#[ IT'S A LOT I KNOW BUT... my brain really snapped from having eight main God Exits characters to. ]

[macfrog]

san angelo | one shot

what happens when joel miller meets his star-crossed lover?

big love to @mrsmando and @5oh5 for cheering me on with this one, and @bageldaddy for being my eyes, my ears, and - only sometimes - my brain.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader summary: it's the summer of two thousand eight. after two weeks following his little brother cross-country on the back of a harley, joel follows him through the doors of a dive bar - where fate delivers him to you. warnings: story is inserted into canon, so cordyceps outbreak happens, sarah dies (off-page), joel dissociates, doomed love, lots of mention of fate, alcohol consumption, reader is a smoker, cursing, drunken one-night stand, oral sex, unprotected piv, joel's cock is massive, a lot of angst, a lot of fluff, a lil smut to tie it all together. enjoy! word count: 9.8k

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Palm lines.

It’s the first thing he thinks as soon as she stops moving in his arms. The second her little whimpers cease, the moment her chest stops heaving and her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, Joel’s little girl weighs more than he can bear.

Palm lines. And he has no fucking idea why.

He closes his eyes and there you are. The whir of the ceiling fan, the tinkling of bracelets loose on your wrist. You have sorta earth hands, you told him. Or, well – they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way. I don’t really know. I’m still learning.

You told him that air hands were long, spindly. And Sarah was always a lanky kid – tallest on the soccer team, head and shoulders above the other girls by the third grade. Her hands, he thinks, must be air. They must be.

Her fingers are still twisted around his right now. Lifeless, slippery with the blood still wet and quickly cooling.

Joel cradles her, squeezing so hard that he wonders whether he might be able to fuse their bodies together. Lock them in some white-knuckle grip so that he never has to let go of her – never has to leave this hill covered in dirt and blood.

His palms are ruined; a maroon river carving its way down his heart line, dirt deep in the groove of his life line. Why does he even fucking remember what they’re called?

Why the fuck are you what he’s thinking about, right now?

“Tommy,” he says, opening his eyes again. “We gotta…we gotta get to…”

She’s limp, draped over his thighs as though she’s nothing more than a stretch of crimson curtain. He looks down at her and begs her to come back, begs her to open her eyes and look up at him again.

But the night is passing and she’s still not breathing. Dawn is breaking and Joel’s daughter is dead.

He sucks in a shattered breath. “…to San Angelo, Tommy.”

The younger Miller stuffs his gun into the back of his jeans and paces over, soles coated thick in shit and grass. “I hear you, Joel.”

“You ain’t listenin’ to me, I –”

“I’m listenin’ fine, Joel.” Tommy hooks his hands under his niece’s arms. “Now, help me lift her. We can’t…” his voice strains, fighting the death grip his brother has on the girl, “…we can’t leave her here.”

Joel’s frozen to the spot; sinking further and further into the earth. Staring at his open hands, the stains like rust on his palms. He says to San Angelo again, and Tommy snaps.

“Jesus, Joel, enough! I’ve heard enough goddamn it! I see your hands, now – we gotta fuckin’ bury Sarah.”

Your fate line, your nail tickled, and Joel held his hand steady, It can change, if something big is coming.

Somethin’ big? he asked. A little younger, a lot more naïve. Still a healthy dose of belief in the world, an echo of the god-fearing faith that raised him.

His hand felt so light, cradled in two of yours. He half hoped he’d never have to let go – just lie there with you forever. Your legs tangled with his, the sheets disturbed; the room injected with amber from the streetlights outside.

You nodded. A big shift, or something.

And he scoffed. He actually scoffed, right there and then. Incredulous. The hell kinda big shift is comin’ our way? he asked, laughing.

You just smiled back, shrugging. You were so fucking casual, that whole night. It would’ve unnerved him, if he hadn’t been so swept off by the sparkle in your eye, the glowing cherry of your cigarette.

Guess we just gotta wait ‘n see.

It’s August thirtieth, two thousand eight.

Almost five thousand miles on the back of a Harley, and Joel just wants to go home.

He arches his aching back, palms flat against the crests of his hips, and blinks in the light from the food mart in front of him. Twenty-six, he thinks to himself, only twenty-fuckin’-six.

It’s ninety degrees out. An uncomfortable heat, for a man who feels ten years older than he really is. For a man who hasn’t had a decent shower in almost two weeks. For a man who’s spent the last six hours tailing the brake lights of his little brother’s bike.

The sweat gathers sticky between his shoulder blades, prickles along the nape of his neck. There’s dust spattered down his bare arms and buried in the grooves of his knuckles.

He’s tired. He’s tired, he’s dirty, and goddamn, he wishes he was back home.

He holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, the yellow sky melting to a purple haze. Squinting, he follows the soar of two swallows overhead, looping through the sky, until he’s rubbing the image from his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He’s gotta remember to call Sarah before she goes to bed.

The door opens with the tinkle of a brass bell older and rustier than Joel feels. A swaggering figure splits the glow from the store in two – a figure with a pack of Marlboros in one hand and an already half-empty bottle of water in the other.

Tommy holds them both out to Joel, who swipes the water with a scowl.

“Ain’t killed you yet, brother,” Tommy scoffs, stuffing the cigarettes into his back pocket. He swings a frayed-denim leg over the seat of his Harley.

Joel drains the bottle, panting as he crushes the plastic in one fist. “Damn near tryin’,” he mutters, tossing it in the trash. He runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

“Where are we?” Tommy asks. He glances over his shoulder, staring from the cracked roads to the telephone wires overhead. A Syclone pulls into the lot; a dehydrated squeal as it rolls to a halt.

“San Angelo,” Joel says. “Only a few more hours to go.” He settles on his own bike, pulling his leather jacket over his shoulders. “We passed a Super 8 coming into town, if you feel like restin’ up. Or – we leave now, be home around midnight.”

Tommy chuckles. “What’s the rush? We ain’t gotta be anywhere anytime soon.”

And Joel agrees – for the most part.

His mom is watching Sarah while they’re gone, and he reckons she’s hardly missing him. Too smart for her own good, Joel’s realizing: plotting and scheming her way into staying up past her bedtime, drinking Pepsi at dinner, watching Curtis and Viper – and swearing that her dad lets her do it all, too.

But, still. He misses his kid.

It’s the most they’ve ever been apart – time or distance. The longest he hasn’t had her climbing up his back or hanging off his arm. The least he’s been called Dad since he was eighteen years old.

He just…misses his kid.

He sighs, drumming his fingers on the body of the bike. “Tommy, I gotta get back home to Sarah.”

“Look,” Tommy says, and Joel knows that the argument is lost already, “By the time we got back, she’d be asleep anyways. Let’s leave in the morning – first thing, I swear – and we’ll be home in time for breakfast. Deal?”

They stare at one another, a stand-off in the parking lot. Both waiting for the other to break. The swallows gather on the roof of the store, basking in the weak wash of flickering fluorescents.

“Come on, brother,” Tommy pleads, “It’s one more night.” He lifts his helmet, punching it over his mop of shaggy hair, and kicks the bike to life.

Joel growls to himself, watching it drift over to the side of the road.

He considers heading to the Super 8 alone, grabbing a room only to shower and get some food, then hitting the road and leaving his little brother in the dust. Waiting for him to stumble through the door tomorrow morning – tired, groggy, probably hungover – while Joel, fresh as a daisy, drizzles syrup over Sarah’s pancakes and pours her orange juice.

He’s a pragmatic man. He’s a grown-up. Scares away the ghosts and ghouls and monsters of his daughter’s nightmares. Shushes her back to sleep in the crook of his arm, tiptoes as lightly as he can out of her room so as not to wake her.

Things like God, like the universe, things like horoscopes and laws of attraction…for the most part, Joel can do without them. Has done his whole life.

But then – the glow of indigo overhead, and the mysterious shadows lurking behind the buildings. The birdsong tittering in his ears, the twinkle of the sun in Tommy’s helmet – something distant in the dusty sphere.

Something, someone, winking at him from far away.

Something a little heavier than the breeze nudges at his spine, and Joel’s arms lift – fitting his own helmet over his head. He swings the heel of his boot into his kickstand and revs the bike, Harley roaring as it joins Tommy’s out on the boulevard.

Murphy’s is a small, green bar on the corner of an intersection. All peeled paint lettering and buzzing fluorescents – the y burnt out and pulsing.

Joel doesn’t think Tommy picked it for any reason other than the huge Lone Star mural on the side of the goddamn building, the way he tosses his thumb to it as they park up. A squint smirk on his face, muttering something like ‘s good to be home, big brother, as they hook helmets over handlebars.

Tommy leads Joel inside, their boots tacky on the wooden floor. Walls paneled by aged frames and sun-bleached photographs; air hanging thick with a smell like vinegar. The babble of slurred conversation is pierced by the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Metal-plate belt buckles snaked through strained jeans; low eyes which shift to size-up the two strangers. They all turn back to their fingerprinted glasses when Joel and Tommy settle into an empty booth.

It feels hotter in here than it is outside, stuffier. A thick humidity which clings to Joel’s bones, humming like the string lights draped from beams above his head.

Tommy reclines between the creaking leather cushion and the wall. He pokes at a yellowing poster of some Western, hums to himself, and then looks across the table.

Joel’s eyes loop once around the room before they meet his brother’s. “What?” he asks.

“First round is yours, old man.”

“Oh, is it, now?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Thought this was your idea?”

A weedy grin stretches across Tommy’s lips. He needs to fucking shave, Joel thinks. Whiskers poking from around his small mouth like pine needles. “’s my birthday trip,” he reasons.

And can Joel argue with that? Does he have the fucking energy? Will it get him out of here and back to Austin any quicker?

“Goddamn it,” he grumbles. He pushes himself to his feet, heels of his palms against the tacky wood.

He wanders over to the bar, tugging on the front of his tee to unstick it from his damp chest. Slots in beside an ivory cowboy hat with a pair of jeaned legs. The man fixes his bolo tie and watches Joel’s hand as he flags the bartender down.

And then he feels it.

You.

Then he feels you.

First, the weight of you – crashing some into his back. He shunts forward from the suddenness of it, knocking his ribs against the bar, and lifts a hand to brace himself on the ledge.

And then – heat, like an iron. Like every hair and freckle on your skin is branded into his the second you come into contact with him. A feeling like the roll of a wave against his spine, a hand hooked around his forearm when he begins to turn.

“Shit,” you hiss, steadying yourself on the curve of his shoulder. You glance down at your feet, clicking between your black boots. “I’m sorry, that was…that was my bad.”

“’s alright,” Joel says instantly. He holds his arm still until you let go and he sidesteps – though only a little. He watches, dumbstruck, as you rest your elbows on the bar and lean forward. His eyes linger on your back, trailing the crisscross straps wrapped tight over your spine.

You squint up at the menu pinned above shelves of crystal bottles. Your eyes move back and forth across the chalkboard, slowly descending until they’re meeting his in the speckled mirror opposite – a sweet smile growing on your lips.

It runs like whiskey through Joel’s veins: warm and dangerous.

And the way his head spins, the way the world blurs for a moment into one swipe of color around you; the way your cooing laugh echoes between his ears long after he’s heard it –

Joel’s already intoxicated.

He’s still staring when you pull back and motion to the bar. “You can go first, by the way,” you say, waving a hand. “I wasn’t cuttin’ in line. Just trying to read the drinks.”

“I’ll wait,” he replies, remembering how to be polite, how to be charming. Old cogs long out of use jerking to life inside him again. “Can’t read any of ‘em, either, anyways.”

It draws from you that same little laugh, a puff of air from your nostrils. You nod, biting your bottom lip.

He’s quickly forgetting why he’s stood in this room, why he’s in this city. He’d probably forget his own fucking name if you asked him right now what it was.

“’nother drink, darlin’?” a low voice interrupts, and you’re turning away.

Joel’s eyes follow you – a moth chasing something golden and radiant – as you face the wiggle of a snow-white mustache poking from beneath the brim of that ivory cowboy hat.

You shake your head, lifting two fingers with a bill slipped between them. “I’m good, thanks, George. Maybe next round.” You wave to the kid behind the bar – some name that Joel’s too fucking mindless to hear. Too distracted by the glint in your eye, the sparkle of your crescent moon earrings in the light.

If only he knew this feeling. If only he could put a name to it. As familiar as the sun and yet, brand new like dawn. His stomach swirls in a fleet of butterflies – as though he’s fifteen again, bumping elbows with his high school crush.

You nudge him, thumb pointing in the direction of the bartender.

Joel shakes his head. “Ladies first,” he says, heart skipping when you hold his stare.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, “Told you I ain’t jumping in.”

He asks the guy for two beers, barely taking his eyes off you. “Alright,” he leans in, lowering his voice, “Then let me buy you a drink. Make up for gettin’ in your way just then.”

You prop your chin on your knuckles, grinning as you push your twenty around the wooden bar top, dodging pooled rings of alcohol like it’s an arcade game. “I don’t do that,” you say, eyes tracing the slick trail left by the bill.

“Do what?”

“Accept drinks from strange men in bars.”

His tongue presses against the back of his teeth, the taste of humor honey-sweet. “Yeah? ‘n how long have you known…” he nods to the – what is he, sixty? Sixty-five? – year-old on your right, “…George?”

Your gaze lifts, eyes wide. Apparently as impressed by Joel’s confidence as he is himself. “We’re actually in a very serious relationship. Marriage proposal imminent.”

“Damn,” he mutters as the bartender reappears with two Coors, “And here I thought I had half a chance.”

You hum to yourself, studying him. Looking from his jaw across the span of his shoulders, his wide-knuckled hands and then back to his lips. Curious and wary, judging the strange animal stood before you.

And he knows he’s weathered from the weeks on the road, and all the years before that. Dirt under his nails and the light sheen of sun on his forehead. The flecks of gray through his thick, brown beard.

You take a deep breath, eyes twinkling, and tell him, “I’m here with my friend.”

“Ain’t that lucky?” Joel glances at Tommy. “I’m here with my brother.”

You look across to the dirty blond, sat tilting a glass candle in his hand. “He single?”

Joel nods. “Is she?”

You nod.

“Alright. You wanna come sit with us?”

Your smirk answers his question. You take the beers, rings clinking off the glass. “Rum,” you call over your shoulder, wandering off, “I drink rum.”

Joel’s gaze lowers to the sway of your hips. “Rum it is,” he says, turning back to the bar.

“So…a cross-country bike trip, and you wound up in San Angelo?”

You’re on your fourth drink, the first one Joel hasn’t paid for – and he only allowed it because it’s a Diet Coke (and maybe you got to the bar first, held his wrists with one hand so he couldn’t stop you from slapping your own money down).

“Yep,” Joel replies, pinching the lime from his drink and dropping it onto a napkin. “Just passin’ through. Shower, sleep, then head on home.”

“Where’s that, then? Home?”

“Austin.”

“Austin,” you pout, “Nice.”

Joel smirks, licking citrus from his fingertips. “Is it?”

“I’ve never been to Austin,” Brooke chirps, fiddling with the umbrella in her piña colada. She twirls the paper canopy and glances up to Tommy.

He snaps out of his slack-jawed gaze when he realizes what she’s implying. “Oh – yeah, well…” his head wobbles as he stutters, “…you two ever come down that way, we’d be happy to, uh…show ya ‘round, huh, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t reply, staring back at his brother with the same amused expression you are.

You’ve been an inch apart all evening – doused in the dive bar darkness, the shrouded conversations and muffled TV static. The tip of your nose and curve of your shoulders lit only by the luminous signs dotting the walls.

Tommy and Brooke are already deep in conversation again about the best car Tommy ever owned. Joel watches as your eyes flit between the pair, entertained by the way they trip over each other’s sentences. Your cheeks lift when Brooke lays a hand over Tommy’s, and he squeezes her fingers back.

Where did you come from? Joel’s thinking. He takes a swig of his whiskey, feeling your eyes on him. As he lowers his glass, you lift yours. When he turns in his seat towards you, you’re already facing him, back against the wainscotting. He smiles, and so do you.

Every movement feels choreographed, some merry dance only you two know. You’re in your own little world.

Where did you come from, again, and where have you been my entire fucking life?

“So, what about you?” Joel asks instead, swallowing – all warm-bellied and brave. “You grow up here?”

You shake your head, taking another sip. “Nope. Just liked it enough to hang up my coat for a few months. I grew up in Phoenix.”

“You travel a lot?”

“I’ve been around. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I was a kid.”

He thinks of home: of Austin and its silver-snake river, burnt-orange jerseys and the pleated bunting lining Sixth Street. He thinks of late nights on lawn chairs, nursing a beer and shooting the shit with his brother. Keeping their voices lower than the buzz of the cicadas, looking more at the dusky sky than at each other.

“You don’t ever get tired of it?” Joel asks. “Of moving around so much?”

You scoff, breath clouding the inside of your glass. “Three weeks on a motorcycle starting to get to you, huh?”

He breathes a laugh, loose again. The cicadas fade from his ears.

Your head tilts in a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess the universe keeps on surprising me.”

Joel doesn’t do this. At least, he hasn’t done this since he was a teenager – crate of beer under his arm and a chest full of courage. He’s long forgotten the feeling of heat blooming in his cheeks, the twitch of his heart anytime you look at him.

But fuck, if there isn’t something about you. Something in the way you move, the way you look at him. Something in the way you play with your straw, knocking ice cubes around and chewing on the plastic once you’ve drained the glass.

Something – though it’s a little too early and Joel’s a little too tipsy to tell just what. He tries to remember that he’s pragmatic. A grown-up. He chases away the monsters in his daughter’s –

“Oh, shit,” Joel says suddenly, scrambling to pull his cell from his pocket. It’s nine thirty. He was supposed to – “I forgot…”

A miserable tone from his Motorola cuts him short. The screen flashes an empty battery before fading to black. He jams a thumb into the keypad a couple more times, cursing at the winking symbol.

“Someone you gotta call?” you ask.

He meets your eye and winces. “Yeah, I’m…I said I’d call an hour ago.”

“You wanna use mine?” You twist around, fishing in your purse for your own. “We can go outside.”

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright, I’m sure she won’t mind, she –”

You shake your head. “Shut up. Come on, let’s go. I could use some fresh air, anyways. Be back in a minute,” you tell Brooke – who nods and turns straight back to Tommy.

Joel extends his hand to help you out of the booth, then follows you to the door. The cool air tugs every nerve in his body to attention, pin-sharp when he steps out of that lazy heat. Under the emerald glow of the Murphy’s sign, he settles his glass on a window ledge. “Next round’s on me, alright?”

You roll your eyes, pushing the phone against his chest. “Just call, Joel.”

One last apologetic glance, and then he’s dialing. He makes to wander along the curb, the tone already pulsing in his ear, when he notices –

“You ain’t brought a jacket?”

You’re sitting on the ledge, clutching your elbows. Swatting midges from the light you’re bathed in, charms on your bracelets jingling. “Hm?”

He tuts. “A jacket. Here.” He shrugs his own off, sitting it around your frame. It’s warm from the bar and from Joel’s body heat, and you sink into it – letting the dark leather drown you as you rummage through your purse again.

“Nice,” Joel’s eyes narrow, “Fresh air.”

You hum into your hands, flicking your lighter. The cigarette trembles when you murmur, “We all got our skeletons, I guess.”

He turns on his heel when a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey, hey, M–Yeah, sorry it’s late…Yeah, we got held up. My phone died, so I’m using…Is she still–? Can I–? Oh, Sarah. Hi, baby.”

His little girl begins chattering down the line immediately, telling Joel everything she’s been up to since they last spoke this morning.

“…and then, Emily thought I was one of the Armadillos – I don’t even know how, ‘cause they play in red, remember Dad? – but she did, and she slide tackled me so bad that Coach Thomson had to sub in Akari for me so I could ice my ankle. Grandma was kinda mad about it, but she took me to Burger King after to cheer me up, and…”

Joel wanders back and forth, smiling to himself and scuffing the heel of his boot along the concrete – barely able to squeeze more than two words between her chirping. It’s all, Yeah, baby? and Wow, sweetheart; all uhuhs and mhms until she finally quietens, excitement plateauing again.

“Alright, well. You know what time it is, right?”

“Yeah,” Sarah groans. She knows it all too well.

Bedtime.

“…But you didn’t call when you said you would, Daddy, and it’s Saturday, it’s –”

“I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry. Just…somethin’ came up. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right? We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where’s Uncle Tommy? Can I talk to him?”

Joel turns to face the bar. “He, uh…I’m not with him right now, sweetheart. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though.”

Sarah concedes, and then begins asking questions Joel knows she’s only asking to stay on the line a little longer – to stay awake a little later. But still, he answers each one – humoring her and, at the same time, letting himself listen to her voice just a little more before he has to let her go.

He thinks of scooping her up in the morning; thinks of being slumped on the couch after dinner with her head on his stomach – fast asleep with whatever movie she chose droning on in the background.

Despite the thousands of miles and close to two weeks between them – she makes him feel closer to home. She always does.

When Sarah asks where he is, he glances your way. Clocks your flat expression, the half-burnt cigarette hanging from your fingers.

You flick ash to the ground. Eyes unreadable beneath low brows, a tiny crease between them that Joel’s only just seeing for the first time.

“Uh…” he clears his throat, “…just a little – a little north of you, baby. Home first thing, I promise.”

He tells her he loves her and she says it back, and he tells her to sleep well and she says that back, too. And then he’s hanging up – Alright, see you soon, bye, Sarah, bye-bye, byebyebye – and pressing his thumb into the red button.

He wanders back over to you – ears flat like a guilty dog, though he isn’t quite sure why. He mumbles a quiet thanks as he passes the phone back, then stuffs his hands in his pockets.

You lean back, ankles crossed, studying him. Swirling what’s left of the cigarette in your fingers – the smoke lifting like a winding snake to the dark sky. “So,” you pout, “What are you doing flirting with me, if you got a wife and kid back home?”

His jaw ticks, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. “I don’t have a wife,” he says.

You stare blankly, filter back against your lips. “Okay, then – a girlfriend. Does she know you’re out tonight with us?”

He shakes his head. “No wife, no girlfriend. I don’t have an anything.”

“But you have a kid.”

Joel nods once, tongue in his cheek. “Uhuh.”

And then the penny seems to drop. A small oh; your jaw slack and eyes wide. The cigarette smolders between your fingers. “Fuck,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, hey,” Joel steps closer, “You didn’t know. It’s alright.”

He straightens the jacket on your shoulders. When you finally look at each other again, you snort.

“Sorry,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Is she okay? Your daughter – is she…?”

“Sarah,” Joel says. “She’s…she’s fine. Thanks.”

You look down, stubbing your cigarette against the brick. Voice quiet, you ask, “Her mom’s not around anymore?”

Relief settles in his chest: you’re softening to him again.

Joel slots onto the ledge at your side. Shoulder to shoulder. He reaches behind and lifts his drink. “Not since she was a year old.”

Your mouth pulls in a wince. “Jesus. That’s rough.”

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to – you’re not asking him to explain – and he doesn’t want to, either.

You’re not stupid – you’ve seen enough of the world to hear what he’s really saying. The darkest, dustiest corners of it – all the places no one ever wants to look.

You don’t seem disturbed, barely even moved by the reality that…well, shit happens. People leave, families break; a two-car driveway is suddenly taken up by just a pick-up truck and a little pink bike with tassels.

He figures you get it. You don’t need to know how can that be? – you just…know that it can.

“So, uh…” you look up at him again, “…my apartment is, like, five minutes away if you wanna…you know. You can charge your phone, can shower – if it’s bugging you that much.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, really?”

You simper, eyes thin. “Really.”

“Charge my phone ‘n shower?” He stands, palm flat against the wall above your head, and leans in. His face is inches from yours.

You look up, mirroring his expression. “Yes,” your voice curls in a half-truth, “What’s the big deal?”

“What a goddamn line,” Joel says, smirking. “How long you been sittin’ on that one for?”

His blood thrums faster, harder, louder in his veins when you stand up, hands on your hips.

“It’s not a line, I’m serious –”

“I didn’t take you as the type, baby, I really didn’t – but if that’s how you wanna play this, then –”

He feels you before he sees you moving, like he’s stood at that bar all over again. Your hands on his jaw, your chest pressed to his. Your lips – soft as satin, with a tinge of sweet rum and smoke – against his.

Joel barely misses a beat. He closes his eyes and lifts a hand to the back of your head, kissing you back. It’s dizzying, the taste and feel of you so close; the wet of your tongue on his. The little scratches of your nails in his beard, the moans caught in your throat.

Dizzying – and fucking perfect.

You break apart and lean in to each other, catching your breath. Joel’s hands slip beneath the heavy leather of his jacket onto your waist.

“Unless…” you whisper, pulling away from him, “…you don’t want to. In which case, I’ll just…” You twirl back towards the door, batting your eyelashes.

Joel smiles. He catches your wrist and reels you back into his body. “I want to,” he breathes, kissing you again. “I want to.”

“Let’s go.”

You make it to your apartment door, fumbling with your keys – and Joel’s hands are glued to your waist.

You miss the lock over and over as he kisses your neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. Anything to satiate the hunger quickly taking over, the tightening in his jeans.

He pulls you against his hips – rough denim grinding into the curve of your ass. He can smell your flowery perfume, a strange melding of peony and menthol sharp in his nostrils.

It’s the hungriest he’s ever felt, he thinks – a starved animal pinning his prey to her flecked apartment door. He pauses, bottom lip damp against your neck; breathing a liquor-laced laugh over your skin.

You jam the key into the lock. The door finally shunts open and you spill inside, dragging Joel with you.

Your place is dark. Angled strips of streetlight thrown high up the bare walls and across the ceiling, splintered by tilted shades. The spill of a blanket draped over an empty couch; a pair of sneakers left on the rug. Joel’s knees brush by a houseplant guarding the door – heavy leaves which pfft when they sway out of his way.

It’s half-decorated. Temporary. Caught somewhere between home and away. Little fragments pieced together into something the shape of home: a mosaic vase that scatters light across the surface of the coffee table; a beaded curtain pinned around the closet doorway.

Like you’re a little magpie, collecting trinkets of silver and gold until your nest feels like yours. Bags dropped long enough to keep a Monstera plant alive, not to put nails in the wall for the frames propped against the skirting board.

You shrug Joel’s jacket off, dropping it over the back of the couch. When you spin back around to him, he lifts your chin with two fingers and presses his lips to yours. You lead him down the hallway, tumbling into your room.

He follows you over to your bed, collapsing onto a tousled mess of sheets with his hips between yours. The hem of your dress rides up your thighs, bunching around your hips and revealing a flash of pink lace underneath.

The world around him seems to sober up for a second, sharpens into focus. It begins to seep in: the realization that he has you – some girl he met no more than two hours ago in a bar – pinned to your mattress. A slick gathering in your underwear and a weight building in his.

Right now, he should be sinking into squealing bedsprings in a Super 8. Bathing in the flicker of a television set twenty years too old. He should be showered and rested – ready to head home at sunrise, if not sooner.

But then something led him to you, and – well.

There’s no fucking helping him now, is there?

Joel’s fingers hook around your panties. He pulls down, leaving a trail of kisses along your bare leg, until that same pink lace is dripping from your ankle.

His eyes flash up to yours, love-drunk and sparkling. He pushes your knees apart, watching your velvet folds open for him, and – oh, he thinks, staring at the glistening arousal smeared around your cunt. Such a slick little mess for him already.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he licks his lips, “She’s so pretty.”

You hum, hands lowering. Your fingers separate, spreading your pussy for him. Your middle finger swirls around your clit, dips along your seam. And the n, silky and shining, you lift your hand again and slip your fingers into your mouth.

“Tastes even better than she looks,” you murmur, dappling your fingertip along your bottom lip.

Joel growls. He pushes down on your thighs, ignoring your little yelp, and drags the tip of his tongue through your slit.

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, back arching. Your fingers knot in his hair, twisting and tightening. “Shitshitshit.”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, tongue pushing inside.

Fuck, you’re just so perfect: so soft and warm and fucking dripping for him. He laps at your sweet center, wet already spreading all over his mouth and beard.

A dampness blooms in his boxers. He’s throbbing, fucking aching the longer he goes untouched. He grinds against the mattress, denim rough against his solid erection.

He lifts his chin, panting – satisfied by the way you squirm under the weight of him. “You like that, huh?” he asks, a sodden kiss to your mound. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He spits a thick bead of saliva, watching it dribble down your folds to your ass. His tongue swipes it back up, circling your clit, all slippery and swollen.

“Fuck, Joel,” you moan, tugging on his hair. Your legs spasm, hips lifting.

He loves the sound of his name when you say it. Broken in two, a lilt to it as it rolls from your tongue and down his spine. Like it’s yours as much as it is his, now.

He sucks hard on your clit, his tongue flicking. And he can tell you’re close; can feel your hips starting to lose rhythm, see your back desperately arching higher and higher.

Joel groans, pushing up to hover over you. He cups between your legs, dabbing two thick fingers at your entrance, and pushes in.

Your pussy draws him in knuckle-deep. Your chest lifts, the loose neckline of your dress exposing more and more. You grab your breast, pinching your nipple – a roll of pebbled flesh between your fingertips.

He lowers his lips to your ear – watching as you toy with yourself. “Come on, baby,” he grits his teeth, “Give me one. Let me feel this pretty cunt.”

Your head rolls back into the pillow; a high sob as your orgasm crests. Clamping tight around him; a warm flood down his fingers.

Joel kisses you as you come. You look so pretty, he thinks, with ecstasy behind your eyes and his fingers between your legs.

Christ, he wants to be inside you so badly. Wants to feel your cunt do all this around his cock instead.

The blood rushes between his hips.

His fingers slip in and out, bringing you back around. Joel’s lips are on your neck, murmuring, “Good girl, that’s my girl,” as you resurface.

Your eyes open again – glossy, glazed with the aftershock of your high. “Fuck,” you breathe, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean. Whips the tee over his head in one motion; another kiss tucked under your chin as you peel your dress from your body. He tosses it to the floor.

Still dazed, your body still trembling, you ask, “Do you have a condom?” All dreamy and distant, your hands trailing along his belt.

Joel pauses. Tilts his head, frowning. “I’m on a road trip with my brother, baby – the hell would I bring condoms for?”

You roll your eyes, sighing. It’s the cutest thing Joel thinks he’s ever seen. You thread the belt through the loops of his jeans. “In case you meet a really cool girl at a bar and wanna take her home, maybe?”

He lifts his eyebrows, impressed. He slips his salty tongue over yours again.

You moan at the taste. “It’s just I’m…I’m all out.”

His belt drops to the floor; buckle clinking against hardwood.

“Well, shit,” Joel whispers.

It’s not exactly a scenario he predicted, setting off from Austin. Meeting you wasn’t on the bucket list for the trip. It’s another three, four, probably five things to add to the list of shit he doesn’t do, shouldn’t do, wouldn’t fucking do if it hadn’t been for you.

No, Joel thinks, groaning as you palm the solid shape of him – he didn’t bring a goddamn condom. Jesus, the most he has in his pockets right now is fifteen bucks and a stick of gum.

You unzip his pants, shrugging the denim loose. “We can just do it…without,” you offer.

Joel stares down at you. “You sure?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Just pull out, right?”

“Just pull out…” he echoes. Your hands are cold on his heated skin, but he’s not about to fucking stop you.

You tug his underwear down with his jeans, following the darkening hair from his navel down. Another quiet pull out passes your lips – your voice dissolving when you spot the thick base of his dick.

Joel’s shaft springs free, heavy against the inside of his thigh.

“Holy shit.” You push yourself up on your elbows, eyes flooding black.

His tongue runs along the bottom of his teeth. He thrusts forward into your hand, a glassy drop of precome dribbling from his slit.

Your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, fingers wrapping around his width. You roll his balls in your other palm, massaging and squeezing just the right amount.

“Easy, easy,” Joel whispers. Too much, too soon. He can’t come yet, not until he feels your fluttering cunt around his cock.

Instead, you reach up – snaking an arm around his neck. You pull him back down, his naked body flush against yours, and hike a knee over his hip.

He grinds into you, his cock nudging between your legs. They fall apart for him – pliant and keen, like petals unfolding. He covers himself in your slick, his tip catching below your clit.

“Pl-ease,” you whine, scratching at his shoulders.

Joel nips at your damp neck. “Please, what?” he taunts.

Your breath is hot against his cheek – a stifling request which curls up in the shell of his ear. “F-fuck me.”

And his hips roll into yours.

“Jesus f…” your face buries into his chest, “…you’re…you’re so fucking big, Joel, I can’t –”

He nudges between your walls, groaning into your skin. You’re even tighter around his cock, even cozier. “I know,” he pants, “I know. Take it, baby, know you can take it.”

You stretch around him, opening up the deeper he pushes. “Fuckfuckfuck,” you pant, the thick hair at his base finally brushing against your clit. “Fuck, Joel.”

“Look at me,” he taps your jaw, “Hey. Look at me. Breathe.”

You exhale, hot and shaky across his lips.

“Good, that’s good.” Joel nods. He holds you by the waist, lets you adjust to his size.

He pulls back, your cunt clamping around him. Halfway out, and then in again. Feeling you open up, inch by inch, until he builds a steady rhythm.

“Jesus, baby, she’s so…” he moans, “…she’s so goddamn tight.”

You drape an arm over his shoulders, a hissing pain where your nails dig into his skin. Yelping each time he bottoms out, your leaking cunt wrapped snug around him. “So – goddamn – big,” you whine, a ruined smile on your lips.

He slams his body into yours again, watching the way your tits bounce. Nipples hard, skin tacky and shining with sweat. Your pussy pinches, and he starts to unravel.

Fuck the road trip, Joel thinks, fuck all of it. This is where he should be: in the middle of your bed, burrowed deep between your legs. This is the only place he wants to fucking be, right now.

So he fucks you harder; the headboard hammering against the wall. A fistful of the pillow, his knuckles whitening. He guides his cock when he slips out – a filthy sound as your clutch sucks him back in.

“Fuck,” he growls, gripping your hips so hard he worries he might bruise you. His thrusts become sloppy – quick and desperate.

“So close,” you gasp. You’re squeezing him so tight that he sees stars. “I’m gonna – I’m…”

Perfect, Joel thinks, watching you bloom. You’re so fucking perfect.

He coaxes you through it. Slows enough to feel you come around his cock, your warmth as it gushes all over him. “That’s it, baby, I got you. Shit, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls out just in time to coat your stomach; a throaty groan as he comes. He pumps his shaft, covering from your sternum to the plush of your tummy. It dribbles down your waist, spurts between your breasts.

He collapses over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His dick, soaked and softening, smears the ejaculate across your skin.

You giggle, leaving sticky kisses along his beard.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, and his tongue dabs at the inside of your lips. You taste like sex and sweat – sweet and salt.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed. He feels you follow, your lips featherlight on the curve of his shoulder.

You make to stand – going to clean yourself up, he reckons, your tummy dripping with his semen – and he locks a hand around your bare thigh.

“Stay,” he says, voice low and rough – sex still smoldering. “Let me get you a towel.”

You smile, resting your chin on his shoulder. Your fingers link around the other side of his waist. “I’ll get it. Just relax.”

And for a minute or two, you stay like that. Hooked onto one another, tired eyes closing over, breathing in rhythm. Your cheek on his shoulder, your knee brushing against his tummy.

It’s simple; quiet and still. Joel feels like half a person – the other half tracing her chipped nails along his bare thigh. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth holding back a grin that she thinks might give her away.

Eventually, you move. Shimmy yourself down the mattress, swipe a crinkled tee from the ottoman – and slink off to the bathroom.

Joel lies back against the headboard, body sticky hot. He watches the shadow of your figure stretch across the open door. His eyes drift upwards to the looping ceiling fan – only half as dizzying as the sound of your humming in the next room.

And just when he starts to think he might be fucking missing you, you reappear in the doorway. Leant against the frame, some worn band tee hanging from your shoulders. Arms crossed; smiling back at him.

A rush of words floods to the tip of his tongue. You look beautiful. Your makeup’s smudged, chains of your necklace twisted; your shirt is frayed and splotched with faded stains – and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He holds his arms out and you prance over.

You crawl over his figure, kissing your way up to his lips, and then turn in his lap. Cradled against his broad chest, your head nuzzling into the dark threads of hair between his pecs. You clasp one of his hands in two of yours.

“Offer’s still there for a shower, if you want it,” you whisper, kissing the pads of his fingers.

Joel tilts his head, mumbling against your temple, “Will you be in there with me?”

You answer something shaped like a tease, just as sharp with wit – but he’s too busy watching your nails trace his open palm. Too distracted by the sweet scent of your skin: a fresh burst of fruit, singed with the edge of tobacco.

“What do you do for work?” you ask.

He makes some sort of sleepy sound – a grunt, a hm? into your skull. “Oh, uh – I’m a contractor,” he says.

Your chin lifts. “That why your palms are all…?” Your thumb strokes light as lace against his worn skin.

“Probably,” Joel admits. He draws shapes on your thigh with his free hand.

“Do you sand the wood with your bare hands, or somethin’?”

Joel scoffs. “Alright, alright. You liked my hands plenty, twenty minutes ago.”

Your cheeks lift, a low hum caught in your throat. You angle your head to let his lips trail along your shoulder, pressing into the hinge of your jaw. A dark nail following the landscape of Joel’s skin – each score and divot, the callused pads at the bottom of each finger.

“You have sorta…earth hands, I think.”

It sits in the air for a few seconds before Joel turns to you. “What?”

“Earth hands. Or, well – I guess they could be water, if you look at ‘em this way.” You open up his hand, fingers stretched. “I don’t really know. I’m still learning.”

He looks down at you. Feels the now-steady pulse of your heart on his sternum. “Learnin’…hands?”

You snort. “Palm reading, Joel.”

His brows draw tight. He licks the inside of his whiskey-stained cheek. “You’re into all that hippie sh…stuff?”

You knock your knuckles against his chest, still staring at his hands. The hills and their valleys, the ravine-like lines; the worn skin and hatch marks.

“Let’s see…Your heart line,” you whisper – more to yourself than Joel, but he’s listening all the same. “It’s pretty deep, which means the relationships you’ve had have been…important. But it’s kinda…it tails off right here, see? It’s broken. So…I guess they didn’t end too good.”

Joel raises an eyebrow – playful, encouraging your timid smile. Keep figuring me out, he thinks, stoking the curious flame behind your eyes. “Alright,” he says, “Now tell me something you didn’t already know about me.”

You gawk, holding his wrist up. “You don’t see that? The way it breaks up? I’m not bullshitting you, Joel, it’s –”

“Naw, I see it,” he nods, squinting a little at his palm, “Just – tell me more. What’s all these other lines mean?”

“Well,” you adjust between his hips, “you got your life line right here. Short, which means –”

“Don’t tell me that part.”

“No,” you roll your eyes, “It just means you’re independent. You never needed much from anyone. And it runs past this mount – these are called mounts – right here. Venus: all to do with love and sexuality.”

Joel holds your open palm next to his, comparing them. He takes less than a second’s look, lines his lips to your ear and says, “Seem like a pretty good match to me.”

You wriggle when he tickles your ribcage, trying to twist out of his grasp. You’re laughing again – the same laugh he’s been hearing all damn night. The same giggle that’s had his stomach somersaulting since he first heard it.

The room seems to light with it, this glow he feels from you – as if you’re the sun. Spent and still half-drunk; lazing with a stranger in the middle of her bed. Tracing the lines and scars on his palm, telling him how logical and grounded he’s supposed to be.

As if the world orbits around you – everything you touch turning to molten gold. And for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Joel looks at you and wonders: Where the hell did you come from?

You hold your hand against his, folding your fingers perfectly together. The evidence of your night flaking from Joel’s knuckles; sweat still simmering on the nape of his neck.

He hasn’t done this for years. Hasn’t felt this gentle aftermath. It’s usually a rush, a hastened zip and clink of his pants. An awkward dance, plucking clothes from the bedroom floor and pacing back to his truck.

It’s never like this. Talking and laughing, holding and kissing. Questions about his parents and yours; his biggest dream as a kid, or the time you broke your arm falling out of a tree.

He tells you stories about growing up with Tommy; tells you Sarah’s favorite flavor of cake. He tells you about the time they tried to make it for a school bake sale, forgot to turn the oven off, and almost burned the damn kitchen down.

You snicker and tell him that never would’ve happened if you were there.

Yeah, well, Joel smiles, I wish you were.

He notices you’re drifting off, despite your slurred protests and your weak grip on his wrist. He pulls you under the covers, curving his body around yours, praying that the quickening drum of his heartbeat won’t wake you.

His nose nuzzles into the curve of your skull, his hands link in front of your tummy. And he wonders whether his body was made with yours in mind.

He glances out at the sky – light starting to bleed from the horizon – and wills the turn of the sun to slow. Only a little; just let him stay here a little while longer.

Just a little while.

Dawn forces her way in eventually – more unwelcome than ever before.

There’s a throb between his temples which swells to life when the light floods past his pupils. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, face turning back into the pillow. He gives you a gentle squeeze and then pushes up from the mattress.

You roll to the middle of the bed, still sound asleep. The sun spills golden all over the valleys and crests of your body. The bedsheets carve pathways up to your hips, dipping at your waist.

Last night, there was something so mystical about you – so otherworldly. Joel felt himself drawn towards you like a compass needle shooting north, the second he felt your weight crash against his spine.

A figure behind a cloud of smoke, like the mountaintops disappearing into a thick mist. And now, blood drained of alcohol, you’re just you.

Your shirt is twisted around your shoulders. Your lips puffy, mumbling to yourself in your doze. Makeup smudged like chalk under your eyes, and still – just as beautiful. Just as radiant as you were ten hours ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. He blinks down at his bare feet, the morning sharpening into focus. As he lifts his phone from the nightstand, the cable drops – hitting the wooden floor with a snap.

He pauses, shoulders hunched. Hears you stir over his shoulder, and turns around.

The earth of your body shifts beneath cotton hills, clouds of sleep clearing from behind your eyes. “Hey,” you whisper, voice pretty and broken.

A little bird in the palm of his hand – that magpie curled up in her nest of gems and trinkets.

“Hey.” He leans down and kisses your cheek. “Sorry, darlin’, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You wrap your arms around his wrist, tugging. “Are…are you…leaving?”

Joel feels a pang in his chest, and he doesn’t know why. He takes a deep breath. Your scent fills his lungs and steadies his heart. “I…” he sniffs, “…I gotta go home, baby.”

You give a slow and heavy nod. “S-Sarah…”

He strokes your head with his thumb. “Yeah. Shh, go back to sleep. It’s still early.”

He glances at his phone – it’s just after six. He knows Tommy will be waiting for him, parked outside the Super 8 and wondering where the hell Joel is. He knows Sarah will be, too – sat by the living room window, listening for the rumble of their bikes.

And still, he thinks – How do I fucking leave you? Leave this?

He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. He has a kid waiting for him back home; soccer practice, packed lunches, homework and bedtime stories. He has work to do, bills to pay, a roof to keep over their heads. It’s all waiting in Austin, two hundred miles away.

As though you can see the question flipping in his mind, you pull him closer. A weak finger in the palm of his hand, drawing circles. Your bleary gaze meets his, and you whisper, “In the next life.”

Joel smiles. Twelve hours ago, he’d have laughed at the idea of it. Now, he’s not so sure. He kisses your knuckles, muttering, “Promise.”

Another wave of sleep washes over you, and you’re gone again.

Joel pushes himself from the bed, reaching for his clothes. His back twinges as he stretches, pulling his T-shirt over his shoulders. He steps into his jeans; pinches his belt between two fingers and lifts it from the floor.

He leans over and tilts your shades the opposite way, dulling your bedroom. He unplugs the charger, neatly winds the cord, and sits it on your nightstand. He fixes his side of the sheets: folds them over the mattress, tucks them in at your back.

With a deep breath, he makes for the door.

His jaw turns, eyes still low. Your dress is in a heap at the foot of the bed; a tube of lip gloss lying next to it. He looks up, following the landscape of sheets – the slope from your ankle to your hip. Your hunched shoulders, your cheek smushed into the pillow.

If he looks too long, he’ll never leave.

The image burns golden into his eyes. He hopes for half a heartbeat that you’ll wake again and pull him back into bed. Kiss him all over, whisper something sharp and sweet in his ear. Touch him and graze him and wrap yourself around him – anchoring him right here and now.

But you don’t.

And Joel slips out of the room.

Jackson stirs to life over his shoulder.

A white lump in the snow-covered valley, the settlement seems so far away now. Tommy sets off up ahead, leading the way to the outpost. The blizzard is picking up – it almost swallows the silhouette of him whole.

Joel had tried to warn him: the weather would be too bad to see five feet in front of them, never mind any infected. But Tommy argued with the same determination that dragged the pair of them into that dive bar thirty years ago, and Joel didn’t have half the energy nor the will to argue back.

He’s thinking about you. He always is.

Your searing gaze over the rim of your glass; the weight of you against his chest. The tickling of your nail on his palm, severing each line and changing him forever. You and your palm lines.

You were just learning to read them. Joel didn’t know a thing about any of it, and he told you so. You took his hand in yours and said, Here. Let me see.

He runs a thumb down his fate line, swaying in time with his horse. And he shakes his head with a little smile – he still remembers which one is fate and which is heart.

He still remembers all of it. He has earth hands. All salt and soil and solid as stone. His earth hands have gotten him this far, right? Twenty-five years and he’s still here. Gray and grown; stiff joints and sewn-up scars.

His head line has channeled more strangers’ blood than Joel can count. Mounts that’ve stopped breath in the throat of any man who crossed him. He doesn’t think you’d recognize his hands anymore, if your fingertips traced over them again. Broken and bruised and bloody.

And he doesn’t think he’d want you to – doesn’t want you to meet the shadow of the man you knew back then. He’d prefer you remember that same brown-eyed, soft-touched stranger with enough charm and naivety to survive anything. No need for bone-breaking fists or bloodstained hands.

Where are you, he wonders?

The answer knots deep in his stomach: the same old rope twisting into the same old shape. A fist of anger, of guilt. Some terrible cocktail of both, spilling poison through his veins.

He’s terrified to wonder what might’ve happened if he had ever made it back there. What he might’ve found in your apartment – what he might not.

Where would you have gone, that day? Would you have fled, or would you have stayed?

You were smart, he knows that much. He saw the cogs of your mind turning right in front of him, standing opposite each other in that bar. Barely thirty seconds in and he could’ve sworn you had him all figured out.

But – oh, Jesus, you were kind. Open and willing to help a stranger with a dead phone and a tired smile. Would that kindness still glow as bright against the flicker of a world on fire?

A lone hawk swoops down before him, shooting straight between the pines. Joel slips his glove back over his freezing hand.

He thinks about you every day. Every fucking day, and it never eases. Never loosens. It keeps him up some nights – the truth he’s too afraid to look square in the face.

You live now in the back of his mind like a little ghost. His little ghost – still floating around that dusty city; the warm light of life and innocence still bright in your eyes.

Tommy glances over his shoulder. He gestures ahead as if to say, Would you take a look at this goddamn storm?

And Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m lookin’, brother.

All he wants is to go home. Jackson, Austin, the bedroom of your apartment in San Angelo. Just let me go back.

He blinks, and the snow melts to cracked asphalt under a lilac sunset. Tommy’s holding handlebars instead of reins. The horses’ hot puffs of breath darken to clouds of smoke, choking from the exhaust pipes of the Harleys.

You’re somewhere on the other side of town, waiting for him in the faint glow of a jukebox. Sipping what’s left of your rum and Coke, fishing a twenty from your purse for the next round.

Just let me go back home.

He tugs on his horse’s reins and pulls off after his brother.

[existsarchive]

[jj-lynn21]

Stellan interview

"Stellan Skarsgard Is Finally Seizing the Spotlight"

https://www.thedailybeast.com/stellan-skarsgard-is-finally-seizing-the-spotlight

With roles in “Dune,” the Star Wars series “Andor,” and “Hope,” the character actor par excellence has never been more popular. He talks to Marlow Stern about his stellar career.

Few if any actors have built a resume as impressive as that of Stellan Skarsgård.

After achieving teen-idol status in his native Sweden—even releasing a pop single—due to the TV series Bombi Bitt, Skarsgård transitioned to film acting. It was in the mid-’90s, with roles as a sadistic oil rig worker in Breaking the Waves, a fiery abolitionist in Amistad, and a haughty mathematician in Good Will Hunting, that the towering, stone-faced Swede would cross over into America, and establish himself as one of the finest character actors alive.

He’s since maintained a healthy diet of what he calls “experimental films,” including a total of six with Danish auteur Lars von Trier, and Hollywood studio fare, such as the Pirates of the Caribbean and Mamma Mia! films, the Thor and Avengers superhero extravaganzas, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and Cinderella. And right now, at the age of 69, Skarsgård is at his most prolific. There was his Golden Globe-winning turn in HBO’s Chernobyl, the upcoming villain in Denis Villeneuve’s Dune, and a main role in the Disney+ Star Wars series Andor, which he’s filming right now in London. Oh, and he’s fathered eight children, including the actors Alexander, Gustaf, Bill, Sam, and Valter.

“There’s no competition, really,” the elder Skarsgård tells me of his talented brood. “There’s some joking competition at the dinner table, but I know they’re better than me, so I’ve given up.”

Skarsgård’s latest is the Norwegian drama Hope. Directed by Maria Sødahl, the wife of his frequent collaborator Hans Petter Moland, it is a heartrending autobiographical film about a long-married couple, Anja (Andrea Bræin Hovig) and her theater-director husband Tomas (Skarsgård), whose atrophying bond is put to the test when Anja develops terminal brain cancer. As they fight for Anja’s survival, the two reevaluate how their relationship went off-course, and why they fell in love in the first place. (The U.S. remake rights were quickly snapped up by Nicole Kidman and Amazon Studios.)

Anne Frank’s Stepsister: How Trump Reminds Me of HitlerNEVER AGAINMarlow Stern

In a wide-ranging conversation, Skarsgård opened up to The Daily Beast about his many great films, the controversy surrounding pal Lars von Trier, being a nudist, and much more.

How have you been passing the time during the pandemic?

In different ways. The first half of the year I was at our summer house on an island outside of Stockholm, and all my kids—who were also actors, most of them, and they weren’t working either—were all out there in two houses eating dinners together, having a good time, and seeing the spring inch-by-inch, everything grew, which you never get time to do otherwise. But this job I’m doing here now [in London], I was supposed to fly back and forth from Stockholm because I’m shooting this Star Wars series called Andor, and it would have been very convenient because it’s only a two-hour flight, but because of the quarantine I’ve been stuck here. For more than a month I’ve been alone in a hotel room staring into the wall.

Speaking of the Skarsgård household, I read a quote from your son Alexander who said that when he was a teenager, “Dad was always walking around [without clothes] with a glass of red wine in his hand.” Was that your vibe during the pandemic?

Not this time! Is it the wine that worries you? [Laughs]

Did the stress of the pandemic make you feel less… free?

No, I’m still taking off my clothes when I get home very often—and my kids also, some of them do. It’s not a big thing. We’re Swedes! And we have no God that says we can’t show our body parts.

What about it do you just find so liberating? I don’t go the full monty but when I go home, I do tend to take off my pants and let loose a little bit, because it is constricting.

If it’s warm enough you don’t need clothes, right? Unless you’re ashamed of your body—or taught to be ashamed of certain body parts. For me, it’s all upbringing. It’s cultural. Some cultures don’t care about what part of the body you show, and some cultures are very precious, and some cultures the women can’t show their faces.  

I’m curious what life was like in the Skarsgård household, because you’ve helped produce so many talented kids. Alexander described it as “bohemian,” similar to what you described during the pandemic, filled with dinner parties and a free-flowing atmosphere.

It’s always been a very open house, and the kids’ friends, it’s been easier to sometimes be in our house than their houses—especially during puberty, when conflicts arise—because we’re very relaxed and non-judgmental in our family. It’s really, truly pleasant. And my kids are more like pals to me. There’s no hierarchical relationship at all. It’s very nice. We just have fun!

It’s a very talented—and frankly, attractive—family. How did this happen?  

How did I make kids that look so good? [Laughs]

Is that something you’re particularly proud of?  

[Laughs] Well, the looks I don’t care so much about, but I’ve had two beautiful wives—and very smart wives—and that’s helped a lot. I’m not going to take much credit for anything. But what I’m proud of is, when I hear from other people in the business about Gustaf or Sam or Bill or Valter or Alexander, I hear that somebody worked with them and they were really nice on the set and totally cool with everybody, and how no matter what menial job anyone had on the set they were nice to them, then I’m proud. If they win awards it’s secondary to that, because that is a lottery anyway. Awards are sort of like reality shows.

They really are a popularity contest. Let’s talk about Hope. It could have very well been called Grief.

I thought it sounded bland to begin with, but in fact the film is about hope—and about love. It’s not a normal cancer film where it’s all about beating the cancer or fighting against it, but it’s about someone who gets a death sentence in a family situation with a lot of kids, like I have, and everything that was petrified in the relationship floats up again. It’s about how they rejuvenate their relationship, and through those horrible circumstances, find love again.

There’s one very powerful scene in the film that really encapsulates many elements and themes that it explores, and it’s the sex scene between you and your wife. It manages to capture the joy of reconnecting as well as the grief you’re experiencing.

I think it’s a great scene, because it starts beautifully—very gently—and it looks like it’s going to be really nice for both of them, and then her anxiety sets in, and things start to bad. And it does go bad pretty fast.

On another level, I’m an American and we don’t see sex very often in movies. And when we do, we don’t see it in the service of such complicated emotions.

With sex in film, it’s difficult, because sex is something that feels fantastic when you do it, and it looks ridiculous when you watch. Those humping movements like a dog? It’s not sexy at all! So, you can’t do a sex scene that looks like it feels, so they always have to be about something else. The sex scenes I had with Emily Watson in Breaking the Waves, it was about her curiosity, because she discovered her first penis, she discovered sexuality, and it was totally about the relationship. The sex was just there. And in this film, the scene is not really about sex but about something else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sex scene that looks like it feels, and that can convey that beautiful thing that sex can be.

Really, in America, we get almost no sex scenes in movies. And it’s 2021.

It’s very strange. It’s not as bad as during the Hays Code, when you couldn’t let the lips meet for more than one second.

You just had a train going into a tunnel.

[Laughs] Yes, that very subtle image. But in America, you have a strong, strong tradition of bigotry or fear of sexuality. Only two years ago, in nine states in America, it was still illegal to have sex outside of marriage, and my American friends have told me that when they were growing up, it was even regulated how they could have sex—you couldn’t have oral sex or anal sex—so it is so ingrained in American culture that people’s sexuality is not a private thing, but something that everybody should interfere with.

Hope is also an exploration of mortality. Is that something you think about often? 

I’ve never been that interested in it. I’ve always been aware of it. It’s the only thing you know in life—you’re gonna fucking die. But already many years ago, I thought I’d had such a fantastic life that it would only be fair that I died, because I’ve already lived more than most people. So, I don’t feel any injustice in death. And I’m not afraid of death because I’m not religious, so I don’t have to worry about whether I’m going to end up in hell or heaven. But I have small children still, my youngest is 8, and I’m no spring chicken anymore, so I think about how I should stick around for at least another ten years until everything is set.

I read that you’d studied a bunch of religions in the wake of 9/11 and reached the conclusion that it was all sort of bunk.

I grew up with total freedom of religion—my parents weren’t religious, though my grandmother was very religious. It was taught to me without judgment, and it was a very tolerant upbringing I had. But I hadn’t read the Bible. And after 9/11, when I saw George W. Bush standing in front of TV cameras and claiming that God had put him there, I thought maybe it was time to read what they actually believed in. So, I read the Quran and I read the Bible. There are some fantastic stories—as fiction, it’s sometimes brilliant and sometimes boring—but the God in both the Quran and the Bible, there’s only one reason to really worship them, and that is fear. It’s a power that says, “If you don’t worship, you’re going to die—and not only die, but burn in eternity.” It’s a bit autocratic and dictatorial, I would say. It’s very hard for me to worship something under threat.

And if God put George W. Bush in the White House, then God has a very cruel sense of humor.

[Laughs] Yeah, he does. And the latest president said the same thing.

But he doesn’t believe in God. He only believes in himself.

Yeah. I think that if he had more appreciation from the liberals in America, he would have just as well gone populist-liberal.

I think so too. You know, I read that your Dogville co-star Nicole Kidman already picked up the remake rights to Hope for Amazon.

She’s picked up the remake rights, yeah.

Both you and your son Alexander have shared some pretty intense scenes with Nicole. There’s that dramatic scene in Big Little Lies where Nicole hits your son in the dick, and it almost seemed to me like payback for what you put her through in Dogville.

[Laughs] Yeah, I’ve done two films with her and Alexander just finished doing The Northman with her. But she’s lovely. I really like her. She’s so cool.

At least it was a prosthetic and not Alexander’s real thing.

Yeah… coward! [Laughs]

I gotta say, between Chernobyl, Hope, Dune, a Star Wars series, and even a Simpsons cameo as yourself, how does it feel to be at your most prolific at 69?

I’m just working! I’m doing my job and having fun doing it. I’ve been lucky and a lot of good projects have emerged. It goes up and down, you know, throughout life. And I don’t think I could have a better life than I’ve had. I don’t have any regrets. And I don’t have to be the star or be in something very successful, I just have to have fun.

Nice. Do you feel you’re underrated? I think you’re someone who’s so consistently great in everything that it can almost be taken for granted how great you are. I know you won a Golden Globe recently, and that was long overdue, even if it’s mostly bullshit.

I don’t know! I can tell you: it’s much better to be underrated than overrated. So, I’m very comfortable if I am underrated. But I’m a Swede with an accent—or most of the time I have an accent—and for being a Swede with an accent, I have been extremely successful internationally, so I can’t complain. When it comes to the big studio movies, and I’ve been in four or five gigantic franchises that have paid a lot of bills for me, their concerns are financial, and I’m not a ticket-seller. I’m a solid fucking actor, and I’d rather be an actor than a star.  

It gives you the mobility.

Exactly. The freedom I have. I can easily do small, experimental films and strange stuff—films that could ruin another actor’s career—so I’m in a good position.

I wanted to ask you about Breaking the Waves, because it’s the 25th anniversary this year and I consider it a masterful film. And it was Emily Watson’s first film, which is just extraordinary. How did you two establish such strong chemistry?

She’s British, which means she comes from a rather prudish society too, and to take on a role with an obscure Danish director—who wasn’t that famous at the time—and to take on a role with such explicit sex and nudity took enormous courage, but she was fantastic. My job was to love her, and that felt easy, but I think that she felt loved, and I think that she felt secure, which is essential for being able to do anything courageous. But she’s such a brilliant, talented, wonderful woman. I finally got to work with her again in Chernobyl. I mean, you just have to look at her and everything comes.

There’s this longstanding debate over whether Breaking the Waves is misogynistic or not, and I personally find it to be a misreading of the film. I’ve always thought of it as a biblical allegory of sorts about a desperate woman navigating a deeply sexist world.

Absolutely. Lars doesn’t have that in him. Those fantastic female roles that he has written, if you want to defend women in film, you’ve really got to take care of him because he writes the best roles for them. Those roles are very much him, and he definitely doesn’t have a negative attitude toward women. He loves them. There’s a plague of labeling people—not for what they’re really saying, but for what they appear to say. He was stamped as a misogynist and then he made a bad joke about Hitler at Cannes, and everyone stamped him as a Nazi, which is the furthest thing from what he is.  

Stellan Skarsgard and Emily Watson in Breaking the Waves

You stamp people as a “racist,” a “fascist,” a “communist,” I mean this fucking stamping is as smart as QAnon. It’s frightening. The fantastic thing about mankind is that we’re not one thing. We’re all capable of the most brutal and horrible crimes and we’re all capable of love. We do good things and we do bad things. There are nuances. The way of seeing people as “good” or “bad” guys is forcing something upon humanity that is really dangerous, because when you say someone is the “bad” guy then you’re saying you are the “good” guy, and it’s forcing you to not look at your own flaws.

I’m a huge fan of Lars’ films but I think one thing that’s really colored people’s opinion of him are the allegations that Bjork made against him on Dancer in the Dark. You didn’t have the biggest role in that film, but is it something you witnessed?

I’ve never seen him do anything like that. It’s not him. And if you talk to any of the other women who have worked with him over and over again, you will not get those kinds of accusations. But the Bjork and Lars conflict was enormous during the shoot, and it had very little to do with #MeToo. Lars, like all directors, in the end is a control freak, and Bjork has controlled everything in her career—from the music, to the costumes, to the way she sounds—and if two control freaks try to make a film, there will be conflicts. I got phone calls from Lars during the shoot where he was in tears. She left the set several times, and it had nothing to do with sexuality. She tore up her clothes. They had a very difficult relationship. But you’ve gotta pick your toxic males. You can’t put a “toxic male” label on everybody, otherwise it will be watered down, that label.

I’m so excited for Dune. What can you tell me about it? Denis Villeneuve said that your Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is different from the comics or the David Lynch film in that he’s not as much of a caricature but a calmer, more sinister presence.

The thing about it, and why I’m looking forward to this film as well, is because it’s Denis Villeneuve. Whatever he does, he creates an atmosphere that is dense, that you can touch, and you’re just sucked into it. You’re never bored—even if he does long, slow takes. The atmosphere builds up, and you’re in his universe. I think it will be the same with this one. He’s lovely to work with, and a beautiful man. I did eight or ten days on the movie, so my character doesn’t show up for too much, but his presence will be felt. He’s such a frightening presence where even if he doesn’t say anything, I think you’ll be afraid of him. And I’m extremely fat. I had eight hours in the makeup chair every day. And in some scenes, I look very tall because I levitate. You’re going to have a lot of fun with it.

The whole HBO Max day-and-date thing is weird, and I hope as many people as possible get to see the film on the big screen.  

Oh, definitely. I think they made a deal with AT&T—which owns Time Warner, which owns HBO, which owns my phone—that they cut a four-week deal where it’ll be just for the theaters, but I’m not sure. That could change.

I also feel culturally obligated to ask you about Andor, the upcoming Star Wars series you’re in. What’s that about, and who do you play in it?

As you know, they’ll shoot me if I say anything! I can’t even get a proper script. It’s printed on red paper so I can’t make any copies of it, it’s ridiculous! Of course I’ve seen all the Star Wars films, because I’ve had children in the ‘80s, and the ‘90s, and the 2000s, and the 2010s. I’ve had children in five decades, which means you’ve seen all the Star Wars films—and seen all the toys as well. But when I saw Rogue One, it had much more atmosphere and seemed a little more mature—and that was Tony Gilroy, who’s the showrunner on this one. So, hopefully this one will be a little more than little plastic people falling over.

Was a part of the motivation to do Andor to look really cool to your kids?

I do think like that sometimes! I’ll go and do a children’s movie for that reason. But also, I’m not the most mature person myself, so who doesn’t want to go and fly a spaceship?

Plus, now you can give your kids action figures of yourself and say, “Play with me.”

Fuck yeah. Go play with dad. Don’t disturb him! Go play with him! [Laughs]    

I’m not the most mature person myself, so who doesn’t want to go and fly a spaceship?

OK, this is kind of a silly question, but do you have a favorite movie death of yours? My favorite has to be in Deep Blue Sea, because in that one you get your arm ripped off by a shark, and then the shark uses your body as a battering ram to destroy this underwater facility.

I would say that is probably, in terms of inventiveness, my favorite one too. It was Renny Harlin. Yeah. I like it! Fortunately, I didn’t have to spend that much time on that stretcher—it was a doll. But it looked really cool! And the sharks weren’t CGI back then. It was mechanical sharks, and they were pretty dangerous. The little boy in me was very excited.

Another movie of yours that I love, for entirely different reasons than some of these other ones we’ve discussed, is Mamma Mia! Is it basically a vacation filming these? I imagine the cast parties are a lot of fun, because it seems like you all are having a ball.

Well, it is. I’m not a singer and I’m not a dancer so I was scared stiff, but the only way to make it work—because it’s not much of a story—is that we had fun doing it, because that joy is contagious to the audience. And we really had fun. It was very relaxed in Greece there on the beaches, and the parties we had there were very good too. It was a nice bunch of people to hang with.

When the cast of Mamma Mia! goes wild in Greece, who is the one that parties the hardest? Who’s the VIP?

It depends what you mean by partying! I usually get pretty drunk. Down there, Colin [Firth] and I were pretty good at it. And at those parties, we also had 50 dancers in their twenties, and they had much more stamina.

I have to ask: Will the gang get back together for a third one?

I don’t know! It took 10 years between number one and number two, so if it takes another ten years, I don’t know. Some of us may just be there in urns, with our ashes!

You released a pop single in the ‘60s, right?

Yes. When I was 16, I became extremely famous in Sweden. We had one TV channel back then and I did this TV series, and it was like being a rock star. But it meant also that all kinds of shady people thought they could make money off me. So, this guy calls me from Stockholm and says, “Stellan, can you sing?” And I said, “No.” And he said, “Well, try it!” And then I hear this guitar on the other end of the line, I go, “Ahh!” and then he goes, “Perfect! Come over to Stockholm.” I went to this very shady studio in the suburbs and we recorded it, and then the guy who was running the project said, “I listened to the tape now, and I think it’s better if I sing and you speak on the record.” So, I don’t sing on the record. But there were very cruel headlines in Sweden. One paper had a headline that read, “Stellan Skarsgård, who we loved on this TV series, we don’t like anymore.”

That’s so mean! In addition to Breaking the Waves, another film that really raised your profile in the United States was Good Will Hunting—which holds up remarkably well. Some of my favorite scenes in that film are the ones where you and Robin Williams are jousting. And I know he’s a wild card, so what was it like shooting those?

He really is a wild card because anything can come out of him, and he can say anything and do anything, and he has this urge to do it because he has these three parallel brains that are constantly working on finding something funny or interesting. Sometimes, even when we would do ten takes and everybody would be happy with them, he’d say, “I have to get something out of my body,” so we would do one extra for that. You didn’t know what you’d experience when the camera would start rolling—you just had to dance with it. And it was fantastic. He was such a lovely man and had no ego. He was just a volcano of creativity and ideas.

Do you ever think about your legacy? You not only have a bunch of talented children but also have amassed such a strong body of work.

The thing is with legacy: you won’t be able to enjoy it, so just forget it. No, I don’t. And it doesn’t matter. If you’re extremely successful, it takes a decade and you’re gone from people’s minds. You can only hope that your children remember you for a couple of years, at least!

Well, they’ll have the Star Wars toys, at least.

They’ll have the toys! That’s right. [Laughs]

[nervousladytraveler]

The Alibi

Inspired by the kiss prompt: A + B are in an argument, then they stop, just stare at each other, and then crash their lips together, because, like i said... fuck this shit Ross and Demelza

Requested by the lovely @veryflowerobservation

---

“God damn it, Demelza! I told you not to follow me tonight!”

For the last eight miles, Ross had been looking over his shoulder while Demelza drove. No one was behind them on the dark road, and it was most likely they’d been unseen, yet he continued to anxiously watch. There was nothing that would quiet the churning adrenaline that came from such a close call.

“Well it's a good thing I did follow you, otherwise…” Demelza snapped back at him.

“Otherwise what?!” He cut her off before she continued in what sounded like another self-righteous justification. Her words rang empty to him--she’d acted impulsively and it was just dumb luck that she hadn’t made things worse.

“You seriously ask me that?”

“Demelza, I would have sorted it instead of both of us being in danger!”

“No, Ross. In case you didn't notice I just saved your skin before you had anythin’ to sort. And you can’t just sort a thing like this with the police, by the way. Not even you. But now that’s a moot point and no one is in danger. Of gettin’ hurt or bein’ arrested--precisely because I came.“

Without any warning, Demelza took a sharp left at the Blowinghouse Turn bus stop, then minutes later turned right on the B3284 towards Truro. This whole time she’d kept the tiny Kia Forte steady at 30 mph, a frustratingly slow pace that further agitated Ross--and she was well aware that it would, no doubt. But she was right in her refusal to drive any faster. The last thing they needed now was trouble for speeding.

“Why didn’t you stay on the…” he started but stopped once he caught the acid look she flashed him. “You seem to know what you’re doing,” he mumbled.

“Yes, Ross. Yes, I do.”

To their relief, the road ahead remained empty. Then again people didn't really tend to be out driving at 2AM on a Tuesday unless they had urgent business. Or shady business.

“So was this all your plan all along--that you’d come out tonight and spy on me?” he asked.

“Spy? You’re not very good at keepin’ secrets, you know,” she sputtered. “Besides, you already told me what you were up to, just not when or where…”

“For good reason! Because I didn’t want you involved. But you told me that you’d stay home--you lied to me!” Ross’s dark voice filled the little car.

“Lyin’? You’re really speakin’ to me about lyin’?” Her laugh, bitter and sarcastic, met his anger head on.

Demelza Carne had worked for Ross Poldark for years now--since she was a teenager really-- first as an all around office assistant and recently as his bookkeeper. And she’d shown him time and again that she wasn't cowed by his moods. She was one of the few people in his life who wasn’t. She was also one of the few people in his life who hadn’t abandoned him once his business prospects began to fail. He shouldn’t have expected anything different from her tonight.

“But no, Ross, I hadn’t planned on interferin’ with your business. I do have a life of my own you know...“

“Demelza--wait--are you claiming I lied to you?”

“When you omit somethin’ on purpose, that’s also a lie,” she said calmly, then a moment later her agitation boiled up again. “Jesus, Ross! What were you thinkin’?! Comin out here on your own to meet those smugglers? You didn't think it was a set up?”

Smugglers. It rankled him that she insisted on calling Trencrom and his men smugglers as though this were some 18th century French scheme or an Enid Blyton novel, rather than a simple business arrangement.

But no matter what term Ross preferred, tonight proved it remained a dangerous business. And while the charge of “improper importation of goods chargeable with a duty which has not been paid” certainly sounded less exciting than smuggling, it still carried a severe penalty.

Tonight would have been Ross’s third transaction with Robert Trencrom, a local businessman who had approached him last summer with a proposition. It seemed that from time to time Trencrom and his associates had in their possession certain goods acquired through less than proper channels. What Trencrom needed was an unassuming place to store these goods until such a time when they could be distributed without suspicion. Nampara, Ross’s derelict farm, might provide the perfect cover since there were so many unused outbuildings, several that still had solid walls and intact roofs. It had been decades since the farm produced anything that needed storing, so why not let the space to others whilst Ross made a little cash on the side?

The past two times it had been Belgian cigarettes--not massive quantities but enough that the whole endeavour still carried a risk. Yet Ross’s involvement had been truly minimal, just as Trencrom had assured him. In fact, Ross had not even been home when the goods were delivered. Trencrom’s men had tucked the plastic barrels behind some rusting mowing machines, and Ross was only made aware that the goods had been removed some weeks later when an envelope of cash was left for him in his car.

And since these were cash transactions, Ross considered hiding them altogether from Demelza, who minded his books for him. But in the end, he explained in vague details what he had done and asked her not to question him further. Clearly she hadn’t approved but she said nothing.

It wasn’t drugs or weapons--or people--so it could be worse, he’d told himself. And as soon as he just got a little more out of debt, he’d cut ties with the lot.

When Ross didn’t hear from Trencrom all winter, he’d assumed the connection had faded and sighed in relief. He’d miss the income but not the entanglement.

Then a few weeks into May, Trencrom reached out again.

This time Ross was to be more involved and actually take delivery of the cargo himself. Naturally there would be considerable compensation--a figure Ross didn’t think he could refuse considering his current financial status. Trencrom hinted he’d been worried about the loyalty of such a big crew and so for this job he wanted to keep his circle small. He’d instructed Ross to meet them at the Rugby Football Club carpark just after midnight.

In the hours leading up to the hand off, Ross was determined to pass a quiet evening at home. So when his friend Dwight stopped by unannounced for a drink and a game of cards, he’d welcomed the diversion. He was also relieved that Demelza, who lived in one of the tiny cottages adjacent to the main house, seemed to deliberately be giving him a wide berth that day. She knew about the “business” Ross had later, but having already made her objections clear, there was nothing left to say on the matter. Normally she would have stayed--she liked Dwight Enys and the two of them playfully teased Ross as only true friends could. But tonight she left Ross with Dwight and went home early.

It was around 11PM that Ross received another call--the exchange point had apparently changed. He was now to meet Trencrom’s men at the airfield at 1:30 and he was to come on foot--without his car. The barrels were already loaded in a van so there was no need to remove them to another vehicle.That last detail did seem odd to him at the time. But once Ross had left for the appointment, he found it was a mild night, and figured he’d park at the beach and enjoy the walk to the airfield.

He was still almost a mile away when the familiar black Kia pulled up next to him. His every muscle tightened and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

“Demelza,” he’d hissed. “Get out of here!’

“Get in the car now, Ross,” she’d said simply.

“Look, Demelza, I know you don’t approve of this...” There was something in her eyes that made him take notice. Like an animal being hunted, she was on high alert.

“Get in,” she’d said again. “It’s a trap.”

“What?!” he’d asked, shaking his head in disbelief but still he climbed into the car without waiting for a satisfactory explanation.

“Seatbelt,” was all she’d said. He could hear the tension in her voice but she concentrated on the road ahead of her and didn’t even offer him a glance. “There,” she said finally and bid him to look to the right.

She drove on without slowing down so it was only a flash to him, still the chilling sight registered in his brain. Just beyond the tall hedges at the entrance to the airfield were three police cars, and two others that looked unmarked, all waiting in a circle with their headlamps off.

Demelza had been right--it had been a trap. And one he would have literally walked right into had she not shown up when she did.

It was doubtful that Trencrom was the one cooperating with the cops--it must have been one of the others in his crew. So Trencrom did have good reason to want to draw his circle closer. Ross wondered if he’d actually known there was a rat amongst them or just suspected it.

Ross knew he should be grateful for Demelza’s timely rescue but he couldn’t help resenting that she’d been right. She may have had a right to be so smug, but he didn't have to enjoy listening to her rub it in.

“I knew this would happen…” she muttered and drove on.

“Oh, you most certainly did not,” he growled. “No one did.”

“No one?” she laughed. “Well let’s see, Ross...the cops knew and someone else most certainly knew--whoever grassed on you, that is…”

“I would have thought, knowing you as I do, that you’d understand why I had no choice…”

“No choice? What sort of bullshit is that, Ross? Have you run round in your head how that really sounds? You know that's not an actual legal defense?”

“I mean I needed the money. I have a mortgage payment due and…”

“Yes, I am aware of that, Ross. Knowin’ me as you think you do, you should have talked this over with me. I’m your bookkeeper, for fuck’s sake.”

He didn’t want to think about what he should have done and whether he’d pushed her away as she claimed. He had good reason not to involve her--he’d wanted to avoid just such an argument with her.

And he also wanted to protect her.

“Turn left up here then pull over at the top of the hill and let me drive,” Ross grumbled as she rolled into the sleeping town.

“You’re most certainly not drivin’ my car!” she huffed but nonetheless turned as he had directed and pulled into the car park at the back of the Star and Garter Inn.

It was a clever move. They hadn’t spoken it but they both knew their friend Jinny Martin would be working the desk tonight. Perhaps she could get them a room and they could wait it out there until morning.

Demelza switched off the headlamps and then after a moment’s hesitation, the engine as well.

Ross heard her take in a sharp breath--more like a hiss--and waited for the tempest to continue.

“Well, yes,” he said just a beat before she opened her mouth to speak. “When the pick-up location changed last minute, I might have seen it was a set up.” It wasn't an apology but he hoped he could buy himself some time before her next eruption. “But I never imagined anyone involved in this arrangement would ever inform on me…”

“Oh Ross! I would have guessed it, and am surprised it didn't happen sooner. Honour amongst thieves and all that.”

“They aren’t--we aren’t--thieves.”

“Ok, not thieves per se but it’s still criminal activity to take delivery of smuggled cargo. Ross, you think you’re such a great judge of character but that lot...they’re greedy bastards and they just aren't your friends.”

“And you are?”

She stared at him, wide eyed and open-mouthed, unbelieving that he’d actually questioned her loyalty when she’d just saved him from a possible seven year prison sentence.

“Demelza, that came out wrong,” he said. Again it wasn’t an apology. At least not in its tone.

“Everythin’ you say comes out wrong, Ross. Or do you actually mean to be such an absolute arsehole?”

“Can’t you just admit that you could have put yourself in danger back there? With both Trencrom’s crew and the cops?” He put his hand on her arm and was surprised at how strong her muscles felt as she gripped the steering wheel. Instinctively he pulled away.

“Can’t you just admit how stubborn and stupid you can be?” Usually so bright and reassuring, her voice was hoarse from such rough use tonight.

“I’m stubborn?” he asked.

“No one saw me, Ross. And the important thing is that the police didn't see you. So you’re safe.”

“Well…”

“I suppose even if the cops had your name as someone possibly involved, since they didn't actually catch you doin’ any illegal activity, they can’t arrest you. Besides I’m your allibi for this evenin’. We can stay here overnight in case they’re watchin’ the house, and I’ll take you back to to pick up your car in the mornin’.“

“Wait! What if there’s CCTV here?” Ross felt a renewed jolt of panic tear through him.

“All the cameras are on the front of the building and the side where the guests park. This section is for employees.” She pointed to the few other cars around them. Older, tatty, bought second hand on the cheap but still at a cost as they most likely required constant maintenance. These were the cars of service workers--night clerks, cleaners, cooks. He recognised Jinny’s old Skoda with it’s Leicester City FC sticker on the rear. That car had been in the Martin family for almost two decades now and somehow, through mechanical expertise or through sheer will, her resourceful father had managed to keep it running. No one would bother these cars with the shiny new BMWs and Audis on the other side of the hotel.

“What about traffic cameras? Back along the road?” Ross asked, not sure if he was being cautious or paranoid.

“Maybe, but Ross, there’s no law against bein’ out with a woman.”

“Who happened to pick me up on the side of the road in the middle of the night…”

“Well, let’s assume we had to meet up in the cover of dark to avoid gossip since you’re my boss...and because of your jealous girlfriend.”

“Demelza, you know I don’t have a girlfriend,” he grumbled. “This is ridiculous…”

“I know that, but the police wouldn’t. A clandestine affair--a fake one of course--is a perfect cover for sketchy behaviour. But if you’d prefer I not be your alibi…”

“This isn’t a game!” he snapped again. He couldn’t stand that she’d laughed just now. Then a thought hit him and he had to ask. “How did you even know where I was going? That I’d be heading from the beach towards the airfield on foot?”

“Dr. Enys told me.”

“What? This just gets more unbelievable! Dwight knew this was top secret--why the hell did he tell you?”

“Top secret but still you told him?” she snorted. “Well, I’m glad you did, I suppose. He couldn’t follow you himself--he’d a call from one of his ‘patients’, which I think was actually code for Caroline wanted him to come round’--so he thought I might be able to stop you. At least he has some faith in me.”

“Oh come on, this isn’t about what I think of you…”

“Isn’t it though? You clearly don’t trust me and you don’t think I can handle myself and you think I’m silly.”

“Silly?”

“Oh sorry--ridiculous was the word you just used. Anyway Dwight was wary of the whole arrangement and thought it stank to high heaven.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that himself?!”

“He said he did--did you actually listen? And before you get angry at him, you should thank your lucky stars that he was still at Nampara when Trencrom sent word of the ‘new’ meetin’ point...”

“It wasn’t Trencrom who rang me,” he corrected her. “It was Charlie who told me the meet up was moved to the airfield.”

“Charlie Kempthorne? That tosser? Are you shitting me? And you didn’t think it was suspicious that Charlie would be privy to some secret revised plan and you wouldn’t?” she scoffed. “But really, Ross, you should be fucking grateful to have Dwight as a mate. He’s a real friend, you know.”

“I never said he wasn't.”

“No, you just said I wasn't,” she snorted.

“Oh come on, Demelza. You know I didn't mean that. What are you going on about?”

“In case it isn’t clear, Ross,” she hissed, “I am still so angry at you.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “That you got involved with those weasels in the first place, that you shut me out, that you almost...”

“It’s none of your business!” he shouted. “Why are you being this way?”

“Okay, it’s not my business and I’m not your friend, just some stupid girl who works for you and is used to clearin’ up your messes--and who knows she’ll be out of that job if--no, sorry--when you get nicked. Fuck this shit. And fuck you, Ross!” Without looking at him, she stepped out of the car and slammed the door.

Ross immediately followed her, afraid that she’d keep shouting and wake the hotel. She stopped in her tracks a few yards away and stood silently. It might have been the first time in nearly thirty minutes that she’d stopped yelling at him. Ross leaned against the still-warm bonnet of the car and exhaled.

Perhaps she’d known what she was doing, parking the car in a farthest corner of the lot, under a broken street lamp. They were completely hidden in shadow, still Ross could make out her face--her narrowed, feral eyes, her gnashing teeth that gleamed in the faint moonlight. For a moment he thought she might bite him.

He cautiously took a step forward then paused to read her posture.

The chill in the air--and in the words they’d just thrown at each other--was causing her shoulders to shake. He noticed she was wearing a blue jumper just a shade darker than her brilliant eyes. The sleeves were too long, and she’d had to repeatedly push them up, but they wouldn't cooperate and now hung past her fingertips.

It was his, he then realised, the old one he usually left hanging on the peg by the front door.

He almost asked her what she was wearing--or rather why she was wearing it--but instead, aware that he’d been moved and not all sure of the reason, he did something else. He made two broad strides towards her.

Startled, she looked up at him. Her shining eyes lit the night.

“Yes, like you said...fuck this shit…” he laughed and put his hand on her elbow, pulling her towards him. He expected resistance, but he found none.

It was only a moment that they just stared at each other but it felt eternal, and then at some unspoken signal, they crashed together.

It was an untidy and urgent kiss--almost violent in its clumsiness had it not been fueled by such sincere desperation. Then, as they both found their breath, their arms found each other. A great weight had been lifted--one that neither Ross nor Demelza even realised they were shouldering until that moment.

He wove his hands through her hair and kissed her again. This time their lips worked together, carried by the flood of surging desire and long-sought release.

“Demelza, I’m so sorry I got you in this.” His voice was low but soft. Now his hands framed her face, afraid she might slip away like sand through his fingers.

“Ross, I was just so scared for you.”

He could hear the tears she was trying to hold back and understood why she’d been so angry with him. He’d been such a spectacular idiot, and in more ways than one.

“Me too. When you turned up, Demelza...my blood ran cold at the thought that I'd lured you into danger. I would never let anyone hurt you…” He ran the backs of his fingers gently down her cheek then kissed her pulsing temple.

“I couldn't leave you Ross, I just couldn't,” she cried into his neck.

“Thank you for caring for me even though I don’t deserve it. Come, you’re shivering. Let's go inside. We can talk more…” But instead of letting her go, he pressed her closer until he was certain he could feel her heart beating against his.

“I don't want to talk anymore,” she sniffled.

“Me neither. I just want to touch you and know you are safe.”

“Will you, Ross?”

Good god, I’ll never let you go, he thought.

“And can you trust me?” When she looked up at him, the hunted, defensive animal was gone. Now she was raw, vulnerable. She was softly opening herself to him, and doing so completely.

Ross understood what would happen next, what was happening now. He felt it in his gut and knew things would never be the same.

“Of course I do,” he whispered. “More than anyone.”

The darkness of the night--their secret accomplice--wrapped herself protectively around them.

Demelza lifted her face towards him and Ross kissed her once more.

[harrysbbby]

Super Rich Kids

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Rafe and Y/N are young and in love, not to mention filthy rich. But does money really buy happiness? Based on Super Rich Kids by Frank Ocean

Words: 3k

Warnings: drug use, swearing, mentions of su*cide so please be mindful if this would be triggering. a whole lot of angst

Start my day up on the roof

There's nothing like this type of view

Point the clicker at the tube

I prefer expensive news

Rafe Cameron was an anomaly. Too spoilt to hang with the Pogues, too much of a delinquent to fit in with the Kooks. But he made do.

One of his favourite things was watching the sunrise from the roof next to his room’s large bay window. It centred him, calmed him. His mind was constantly racing, so seeing the orange glow rise over the trees, was nothing short of relaxing.

He would usually do this while scrolling through his phone, checking Instagram, seeing what party had happened the night before across Figure Eight. Fox News would send him updates, you know, rich people paying rich people to tell middle class people to blame poor people. And he supposed he fed into that idea, but as the sun hit his eyes, making him squint, he didn’t think further into it.

New car, new girl

New ice, new glass

New watch, good times babe

It's good times, yeah

Wind blew through your hair as you drove along the highway. You laughed raising your hands above the open windscreen, feeling the air on your fingertips. You could feel the diamond ring wobble on your finger, pulling your hands down to admire it. It matched your icy diamond bracelet, courtesy of your new boyfriend.

Rafe leant over placing a hand on your thigh, the cold feeling of his Rolex catching your attention. You could see your reflection in his glasses as you smiled at him. You leant over, placing a kiss on his cheek, before throwing your head back, whooping into the open air.

She wash my back three times a day

This shower head feels so amazing

We'll both be high, the help don't stare

They just walk by, they must don't care

The steam of the shower blended in the air with the smoke of weed, creating a damp leafy smell. Your soapy hands ran over his skin, washing off the dried saltwater. You grabbed the shampoo, foaming it up in your hands before reaching up to run it through his hair. He held your waist, securing your stance against him as you washed the salt and sand and seaweed from his hair.

He leant his head back, letting the water run over his head. He could feel your lips on his neck. He let out a throaty groan, gripping your bare ass. You giggled into his neck, hand running through his hair, ridding him of the rest of the shampoo.

He felt euphoric.

The two of you were giggling uncontrollably as you exited the shower, leaving puddles along the lavish floors of the main bathroom. You were wrapped poorly in the white fluffy towels, when you heard the vacuum cleaner whir from down the hall.

“Oh shit, the maid is here,” you cursed. Rafe’s bloodshot eyes lit up as hushed chuckles escaped his mouth. You tried to shush him, but your laughter was louder than his.

You made a run for it, sprinting down the hall, leaving drops of water behind. You slinked past the maid in the open living room upstairs. She didn’t even flinch as your white-towel clad bodies raucously giggled all the way to your room.  She had seen similar scenes a hundred times through. She’d found the bottles of alcohol hidden in your room, or your stash of weed. She needed the money, she needed employment from your family, she didn’t care what you did. You and Rafe collapsed onto your bed, still giggling out of your minds.

A million one, a million two

A hundred more will never do

Rafe went home that night. As he entered the house, he heard his dad summon him to the kitchen.

“Hey son,” he greeted him, not looking up from his paper, “I transferred some more money into your account today, saw you made some pretty decent purchases.”

“Yeah,” Rafe cleared his throat, “they’re for my, uh, new girlfriend. You always told me how to treat a girl right, Dad. I really think you’d like her.”

“That’s lovely,” Ward eyes never wandered from the page he was intently staring at. Rafe’s shoulders hunched as he made his way upstairs, unsure his dad even registered his retreating footsteps.

He took out his phone, opening up his banking app, surveying the hefty total. His heart didn’t pick up like it used to when he saw the number rise. He felt empty and unloved, but as your name appeared in a notification at the top of his screen, he thought, maybe, he would have a chance of filling that void.

Too many bottles of this wine we can't pronounce

Too many bowls of that green, no Lucky Charms

“I never understood what this is called,” your words slurred as you held the bottle up to your eyes, squinting as your hazy eyes struggled to focus.

“Who gives a shit! It tastes good either way,” Rafe leant forward, snatching the bottle from your hands, taking a large swig. You drunkenly laughed before pulling him into a kiss.

Music blared as the party pumped around you. Topper, who was sitting on the other side of Rafe, rolled his eyes.

“It’s ‘mow-ey’ if you’re show-ey and Mo-et if you know-it,” he said taking the bottle from Rafe’s hand, pouring the bubbly liquid into two flutes and passing them back to you and Rafe, “so please, be classy.”

You immediately downed the drink in one go, tipping your head back as you went.

“Or,” one of Rafe’s other friends drawled, reaching into his back pocket, “we could do some of this.”

You eyed the bag of leafy green substance. You held onto Rafe’s bicep, as he grabbed the bag from his friend’s fingers.

You were slouched on the couch, Rafe lazily slung over your middle as you stoked his hair.

“Do you ever wish we had a normal childhood?”

Your high took away your inhibitions, your mouth moving before your brain could stop it. Rafe swivelled in his spot below you, glancing up at your face. He thought about what he had the other night: the void in his chest, the feeling of being unloved, but the feeling of doing whatever the hell you wanted when you wanted was so freeing, but was it freeing enough? He answered honestly.

“I…I don’t know.”

The maids come around too much

Parents ain't around enough

Too many joy rides in daddy's Jaguar

“Why is your house always being cleaned? How does it even have enough time to get dirty again?”

You laughed at Rafe’s question as you led him into the garage.

“You know my mother, she’s a germaphobe. One speck of dust and she brings the cleaning day forward a half a week!”

You opened the door to the garage, smiling as Rafe’s jaw dropped. He inspected the glistening gold, pristinely kept Jag.

“Now, my parents are out of town, which is the only reason I’m letting you do this,” you pointed your finger at him, before tossing him the keys. As he ran past you to the car, he planted a kiss on your cheek, swinging open the driver’s side door, “Please be so careful, my Dad will kill me if we do anything happens to it.”

You joined him in the car, smiling as he delicately ran his hands over the interior, little ‘oh my God’s escaping his lips. He placed the key in the ignition, hearing the car turn on, allowing an appreciative moan to escape his lips.

“Let’s take this baby for a spin!”

Too many white lies and white lines

Super rich kids with nothing but loose ends

Super rich kids with nothing but fake friends

You walked inside the party, Rafe’s friends immediately ushering him away from you.

“Look, what I’ve got.”

Rafe’s eyes train in on the white powdery substance in the small plastic bag. He gulped. He’d drunk and done drugs before, sure. But cocaine was different. Although its white colour glistened against the glass of the table, its darkness was encompassing.

“Babe! Where are you?”

Rafe heard you call his name. He hushed the boys around him.

“Later, later.”

He ran up the stairs, finding you and spinning you around, capturing your lips in a kiss. It caught you off guard, but you melted into it.

You hummed as he released you before capturing the sight over his shoulder.

“Ew gross. Cocaine is disgusting. Makes people so violent. Promise me you won’t become like them,” you caressed Rafe’s face nodded your head towards the guys behind him.

“Yeah of course. I would never,” he nodded, allowing you to drag him away, casting one final look at the white powdered table as you went.

It was hours later, and you still couldn’t find Rafe.  He left you at the beer pong table to go to the bathroom, but had never returned. You weaved your way through the party, before his blue polo caught your eye. He was hunched over a table, a group of rowdy, aggressive boys surrounding him, one hand up to nose. You stomped over to where he was faced away from you, tapping his shoulder harshly.

He rose, turning his head, catching sight of you. He stood to his feet quickly, hastily wiping the white under his nose.

“Y/N, I—” he started, but your raised hand cut him off.

“No Rafe, I’m just… so disappointed, I really didn’t think this was you.” He looked like a scorned puppy, eyes wide and lip pouted. Problem was, he was meant to be your ride tonight. All your things, including your car, at his house. But very obviously he could not drive. You crossed your arms over your chest, “Give me your keys. I’m leaving. I don’t care if you come or not.”

He quickly fished into his pocket, handing you the keys as you continued to glare at him. You stalked away. He felt one of the boys hands come to grasp his shoulder as another laughed.

“Bro, your Mrs is mad!”

“She’s gonna give you the best angry sex—"

“Just, shut up!” Rafe snapped angrily. The rage burning inside of him was like nothing he had ever felt before. The heat rose, as if steam emitted from his years, his skin felt like it was on fire. He shrugged the guy’s hand off his shoulder, jogging to catch you before you left.

Real love, I'm searching for a real love

Oh, real love, I'm searching for a real love

Oh, real love

You and Rafe had just exited the Golf Club, walking hand in hand towards his car. It was your 6 month anniversary. You celebrated with an amazing meal, and Rafe even surprised you with an amazing new dress and shoes for the evening. You were super impressed he had managed to pick it out, but understood more when he said he had gotten Sarah’s help. Regardless, it flattered you, as he had clearly been paying attention as the dress was the same one you had eyed off shopping together just weeks previous.

The chilly night air hit your skin causing you to shiver. Rafe let go of your hand, shrugging off his suit jacket, before wrapping it around your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you smiled. You reached his car, leaning against the passenger side door as Rafe held both your hands, “I had a really great time tonight.”

“Me too,” he pulled your head up to meet his, placing his lips gently on yours. This kiss felt different than the others, more passionate, slower and more tender. Rafe pulled away looking into your eyes. He felt a warm feeling in his stomach, like it was summer, butterflies floating around.  His knees felt weak, as he whispered, “I love you.”

He had never said it before. He don’t even think he had felt it before, ever. He didn’t get this feeling when he was with other girls or his family. He felt nervous, worried that this wasn’t the feeling he was meant to have.

“I love you too,” the anxiety pulsating through his body subsided when he heard those words. He pulled you in for another kiss and he knew. This was what it was meant to be like: love. Real love.

We end our day up on the roof

I say I'll jump, I never do

But when I'm drunk I act a fool

Talking 'bout, do they sew wings on tailored suits

You had reached the Cameron house, following Rafe up to his room. He immediately moved across the room, stepping outside his large window. You huffed, following him, knowing your argument wasn’t over. You sat next to him, bringing your legs up to your chest, looking out over the trees, looking as if they were glistening under the moonlight.

“You know, sometimes, I think it would be easier if I jumped.”

His voice was solemn, yet serious. He sounded as if it was something he had genuinely considered, hard expression staring off into the middle distance.

“Rafe,” you started, but he continued.

“I think, it would be so much easier to just end this life, start the next. See what’s in store for the afterlife. But then I think, would there even be a spot for a person like me in heaven?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your skin felt hot and your heart was beating out of your chest.

“You’re not a bad person, you just… do stupid stuff sometimes,” you tried to calm him. But his expression didn’t change.

I'm on that ledge, she grabs my arm

She slaps my hand

It's good times, yeah

Sleeve rips off, I slip, I fall

The market's down like 60 stories

He was stood now, but his feet were unsteady. He looked almost unwell, sweat beaded across his forehead. You stood slowly arms outstretched, watching as his feet shuffled. They took one too many little steps, missing one of the roof tiles, causing him to wobble.

“Rafe!” you screamed, reaching forward grabbing his arm. You used all the strength in your body to pull him towards you. It worked but sent both of you falling back onto the roof. He landed next to you. You groaned as you sat up, rubbing your elbows which took the brunt of your fall.

“What the fuck was that Y/N?” his voice was gravely. He shoved you away from him, as he struggled to get to his feet again. You stood slowly.

“What the fuck was what? You were gonna fall, Rafe!” you yelled back, your face holding a bewildered expression.

He felt the fire burning inside once again. But now the voices that had been drowned out from the sticky substance flying up his nose, had begun crawling out of the void

No one loves you.

Your father thinks you’re a failure.

No one loves you.

You’re not gonna get anywhere.

Why would she love you?

“I don’t need your fucking help, okay?” His voice was venomous. You could feel droplets of spit hit your face, burning as if they were poisonous. Tears welled in your eyes as he continued to scream, “I’ve never wanted it. You were a good fuck, but you don’t mean anything to me!”

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered. It was the drugs talking. He was Rafe, your Rafe, and he loved you.

“Yeah, I do.” The certainty in his voice was piercing. The voices were egging him on: you mean it, you mean it. But really, he felt it. Nothing meant anything to him. The void was swallowing him up whole and he didn’t want to take you with him. “Everything in my life is shit, okay? Including you. I don’t need you telling me what to do and I especially don’t need you for anything else. We’re done.”

Tears were falling rapidly down your face. His expression was so hard, it alone couldn’t have cracked your heart. Sobs began escaping from your lips, watching as he breathed heavily. This was not the boy you fell in love with. This was the shell, overtaken by his self-loathing and unfulfillment. You wiped your face, collecting yourself.

“So what that’s it?” you asked, already knowing the answer. Rafe didn’t say anything, the only movement coming from him being the heavy rise and fall of his chest. “I really hope you figure out whatever’s going on with you,” your voice was so shaky the words nearly didn’t come out. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you hastily climbed back through the window, wanting to get away from him as quickly as possible.

The heat had subsided from Rafe’s body as he watched you leave. Your tears had dampened enough of the fire for him to realise what he had just done.

She never loved you.

You’re a failure.

How could anyone ever love you?

He heard your car start from the driveway, seeing the red reflection of your lights against the trees get dimmer and dimmer. You were gone. And you were never going to come back.

And some don't end the way they should

My silver spoon has fed me good

A million one, a million cash

Close my eyes and feel the crash

So you and Rafe broke up. You’d run into each other at parties occasionally, barely making eye contact and definitely never speaking. Over time you showed up with a new boyfriend, clad in designer wear. Rafe continued to hand in the corner, snorting blow and a bottle Moet in his hands, desperately clinging to the last thing he had left, you.

The Cameron money stood well over time, aiding Rafe and his addiction. But every snort came at a different kind of price. His emptiness grew larger and wider, fully encircling his body. The only thing reminding him he was alive was the pit in his stomach, ignited every time he got high.

At night when he would close his eyes, begging slumber to take him he would see your face. The wind blowing through your hair. Your smile. What it felt like to feel loved. Something he hadn’t felt until he met you and hadn’t felt since he lost you. He was empty and unloved.

Real love, ain't that something rare

I'm searching for a real love, talking 'bout real love

Real love, yeah

Real love

I'm searching for a real love

Talkin' 'bout a real love

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

a/n: I never really write angst jsjdjajsj but lemme know what you thought.

Tags:

@downbytheouterbanks @thesailbells @sexualparkour @maybankxcameron @mileven-reddie @nikki082489@treestarrrrrrrr @mynamessusan @kristinaxilliano @love-bean @lauraxwndrlnd @jjsthumbring @obxmxybxnk@lovelymaybankk @http-cherries @belledutchess @wicked-laugh @jjswhore @sspidermanss @fandomobsessedlife@dolanfivsosxox @whenyouregrungeaff @poguestyleskye @iknowrocknroll567 @kingdomheartsfan109@dangerouswhispersblog @hopelesswritingxd @marveloucnco @riverdaleserpent04 @yeetingcelery @babyhoneystvles@ravngers @k3nz-doodl3 @famousstarsandkelly @readysteadygo23 @finelinetrack @sha-nah @silverstarsandsuns@awkwardnesshabitat @annedub @a-wade @ineedmorestyles @averagxfangirl @shreyaodedra06 @silverstarsandsuns@jjmaybangme @kisssmefree @shawnssongs @p0gues4l @hannahufflepuff @lovelymaybankk@tomfreakinghollandneedsaoscar @softstarkey @kiarasflowr @drewstarkey @tcmhollnd @myrandom-fandomlife@jjtheangel @jjmaebank @masintahin @o-b-x @stilinskiandsuch @jellyfishbeansontoast @tessisawriter @cutiecolbsss@my-soul-is-the-moon @sunshinemadds @kisssmefree @certainstatesmantoadartisan @lefthandwritings @poguecollins@disagreeable-pink @tytheguyudontno @helplessquotess @taaniesha @obx-beach @thegeekyblondegirlwholovesstars@lcil123 @teenwaywardasgardian @sortagaysortahigh@jeyramarie​ @ellystone @classygirlything @marauderskeeper​ @rudyypankow  @ssjiara @bluebirdsbluebells @lavenderpope @rretrophilee @kitluvs1 @outerpogues @maaybanks@maebanks @thelocalpogue @heyhey-heyward @popcsheyward @maybe-maybanks @pixelated-pogues @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @maybankdreams @maybankiara @pogue-writings @honeymendesx @faded-blue @smiithys @justpeachykeeeen @justcallmesams @danicarosaline @free-pool-trash @saturnspack @velyssaraptor @no-shxt-sherl@saphira1412 @raekenliar @pancakefancake @imuniqueperson123 @marveling-avengers @lus-shh@hmspxgue @winterdameron

[samwrights]

I’m sorry but ukai with a breeding kink😳yes PLEASE

I swear I saw another ask that asked for Ukai with an impreg kink

*ahem* anyways—WOW this one was a doozy but holy shit did I have fun writing it. 11k words you guys. 11. K. It is a lot so grab some cocoa or coffee and a blanket because this is a read. It even has to be split into two parts because I hit the fucking text limit, BUT this also means there is no actual smut in this portion. You can find that here.

If you guys need some ear candy, I recommend the following:

Day N Nite (Crooker’s Remix) by Kid Cudi

Pursuit of Happiness (Extended version with Steve Aoki) by Kid Cudi

Breaking Me by Topic

C’Mon by Ke$ha

Flannel by The Cardboard Swords (it has to be sad somewhere)

Magic in the Hamptons by Social House

Fun fact: Ke$ha was actually the primary inspiration for this fic and for DJ!Ukai. God bless her.

Warnings: language, nicotine and alcohol consumption, implied drug use, implied emotionally abusive relationship, breeding/impreg kink, dirty talk, rough sex, risky sex, road head, slight dub-con, praise, multiple smut scenes, 3rd person POV reader-insert—because the word ‘you’ just didn’t seem to fit.

Without further ado, please enjoy the filthy depths of my brain followed by a relatively happy ending that I’ve titled, “Between the Lines’” :-)

“You’ve been more tired lately, and you’re showing up right when practice starts. Is everything okay?” Was the question that Takeda had asked Ukai Keishin that haunted him for years to come. Sure, he had wanted to gain more independence from his parents, wanted to start being more adult-like and take over the mortgage and the bills so his parents could finally rest. At the age of twenty-six, it seemed like a good idea at the time. With four years passing, however, Keishin was so damn tired, but it wasn’t like he could just stop working.

He was still tending to crops every morning, tending to the shop, coaching for Karasuno, but in the four years time, he had adopted one more job on the weekends—Ukai Keishin was a local nightclub DJ. He’d discovered the job opportunity one fateful night that he was out with his friends from the neighborhood association. To this day, he was still unsure of why he was approached with the job, especially considering he didn’t know the first thing about being a DJ, but the woman who had offered him the position had taught him everything he needed to know.

It turned out that he had a natural affinity for the position, seeing as he was still at it years later under the alias Spira. Ukai kept telling himself that he would quit the gig eventually because there was no way he could continue working four jobs—it was inhuman and the money didn’t even really matter to him. Okay, that last one is a lie; his DJ gig has been a substantial contributor to his savings funds to the point where he was even able to afford a newer, larger, (and slightly) used SUV in full compared to his tiny, old yellow beater. Even his mortgage bills were starting to look less daunting with the current cash flow.

Who needs sleep anyway? Ukai survived and thrived off of nicotine and caffeine anyway. Besides, sleep was the last thing on his mind whenever he set foot into the club. It was impossible to think of anything other than the writhing bodies of sweaty, young adults that were already drunk or high or were practically fucking each other with their clothes on. Perhaps that was part of the reason Keishin felt the need to quit this job—he was envious. Envious of the fact that he never got to indulge in his youth like these kids did; he started working and helping his family out right away after college. Sure, he went out here and there, but these twenty-something-year-olds were living their best life, while he was thirty and catering to their whims.

To say he was a bit bitter would be an understatement.

Bitterness aside, however, it did him good to see the youth enjoying exactly that—their youth. They got to do as they pleased between exams and becoming functioning members of society and, while he was jealous, Ukai was proud to be able to contribute to their pleasure.

He’d arrived to the club early, as he often did, to try to grab a drink before he was due for stage time. Ukai was thankful the bartenders knew him enough that he didn’t have to verbally order considering the music was too loud to hear him in the first place. A rum and coke manifests itself in a small, plastic cup that the blonde raises in thanks before weaving and bobbing around the various partygoers. For the most part, he’s successful in dodging the flailing bodies as he mutely notes the very upbeat remix of some female pop artist playing.

But only remotely successful as Keishin attempts to salvage his drink from spilling as he raises it over his head as one of the partygoers is pushed into him. “Hey, careful!” He snaps toward the younger, [hair color]ed woman. She only looks half-offended by the scolding, but otherwise unperturbed. If anything, the dominating expression on her face was confusion.

“Coach Ukai?” He’s surprised to hear both his given name and his title, let alone coming from a club patron, as they all knew him as Spira. Recognition slips his mind entirely—he’s never met this girl in any way that he can remember. Certainly, he would never forget crossing paths with this beauty, even if she was dressed in a similarly juvenile fashion to the other ravers. Tight crop top tee cinched together by a knot at the midriff, with army green high-waisted shorts attempting to cover the bare skin, face painted with makeup, glitter, and sweat; even underneath the garb, she brought forth no recollection. “Uh, d-do you remember me?” It’s a challenge to hear over the music, but she presses forward close enough that her lips are right in Keishin’s ear.

“Can’t say that I do,” he yells right back into hers.

“Karasuno class of twenty-twelve, I was Sugawara’s girlfriend.” Oh.

Oh.

Now he remembered, vaguely, but he doesn’t ever remember her looking like this. The last four years had been incredibly kind to her, in more ways than one. Back in her Karasuno days, [name] had always looked pleasant, for lack of better term. But there was always a lifeless, matted, dull glaze to her eyes that screamed she was searching for something more. While it was still somewhat present, there was a substantial joyous air around her. It looked good on her. However, as much as Ukai wanted to stay and admire, he had to go get set up for the evening. Or rather, that was the excuse he used when he said he would catch her after the show. “[name], did you know who that was?” The woman in question gives a nod, confused at the sudden star struck gawks that her friends held.

“Uh, yeah? My ex-boyfriend’s volleyball coach?”

“No dude, that was the DJ, Spira.”

“What?”

Being the closing act meant a lot of different things to Ukai Keishin. On the negative spectrum, it meant he was going to have to tend to crops as soon as he finished cleaning up his set. That also meant he wasn’t going to get to go to bed until nearly eight in the morning after his shift at the farm. Yet, for him, the positives greatly outweighed the negatives. For Keishin, watching the audience lose themselves in euphoria, albeit probably a drug-induced one, just hit different for him. It was a sense of satisfaction that only came from a select few activities, with coaching volleyball being the other major contributor. There was just something about the way the crowd was overwhelmed and screaming the second underground remixes of old Kid Cudi tracks with his own twists overtook the speakers that granted Keishin a sense of enlightenment.

For him, being a DJ allowed an audience to flow and vibe with the journey of his life and all its constant up and down motions while under the guise of anonymity. As Spira, Ukai opened up the complexity and conflicting feelings of his inner mind and brought it to fruition through his mixes. He felt that in his soul, he’d done his art of storytelling justice. The audience felt it. Hell, his mom at home probably felt it. Perhaps it was one of the main reasons this dingy, hole-in-the-wall club kept asking him to come back every weekend.

His mind wanders further as he clutches an electronic cigarette in his hand, mixing beats on the turntable while taking hits of nicotine in between. He wonders if the girl he had ran into just a few minutes prior had been frequenting here as often as he had. Then, thinking back to what little information she supplied earlier, Ukai’s mind drifts off to the former third-year setter from when he first started coaching. Sugawara was a nice boy with a firm, almost parental, hand that walked dangerously along the lines of being a partner and being a control freak. When it came to his relationship, things had to go his way. And while his girlfriend that came to every tournament was much more outspoken yet easy going, she was opinionated and didn’t shy from confrontation.

Now that the coach had given it more thought, it was a wonder that one tolerated the other at any point in time. If anything, Ukai imagines the two of them would typically be at each other’s throats. From the few times he had interacted with her, she was always more free spirited and couldn’t be weighed down by any one else’s opinion, but seeing her now was different—she was in her element in the dingy, dark club with the glitter on her cheekbones refracting light off of her face. There was laughter and true, unabashed joy on her face. She had a light of her own—like she was ray of sunshine in the center of a storm.

Three hours past midnight when the club closed was always Keishin’s sign to leave, regardless of the countless attempts to attend the after party he’d been invited to. He had to go to work, after all. Sure, a part of him had always been a little green with envy at all the DJs that got to hook up with club patrons after, but after being at this gig for a few years, he figured that the right girl for him would eventually come to him if he continued working on himself. After all, he didn’t want to just have a string of one night stands with a bunch of fresh adults that could barely function after the small drop of Malibu rum—he was too old for that.

“Uh, coach?” [name] felt strange calling him that, but she didn’t feel familiar enough with him to address him otherwise. He was halfway in his car, the blonde ready to leave for the weekend to go back to his regular day-to-day work. “You coming to the after party?” [name] asks when Keishin only looks at her in question, cigarette hanging betwixt his dry lips.

“No, I actually have to go to work right now.”

“Oh,” she doesn’t mean to express her disappointment, but it slips anyway, “guess I’ll catch you later then?”

“Uh, yeah.” A tight lipped hybrid of a pained grin and grimace crosses her wet, gloss covered lips. Without another word, Ukai closes his car door, a little more brusquely than he intended to, before backing out and leaving the young woman to her own devices. His mind wanders once again with him humming absentmindedly to the soft acoustic punk playing over the car radio. His eyes are focused on the passing greenery, the cars that are weaving and bobbing off the freeway—hell he even noticed the way the tendrils of the sun are just barely starting to peak over the horizon because it reminded him of her. A thought he banishes immediately because he feels creepy for even thinking that.

Yet no matter how much scenery flitted through his honey eyes, his mind keeps traveling back to one thing, or rather one person, only.

Goddammit.

On Monday’s practice, Ukai Keishin’s mind is flooding and drowning in memories of his first year as the volleyball club’s coach. It was as if his mind was coercing him to attempt to reach out to the girl that plagued his mind for the last forty-eight hours or so. Though, he had no way of contacting her. Instead, with every step along the wooden floors, he can remember the way she would walk Suga to practice, almost physically seeing her standing in the doorway to kiss the third-year setter goodbye. As if he could see her sitting underneath the third window from the left, quietly doing homework and exchanging small talk and airy laughter with Kiyoko and Daichi. As if he could see the same sunny smile she gave in the audience from Saturday night at the club between the lines of the woodwork in the floorboards.

It was a repeating pattern day in and day out that was beginning to make Ukai question his sanity.

“Hey, man,” his assistant coach and fellow Karasuno alumni, Tsukishima Akiteru, places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him in worry. “Are you okay? You’ve been out of it all week.” In what world did a week translate into three days, the older blonde coach didn’t know.

“I’m fine, just tired,” Keishin all but bites back. He didn’t want to admit his conscious had been running rampant with thoughts of a girl he’d briefly met at a club. It felt almost as disturbing and perverted as it sounded in his mind.

“The team’s worried about you. Why don’t you take an early weekend and get some rest? We’ll see you back on Monday, yeah?” Normally, Ukai would have vehemently refused. However, his circumstances were far from normal and he was gracious for an assistant coach he trusted wholeheartedly to do the work that needed to be done. And so, Ukai heeded Akiteru’s advice and went home before practice even began on Thursday afternoon.

It was slightly disorienting for him to go home and nap, but he was incredibly thankful for the gift. Waking up just before he was technically supposed to start his shift at the shop, Keishin jumps into a cold shower to bring him to life before heading downstairs. A bellowing yawn passes his lips through his teeth as he starts his evening. Maybe his team was right—he really did need a break. Thankfully, he knew that the second the doors to the Sakanoshita were locked, he was done for the evening and wouldn’t need to reawaken until three the following morning. Just a few more hours until then, he thought.

With it being a slower evening as well, Ukai was able to kick his feet up on the counter as he always did, pull open the newspaper from earlier in the morning and casually flip through. Briefly, he considers giving up one of his four jobs because this was something he missed doing. But consideration aside, he was far too in love with the cash flow and the thought of paying off his mortgage to entertain the thought for long. Maybe one day, he would finally sell the Sakanoshita store or quit helping on the farm—

“You still work here?” Huh. Her voice sounds different when it isn’t drowning under the speakers of a nightclub.

“I do own this place, you know.” Ukai snarks at the woman who’d been consuming his brain for the last week. She looks different without glitter reflecting off of her unreal cheekbones or the heavy layers of foundation and eyeshadow. Even more than before, Keishin definitely recognized [name] now. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Shopping,” she snorts as if it were the most obvious thing, “why else would I be at a store?”

“Dunno, maybe you’re just here to see me.” Ukai responds without skipping a beat, turning the page of the paper to play into his guise that he wasn’t the slightest bit surprised at [name]’s presence.

“Uh...actually...” her voice is quiet, prompting the coach to quirk a brow and fold up the paper he was now pretending to read. It wasn’t like he could focus on anything right now outside of the woman standing before him, spearated only by a thin counter. Without talking again, his brown eyes lock with hers, silently goading for her to continue speaking. “I-I just...I don’t know. It was just really weird to see you at the club and then to find out that you’re Spira on top of that. I haven’t seen anyone from Karasuno since I graduated and—“

“Woah, kid, breathe.” Ukai interrupts her before she can continue spewing word vomit at a hundred miles an hour. “So what if I’m Spira? Though, you better not tell anyone that. My stage name is a secret between us, alright?” For a moment she’s quiet, gears turning in her head. The secrecy didn’t make sense to her because, if anything, he should be proud of the fact that he’s rather well known in the underground electronica scene. Or at least, she was in his stead, because [name] would have been proud of Ukai regardless of whatever occupation he held.

She supposed it came with the territory of having an unrequited crush on the coach years ago, that continued well beyond high school and even university, back when she was still dating Sugawara Koushi. It was the reason she had even bothered to come sit in on his practices and partially the reason she would come to his tournaments and matches. Not that she didn’t want to be supportive of her then-boyfriend—it would have been a fight had she not—but seeing the hot older coach was definitely a bonus in her book. “But why?” She offers, not wanting conversation to end despite her not having actually bought anything.

“If the school ever caught wind of me doing that, I could lose my position as the coach. Some shit about Karasuno’s image or whatever.” [name] gives a small nod, fidgeting subconsciously, as an attempt to shake her nerves and anxiety, by sifting through various candy bars that were in front of her before grabbing her favorite. Without a second thought, she peels the wrapper before placing the candy between her lips, the puffy pink skin greatly contrasting the chocolate coating. “Ya gonna pay for that, kid?” Ukai irks, his honey brown eyes steeling over in irritation. The nickname she’s given hits the final nail on the coffin and seals away [name]’s trepidation. Instead, her own sass comes out to join the fun.

“Nah,” she hums playfully, the chocolate-covered wafer cookie crunching between her teeth. “Quit calling me kid, coach. I’m a lady,” the irony isn’t lost on either of them as she speaks with her mouth full.

“Still a kid, kid. And quit calling me coach, I’m not your damn coach.” The familiar, grumpy attitude of his brings [name] back to the Ukai she knew back in high school. In a mix of nostalgia, warmth washes over her as the haughty tone in his voice sent shivers down her spine like it did a few years back.

“Sure thing, coach,” she teases again before tossing the wrapper of the stolen candy bar into the nearest bin. “You’re at the club tomorrow, right?” The question adds a bit of context and confirmation to Ukai—it seems she knew when Spira was performing, meaning she must have been a patron for a decent amount of time. Part of him wonders how she never realized who he was before, another part wonders how he’s never noticed her considering she could make all traffic stop if she stood in the middle of a freeway. At least, that’s what looking at her did to his heart.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe this time, you’ll join us at the after party.” Without another word, [name] pushes herself away from the counter she’d been leaning on while talking to the blonde man. With Akiteru giving him the weekend off, he actually entertained the thought of attending this time. Even if her invitation was rather blasé and indirect, he didn’t see the opportunity of him attending one presenting itself any time soon. He may be old, by his own standard, but there was a unknown allure to the thought of showing up to a wild party with a woman that was so adamant of his attendance.

Or rather, adamant in his mind. Whether she actually wanted his company remained to be seen, but the curiosity was gnawing at him, and was something he would have to unearth sooner rather than later.

Having an entire night, or a day’s worth, of rest was a rather disorienting, yet pleasant feeling for Ukai. After tending to crops and returning home in the early hours of the morning, the blonde coach was able to catch a solid nine hours of sleep before his shift at the Sakanoshita store with another chance to nap before he needed to head to the club. Despite knowing he had the ability to do so before another restless night, his mind felt the need to keep him awake and alert. Even after showering and styling his blonde tresses into their usual mane—mundane acts that usually came to him automatically—he was hyper aware of the slightest unruly flyaways.

Ukai Keishin was nervous.

He didn’t know what to wear or if there was a dress code or if anything he typically wore would be deemed worthy of an after party. A part of him wanted to leave it alone and let him sport his usual white track pants and tight, maroon muscle tank, but that part of him immediately drowns in the ocean of his anxiety. Another string in his brain prompted him to dress up just a little bit to help him look the part—it had nothing to do with impressing a certain club patron, no—he tried to convince himself. A miserable attempt, but still one nonetheless.

Eventually, he settled on crisp, dark-washed jeans that hugged his muscular legs without being suffocating, paired with a vibrant, crimson muscle tee that hugged his biceps all the same. Ukai still felt a little out of place in the attire, as he often had back when he first assumed the alias Spira, but headed out the door of his apartment before his conscious could dispute it.

He was early again, even more so than normal. Desperate for a drink to calm his nerves and replace his blood with liquid courage, Ukai worms his way around to the bar, signaling the attendant for his usual. Rum and coke in hand, the DJ stands off to the side, hiding like a wallflower, while he studied the sweaty, dancing bodies. Did he know why he was looking for her—no. Maybe partially to tell her she owed him for the candy bar, maybe to tell her he was joining in on the after party this time around.

Maybe to just see her.

Keishin banishes the last thought with a shake of his head before skulking off to the attached patio to smoke. Pulling a cigarette from his pack and a lighter from his pocket, the flame torches the end of the filter at the same time the blonde inhales. Forcefully pushing the smoke out past his lips, Ukai takes a hearty sip of his drink until it’s nearly gone. He was going to need something stronger tonight.

“Is it that time already?” The older man’s head snaps to the voice that had been haunting him subconsciously.

Part of him wishes he didn’t look.

As if to play into her question, [name] checks the large, rose gold watch on her right wrist—an incredibly stark contrast to her outfit for the evening. Maybe it was a hunch when Ukai felt that he had been underdressed, as if his intuition knew that she was going to be dressed to the nines in a black skater dress. Even with a modest neckline, the lace cut out detailing on the sides of the dress accentuated her curves impeccably, playing well with the volume of the skirt, while the open back she was sporting dipped dangerously low.

It took everything in Ukai to not throw every milliliter of restraint and inhibition out the window and fuck her right then and there.

Taking a lengthy drag of his cigarette to hold himself back, Keishin inhales deeply, the smoke billowing past his lips emerging densely and grey in color. “I’m a little early—needed an extra drink today.” The man manages to choke out, downing whatever is left in his little plastic cup for added emphasis.

“Need another?” [name] chirps politely; almost too politely as if to deliberately dispute the salacious thoughts flooding the coaches mind.

“I can get—“

“I owe you anyway,” she reminds him, alluding to the candy bar she had eaten without paying for from the previous night. “Pick your poison.”

“Double rum and coke.” He concedes. [name]’s lips twitch upward slightly at the corner before she plucks the empty cup from Ukai’s hand. He doesn’t miss the way the shellac on her nails grazes against his skin, leaving the whispers of contact to run warm. Immediately, the blonde man uses the nearly dead cigarette between his teeth to light a fresh one—heaven or hell knows he needed the nicotine right now.

Given the silence, Keishin takes the opportunity to absorb his surroundings. From the general direction that [name] initially came from, she wasn’t around any of her friends or really anyone that he knew. That was good at least; there wasn’t anybody else that knew of his presence. [name] returns, two clear plastic cups in her hands and surrenders the darker of the two to the man awaiting. “Hold mine for a sec?” Without thinking, Keishin holds his cigarette between his left index and middle fingers, his drink in the same hand, while taking hers. To his surprise, she pulls out her own pack of menthols and a torch lighter, setting the leaves ablaze before taking her obvious vodka cranberry back.

“You took up smoking?” The older of the two asks in surprise, noting the way her lipstick leaves the slightest bit of residue along the brown filter. [name] gives a shrug.

“Surprised you didn’t notice it sooner, coach. I’ve been smoking since second year.” Ukai gives a roll of his eyes at the use of this strange pet name he’s been dubbed by her. But he thinks about it, thinks about how Suga must have felt probably knowing that she did. Thinks how it just added to this strange, sassy yet happy, wild and free exterior she now had. And [name] notices instantly the very same look Ukai had in his face when he was trying to strategize, trying to figure out a way to navigate a conversation with his team about becoming better—she knows what’s coming next. “Yeah, yeah, I know I should quit or whatever. Suga lost that argument a long time ago.”

“Can’t really tell you what to do when I’m just as guilty.” Ukai gives a laugh—one that is embedded with bitterness and envy at the mention of the third-year setter—yet is just as vivacious as he is. A sound entirely different than she’d ever heard leave his lungs before. She likes it.

After finishing his smoke, Keishin gulps down a hefty swig of his drink before patting [name] on the shoulder before announcing his departure. “I’ll see you inside,” the girl, woman, calls out thoughtfully as she gives a small wave with her cigarette filter between her fingers. Ukai doesn’t verbalize the same sentiment. He doesn’t want to slip up and admit he’ll be looking for her.

But it’s painfully obvious that he is when he takes over the booth. Unable to hide the fact that with every chance that he looks into the audience, he’s searching for that black skater dress that hugs her all too perfectly, [hair color] locks swaying as she moves in the crowd. Ukai can’t hide it at all—not behind the turn table or new remixes meant to get the crowd moving.

He can’t hide the urgency he feels to find her outside in the crisp evening air, smoking on the back patio of the club after his set. [name] is talking and laughing with her friends while thin grey smoke billows from her open mouth before her eyes land on him. Some of her friends take notice to the tension and their shared gazes, some of them whispering his alias in excitement. But [name] just smiles knowingly, if not a little cocky, because she can see that urgency, that desperation, that Ukai was trying to hide. “Wait, [name], do you know Spira?” A bystander asked. Clearly, they weren’t present the last time this was brought up.

“Yeah, I may have met him once or twice,” the woman in question snickers as she strides over closer and closer to the aforementioned DJ.

“Cute,” Ukai sneers teasingly at her jab before instinctively reaching for the half-gone cigarette she pulls to her stained lips. At first, she thought he was going to put it out, considering their little conversation from a few hours ago. Instead, the volleyball coach puts the filter to his own lips, noting the damp fabric probably from her freshly applied lipgloss, and takes a drag. It tasted like watermelons and mint.

“Cheeky,” [name] returns, plucking her cancer stick back from the blonde man. While her friends are still behind her murmuring about the familiarity between the two of them, Keishin and [name] are lost in their own little world. “So since your set is over, and considering you’re still here, I’m assuming you’re joining me for the after party? Or do you have to go to work again?”

“I told them I’d be out of town this weekend,” Ukai tries to play it off as nonchalantly as he could, ties to swallow it down his nerves with rum and nicotine. It proves rather difficult considering the coy smile on [name]’s face is wearing and cracking through his resolve rather quickly. But at least, to him, he could confirm his mind was not playing tricks on him and [name] was just as adamant about his attendance as he initially thought. Even more so with her next statement.

“Cool. Your car or mine?” It took him a minute to process her words even—lust thickening and constricting the flow to his brain at the vague question. Ukai was getting far too ahead of himself, but goddammit how could he focus when the fabric of her skirt hit her mid-thigh and framed her like a Venetian goddess—“I don’t mind driving there.” She adds to coax him away from his silence.

“Nah, I got it. We’ll take mine.”

“Lead the way,” [name] chimes sweetly as she wraps an arm around the coach’s forearm. The physical touch is everything he’s been fantasizing about for the last few days—hellfire and brimstone and sunlight and goddammit why did he wear jeans that were only getting tighter and tighter?

Ukai opens the passenger door to his SUV, supporting the woman as she clambered in cautiously so as not to stumble from her heels. Getting settled in, the coach surrenders his unlocked phone to allow her the entirety of his music library. The irony of the DJ surrendering DJ rights to the passenger was not lost on either of them. Much to his surprise, [name] put on soft acoustic punk as he usually did on his way home from the club. The kind of softness one would turn on to accompany the fragile pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “Cardboard Swords?” Ukai asks in surprise, more than familiar with the band.

“Flannel is a favorite of mine. I’m kind of surprised it’s in your library.” She adds after she begins directing him to this evening’s party location. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the way her full lips are moving along each word with expertise. He sees the way her [eye color] orbs soften slightly and he can tell this song hits home for her.

She’ll never say why—she’ll never tell him this was the song that helped her move on from Sugawara Koushi while restoring her inner peace.

But Keishin is no fool. He can tell that this is physically hurting her—crushing her soul into the leather seat of his car and, instinctually, he wraps a large hand around hers that’s resting in her lap. “I came out tonight to have fun with you, so don’t you go getting sad on me.” He means each word with innocent intent, yet he cannot ignore the almost hidden, salacious drip to each syllable and neither can she. How could she when his touch sent volts of electricity through her skin?

“Right, right,” she says in a conceding tone, switching the audio to something much more upbeat and a little flirty. “Why did you agree to go out tonight?” If Ukai had an answer, then it died on his lips as he let go of [name]’s hand to reach for another cigarette. The process of lighting the tube, inhaling, and exhaling bought him an extra minute to come up with an excuse; her doing the same giving him another thirty seconds.

“I don’t know.” It’s a blatant lie—a lie that [name] believes all too easily—but Ukai can’t bring himself to admit the truth. He can’t admit out loud that she’s the only thing that’s been on his mind all week or that he jumped at the opportunity, created one even, to be able to have a one-on-one moment with her. Keishin can’t admit that he can tell there are intricate webs spun in her mind and that all he wants to do is untangle them one by one.

And he certainly can’t tell her that even the mere sight of her sends his brain into overdrive and all he wants to do is repeatedly fill her over and over with his seed until she is entirely his, inside and out in mind, body, and soul. There was no way in the nine circles of hell that Ukai Keishin was going to admit to his sinful thoughts.

“It’s just up here.” [name] points with gaunt fingers, cigarette between them as her voice is half choked from inhaling her own smoke. Mirroring the man’s actions earlier, she indulged in her own nicotine habit to quell the budding disappointment from Ukai’s lackluster response. They drove up a slight winding hill and as the trees pass by, the itch for her truth and her history was gnawing at him. He wanted to know why this rambunctious party girl invited him all week to these elusive after parties. Why Flannel ate away at her insides like it did his. Why did her and Sugawara breakup?

But he decides against it for the moment.

“Where are we?” Ukai asks. There’s cars all lining the sides of the road of varying worth—he felt even more out of place than normal with his older SUV, even if it was an upgrade for him, considering the large number of luxury vehicles.

“Bevelle’s house.” [name] says simply, pointing to an empty space in the streets as she throws the butt of her cigarette into the road. The casual way she name drops the owner of the club makes him gawk, catching flies in his mouth had there been any at the hour. With a satisfied, cheesy grin, she hops out of her seat and walks in the grass to meet Ukai on the other side as he clambers out of the vehicle as well. In familiarity, she grips into his forearm once again as they walk towards the forest mansion.

Keishin wasn’t sure what to expect when the two of them walked in, but a home full of people screaming his pseudonym and her name was not on that list. Younger hordes had surrounded [name], greeting her warmly and telling her how glad they were to see her again for the evening. Others were approaching Ukai, telling them how rare and a momentous occasion that the infamous artist Spira was amongst their midst.

“Glad to see you could join us, Spira.” His boss and club owner, Bevelle, approaches the mismatched couple. Bevelle was an alias used by the middle aged woman, her real name unknown to those that didn’t know her know her, and was once upon a time her stage name. While she had chosen a quiet location in the Miyagi prefecture, Bevelle was quite known in the underground scene. Granted, Ukai didn’t know any of that when he’d taken the job. If anything, it was all thanks to her that he was able to learn for his own success as well as granting him the opportunity to learn in the first place. “Good to see you too, trouble.” Bevelle affectionately goes to muss at [name]’s hair, to which she only replies with a cheeky grin.

“How do you know Bevelle?” Ukai presses his lips towards the ear of the woman still hanging onto him as she expertly leads the way to the kitchen. The car ride left her feeling slightly uncomfortable, ashamed even though she would never admit to that, and she knew she definitely needed a drink after it. Part of her was heavily rebuking herself for trying to pry into his mind by asking why he came along, even more so when she put on the one song that shattered her heart every time she heard it. It just excited her that he had it in his library, that he even knew who The Cardboard Swords were, and that he enjoyed the same obscure taste in music as much as she did.

“She’s a close family friend!” The chirp that [name] gives isn’t entirely convincing, like she isn’t telling the truth. Regardless, Ukai washes down his doubt with the beer he was handed, figuring she probably had her reasons. And as soon as the plastic is in each of their hands, [name] downs the contents immediately, hoping to drown out the nerves ebbing from her stomach with vodka. She should have been ecstatic—her old high school crush, her unrequited crush, was here with her, drinking side by side but she can’t help but feel the tension between them—sexual or otherwise.

Just as the two of them down their second round, a piercing voice cuts through the thicket of the masses, calling out her name and capturing her attention. “It’s your song! Come on!” A shrug and a smile crosses [name]’s features as she’s all but dragged away to a different part of the mansion. Much to his surprise, she grabbed onto Keishin to drag him along as well.

The two of them are presented with a myriad of sweaty, rolling bodies—much more gone than Ukai had ever seen at the club itself. It was oddly...sensual, if it could be called that, to see the fluid movements between party goers. Sensual, intimate, strange—all of them could be used interchangeably at this moment.

[name] is dancing with another woman, mouthing all of the words to the current pop song while bobbing and jumping around excitedly before her eyes lock on his. She’s in her element now. All sunshine and smiles like Ukai had seen from on occasion from years ago or most recently at the club, but they’re directed at him for once as she pulls him closer onto the dance floor. The taunting beats and repetitive call of “come on” and the way [name] loosely wraps her arms around his neck as she dances brings Ukai to the realization that this was the end of the line.

The end of the line, because Keishin can’t hold himself back anymore.

Not with the way her hips are grinding against is and she’s laughing warmly and heartily at his slight discomfort and her teeth are glittering off the lights in the dark room like stars in the night sky. Not with the way her head is thrown back and her dress drops low enough to flaunt the expanse of bare skin of her neck and collar bones that are just begging him to sink his teeth in. Not with the way her [eye color]ed orbs are locked with his as she sings along with the music, oddly enough alluding to some form of confession of her feelings.

He can’t fucking take it anymore.

The large hands he has on her hips move just under her arms to hoist her up, [name] instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist to keep her balance. Their eyes are locked, honed in on each other with the rest of the party melting into the background. With her deepest, most wild high school fantasy driving her actions, she grins. “Hi,” is all she says before Ukai cranes his neck back to cover her lips with his.

His kiss is everything she imagined it would be after years of pining. The smell and taste of smoke and wood floods her senses as his tongue laps at the watermelon lip gloss on her bottom lip before seeking refuge within her mouth. His hands, now wrapped around her thighs give intermittent squeezes, either to keep them grounded in reality or just because he needs something to clutch at—she’s unsure of which. In response, her manicured fingernails tangle into his messy blonde locks. Their kiss pours out their desperation, laying it all out on the table for the both of them to see clear as day.

The only thing that prompts them to break apart is the ending of the song.

“You wanna get out of here?” Ukai asks as he tenderly puts [name] back on the ground. As if he weren’t just making out with her moments ago, the motion is delicate and gingerly and almost loving.

“Not yet,” there’s a knowing, smug lilt in her voice as she turns on her heel and throw herself back into the throng of party people. Or rather, attempts. While she’s attempting to flee, Keishin snatches her wrist, pulling her closer until their chests are flush against each other.

“Nuh uh,” the blonde man tuts, “you’ve been asking me to join you at a party all week, now here I am. The hell makes you think you’re leaving my side tonight?” [name]’s grin only grows wider.

“I’ve waited for years for this opportunity, coach, so if you think I’m not gonna have fun with it, you’re dead wrong.” The word ‘years’ constricts the man’s heart—forces his pupils to blow into dilation with her modest, yet blunt confession.

“Years?”

“Years,” she repeats, “ever since that first practice you stumbled into the Karasuno gym as the temporary coach. Why do you think I came to every single exhibition match and tournament? Or came to study and do homework while you guys had practice?” This girl was grinding at every steel line of self-control that was left in Ukai’s body because every word spilling past her lips added an additional ten volts to the sexual tension between them.

“We’re leaving.” He bites out despite the delicate tone. Wrapping his hand around hers once again, Keishin tugs her along time dodge the party goers that threw the two of them curious glances, wondering why they were quick to leave shortly after their arrival. Just to tease him further, [name] almost wants to offer a rebuttal and tell him that they should stay longer and enjoy the show. However, she knows she’s done enough waiting and if he was taking her home, she wasn’t going to argue.

While urgency and desperation was their game, Keishin didn’t cut corners when it came to presenting himself as a gentleman as he helped [name] back into the car. Hormones be damned—he was still going to help a lady into the passengers seat. “You never did tell me why you finally agreed to come out tonight.” She says quietly, as if the two of them hadn’t been making out and dry humping a few minutes prior. “And it’s clearly not because you knew I had a crush on you all throughout third year—“

“Don’t act like you’re the only one with feelings in this.” Ukai grits out, speeding much faster back home than he did on the way to Bevelle’s house. Paying that no mind, [name]’s ears perk up at his own wayward confession. When she asked for clarity, a rumbling groan shakes his chest as he patted down his pockets in search for his nicotine sticks. “I didn’t recognize you the first night at the club because you look different now. Happiness looks good on you.”

“Happiness?” She echos confusedly, turning to face Ukai fully after lighting her own cigarette.

“You used to always look content back then—just barely content and nothing more. And I can’t stop thinking back to those days because you’re this ball of sunshine, kid, and I can’t stop wondering what the hell Suga did to you to dim your shine that badly. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.”

[name] is quiet for a moment at his own rendition, his own version, of a confession and she’s stunned. And she can’t tell if she wants to cry or kiss him because this is not that way she ever fantasized this conversation going. It was going better than she dreamed. Better, because the words that Ukai is saying adds an entirely new layer to his amped up personality—he wasn’t just the sexy volleyball coach that she used to pine over. He was a person with deep rooted feelings for justice in the sense of wanting to understand how someone could inflict damage to the innocent and he wanted to rectify said injustices. He wanted to know how someone like Suga could try to dampen her sunlight instead of allowing her to thrive and bloom.

She wants to kiss him, she decides, but since he’s driving, she settles for placing a chaste one on the corner of his mouth. “Serves you right,” she jokes when she pulls away, “it’s been a long four years for me. It’s your turn to suffer.”

“Trust me, this car ride is torture enough.”

[ next ]

[thompsborn]

fic where harley is a doctor that works w helen cho that sees peter often because of how much he gets hurt from being spider-man? and they fall in love bc they r already smitten for each other bc why wouldn't they be

i didn’t know how much i needed an au like this until you sent it omg

[read on ao3]

—

He’s in the middle of taking a sip of coffee when the alarm goes off.

“Mister Keener,” Friday says, as he’s cursing over the hot coffee that’s soaking into the front of his shirt. Thankfully, it’s not hot enough to actually burn him, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. “Your assistance is needed in the Medical Wing.”

Harley frowns. “What time is it?”

“Four fifty eight in the morning, Mister Keener.”

“Jesus, really?” Harley sets his mug down and turns his arm over to look at his watch. His brows shoot up towards his hairline, surprised. “Wow. Okay. Didn’t realize it was... Jesus. Alright.”

Friday sounds almost amused when she tells him, “Doctor Cho is insisting you hurry.”

Harley sighs. “Yeah, okay. On my way.”

At this time of the night, the only medical staff on hand are the ones who live close by—like Helen, who has an apartment less than a two minute walk away—and those who live on site, like Harley, who’s had his own floor in the tower since he was fifteen and told Tony over a phone call that he was thinking about coming to New York once he was done with high school. Because of this, Harley isn’t all that surprised to find that it’s only him and Helen that show up in the MedBay—if anything, it’s what he expected.

And he should have expected who, exactly, they’re treating in the middle of the night, but he still finds himself mildly surprised when he comes face to face with Peter’s sheepish grin.

“Of course it’s you,” Harley says, standing at the foot of the hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest. “Who else would be waking me up like this?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter says, sheepish grin turning a bit snarky. “You weren’t asleep.”

Harley purses his lips. “I could’ve been.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but doesn’t get the chance to respond before Helen is hovering by his side, snapping her gloves into place and instructing, “Friday, give me the run down.“

“Mister Parker has several second degree burns along his left leg and left arm,” Friday responds. “His right wrist is broken, and there appears to be a laceration along his abdomen.”

Harley winces in sympathy. “Rough night?”

Peter tries to shrug, but the movement makes his features twist up in a flash of pain. His voice comes out a bit strained when he says, “You could say that. There was—house fire. Not fun.”

“Get everyone out?” Harley asks, if only to provide a slight distraction as Helen assesses the broken wrist, likely checking to see if it needs to be reset or if it’ll be able to heal properly as it is. Peter tries for a grin.

“All of ‘em. Even the kids pet turtle.”

Harley pats Peter’s right knee, careful to remember that it’s his left leg with the burns. “Job well done, Spider-Man.”

“Harley,” Helen says, grabbing his attention. She’s apparently deemed Peter’s wrist not a main concern and is already peeling Peter’s suit off of him. Harley snaps into focus instantly, listening intently as Helen tells him, “I need you to take care of the laceration while I get started on the burns. When that’s done, we need to get that wrist in a cast until it heals.”

Peter pouts. “A cast? Really?”

Helen looks at him sharply. “Last time we didn’t put you in a cast, you managed to re-break your arm before it could heal. Twice.”

Peter’s pout vanishes with a meek chuckle. “It was an accident?” he offers.

“You, Peter Parker,” Helen says, averting her attention back to his burns as she speaks, “are somehow my best and my worst patient of all time. And I’m Tony Stark’s doctor, too, so that says a whole lot about you.”

“Hey—” Peter cuts off with a hiss as Harley starts to disinfect the large cut on his side. Harley offers an apologetic half smile that Peter waves away with another wince and a wobbly sort of grin. “I’m not worse than Mr. Stark.”

Helen hums, high pitched and teasing.

“I’m not,” Peter insists. “I’m not!”

“Believe what you want,” Helen tells him.

Peter huffs. “Why are you being mean to me? Aren’t doctors supposed to be nice to their patients? Isn’t that, like, a thing?”

Harley snorts when Helen says, “Next time, don’t wake me up at four in the morning with second degree burns and a broken wrist, and maybe then I’ll be nicer to you, hm?”

—

The thing is, Harley didn’t plan on this.

As in, growing up, he was sure that what he wanted was to be a mechanic. He loved to build, take apart, recreate, understand. It’s all he ever did. Hell, when Tony Frickin’ Stark broke into his garage, the guy ended up making Harley his own mechanic heaven to say thanks for helping him out.

And Harley still loves all of that, to be fair—he spends a lot of his free time tinkering in Tony’s lab now, helping him out with whatever the man’s working on and often working on his own fun little projects on the side—but it’s not his main drive. It’s not the center of his world.

He thinks it started when he saved Tony.

In a way, anyway—he had only been twelve at the time, and it’s not like twelve year olds are exactly apt on having life changing realizations that change the course of their future. Still, he was a twelve year old that saved Tony Stark’s life, and there was some kind of thrill, almost. It was hard to explain then, and Harley isn’t sure if he could put it into words now, but the feeling had made his fingers feel all tingly and his heart thud heavily in his chest. It was similar to when he built his first successful bot and it came whirring to life, only the feeling was intensified.

He felt like he was doing what he was supposed to be doing. He knew he wanted to save lives.

“You’re getting better,” Helen tells him, after Harley’s helped the medical team with bandaging up the members of the Avengers that just returned from a mission. None of the wounds had been major, mostly just scrapes and bruises, but it’s the most amount of people Harley has helped treat at once, which is a big step.

Harley shrugs, drying off his hands, having just finished washing them. “You’re a good teacher.”

Helen chuckles at that. “How are your classes?”

“Good,” Harley answers, nodding his head. “Kinda boring. I know most of it already, thanks to all the training you’ve given me, but that‘s not really new. I knew everything they taught me in high school, too.”

“You sound like Peter when you say that,” Helen muses, an amused quirk to her brow.

Harley rolls his eyes. “Y’know, people keep saying that, but I only see him when he’s bleeding out and that doesn’t make it feel like we’re all that similar.”

“Oh, you’re similar, alright,” Helen says, laughing a bit. “You’re both genius kids who bust your asses off to save people’s lives.”

Wrinkling his nose, Harley says, “But I don’t do it in spandex. Key difference there, doc.”

Helen holds her hands up in some kind of surrender. “Just saying, you two are alike.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him you said that next time he breaks his leg,” Harley quips.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Friday interjects, “but Spider-Man is reportedly injured and heading to the tower now. ETA of six and a half minutes.”

Harley rolls his eyes up to the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. Helen can only laugh.

—

“Ow. Ow, ow—oh, Jesus, that’s—ow—!”

“Sorry,” Harley says, only averting his eyes for a second to flash Peter an apologetic look before focusing back on the stitches he’s giving him.

Peter curses, slamming his left fist into his own thigh as Harley pushes the needle through. “This sucks,” he complains, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. “This is—why is this worse than getting stabbed? Why do I prefer getting stabbed over this? This blows.”

“You need to stop moving,” Harley tells him.

Making an indignant sort of noise, Peter asks, “How the hell am I—I can’t stop moving! This hurts, man, like—like, really fuckin’ hurts!”

“Moving makes it worse, dipshit,” Harley retorts, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“You know what else makes it worse?” Peter glares at the wall. “Not having pain killers.”

Harley does roll his eyes now. “Not my job. I just give you the drugs, I don’t make them.”

“I know, but Mr. Stark isn’t here for me to bitch at, so I’m complaining to you about it instead.”

Harley can’t help the way that he snorts at that, finishing off the last of the stitches as he does so. “I usually don’t like to listen to someone complain while I’m working.”

“Sucks to suck,” Peter replies. “Are you done?”

“Yep.” Harley leans back, taking off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. “Any other injuries? Stab wounds? Broken bones?”

Peter hums, tilting his head from side to side. “I don’t think so. Friday?”

“All clear, Mr. Parker.”

Harley frowns. “The fact that you had to ask worries me.”

Peter shrugs. “I get hurt a lot. Kinda used to it.”

“Still,” Harley says. “That’s concerning. Like, you still feel pain, right? You would know if you were hurt somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, trust me, I feel pain,” Peter snorts. “But some things just... don’t matter? Like... I dunno, but if it’s not serious, it’s like my brain filters it out on it’s own to focus on other things. Which, probably, y’know, not good, but, like, oh well.”

“Definitely not good,” Harley murmurs, frowning to himself as he squints around the room for a moment. “Well, if you have nothing else, then you’re good to go. And, honestly, thank god that’s all you have, ‘cause this is the first time I’ve done anything without Helen around and anything more than stitches would’ve had me flipping shit and fucking it all up.”

Peter lets out a light laugh, pulling his shirt down, over the gash that Harley just finished stitching. “You wouldn’t fuck it up,” he says, sounding light and humorous yet entirely serious, too. “You’re, like, really good at your job, Harley.”

Harley scrunches his nose up on his face. “Ew. Don’t be nice to me. It’s gross.”

Peter laughs again, a little bit louder, though the way it makes his stomach jump has him wincing when it pulls at his stitches. “I’m serious!” he insists. “Like, I know you’re still a med student and stuff, but Helen is probably the best person to be training you, so you’re, like, more qualified than most normal doctors. You have the experience that most people still in med school don’t have. I mean, you patch up the freakin’ Avengers, Harley! You gotta be good at this to do that!”

“I help patch up the Avengers,” Harley corrects. “The only person I’ve ever fixed up by myself is you, thanks to your insane ability to always get hurt.”

“It’s a talent,” Peter shrugs. “And hey, I bet it keeps you entertained.”

Harley snorts. “Entertained is not the right word for it, Spidey. Impressed, maybe, by just how much trouble you’re capable of getting yourself into.”

Peter grins. “Gotta impress people somehow, right?”

—

Harley wouldn’t call it bonding.

Because it’s not. It’s not bonding. It’s small talk, and pleasant conversations, while Harley sets a broken bone or treats another burn. It’s filling the silence because, apparently, Helen trusts Harley to handle Peter on his own, unless it’s a major injury that requires more than one person on hand, and Harley isn’t sure why he’s being trusted with this, but he’s pretty intent on not fucking it up.

But it isn’t bonding. They’re just... acquaintances. Who talk. Like, a lot, because Peter comes in at least four times a week needing treatment for something, and that gives them a lot of time to talk. Maybe Harley learns a lot about Peter during this time, like his favorite song, and what his comfort hoodie is, and why he became Spider-Man in the first place. Maybe Peter learns where Harley is from, how he met Tony, and what made him decide to be a doctor over a mechanic.

Maybe, after a few weeks, they start having inside jokes, built not only from the time they spend alone together, but also from the months upon months that Harley was helping Helen treat Peter, too. Sometimes, Peter snorts so hard that he reopens his stitches and Harley has to fix it. Sometimes, Harley can’t stop laughing when he needs to have steady hands and he ends up hunching over on himself and wheezing because of whatever it is that Peter said. One day, Peter comes in when he isn’t injured, dressed in casual clothes with a few textbooks from his ESU courses in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “I’m headed up to see Mr. Stark,” he tells Harley, “but I thought I’d give you this,” and he holds out the cup of coffee with a big, cheesy sort of grin.

“Why?” Harley asks, though he accepts the cup gratefully.

Peter shrugs. “I’d probably have bled out ten times over if it weren’t for you, and you looked, like, really tired yesterday, so I thought you might need it.”

He is tired—exhausted, really, because his classes may not be hard but there are some big tests coming up that he needs to study for and it’s hard to find the time to study in between training with Helen and doing all the millions of other assignments that are being tossed his way. He takes a sip of the coffee, hums in satisfaction at the way it warms him up, and says, “Thanks.”

“Least I could do,” Peter tells him.

So, maybe they’re friends. Maybe—maybe—Harley is starting to look forward to seeing him and keeps trying to think of a casual way to offer they hang out sometime, outside of the med bay. Maybe Peter starts bringing Harley a cup of coffee every time he goes to visit Tony, and maybe Harley starts to feel a little thrill whenever he hands the coffee over and their fingers briefly brush.

Maybe it is bonding, but it’s not a crush. It’s not.

(”You’re adorable when you’re in denial,” Helen tells him.

Harley sinks in his seat and tries to disappear. “Shut up.”)

—

The letters of his textbook are blurring in front of his eyes when the alarm rings.

He jumps at the sound, looks up at the ceiling with slightly squinted eyes and furrowed brows, expecting Friday to calmly inform him that his assistance is needed in the med bay, like usual. Instead of that, though, the alarm continues to blare, and all Friday says is, “Urgent. Urgent. Urgent.”

Which is code for: someone’s about to die if he doesn’t hurry.

Instantly, he jumps to his feet, feeling wide awake despite being on the brink of dozing off just a few short moments ago. “Okay,” he tells himself, rushing out of his room and sprinting towards the elevator, which is already open and waiting for him. He only just barely thinks to swipe his tablet along the way, clutches it in his hands while he says, “Okay, okay, okay—who, uh—Friday? Who is it?”

“Iron Man and Spider-Man are both heavily injured and require immediate assistance,” Friday informs him gravely. “Doctor Cho is already treating Mr.Stark and has told me to inform you that you will be in charge of Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, god,” Harley breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose and giving himself a second to take a deep breath while the elevator takes him down to the proper floor. “Jesus. Okay. I need, uh—give me a list of Peter’s injuries, Fri.”

“Of course, Mr. Keener.”

The list is sent to his tablet immediately, and it’s—extensive. Third degree burns and multiple shattered ribs and various bullet wounds, only some of which are clean through, meaning that there’s various bullets that they need to remove before Peter starts to heal around them. The more he reads, the faster his heart thunders in his chest while his mind automatically sorts through it to think of what needs to be prioritized, what to treat first, and how to keep Peter alive.

By the time he reaches Peter’s room, he has a game plan figured out, and he only falters for a short moment when he sees Peter on the hospital bed, writhing around and sobbing in pain. The rest of the medical staff in the room freeze, likely already aware that Helen put him in charge, and wait with bated breath.

“Alright,” Harley says, mostly to himself. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

—

Maybe it is a crush.

Harley is finding it hard to deny it now, as he sits beside Peter’s hospital bed, his hands feeling a little bit shaky where they’re clasped together and hanging between his knees. They had to undergo emergency surgery, and Peter’s heart had stopped four times throughout the procedure. Bringing him back had been the most panic inducing thing Harley has ever experienced in his life, and he couldn’t even show it because he was the one that was put in charge.

But they did, all four times —they got his heart going again and they got out all the bullets and treated all the burns and did everything they could to stabilized the broken bones. They gave him multiple IV’s, all of which he’s still attached to, and he hasn’t woken up since he passed out from the pain shortly after Harley’s arrival—and he passed out looking at Harley, too, with wide, pleading eyes that seemed to be begging for mercy, filled with agony and despair.

Harley would do anything to never have to see that look again.

“How’s he doing?” Helen asks, stepping into the room. She looks tired, undoubtedly exhausted from doing whatever she could to stabilize Tony just a few rooms down. Harley feels that exhaustion in his very bones.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Harley tells her. “Lost him a few times, though.”

Helen hums sympathetically. “But you got him back.”

Harley hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, we did.”

“Good,” Helen says, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You did good.” She stays like that for a moment, doesn’t move, and Harley appreciates the gesture but kind of wants to be alone. Maybe she senses that, because a moment later, she’s pulling her hand back and asking, “Are you staying here?”

“‘Til he wakes up,” Harley tells her.

Helen smiles at him warmly. “Make sure you get some rest, too, okay?”

Harley doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep until he sees Peter awake and talking again, but he still nods at her and says, “Yeah, alright.”

After Helen leaves the room, after it’s just Harley and Peter again, he finds himself reaching forward and taking Peter’s hand in his, and, other than the innocent brush of fingers when passing a coffee cup, this is the first time they’ve touched outside of Harley treating Peter’s wounds. It’s a bit of a startling realization, but Harley finds comfort in the contact, listens to the steady beeping of the heart monitor and starts to relax with the reassurance that he really did good, that Peter is going to be okay and Harley is the one that saved him.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but with that relief flooding his veins and Peter’s hand in his, he finds himself dozing off and doesn’t bother forcing himself awake.

—

At first, he doesn’t realize he’s waking up, his senses still muddled with sleep. It feels almost as if he’s floating in unconsciousness, warm and comfortable and— 

“Harley?”

And he wakes with a jolt, eyes snapping open and instantly searching, only coming to a stop when they land on wide brown eyes looking right back at him. “Oh,” he breathes, blinking once and sitting up straight despite the way it makes his back complain. “Oh, my god. You’re awake.”

Peter tilts his head, just a little bit, and looks down at their intertwined fingers.

“Right. That.” Harley clears his throat and scrubs his free hand over his features, trying to wake himself up with a sheepish little smile. “It’s, um—not important, actually. How do you feel? Any pain, discomfort, anything like that?”

For a moment, Peter doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at their hands before rasping out a hoarse little, “’m kinda—kinda thirsty. M’throat hurts.”

Instantly, Harley gets to his feet and pulls open the mini fridge in the room to grab a bottle of water. He takes it back to Peter, hands it over, and feels somewhere stuck between doctor mode and something else, the worry and the uncertainty and the fear from hearing the flat line all mixing together until he feels nauseous with it. Peter accepts the water bottle gratefully, takes tentative sips from it and only winces slightly when he swallows it. “Better?” Harley asks.

Peter smiles, a bit small and tired, but just as genuine as always. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Harley murmurs, hovering by the chair he had been sitting in before. “Is there anything else? Just, like—anything at all? How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Peter tells him. “Like, um... groggy, y’know? And... out of it.”

Harley nods, a bit relieved that the dose of pain killers he chose was the right amount. “That’s to be expected. You were really roughed up, Pete.”

Peter frowns down at his water, brows knitting together. “What happened?”

“There was an ambush,” Harley tells him. “I guess Doc Ock was out and about, so you went to confront him and he got enough hits in to alert Tony, so he went to help you out, but Ock apparently teamed up with Rhino and they were able to catch you guys off guard and get the upper hand. Rhodey and a few others went to help out, but they didn’t get there in time to stop you guys from nearly getting killed, so, when you came in, it was... not pretty. But, you’re both gonna be fine.”

He wants to say that it’s not a crush. It can’t be a crush, isn’t supposed to be one, even if seeing the way Peter lets out a puff of air and relaxes back into his pillows is kind of a... not so bad sight. He looks tired and a bit beat up and a little too pale, but he’s good. He’s alive. Being alive looks good on him.

Maybe, Harley admits. Maybe it is a crush.

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, head lulling back into the pillows. He holds out a hand and Harley isn’t sure what the action is for, but he doesn’t think before reaching forward and tangling their fingers together.

Harley clears his throat. “What for?”

“Not letting me die,” Peter says.

The mere idea of letting Peter die makes Harley’s heart stutter in his chest. “Of course,” he mumbles, a bit stricken. “I’ll always save you. It’s my job.”

Peter squeezes Harley’s hand, falls asleep with a sigh and a smile on his face.

Harley still doesn’t leave.

(It’s definitely, one hundred percent, a huge, gigantic crush, and maybe... maybe he’s okay with that. Maybe liking Peter Parker isn’t all that bad.)

[catfe-overlord]

“Feral”

Part 5

Read part 1 here

Read part 2 here

Read part 3 here

Read part 4 here

::in which Bakugou and Kirishima are closer than ever, quite literally and figuratively. Bakugou messes up, plans are definitely NOT cancelled, and there is a maybe date happening::

P.S. IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO POST. It was a loooong week. I’ve gotten a promotion though, so that was cool! Anywho, I’ll try and be quicker with the updates since I have a lot of my one-shots already half finished:)

P.P.S. I wrote out the whole chapter and apparently it’s exceeded a word count or something so I had to split it into two chapters. I just have to give it a quick edit and I’ll have it up today, hopefully in the next couple hours.

+++++++++++++

Aizawa kept Bakugou for one more night just for observation. He was allowed back to class Tuesday morning.

Kirishima waited outside of his dorm for Bakugou to finish getting ready. He played a game on his phone and leaned against the wall opposite of Bakugou’s door.

He’d only been waiting a few minutes before the door opened and a fully-uniformed Bakugou Katsuki stepped out. He looked well rested and much more like himself than Kirishima had seen him in days. He still had his usual grumpy look, but it put a smile on Kirishima’s face to see it. He’d missed Bakugou so much that having him back felt like a hole had been filled in his chest.

Kirishima didn’t think about what he did next until Bakugou pulled away. The redhead looked down at their hands, dawning on him that he’d just tried to hold Bakugou’s hand. The movement felt so natural, almost like an instinct.

“Oh!” he said, surprised by himself. “I’m sorry, man. That was weird of me. I didn’t even think about it—”

“It’s fine, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou interrupted him. “Here.”

Kirishima watched as Bakugou laced their arms together at their elbows. He had a weird scowl on his face, but he didn’t say anything about it and opted to tug Kirishima along to get him moving. Together, arm in arm, they descended the hall until they reached the elevator.

They didn’t say a word the whole ride down. Kirishima was too lost in his racing thoughts to come up with the right thing to say.

Was Bakugou touch starved? He wasn’t ever the type of guy to initiate any sort of touching. Though, he hadn’t been able to get near anyone in days. On average, at least a few times a day Kirishima would lean on him or put a hand on his shoulder or sometimes even throw him into a surprise hug the blond didn’t see coming. Bakugou had adapted to Kirishima’s fondness. This—having Bakugou as the initiator—was so foreign, Kirishima couldn’t wrap his head around it.

They didn’t let go of each other until they reached the kitchen. Kirishima tossed Bakugou ingredients and utensils as the explosive boy whipped up some egg drop ramen for the two of them.

He usually made more food to include the Bakusquad, but he never bothered with breakfast. The other three were never up early enough.

As it turned out, Kaminari was right: Kirishima had missed Bakugou’s cooking. He wasn’t sure where the blond learned to cook so well, but Kirishima would have given his pal a five star review on Yelp if he could have.

“What did I miss in class?” Bakugou asked after they’d sat down. He was twirling his chopsticks around in his bowl to pick up some noodles.

“Don’t know,” Kirishima answered through a mouthful. He swallowed before continuing. “I didn’t really go to class yesterday.”

Bakugou frowned. He glared at his ramen like he’d just witnessed it murder his cat. “Let’s ask Ponytail for her notes. I’m not asking shitty Deku. His notebook is a fucking mess.”

“Good idea,” Kirishima agreed. “Hey, did you wanna do some extra training after class? The gym is free today. We could work on our special moves like last time.”

Bakugou seemed to be thinking it over. After a moment of considering, he set his chopsticks down. “What if we went to the movies?”

Kirishima stared at him. He’d said it in such a soft voice, Kirishima knew he was being serious. “The movies? Over training? That doesn’t sound like you.”

He glared in return. “Do you want to or not, Shitty Hair?”

He laughed. “Yeah, totally! Was there a movie you had in mind?”

Bakugou picked his chopsticks back up and was using the utensils to play with his food. Kirishima couldn’t help thinking he looked shy. His cheeks were the slightest hint of pink. “There’s that action movie… I know you like those.”

Kirishima perked up at that. “Really? You’re talking about the one where those two guys have to duel for the dojo after their master is killed, right?”

“The only cheesy-as-hell action movie in the theaters right now, yes.”

“Dude, I’ve wanted to watch that forever! It didn’t do great in the box office, but I think it looks great! You really want to sit through that for me? That doesn’t seem like your kind of movie.”

He finally stood to take his bowl to the sink. “I just want to get out. I’ve spent the last four days staring at white walls.” He nodded his head to Kirishima’s empty bowl, who got the message and passed it over.

“I’m down for the movie, one-hundred percent! And, hey—maybe this weekend we can go hiking? That should help get you out of your own head.”

He hummed in response. “There was that new trail we could try.”

“Oh! Yeah, I remember that. We wanted to go last time, but it was getting too dark so we didn’t get the chance. How’s your schedule look? I’m free all weekend!”

He finished up washing their dishes and deposited them onto the drying rack. “Let’s go Saturday. My shitty aunt is in town this weekend, so I can avoid her at least then. I have some stupid family dinner my parents are making me go to on Sunday if… uh, if you wanna go.”

Kirishima cocked his head. “To your family dinner? You want me to go? Would I be intruding?”

Bakugou leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “No. If you’re there I might actually act ‘civil’ is how my old hag put it. You can sleep over too, if you want.”

Kirishima’s eyes sparkled. A sleepover? At Bakugou’s house?! He’d been over a few times, and he loved being able to spend the extra time with his hot-headed friend. But a sleepover? His heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

“Hell yeah! You usually head home Friday nights, right? What time should I be around Saturday to head on the hike?”

“Just come home with me Friday. Then we can leave early.”

Holy. Shit.

Two whole nights with Bakugou. He felt like his brain was about to short circuit.

His moms wouldn’t like him not visiting over the weekend, but they would understand. He talked pretty highly of Bakugou to his parents, so they would know how much this meant to him.

He pumped his fists together. “Alright! A guys’ weekend! This is gonna be great, man! We can watch movies and play video games, and I’m gonna get you to stay up past eight-thirty!”

Bakugou snorted. “Then I’ll make sure to wake you up by six in the morning.”

“No!” Kirishima gasped. “That’s just cruel, man.”

Bakugou smirked and grabbed his book bag, then headed for the door. Kirishima jumped up to follow.

Class was extra boring today, and Kirishima couldn’t pay attention to a word of his lessons. The day dragged on, probably because he had the movies with Bakugou to look forward to.

Finally, the bell rang for lunch. He and the squad moved out while Bakugou stayed back to collect the homework assignments he missed yesterday. He’d catch up with them after.

They were all seated at their usual table, Ashido chatting everyone’s ears off. Kirishima zoned out staring out the window at the lawn when the pink-haired girl brought him back down to earth.

“Kiri? Babe. Earth to Kirishima.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. My head is all over the place today.”

He hadn’t even realized Bakugou sat down beside him. The blond was giving him a weird look as he popped open his bento box.

“So!” Kaminari exclaimed, catching everyone’s attention. “I had this idea—”

“Oh shit,” Bakugou muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

Kaminari glared at him while everyone else laughed. “Anyway. Wouldn’t it be such a good idea if we challenged Bakugou and Sato to a cook off? Our class chef versus our class baker. It'd be epic!”

“I love it!” Ashido announced.

Sero looked into the distance dreamily. “Think about all the leftover food.”

“I don’t bake,” Bakugou stated. “I don’t do sweets. And Sugar Freak is a shit cook. Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

“Well, we can have you both whip up something as a main dish and then a dessert to follow,” Ashido suggested. “We could vote whose meal was better.”

Bakugou didn’t look impressed. He stuffed a chunk of beef into his mouth and ignored the rest of the conversation.

“What if we did it tonight? Everyone’s free, right?”

Kirishima whipped his head up from his meal to face Kaminari. “Not tonight, man. We’ve got homework to catch up on, and Bakugou and I were going to catch a movie.”

Everyone’s eyebrows scrunched. They stared between the two boys like this was weird behavior of them.

“The movies?” Ashido asked, her expression shifting to something more mischievous. “Like, just the two of you? Alone?”

“You annoying shitsticks aren’t coming, so don’t even ask,” Bakugou said in his grumpy voice.

Kaminari raised a devilish eyebrow. “So… is this like… a date?”

Kirishima felt his ears grow hot. “No! No, it’s not like that! We’re just two bros going to the movies! Right, Katsuki?”

He looked over to the blond, who had a death grip on his chopsticks. His face read pure rage, but there was a blush crawling up his neck and cheeks. It seemed to worsen at the use of his given name. The chopsticks snapped in his grip.

“KATSUKI?!” Ashido practically screamed. “He lets you call him by his given name?”

The other two boys were dying at this point. They clutched their stomachs as they busted out laughing, tears sparkling in their eyes. Sero slapped a hand on the table. “Oh my god! I can’t breathe!”

Bakugou slammed his own fists against the table and stood. “FUCK YOU GUYS, WE’RE OUT OF HERE! COME ON, SHITTY HAIR! LET’S GO.”

Kirishima stood on wobbly legs, his meal forgotten as his mind reeled. He chased after Bakugou, a million questions racing through his brain he couldn’t seem to vocalize. Was this a date? If it wasn’t, wouldn’t Bakugou have corrected them? If it was, why’d he get so defensive?

Bakugou turned around and grabbed Kirishima by the elbow to speed him up. They must have been too loud, because half the cafeteria’s eyes were watching them as they left.

They made it back to the classroom, and Bakugou’s grip hadn't let up. He finally let go when he moved to his desk and sat down heavily. He crossed his arms and turned his face away from Kirishima.

“Uh,” Kirishima tried to form words, but he wasn’t sure what to say. “Should we talk about this?”

“No,” he answered quickly.

“Well, that seemed to really bother you back there. If you were thinking—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Eijirou.”

Kirishima could see the angry blush on his face when he glanced back at the redhead. Kirishima settled into the desk beside his. “Alright. You still want to go though, don’t you?”

He huffed. “Yeah, we’re still fucking going.”

His lips spread into a smile. “Glad to hear it! I can’t wait.”

The two broke out their homework after that, attempting to get caught up before the rest of the class slowly trickled back in. To Kirishima’s surprise, it was Bakugou who was having trouble focusing.

Class started up again, and Kirishima had to migrate back to his own desk. A worksheet was passed out by Midnight, and they were told to fill out what they could. Kirishima was only a few questions in when he glanced Bakugou’s way out of habit.

Midoriya was leaning forward, whispering something to Bakugou, who looked his usual amount of annoyed. It was when the green-haired boy reached out to tap Bakugou’s shoulder that chaos ensued.

Kirishima shot from his desk and across the room before most students even noticed anything was wrong. Everything happened so fast, even Kirishima’s brain had to play catch up.

Bakugou had snapped. In an instant, he’d had Midoriya pinned to the floor, slashing at his face with the claws that weren’t there. Midoriya was obviously caught off guard, but he was still fast enough to hold his arms up to shield his face from Bakugou’s attacks.

Kirishima tackled Bakugou off of his rival, using his hardening to pin him down. Bakugou was uncharacteristically hissing like some wild animal. Sero and Tokoyami were out of their seats now too, ready to help if they could.

“Katsuki!” Kirishima yelled, trying to snap the blond back to reality. “Katsuki, stop! It’s me! It’s Eijirou!”

Midnight stood above the boys, her hand resting on her sleeve and ready to tear it to put Bakugou to sleep with her quirk. Kirishima quickly shook his head at her. “Don’t! That won’t help.”

Bakugou’s movements became sluggish and he was blinking hard, quicly coming back to his senses. Kirishima watched as realization dawned in his eyes. He looked between Kirishima on top of him to Midoriya on the ground a few feet away. “Shit,” he cursed.

“Kacchan, I’m sorry!” Midoriya apologized. “I didn’t know the quirk hadn’t worn off yet. I shouldn’t have touched you. Kacchan, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t fucking apologize to me, damn nerd!” he shouted in return. He growled in frustration. “I thought this shit was over.”

“It’s alright, man,” Kirishima sighed, relieved to have Bakugou back. He slid off of the blond and sat on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. “Midoriya, you okay?”

“I-I’m fine!”

“Ahem,” Midnight cleared her throat. She had her hands on her hips and an unimpressed look on her face. “Could someone tell me what’s going on?”

“After effects,” Todoroki was the one to explain to Kirishima’s surprise. “It seems the quirk hasn’t quite worn off.”

“I’m fine now,” Bakugou grumbled. “It’s gone.”

“I highly doubt—”

“It was a fluke!”

“Guys!” Kirishima raised his voice to get them to stop. Bakugou glared at him for his interruption. Kirishima ignored the look and turned back to the other student still on the floor. “Midoriya, why don’t you swap seats with me for today?”

Midoriya nodded, finally pulling himself off the ground. “Good idea.”

Bakugou caught Kirishima’s wrist before he could stand as well. “I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

“I’m not babysitting you,” the redhead fired back. “My quirk is best suited to stop you if it happens again, which I doubt it will. Just a precaution, man.”

Midnight was tapping her foot, arms folded as she stared the two down. “Are you boys sure this is such a good idea?”

“Yes,” they said in unison. They looked at each other, and Bakugou bowed his head to allow Kirishima to finish. “He’ll be fine. It won’t happen again, and I’ll be there to stop him before it could happen again.”

She clicked her tongue. “Alright. I’ll allow it. Don’t make me regret it. And there had better not be any more interruptions.”

Everyone migrated back to their seats and the light chatter died off. Kirishima and Midoriya collected their things and traded seats. Once he was seated, Kirishima noticed a folded up piece of paper on the corner of the desk.

He opened it as quietly as he could, but Midnight seemed pretty preoccupied by the romance novel her eyes were glued to. It was definitely Bakugou’s handwriting, all caps and angry penmanship.

THANK YOU EIJIRO. YOU’ RE A GOOD FRIEND

Kirishima smiled. Bakugou really had grown so much in his time since coming to UA. Kirishima was so proud to be the explosive boy’s friend.

It’s cool ! Don’t sweat it man . Still wanna see that movie tonight ??

He tossed the note over Bakugou’s shoulder, who jumped a little like he was surprised to see it return. Kirishima could hear his pencil scrawling out a reply.

He passed it back, his eyes on Midnight to avoid being caught passing notes.

STILL THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA?

Totally !! I wanna spend time with you dude

He chewed on his lip. Maybe that was a little too forward. He ended up erasing that bit and starting over.

Yeh man I think it’d be good for you to get out . Being cooped up for days isn’t good for ya

Bakugou held onto the note for a few minutes, maybe contemplating what to say. Kirishima tried to focus on his assignment, but it proved impossible and he ended up circling random answers.

Bakugou twisted his arm behind his back and held the folded note between two fingers. Kirishima plucked it from his grasp and unfurled it again.

COME TO MY ROOM AFTER YOU’RE READY TO GO. WE’RE GONNA GET DINNER FIRST SHITTY HAIR.

Kirishima giggled, and a few heads turned his way. He was too excited to care about the prying eyes or the blush that rose to his cheeks.

He couldn’t help but think about how date-like this seemed. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but… well.

He couldn’t help it.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Hope you guys liked it, and thanks for the read !!

Read part 6 here

8/31/2020

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Fourteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of abuse. Stay safe!]

"This would be so much easier if you would just comply , Vega." Maxson sneered.

  "How the fuck else am I supposed to comply? Danse never told me he was a synth, Maxson!" Backhand protested, glaring up at the young man as best as she could with his boot pinning her head to the floor. 

  Across from her in the brig Brandis floundered against his shackles, the older paladin clearly furious but unable to articulate around his gag. 

  Maxson ignored him, leaning down and applying more pressure to the side of Vega's head. "My patience is growing thin , Vega. I refuse to believe that he did not confide in you. You're the only person who's been in and out of the Institute, no doubt keeping that traitor apprised of orders from the masterminds of his true agenda."

  "After everything that Danse has been through, I can't even believe that you would think he's a threat to the Brotherhood! Whether he's a synth or not!" Backhand retorted hotly. "So what if he is one? Synths can be rescued , wiped, reprogrammed with new identities. They aren't all infiltrating units, some of them are-"

  Maxson hauled her to her feet, shoving her back against the wall. The rivets of the brig ground through her Vault suit, making Vega grunt in pain. "You certainly have a lot to say in the defense of synths, Vega." He hissed, taking a fistful of her hair and forcing her to look at him.

  At the tearing sensation on her scalp, two hundred-plus years abruptly melted away for Backhand. She was suddenly in the pristine kitchen of their first apartment and Nate , shouting as loudly as any drill sergeant, throwing his briefcase in frustration, grabbing her neck and dragging her--

  No . She had fought back then and she could fight back now. Backhand jerked her head to the side, not caring whether she lost a handful or two of her hair. "Get your fucking hands off of me!" She snapped, and Maxson's gloved fingers slammed shut around her throat.

  "You would disobey the elder of the Brotherhood?" Maxson asked, a sinister smile twisting his mouth as Vega choked for breath. "I think your insubordination deserves repayment in kind."

  ...

  When Danse awoke, he was incredibly disoriented. His hands clenched tight into the blanket that covered him as he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, feeling his breathing stutter as he tried to remember what the hell had happened.

  Haylen . The message the scribe had given him. Confusion. Terror. Panic . Crushing it all down, I am a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel I have sworn an oath protect sisters brothers skills weapons body -- 

  Finding the munitions. Elizabeth Knight Vega damn it departing to report back to Maxson, the paladin knowing almost definitively that she had no idea about what he was, about the hideous truth of his existence. Her giving him her lucky bandanna, wrapping it around his neck like a scarf, touch light and tender. 

  Fleeing the Sentinel site, abandoning his armor, the deathclaw, the walk of shame that culminated in...God, was he really a synth?   

  M7-97 .

  A synth . With a sinking feeling in his gut, Danse cast his mind back over his first memories yet again, growing up alone in the Capital Wasteland …

  If he wasn't a synth, surely he would have something more concrete than a hazy record of empty locations? Something tangible, maybe an encounter with a friendly trader or a scuffle with some other children, something . But nothing seemed solid until he got to the memories of opening his junk stand in Rivet City. Eerily similar to what Sturges had mentioned. At that point he had been an adult for several years, or at least he believed he was--

  God, his head was pounding . He was so confused. Danse pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying in vain to rub the tension away. 

  "Oh, you're awake! Good." 

  Danse jerked his hands down, shoving himself half-upright on his elbows. His confusion only intensified when he realized that it was Mrs. O'Brian who was currently hovering in the partially-intact doorway, the woman pointedly keeping her distance. 

  "Wasn't sure how fighty you'd be when you woke up." She said by way of explanation, "you looked like you'd been through hell."

  "Where am I?" Danse rasped. 

  "At the O'Brian homestead, just a little ways south of that Oberland settlement. How do you feel?" She queried.

  "I…" Danse paused, taking a mental inventory. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. His face and shoulders were, admittedly, worse. Bandages pulled at his shoulders, the fabric wrapped over and under his arms. "I'm in pain, but the levels are manageable." He muttered, struggling to swing his legs over the side of the bed. "I have to-"

  "Whoa whoa, hold it! I did a lot of work getting you all fixed up, you're absolutely not movin'!" Mrs. O'Brian scolded him, waving her hands in front of her like Danse was a rampaging brahmin. "You are going to sit and heal, so help me God, if I have to strap you down to do it!"

  "Citizen, you don't understand . Having me here puts you in danger." Danse's brain finally caught up with the rest of him as he remembered, "you have children , a family, innocents--I shouldn't be here." He said in a panic, trying to stand again.

  M7-97 .

  Mrs. O'Brian scoffed, stomping over to the bed and giving Danse a careful shove in the middle of his chest. He was immediately knocked prone, his back hitting the mattress hard enough to make him grunt. "Don't give me that shit, Mr. Paladin. You're all kinds of banged up and you're not goin' anywhere ." She instructed him firmly. "Trouble might have been followin' you before, but you've already been out for two days and we haven't received any visitors."

  Danse blinked dully up at her. Two days . His stomach growled abruptly, hunger pangs digging in on top of everything else.

  "Now, you just sit tight and I'll get you some noodle soup, alright?" She patted his arm calmly, a fair contrast between her previous attitude. "If trouble comes, then trouble comes. Until then, we'll focus on getting you back to your old self."

  He was almost too weak to move, aside from adrenaline-fueled bursts. Danse felt anxious, skittish, frantic . What the hell was he going to do?

  He had to leave. But where could he go? He could return to the Capital Wasteland. Or maybe he should head north instead, run to the untouched expanses of Maine or the mountains of Vermont. 

  He had to leave. He couldn't stay here.

  M7-97 .

  He should be dead.

  "Mrs. O'Brian," He began carefully when she returned with the soup. "You don't grasp the danger of this situation. I'm a s…" His voice hitched. "A...a synth ." Danse finally forced the word out, speaking it aloud and solidifying it as reality. His empty stomach pitched violently.

  "That's nice. You can just call me Katie." The woman replied absently, patting his hand. "Should we get in touch with the Railroad?"

  " What? " Danse asked incredulously. " How can you be so nonchalant about this? I should be dead , I'm a monstrosity -"

  "Mr. Paladin, what you are right now is a hungry and scared man. So hush up and eat your soup." Katie interrupted Danse gearing himself into an elaborate diatribe. "If you were supposed to be dead, you would be." Her eyes were almost as green as Brandis', and she narrowed them at him. "I don't doubt that if you could have done the job yourself, you would have. And since you haven't ," she continued pointedly, "I'm going to assume you won't."

  Danse mulled over her words as he slowly consumed the soup, more water than broth and noodles. She was right, he realized. He was too afraid to end himself, and too cowardly to wait to be destroyed. 

  M7-97 .

  What the hell was he going to do?

  …

  He tried to slip away the following night, but his attempt was foiled by Mr. O'Brian's watchful eye. That and the fact that he was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Hell, just tying his boots up had almost made him pass out. He knew deep down that it was idiotic to attempt to leave while he was in such a sorry state, but he kept imagining the sound of vertibirds drawing near and the fear that the O'Brians could be in danger because of him kept him from getting any meaningful rest.

  The older man startled Danse out of his skin when he cleared his throat from his shadowed spot beside the door. "I had a feelin' you might try somethin' dumb like this." He remarked, shaking his head while Danse cast wildly around for a way to explain his current ambulation. "Have a seat, big fella'."

  "I can't stay, Mr. O'Brian. If the Brotherhood-" the paladin began desperately.

  "Call me Tom, Danse. I'm of the impression that we're in this together now. If trouble finds you, then it finds you." Mr. O'Brian interrupted him, inadvertently echoing his wife's sentiments. "Personally, if it was me in a jam, I'd much rather I was surrounded by people that care about me when trouble comes callin'."

  "I'm trying to leave so that you don't need to get involved-"

  "No, you're tryin' to leave because you're hellbent on runnin' from this problem." Tom's expression was sharp in the warm glow from the lantern. Danse had no idea whether Mrs. O'Brian had told her husband that their unanticipated guest was a synthetic freak . "You wanna' get the hell out of here, maybe go back to the Capital Wasteland and pretend like nothin' happened. But the weight of the truth is heavier than any sin, Mr. Danse. You'll figure that out. I hope for your sake it's sooner rather than later."

  "Mr. O'Brian, I...I don't know what to do ." Danse admitted softly, sinking down into the rickety chair beside the other man in defeat and putting his head in his hands. Everything ached. 

  "I can tell, son. You're all tangled up like Katie's balls of yarn. I don't have the answers for you. All I know is that runnin' away only prolongs the trouble." Mr. O'Brian rose slowly, muttering about his old knees. He clapped a hand on Danse's shoulder in passing. "The O'Brian family doesn't give a flying fuck one way or another about whether you're a synth, got it? And if anyone else in the Commonwealth has any sense left in 'em, they'd be wise to follow suit."

  Tom left him to think beside the door, and Danse was there until sunup the following morning.

  ...

  The O'Brians homestead consisted of an acre or so of land and an old, half-collapsed commercial brick building just outside of Forest Grove Marsh. Danse had apparently crash landed on their proverbial doorstep that fateful morning, though he didn't remember much after he had passed out.

  Tom and Katie had eight children, four sons and four daughters of varying ages. They ranged from the eldest, a boy named Eamon who was nineteen, to the youngest, a tiny girl named Siusan who was almost a year old. Between them was Thomas Junior (known strictly as Teej), then came the triplets of Connor, Matthew and Bridget, and the twins Kathleen and Fionnula.

  Danse had never had such a difficult time remembering names, consistently stumbling over Fionnula while the three-year old patiently coached him. 

  It didn't help that Connor and Matthew looked exactly alike, as did Kathleen and Fionnula. Bridget at least wore her hair longer than her identical brothers, so that gave Danse a fighting chance amongst the triplets. 

  Eamon was tall and lanky like his mother, while 'Teej' was on the stockier side like his father. All of the children were freckled and sported either blue-black or dark brown locks, further adding to Danse's predicament. 

  As the days turned into weeks and the paladin slowly regained his health, he found himself automatically settling into the schedule of the O'Brian family. It was comforting to have a routine. Maybe that was the military in him. Rise before daybreak, milk the brahmin, gather the laundry, weed the crops…

  His nose mercifully healed as good as new. No visible damage remained aside from a small mark at the peak of the bridge, right between his eyes. His shoulders were much the same, functional even though they were now graced with long, jagged lines of scar tissue from where the power armor frame had collapsed. Danse knew he was incredibly lucky to have escaped from a deathclaw so unscathed. 

  Tom managed to find a few old pairs of jeans that would fit Danse somewhat after the paladin expressed his concern at his threadbare jumpsuit. "From my younger days!" The older man claimed, tugging Katie close and planting a kiss on her cheek. "Back when I had to stay in shape so that my beautiful bride wouldn't grow tired of me."

  Katie chuckled, swatting Tom's arm. "If you thought a few extra pounds would scare me off, you don't know me very well." She teased. 

  Clad in blue jeans and a tattered assortment of too-small hand-me-down flannel shirts, Danse almost fit in. Almost. He still held himself a bit too rigid to really get away with assimilation, but Katie assured him he at least looked the part. He was still certain to make himself scarce whenever company came calling, not wanting to bring trouble to the O'Brians.

  He refused to be deadweight to the already-struggling family however, and as he was not exactly gifted in the areas of agriculture and animal husbandry, the paladin quickly fell back on one of the many practical skills he possessed. 

  Hunting.

  Only armed with his service pistol now, the man was up well before dawn on the days he stalked prey. He avoided the roads as much as possible, sticking to the brush. The last thing he wanted was to draw any attention to himself and, in turn, the family fostering him. Occasionally he was accompanied by Teej or Tom, both senior and junior relatively skilled hunters in their own right. Through their combined efforts Danse was able to contribute a bit more protein to the large family's diet, while simultaneously balming the concerns that he had about being a burden.

  Eamon was a quiet, peaceable young man and helped Katie manage the younger children while Tom was away. He was adept at settling squabbles and redistributing toys to keep the peace. Danse couldn't help but picture him becoming a knight and sponsoring countless fledgling initiates. 

  He then felt idiotic for still thinking about young people and children in the Brotherhood way, as if they were all destined to be military assets thrown at the next enemy. Danse slowly forced himself to recalibrate, doing his damnedest to imagine a world where a gentle man could still have a future. Maybe Eamon would be a teacher, or a merchant in tandem with his mother's wares. 

  Matthew and Bridget were all but attached at the hip, the two of them dogging Danse's footsteps and peppering him with questions when he was in the yard or weeding. The paladin had taken over a ramshackle trailer that sat across the road from the homestead as 'his', and the two children were always eager to visit as soon as he sat down on the front step in the mornings with his cup of coffee. Connor was a little more shy, hanging back from his outspoken siblings. 

  Bridget was the first one to demand that Danse show her how to shoot. "Papa won't. He says I have to be twelve." She huffed. "But I'm almost twelve, and that's like being twelve."

  "I'm sorry, little one. I can't go against his orders." Danse tried to soften the blow by asking her to teach him how to do something, which was how the paladin found himself learning how to make a poppet out of dried corn husks. Not exactly a practical skill, but he supposed he could do with a few less conventional lessons. 

  Connor actually approached him while he was being instructed, the normally-timid boy offering him a few pointers to make the task a little less challenging. "I'm not good at braidin' like Brigey, so I gotta' hold the ends real tight." He mumbled, tiny hands miles more deft than Danse's had ever been pushing and pulling his fingers to get the arms of the doll tucked properly.

  Bridget praised Danse just like her mother praised her when she accomplished something, and the paladin got a little misty at the notion that his own tendencies towards praise while he was in the Brotherhood might have made a few of the aspirants more inclined to be encouraging to their fellow soldiers. 

  It was hysterical to be supported by a child for his proverbial 'field work', but the way Bridget's little brow furrowed sternly told Danse that she was deadly serious and he should take her as such. 

  "You are very patient for someone your age." Danse commented, holding up his latest attempt for her inspection. 

  "We gotta' work together, Mr. Danse. Mama says I'm the strong one, Matt's the brave one and Connor's the smart one." She replied, squinting at the length of husk he had tied around the body of his little creation. "Almost! You're getting better and better." The thin girl clapped her hands like she was applauding him and Danse couldn't help his sad smile.

  "Show me again, please?" He requested.

  …

  Vega had no idea how many days it had been. 

  After Rhys had brought Brandis' evening meal (and snuck Vega something in the process), the knight had whispered that Maxson seemed to be waiting for something when it came to dealing with the two 'dissenters' in the brig. 

  "Not sure if he's trying to use her to draw the Institute into attacking us directly? I just don't get it." Rhys swallowed hard, glancing over his shoulder before continuing, "According to our field reports, Danse is dead. They bagged him out in the Sea and incinerated his body."

  Backhand had been expecting this news, but hearing it aloud felt like a kick to the stomach. She sobbed out once before she could help it, drawing Rhys' attention back to her. 

  " Fuck , Vega, I'm so sorry." The knight apologized tremulously. "He sponsored Haylen and I, he was fucking selfless and loyal to the cause. I don't...God, I can't believe he's gone."

  "Rhys, this cannot be allowed to continue." Brandis declared, "we are being held without trial, without evidence! Maxson has no right to-"

  "Anyone who questions his judgement is threatened with the same treatment Vega is getting." Rhys interjected dully. "None of us know what the hell to do , Brandis. The consensus is that we need to forcibly eject him, but no one person seems to have the balls to do it." The knight tipped his head forward in shame. "Not even me. If something happens to me, I don't know what might become of Haylen and I...I can't risk it. I'm sorry, Brandis. And Vega, you don't deserve this shit."

  "Don't apologize, son. I'll...I'll figure out something." Brandis replied sadly, letting the knight re-shackle him as loud footsteps heralded Maxson's approach to the brig.

  "Out of the cell, Knight Rhys." The elder ordered sharply, his voice sending a new frisson of scalding fury through Backhand's battered body. 

  He killed Danse .

  "Maxson, how long do you plan to stand on ceremony like this?" Brandis queried as Rhys obediently departed. "This is not justice! "

  "I see the knight forgot to gag you again." Maxson shrugged. "No matter. Nothing that you say will have any real impact." He tugged open the cell door and sauntered in, standing over Vega's crumpled body. "We slaughtered that abomination out in the Glowing Sea." Maxson chuckled in a self-satisfied manner. "It thought it could run from us."

  Backhand squeezed her eyes shut tight against the hot wave of tears that threatened to spill over, forcing herself to focus on the rage instead. "You're a real prick, Maxson." She rasped.

  Maxson caught her arm and roughly yanked her upright from the spot where she had collapsed previously, gripping her shoulders in a pantomime of a caring embrace. "We incinerated it and cast its ashes to the wind." The young man answered smugly, those cold blue eyes boring into her own when she mustered up the strength to raise her head.

  " You ," Vega seethed through her teeth at the elder of the Brotherhood, "were a fuckin' god to Danse, know that? You could do no wrong in his eyes. And you killed him ." The reality of it hadn't wholly set in for her yet and she clung to the rage she felt, nurturing it into a grudge in her chest. "But you're not a god at all, are you Arthur? You're just a scared little brat who got too much power too soon." She spat.

  Maxson ground his teeth, grabbing her by the throat yet again and slamming her back against the bars of the gate. "Keep testing my patience, Vega, and we'll see who the scared one is!" He roared in threat as she struggled weakly in his grip.

  ...

  The celebration dinner for Siusan's first birthday was surprisingly elaborate. The entire house was decorated with garlands of hubflower and ash blossom, painstakingly woven together by Matt and Connor. Katie had been baking with Eamon and Kathleen for the past two days, stockpiling a variety of sweet treats for the youngest family member's fête. 

  Danse, for his part, had done his best to stay out from underfoot. He helped Tom move several of the old tables together, and obediently smoothed the wrinkles out of the faded purple tablecloth that Katie asked him to cover the tables with. 

  Vega never even got to have this with her son , he thought somberly. No birthdays, no celebrations...nothing. First the divorce and then the war, one right after the other . 

  It was a saddening topic to think about and Danse found himself distracted by it. The fact that she had been so thoroughly robbed of raising her child, despite her oft-voiced trepidation of whether she was a good parent...

  Well, there was nothing he could do about it, was there?

  That night Siusan sat on her mother's lap at the table, staring wide-eyed at the child-sized mutfruit pie that was just out of her reach while everyone in the family sang her Happy Birthday .

  Danse hung back in the doorway, feeling a little awkward until Katie urged him in. Fionnula immediately clamored that Danse had to sit next to her. Sandwiched between Kathleen  and Fionnula, Danse slowly relaxed enough to smile and even laugh once or twice, his own attitude affected by the collective high spirits of the O'Brians. It reminded him of being at Sanctuary and with a melancholic pang, he recalled the simple meal he had shared with Elizabeth and her makeshift 'family'. 

  Not a day passed that he didn't think about her. Her smile, her voice, the pleased flush she got when he praised her performance in the field, her selfless nature... 

  Danse had convinced himself that she was better off without him, though. The Brotherhood would allow her to achieve her future goals of totally breaching the Institute's defenses, hopefully letting her enact that master plan of freeing any synths that wished to be freed. He just prayed that the Brotherhood wouldn't override her and decide to wholly eradicate the Institute instead. 

  Maybe once he got himself far away from the Commonwealth, he could send her a message. Something simple that wouldn't compromise her position. Would she even care, though?

  Danse, lost in thought about Elizabeth once again, didn't notice the young man looming in the front doorway for several minutes. Not until Tom called, "Garvey! You're just in time for pie, pull up a chair!"

  Preston removed his hat politely and Danse felt his heart plummet to his boots. "Evening, Thomas. Katie. I'm afraid this isn't a social call." Lieutenant Garvey said calmly. "I'd like to speak with you outside, Paladin." His eyes were flinty despite his mild tone. Dogmeat was at his heel, the large German shepherd's ears flat against his skull.

  Danse surprised himself by nodding, the paladin rising from the table with a murmured apology. "I'll return shortly." He promised Matthew, the little boy looking like he might pitch a fuss. Danse then followed Preston outside, barely resisting the urge to jam his hands into his pockets and hunch his shoulders like a squire waiting to be scolded.

  What he didn't expect was Preston's next sentence. "Alright, where the hell is she?"

  Danse blinked at the other man, suddenly confused and off-balance. "I don't understand." He said finally.

  Preston huffed angrily, "The general , Danse! She's been missing for weeks now, ever since you and your little tin soldiers were all getting prepped for heading to the Sea!" 

  Danse was sure all the color had drained out of his face. Was he going to pass out? Did something like him even have the ability to pass out? No, no, he had been unconscious before. But did that count as actual unconsciousness-

  He grabbed the side of the building to steady himself, his voice shaking when he pleaded with Preston to explain. Dogmeat whined, licking at Danse's hand.

  "How the hell do you not know?! She went missing on your watch!" Garvey protested. "She hasn't been seen at all, Danse. Not at any settlements, not around the airport... nothing . It's been a big fat radio silence."

  "Oh my God." Danse's voice was frail. 

  "You...you really didn't know, did you?" Preston asked incredulously. "What are you even doing out here anyways? Shouldn't you be at the airport with the rest of your troops? I thought Dogmeat's nose had busted when he led me here ." 

  Danse opened his mouth, then hesitated. The reality of being a synth was something he was still trying to come to terms with, but lying to Garvey would no doubt make everything worse. "Lieutenant Garvey, I must confide in you." He fixed his attention firmly on Preston's boots. "Some information was discovered after the first journey into the Institute. Something pertaining to me. I of course, was not made privy to such information before we had departed for the Glowing Sea, but another individual of the Brotherhood managed to tip me off in time. When last I saw Vega, she was returning to Waypoint Echo on foot per the elder's orders. After we were separated, I...I was fired upon." He said gruffly, the words filling him with a morose sensation.

  "Whoa, wait a minute. Danse are you saying you're a-" Preston lowered his voice, "are you saying you're a synth? " His heart hammering in his throat, the paladin raised his eyes to Garvey's and nodded wordlessly. "So what happened in the Sea, then?"

  "We reached our target and cleared the area without incident. She was under orders directly from Elder Maxson to report back immediately once the area was secured. I was tasked with guarding the munitions. I was attacked by my own troops, so...I fled." Danse confessed. 

  " Damn . That is...that's a lot , Danse. She had to report straight back?"

  Danse nodded. "Correct. Maxson was very firm on that."

  "You don't think your elder guy would have...I dunno', locked her up or something?" Preston suggested, pointing out, "You disappearing probably looked pretty bad. She'd be a suspect."

  The paladin swallowed hard, this new realization crushing down on him. "I had not considered the ramifications my sponsorship would impose upon her." He rasped. " God , Garvey, I didn't think...I didn't...I thought I was doing the right thing. Hell, I should have let myself be slain. I'm an abomination , I'm everything that I signed up to eradicate. Of course they would--God, I'm so sorry, if they suspect her, I..." His thoughts were a tangled mess, loping this way and that.

  "Don't be sorry yet." Preston grumbled. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Danse? She's the only way into the Institute. I can't just let her cool her heels on that fancy balloon, not when we're so close to taking the Institute down!"

  "If I had my armor, I might be able to sneak into the airport. But I don't." Danse said unhappily, burying his fingers in the thick ruff Dogmeat sported. "If I go anywhere near there without some sort of protection, they'll just gun me down. Kill on sight."

  "Now's not the time to consider a sweeping policy reform, unfortunately. If we got you a suit…" Preston trailed off, then changed the subject. "Pack whatever you have. You're coming with me."

  "Right now?" Danse asked. 

  " Yes , right now!" Preston retorted sharply. "The hell is wrong with you, man?"

  "I just...I'll need to say goodbye, that's all." Danse felt immensely awkward, but he pressed on, "The O'Brians have been extremely kind to me during my prolonged stay in their residence."

  "Oh. Oh . Okay, yeah. Go ahead. But make it quick!" Garvey blustered, jamming his hat down a little.

  Danse crept back into the O'Brian family dwelling, his footfalls muffled by a rousing rendition of The Ants Go Marching that Siusan was enthusiastically enjoying. This struck Danse as odd, seeing as how the only ants he had ever seen were the size of stray dogs. And why on earth would ants trouble themselves about the rain? Most of the irradiated insects seemed to love it.

  He managed to catch Tom's attention and pull him off to the side, explaining in low tones what was happening.

  Tom surprised him by punching Danse lightly in the chest. "I'm shocked it took you this long to get your head straight." The older man chuckled. "Go get her, Danse. Paladin Danse."

  ...

  The trek to the Castle, or rather Fort Independence, took almost six hours. Preston avoided a majority of the destroyed roads, the both of them tensing up every time they heard the whirring blades of a vertibird approach. 

  "They shouldn't be able to see us without using the searchlights." Danse informed Preston as Dogmeat flitted behind the supports of a ruined overpass. "They have no methods of thermal detection."

  "I'm still not taking any chances." Preston grumbled. " I've got people counting on me, Danse." Danse fell silent at that, just following after the Minuteman and keeping his mouth shut. 

  I've got people counting on me .

  Once upon a time, that had been Danse. An example to his brothers and sisters, the pride of the Brotherhood. Now, he skulked through the darkness like a fugitive. A traitor to his cause. A liar, by omission or by ignorance. A fraud . 

  Danse wiped at his eyes, frustrated with his own weakness. How the hell was he such an emotional wreck? He was a machine for God's sake. It was hardly fair that everything in him was screaming that he was human when he had already been backhanded with the empirical evidence to the contrary.

  M7-97 .

  He gritted his teeth, exhaling through his nose. He didn't have the luxury of contemplating his humanity at this point in time. Maybe someday, once everything had sunk in, he would be able to examine himself from a critical stance. But for the moment, it needed to be compartmentalized. 

  "If I cannot reacquire the general," he began cautiously, "perhaps I can still be of service. If I am a synth, maybe there's a way for me to…" A lump rose in his throat. "Return, I suppose? Breach their defenses accordingly?" 

  Preston hummed thoughtfully. "Vega did mention a synth reclamation department. And coursers , the guys sent out to reclaim the escapees." He shuddered, his grip tightening on his musket. "She had to put one of those bastards down to get what she needed in the first place. It was brutal. She said he almost killed her. I guess they're made for hunting synths or something?" 

  Danse felt sick to his stomach, remembering Vega talking about the courser mourning the loss of his friend. "Well, we have the option," He muttered, "should the need arise. Proctor Quinlan often said that the best edge is the unexpected one."

  The walls of the Castle solidified against the night sky and Danse caught the scent of the sea on the breeze, the smell refreshing his memory of finding Vega half-dead in the Minutemen's crumbling excuse for a fortress. It appeared that they had done extensive renovations since his last visit, however. 

  "Well well well, look what the lieutenant dragged in!" Sturges chuckled without humor from beside the outermost guard tower, his eyes uncharacteristically narrowed. Danse didn't miss the way his grip on his old rifle tightened. "You've got some explainin' to do, big fella'!" The cheer in his voice was decidedly hostile. 

  "Stand down, Sturges." Preston said wearily. "We need your help. You still got that suit you were working on?" 

  Sturges chewed on his answer for a moment before he finally nodded. "Garvey, you'd better not be suggestin' what I think you are." He gestured up at Danse with the hunting rifle. 

  "We don't have a lot of options, Sturges. He's been kicked out of the Brotherhood." Preston replied curtly. 

  Sturges did a double take. "You uh, wanna' run that by me again sir? The holiest of rollers was kicked out? What the hell did you do? " The mechanic asked Danse incredulously.

  Danse swallowed hard. "It would appear that I am...less human than I had been led to believe." He stated, trying to choose his words with care. 

  "Well, physically anyway." Garvey tacked on grudgingly. 

  Sturges' mouth curved into an 'o' as the truth dawned on him. " Ho then. That uh, explains that. Damn. Damn . But...shit. So where the hell is the general?" He muttered, as if to himself.

  "According to Danse, he's been on the run since their foray into the Glowing Sea. That was also the last contact he had with General Vega." Preston explained. 

  "I've heard about how damn wild the Brotherhood gets over synths. How the hell did you even escape?" Sturges queried, his tone suspicious.

  Danse cleared his throat. "One of the soldiers I sponsored tipped me off right before we set out into the Glowing Sea. Scribe Haylen saved my life. Originally I assumed that Vega was to be my executioner, but it turned out that she had orders from our elder to return as soon as we have verified the location." Danse paused. "We were separated and shortly thereafter, the Brotherhood attempted to end my life."

  "Just like that?" Sturges gawked. "How long you been Brotherhood, Danse? Good ten years? Fifteen? I can't even believe that shit. Pitched to the wayside on account of some fuckin' speculation!"

  "Not speculation, if Scribe Haylen's information was accurate." Danse corrected the other man. "My DNA matched the DNA of an escaped Institute asset known as M7-97."

  " Escaped , though. So you're a Railroad refurb like me, you ain't some shitbag infiltrator unit!" Sturges protested, ushering Preston and Danse further into the courtyard. "How could they just try to snuff you? Brotherhood's gone balls-deep this time."

  Danse hadn't actually thought about it like that, but he supposed it made sense. He wouldn't have been listed as escaped if he was assigned to infiltrate the ranks of the Brotherhood, that wouldn't make any sense. It was almost a relief to realize that maybe, just maybe there hadn't been some ulterior, coded motive behind him joining up with the Brotherhood. That and the fact that there wouldn't have been someone he was replacing.

  So for all intents and purposes, he was the original and only Paladin Danse. A comforting thought.

  Sturges wasn't done though. "If you're here and Vega ain't, that means your boys in armor have her. If she ain't dead, of course." The mechanic mused. "Might be that they thought she was in on your little secret and capped her instead of botherin' with interrogation."

  "I would greatly appreciate if you would not suggest that Vega is dead, Sturges." Danse's palms started to sweat, his breathing rough for a moment. Calm down, calm down .

  "Well I'd greatly fuckin' appreciate if she wasn't dead neither, big fella', but until we know for sure…" Sturges shrugged. "Anyway, to work. Got a real cherry suit here, a little pet project of mine, and if you're goin' to that airport, I imagine you'll want some protection."

  "I'll need it just to get near to the damn place at this point." Danse mumbled.

  Sturges' grin was a little less hostile this time. "I think you'll like your chances."

Part Fifteen

[cherry-sofa-729]

Molt

Another fic! This one mentions sex and describes spiders and spiders moulting (also I spell moulting with a U I’m Canadian get over it)

———————

Moulting. The bane of Virgil’s existence.

He rolled over and checked his phone calendar and groaned. He wasn’t supposed to to moult for another two weeks! He didn’t wanna be in pre for two weeks!

But he knew what was happening, and he couldn’t ignore it. He already wanted to make a web mat. And now he knew why his appetite was insatiable the last few days, he had been building up his food reserves.

His mind flashed to him eating uncooked rice at 2 am like little crunchy boys. Yeah. Building up food reserves.

Would there be enough space in his burrow for a web mat? Probably, right? And he could web up the entrance so no one disturbed him…

That sounded super good right about now. But so did not moving at all.

Being half human half tarantula, he often had to battle his animal instincts with his human sensibility. For example…

Virgil flopped over and ran a hand over his stomach, trying to gauge if he was hungry. He wasn’t, but his human half was telling him it was breakfast time.

“Knock knock Virgie! It’s Patton and it’s almost noon so, time to get up.”

He rolled back onto his stomach, spider legs flexing and twitching to roll off the blanket and pick him up. With the legs crawling along his feel didn’t even touch the floor.

He grabbed a pair of skinny jeans and his usual hoodie, deciding to skip an undershirt that day. He pulled off his thin undershirt and sweatpants and slipped on his hoodie. He was glad all his clothes had holes for his legs to get through, and he was a master of getting them on.

Then he went to pull on his skinny jeans.

“God dammit.” He mumbled, trying to force them up over his hips and more importantly, his ass.

Why did has abdomen, or in human terms, his ass, have to swell up so much?!

It wasn’t enough to be noticeable, unless you regularly stared at his ass, in which case, creepy, but it was enough to make his skinny jeans impossible to get on.

He threw the skinny jeans to the side, balling his fists before heading to the mirror.

He knew it was bad to judge his appearance on his pre moult form, but he couldn’t help himself.

After staring at his slightly chubby stomach for far too long, he twisted around, trying to see his ass. He frowned. He was so fat…

He rolled his shoulders, his moult didn’t feel too bad right now, but it was certainly tight.

He rubbed his face, tired of the thoughts running through his brain and the anxiety of facing his friends like this.

But he found a pair of loose sweatpants that reminded him of when he used to moult with the dark sides. Days of lounging in his burrow, ignoring Janus’ and Remus’ well meaning attempts to care for him. At least Jay understood, as he had to shed his scales. But Virgil’s didn’t itch like Jan’s did, rather felt crusty and hard. But that was later.

“Virgil? Cmon kiddo you must be hungry! And you don’t wanna miss the video game tournament Roman’s set up.”

“I’ll be out in a minute Pat.” Virgil said.

“You said that last time. That was an hour ago, kiddo.”

Really? God, Virgil lost track of time. If only he wasn’t so spacey like this.

“Sorry, Pat. I’m just… a little unfocused today.”

“Oh! Are you alright, Virgil?”

“Yeah yeah. Just… spacey. I’ll be down… right now.” He opened the door and tried to smile at the freckled face below him.

Patton gave him a big grin that only faltered slightly as he looked at him. “Eyes out today, huh?”

Virgil rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t bother to hide his eight eyes today, he knew Patton didn’t love them, but still.

“And no skinny jeans! You must be tired today.” The more Patton talked the more Virgil wanted to be left alone. He wanted to curl in a little ball in his burrow and not move.

“Cmon! I’ve got lunch for you.”

The two went downstairs and Virgil grabbed the sandwich sitting on the table. Logan was eating a salad beside him and reading a book at the same time. However, when Virgil sat to eat, he put the book down and smiled.

“Virgil. Good afternoon. You had quite an extended rest.”

“I was mostly staring at my ceiling.” He mumbled, trying not to gag at the smell of food. He pulled a bit of bread off the end of his sandwich and even that was a lot.

Logan’s brow furrowed as he watched Virgil pick at his food. “Are you adequate, Virgil?”

“Huh?” Virgil shook himself awake. “Sorry, Lo. I’m fine.” He tried to take a bite of sandwich only to stop midway, leaving a bite mark in the bread.

Because right then his moult started acting up.

The slight tickle, the sudden overwhelming awareness of the hard crust on his back, Virgil was filled with the urge to slam his back into the chair to shatter the moult.

He compromised with a hard shutter, going on for several seconds. While he was shaking wildly, he threw his moult into the chair repeatedly, trying to right it somehow.

He didn’t register Logan snapping in his face for a moment. He rose from his trance with a final shiver. “Huh?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you have just told me a falsehood. I’ve done extensive research into tarantulas and your current behaviour lines up with a period of time called-“

Virgil slapped a hand over Logan’s mouth. “Shut up!” He spat, looking around the room to see if Patton heard anything. “Don’t say it so loud.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Virgil, there is no reason to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not…” he slumped into his chair as the logical side moved both their lunches farther away from them. His hand went low to trace small circles over his silk glands.

“Are you okay?”

“I wanna make a web.” He blurted, half asleep again. He stayed very still, staring at nothing as he rubbed his silk glands very slowly.

Logan noticed his fingers start to press in and grabbed his wrist.

Virgil hissed, trying to get away.

“Not here, alright? You can make a web in your room.”

He leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry. My brain is so scattered right now.”

“It’s perfectly alright.” Logan stood up and filled a glass of water for Virgil, getting the purple silly straw he knew he liked. “How about we tell the others and then they’ll leave you alone for however long your pre-moult lasts.” He put the glass in front of him.

Virgil grabbed it and began to drink. “It’s gonna be two weeks.” He spoke around the straw in his mouth.

“Oh? You have a schedule. May I see it?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Logan adjusted his glasses. “Are you ready to speak with the others?”

“Yeah, I’m just a little, well, anxious-“ Logan reached out to pat his shoulder.

Virgil saw the hand coming towards him and flung himself off the chair in a panic. “DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Logan looked momentarily shocked before smiling softly at Virgil’s terrified expression. “Ah yes. You will be easily triggered and sensitive. Of course. My apologies, I should not have reached out to you. Now, I believe the best course of action is to inform Patton and your boyfriend.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Are you worried how they will take it?”

“A bit. I know they won’t freak out, but they might… bother me.”

“Remember that whatever happens, I support you.”

“Thanks Lo.” Virgil smiled weakly.

“And I’ll try my best to make sure Patton and Roman leave you alone during this vulnerable period.”

“Roman won’t let me out of his sight if he thinks I’m sick.”

“That may be true, but I’ll do my best. He also won’t leave you alone with your larger-than-usual posterior.”

“Hey!” Virgil snapped, a hand flying to his ass.

“What? I am impartial. I am simply stating a fact.” He said with a smirky grin.

Virgil couldn’t help but blush, but he shrugged it off trying to remain cool. ”Ehh. That might be a stress relief.”

“I thought you were touch adverse during this period.”

“Well yeah, but Roman eating me out isn’t exactly a lot of touch if I don’t want it to be.”

Logan pulled a face, and Virgil burst into laughter.

They gathered in the living room after Logan called a family announcement. Roman and Patton looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

Virgil gulped. He didn’t like the staring. It made his heart pound and his palms sweat.

“I’m, well, I’m moulting.” Curiosity changed to looks of confusion. “Um… I have to get rid of my exoskeleton? The coating on my legs. So, over the next two weeks I’ll be kinda holed up in my room? And I need you guys not to bother me. Don’t even knock, okay? Not even for meals, I don’t eat anything.”

Patton’s jaw dropped. “You don’t eat anything? At all?” As the mind palace resident chef and dad, he hated the idea of skipping a meal.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. That sucks!”

“So you wanna just go into your little cave and… what? Sleep?”

“Disassociate.”

“For two weeks?”

“Yeah. And I’d like to start now.”

Then Roman asked a very interesting question.

“Can we watch?”

It was lucky that Virgil was spacey during this, because otherwise he’d be freaking out.

He scuttled to his closet on thin spider legs, pulling out his extra blankets and pillows for his burrow. There were already some down there, but the more the merrier when it came to pillows and blankets in his opinion.

Patton, Roman and Logan watched his every move.

He set the blankets on the floor as he shoved his bed to the other side of the wall with a loud clang.

Underneath the bed was a hole, that led to the tunnel that led to his burrow.

He couldn’t stop the smile lighting up his face. He grabbed the blankets and descended into the cave.

Virgil’s burrow wasn’t big enough to stand up in, but wide enough to fully lie down and stretch out his spider legs so they wouldn’t get sore. The dirt walls were coated with soft webbing, dirt floor covered in squishy blankets and pillows. A room off of the main room was a completely modern and normal bathroom.

Hey, mind palace has no rules.

He added the ones he brought to the pile, flicking on the orange pumpkin-shaped fairy lights that strung around the room.

As the room filled with soft orange light, Virgil counted his water bottles and made sure his laptop was plugged into the extension cord.

He crawled upstairs and caught sight of his audience, still staring at the hole under his bed.

He waved them forward. “Come. Last change before I seal the entrance.”

A huge part of him roared in anger at letting others into his burrow, his private space. But he knew they were just looking.

“Slide on your butt.” He said as his legs carried him down nimbly and swiftly.

There was hardly enough space for the four of them and Virgil liked it that way. They were forced to stay at the door, peer in enough to see, but not enough to touch.

“Oh wow, Virgil. It’s so cozy!” Patton squealed, careful not to touch the webbing on the walls.

Roman came a little further into the room, reaching out to take his boyfriend’s hand. He pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“Please let me stay with you, my beloved. I won’t stay if you don’t want, but I’d love to help you with anything you need.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed, but it would be nice to have him here. If they didn’t touch too much.

“Okay. You can stay.”

Roman clapped his hands and Virgil plugged his ears. “Roman. Sensitive.”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”

“Go up and get your sword. Patton and Logan, leave.”

They did as he asked, and about halfway up the tunnel Virgil called to Roman again.

“Get snacks for yourself.”

Virgil waited for Roman to get back before webbing up the entrance.

“Oof!” Roman said, smiling as he flopped onto the cushions, throwing a stack of snacks and his sword beside him.

Virgil smiled at him, at his adorable prince. “You wanna watch something cool?” He asked, going about midway up the tunnel.

“Sure.”

Virgil focused, shaking a little before gritting his teeth and letting out a soft whine. Roman flushed from his ears down to his collarbone. And then he watched.

The silk flowed from Virgil’s fingertips, he ran a path from one side to the other, and back. Over and over. Like he was painting. Back and forth, back and forth. Letting out gentle whines to show just how good it felt for him to let out some silk.

The entrance got sealed with fluffy cobwebs. Then, they were layered on thick. Coat after coat of webbing would stop anything from entering his burrow.

Roman watched with awe.

Virgil stopped, out of breath. “That… was good. Always feels good, but that… was good.”

He came back and collapsed onto a pile of pillows. Legs stretching out as far as they could go.

“How are you, my sweet spider?”

“Tired.” Virgil mumbled.

“Nap, my dear. Cuddles?”

He stiffened and shook his head. “No.”

Roman shrugged. “Alright. I’ve got your headphones and laptop to keep me occupied. You sleep.”

Virgil smiled into the soft pillows as he slowly lost consciousness.

Over the next week and a half, Roman left the burrow, slashing through the webs with his sword, but always ended up back quickly.

They watched shows, movies, played video games, and Virgil slept. They made love a couple times, and Virgil disassociated.

Sometimes, when Virgil really needed to be alone he would lay on his back, legs up and eyes closed, and any touch or talk would result in a hiss. Roman left after this usually.

Roman was relaxing after making love once, completely naked and enjoying the sweet sight of Virgil’s perky bubble butt as he searched for his clothes.

“Hey baby, you’ve got a new birthmark.”

Virgil barely paid attention except for a slight hum.

“It’s kinda big and like all over your ass.” He traced the dark brown mark in the air with his finger.

“Oh yeah. It’s like, a temporary spider thing. Their abdomen gets darker in colour before a moult.”

“It also gets bigger right? And firmer?”

“Huh? Uh…” Virgil paused and tired to think of a lie that worked.

“Don’t think I couldn’t tell babe. You’ve got a Kim Kardashian ass right now and I’m loving it.”

“You’ve still got sex on the brain. You better not be getting excited because you’re dealing with it yourself.”

“C’mon. Come cuddle.”

Virgil sighed. “Okay.” He fell down on the cushions, rolled over and hugged Roman tight around his middle. His spider legs inclosed them both in a cage, keeping the world out and them together. “Only for a bit though.”

Roman let out a tired exhale, settling himself in with his arms around Virgil.

This was nice. He thought. It was nice that Virgil trusted him enough to have him here while he’s so vulnerable.

Virgil shifted, settling in, and a sharp pungent scent reached his nose. He scrunched up his face and leaned in to find the source of the smell.

Oh. His boyfriend smelt like a high school boy’s gym room. “Ew. You smell like B.O.”

“Fuck off.”

“Have you brushed you teeth or had a shower in the last few days? Or even changed your clothes?” Roman asked, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“Not really.” He hummed, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the tight, hard feeling of his skin. Roman absentmindedly played with his hair.

“Your hair is real greasy babe.” Roman remarked, wrinkling his nose.

Virgil let out a growl. “I’m not taking a shower. Not until I’m done moulting.” He said, deciding to end the conversation there.

“Can I at least wash your hair.” He didn’t answer, staring off into space. “Virgil? Virgil?”

“Sorry!” He shook his head, snapping himself out of his hazy daydream. “Spaced out again. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. But come on. You leaning up against the bathtub as I wash all the stress from your greasy, dirty hair?”

“Hmm. Maybe it would be nice.”

“It will be great! It’s what you need. A little break.” Roman really just wanted to get the tired, dirty funk off of him.

“Maybe it would be nice to have a full bath.” Maybe he could even fall asleep in the bath, he mused.

“Wonderful. It’s been a week since you started pre moult, you deserve it. And honestly, you reek so bad it’s reminding me of Remus.”

“Hey! That’s mean!” He pouted.

“I’ll run the bath for you my dear.”

Virgil sleepily got up and started stripping, even though he just put clothes on. If anyone should have clothes on it should be Roman, he thought, he’s not the one being bathed.

He let out a big yawn. God, this really zapped all his energy. Hadn’t he just taken a nap after they had a roll in the hay? And he didn’t even top, Jesus. If he had topped he might be passed out by now.

He stumbled into the weirdly human bathroom, straightening up to his full height. He yawned again and gazed at the bubble-filled tub Roman had prepared.

“Not yet, sleepy spider. Teeth first.”

Virgil froze at the thought of toothpaste. He hated, hated the smell of mint. It burned his nostrils and made him seethe with anger.

Roman chuckled and flipped open the toothpaste cap.

The scent permeated the room, or at least to Virgil it did. Explain! His mind screamed, but all he did was back away and let out a feral hiss, plugging his nose. He hated that smell.

“Oh right! Spiders don’t like peppermint. Or mint in general, I guess. I’m sorry my darling. Here. We have a tube of kiddy toothpaste. It’s bubblegum flavoured!”

Virgil hesitantly crept forward as Roman prepared his toothbrush.

“Brush your fangs, love.”

As Virgil scrubbed at his massive fangs and teeth, Roman admired the thick and crusty skin coating his back, stomach and legs. His ribs were showing after not eating for a week and a half, but he didn’t seem any worse for wear.

Roman helped Virgil into the bath, kneeling at his side as he settled himself.

Virgil sighed deeply and closed his eyes, the warmth of the bath seeping into his bones and establishing a home under his skin. He could hear Roman running something through the water beside him and he was startled slightly by the feeling of water running over his hair.

He opened his eyes to see Roman filling up a mug—one that he had clearly just summoned —with the bath water, before pouring it carefully over the back of Virgil’s head. Roman pushed his hand through his wet hair before cupping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Virgil only had a moment to grumble about the touch before Roman whispered, “Shut your eyes, love. Let me worry about everything for now, alright?”

Virgil didn’t really think he could, not when everything was so painfully tense and every noise, smell, or movement gave him great stress. He did as Roman asked, however. It was hard to give up control—especially when he was as stressed as he was—but if there was one person Virgil trusted to take care of him, it was Roman.

The bath passed in a haze of warmth, soap suds, fingers scratching at his scalp and a washcloth running over his skin. Occasionally Roman would murmur something under his breath, but Virgil was too lost in complete exhaustion to really process any of it.

“Come on out, love. You’re all clean. I didn’t bother your moult too much, right?”

Virgil rolled his shoulders and shook his head, it felt fine.

“You can sleep now. Do you want clothes on?”

“Pants, no shirt.”

After Roman got him a pair of comfortable sweatpants, he changed and laid down on the pillows on his back again.

“Roman.” He mumbled, Roman’s ears perking up.

He didn’t wanna say he was sick of Roman’s company, or found him annoying, but he just wanted to be left alone. For a while.

Like for the rest of his moult.

Roman understood perfectly though, more than fine to leave his love to his own devices.

“And… can you like, clear out your shit? Please?”

“But won’t you be hungry after you’re done?”

“I’ll ask you to bring it down again. I just… I need to fully isolate for the next few days, until it’s over.”

“Alright, my storm cloud. I love you. G’night.”

And with a kiss on the forehead, Roman left.

The next four days were spent in lazy half-awake moments between dozing, or staring at the ceiling barely focusing. He no longer felt the need to do anything at all.

Except web. He made himself the softest, prettiest, most perfect web mat ever. Like a hammock of his own silk, it was the perfect bed.

He was lounging on his back when suddenly it hit him. He could get it off now. Might as well get it over with.

He made sure the entrance was sealed before flopping on his back.

His heart pounded as the hard skin down his stomach began to crack. His breathing came fast.

He pushed. And pushed. He arched his back up in an impossibly high curve. The skin, like a vest around his torso, broke at the arm holes, and it suddenly felt much looser.

A little more, Virgil, he told himself. He wiggled, spider legs squeezing in and shaking hard to free themselves of the moult.

“Ah!” He couldn’t stop the noise breaking through his clenched teeth. “Ah!”

His muscles burned as he clenched, trying to squeeze himself through a space much smaller than himself.

Fifteen agonizing minutes, fifteen minutes of shaking and tensing as his heart hammered in his chest, stressed and scared and trying.

Then he flipped, like popping the cap off a coke bottle, onto his stomach.

His tender, brand new stomach.

He scuttled away and up onto the wall of the burrow, looking at the moulted skin with disgust and anxiety.

His breathing relaxed as he realized he was done, finished for another six months.

He slowly, scared out of his mind at practically nothing, moved back down and set himself down on feather-soft pillows, letting his body rest.

He woke up the next morning and texted Roman.

You can come

You CANT touch me

Also I’m naked

Roman was down in a second. He was very quiet. Very gentle as he came down with a bag of barbecue flavoured crickets.

Yes, crickets.

“I know your stomach is probably really weak and you shouldn’t be having junk food but you love these things, and they feed the spider in you, so.” He shrugged and opened the package.

Virgil’s mouth started salivating. It had been two weeks without any food and his stomach was growling. He wanted to pour the entire bag down his throat but he knew that would be messy and probably painful. So he held out his hand.

“You want me to pour you some?”

He nodded, drooling.

“Alright.” He poured a handful of crickets into Virgil’s hand and watched as the spider popped them into his mouth one at a time.

“You look so pretty baby.” He remarked, eyes heavy lidded as he looked at Virgil. The new skin was extremely pale and looked as tender and soft as an overripe peach. He was slim and weak like a precious flower, Roman never wanted to protect anyone more than Virgil right now.

“No touches.” Virgil’s voice was horse. “I bruise way too easily.”

“How long with no touches, my love?” The soft plush skin was simply irresistible.

“A week.”

“Nooooo… a week with no cuddles? How will I survive?”

“Hey! I’m the one who needs to be extra careful I don’t hurt myself!”

“How sensitive are you, my love?” Roman said, wanting nothing more than to snuggle Virgil into infinity.

“Enough that clothes rub really uncomfortably. Wait! You’re ridiculously fancy all the time!”

“Yes.”

“Could you make me something silk? Something that won’t irritate my skin?”

“How about I line your hoodie with silk inside?”

“Pants too?”

“Sure. There. Get dressed, baby.”

“Oh that feels really nice. Thanks.”

“Let’s go get some real food in you, love.”

Roman looped a hand around Virgil’s waist and the spider leaned his head on his shoulder.

They two climbed out of the burrow, and Virgil was very, very glad he didn’t have to deal with that for another six months.

[saint-eridell]

TdMo fluff/smut drabble

Oh boy. First post on the new blog.

This is loosely based on the yakuza AU @the-angriestpineapple​, @deadassqueeraf​ and I have been writing. It’ll definitely get expanded at some point, but someone on our main server decided to poke my brain and this fell out. Unbeta’d, we die like men (which means it’ll take forever to get to my AO3, womp womp).

4.1k; Yakuza AU. Shouto and Momo are married, all characters are in their mid-twenties. Story building, lots of fluff, smut toward the end. No major content warnings.

---

It was fairly common for Shouto to wake up for work incredibly early in the morning. His office didn’t technically open until eight, but he was sometimes out the front door at least an hour and a half before that to account for surprise traffic and coffee lines. The unusual part was Shouto waking up incredibly early for two, nearly three weeks straight: every morning, seven days a week, the same chime playing before the sun had even remotely touched the bedroom curtains.

By the end of the third week Momo’s patience had worn down to a wispy sliver pulled taught as a piano string. She’d anticipated her own irritation upon going to sleep the night prior, but hearing Shouto’s alarm go off just before five in the morning pulled what remained of her patience until it snapped with a force that surprised her even in her post-sleep delirium. Her eyelids flew open as she felt Shouto roll over behind her, grunting while he fumbled for his phone to turn off the alarm. She didn’t move with him or indicate she was awake, instead letting him sit up and stretch himself awake in silence as she stared at the dark wall across from her side of the bed.

The mattress dipped soundlessly behind her as Shouto leaned into her to press a tender peck to her cheek, her eyes only barely closing before he leaned into view of her features. He hovered for a moment before a warm fingertip brushed a lock of dark hair off her temple and behind her ear. “I love you,” he whispered, soft and reverent like he never was anywhere else, before sliding away with practiced grace, leaving Momo alone in the bed as he stumped off to take a shower and ready himself for the day.

She grinned into her pillow. Despite the obtuse block of wood that Shouto could be, his tender side was something Momo would never be over and she was a terribly lucky woman for having to all to herself. She loved him beyond the point of finding words to describe it.

Once Shouto left the bedroom, she slowly lurched out of the bed and set herself into motion. She didn’t have to be awake that early on a day off, but she’d resolved the moment her eyes opened that she was going to get a break from that goddamn alarm, no matter what it took. The first step was getting herself ready - a drawn out shower to ensure Shouto had already left the house when she got out, the expensive hair serum she saved for big occasions, clean makeup with a shiny cherry lip and a hint of a sharp jet-black wing. Her hair was blow-dried into a long, flat sheet that hung against the back of the tight red cardigan she plucked from a dresser drawer, along with a dark gray tweed skirt that danced around her hips in loose petal-shaped pleats.

With everything seemingly in place, Momo gave herself a once-over in the floor length mirror that hung next to her dresser. She turned sideways, tracing the curve of her backside where it blotted out a hill of light emanating from her bedside table. Her hands smoothed over the skirt’s intricately woven tweed, the two silver rings on her hand catching the dim light against the dark contrast of the skirt fabric. Her smile returned, soft and genuine. He was caught in that same work rut again. She had do something drastic to break the cycle, and this seemed drastic enough to her.

“Damn, you look good,” she muttered to herself for an extra confidence boost before heading off for the kitchen to caffeinate for the day. Mina was going to be so proud of her.

Lunch was an easy affair to sort. They’d prepared daytime meals ahead of time, a habit Shouto had gotten her into that quickly became a staple of the very limited time they got to spend with each other during the week. That day’s boxes got tucked into a small lunch box lined with cold packs (of course he’d forgotten to grab his lunch again; Momo was going to smack him across the side of the head) along with two melon sodas before she set off for her car. Dinner was already in the slow cooker, the house was immaculate to a level that had to make him chill out, and Momo’s assistant was ready to cover her “sick leave” for up to a couple of days by the time she set off for his office. Perfect. So far, everything was going to plan.

Shouto’s office sat in the middle of a sleek street near the city’s financial district. The block was lined with shiny black mirror glass on both sides, the sidewalk below dotted with an equal mix of suit-clad businessfolk and minimum wage workers husting to their next bus stop. Momo navigated through them to park underneath Shouto’s office building before making her way into the parking level’s elevator, her heels clinking against the concrete that surrounded her until she was encased in steel.

Shouto’s suite occupied the entire top floor of the building. Momo tapped the last button on the panel just inside the lift’s sliding door and waited patiently as it lurched upward, not stopping until she’d arrived at the very top. She snorted quietly. Had he rigged the panel to go directly to his floor when prompted?

His receptionist - Ayame, right - was busy hammering away at her keyboard when Mono sauntered into the waiting area. Her tall boot heels heralded her arrival in staccato taps against the white marble floor, loud enough to get Ayame’s attention, who popped up with a surprised gasp before jolting to her feet. “Ahh, sorry Mrs. To-”

“Momo, please,” she cut in before the receptionist could finish. “I’m not here on official business.” She bumped her hip against the lunch box held at her side. “Just dropping off lunch. Making sure he hasn’t keeled over yet. The usual.”

Ayame sighed in relief, a hand clutched to her chest. “Oh thank goodness,” she breathed. “I thought I’d missed a meeting reminder or something.”

Momo frowned slightly. The poor thing looked like she was about to keel over herself. Her eyes were half-mooned with pale gray circles that pressed too hard into her skin for someone fresh out of college. She’d been working just as hard as Shouto, then. Momo would have to talk to him about remembering that not everyone is a semi-human work machine. For now… “Why don’t you take a couple hours for lunch?” she said softly, offering Ayame an encouraging smile. “Grab some coffee and take a walk around the park. You look like you haven’t breathed fresh air in days.”

Ayame’s surprise and relief were both palpable. She blinked, glancing at her boss’ closed office doors. “I don’t think I should,” she replied quietly. “His lunch hour is about to start, and there are meetings scheduled within the two hours afterward…” She blinked hard, a lightbulb seemingly popping to life between her ears. “I’ll route all calls to my work phone and take a picnic lunch. I’ll be back no earlier than 1:45.”

Momo checked her watch. It was 12:15. “Excellent.” She flashed Ayame a brilliant smile on the way toward the double doors leading into Shouto’s office. “Thank you. Really. I’ll make sure he knows how far out of your way you’re going.”

Ayame snorted quietly, her purse already hung over a shoulder. “You know me,” she replied cheekily. “I work to the bone for my paycheck. This really is the worst, let me tell you.”

Momo laughed in return. She waited for the elevator to close before reaching for the door knobs in front of her, unwilling to let anything else distract them. There was no reason for anyone else to be on that floor for the following hour and a half. Until 1:45, Shouto was hers. She twisted one knob and leaned her weight forward to push the door open, only to jump in surprise when it bumped against the sole of a shoe on the other side.

Shouto blinked back at her through the crack between the door and its frame, too stupid cute for his own good as he visibly tried to parse out what was happening. Momo had known him for over a decade at that point and he’d only gotten cuter over time. Good God, how was he even human? “Uh, hi,” he said, his confusion apparent. He peered around her toward the back of Ayame’s desk. “Did I hear the elevator twice?”

“Yep.” Momo didn’t give him time to investigate. She held the lunch box up and put it between them as she walked forward to make him focus on taking it from her hands while she closed the door behind herself. “Your receptionist is on lunch break and you left yours at home.”

It worked. He took the lunch box and gave her room by stepping back, smiling the whole time. “Thank you, Momo,” he said, eyeing the container with obvious elation. “I would have just had something delivered when I realized it was missing. You didn’t have to come all the way up here just to give me this.”

“Of course I did.” It was a casual day with nothing major planned as far as she knew, but Shouto was still dressed like he was going to meet a room full of politicians. His dove gray button up was rolled to the elbows, the rest of him all clean pressed lines and well tailored hems that hid what she knows to be a deceptively lithe frame. Under the expensive business drag, Shouto was built like an endurance runner. She smoothed her hand over the seam where his neck and shoulder met on the way to press a soft kiss to his mouth. He pulled in a sharp little breath through his nose, but immediately relaxed under her touch as the breath came out in a slow stream. She pushed everything she wanted to say out loud into that one brief kiss - you’re safe, it’s okay, you can relax. It seemed to get the message across, because Shouto’s hands were on her waist just a few seconds later as he eagerly returned the tenderness offered to him.

They pulled back before the contact became anything but chaste. Momo offered him an innocent smile, even as she lingered in his space and played with the pressed edges of his shirt lapel. “Take your lunch break. Please.”

Shouto’s gaze fell to the meager space between them, grip loose and gentle over the points of her hip bones. He looked so… tired. What could have possibly been weighing on him hard enough to make him physically slump over? Did she really want to know, especially if it had anything to do with his “ side jobs”?

“Okay.”

He tilted his head up again, and when he met her eyes again his flickered with sadness. “I’m sorry.”

Momo slipped her arms around his neck to pull him the rest of the way toward her and into a tight hug, their fronts seamed together from the collar down. He clinged back, snaked around her waist like he was afraid she would melt through the floor. That wouldn't do. “Don’t apologize,” she murmured back into the side of his head, her fingers snaking up through his hair on the other side to soothe his scalp with her nails. “You’re doing your job. It’s not your fault things are busy.”

“That doesn’t excuse neglecting you.” He stepped back again, taking the lunch box with him on the way to a massive wood desk sitting in front of the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “My lunch hour is all yours. It doesn’t make up for being so spacy the last few weeks, but I hope it’s a start.” He sets the container down on the desk to open it and unpack their lunch, but Momo quickly follows him and pushes his hands flat against the lid.

“Wait.”

He was still thinking too much, dammit. Shouto did as requested and went still under her touch while she scooted their lunch out of the way and rounded the desk in three long, slow strides. He tracked her every step, confusion warring with a spark of desire Momo fully intended to cultivate as she slid into his personal space again and nudged him back into his chair. He landed in the seat with a grunt and a quiet thump while Momo perched herself on the very edge of his desk in front of him.

“I thought you were coming by to have lunch,” he said plainly, a faint smirk edging across his mouth when Momo’s face pinched into a frown. He was needling back, the bastard. He’d already keyed into what was happening and was playing coy just to get back at her. Fine. At least he wasn’t thinking about work.

She nodded back. “That’s still happening.” Her hands gripped the edge of his desk on either side for leverage as she scooted up to take her weight off her feet, bumping his shin playfully but gently with the toe of a shoe on her way up. Her knees had been pressed tightly together until she hopped up, but once she was seated she let them widen until they were held reasonably wide without being too obscene. Her loose skirt pooled around her lap and across the span of desk between her spread thighs, effectively curtaining any direct view. If this didn’t get him out of work-brain, nothing short of a fan dance with tax forms would.

Luckily, it didn’t come down to burlesque with office supplies. Shout followed the shift of her knees with a slackened jaw, hunger building in his narrowed gaze and the fingers that tightened around the arms of his chair as he pushed himself up to his feet. His desk only increased their height difference by an inch or so, but it felt like he towered over her as his hands found her shoulders and pulled her into another kiss. The suggestion seemed to have gotten his head into the game; the faint edge of teeth pressing into her lower lip parted them and he groaned in appreciation as a callused hand smoothed itself over her lower back.

She hadn’t exactly chosen this life. It was unsaid knowledge that they would end up together before either of them could have even understood the concept. Truthfully, neither of them had been left with much choice. But as he pulled her onto the edge of the desk again in one smooth tug, seaming their laps together so quick it left her breathless, Momo couldn’t help the fondness that swelled in her chest. God, was she lucky to have ended up with him. Under all the coldness and professionalism and deeply-rooted anxiety was a man too kind and sensitive for the ugly world he’d been born into. If she hadn’t been the one “convenient” enough to use as a power consolidation move, would she have ever seen that tender side of him?

They’d barely found a rhythm between their mouths when Shouto broke away to hover at the side of her neck, just a breath away from her pulse. She jumped at the ghost of his breath over her skin, which she quickly realized was just a distraction as Shouto pushed his hands under the tulip hem of her skirt, palms flat to her bare thighs. “Bastard,” she grumbled as she stomped on the urge to squirm. He kept his office ice cold, which meant his fingers were usually about the same temperature in concentrated form.

She could feel his smirk against her neck as his hands trailed further up her thighs. She felt his fingertips poke into her abdomen, right at the bare seam where her hip and thigh met, and when he paused to groan quietly against her skin the urge to squirm became too much. “You planned this out,” he rumbled.

Momo circled her painted nails over the back of his neck. “Indeed,” she admitted while she toyed with the clipped strands at his hairline. “Down to the contingencies.”

He hummed again, deep and low in his chest, the rumble echoing through her as she clung to him harder. His hands were no longer frigid against her when they slid even further up, a comfortably familiar set of puzzle pieces that fit snug against the seams just below the points of her hips. When he met nothing but more bare skin, it hit some kind of switch in him because Shouto dipped to kiss her again with a newfound urgency, his grip tightening at the pads of his fingers until Momo wriggled against the pressure.

When he let go, it was only to slip down to his knees and tug her own over his shoulders. The bell shape of her skirt tented almost comically over his head as his arms bracketed her thighs against his ears, obscured until he audibly huffed and paused to shove the offending garment up toward her stomach.

Momo snorted as her skirt was abruptly jammed upward. “Easy down there,” she chided gently. “I like this ski-”

Her heatless protest was cut off by a sharp inhale as an impossibly hot tongue drags a long, agonizing line up the length of her exposed slit. Just as quickly, any thought she had to preserve her skirt flew out the window. He could have ripped it off her for all she cared (though logic screamed from somewhere in the void that that would be a terrible idea). A near save of throwing an arm back prevented her from losing her balance and falling back against the desk, the heel of her palm landing with a loud thud. His shoulder nudged her leg up far enough for her boot to find his chair and she eagerly took the leverage, his shoulder effortlessly holding the other leg wide.

He set into her like a man starved. It was all Momo could do to sit back and let him ravage her with only his mouth: reflex dictated she navigate them to the floor and re-position herself above his mouth until she was satisfied he’d decompressed enough. As it were, he drank in the praise that bubbled from her with quiet groans and subtle arches of his head into the fingers she had tangled through his hair, set on his task with an intense focus that had Momo nearly falling apart at the seams in what felt like moments.

When his lips locked around her core, there was no way she could have held herself up even if she wanted to. She dropped back to the top of the desk as gently as she could as Shouto nudged her hips upward, splaying her knees even wider than she’d been holding them over the edge of the desk. She buried her face in the crook of a sweatered elbow just in time to muffle the wail he tore out of her as he latched around her again with two warm, thin fingers sunk down to the hilt.

Momo had been on her fingers for long enough that being touched by someone else nearly sent her over the edge. Shout seemed to read her tensing up accurately and withdrew before she could fully commit to her orgasm, leaving her dangling on the edge until she sucked in a breath and forced herself back. When Shouto moved to stand, her sudden scowl only deepened. “What the fuck?” she breathed, but her confusion evaporated the moment she saw his hands go for his belt buckle.

Oh. Oh.

He was on her again before she could fully process the transition. Somewhere off the edge of the desk his belt jingled as he shoved his slacks down toward his knees, his once neatly tucked in shirt a rumpled mess against her skirt where it pooled around her stomach. Their lips sealed together hard enough for Momo to feel it against her teeth, a hand supporting the back of her neck when Shouto buried himself inside her with one hard, seemingly blind thrust.

God, that level of competency shouldn’t be possible, let along legal. Momo wailed again into their open mouths, the noise all but swallowed by Shouto as he allowed her a solitary second to breathe, then moved straight into a demanding pace that had her writhing under the intensity. Their hands tangled together on the way up to either side of her head, where the backs of her hands were unceremoniously pinned down as he fucked her hard enough to make the desk creak under them both.

Obscenities and even more obscene noises echoed around the otherwise silent office as they both approached their climaxes. Shouto looked like he was about to either pass out or fall apart at the seams; Momo encouraged him toward the latter by wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her lower half off the desk to let him go as deep as he could and holy shit she didn’t know he could go that deep. Neither of them lasted more than a few seconds, Shouto bottoming out with a guttural moan that stuttered with his hips. Momo followed him as soon as she felt him fill her from what felt like the core out, her back arched up off the desk in a sharp crescent with Shouto desperately panting into her neck as she warbled out his name.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This was the man she’d fallen for, not the exhausted log she’d greeted at the office door. She couldn’t see his face but she could feel him smiling against her neck, his breaths coming in short bursts that fanned over her throat as he clung to her. “I love you,” he murmured between breaths. “So much. Gonna be better to you, promise. More of this, less of this morning.”

His hands have already begun to wander despite his bearings still clearly being scattered, soothing down her sides and circling her shoulders and seeking out every spot that makes her melt as she slumped against the desk, struggling for her own breath. Even while exhausted and strung out of his mind, Shouto still instinctively nurtured others before himself. The world really was too cruel of a place for people like him.

“It’s not a set of checkboxes,” she reminded gently. Her manicured nails dragged matching paths up the back of his head from hairline to crown, tilting his head into the center of her bosom. Shouto rolled with the touch and settled into her chest, his hands coming to a rest at her sides once she began idly circling through his hair. “It’s the effort that counts. I love you too. I’m not mad, promise. I just miss you.”

Shouto tilted far enough to peer up at her, mismatched eyes still hazy when they found hers from somewhere around the top of her covered cleavage. She hugged him into her chest tighter as it ballooned with fondness again. He hadn’t pulled out yet; he had no right to be that cute. “Let me get through one more call and then we can go home together,” he suggested. “Maybe we can make dinner and watch a movie or something.”

“That sounds great,” she replied before Shouto could have a moment to doubt himself. She beamed down at him, confident and assuring. “But first I think you might want to, uh…”

Shouto’s eyes darted to where their hips were still locked together and jumped with a quiet gasp. “Sorry.” He slowly backed himself away until he was completely free in one slow, almost agonizing slide, Momo’s knees closing within moments so she could haul herself upright and begin adjusting her sweater hems.

“Has anyone told you you’re incredibly handsome lately?”

Shouto froze midway through buttoning his fly with a little choked noise. She watched his eyes widen slightly as he stared at the carpet, his cheeks a slightly deeper pink than they had been when they separated. “Yes,” he said back with surprising certainty. “But it’s still nice to hear.” The smile he shot back at her was disarming to a concerning level, and Momo felt her own cheeks deepen when he fixed her with it.

Bastard.

[sparklydreamies]

Best Shot ~Ch 3

Group: Stray Kids

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 7900+

Summary: Han Jisung, certified quiet boy, has never really understood the hype about love and romance. That is until he has to step out of his comfort zone and onto the basketball court to impress that one person he can’t stop thinking about.

Main themes: highschool!AU, basketball!AU, internalized homophobia, friends-to-lovers

a/n: So much for this fic just being skz, I’m now making it skz featuring the whole JYP family lmao,, I’m so happy about this chapter, the story is finally kicking off ;) Y’all can expect a lot of internalized homophobia because who doesn’t experience that... anyways, thank you guys for taking the time to read this, I’m sorry it took so long, but I am very proud of this chapter!! :))

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 3

Jisung often found it a little bit difficult to fall asleep, but for some reason, it was getting harder and harder. Countless nights that he should have spent in deep sleep were spent scrolling through Twitter and Youtube, simply because it was so hard for Jisung to find a way to shut his brain off. He didn’t know why he found his brain racing during the nighttime. He tried giving up the coffee that he normally drinks in the morning, but all that did was make him doze off during class. 

Not being able to fall asleep every single night causes a certain type of hopeless frustration in someone. Jisung felt himself getting more and more irritated with every passing day of not sleeping nearly enough for a teenage boy. 

Jisung had dozed off during his classes multiple times within the week that he couldn’t fall asleep. He often would find his eyelids getting heavier during important lectures and lessons. He couldn’t help it. 

Jisung’s class was given biology work to complete on their own one day, however Jisung found himself blacking out for seconds at a time. He kept telling himself in his head to wake up, slap yourself, open your eyes, do your work, but it was to no avail. He just kept drifting, and drifting, and drifting...

“Jisung?” Jisung snapped his head upright to the sound of his teacher, Mr. Kim’s voice. “Is everything alright?”

Jisung rubbed his eyes a little bit before straightening himself up in his chair. “Yeah, of course it is,” he said, picking up his pencil, “why?”

“Well,” Mr Kim started, “I’ve been noticing that you’ve been sort of... distant these past few days, I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” 

Jisung nodded his head, “yeah I’m okay, I’ve just been having a bit of trouble sleeping is all,” 

Mr. Kim nodded his head. Jisung figured he understood that since he teaches all sorts of students in higher grades and levels. Jisung thought that almost none of them have good sleeping schedules. 

“Jisung, why don’t you take the rest of the class period to just lay down in the nurse’s office?” Mr. Kim suggested, and judging by the fact that the man was completely blurry to him, Jisung figured it was a half decent idea. That was one of the things Jisung loved about Mr. Kim. One could tell that he really cared about the students that sat in his classroom. Not like most teachers that would just scold Jisung for not sleeping when he should.

So, that is how he ended up on his way down to the school nurse’s office, dragging himself down the slightly dingy and empty hallways of his school. 

The nurse, Mrs. Lee was a nice lady. Jisung had only seen her once before, and that was when he fainted after doing suicides in gym class during his freshman year. 

Mrs. Lee was kind enough to let Jisung rest for a minute on the cot that was in the side room of her office. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, but since Jisung was practically turning into a nocturnal animal, he found it was like sleeping on a cloud. 

Jisung dozed off to the sound of Mrs. Lee scratching something down on her notepad and making quiet phone calls. 

He was woken up about half an hour later by the bell, indicating that it was lunch hour. He had half a mind to stay there and sleep some more since he was so comfortable, but he knew that Felix and Seungmin would be waiting for him. So, with heavy limbs, Jisung rose from the bed, thanked Mrs. Kim, and made his way into the crowded hallways towards his locker. 

“Jisung!” Jisung heard his name being shouted from behind him, and when he turned around, he was greeted with the bright, smiling face of Hwang Hyunjin. Jisung waited for Hyunjin to catch up to him before he continued walking to his locker. “Hey, what’s going on?” 

Jisung shrugged and chuckled a bit at him. “Nothing really, how about you?” 

“Same,” Hyunjin said. The two boys turned down the hallway where Jisung’s locker was. “You look rough today,” he said.

Jisung scoffed at him, “I look rough everyday,” he countered, giving a small giggle.

Hyunjin shoved Jisung a little bit, “you’re not supposed to agree with me,” they arrived at Jisung’s locker, and he began typing in the code to unlock it.

“Hyunjin, you look rough everyday, I just wanted to fit in with you,” Jisung mocked.

“That’s better,” the boys laughed at each other’s childish ways. Jisung thought about how it seemed like they never even had a falling out. “By the way Jisung,” Hyunjin continued, “my mom was really happy when I told her we started talking again,”

Jisung cooed at him, “you talk about me to your mom? That’s so cute,” he teased. 

“Hey, just be glad I didn’t tell her why we started talking again,” he warned. Jisung put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. Jisung really didn’t want the other boy’s mother to know that he had to get driven home from a party, blackout drunk. “Anyways, I wanted to talk to you because she wanted me to invite you guys over for dinner tonight. Are you free?” Hyunjin asked. 

“I mean my dad’s working, but yeah I think we’re free,” Jisung answered. Hyunjin gave him a smile. Jisung had missed Hyunjin’s smile. 

“Great!” he said, clapping his hands together, “I’ll see you guys at eight?” Jisung nodded his head. 

Just then, Jisung heard somebody calling Hyunjin’s name. Jisung looked over to see it was Bang Chan and Seo Changbin. They were both wearing the same red varsity jackets that Hyunjin was also wearing. 

“Hyunjin, you coming?” they called, and Hyunjin yelled a yes back to them. 

“Do you want to come get some lunch with us?” Hyunjin offered, pointing over to where his friends were standing. 

Jisung shook his head, “nah, Felix and Seungmin are probably wondering where I am,” Hyunjin nodded in understanding, “thanks though, maybe another time,” 

“Sure,” Hyunjin agreed, walking backwards towards his friends, “see you tonight!” 

Jisung gave him a little wave of his own. Not only were Felix and Seungmin waiting for him, but Jisung also was hesitant to go because he felt very awkward around most of the basketball team. To him, it was like social class distance. Of course he didn’t feel weird with Hyunjin or Minho now, but the thought of being an outcast in a social situation with boys like Chan, Changbin, Jeongin or any of the other members of the team made him feel nauseous. 

Jisung made his way to the table in the cafeteria where he, Felix and Seungmin always sat. He could see from a distance that the two boys were already there, and obviously in deep conversation. 

When Jisung got into earshot, he heard Seungmin say “Bullshit, Felix,”

“Dude no, I’m being serious!” Felix argued, leaning so far over the table that his chest was close to touching the questionably clean surface. 

“What’s happening?” Jisung asked as he sat down next to Seungmin. 

“Felix apparently got a date with Kim Dahyun,” Seungmin said, shrugging. “I’m calling bullshit,”

“It’s not bullshit!” Felix groaned, “okay so Jisung, picture this,” Felix started, “we’re in first period, right? History. Teacher pairs kids up for a critical thinking activity, and who am I paired with? Oh yeah, Kim Dahyun,” Felix said, emphasizing her name and staring intensely at Seungmin who is trying hard to keep a straight face. 

“So we’re working hard, right? And close to the end of class I tell her that I know this really nice ice cream parlor that’s run by my cousin, and I ask her if she wanted to go with me sometime, and she actually fucking says yes,” he finishes, hitting Seungmin in the side of the arm.

“Felix, Dahyun is a pretty, smart, funny girl, why the hell would she want to go out with you?” Seungmin argued, breaking into a smile closer to the end of the sentence. 

“Because I’m fucking whimsical, that’s why.” Felix answered. 

“If there’s anything I know, it’s that Felix is whimsical as hell,” Jisung agreed. Felix slammed his hand down on the table. 

“See?” he asked Seungmin. 

“Alright fine,” Seungmin gave up, “I guess I just don’t like the fact that Felix got an actual human girl to go out with him before I did, and he didn’t even have to use force,” Jisung laughed at him. Seungmin let out a yelp, “Felix stop goddamn kicking me!” he groaned, lowering himself to rub at his shin. 

“Anyways, Dahyun also told me something very interesting,” Felix said, wiggling his eyebrows at Jisung. 

Jisung waited a beat of awkward eyebrow dancing before asking “what is it, Felix?”

“She told me that her friend, Im Nayeon, got a little bit friendly with one of my good friends, Han Jisung,” he teased. Jisung felt himself blush at the comment. “Oh my god, you’re all red! How come you didn’t tell us?” Felix whined.

Seungmin turned himself a full ninety degrees and faced Jisung. “What the hell, you made out with Im Nayeon? I had a class with her last year!” he said, hitting Jisung in the chest. 

Jisung felt flustered at all of the commotion about this. He never even thought about telling them he kissed Nayeon, he was more focused on the whole situation with Minho and Hyunjin. 

“I didn’t know it was that big of a deal,” Jisung said, trying to shield himself away from Seungmin’s fists. 

“Not that big of a deal?” Felix accused. 

Jisung found it so confusing that Felix and Seungmin were this worked up about it. Jisung hadn’t even thought about the kiss since it happened. Maybe he was just too distracted to let it sink in that he made out with a girl. 

“I’m so disappointed in you,” Seungmin laughed at him. Jisung rolled his eyes. 

The bell to end lunch rang throughout the school, and the boys began to pack their things up. 

“We are not done talking about this,” Felix warned, wagging a small finger at Jisung. 

Jisung sighed. He knew they weren’t.

----

That night, Jisung told his family about what happened with Hyunjin and how they were invited for dinner. Jisung’s mom was very happy that Jisung made up with Hyunjin. She said she was happy that he was being more social, but Jisung knew she was just happy to have a charming and handsome boy like Hyunjin back in her life to fawn over. 

Chaeryeong on the other hand stared at Jisung dumbfounded for a second before racing up the stairs to get herself ready. 

“You know that it’s just casual, right?” Jisung yelled after her. 

She answered back a quick “doesn’t matter!” before closing her door on him. 

Jisung decided to shower and get changed before going over to Hyunjin’s place. He wanted to make a good impression on Hyunjin’s family again, since they haven’t really had a conversation together since Jisung and Hyunjin were freshmen. 

When 8:00 came, Jisung called out to his family members that it was time to leave. The walk over to Hyunjin’s house was filled with Jisung’s mom talking about how nice it would be to see Hyunjin again, and how she’d seen him around the town and he looked even more handsome than she remembered. Chaeryeong was agreeing with everything his mother said, especially with the part about Hyunjin being handsome. 

Hyunjin’s parents were just as welcoming as Jisung remembered them to be. Jisung had always thought of the Hwangs as his second family, and once he arrived, he felt the same level of comfort that he had always experienced when he was a kid. 

Before dinner, Hyunjin led Jisung and Chaeryeong into the living room while their parents talked and drank wine in the kitchen. Much like with Hyunjin’s car, Jisung could easily tell the Hwang family’s wealth from the way they decorate their house. The living room was spacious, with a large TV and a very modern design. Jisung enjoyed being over at the Hwangs. 

“So Chaeryeong, how’s your first year of high school?” Hyunjin asked once they got settled, and Chaeryeong gave him a massive smile. 

“Oh, it’s great,” she said, “I’m really happy that you two made up, I missed coming over here,” Chaeryeong said, and Hyunjin rubbed his neck awkwardly, looking at Jisung.

“Actually Chaeryeong, it’s not that we had a fight or anything, we technically didn’t make up...” Hyunjin trailed off, looking to Jisung for help explaining the situation. 

“Yeah, it was more like we just sort of drifted apart,” Jisung supplied. Chaeryeong nodded her head in understanding. 

“Do you guys want to go outside?” Hyunjin offered, changing the subject, “it’s boring in here,” 

Jisung and Chaeryeong agreed to going outside. The house was stuffy and warm, and it was such a nice night out anyways. 

When they got out into the backyard, Chaeryeong ran over to where she saw Hyunjin’s basketball and basketball hoop. She excitedly picked up the ball. “Hyunjin, you’re so good at basketball,” she complimented. Jisung rolled his eyes at her. “Can you teach me to shoot?” she asked, and Hyunjin smiled and agreed. 

She threw him the ball and he dribbled it on the cement of his backyard three times before raising it, bending his knees and shooting the ball straight into the hoop. Chaeryeong clapped for him. 

“You see, it’s all about balance and aim,” he said, chasing after the ball to show Chaeryeong. “Try this,” he said, and gave her the ball. He explained to her how she should stand, and how she should hold the ball. 

Jisung thought it looked like a scene out of a drama. If he was right, this would be the moment they would lock eyes and fall in love. However, in real life, the boy would let go of her hands and let her try and shoot, which Hyunjin did.

Chaeryeong released the ball, and it flew through the air, hitting the backboard of the net. It bounced back down to the ground and over to where Hyunjin was standing.

“That was really good!” He praised, “you have good aim, you just need to work on your form. There’s a certain technique that you learn over time that helps the ball get into the net instead of just hitting the backboard”.

Chaeryoung agreed with him, and tried again, this time hitting the rim of the net. She was closer this time, but still unsuccessful. 

“Jisung, why don’t you try?” Hyunjin offered, passing the ball to Jisung. 

Jisung took the ball, but was sort of hesitant to try. Jisung was not necessarily a sporty kid, and he knew he would look stupid if he didn’t even hit the backboard. 

“Come on, try it,” Hyunjin coaxed, and Jisung finally agreed to try. “You heard what I told Chaeryeong, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung answered, and Hyunjin told him how to stand properly. 

“Now for your hands,” Hyunjin moved Jisung’s hands so that one was supporting behind and one was supporting the side of the ball. “Perfect, that looks really good, Jisung” 

Hyunjin backed away from Jisung enough to give the boy room to shoot the ball. Jisung concentrated on watching the net, bent his knees, and jumped while releasing the ball like he saw Hyunjin do earlier. 

The ball floated through the air, hit the side of the rim, and bounced into the net. 

“You got it!” Hyunjin praised, patting Jisung in the back with the stupidest grin on his face. Jisung was also smiling. He may not be good at sports usually, but it was nice to feel like he was sometimes. 

“How the hell did Jisung do better than me?” Chaeryeong teased, jogging to go grab the ball from where it fell. 

“Hey you shoot like that, you might as well join the team,” Hyunjin joked, shaking Jisung’s shoulders. 

“Kids, dinner’s on the table!” Jisung heard Hyunjin’s mother yell from the window. Hyunjin yelled back a confirmation, and they began to head inside.

“You know Jisung,” Hyunjin started, “I’m not actually joking about you joining the team,”

Jisung choked on air. “You think that I could join the basketball team?” Jisung laughed at him. “Did you hit your head?”.

How on earth could Jisung play basketball? That shot was obviously beginners luck, he had no actual skill, he barely knew how to play the game.

“I’m serious! Dowoon is out for the rest of the season because he broke his leg, so there’s an open spot,” Hyunjin explained.

“Jesus, a guy from your team is out because he’s injured, and you think that would make me want to join?” Jisung said, disbelievingly. 

“It was an unrelated injury,” Jisung rolled his eyes, “I’m not kidding, it’s too late to have tryouts, and we need numbers to win the championship this year,” 

“Hyunjin, you realize I don’t know anything about basketball?” Jisung leaned against the side of the house and crossed his arms over his chest. “Besides, why do you want me instead of somebody else at school that might actually know how to dribble a ball properly?”

Hyunjin sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, you don’t have to, but I want to be able to spend more time with you now that we’re friends again,” he said, “I can help you- sort of train you if you want, and I already know Minho’s going to like having you on the team,”

Jisung thought about it. For some reason, Jisung wanted to be closer to Minho. He wanted to be Minho’s friend. He also agreed with Hyunjin; he wanted to do more things together. Basketball didn’t seem like that difficult of a sport, you just had to get the ball into the net, how hard could it be? 

“Plus,” Hyunjin continued after a beat, “you don’t even really have to play that much, we really just need another body on our bench,”

Jisung couldn’t believe he was considering playing basketball. He saw the way Hyunjin’s eyes lit up when he was talking about the two of them on the team together. Jisung could see that he was happy. 

“Oh damnit,” Jisung sighed at Hyunjin, “I’ll consider it,” 

“Really?” Hyunjin asked. Jisung saw that his eyes were sparkly and bright. Jisung thought it almost gave Hyunjin an innocent glow. The positivity radiating off of Hyunjin made Jisung smile. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, “Now let’s go eat, I’m hungry,”

----

That night was the first time in a week that Jisung was able to sleep for more than two hours. 

Jisung didn’t know what changed, or why he suddenly was able to shut his brain off, but he was thankful he could. He figured that with Hyunjin trying to get him to join the basketball team it would be harder to sleep, but if anything, that night was the deepest he’s slept in weeks. Maybe it was the fact that Jisung’s brain wanted to fuck him up all week, only to give him the proper rest that he needs on the Friday night, when he knows he won’t be doing anything important on the Saturday.

Jisung knew what Felix and Seungmin would say if he asked them. They would want him to join the team. Not for the thrill of playing basketball, but for the popularity and the girls. All of them knew that the boys on the basketball team could get whatever girl they wanted, but Jisung didn’t want that sort of power. 

He knew what Chaeryeong would say. She would want him to join the team so that she could be known as the girl who’s brother is on the varsity boys basketball team.

He also knew that his mother would be against it. She knows what those basketball boys do. She still vividly remembers her son coming home at three in the morning, blackout drunk. She wouldn’t want that type of lifestyle to determine her son’s future. 

Oddly enough, the fact that his mom would want him not to is what makes Jisung want to join the team the most.

And of course, he knew what joining the team would mean to Hyunjin. Quite frankly, Jisung was touched that Hyunjin would want to spend more time with him so much that he would take it upon himself to teach Jisung how to play an entire sport. Not only just to teach him, but to make him good enough that their team has a chance at winning the championship again, even if he only played a few times all season.

Jisung knew how much this championship meant to Minho, thanks to their conversation the week prior. Jisung smiled while he thought back to that day. He liked the feeling of talking to Minho. He was kind, and he was sweet, and Jisung could tell that he wasn’t the same person that people believed through their little stereotypes. 

It sounded really weird and strange to Jisung, but all he wanted to do was to get closer to Minho. 

Jisung knew that there was no harm in at least trying to fit in with the team. Right?

----

Jisung was torn. On one hand, he didn’t know a single thing about basketball, and he was so afraid to make a fool out of himself and the team if he joined. But on the other hand, he wanted the opportunity to spend more time with Hyunjin and Minho. It was a dilemma. 

The last thing Jisung wanted was to take his focus away from studying. Jisung had always lived by the idea that nothing was more important than school. He had wanted to do a lot of things over the years, but he had never really had the motivation to try. He didn’t want to go through his life without experiencing things, because he was deathly afraid of waking up in ten years to realize that his life had no value. Maybe basketball could help with that. 

Jisung had always been told that the friendships, experiences and memories that were essential to a teenage life could be created by putting yourself out there, taking risks, getting involved and trying new things, but he had never bothered. Maybe he was always just satisfied with his friendships with Felix and Seungmin that he didn’t feel the need to try new things. 

Jisung thought about why he was so hung up on it. Part of him wondered if it was because he was worried that he was missing out on the amazing teenage life that he had always expected growing up. Thinking about it, most of the cheesy high school movies he used to watch glorified the athletes and social butterflies, and called the people that don’t have a lot of friends and don’t belong to clubs the “social outcasts”. 

Minho was a social butterfly. He had girls lined up down the block for him. He never went a weekend without doing something fun. Even though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why, Jisung wanted to be his friend. He wanted to make Minho laugh. Minho was such a desirable friend. 

Jisung thought that Minho was mysterious. Like there were layers to him that nobody could understand. The image that Jisung got about Minho a few weeks ago was so different from the image he got after the party, and then again after they had that conversation after school. Jisung wanted to tear down those fake images he gets about Minho. He wanted Minho to trust him. 

Jisung snapped out of those thoughts. He still had a dilemma. Should he join the basketball team? 

Life is full of risks and opportunities that you sometimes just have to take. 

Jisung sent Hyunjin a text. 

Me: If the offer is still up, I think I’d like to join the team

Me: THAT IS, if you’ll be willing to coach me :))

----

Of course, Hyunjin was ecstatic that Jisung agreed to join the team. The boys agreed to meet up every Tuesday and Saturday, which staggered nicely with the team’s official practices. 

When Jisung told Felix and Seungmin during lunch on the following Monday, they were Hyunjin’s ecstatic times one thousand. 

“You joined the basketball team?” Felix shouted in the middle of the cafeteria, causing a number of heads to turn in confusion. Jisung hid his face in his hands. 

“Yes,” was his small response, “but I’m not really going to be playing that much, so don’t get too excited,” 

Felix scoffed at him. He was grinning from ear to ear, beaming with the new found possibilities of what having a friend on the basketball team could be. “I don’t care if you play one game all season, you are going to be on the basketball team!”

Seungmin pinched Jisung in the arm. “Maybe once you get that nice ass varsity jacket, you can properly ask out Nayeon,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows flirtatiously at Jisung. 

The latter choked on his lunch, “why do you assume I want to ask out Nayeon?” he asked.

Felix gave Jisung a look that was basically asking if he was the dumbest person ever, “because you sucked her face and last time I checked, you don’t have a girlfriend,” 

“That’s because I don’t want a girlfriend,” Jisung countered.

“That’s because you can’t get a girlfriend,” Seungmin teased, laughing and giving Felix a high five. Jisung just rolled his eyes. 

If there’s anything Jisung knew, it was that he could get a date solely based off his looks. He has always been asked out and adored by girls at their school, but no matter how much they tried to get his attention, it wouldn’t make him want a girlfriend any more than he already does. 

“Speaking of girlfriends,” Felix said, “I have my date with Dahyun on Friday,” 

Seungmin laughed as he ate. “Don’t screw it up,” he warned. 

As Felix was cursing out Seungmin, Jisung thought about how happy it makes him that somebody is appreciating Felix. 

The bell rang some time after that, and the boys left to get to class. 

Jisung spent the entire rest of the day worrying about what was to come after school. Hyunjin told him that he should come by and join the team for their practice after school, where Minho will hopefully agree to let Jisung join the team. 

Jisung was terrified, to say the least. He didn’t have any time to learn the basics with Hyunjin, he only knew general rules from elementary school gym classes. Now he’s kicking himself for not taking those pointless classes seriously.

When the bell rang after last period, Jisung felt a spike of anxiety. Thankfully, he had his last period class with Hyunjin, which meant he didn’t have to make his way to the gym change rooms himself. 

“Are you ready?” Hyunjin asked, packing up the last of his notes and shoving them messily into his school bag. 

Jisung was anything but ready. “Yeah,” he answered, feigning confidence. Hyunjin gave him a wide smile, and led him out the door. 

“Nervous?” Hyunjin asked over the sound of the crowded halls. 

“A little bit,” Jisung answered. Jisung grabbed onto Hyunjin’s backpack, trying to stay close to him while they walked through the school’s main hallway. It didn’t help that the walls were lined with lockers, all with students opening and loitering by them. 

“Don’t be,” Hyunjin said, once they turned down the gym hallway. “Remember one thing,” he commented as they walked down the less populated hallway, “these boys won’t bite. They aren’t here to try and push you down, I’ve talked you up really nicely, and I think they are all looking forward to you joining the team,” 

Jisung smiled at him. One of his biggest fears was that these boys would think he was a joke. Hyunjin had a nice way of making him feel calmer. Safer.

“Plus, Minho’s the only one who can make the final decision about whether or not you join, and he’s very non-judgmental,” Hyunjin added on as they arrived at a heavy door marked Changing Room 3.

Hyunjin swung open the door without a second thought, and Jisung followed him in, feeling the wave of anxiety freeze his blood and sink his stomach. 

The wooden bench along the walls of the change room were littered with boys that Jisung had seen around school often. They were all talking while stripping off their school uniforms, and replacing them with the usual basketball uniform. Jisung was surprised to find that nobody even batted an eye at the sight of a strange, skinny, new kid invading their changing space. 

Hyunjin nonchalantly took a seat in the back corner, beckoning for Jisung to follow him. Jisung took the cue, and dodged around the backpacks left on the floor to get to Hyunjin. 

"So we just,” Jisung paused, glancing quickly around the room of teenage boys, “get dressed here? In front of everyone?” he asked quietly, trying to avoid the attention of the unfamiliar boys. 

Hyunjin gave him a chuckle. “Yeah, unless you want to change in the hallway,” he answered. 

The thought of getting changed in front of these boys made Jisung blush. He took Hyunjin’s lead, and slowly tried to wiggle all of his clothes off, so he could change into the set of workout clothes he brought from home. 

“So, what do you think we’ll have to do today?”  Jisung asked Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin took a second to pull his shirt off of his head before answering “Minho is the one who runs the practices. He knows that you are coming though, so I told him not to make it too complicated today,” 

Jisung sighed in relief as he finished getting dressed by tying his running shoes. “You know Hyunjin, I am not even interested in playing that much, I really just want to be... a benchwarmer,” Jisung said. 

Hyunjin gave a little bit of a laugh. “I told him to make it simple for today, but after you begin your training with coach Hwang, I told him you’ll be improving and ready to play in no time,” 

Jisung was shocked at the other boy. “You told him what? Hyunjin, I told you that I didn’t want to really play, I just want to be a spare,”

“And you won’t really play! At least not until you develop the skills,”

Jisung was about to argue back when suddenly, the door to the changeroom swung open, and Jisung saw Lee Minho calling the team into the gym. 

“We’ll talk later,” Hyunjin promised, standing up to leave with the rest of the boys. 

Jisung hurried to catch up with him, “I thought we agreed I won’t be playing a lot! Hyunjin don’t undermine me,” he warned, following a giggling Hyunjin through the double doors and into the gym. 

All of the other boys began doing various warm-ups, stretching their muscles, and setting up the stands of basketballs. Jisung felt very out of place with them, but that was nothing unexpected. He suddenly got the thought that he didn’t belong there. He didn’t even know how to warm himself up.

He turned towards Hyunjin for reassurance, who just smiled and led him to one side of the court, where Chan and Changbin were talking amongst themselves. 

“Hey guys,” Hyunjin called, walking over to the two other boys. Hyunjin looked like he was calm and collected, whereas Jisung felt like his whole body was on fire. 

“I see you brought Dowoon’s replacement with you,” Bang Chan said, nodding at Jisung and smiling. Jisung calmed down slightly and felt the tension inside him ease when he realized Chan was joking around with him. 

Jisung gave a small, awkward wave and mumbled a small greeting. 

The four of them began talking a little bit about Jisung, filling him in on what usually happens during these practices. From what Jisung gathers, practices usually consist of a cardio warm up, a few drills, some positioning plays practice, and then finally some muscle training and a cool down. It didn’t seem too hard, except for the fact that Jisung wasn’t good at cardio, he didn’t have the majority of the skills required for the drills, he didn’t understand basketball plays and he didn’t have very much muscle. 

Nevertheless, Jisung made a vow to himself that he would do his best and try hard this practice. People always talk about how you can do anything that you work hard for, so why can’t Jisung play basketball? 

Jisung was snapped out of the conversation by a sharp whistle. He turned his head to see Lee Minho standing in the middle of the face-off circle, calling for the team to gather around him. 

Jisung and Hyunjin made their way towards the center. It was then that Jisung made eye contact with Minho, who gave him an encouraging smile. Jisung smiled back. He was happy that Minho didn’t seem like a harsh and mean leader. 

“Okay guys,” Minho called, grabbing the attention of the team, “we all know the unfortunate incident that happened with Dowoon, and though we will miss him for the remainder of the season, it still must go on,” he started, and Jisung heard some of the boys begin to whoop when Minho said that. “That means we have an open spot on this team, and since we already held try-outs this year, Hyunjin took the opportunity to invite a friend to help us. Everybody, this is Han Jisung,” Minho said, gesturing towards Jisung. 

One or two of the boys whooped for Jisung after that, which made him a little bit shy. Hyunjin bumped Jisung lightly on the shoulder. Minho gave Jisung a welcoming smile, which made Jisung’s heart flutter, for some reason. 

Practice started with running laps as a warm up, and then they moved onto skill developmental drills. Jisung fumbled the ball a few times, made some off shots, but overall he was genuinely not that bad. 

Throughout practice, Jisung got small words of encouragement from Hyunjin and Minho, as well as thumbs up from other members of the team, particularly Youngjae. Choi Youngjae was widely known to be a very nice and sweet kid, so it didn’t surprise Jisung. 

“Hey Jisung,” Minho called to him once practice finished. The rest of the boys all made their way back to the change room. 

Jisung walked over to Minho, feeling extra gross and sweaty. His hair felt like it was plastered to his forehead, and even though his body temperature is boiling, the sweat on his body gives him chills. 

“Welcome to the team,” Minho said, smiling as he extended his hand out for Jisung to shake. Jisung was very happy, and excitedly took Minho’s hand and shook it. 

Jisung never even processed how much the idea of being on the team grew on him until he heard those words coming from his new captain's mouth. 

“Are you serious?” Jisung beamed. Minho gave him a pat on the shoulder as he gave him a confirming head nod. 

“But, you’ll still have to work hard if you want playing time this year,” Minho told him, leading Jisung towards the change rooms. 

“Of course,” Jisung agreed. 

“I think this is going to be a great season, Jisung,” Minho predicted, “I’m glad you took the jump and joined the team, I know Hyunjin said you were hesitant...” he trailed off.

Jisung noticed the way that Minho’s eyes gleamed, and the sweat made his skin sparkle. It wasn’t the first time that Jisung marveled at the boy’s handsomeness, but it feels like it. Jisung could never get over how smooth and pretty Minho’s skin was, or how it looked like Minho’s dark eyes reflected the rich warmth of the sun. Jisung thought he felt warm. 

It was then that it hit Jisung. His mind was flicking from one thought to the next, and before he knew it, he was thinking about how soft Minho’s lips looked. 

He snapped out of that thought, and saw Minho give a confused look. Jisung must have jumped a little bit at the shocking thoughts about his friend. 

“Jisung, are you okay?” Minho asked, placing a comforting hand on Jisung’s bare arm. Jisung felt his skin burn where Minho touched it, and his arm muscles tensed up. 

“Yeah,” he assured as they got to the change room door, “just the chills,” he excused, pushing open the heavy door and making his way to where Hyunjin was. 

Hyunjin raised his eyebrows in expectation, and Jisung realized he was asking what Minho said. Jisung smiled at him and nodded his head. 

“Yes!” Hyunjin celebrated. Jisung really appreciated how happy Hyunjin was that they will be playing basketball together. 

Jisung tried to engage himself in conversation with Hyunjin about everybody's positions and the team’s plays they used in the games, but Jisung was still hung up on the thought of Minho. 

----

That night, Jisung had a tough time shutting his brain off. All he could think about was why he reacted so harshly when he thought about Minho’s lips. It was nothing that out of the ordinary, he was just thinking about Minho’s face. He thought about Minho’s eyes, his nose, his skin, his hair, his laugh, everything, but for some reason, he felt guilty while thinking about his lips. 

Jisung figured that thinking about another guy’s lips seemed wrong. It just seemed weird. Usually, when a guy thinks about lips, they usually think about wanting to kiss those lips. And, those lips usually belong to a girl. 

Jisung tested out a theory. He thought about Nayeon, the girl he kissed at the party. He remembered her starry eyes, smooth and pale skin, and her lips that were soft and pink, pressed against his. He remembered how it felt, and what she tasted like, and even the pressure of her body flush against his in the dark hallway, but he still felt nothing. He might as well have been thinking about his school work. 

Then, Jisung cautiously thought about Minho’s lips. He thought the same thing that he thought earlier that day. They are some of the softest and prettiest lips Jisung has seen on any boy. Immediately, he felt his cheeks heat up in a blush. He felt dizzy as he thought about Minho. He imagined how smooth his skin must be. He imagined touching it. Suddenly, without his permission, Jisung’s mind trailed to what Minho’s lips would feel like when he kissed him, and he shot up in bed. 

He didn’t know what type of emotion he was feeling, but it felt like adrenaline, guilt, excitement, and fear all wrapped up in one. He was panting hard, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, Jisung understood what people meant in all of those love songs and romance movies he used to watch. He feels a spark; he feels dizzy; he feels drunk. 

And it is terrifying.

Jisung snapped back to reality. He was having thoughts about kissing another boy. Not a girl, but a boy. Was he gay? He couldn’t be gay. He didn’t know why, but he just knew that he wasn’t gay. 

Jisung was confused and scared at this revelation. How could he face Minho again? Minho had been so kind and welcoming to him, and Jisung repays him by imagining gross scenarios filled with subconscious, perverted thoughts. 

There has to be someone he can go to for help. Someone that can help him figure out his feelings, because he can’t deal with them on his own. Jisung could never talk to Felix or Seungmin because he was too worried that they’d think he was weird, or gross, or something like that. Obviously he couldn’t tell Minho or Hyunjin. Chaeryeong would end his entire life if she found out her brother was having homosexual thoughts. His mother would disown him if he was anything other than straight. 

Then it hit him. Myoui Mina was a girl in his grade, and she was openly bisexual. Jisung had never really thought to talk to her or try and get close to her, not because he didn’t think that it was okay for her to like girls, but just because he was never really interested in making more friends. 

Jisung had a few classes with her over the years, and from what he could tell, she was a very kind person. Jisung also knows that after she came out freshman year, she suffered all kinds of bullying. Jisung had heard about the horror stories about her locker getting the D slur written on it in permanent marker, and the rumors that she hooked up with a thirteen year old girl. Of course Jisung never believed it, but people can be outright vicious when they want to be. 

Jisung assumed that if anyone would be trustworthy and possibly helpful to him, it would be Myoui Mina. 

So, he made up his mind to talk to her the next day, and ask her for advice. What did he have to lose?

----

When the bell rang for lunch, Jisung immediately doubted his plan to ask Mina for advice. He felt himself begin to shake as he saw her across the hall from where he was, talking to a girl he doesn’t know. 

Jisung thought about the night before, how gross it felt having those thoughts about Minho, which gave him the confidence he needed to catch up to Mina. 

When Jisung got to where she was walking, she bid her friend goodbye as she stopped and opened a locker, Jisung figures it probably belongs to her. Mina’s friend kept walking down the hall, which Jisung was thankful for. 

Now or never. 

“Uhm.. Hi Mina,” he greeted, leaning against the locker beside her in an attempt to look less awkward and panicked. 

She was a little bit startled from the sudden guy beside her, but her gaze softened when she saw it was Jisung. 

“Han Jisung? What’s going on?” she asked, grabbing her bag out of her locker and leaving her school books inside.

Jisung took a breath. He was scared to tell anybody about his situation, which he thought would be understandable. He doesn’t think that coming to terms with something like this would be easy for anybody. 

“Uhm..” he starts. Suddenly, he begins to shake slightly again, finding it hard to breathe.

“Are you okay?” She asks, closing her locker and giving him a concerned look. 

“Can we talk... in private?” he asked, and she gave him a confused nod. The two of them began to walk in silence, Mina leading him outside to the bleachers on the side of the running track. Nobody ever sat there, so Jisung saw that it was a perfect spot for this conversation. 

“Not gonna lie, you’re kind of freaking me out,” Mina says, sitting down on the metal bench. Jisung joins her and stares intently at the track in front of them. He likes sitting here because he didn’t have to look at her in the eyes while he told her his biggest secret. “I know we don’t really know each other, but something’s obviously wrong,” she said. 

“Mina...” he started. The air outside was cool, which was hardly unusual for early-mid October. There was a breeze that supplied Jisung with more oxygen. He took a deep inhale of the refreshing air, and bit his lip. “When did you realize... you liked girls?” he asked in a small voice. 

Mina smiled in understanding. Jisung sat in the question for a second, waiting for her to answer. He began to feel anxious, worried that she thought he was weird for asking. He was about to backtrack and find a way to leave when-

“I was thirteen, and I watched Harry Potter,” she answered. Jisung felt a massive weight lift off of his shoulders as he listened to her response. “It was Hermione, really. I don’t know why, but I had such a big crush on her. I didn’t even realize that it was a romantic thing until I was fourteen,” she let out a small, airy laugh. “everyone has their crushes...” 

Jisung smiled and nodded. 

“I assume that’s not the only think you wanted to talk to be about though, is it?” she said, resting her arm on his shoulder, “it’s okay, I won’t judge you,” 

Jisung almost felt himself tear up. He didn’t realize it would be this hard to come to terms with himself, but here he was. “I...” he started, and then stopped. 

“Jisung, do you think you might be interested in boys?” she asked cautiously, moving her hand to his back and rubbing consoling circles over the uniform. 

Jisung couldn’t find it in him to give her a verbal answer, so he just nodded his head. Mina gave him a smile, which he didn’t see since he was so focused on the track. 

“What makes you think that?” she asked, using a calming voice. Jisung felt safe with her. He almost felt like she was giving him motherly love, and it was intoxicating. 

He took a deep breath, and willed himself to explain it. “So...” he began, “I have this friend, I’m not going to say his name, and... I don’t know, I really wanted to be his friend, and he’s always so nice to me,” he mustered up the courage to look Mina in her eyes. He saw the genuine look she had on her face, and it made him feel less scared. “Anyways, I had.. a weird thought about him yesterday,” 

“What kind of a weird thought?” she asked. Jisung felt a whole new wave of nervousness engulf him when he realized he was about to tell her that he thought about kissing another boy, and he liked the idea. 

“It was..” he trailed off, but brought himself back, “His lips.. and I wanted to kiss them,” he finished. He hung his head in shame, hoping to hide his embarrassed cheeks from her. He felt his heart pound throughout his whole body, sounding like thunder in his ears. 

“I see,” Mina whispered. Jisung waited for her response, but there was none. 

“I just.. I don’t know, am I gay?” he asked her, turning to fully face her finally. 

Mina gave him an apologetic smile. “I can’t answer that for you, Jisung,” she moved both of her hands to grab both of his, “but I can tell you that whatever you are, it’s okay,” she confirmed, “liking boys is not a bad thing, okay?” she told him. 

Jisung felt his emotions get stronger again. He realized that what he really wanted was validation. He craved somebody to tell him his feelings for Minho weren’t disgusting. He needed that to help him become at peace with it. And he got it, in the form of Myoui Mina. 

The two of them exchanged numbers so that they could talk, and Jisung could keep her updated on what happens with him. 

When Jisung was walking back to his locker, he saw Minho, Jeongin and Sungjin all walking down the hall. As much as Jisung tried not to focus on the boy in the middle, his gaze automatically landed on Minho. 

He was wearing the red varsity jacket, his hair was slightly messy, but it looked attractive on him. Jisung met his eyes, and Minho gave him a wink and a smile as he walked. Jisung felt himself freeze in place when he noticed Minho’s lips curled into the most radiant smile Jisung had ever had the privilage of seeing. He felt his breath catch in his throat as Minho turned back to the other two boys, walking right past Jisung. 

He has absolutely no idea the damage he is doing. 

[freckled-words]

For The King - Part Eight

Not gonna lie, thanks to a caffeine kick that lasted the majority of the day, I worked on this instead of my actual job. WHOMP WHOMP.

But I’m really happy with the end result, and I’m really eager to see what you guys think!

Edited by @the-wild-ego​

PART ONE / PART TWO / PART THREE / PART FOUR / PART FIVE /  PART SIX / PART SEVEN

The two men were apprehended and brought to the castle’s dungeons.

Upon receiving this news King Phantom abandoned the corpse, giving the guards instructions to dispose of it. He’d gather more information from a body able to speak.

One portal and ten steps, and he was in his dungeon.

The castle dungeon held the kingdom’s murderers, rapists, and arsonists. Rather than keep an entire building separate for these criminals, the King preferred to have them close at hand. For those days when he was feeling particularly bothered and needed someone to take his frustrations out on. 

It used to be he would do so without giving it a second thought, but after some nagging on his servant’s part, he would cast a truth spell on the scum first, and ascertain whether they were rightfully imprisoned.

It was fascinating to learn how many were genuinely the culprit, and how many of them were thrown in as a scapegoat for someone else, or had willingly taken the blame for a friend or family member.

His servant had given him another, more fun suggestion regarding his treatment of prisoners. 

When he found them innocent of their crime, he would make them watch what he did to true guilty criminals. Then he would release them, and encourage them to describe the event in full detail to anyone who would listen. 

As a result, the crime in his kingdom had dropped rather quickly. Many people had made requests to move from his kingdom. It was an enjoyable method of weeding out those that would pollute his land and cause him to listen to more complaints.

The cells held a handful of prisoners at the moment. Some had been around for a few months, and upon his arrival, immediately scurried to the back corner of their enclosure.

The guards in charge of the dungeons, for this shift, bowed and indicated the cell that their new captures had been thrown into.

Walking up to the bars, King Phantom’s brows rose as he saw the condition of the men. One had his arm in a sling, his lower lip was split, and his right eye was nearly swollen shut. The other had his hand bandaged, with purple fingers sticking out, his nose was broken in two places, and a nasty gash was visible on his cheek.

Looking over his shoulder at the guards he asked, “Put up a fight did they?”

The guards exchanged a quick glance with each other, then both gave the slightest shrug of their shoulders.

King Phantom was smirking as he tsked, “Naughty, you know they’re my toys to break.”

The men in the cells shifted, inching themselves further back. 

King Phantom breathed in deep and hummed in pleasure at the smell that reached him, “Afraid are you? Good. You should be. You two unfortunate miscreants are far out of your league. I’ve an idea of who you’re working for, but I’d love to know who you think you’re working for.”

He unfastened the ties to his cloak, and let it drop to the ground. He flicked his finger and the lock on the cell came undone. Pulling open the door, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. A wave of his hand and all the torches in the dungeon extinguished themselves.

One of the men whimpered. 

A pair of blazing, inhuman, ruby irises peered down at them.

Then, they were both screaming.

*~*~

A woman’s screams ripped you from your sleep.

Irritated, rather than alarmed (screams weren’t uncommon in this castle) you got out of your bed and shuffled over to your bedroom door.

“I swear, if they’ve hired someone new and not given her the proper warning about his Majesty’s transformations, I will skin some people.” 

Opening your door, you peered out and immediately had to duck back inside, avoiding being hit as a man was sent flying past you.

Peaking around the door frame, you felt your stomach clench. The man was dead, three daggers were clustered into his chest right where his heart was.

Looking down the hall in the other direction, you wished more than anything, that you had a means of speaking to the King from any amount of distance. 

At the far end of the hall, a man was single handedly holding his own against four of the guards. He was blocking, parrying, and just….dancing, around them, all while landing lethal hits with his mace. His mace which was drenched in blood, sending spray and splatter onto the walls and floor with each swing.

Going back into your room, you slipped on your boots and grabbed your cloak. You couldn’t stay in your room and just wait for the mad man to continue on his merry way with his slaughtering. 

You cautiously peaked around the frame once more, and nearly succumbed to the instinct to just lock yourself inside your room. The man had brought down two more of the guards and was making quick work of the last two.

‘Where is our fire breathing King when you need him?’ 

You took off down the hall, sending a silent prayer to the Gods for the souls of the guards that were being slain. 

“Yoo hoo! Little servant? Where are you going?! I’d like to have an evening stroll with you!”

The stones of the hall carried the man’s voice to you. The hairs on the back of your neck tingled, as he sounded far too jovial. More concerning, was that he was here, slaughtering people, people that you knew and cared about, because he was after you.

Rounding the corner, you spotted two more guards ushering the servants to the servant’s passage. 

“He’s coming! Go with the servants! We need to get word to the King, now!” You’d never given yourself heirs, you’d never presumed to think you could give others orders just because of your station. Yet there was no time to consider these things. You yelled these orders at the top of your lungs all while you continued to sprint down the hall.

The guards didn’t hesitate to obey. Once the last of the servants fled down the passage, they followed after. 

You continued past the servant’s passage, keeping to the main hall. No one else needed to die if you could keep this unhinged man on your tail.

Practice from being by the King’s side, or sheer luck, sent a shiver down your spine, urging you to duck. 

A dagger flew over your head and into the tapestry on the wall ahead of you. 

“Oh goodie! If you hadn’t moved, I would have been in a lot of trouble ~”

He was closer than you’d anticipated him to be. Did he have magic to move him faster?

Part of you wanted to stay where you were, and confront the man dressed in such gaudy clothes. The smarter, larger part of your brain, kept you running.

~*~*~*

King Phantom gave the blood on his hand an experimental lick, and cringed, “The amount of salt you humans consume is disgusting.”

The two men had given him everything he needed, and in record time. 

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the rest from his hands as he walked towards the door, “Send for the grave keepers to clean this up.”

Another guard, sweaty and breathing hard, toppled through the door, “Your...Majesty, an intruder! In the servant’s wing, he..he’s slaughtering our men, their armor does nothing to protect them!”

King Phantom paused mid-wipe, his mind latching onto the location of the intruder.

The handkerchief burst into flames and crumbled to ashes, “Where is my servant?”

The guard paled, “Th-they sent me to find you, your Majesty.”

“You ....left, my servant? Just left them, with the intruder, who is able to cut through armored guards without any effort?” with each word, King Phantom advanced on the guard, his pupils narrowing into slits.

The guard could only drop to his knees, and bow his head, “They ordered me and another to get the others to safety, Your Majesty! I was obeying their order, as you’d ordered us to do Majesty.”

A touch of ruby energy ebbed from the corner of King Phantom’s mouth as he glared down at the stupid human.

Unfortunately, the imbecile had done as ordered on both counts. Five months ago, out of sheer boredom, King Phantom had given the secret, ironclad ruling, that his servant’s orders were to be obeyed as if they were his own. It was a game to himself, to see if his servant ever noticed. He hadn’t anticipated that his servant would never take such liberties as giving orders on their own.

Of course the one time that they do, it puts their life into jeopardy.

“I will deal with you later. Lock him in the cell!” He snapped this to the two guards behind him.

First he had to go kill this intruder, then he would deal with the idiot.

*~*~*~*

Remus was having the time of his life.

He got to vent out his 'happy' on the guards, and the servants were an absolute joy to send scurrying like mice. 

Then here was his target, lovely little servant that they were, they were doing quite well at dodging his daggers. Contrary to popular belief, Remus isn’t so silly, as to not collect his daggers on the go.

They were beginning to slow down, which was to be expected after running for a solid four minutes without a break. 

‘Stop messing around and bring me the servant!’

Remus’s mustache drooped, disheartened to have his fun cut short. “Party pooper.” He muttered, knowing perfectly well that the spying spell placed on him would allow her Highney to hear this.

“Little Servant ~ We can’t keep playing anymore I’m afraid, but not to worry! I’ll be ever so gentle with you ~” 

Remus lifted his mace and gave it a twist. The mace shrank and reformed, changing into a ripple edged dagger. 

His enchanted boots responded to his will, and sent him dashing faster than he had been. 

He caught up to the servant right as they tried to turn a corner that lead down a set of stairs. His arm went around their waist, and with a tiny flick, he cut an itty bitty line on the back of their wrist. His enchanted weapon had just slipped a potent sleep spell into their bloodstream.

His hold tightened as the fight went out of them, and they began to fall asleep.

A soft, “Majesty” whispering out on their last conscious breath.

“Release my servant at once.”

Remus’ mouth popped into an “Oh” as he looked down to the base of the stairs.

A rather handsome chap was advancing, a ruby aura of power ebbing from his body. His voice had been deep, gurtual, ancient. 

Not scared in the least, Remus dipped and scooped up the servant’s legs to hold them in a princess carry.

“Sorry, Scrumptious Highney, but I’m on delivery duty. And your adorable little friend here is the package. TA TA!” 

Knowing it was there, Remus took a step backwards, through the golden rimmed portal. 

The King leaped from the step, reaching for the portal. His hand barely caught the edge of his servant’s cloak, just as the portal snapped closed, severing the piece of cloth he held from the rest of their cloak. 

[drmedicsgamesurgery]

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 Part 7 (Summary)

Sorry for the short summary after 2 weeks, i have been very busy and this part required a lot of hard reading and research to translate. Good news is I will be much more free soon, so if you are lucky you might get 2 summaries a week.

Thanks to @enoshima-pyon @shockersalvage​ @jinjojess​ @hopeymchope​ for helping out!

One more thing:

IF YOU HAVEN’T READ KIRIGIRI SOU, DO SO NOW OR YOU WILL BE SUPER CONFUSED AS TO WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. LINK HERE.

5.

This feeling. 

Why, why is it that when I learn more about the K2K system in this place, I feel completely confused? 

This may all be fake. Maybe, I already knew that things would be like this? From the time when Borges’ anomalies became more and more obvious, I had begun to have already noticed it within my own heart.

My own story. 

Originally, I was just an item belonging to Byakuya. 

However, I also had my own story and I was destined to confront it at some point. 

And that is now.

I drank cold coffee and K did the same. The old man just talked about the tragedy of Don Quixote. [1] He said that the scene in which all the main characters had arrived into an inn had become unreadable due to the language. He said even Kafka and Sōseki [2] still resisted like this.

Speaking of which, there are also very exaggerated incidents in the books of authors like Banana Yoshimoto [3] and Haruki Murakami. [4] People feel like these can be too coincidental or contrived. Is that also a kind of resistance? Or is it that an exaggerated incident is an indispensable element for an interesting story?

Anyway, the old man who was drinking coffee in front of me, by pure chance was also something of a long shot. I just so happened to meet him and just so happened to listen to him. He just so happened to be an alumnus of Hope Peak Academy. He just so happened to be related to the Bible Plan. He just so happened to have participated in the development of Borges. It's almost like just one big joke.

I don't know if K knows my inner monologue. He has been talking in the calmest tone since then.

"It was not long after the end of the 'The Worst Incident in the History of the Togami Family. A person who claimed to be an insider of the Togami Family found me. Presumably, the superiors had already learned of the 'Bible Plan' to some extent. The insider was begging me: 'Can you write a dictionary for us?' What a charming invention!’ Still, I wanted to find a safe place to hide Borges. The Togami’s wanted to learn the techniques behind the 'Bible Plan'. Although I don't like the phrase very much, it was a win-win relationship for both parties."

Shinobu, naturally, has grown quite distrustful from these explanations but K assures her that he only provided the dictionary aspects of Borges, and points out that while any ‘missing pages’ were on the publishers fault, it was on the ‘reader’ in how they used the dictionary. When K was called on by the Togami’s, Borges hardware was already complete and he had installed the K2K system in it. However, complications arose because instead of using Borges as just a dictionary Shinobu used it as a way that K describes best as someone “watching the Raiders [5] while playing the game at the same time.”

That was a very modern metaphor, but thanks to it, things have become easier to understand. Indeed, I have always been obsessed with “Journey Under The Midnight Sun". Writing "Journey Under The Midnight Sun" is my only value in life.

Since Shinobu kept using Borges to search things related to Byakuya in order to write his biography, the K2K System inside it became specialized in Byakuya. And just like it led a person into committing murder by showing him a particular book, it started showing to Shinobu a book recommended to her. It started showing only the reality she wanted to see.

Shinobu responds that she had no chance to learn about the Hasegawa Research Institute or the Ketouin Conglomerate but K compares it to that of the ‘Anna Karenina’ [6] translations and how Nabokov [7] commented on how many times the word ‘home’ appeared throughout them all compared to the original text. Eight in the English version, once in French and no more than twice in the Czech version. He ponders how many times the word appears in the Japanese iteration before saying that reading those translations can be touching, but there will always be an inability to grasp what the original was. This causes Shinobu to think about her conversation with Hiroyuki on the talk of translations and he encouraged her to read the original.

It’s like singing karaoke without seeing the lyrics. It should be alright, but it seems that there is something wrong with it, which makes people feel uneasy and fearful.

K sums it up with this: “In a nutshell, no matter how many correct explanations I make, your dictionary will not translate them accurately to you.”

Shinobu demands to be told what the actual names of the Ketouin Conglomerate and the Hasegawa Institute...only to become exasperated when she thinks K is joking when he says they are the SkinSkin Conglomerate and Clark Kent Research Institute. K points out as long she had Borges, what she said and hears really can’t be guaranteed. It has mostly to do with the dictionary installed in it. Because the multiple editors are different, the content is different as well. Like how the concept of love varies between definition and cultures and philosophy.

“Just like an analogy. In addition, because of their different levels of knowledge, their understanding ability is different. After reviewing the dictionary, different users will have a considerable degree of understanding of the meaning of a word. The dictionary thinks that it understands 'A', but it may be misunderstood to understand 'B', and when it is described in language, it is 'C', and this may happen."

Shinbu comments she doesn’t want to misunderstand the world, though K points out people are misunderstanding everything throughout their lifetime, like how someone made Gulas by following a curry recipe or how people have turned to terrorism because of watching “Island of the Evil Spirits”[8]. Shinobu, horrified, wonders how she has been talking to people. However, K explains it that as long as people get the gist of her actions, communicating with others should be fine. Even though her reality is twisted in distorted, her unreality is still set within the bounds of reality.

Yet, even still...

"I just want to see the real thing."

"This feeling is actually normal, but it’s impossible. Borges is like a mother who overprotects her child, hides everything that is not good for you, and only provides you with what you want to see."

"I don't have Borges in my right eye, so why is it impossible? Haven't I gotten rid of its influence?"

"Even if the child is independent, it is impossible to get rid of the influence of the parents immediately. A person who has necrosis of the right side of the brain due to cerebral infarction will replace the right side with the function that has been lost. The same is true for you as well. Now all the organs in your body are running at full speed, instead of Borges continuing its work."

"How hopelessly despairing."

"Don't say that. If it lets you see the truth all at once, you will certainly collapse. It’s because this work is still in progress. It’s so you can still see the world you want to see.”

The world I want to see?

Shinobu soaks this in and starts to lose it, repeating her belief that Byakuya Togami is God. K tries to snap her back to reality by reminding her that Byakuya is human and is destined to grow old and die. Shinobu, however, still continues her silent freak out as she comes to grip with this information.

With or without Borges. I am still myself. 

This is irrelevant! Byakuya is God! It’s not that I put a sparkling aura on him or anything, but he is just is so shining! He was born to be the North Star! That old man doesn't really know what he is talking about when it comes to such a God! Byakuya is unbeaten, and Byakuya is invincible! 

At this time, he still plays the world in the palm of his hand. Since then, the world has always belonged to Byakuya. This fact will not change, even if the sun expands and swallows the Earth. The universe is coming to an end, yet Byakuya is still God! I wrote "Journey Under The Midnight Sun" to let this truth pass on to the future, and wrote a completely true biography with Borges... 

Ah, but Borges has been full of lies...hey? The reason why Borges lies is because I want to see such a world, right!? What I want to see is Byakuya as the world's God? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! 

I need to drink Bufferin.

I seem to be in a mess and I can prove that this is why K that was so eloquent before. However, he did not say a word, but was quietly watching me. I don't know if what he is thinking is either "this would be the crash after a person knows the truth" or "it’s hard to keep faith now". Regardless of the case, all this really teaches people how to be angry... 

No, actually, I’m not. This feeling...this is not how I actually feel! Honestly, I would like to use Borges to search for vocabulary related to feelings.

In fact, I want to let Borges manage me, just like before!  Ah, no, that’s not right! Because I have neither hope nor despair. Since Otsuki was present as my brother. Since Kazuya became my younger brother. Since the day I was born into the house of the Togami family.

That’s when that moment started. 

Hope won't make me feel splendid. 

Despair won't make me depressed. 

I don't need to use these things to spur myself!  

Yes, I will get the approval of Byakuya Togami and I will get to work on writing the biography given by him!

...But if these memories are also just illusions that Borges have been showing me...things are going to get quite confusing.

6.

"The picture."

After a while, K whispered. I stared at the painting hanging on the wall with my left eye, the weird creature that stood on the ground with a big nose.

"It's scientific name is the “Hopsorrhinus aureus”. This creature uses a jointed nose to jump like a kangaroo," K explained. "In 1941, this creature was found on the island of Hy-yi-yi in the South Pacific. This is a special sub-type of mammalian animal called the Rhinogradentia. [9] So far, 14 subjects have been discovered.”

K lists off the types of Rhinogradentia that have been discovered, including the species that has tentacles coming out of its nose that they use to walk with.

"How is it possible for there to be such creatures?”

“BAU UND LEBEN DER RHINOGRADENTIA was published in 1961 by Professor Harald Stümpke. [10]”

“Is there a book about them?”

“Yes, and it was translated to all over the world, causing there is a huge response. There should also be a Japanese version. You can check it out after you return to Japan."

"Then, what kind of book is it? Is it like a fake book?"

"The Foreword and Afterword are actually written by a real and famous zoologist. A review of this book was even published in scientific journals, and there are many related books too. How would you doubt an academic book on all the issues that modern zoology deals with from Morphology, anatomy, ontogeny, physiology, actions, diets, and phylogenetic evolution? With such an academically sound book, do you think you are qualified to doubt it?"

"There is no more direct evidence than images."

"I don’t have any."

"Why?"

"This creature is extinct."

"Extinction?"

"In 1957, due to a nuclear test conducted nearby, the islands where the Rhinogradentia flourished sank."

“It's a super-perfunctory ending.”

"Don't say what the ending is."

"So there are no photos? Since it was in the 1950s, there should be photos, right?"

"All the information sank with the island."

"I’m really speechless. There are no photos, anymore? If you can't investigate on the spot, there is no way to prove that this creature actually exists. This is really not credible."

"Do you know the Dodo?"

"A bird that is already extinct?"

"Because of that, do you think ‘Did this bird really exist?’"

"Of course it did."

"How can you be so convinced? The Dodo did not have any photos survive. The Dodo had once thrived on the island of Mauritius. This is only the testimony of the sailors at the time that can be proved without any other reliable information. Dodo, like the Rhinogradentia, are impossible to verify what kind of creature it was and what kind of life it lived."

"I remember seeing specimens..."

"There is a sample of a Dodo stored in a monastery in the Czech Republic. However, there is no evidence to prove that the terrible thing that is covered with charcoal is the real thing.”

“Therefore, the Dodo is a bird like a dove and a seagull, but the creature walking on the nose is looking for it. There is no such thing in the world, that is to say, common sense can prove that it is contrary to common sense, is false, can be judged by common sense."

"No, believe that the Dodo is real, but doubt the authenticity of the Rhinogradentia. This is not based on common sense judgment made, simply because you lack the logic to accept the existence of a real Rhinograde.

“You mean to say my lack of knowledge?"

"Reality and unreality are indistinguishable from the experiencer. I believe that a real person can see the existence of the Rhinogradentia it even if it is fantasy, and will also write an article to prove its existence. If a third party believes in the article, then the fantasy will be shared by them and become their common fantasy. By the way, when the book was published, most readers completely believed that the Rhinogradentia existed."

Shinobu cant laugh even if she thinks its too stupid. These people at the time had no real way of knowing the Rhinogrades were made up. Shinobu thinks about the Kudan, and thinks to herself that the Kudan definitely exists, like the Dodo. 

People who don't believe that the "Kudan" exists makes me laugh.

“People are only willing to see the reality they want to see,” K said calmly "No matter how convincing a certain argument is, as long as people are unwilling to accept it, they can't understand the meaning of it. This pathology is similar to the story in Don Quixote.”

K then gives another example similar to the previous one before continuing.

“No matter how much we experience, how much knowledge we learn, it is impossible to have the same sense of reading as the readers at the time. That is absolute.”

“Absolute...” murmurs Shinobu.

K says as long as Shinobu believes that Byakuya Togami is a God, Borges would do everything it could to strengthen that position, even if what is happening is different. To sum it up, “The sacredness of Byakuya Togami, if you couldn’t find it, you would make it.”

What?

I...understand.

Now I understand. If Byakuya Togami is not God, then my world will end.

The only purpose of my existence is to write "Journey Under The Midnight Sun", and I couldn’t let that weakness and fragility of Byakuya be exposed to my eyes.

So I made up and fabricated the storyline.

I built the story I wanted to see for myself. Not on purpose, but because of Borges's interference. In order to make Byakuya Togami become God, I have created a lot of lies so far. I made people who didn't exist, created a group organization that didn't exist, and looking back I think I even falsified the past. 

I now understood all of this and was mentally prepared. Although I can't say that I was awake...I have accepted the uncertainty of my brain.

I have accepted the fact that life has only just begun today.

With this realization, Shinobu stares at the painting and asks for the name of this animal and finds them cute. The Snout Leaper is what it’s called. Shinobu says that it would be nice if the Snout Leaper really existed, but believing in something and it actually being true are two different things. K says that belief is just enough.

“I still want to hear the truth, I want to know the truth."

"Although I don't know if I can't do it, it's worth a try."

"I didn't expect you to say that too."

"I didn't mean to tease you," K said shrugging. "At present, there is no Borges in your right eye. Then you have to look at the real things with your own eyes and update your reality. Although the information falsified by Borges will not disappear easily, but since you have found a path that convinced you, no matter how difficult it is, you should follow that path."

"I think so too."

"Then I’ll tell you something, maybe it can help you. Although it's just a hypothesis, the Despair Disease is more than likely a lie made up by Borges” he begins...only to be cut off by a piercing sound.

Just then, countless bullets penetrated the window and the kettle in the kitchen was riddled with holes.

 Translation Notes: (I highly recommend reading these this time if you don’t normally.)

[1] Don Quixote is a Spanish novel by Miguel de Cervantes. Published in two parts in 1605 and 1615, Don Quixote is the most influential work of literature from the Spanish Golden Age and the entire Spanish literary canon. A founding work of Western literature, it is often labeled "the first modern novel" and is sometimes considered the best literary work ever written.

[2] Natsume Sōseki was a Japanese novelist. He is best known around the world for his novels Kokoro, Botchan, I Am a Cat and his unfinished work Light and Darkness. He was also a scholar of British literature and composer of haiku, kanshi, and fairy tales. From 1984 until 2004, his portrait appeared on the front of the Japanese 1000 yen note. In Japan, he is often considered the greatest writer in modern Japanese history. He has had a profound effect on almost all important Japanese writers since. 

[3] Banana Yoshimoto is the pen name of Japanese writer Mahoko Yoshimoto. Yoshimoto says that her two main themes are “the exhaustion of young Japanese in contemporary Japan” and “the way in which terrible experiences shape a person’s life”. Her works describe the problems faced by youth, urban existentialism, and teenagers trapped between imagination and reality. Her works are targeted not only to the young and rebellious, but also to grown-ups who are still young at heart. Yoshimoto's characters, settings, and titles have a modern and American approach, but the core is Japanese. She addresses readers in a personal and friendly way, with warmth and outright innocence, writing about the simple things such as the squeaking of wooden floors or the pleasant smell of food. Food and dreams are recurring themes in her work which are often associated with memories and emotions. Yoshimoto admits that most of her artistic inspiration derives from her own dreams and that she’d like to always be sleeping and living a life full of dreams.

[4] Haruki Murakami is a Japanese writer. His books and stories have been bestsellers in Japan as well as internationally, with his work being translated into 50 languages and selling millions of copies outside his native country. His work has received numerous awards, including the World Fantasy Award, the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award, the Franz Kafka Prize (yes really), and the Jerusalem Prize. Another notable feature of Murakami's stories are the comments that come from the main characters as to how strange the story presents itself. Murakami explains that his characters experience what he experiences as he writes, which could be compared to a movie set where the walls and props are all fake.

[5] The Raiders can refer to either The Los Angeles Raiders or the Canberra Raiders. Both are sports teams.

[6] Anna Karenina is a novel by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy, first published in book form in 1878. Many writers consider Anna Karenina the greatest work of literature ever, and Tolstoy himself called it his first true novel. It was initially released in serial installments from 1873 to 1877 in the periodical The Russian Messenger.

[7] Vladimir Nabokov was a Russian and American novelist, poet, translator and entomologist. His first nine novels were written in Russian (1926–38), but he achieved international prominence after he began writing English prose. Nabokov became an American citizen in 1945. It should be noted that a novel of his titled “Despair” (Novel), is about a man who meets a homeless man in the city of Prague, whom he believes is his doppelgänger. You can't make this stuff up, I’m serious.

[8] Island of the Evil Spirits is a film directed by Masahiro Shinoda. I honestly can’t find much about it.

[9] Yep, you Kirigiri Sou fans should be very blissful now. Interesting how K explains the non-canon routes of Kirigiri Sou to be based in “unreality”.

[10] Gerolf Steiner was a German zoologist. Steiner is best known for a 1961 book authored pseudonymously as Harald Stümpke on the anatomy and habits of the rhinogradentia, a fictitious order of extinct mammals whose nose evolved in unusual ways.

To Be Continued

https://drmedicsgamesurgery.tumblr.com/GameSurgeryDRTranslations

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Olly Olly Oxenfree (part five)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

im going to heaven with or without you

“Joan?”

Joan giggled in her daze, lolling her head back and forth across the sand. Except, the sand felt a lot harder than it should be...and it was so cold all of a sudden...and she couldn’t see the glow of the sunlight behind her eyelids.

“Joan!”

Joan’s body jolts awake for the second time that night. She sat up so quickly it sent a miniature gun salute popping and cracking up her spine.

“Joan? Are you okay?”

Cathy is kneeling beside her. She has her hand on her shoulder. Her eyes were deeply worried.

“You kinda- you kinda went weird for a few minutes.” Her sister said. “I thought I lost you.”

“No, I’m- I’m fine, Cath. Promise.“ Joan assured her.

“Nothing new hurts?”

“Nothing new hurts.”

Cathy nodded and stepped back, pulling Joan to her feet.

“What happened?” Cathy asked.

“I-” The words caught in Joan’s throat. The memory of what exactly went down flash through her mind. “I saw my sister again.”

Cathy’s eyes widen.

“Holy shit.” She said. “Okay- okay- explain it to me. Can you do that? Will you be okay to?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joan nodded. “We were...we were on the beach on some random Saturday. Catalina was there. It was...amazing.”

Cathy got a sympathetic look in her eyes. “Was it good— I don’t even know how to say this without... I just wanna make sure you’re alright.”

So many emotions were whirling through Joan’s mind- sadness, grief, closure, pain, misery, anger, longing. There was too much for her to process and it made her brain feel like it was going to burst apart in her skull.

“It was good to see her again,” She whispered. “It just— it sucks that she’s not- she’s not here, I guess. That’s all.”

Cathy gave her a quick, but tight hug.

“It’ll all be over soon, Joan. Don’t worry.”

Joan nodded.

Now that she somewhat had her bearings collected, she and Cathy began moving again.

They met up with Anne and Kitty at the bottom of the hill leading up to the field. Just a few yards behind them, the Lee Estate gate looms behind them.

“Great! You didn’t, uh, die!” Kitty said.

“Did it work?” Anne asked. “Did you get the key?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Cathy answered. “It’s actually a radio. Apparently it can open mechanical locks or something. Show’em, Joan.”

Joan nodded and took out the new radio. She walked up to the gate, seeing a small mechanical plate with three pieces of a pyramid on it. She began to tune in and, on channel 56, the parts of the pyramid lit up.

The gate swung open.

“Cool!”

“Wow.”

“Neat!”

Those were the chimes from the other three.

“Please have a boat, please have a boat, please have a boat...” Anne muttered as they all passed into the Lee property.

The salty tang of the sea was as sharp there as it was on the beach. Land broke away and became a wooden boardwalk, which creaked loudly with each footstep pressed against the boards. The black ocean churned loudly below the four of them. It sent spirals of anxiety through Joan, but she tried to stamp them down.

“A boat!” Anne cried in relief. “Oh, thank god. The keys are probably inside the house, which is HUGE by the way!”

She was right. The house was big. How some old woman got the money to pay for it was beyond all of them.

After finding that the door was locked, but had a tune in symbol, Joan took out the radio.

She didn’t like how much she was having to use it.

107.1

“That is a nifty gizmo.” Anne said as they all herded inside.

Surprisingly, it was quite warm inside the house, which was a relief because the temperature was definitely dropping outside. The four teenager scampered through the foyer and to the living and dining area, where they were hoping to regroup and maybe find someone to eat or drink (none of them had noticed how hungry they were before). However, all they ended up finding was a figure in one of the armchairs.

“There you guys are!”

“Oh my god!” Cathy shrieked. “You scared me!”

“Catalina!” Kitty rushed up to the older girl, nearly knocking her over in a hug. “Jesus! I was so worried about you!”

Catalina blinked and stumbled, slightly stunned by the sudden contact, but then she laughed softly and stroked the top of Kitty’s head. The girl nuzzles her face even closer, tightening the hold.

“I’m okay, Kitty. I promise.” Catalina told her.

“Wait—”Joan said. “How...did you get in? The door was locked. Did you have a radio?”

“No, I didn’t have a radio.” Catalina said, looking at Joan absurdly. “The kitchen window was open. I climbed in.”

“And the fence?”

“I jumped it. I’m not as dainty as you think, Johanne.”

Joan scanned Catalina over. The older girl has always been an amazing liar, but she didn’t seem to be hiding anything...at that moment. She nodded softly.

“Alright, Catalina’s here, great!” Anne said. “Everyone start looking. Find something and hope that it helps.”

They break.

Joan and Cathy went upstairs, finding a string for a pulldown ladder, which Cathy very helpfully called a “cat toy”. They climb up it, finding a musty old attic and a chest in the far back.

A chest with a padlock.

“Of course.” Joan sighed, then muttered, “Paranoid old woman...” She walked back down the ladder and made her way to the exit of the house. “Hey, Cath. How are you doing?”

“How are you doing?” Cathy fired back at her.

“As crappy as everyone else.” Joan said. “I feel like I just got run over by a truck. With acid wheels.” She paused. “If that makes sense.”

Cathy laughed. “I got it. I think everyone feels the same. We’ll make shirts when we get home!” She quickened her pace to walk right beside Joan as they stepped off of the front porch. She placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “We’ll be okay.”

Joan can only manage a wry, barely-hopeful smile.

They walk down the front path and back down to the boardwalk. On their way to the basement, they stop by the boat docks to check in on Catalina and Kitty, who were having a friendly conversation to pass the time.

“Hey, Kit,” Joan said, walking up to the younger girl first.

Kitty smiled at her. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

“As steady as she goes.”

Kitty leaves it at that. Joan moves on to Catalina.

“Catalina.”

“Your Highness.”

Joan’s mind flashes back to the time loop in front of the tunnel, however she can’t muster up even an ounce of anger or rage. When she looks into Catalina’s eyes, so unloving, unlike in her flashback memory, any ember she may have conjured gets instantly smothered and replaced by freezing cold misery.

“For the eight hundredth time— and I don’t know why I have to keep trying to sell you on this, but here it goes— Maria wasn’t my fault.”

Catalina crossed her arms, and Joan prepared for a vicious hurl of flaming words, but she just sighed and looked dejectedly at the murky water. Maybe she’s imagining what it must have been like for Joan on that day.

“If that’s what you believe in, I guess.” She finally said.

There’s a momentary burst of flame, but a rock to the boardwalk from a particularly big ripple puts it out. Catalina looks upset, Joan realizes. She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she just turns and walks to the basement. Cathy trails quietly behind her.

“Find anything useful?” Joan asked, stepping inside the stale-smelling basement. Cathy goes to check out a desk as she speaks with Anne.

“Nothing yet, but the night’s still young.” Anne answered. She’s definitely calmed by degrees since the argument on the tower, but Joan can still see betrayal glinting behind her eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Joan pressed. She wanted Anne to know she still cared about her. “Physically, I mean. Everyone looks like they’ve got the flu.”

They were all pale- too pale for it to be healthy. It as if their blood was slowly being drained from her body as the night progresses, leaving it blanched and cold. The only color that remained on their faces were their eyes, although very dull and void, like scratched gemstones, and the pink flush that dusted their cheeks. There was the shaking, too- the incessant trembling of their limbs, but they all knew it wasn’t from the cold. Not really.

“Why do you care?” Anne snapped. She marches past Joan to inspect a projector. “Seriously,” She whips her head around to look at Joan. “why didn’t you let me go with you to Main Street? Did I do something that bad?”

The hurt in her eyes returns. The pinch against Joan’s aorta does, too.

“I’m sorry, Anne. I’m sorry.” Joan said. “I just thought you needed a breather. I mean, an hour earlier you were literally possessed!”

“That-” Anne processes it. “-it true. That is true. But it was still annoying!”

Joan went to say something else, but Anne turns away to dig through a shelf. She sighed and regrouped with Cathy, who managed to find a padlock code in a desk, so they make the hike all the way back up to the attic and opened up the chest.

Inside were the keys, which made Joan’s heart leap in joy, but also a map of the caves.

“Tune into the signal.” Is what the page said and, as Joan was reading this as she and Cathy made their way back downstairs, a glitchy wave contorted the entire house.

Joan is back in the attic.

“Joan...”

That was Catalina’s voice.

“Oh, Joan...”

She was calling to her.

“Come down here please. We have something we want to show you.”

Joan didn’t want to move, she wanted to huddle up and hide in that attic until dawn, but she feared what would happen to her if she didn’t obey, so, slowly, she crept down the attic ladder.

Out of her peripheral vision, she notices two bodies- Anne in the study and Kitty in the bedroom. Joan rushes to her best friend first.

The spacebun girl is slumped low in a chair, her limbs completely limp and her head sagging.

“Anne, come on, babes! We got a boat to catch!”

Anne does not stir.

Joan goes to Kitty, next. The girl in sprawled in a position on the floor that looked painful. Her muscles were probably straining just to keep her in that form. Like she cousin, her eyes were shut.

“Kitty, let’s go! We gotta motor!”

Kitty does not move.

Joan hurried down the stairs. She found Cathy’s barely in a chair. Her legs were bent on the floor, and the only thing keep her body up was the way she was propped on the seat cushion.

“Come on, Cathy, I— I need you! Don’t blank out on me now!”

Cathy does not wake.

Joan backed up slowly. The thought that all three of them may have been dead hit her like a freight train.

“Ah.”

A voice from behind.

“There you are.”

Joan turned slowly.

There is Catalina, standing in the dining room. She almost looked normal. Aside from the glowing red eyes of course.

“Now, we imagine you’re a bit confused.” She said. “But don’t fret. This will be the final part of your training, Joan.”

“𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕦𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕚𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕤𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕤.” Chimed the radio in Joan’s pocket.

“Training?” Joan echoed. “I-I don’t want to be-“

“You signed up for this, Johanne.” Not-Catalina got her off.

“Ì��. Lêåvê. þð§§ïßlê.”

“So please,” Not-Catalina continued. “I cannot bear your excuses, offspring.” Her voice is flitted and splotched with stinging irritation.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Joan said. “How many times do you want me to say it? I had no idea what would happen!”

Not-Catalina held her hands up in a calming gesture, then set one on Joan’s shoulder. The touch was icy cold.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” She said. “Trust us on that.” Joan doesn’t budge beneath her hand. She goes on: “The test is easy. We-”

Ninety-six figures appear all throughout the house, eyes glowing, bodies flickering in the darkness that holds them. They disappear as quick as they came.

“-will speak of something we see in the house and you will go and find it. See? As simple and good-humored as your mother’s apple pie.”

Joan doesn’t answer. Not-Catalina draws her hand back.

“Let’s start off with something easy.” She said. “I spy with my little eye...radiation.”

Joan jars out of her daze.

Catalina began to count down.

Joan started to search the house frantically. It was difficult having to pass by her friend’s bodies- she nearly tripped over Anne’s strewn-out legs.

Finally, as Not-Catalina hit three, she went with the only thing she could think of.

“Is it- are you talking about the TV?”

“Very good! Well done!” Not-Catalina praised. “Now, next... I spy...a knot.”

The countdown began again.

Joan searches, but she couldn’t find a damn knot anywhere in the house. It didn’t help that it felt like she was upside down again.

“One.”

Joan’s stomach coiled painfully.

“Johanne. What a disappointment you’ve turned out to be.”

A grandfather clock chimes loudly.

Cathy’s body began to shudder.

“No! Don’t do anything to her!”

But They didn’t listen.

In the blink of an eye, Cathy is gone.

“Aw, your new sister.” Not-Catalina cooed in pity.

“Bring her back!!” Joan cried. Tears edge her vision. “Right now!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear.” Not-Catalina said. “As they say- what’s done is done. And now, it’s time for the bonus round, Joan. Stay sharp. I spy a memory.”

Joan’s mind flashes.

She staggers away from where Cathy used to be and up the stairs. Not-Catalina is watching her from the study, by Anne’s body, as she hobbles to the bedroom and stairs at a photo on the wall.

“The picture.” She croaks.

“Very good. Very nice.” Not-Catalina purred. She appears beside Joan and pats her head like you would a dog. “That’s a picture of Margaret Lee and her friend, Anna. You see... you and your schoolyard chums are experiencing— well, this has sort of happened before.” She turned her head to photo. “Maggie and Anne tried to...sport with us many years ago. And, well...”

Images flash by Joan’s eyes.

“Only one survived.”

Not-Catalina turned and began walking back down to the living room. She seems to drag Joan along by an unseen force.

“But in the process, we discovered a way to return, so to speak.”

They both stop.

“It just takes a little time.”

“What happened to Anna?” Joan asked softly.

“Let’s just leave it at: the poor girl didn’t know what she was playing with. It doesn’t matter.” Not-Catalina answered. “The waves. It’s the waves, we think. And we will use those waves to absorb into your friends as sunlight blooms into flowers. And we will grow. And we will engulf.”

Joan’s entire body felt as if it were just dunked in arctic waters.

“You— you can’t do that!” She cried. “Think about what you’re doing!”

“We can do that, Joan.” Not-Catalina said. “And what has seemed to your parents as eighty years has been eons to know an existence without life.” Her words seep in before she begins again, “We tried it too quickly with Anna, but now we know to wait...and soak.”

Down down down- Joan is pushed deep into the ice waters. She’s frozen, unable to fight against this.

“We has to keep you here, on the island. It will be a great honor, Joan, really...to carry us through this life.” A wicked smile curls on Not-Catalina’s lips. “And onto the next.”

Joan backed away, but she knew running would do her no good.

“Please, just don’t do this,” She begged. “We’re— we’re not—”

“It’s sad, I know, to lose the facility to feel...” Not-Catalina said. “...to be, but...we have not felt anything for a very long time. And we’ll do whatever is necessary.”

Not-Catalina chuckles at Joan’s horrified expression. She kneels to her height and leaned in close.

“When our vessel dashed on the rocks we had until dawn.” She said. “So do you.”

She pulled back suddenly.

“We would spend our time wisely. And,” She smiled, “we thank you for your good service.”

Joan’s vision blurs and she’s back in the attic. She trudged down the ladder and found three tape players in the place where her friend’s bodies used to be. She sluggishly cranked the handle of the top two, her mind far away, but when she walked downstairs and passed the large mirror, her reflection shifted.

She froze.

“Let Maria go out on her own.” The Other-Joan said.

“Why— why does it even matter? She’s not— she’s not here.” Joan growled, but her reflection shifts again and it’s back to normal.

She sighed and went to the last tape player and cranked the handle.

Everything around her buzzed.

“Ugh...”

Kitty is on the floor in the foyer, with Anne and Cathy strewn out beside her. They all groan.

“I think I’m gonna be sick...” Kitty mumbled.

“Me first.” Anne said.

Joan wanted to leap into all of their arms, wanted to express how happy she was that they were no longer hollow shells of human bodies, but she couldn’t. She felt too dizzy, too nauseated, too scared to do anything besides slowly lower herself into one of the armchairs in the foyer. She propped her elbows up on her knees and held her head, letting everything that was said to her sink in fully.

They were going to die. Or maybe just become vessels for ghosts that will wear their skin like coats, and she isn’t sure what is worse.

“Did—” Cathy’s voice falters for a moment. “Did that just happen? With you and Catalina? That wasn’t a dream, right?”

“I wish it was.” Joan sighed. She raised her head, but found doing so more difficult than she expected- it was like her skull was now made out of the heaviest metal in existence.

“Catalina, she’s...” Kitty looked around. “Those weird nuclear submarine monsters took her to the caves. We have to go get her back!”

“Yeah, of course,” Joan nodded. “But how?”

“Maggie has a bunch of old military tapes in her basement,” Anne nodded. “I know there’s some slides on the tunnels dug all around this island. Maybe they’ll help?”

“Worth a shot.” Cathy said.

The four them walked out of the house and out the basement. The ocean was churning loudly, black waves rolling over one another like they were fighting for power over the sea. The boardwalk rocks treacherously, the boards practically threatening to cave in beneath the teenagers.

They all ducked into the basement and Anne went over to the projector while Joan grabbed a reel. They put it in.

The first slide to pop up was of two young women around their age or maybe in their early twenties reading a journal together. One has long, maybe brown hair (the slide wasn’t colored) and the other was dark-skinned with seemingly black short hair. They both seemed...happy.

“Oh god, if this is a prehistoric scrapbook...” Anne said.

“It’s cute! They’re learning!” Joan said. “But it doesn’t help us. So onto the next...”

The next slide shows the blueprints of a bunker up on the fields and the one after that is a sketch of the weird triangles.

“Woah, Maggie knew about those things?” Kitty said aloud. “That’s so weird...and creepy.”

They continued to search, eventually coming up with a plan: The bunker in the field leads right into the cave. To open it, Cathy and Joan would go into the Catbird Station in the woods and send a signal, then Kitty and Anne will wait for the door to open. Then, they’ll all regroup and the sisters would head inside and hopefully save the day.

It was a stretch, but it was all the got.

[bxcketbarnes]

The Innocent Girl // Part Thirty-One: Traps and Blockades // Bellamy Blake

gif is not mine; can’t find source unfortunately

Words: 4300+

Warnings: Betrayal? Them thinking it’s a betrayal. A hint of fluff!

Author’s Note: We’re are super duper close to the end of season 3. My god. I honestly can’t believe it. I wanna believe it’s taking me so long to write this season is because one; I haven’t been able to write a lot because I mentally don’t feel like it and two; this is like my least favorite season. Season 4 is a favorite of mine, so I’m hoping to get caught up in writing this that it’ll be out faster than y’all can snap your fingers. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Thanks to the lovely, @lovefilledtragedy for reading this over and helping me with it! Much appreciated xox

Octavia and I manage to sneak our way back into camp without anyone finding out. She’s more dangerous being here than I am, but if they see me with her I’ll lose their trust immediately. We get into the position we were told to get in, waiting for Harper’s signal.

“Package is on the move. I repeat the package is on the move. We are a go,” her voice comes through the radio, static following behind her as O holds the radio up to her lips. “Okay, S, is your team in position?”

“Roger that. We’re in position and ready to intercept,” she replies.

Octavia and I pry open the floor paneling, getting into it as we can hear the footsteps of the guards and prisoners coming closer. I can hear the distinct chatter of Pike ordering his team around before the door to the room opens. The two of us wait for a little bit before revealing ourselves, telling them to get in the floor while O and I drug the two guards standing outside the door.

After completing part of the mission, we get back into the floor just in time to hear footsteps running down the hall. The door bursts open as I kept my eyes on the floor paneling above us, my breathing becoming slightly heavier as it was way too small in this confined space. A loud bang was heard as Pike yelled, “damn.”

“The guys are fine, sir. They must’ve drugged them,” someone tells him.

“We did what they wanted us to do,” Pike says and pauses for a few moments as footsteps were heard once more. “That won’t happen again.” All the footsteps grow farther away before Octavia stands up, removing the paneling.

She climbs out, grabbing the rifles and Kane follows after her, grunting a bit. “It’s a bit tight in there,” he mentions as Sinclair and Lincoln follow suit.

“Try doing it for sixteen years,” Octavia tells him as I get out, placing the paneling back as she unlocks everyone’s restraints. She crouches down in front of Lincoln as I grab one of the rifle’s, throwing the strap over my shoulder. “Hey, we’ll come back for Danae and the others… I promise.”

Abby comes into the room, along with Miller and Bryan as the radio goes off, Harper’s voice coming through the radio. “Okay, S, come in.”

“What is it?” Lincoln asks as Octavia quickly grabs the radio off of her hip.

“This wasn’t the plan,” O mutters before continuing, “we used their frequencies so they could hear us. Go ahead!”

“Stay where you are,” she whispers into the radio, “repeat stay where you are. The exit is not clear.”

I curse quietly, running my hands through my hair. “How many guards?” Octavia asks quickly.

“Too many. Stay put.”

We wait for Harper’s signal before Monty’s voice comes over the radio, my eyes widening at what he says. “Calling all guards. The prisoners are heading for the main gate. I repeat the prisoners are heading for the main gate, over!”

“That was Monty,” Octavia breathes and a smile comes to my lips, knowing he’d come through eventually.

“Guess he’s with us after all,” Miller mutters.

“I could find out,” Kane mentions.

“We don’t know that,” Abby states in a hushed whisper. “What we do know is that we have to move.”

The eight of us begin to make our way towards the secret area we use to get in and out of camp, keeping a close eye out for any guards lingering around. We get there rather quickly without causing any attention before we begin to file into the small opening.

“Go, go, go,” Kane mutters to me and Harper as we crawl through.

“Attention all citizens. Emergency lockdown is in effect. Return to your quarters immediately.”

Sinclair crawls through as Kane whispers to Abby to get in and she tells him she’s not going, mentioning that people need her to get them out of the dark. She started to ramble on about it when Kane places a hand around the back of her neck, connecting his lips with hers. My eyes widen, not expecting that one bit. It’s cute though.

“I have a message for the traitors in this camp,” Pike’s voice comes through the radio, having all of us halt our movements to listen. “There will be an execution today. Either turn yourselves in or the other grounder prisoners will die in your place.”

“Let’s go,” Octavia mutters, pushing Lincoln towards the opening but he doesn’t move, just stares down at her before he moves around her and she grabs his arm in a slight panic. “No, wait.”

“I can’t let them die because of me,” he tells her.

“Lincoln, please,” she begs, “we’re almost out.”

Kane takes a step towards Lincoln, placing a hand onto his arm. “I know what you’re feeling, but they’re searching the station. We need to go now.”

“You should,” Lincoln mumbles while nodding his head.

“Fine,” O starts, “I’m going with you. We fight together.”

My heart falls into my stomach as I lean half of my body out. “Octavia, no. They’ll kill you, please,” I beg, feeling my eyes begin to water at the situation at hand.

Lincoln nods his head slowly, softly smiling down at her as he got closer to her. “I love you,” he whispers before leaning down to place a kiss to her lips. I bite my lip, watching as he grabs something before sticking it into her neck.

“No,” she whispers before passing out. He picks her up and gives her to Kane, telling him to get her out of here before he walks out of the room. I help Kane get Octavia through the opening as he climbed in himself, beginning to make out way out of the station.

-

Kane drapes Octavia over her horse, leading him as we walk through the woods. She slowly begins to waken as I heard her whisper Lincoln’s name before she falls off Helios. I quickly move towards her, helping her up as we walk through a small clearing. The two of us see everyone outside, Lincoln slowly falling to his knees.

“No,” O and I whisper at the same time and I grip her hand in mine, my vision becoming blurry from the tears. My body shakes as the gun goes off, Lincoln falling to the ground while a couple of sobs leave my lips. May we meet again, Lincoln.

We start to make our way towards the cave again, eerie silence filling the group. It takes us about twenty minutes before we reach the cave, everyone else walking into the cave first. I set my hands onto my hips before taking a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened.

“Where’s Lincoln?” Bellamy asks once his eyes met mine, noticing no one else coming in afterward.

“Pike put a bullet in his brain,” O bluntly states and I swallow thickly, knowing this isn’t gonna end well.

Bellamy’s eyes met her figure, a look of sadness on his face. “O… I’m so sorry,” he mumbles as she takes off her jacket before punching him in the face.

She threw a couple more punches and I wince before looking away, not being able to see the man I love get the shit kicked out of him… even if he deserved it. “Octavia, that’s enough,” Kane calmly tells her.

“Kane, stay out of this,” Bellamy states, hearing Octavia throw another punch. The beating continues as I turn slightly to see him on his knees, face full of blood and she knees him straight in the face.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Miller mutters and tries to stop her as she sobs, pushing him away from her.

“Miller, back off,” Bellamy pants.

I can’t stop my hands from shaking, everything that’s happening becoming too much for me as I quietly whimper out his nickname. “Freckles…” The curly-haired man’s eyes met mine as a few tears roll down my cheeks before his gaze moves back to O’s.

She lets out a scream, continuing to punch him over and over until he falls to the floor. “You’re dead to me,” she tells him before walking away.

Miller and Bryan begin to start a fire, everyone sitting around it about ten feet away from Bellamy. I stood near Kane, biting my nails as they talked about putting people on guard duty. My eyes stay on Bellamy as he leans his head against the rock wall, sniffling a bit before letting out a deep breath.

I mutter that I’ll be right back, heading towards the beaten and chained up man, not hearing anyone telling me to stop which is good. His brown eyes look at me as I walk over, kneeling down in front of him before sitting down completely.

We sat in silence for a good minute, hearing the group behind me chatter about what we’re going to do when I begin to speak up. “How’s your face? Does it hurt?” I ask quietly, afraid my voice will crack if I go any louder.

Bellamy shakes his head, giving me a half-smile before grabbing my hands. “No, not really. Bet I look terrible though,” he jokes and I chuckle a bit. The smile quickly turns into a frown, his thumbs rubbing the back of my hands softly. “I’m so sorry, Angel. God, I’m so sorry for everything.”

I scoot closer to him, trying not to tear up as I gently place a hand to his cheek. “It’s okay,” I whisper before my hand drops to his chest. “You were doing what you thought was right. I understand. We’re human. We make mistakes.”

“I love you. I wish things were different,” he mumbles while intertwining our fingers. I nod my head, swallowing the lump in my throat before moving beside him, resting my head against his shoulder.

“She’ll come around,” I reassure him while my eyes are planted on Octavia’s back.

“I’m not so sure about that, Angel.”

There’s a quick silence throughout everyone after Kane had asked how we can get back to being the thirteenth clan and killing Pike when the radio goes off. “Bellamy, come in,” Monty’s voice echoes off the walls in the cave, everyone’s eyes moving towards the device. “It’s Monty, I’m in trouble. Please say you still have your radio.”

Sinclair grabs it, holding his hand out as Kane tries to grab it. “If we respond and Pike’s listening-”

“We go to channel seven,” Bellamy cuts him off, Kane and Sinclair’s eyes darting towards us. ““Please say you still have your radio,” that’s seven words after the word trouble. It’s code, go to seven.”

Kane glances between Bellamy and Sinclair before he gives him the go-ahead. The mechanic turns it to channel seven before handing it over to the ex-Chancellor. “Bellamy, are you there?” Monty’s voice asks.

“Monty, it’s Kane,” the older man starts, his eyes staying on Bellamy and I. “What’s wrong?” He asks and we wait for Monty to respond.

“Pike knows that I helped you get out,” he tells us and I fiddle around with Bellamy’s guard jacket, worried about one of my best friends. God, I left Audrey there… and Jasper, but Jasper isn’t… Jasper anymore.

“Can you get to the dropship?” Kane questions before taking his finger off the button on the walkie.

“I think so,” Monty answers.

“Good. Go there, I’ll bring you in,” he informs the teen and Kane’s gaze moves to Bellamy’s once more. “Stay off the radio. Over and out.”

We all sat in silence for a few moments when Bell nudges me. I lift myself off his chest, glancing up at him as he just sighs before nodding his head towards the rest of the crew. “Go sit with them, alright?” He mentions to me and I furrow my eyebrows together. Before I can even get a word in, Bellamy leans down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. “Don’t question me, just go.”

I nod my head, listening to the older Blake and I stand up from my spot, walking over before planting myself down by Octavia. The brunette glances over at me and I give her a small smile. I’m surprised that she returns it even though it’s barely a smile, but something. I pat her leg sympathetically as Harper speaks up.

“Hold on, what if it’s a trap and Pike’s waiting?”

“That’s why I’m going alone,” Kane mutters and stands up. Oh hell no. Sinclair, Octavia, and I all stand up simultaneously.

“Like hell you are.”

“I don’t think so.”

Octavia and I say at the same time, her machete tightly grasped in her hand.

“I’m with them,” Miller starts and drapes the strap to his rifle over his shoulder. “Monty saved our lives. I’m going, too.”

“No you’re not,” Kane mutters and looks towards Miller and Bryan. “If it is a trap, I’m not marching our entire insurgency into it.”

Octavia finishes putting her jacket on when she pipes in. “To stop me, you’re gonna have to kill me.”

“She hopes it’s a trap,” Bellamy informs us as O and I glance back at him, his gaze directed right at his younger sister.

“He’s coming, too,” she says and my lips part.

“Wait Octav-”

“We need a hostage to trade for Monty,” she cuts me off as her eyes are planted on me. I quickly shut my mouth, nodding my head before looking back towards Bellamy.

Kane nods his head, glancing at everyone. “That’s a good plan. He stays chained, gag him,” he orders and I head over to my stuff, grabbing my rifle and machete, attaching the melee weapon to my jeans.

“Sir, with all due respect-”

“He’s the enemy,” Kane cuts Miller off and I close my eyes, letting out a deep breath. Christ, this is hard. I wish I was still angry at him for choosing Pike’s side so this wasn’t so difficult. “Do what I said.”

-

The four of us arrive at the dropship and flashbacks of memories flowing through my mind as Octavia and Kane have a hold on Bellamy who’s walking in front of them. I aim my gun behind us, making sure our six is clear as we begin to make our way through the opening.

“Monty?!” Kane calls out and I turn around, moving to stand beside Octavia as silence fills the air. “We got here first,” he mutters and begins to make our way further into the old camp.

“No we didn’t,” Octavia growls and roughly grabs a hold of her brother.

“What are you doing?” Kane asks as the younger Blake holds her sword inches from her brother's neck, continuing forward.

“Get outside!” She yells loudly, her eyes trained on the opening of the dropship. “Now!”

The flap moves as Monty steps out, his hands bound together as Kane and I had our guns aimed at the door. A gun peak out from behind him as Pike holds it against the teen’s head.

“They followed me. I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

I thickly swallow, standing guard as I look through the reticle, training it onto Pike’s head. “Let him go, Pike,” Kane yells out.

“Can’t do that,” the Chancellor notifies us. The older man brings a radio up to his lips, muttering something into it before a gunshot goes off fairly close to us. I jump slightly, aiming my gun in the direction the bullet came from as Kane kept his trained on Pike. “It’s over. Put down your weapons.”

“Shoot him,” O whispers at Kane, narrowing her eyes at the Chancellor.

“Monty’s in the shot,” Kane whispers back as another gunshot goes off, the bullet colliding with my shin.

A scream leaves my lips as I fall to the ground, clenching my teeth. “Motherfucker,” I painfully grunt and look up at Octavia to see her eyes locked on me. Bellamy shifts in her grasp, his eyes wide with fear swimming in them as she manages to keep a hold on him.

You okay? She mouths to me and I painfully nod my head, looking down at my wound to see it was a through and through.

“I promised Monty’s mother that I’d bring him home alive,” Pike continues as I take part of my shirt, ripping the bottom of it before tying it around the wound to try and stop it from bleeding. “Don’t make me a liar.”

I slowly get back up, grabbing my rifle as a scowl sets on my lips, aiming the gun at Pike. We stand still in silence a few more moments before Kane lowers his gun.

“Kane, no,” Octavia mutters, sounding defeated as she looks back at him. He raises his hands, taking his rifle and sets it on the ground about a foot away from him.

“Now you two,” Pike orders Octavia and I. I glare at the man before moving my gaze to O, seeing her doing the same. She begins to pull away before changing her stance, holding the blade of her sword against Bellamy’s neck.

“What are you doing?” Kane and I whisper-yell to her at the same time, seriously worried about Bell’s safety.

Pike brings up his walkie and speaks into it. “One in the girl’s leg… both of them,” he orders and I quickly move from my spot as Bellamy takes Octavia’s arm and twists it, having her slowly fall to her knees. “Britt, come on now. Drop the gun. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

Bellamy looks back at me, his brown eyes pleading with me and I let out a defeated sigh before shrugging the strap of my rifle off, throwing it away from me. Pike then lets out a whistle as guards come out from every direction. Kane, Octavia, and I get handcuffed and Bellamy removes the gag from his mouth as Pike walks over to us, taking the sword O had.

“Now you don’t look so good,” Pike tells Bellamy.

“I’m fine,” Bell rasps out while looking towards us.

“You got about five seconds to make me believe that you’re still with me.”

“All the others are in a cave not far from here,” Bellamy tells him and a gasp leaves my lips.

Anger coursed through my veins at the betrayal as Octavia screams at her brother. “You son of a bitch!” She begins to run towards him when she gets stunned with a shock baton, falling to the ground as grunts leave her lips. I keep my eyes on her as hers eventually roll back into her head, passing out from the shock.

“Give me the coordinates,” Pike orders.

“I don’t have the coordinates, but I can take you there,” Bellamy tells him as I narrow my eyes at the fool, trying to figure him out. I thought for sure that he was with us…

We all move through the woods, gags being put into each of our mouths. Octavia was awake by now as she walks in front of me. I keep my eyes on Bellamy’s back as him and Pike lead us.

“Sure about the route? We’re getting close to the blockade line,” the Chancellor mutters to Bellamy as I eavesdrop on the conversation.

“That’s why Kane set up out here. He didn’t think we’d risk it.”

“Well, he was wrong.”

Hm. Is what I think is happening, happening? Is Bellamy leading him to the blockade? Is he actually on our side?

“What’s gonna happen to my sister and Britt? I know they have to answer for their crimes, but-”

“I’ll tell you what,” Pike interrupts, looking towards the elder Blake, “I’ll make you the same promise I made to Monty’s mother. Immunity from all past actions, but if they screw up again-”

“Oh, they won’t. I’ll make sure of it,” he mutters deeply and looks back at us. “My sister, my responsibility and the same goes for Angel now too.”

Pike looks over at him, not saying a word as I quicken my steps, walking beside Octavia and she looks towards me. I nudge her arm, motioning my head towards her brother with a nod, kinda signaling that I know what’s happening and she just looks at me confused. I let out a groan, choking a bit on the gag before a muffled cough leaves my lips.

We all begin to walk over a hill after another ten minutes of silence. “Hold on,” Pike halts, looking towards Bellamy.

“The cave’s just on the other side,” he tells him and begins to descend down the hill. Kane and I glance towards each other as he gives me a confused look. Pike orders the guards to keep an eye out as we all follow after Bellamy, slowly going down the hill.

A horn goes off and I jump, my heart pounding in my chest as everyone with guns begins to take their aim. “The blockade,” Pike calls out as they begin to panic and honestly, so do I. “Anybody got eyes?”

“I got nothing,” one of the guards answers as I stand closely by Octavia, whipping my head around while getting into a fighting stance… just in case.

“Back to higher ground!” Pike utters out and Bellamy grabs the handgun that’s attached to the older man’s thigh, holding it to his head.

“Drop your weapon,” he orders and I internally cheer.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Pike growls.

Bellamy moves a bit closer, yelling at the Chancellor. “Drop your weapon!!” Octavia makes her move and takes down two of the guards. I quickly move and grab their guns, grabbing one for myself and tosses the other one behind me. “We bring your Chancellor Pike of the Sky People. O, translate,” Bell calls out for the grounders to hear as I try my best to aim my gun at the other guards.

The brunette takes the gag out from her mouth. “We bring you Chancellor Pike of Skaikru,” she yells out in trigedasleng. 

“You’ve killed us all,” Pike barks at Bellamy as he just stares at the shorter gentlemen.

“Take him. Lift this blockade,” Bellamy speaks and waits for his sister to translate. She yells the translation, her eyes trained on Pike as well.

Arrows fly through the sky and take out the three remaining guards while grounders begin to come out from their hiding places, yelling and screaming. They all take their aim with various weapons and I can’t help but drop the rifle I had, quickly moving to kneel beside O. She looks around and grabs a dagger from one of the dead guards, making her move to kill Pike when Kane steps in front of her, stopping her from doing so.

“Hey, no,” he mutters, removing the gag from his mouth. “The grounders are gonna need him alive. They didn’t get justice for Finn. We won’t get away with that again.”

She calms down slightly as Pike looks back towards Bellamy who still had a gun trained on him. “In that case,” he starts and charges towards the young adult when an arrow flies straight into his shoulder, sending him to the ground. A couple of the grounder kick him while he’s down, grunts leaving the Chancellor’s lips as he grows unconscious.

They pick him up, beginning to walk away when Kane pipes up. “Where are you taking him?” He asks and the grounder turns back to look at the older man.

“To the new commander.”

“May I join you?” Kane questions and pulls up the sleeve to his shirt, revealing the brand on his arm. “We’re the thirteenth clan.”

“Don’t slow us down,” the grounder growls quickly before turning around to continue his path to the city.

I stood a couple feet from everyone, trying to come to with everything that just happened as my chest heaves heavily. “Are you sure?” Monty asks Kane as Octavia removes her restraints. “We know nothing about the new commander.”

“I’m sure. Go home. Tell our people what happened here,” he tells us and Bellamy turns around to see my still gagged and chained. He holds his hand out to Octavia, motioning for the blade in her hands and she reluctantly gives it to him.

The curly-haired man steps up to me, looking into my eyes for a few moments. “You good?” He asks quietly while removing the restraints from my hands.

I nod my head, moving my hands up to remove the gag from my mouth. “Yeah, I’m alright. The bullet hurts a little, but nothing I can’t handle,” I tell him with a small grin. Bellamy gives me a small smile about to say something when Kane calls out his name.

He makes his way back towards Kane as the ex-Chancellor was all up in his face. “Did you do this for your sister and Britt? Or because it was the right thing to do?” He asks and Bellamy stays quiet as both O and I watch from where we stood.

“You’re welcome,” Bellamy mutters, beginning to walk away when Kane grabs onto his arm.

“It matters. Until you see that, you’ll still be lost.”

Kane walks away from Bell as he turns around, his gaze planted on me for a moment before he walks over to Monty.

“My mother turned me in,” Monty mutters and I frown slightly, not being able to believe that Hannah would do such a thing.

“You’re family,” he tells the teen. “We’ll work it out.” Bellamy pats Monty on the shoulder as I watch Octavia look towards her brother who turned to face her.

One of the guards began to groan, lifting his head as O jumps up, letting out a scream before digging the dagger into his shoulder, finishing him off. “Blood must have blood,” she mutters in trigedasleng, her eyes glaring at Bellamy the entire time.

Well… this is awkward.

-

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