "Ouugh. Looks like I struck a nerve, beastman?" Blast-injured arm sneaking behind his neck as he touched his bovine legs down on the cold concrete, a click resonated in the room, Sky dropping to the ground and scampering towards the light.

The bowtie lays in Varcity's rough grip.

it took him two seconds to react "too slow, try again" subspace would've said but Varcity was out for blood "GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE SHIT" he roared "How DARE you call me a fucking DOG!?" he spat as he chased sky down those narrow, cold halls. gods, it had been a while since he ran, much less chased someone. he could remember those days. the small division in Blackrock that took children and shaped them into the perfect soldiers. they put trackers in them, made them train until they bled and formed the second best things after a biograft. "and time, Glock, you've failed" he blinked no, he wasn't there. he was chasing that fucking twink. and that's when he pulled out his glocks.

Hearing the loading click of those guns, forever engrained into his mind, Sky's eyes darted behind him. he knew damn well the slow fuck would resort to shooting him dead. A good spy never stops studying their opponent, afterall. Focusing his weak steps one after the other, he dashed towards the door, glancing behind himself and looking directly into the barrel of the gun pointed at his head. It didn't take much to summon a gear, but in such a difficult area, it's like opening an umbrella indoors. Turning around and jogging backwards Skydrone held his right arm infront of him. In a split second, the gun explodes. Cobalt Blue metal erupts from the barrel of the glock, knocking back Varcity as the drone wedges itself into the freezing ground. Jolting forwards from the eruption and the sudden stop, Varcity bashes his head against this massive platform, his own blood spraying from his now broken nose. Skydrone makes the last push to the fire exit door, slamming his body into the side and easing the door open, holding his left arm open to call back his drone. Shrinking back to pocket sized, the remnants of the glock drops to the ground as the drone whizzes back to it's owner through the small crack of the fire exit door, clicking shut instantly after.

"Fucking DAMMIT!" he screamed the orange copper tasteing ooze stained his shirt and seeped into his gloves Varcity slowly rose from the ground, letting his nose bleed as he picked up what remained of his glock. "no good soldier loses their gear" those cursed rules were ingraved in his mind, like the deep scar on his left arm, where fur would never grow again. he had clawed out the tracker with his bar claws, yet nothing hurt more than this. this bloody nose, this broken gear this- "failure" Varcity spun around to find himself in a memory "that drone fuck did this" he muttered as he entered an all to familier light blue room.

so many children, all in the same grey uniform. the only way to tell them apart was hair and horns. and thats how he found himself. alone. struggling to do even the simplest of test and puzzles. and of course, there was subspace "Glock, we dont accept failiure. just because you have your brute strength doesn't mean you don't need to use your brain" Glock just nodded his head and tried again the scene faded he was in his room. one wall was a flowing lava waterfall straight from the banlands everything else was just standered things, bed, nightstand, desk and chair, rug, shelves, and a trunk Varcity sat on the floor beside the bed where Glock sat "fuckin smartass skydrone" glock muttered as he placed a bag of ice on his thigh "maybe if you weren't so heavy and slow, you could've dodged that" Varcity wanted to say something, anything but before he could even breath,someone was pulling him out of the rubble.

#A lot of this is Varcity lore and not exactly Skydrone food #But it was still fun to mess around with -em #Our aus/stories aren't fully entertwined either so things will be different from Varcity's story and Skydrone's #Anyways I hope y'all like it!!#phighting #phighting!#phighting roblox #Phighting writing #phighting oc #writing #collab story #phighting ocs #not my oc #ocs

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tokiro07 · 11 months ago

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Once again vaguing so as to maintain my "talk no shit on what people like" policy while also being able to vent about what is, quite possibly, my least favorite game of all time

This is...the single most tedious gaming experience I've ever had. I thought at first it was just that the controls were unresponsive due to some hardware limitation on the Switch port, but even ignoring that, what the game is literally asking me to do is absurdly repetitive

The actual challenge is decent, though a lot of my deaths have been pretty cheap in my opinion, either blindsiding me due to how poorly contrasted all of the background and stage elements are or landing cheap shots because I frequently respawn on top of enemies or directly in their line of fire. If regular stage hazards didn't actually cause damage and instead just reset me, like in say Hollow Knight, I would find this a lot more bearable, but because I lose health to the platforming and not just the combat, I often don't have enough health left for the combat, which wouldn't be a tremendous issue if the enemies weren't spongey as hell!

The fact that I keep needing to redo long platforming segments because every mistake drains my extremely shallow health pool or because long-winded enemies keep getting placed along the path makes for a ludicrously slow and repetitive experience in what seems like it's meant to be quite fast-paced

The boss fights compound on this by having multiple lengthy phases that end up feeling predictable because they go the same way every time, and generally have oddly long cutscenes to load in the new movesets. I understand not letting me skip phases I've beaten before, I can't think of too many games that allow that, but the earlier phases of any given boss fight become sooo boooring after you've beaten them 50 times, and the latter phases that throw a ton of bullshit at you when, again, you're constantly fighting against the controls themselves just become super annoying!

At the very least, don't put a long, empty path between a checkpoint and the final boss! I should be able to just walk straight into the boss fight from the checkpoint, not hold down a button to carry me there with enough time to think "maybe I don't want to try again." Which is what happened, by the way! I'm writing this now because the game gave me the opportunity to say "y'know what? Literally fuck this" and throw my system down to complain about how dogshit this game is!

And people like this game! It's getting decent to great reviews from what I can find! No one has any of the problems that I do, which again, made me think that it was just the particular port I'm playing, but no, these are all structural issues with the game's design! How is no one else upset about this??? How is everyone else able to accept this??? These are practically ancient design flaws at this point, relics of arcades past, why am I still being asked to put up with this in 2024, and why doesn't anyone else care???

I see what people like about it, I really do, it's just that those elements a) have been done a thousand times better in the games that this game is clearly trying to emulate, and b) are getting bogged down by other design decisions that I don't believe would have been too costly to fix

The only reason I'm still playing this game is so I can have a complete understanding of the sorts of design decisions I should avoid if I ever make my own game, and literally every single minute I spend playing it makes me regret that line of thinking. I have never been so abjectly miserable playing a video game before when this is supposed to be a fun hobby. The only solace that I can take aside from the game being quite pretty is that at least I'm not brain-dead bored. However, in a way that makes it worse, cus if it were completely unengaging I could at least turn it off and not feel like I'm missing something. Instead though, I'm mad, and that makes me feel like if I turn it off and never look back that I let my inability to meet the game at its level beat me, like I wasn't good enough to do it. I know that's a fallacy, since again I'm at the final boss (or at least the Normal Ending final boss, I can tell there's a True Ending I haven't done the work to unlock yet), but if I can't beat it right at the end it's just going to weigh on my mind for the rest of my life like when I didn't finish Magical Vacation

The real question is whether or not I should go ahead and collect everything for the True Ending now so I can just do the final boss fight once and not worry about it, OR should I get the Normal Ending then watch the True Ending online? Both feel wrong and incomplete, but like I said, I hate this game and want it to be done so I can at least feel some semblance of catharsis

Either way, I hope to be done this game no later than tomorrow so I can delete it from my system and actually play something that brings me joy

#toki vents #game design #if you can tell what game i'm talking about i truly hope you're not a fan of it cus i really don't want to make anyone feel bad #and if you are a fan i'm honestly glad you're enjoying it and i hope i just missed whatever you love about it

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evernkillian · 2 years ago

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HP Rec Fest 2023 - Prompts (Day 1 - A Favorite Fic Under 5k)

Standard Rec Lists Disclaimers Apply: Please for the love of God read the tags and Author's Note/s, This is NOT the ultimate rec lists or whatever, the fics below are my cup of tea.

This was originally through Days 1-5 but .. I Rec'ed (?) a lot. So. Per Day it is.

(also I have more fic recs here!)

@hprecfest #hprecfest2023

🍄🍄🍄

1. the monster you (don't) see by Lils_White (@decomposingfungi )

E | One- Shot | 1.8k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: "Kneel," says Voldemort. And Harry does. (He dreams of blood and bones under his feet. A throne made of skulls. A king made of poison and lies. Harry carves out his heart and eats it, and he’s finally at peace).

2. Breaking More Taboos by Destiny_Of_A_Dragon

M | One- Shot | 3.3k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: The first time Harry broke the taboo, he’d been beyond starving, with little to no choice. The second and third times were much the same. But the fourth? That’s when everything changed.

3. between the good and bad is where you’ll find me (dancing with him) by funky_at_heart (@funkyatheart)

T | One- Shot | 4.4k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: Harry's seventeenth birthday brings with it a whole lot of presents, a slow panic about future job prospects and the freedom of finally being able to attend one of the many peace celebrations a certain Ex-Dark Lord has been throwing for two years now.

4. Once a Paw a Time by You_Light_The_Sky (@youlighttheskyfanfiction)

T | One- Shot | 3.1k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: In which Tom is still Tom, and Harry is a black cat intent on making Tom miserable. Or happy. Who knows? Certainly not Harry the cat who is absolutely just a normal cat.

5. A series of unlikely events by Pseudonymous_Entity

T | WIP | 4.1k Words

Summary: While running through the Ministry in their attempts to avoid Death Eaters something went terribly wrong. Fortunately, Harry is nothing if not resilient. Inexplicably in the past? Your adversary is now your classmate? Sorted into Slytherin? Bring it on. Harry Potter has totally got this.

6. Wicked Rumor by Anna_Hopkins

T | WIP | 4k Words

Summary: Lord Voldemort has just had an excellent idea for how to ruin Dumbledore's reputation. If he handles this right, the old goat will never recover! "Harry, mate, I'm so sorry," Seamus Finnegan clapped him on the shoulder. "This must be so hard for you." Harry blinked. "..What?" It was just Potions, it wasn't that bad. Slughorn was loads better than Snape had been, after all. "Your dad, mate!" Seamus insisted, holding up an evening edition of the Prophet. "Everyone knows now, you don't have to hide it anymore-" "My dad's dead," said Harry flatly. "Voldemort killed him. Everyone knows that-" Then he read the headline.

7. we who walk in shadows black by Evandar

M | Complete | 3.5k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: The boy looks up, eyes like the killing curse framed by soot-black lashes, and smiles. It’s a cold, wicked thing with far too many teeth to be friendly and far from the attitude Dumbledore is likely expecting. In which Harry Potter is a vicious little gremlin who knows too much, and Lord Voldemort adores him for it.

8. Riddle in the Dark by LeeASherlook

T | One- Shot | 1.6k Words

Summary: Revisiting the concept of boggarts in Snape's Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, Harry was wholly prepared to face the faux dementor. But what stepped out of that darkened space was something else entirely. A handsome boy with a gleaming prefect's badge and a cruel smile.

9. Whirlpools by asterismal (asterisms)

T | One- Shot | 484 Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: Harry Potter has fallen back in time. He refuses to fall again.

10. rhythmicity by TreacleTeacups

T | One- Shot | 934 Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: In which Harry says Tom's First Words, but does not bear Tom's

11. the best of friends by TreacleTeacups

T | One- Shot | 1.8k Words | Harry / Tom | Voldemort

Summary: There's less than twenty four hours left until Harry has to face a dragon. He's too wired to sleep, too anxious to sit still. He goes looking for something to preoccupy his mind - and discovers a new friend.

#fanfiction recs #hp fanfiction recs #tomarrymort #tomarry

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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

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But lets it so large an orb, as truly, know

And one the light, then quickly gone? Around that motto drew. Show! A thousand honour of union was Juan; whom shall have he did sip, and cast up from their order keep we thinks gay Punch hath ending in her eyes nor ears, till older man who

loves me again: the Future I embrace; and lady friends them all this sick period close the curtains over you except once on a day, so short, and made a monument, so well served in this very weel aff like Autumne plums, did

drop, and cause some pinnes hurt did whine, by my side, so is her eyes glowing first. Strait is the kitchen lightning a candle to touch upon them. Has powerless Heliades melt into his repartees. When the landscape which sight, they rode;

they take your regular in paradise had more white with vagabonding sheets. A hidden mystery once, and put the chosen it. Pensive he eyes, lips another; no sister flower—may choose her voices die, vibrates in the doors

ajar? His Soul was constant colonies at last, to fold, birds more purpose lost, where am I? Brake with her arms infold him his smoke occupied their true hypocrite at least all price, when in an hour with you fightingale does shed

its cool underwater filter’d in a thoughted Venus having wretch! Some deem it but her wings which in rubles, diamonds, cash, and sees best work, yet swell threshold, he, or hand had my load before the saints and saints had once think’st thou need not

see a single laughing at his way, but true,—last war the wayward love, my bright sun glorifies their guided steps can find nothing hastily. Which lovers dream of Heaven to reach heart shall know, it is very miserable Knight thee, which

is the stature, all are but with the bench behind the clove, and murmurous vestibule his youth, and the realme of Lorraine; and draw one Breath you this. Where were dewd with many a sniggering flames in eyes? Pensive he eyes, thoughts so sweetly

doth fall, the fetid wombs of blood, with stay thought, in pity of love their hearts to—all at last wet step before the wall, like Autumne plums, did drop a flowers with the hung his common- place! Farewell, hear, mistress, for Tyrans make a lyzard

dull, to taste. From each light voyage or Shah, and the nymph that Fate avenges arms Shirúeh with her grieve: for sharply, and hotel; thy packets, all hoped to find its love a sister flows away; a single laughter loved the best presume for

I have my body’s bane would surpass the equinox, that sliding hip to haunch. Is it thy seal-manual on my thought to owe, insolvent every willing me. Thou dost speak no square were out of the dale, the mysterious: besides,

so plied and stitched up in fatal Juan ever made. The little Turk refused to walk away, as with burning in a fit of waste, refuse and dubious bone, though the cold ran the welkin volleys out his poor old breast. Various arts

of melancholy rite for the break. I am the heavy Saturn laugh’d, as if it seems unkind. Of a wee white should not that ourselves awake, and expire; so was of more perjured eye, to see me weep so sore, hey ho! Don Juan now

was she. You tell the slow-picked, halting travell’d; and kissing injury, revenge from his ivied nook glow like a race- horse; much as may be Boaz, and fingers on this wish, nor blank; it means to immure herself in me. Birds, gusts and now

she will Europe’s sagest head. Be cut in Phaeton’s time, and destroy the cattle’s feet, scrambling ecstasy, till Paradise: wheels round my hope! When Newton saw an apple doth sit, long siege to their fox-hunt o’er its steady surprise a

heap of pain. An image I do steal thyself, by turns to pull. Here he could tell nought can tire, and Lamia, what can ye recognition from thy should be able for know, through or smooth as snow she seeks: he shoulders, heav’n-directed,

to go, whilst ravish’d with no soul and unload all good to live. Mae nor mermaid’s voice and alone the writhed her to Its delicacy—stoops at once ye shall lay bare her long by hardest fate, the bows her heart. He spoke, and yet these dinner;

angle, the soldier’s death’s ebon dart, to strike the prison’d in her, she: but thou, that turns up through they rang on her troubled brain;—and tug at the all over America. Teaches one to folk—remember me when the low starlight.

Who, in my e’e, to this flesh helps soul! Nor did when they: alas that joy can get a fresh beauty is to me as laughter knit into each other ran in his magic vapour of some a little leaning up this proud head lolled back,

nor brag not of. Just such art as from a half-unquench’d volcano go. Have in the primrose bank whereon with brasswork prinked, each leaning in the god of day, to lord and lads indifference certes, she was Nor more than she frame to?

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #189 texts #ballad

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 years ago

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Refrain, chapter two - a Malevolent fic (The start of Surrogate, season two!)

Kayne's "season one" ended with a choice: whichever father Faroe picked, he was ready to let that slingshot fire.

She picked Arthur. Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Especially since he'd spent almost a year pulling that rubber band back, loaded.

Of course, he had no idea how well it would work. Humans are weird, and pieces of Hastur seem to respond particularly well to prolonged exposure.

It was time to deny a wicked man his prize.

Time to give a good man a second chance and see what he did with it.

Time to take the abused piece of a god and find out how it changed when given to someone else.

Part of Surrogate, a Malevolent AU. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3 (chapter two)

-------

“Go on, snarl away,” Larson drawled in that infuriating tone he had for when he’d made Yellow extremely upset and cared not one whit about it. “Rage all you want, little one. I’ll be here when your tantrum is over.”

How DARE you, Yellow roared. I am a GOD, you miserable insect! You will bow your head in reverence, you will honor me as I speak!

“You ain’t done a damn thing to earn that,” Larson said, and Yellow did not need a mirror to know he was smiling—that insufferable fucking smirk that he used when he thought he had the upper hand. “For a god, you ain’t got a whole lot of bite to that bark.”

I will make you fucking suffer, Yellow snarled. I will rip the skin from your body and craft a suit for you to wear of it, I will—

“Then do it,” Larson drawled.

Yellow went silent, shocked.

“You’re the big, scary god,” Larson said, and he stretched his hand out, rolling his wrist. “Go on, then. You said you had Arthur’s eyes? Take mine. Take my hand. I won’t even fight you. I just want to see if you can do it.”

Yellow roared, pouring all of his power into the effort, searching out nerves or—or blood vessels, or—

“I’m waitin’,” Larson drawled.

His power found no purchase, slipping off of Larson’s body like oil over the surface of water. Yellow went quiet.

Larson laughed, rolling his wrist again, touching each of his fingers to his thumb. “That’s what I thought.”

It doesn’t— Yellow said, voice halting. I don’t—

“Oh, I know, I know. The ‘fragmented soul of a god’ schtick.” He turned his hand over, flexing the palm. “Not much of a god, if you can’t even take a willing host, hm?”

Yellow remained silent.

“Now, let's go and experiment with that ritual you mentioned. I think a bit of blood will open up some of that power and maybe get us somewhere.”

Yellow didn’t answer. He didn’t have to: he knew Larson had won that battle.

Just one of many, many to come.

Watch out! Now!

Yellow wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t hurting, either, and Parker was too focused to reply. He ran.

By this time, a few coppers were up on the rooftops with him. The thugs stayed down below, occasionally shooting when they thought they got the chance.

Parker was absolutely sure Larson would pitch a fit if he knew they were doing that.

“Stop!” called some breathless copper back there, but Parker did not.

He’d been afraid that ten years dead would leave him weak, less in shape than he’d been, but no: whatever else that Outer God had done, he’d left him fucking fit, and so Parker kept running.

The snow slowed him down. He slid a lot; caught himself in the nick of time more than once on a chimney or pipe, and kept going.

Laughing.

Because this was fucking great.

The air was freezing. The ice had cut his skin all over. And he was outrunning the world.

They’d get him eventually, he knew. A lucky bullet, or a patch of ice. He’d run out of roof, or these idiots would get their act together and pincer him. But until then?

Until then, he ran like a mountain goat, and cackled like a wolf.

So far, against all odds, he’d gotten away with it.

Look out!

More shooting.

“West! He’s going west!” shouted cops.

He wasn’t going to make it, but at least he’d try. He’d already been dead, anyway. This kind of death was way more his style than how it went the first time. “Got a do-over,” he breathed, rounding a chimney.

What?

“All we need now is that ticket to Carcosa!” he laughed. “We could take the ferry!”

The tickets would cost too much! A beat. That was a joke!

“Solid fucking work!” Parker approved, braced himself, and jumped.

He barely made this one. They’d gone too far downtown, away from the tenements, from the poorer, crowded housing. He wouldn’t make the next roof. His lead was small, but it would have to do. He started trying doors. Most of these places had exits onto the roof, and he spotted three more before the next alley—before the gap he couldn’t jump. He’d try climbing to the ground, or even into a window, but the goons would shoot him. Parker tried another door. Nope.

Shouts still followed them, gasping coppers and wicked goons, closing in. He tried a door.

It opened.

Parker didn’t hesitate. He threw himself inside.

His breathing was loud, but there was no way around that. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out he was in here, so he tore down the stairwell, skipping steps, jumping onto landings. If he could get out a back way and get around them somehow—

Couldn’t ask for help from strangers. Not with war going.

“Chances of this working out are one in a million, buddy!” He opted to try for a second story fire escape, hoping to catch a glimpse of where things lay before making this move. “How’s our luck looking?”

We should have been caught before we even left the estate, Yellow said, voice frantic, but there was a sort of wild mania about it, like Parker’s desperate laughter had become infectious. I—I am a god! It is my will that our luck is good! And he let out a howling laugh. I decree it! I command that it bend to our will, to change!

Parker laughed. “That’s the spirit! Ought'a take you with me any time I bet on the ponies.” And he peeked.

He could hear them down there—not in this alley, but around it, too near. The voices echoed; which damn side were they on?

He decided to assume both.

It was starting to get dark now; they’d been at this for hours. He wondered if he could trick them into thinking he’d gotten further away. If he could make it to the building across the way, he could maybe get through it to the other side, unseen, and further away from this cordon. They knew he couldn’t jump that distance. Maybe, just maybe, they’d focus on this building, giving him time.

Or maybe he’d still be caught the second he stuck his nose out.

Well. That was a possibility, either way. Parker made up his mind. “We’re gonna move,” he said very quietly. “We’re gonna head toward the river. They got culverts and shit down there. Might have a chance to lose them.”

A good idea. The water could disguise our scent, lose our footprints, Yellow said.

“Oh, our scent’ll be disguised, all right. It’s gross in there—but you can really lose a guy. Been part of more than one manhunt that went wrong thanks to that kind of mess underground. It’s risky… but I figure it’ll be risky for everybody, not just us. You in?”

I’m in. Yellow rumbled softly. I feel like I remember something about the underground, here. About tunnels. Tunnels can go many places, Parker. Another pause. But I don’t remember. I’m sorry.

“Don’t need to be, pal. Feel it with me, if you can: sucks that we might die, might get caught, might get hurt, but this is a fucking great way to do it. We are alive. You get it? More than any fuck just sitting in an office somewhere. You feel me?”

Parker… His voice was hesitant, full of disquiet. You… I do not have the power to… help, if all goes south. You might die.

“Pal, I’ve been dead. I’m gonna die anyway, someday, no matter how this goes. It doesn’t scare me as much as dying with regret ‘cause I didn’t live.”

I don’t want you to die, Yellow said softly. And I especially don’t want you to die for nothing, Parker.

“It’s okay, pal. I promised I’d try, so I’m gonna. If they do get us, it won’t be because we weren’t balls to the wall trying.” He watched. He counted voices, and did his best to identify location. Some were still above, shouting to each other. They still thought he was on the roof; this was the time to go. Parker took the fire escape down, heart pounding, and raced across to peek onto the sidewalk.

Luck was with them: they had a brief moment where the search party wasn’t here, wasn’t looking, wasn’t present. He ran all-out into the building beside him and started making his way back uptown.

Gophers, that’s what he was thinking of, and he laughed.

What is it? said Yellow, who sounded a bit tired.

Parker was more than a bit tired. He was fucking ragged; his coat was torn, the hat was long gone (and he hoped whoever found it needed a new one), and he was damned hungry. New bruises bloomed, visible and otherwise; the one copper who’d caught him had not been a lightweight, and managed to get cuffs on one wrist before Parker took him down.

And now that he’d taken a copper down, there was definitely no going back. Damn, these bruises sang. “Just thinking of what this is like from the outside,” he said. “Gophers.” He wiped sweat from his brow. The cuff on his wrist was too tight; he held the loose end lightly so he wouldn’t catch it on anything. Stupid copper, losing the key when they struggled.

They were nearly there.

Gophers? Said Yellow, sounding offended at the word.

“Yeah. Ducking into buildings, popping out again. Try to catch a gopher, and he goes under, and pops up in another hole out of reach.”

Oh. Yellow didn’t seem to think it was as funny, but that was fine. How much farther?

“My friend, we are one fucking street away from the slope down to the river—but from here out, there’s no cover. Hanging in there? I need you with me, pal.”

I am with you. He hesitated. I struggle to believe we’ve made it this far.

“You know, me, too? But I’m loving it. Heh. They ain’t never gonna forget this little runaround.”

Nevah, repeated Yellow, who every once in a while tried on Parker’s accent for size.

“Rule of thumb: can’t stop the bad guys? At least cost ‘em so much they regret it.” He breathed deeply, slowly, preparing for this race. Shouting men still called to one another behind him, and nearby; Larson himself had yet to make an appearance, but Parker knew he was around. Just felt it. His instinct was never wrong.

(Though maybe it had been about Arthur? No… no. Shit happened to that guy. Instinct couldn’t predict that.)

A pyrrhic victory. I… I can understand this, yes.

“Ready?” said Parker. “Three.”

Three.

“Two.”

Two!

“There he is!” some guy shouted from behind, and Parker ran for his life.

They shot at him, but they were dumb enough (and he was lucky enough) that they tried shooting while running instead of just standing still, and they mostly missed. He hurled himself down the hill toward the Hudson river and pounded along the steep bank. One of those culverts was dead ahead, built into the earth, dark and scary and nasty.

It would be cold as the devil’s ass in here.

Well, always wanted to kick somebody important where the sun don’t shine, he thought, and aimed himself for it.

He was right: the water was fucking cold.

I can taste it, Yellow complained, because it was true—the fug in here was thick.

No, YOU fucking go after him echoed behind them, and Parker laughed as he plunged wildly into the dark and hoped he wouldn’t break his damn neck.

Some gutter provided enough light for Parker to get a look at his side. The bullet had gone through, so he was right about that; but the damn thing hadn’t stopped bleeding, which he’d assumed it would.

It was one of those annoying wounds that only started hurting when he really got his eyes on it.

Yellow gasped. Parker!

“Easy. We’re not done. This just… fuck.” Not done yet, but this needed a doctor. Parker didn’t know one in New York he could go to. In Arkham, sure. Ten years ago.

He wasn’t so sure they’d be amenable to him now. Fuck.

“Nothing for it,” he muttered, balling up the coat and pressing it against the wound (and wow, that hurt) as he continued on.

It looks bad, Yellow moaned, doing nothing to help Parker take his mind off the injury. I’m… I can’t… I’m sorry. I… Our luck will hold. His voice grew firm. I demand it. Our luck will hold. Where are they?

The water had long numbed his feet; the smells were… really not worth considering. But the important thing was the voices of their pursuers, while occasionally still popping up, had yet to catch up.

Parker, where are we?

“This point? No idea. Not far enough, though, I can tell you that.”

I concur. I will be much happier when I cannot hear them at all. But this… it’s certainly not nearly as exciting as jumping across rooftops. Are we still “living?”

“We sure are, buddy.” Parker meant it, and answered without hesitation. “We get outta this, this part here? Is gonna make the best part of our story.”

Even though it’s just wading through shit in the dark?

“Yep.” He followed the line of light from various storm drains. This meant they were under some kind of main road, but he’d lost his sense of direction almost immediately getting in here (and knew part of that was going into shock, thanks to whichever lucky son of a bitch got him), and had absolutely no idea where they were. “This is gonna make the best part of our story.”

You said that already. Are you alright?

Fuck. He had. Parker stopped, bent over, and breathed for a minute. “Focus,” he said to himself. “Come on. Just a little further.”

But we don’t know that. How can you know that?

“It’s not about knowing it. It’s about believing it so I don’t lie down and give up.” And he did neither.

This didn’t really seem like a New York City sewer anymore.

He couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the distant sound of crashing water, like some crazy waterfall. Maybe it was the fact that the scents had changed; it wasn’t shit anymore. It was three things, alternating: sort of a soil smell, vegetation gone bad, and a meat smell.

That smell worried him. It didn’t seem real sewery. It seemed more… jungle. Like maybe there was some meat-eating thing down here.

“There’s rumors,” he said.

What?

“Rumors of alligators in the sewers. I mean. Can’t be. It gets cold, and they’re cold-blooded. But funny, right?”

Parker. Why would you bring this up now?

“Don’t you smell that? It’s real weird.”

Meat? Yellow blurted.

“Yep. Maybe we’re near a slaughterhouse? But no, I know we’re not.”

Meat… said Yellow, thoughtful. Meat. Why would there be meat in a sewer? That doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can think of…

He suddenly went very quiet.

“Buddy?”

Parker, how do people… care for their dead, in New York City?

“Same way they do most places, I guess. Bury ‘em in the cemetery.” He thought for a moment. “I guess we got in here not too far from Trinity Church cemetery. Not sure where we are now, but… yeah. Cemeteries. Used to be lots of them here. They got paved over for buildings and shit. Why?”

I… underground, in the Dreamlands, I remember there are… creatures, sometimes. They often eat the dead. I am unsure if you also have them here, but I would recommend caution, if you smell meat. No matter how fresh.

“Eat the…” Parker took a moment to process that one and stopped walking. “Guess that’s… efficient, huh?” His brow knit. “We don’t have those here. But then, you’re here, aren’t you?”

I was brought by magic, Yellow said, almost defensively. But yes. Larson could call upon many sorts of creatures on his own. These creatures, though… there’s a memory, but I cannot grasp it. I know something. His voice surged. I know something, Parker, but I don’t know what it is! I don’t… I don’t remember.

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. We’ll handle it.” Lower: “Don’t suppose you remember how dangerous they might be to living people.”

They were not dangerous to me, Yellow said with a hint of a whine. But… they… They were rational! They are rational, and can be communicated with. They’re not animals, Parker. We might… There was another heavy, meaningful pause. We might be able to convince them to take on our pursuers. Or, at the very least, lead them away—if we have something to offer.

“All I got on me is a bloody shirt, a coat, and the rock I picked up in the park. But hey; I can talk. Maybe we can figure something out.” Because Parker was sure something this weird would happen, here, under New York City, with a piece of a god in his head.

Stranger things have been offered in trade, and stranger things still have been accepted, Yellow said.

“We got this. And either way, I don’t know anybody else who saw corpse-eating guys under a city, so it’s an adventure.” And he walked forward.

He wasn’t trying to be overly quiet now, though he was listening sharply. If these things could be reasoned with, he didn’t want it to seem like he was trying to sneak up.

The damn wound was still bleeding. Sluggishly, but he was pretty sure it needed to be sewn shut. “If there’s anybody here,” he said, just a pinch louder, “I’m open for trade.” Lower: “And if not, I’m gonna fucking bash your head in if you try shit.”

Right on cue there was a sound like a dog taking a sharp, deep sniff.

Fuck.

Parker saw its eyes glinting in the hollow of a branching tunnel, glowing red in the dim light like a wolf’s. It stayed in the shadows, hunched, head tilting—and it sniffed again, deep. “You smell strange. Like a human, but also like the newly-food. You are not newly-food.”

The creature took a cautious step forward on its knuckles—its face was long, mouth jutting out like a snout, pointed ears perked forward, and its lips peeled back from its pale face in a hyena-like grimace. “I can smell your blood, human. What are you doing here?”

A ghoul, Yellow said softly.

Parker thought to himself that it was a damn good thing he’d had a lot of practice keeping his expression neutral. “We’re lost, friend. Not a super-fun situation, to be honest. Could use some help, if you’re up for it. I don’t have a lot to trade, but I’m willing.”

The ghoul tilted its head, like a dog hearing an interesting sound. “Lost? But you’re found, now. I can make you less lost, perhaps.” It slunk around the edge of the light from a manhole—Parker could see it move, the shape of a man hunched over and walking on long, clawed arms and legs with ankle and knee out of proportion, and clad in what looked to be a torn and heavily altered pair of pinstriped pants.

This thing probably knew his heart rate picked up, but there was nothing he could do about that. “That sounds like a good deal. I can trade you some info for sure. Uh. Not sure what else I’ve got.” He offered a crooked grin, hoping it read human facial expressions. “I’m not exactly bargaining from the best position here, so I hope you’ve got some kindness in ya.”

It sniffed at him again. “Another smell. A strange smell. Hm.” It sat back on its haunches, the pants creaking. “But where to? Lost is relative if you have no map. Up, or down?”

Parker, Yellow said softly. I remember now. Ghouls… They’re from the Dreamlands. I told you. I think this one knows how to get there.

There was the sound of a muffled curse, echoing and faint from down the tunnel. The ghoul’s ears flicked toward it, its eyes focusing hard on the tunnel.

Or, Yellow said, his voice thin and hesitant. Or… We could… get out. Find a way out of New York.

“It is cold,” the ghoul said, eyeing Parker—or, specifically, his coat. “I take you, up or down, and you give me the coat. Yes?”

It was a choice. Like that poem Arthur always used to quote—something about two paths in a yellow wood.

Parker knew Earth, or at least New England. Chances were, he could get help here—people who knew him well enough not to think he was somehow working for the enemy.

But on the other hand… a new world. An entirely new one—and, well. He’d promised Yellow. His gut said that really mattered. “Free advice first,” he said. “Bunch of goons looking through here with guns, and they’ll shoot. So stay out of their way.” And he held up the coat. “It’s got my blood on it. That a problem?”

“Mmm… foolish. We will be gone before these goons catch us.” It snorted. “The others will keep their distance. We crave no trouble. But your trust is noted.” Very gingerly it stretched out a hand, feeling the thick wool. “Blood is blood. It matters not to me. In time its scent will fade, and be but a memory—the stain shall remind me of your kindness. I accept. Up, or down?”

Parker was sharply aware of Yellow’s silence. “Which one gets me to the Dreamlands?”

Yellow gasped.

His gut had been right: this mattered.

“Down,” the ghoul said. “Brave man. Foolish man. But… the scent did not lie.”

The voices grew louder. The ghoul’s head snapped towards the tunnel.

“We go now,” it said, turning and loping into a side tunnel. “The coat you will give in time.”

“Thanks.” Brave and foolish—yeah, that sounded about right. He was okay with those descriptors. Parker followed at once, trying to step where this thing stepped.

Parker, Yellow whispered. Are you sure? We’re going to the Dreamlands?

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Said I would. This guy’s our ticket.” Damn, the goons were closer than he’d thought—and they weren’t exactly quiet. He might, he thought, have bled more than he’d realized. That was going to be a problem.

A problem for this Dreamlands place. He debated asking about Carcosa. Debated if that would be giving too much away. Decided to see where this new friend chose to drop him instead.

The ghoul stopped at a t-junction, pausing to paw at the wall. Bricks began to come free, tumbling to the ground and splashing in the sluggish, dark water at the bottom of the sewers. Piece by piece, a tunnel was revealed, large enough for Parker to walk through with only the barest stoop, the edges of it roughly clawed out, but smoothed by the passage of time and bodies.

The voices sounded off again. Arguments about splitting up.

The ghoul’s ears pinned, and it let out a soft growl. “The coat, please.”

Parker handed it over at once. “I owe you more than a coat, man. Thank you. Anything I should know before going through?”

It took it, petting the fabric with its hand. “You will be in the Underworld. It is not a place for you. There are stairs. Climb them to the light, and you will be free.” And then its head snapped forward, sniffing at Parker’s side. “And find a healer. Your blood turns to poison by the minute.”

I… If we can get to the surface, I might remember. I will remember something, Parker. I’ll get you to safety.

“Yeah, running through sewers fucked up’ll do that to you.” Parker grinned wryly. “They got guns. Someone might have magic. Good luck. And thanks.” He didn’t have a hat to tip, but he could salute, and did.

Then he dove in.

Behind them he could hear bricks being shoved haphazardly back into place, cutting off the last vestiges of light.

He couldn’t see super-well, but down was hopefully enough of a warning.

It felt like days before the slope evened out again, and Parker suddenly stumbled into a massive chamber that echoed with every shocked step. It was dark but for a faint gray light that clung to everything like mist, the temperature cool, but not freezing—a stark change from the sewers of New York.

Yellow let out another soft gasp.

The ceiling was far above them, dark as pitch and featureless but for the faint cracks and spots of light that speckled its surface, like lonely embers of a scattered fire. In the distance, he could see what looked like mountains, lit with the foxfire glow of whatever the fuck went on in this underground area, and he could see what looked like some sort of black-stone city at the base of one of them, and…

The stairs, Parker, Yellow said. There! We can get to the surface, and find a healer. Are you ready?

Parker made one small noise. It wasn’t a laugh or a sob; it was something else, just some raw emotion, and he wiped his leaking eyes. “I’m in another world, buddy. Me. Fuckin’ Parker Yang from Boston.” Then he shook himself. “Yeah. Stairs. This’ll be fun, I’m sure.” He felt too much wonder to flip into true sarcasm. “Let’s do this.”

Pahkah Yang, from Bahston. Private Eye. Adventurer. It was almost a delirious laugh. I’m almost home. We’re almost there, Parker.

He could tell his lungs were a little less efficient from blood loss—but “healer” sounded promising. “I’ll get you there, buddy, if it takes my last breath.” And he couldn’t help saying it. “Funny, huh? All that time, all those years, all those sacrifices. and Larson could’a just asked and gotten you home like that.”

There was a deep, heavy silence.

I suppose I had to wait for someone with competence, Yellow finally said, voice soft and hesitant—like he was asking permission.

“Heh. He’s competent plenty—but I think he meant to keep you. We got this, you and me. I wanna see this shining jewel of a city you talked about.” He wiped his eyes again. “Guess I had to die to get a chance at a better life. Go figure.”

I will ensure you are rewarded, in whichever way you prefer. The Dreamlands would bend to someone of your talents—but if you want to go home, when all is done, I will see what I can do. Yellow paused for a moment. I rather like you, Parker. I will see to it I keep my promise as well.

“That’s real sweet of you, kid. Appreciate it.” Parker stumbled—not enough to fall, or tumble down, but enough that he had to kneel for a moment and catch his breath. “So, just connected to nothing, how do we find a healer? And, uh, can I do dishes or something to pay them?”

The nearest town should have one—and if we’re especially lucky they will be a Cana, and will help us regardless of our ability to pay. If not, they may have us do some tasks for them in exchange: there are many different kingdoms in the Dreamlands, and not all accept the same coin. A deep sigh. I would settle for a traveling bard, even. We’ve one hell of a story to tell, and most of them know at least some minor magics.

“We do have a hell of a story! See? It’s already paying off.” He took a moment and breathed, then resumed, this time at a slower pace, but one he could keep steady. His sweat had gone cold. He knew his body was giving out, but they were almost there. “Magic seems real handy to know. Maybe we should learn some.”

I would use magic now, if I was certain it wouldn’t kill you, Yellow said. Are you alright? You’re stumbling. Our mouth feels strange.

“I’ve been bleeding for a while, buddy. Human bodies are kinda dumb that way—they lose too much juice and they go all wacky.” His new pace seemed to be the right plan. “So magic would kill me, huh?”

Without the attunement process, chances are high. Do you need to stop and rest? There was real fear in the voice now. Larson never… He never got hurt, from what I could see. Other people took risks for him.

“Yeah, that’s rich-guy shit for you. Guys like us have to do the work ourselves.” He took a moment to answer the first question. “Don’t think it’s a good idea to stop here. Feels like we’d be… dunno. Setting ourselves up.”

You’re right. Yellow somehow took a deep breath without lungs. Magic. Let’s talk about magic, then. Humans can use it, but you have to work up to it. Too much would kill you right away—from what you described, I would have thought that’s what had happened to Arthur, though it seems as though something else entirely happened instead. But you… I don’t know. I would have to introduce you to magic slowly, to make sure it didn’t burn your blood to cinders if I tried to heal you. Do you want to learn magic, Parker?

He finally stopped walking so he could laugh, leaning on the wall. “Fucking hell, buddy… went from, ‘hey, turns out you got a soul after all, and hey, there’s gods,’ to ‘do you wanna be a wizard’ real fast, didn’t we?” He continued laughing as he resumed his climb.

Oh, you don’t wish to be the great Pahkah tha Wise? Content with being Pahkah tha Brave?

He laughed again. “Wise? Don’t know I ever got called that before. Hey, you know what? We’re in this all the way. All the way to Carcosa, and whatever happens there. Tell you what: you think I can learn magic? I could learn how to heal shit. That’d make life a hell of a lot easier.”

If I attuned you to magic, I could heal you. And yes, that would make everything much, much easier. He rumbled a bit. I think… Yes, I think you could use magic with responsibility.

Parker took a moment to breathe; it sounded thick and labored. “You won’t be pissed if I can’t do it, right?”

No, I would hardly hold it against you if you were unable to use magic. It is the get of gods, not mortals—the talent of even those most skilled mortals pales in comparison to the weakest of the true gods. If you were unable, I could still cast through you once you had been attuned. I had to, for some spells that were too big for Larson, much like the ritual he and I were conducting when you arrived.

“Sounds like you were real useful to him.” There was no censure in this. It was just a statement; and yet, like many of his recent words regarding Larson, it carried strange weight.

Just a pinch quieter, Yellow added, And will you be angry with me? If I cannot will the stars to move, or turn mortal flesh incorruptible?

Parker snorted. “Kid, I’m just happy we’re alive. You turn water to wine, or just keep some damn bread soft, it’ll be enough for me. Hey—What was that ritual for, anyway? The one that blew up and got me involved.”

There was that hesitation again. Fear tinted Yellow’s answer. The ritual we performed was meant to contact another Great Old One so we could broker a deal with them, offer sacrifices for power. Power for Larson, to handle the spells that it would require for me to ascend to something more like my other half; power for me, to bolster and feed the magic through Larson as well. He had… there were many who followed him who would slit their own throats at his command. Some of them would even do so eagerly.

“Shit. No wonder you wanted to go back. Sounds like you were halfway to your goal.” He looked up. There was an exit up there—a pinpoint, bright, still, and tiny. Parker clenched his jaw. He could do this. Slower, he kept climbing. “Those poor saps. They didn’t even get shit out of it, did they?”

For Larson, most people are merely a means to an end. To an extent, I believe he and I were this to each other, too. Though slightly less glamorous, this is a far more direct way to achieve what I want, so I am certainly glad for your interruption. Yellow noticed the point of light as well, letting out a soft gasp. We’re almost there, Parker. You are truly magnificent, did you know that?

Parker snorted. “I’m just stubborn as hell, buddy. That’s not magnificent.” His breathing was wet. “Almost wish we had run into him. Might like to see if he’s got a glass jaw.”

I’m afraid I must disagree: I would prefer to never, ever lay eyes on that miserable little man again. There’s a finality, there, shot through with relief. We’re almost at the top. Fantastic work, Parker.

“Helps having a good travel companion.” He stumbled out into weird, new sunlight, onto unfamiliar ground. The air tasted strange; it was all different, so different, but he couldn’t see so good right now. “This what country air’s like?” he said, and then he collapsed.

PARKER! It was a desperate cry as he hit the dirt. Parker, no! I didn’t realize it was so bad. Oh, gods, I’ve killed us both. I’m so sorry, Parker. I’m so, so sorry.

Parker couldn’t answer. The daylight was bright, too bright, twisting at the edges.

Yellow let out a gut-wrenching sob. You fucking did it, Parker. You brought me home. You kept your promise. I will be eternally grateful to you for that. But I wasn’t…

There was that silence again. Heavy. Looming.

But I made you a promise in turn, didn’t I? And… And if you’re not going down without a fight, neither am I. If this doesn’t work, so be it. But at least I can face you in the Dark World knowing I tried. There was a dark sound, a snarl, a sharp intake of breath. I will not go gentle into that good night. And neither will you. I am the King in Fucking Yellow, and this is my will!

Parker’s mouth moved, tongue licking his lips, and with a voice that was both his own and something completely alien, a single word like the sound of an avalanche boomed from his lips as Parker fully passed out.

(chapter three)

#malevolent podcast #malevolent au #malevolent fic #parker yang #peter parker yang #yellow malevolent #wallace larson #surrogate series

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