#I STAY EMPTY; I FEEL THE HUNGER【 FILE: MIRROR 】

[honorstripped]

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[honorstripped-blog]

hi im v and i love my interactions with @mctanoiia and @stcrmcallcr

you guys can reblog it, but only my roleplay partners, please! no personals.

[tsukikento]

Empathetic Chapter 19

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

Summary: After your mom, the number 1 hero in America, gets offered a teaching position at U.A., you two pack up your things and head to Musutafu, Japan to start a new life. Pressure for you in America was at an all-time high, and now you’re in Japan, where almost no one knows you, or your family’s past.

This tale starts on your first day of class where your new teacher decides the best way for you to fit in is to fight against the strongest person in your class: Bakugou Katsuki.

Warnings/Genre: This piece will feature some angst and reference to an abusive parent, if you are ever worried about other tw’s feel free to send me an ask and I will let you know. There will also be fluff, slight angst, pining, and slowburn.

A/N:  Hope you all enjoy this chapter! Lemme know what you think about what happens. :))

(series masterlist)

You awoke in a decent mood.

On one hand, you were living off the high of last night. A smile etched onto your face as butterflies erupted in your stomach. All your denying to Ashido was for naught because it seemed like your relationship with Bakugou was slowly kindling into something else. Like fire, it would grow, bloom, and beset ablaze in a glorious hue of red, orange, and yellow. You smiled to yourself but muffled the action with a bite of your lip. I can’t get too excited, you told yourself, I definitely don’t want to be disappointed if nothing happens.

Finding yourself and collecting your thoughts, you stood up from your bed and reminded yourself of what you needed to do.

Get ready and go to Aizawa’s office.

The butterflies, which were previously flittering away in your stomach, stopped. Instead, they were replaced with an unsure feeling and lump in your throat. You couldn’t help but feel guilty. With everything going on, with your family fighting hard to protect you, you felt there was no room for pleasantries and happiness.

You debated your juxtaposing thoughts and feelings in your head. You reminded yourself that your mother would want you to stay the same, act as if nothing changed. And yet, how could you let go and forget in a situation like this?

Filing away these obtrusive thoughts, you forced yourself to clear your mind and begin getting ready. You grabbed a few items, face wash, cream, toothbrush, etc. and made your way downstairs. At this time, few students were awake, and those who were tended to go to the gym to work out. Luckily, you did not pass anyone as you slinked into the restroom, washed your face, and brushed your teeth.

Once done, you made your way back upstairs to get changed. Unliked your hero school in American, here you had a school uniform. A transferring student may often view this as boring and uncreative. Even you found yourself hating the uniform and wishing you could wear your own clothes. However, today your mind was fogged with thought and too preoccupied to think about clothes. You found yourself gladly putting on an undershirt before your white button. You tucked your shirt into the flowy shirt and pulled on some ankle socks. It is much too cold to wear tights or thigh highs.

You sat down at the mirror for a few minutes, fixing up your hair to your liking before packing up your school bag. As you did so, you debated what to eat for dinner. Although you worked out quite a bit the night before, your nerves were ridding yourself of much hunger. Furthermore, you didn’t want to spend much time downstairs, worried that people would berate you with questions about last night.

Finally, you opted to grab a protein bar and bottled smoothie for breakfast instead of making something bigger. It’ll be enough till lunch, you thought, thanking your young metabolism.

Comparatively, you left much earlier than anyone else because you needed to meet with Aizawa. Once ready, you made a beeline to his office, anticipating the surge of feelings you would experience once you heard your mother’s voice.

The school wasn’t nearly as empty as last night, but few people were up and about currently. Some ran through the cool air while others walked to class, getting early for either cleaning duties or extra study time.

You noted that it was rather nice being able to avoid your classmates’ prying and worried eyes. Although you hadn’t been here long, you heard the news from passersby that told you class 2-A was quite popular. Whether it was skill or drama, your class seemed to always be on the tips of people’s tongues. You were certain news of Aizawa’s talk with you already spread, even if was complete misinformation.

Maybe I’ll start leaving early for class now, you thought as you entered through the double doors that led to teacher offices. It would be nice to avoid crowds and prying eyes.

Your eyes glanced through the various halls, trying to figure out which way to turn.

Room 21A…room 21A, you thought over and over, making sure you didn’t miss it as you weaved through the halls and avoided eye contact with various teachers who had their doors open. Every time you passed, their faces shot up at you, seeing if you were here for them.

You wondered if they knew about your family predicament. You were sure your specific teachers were told so they could anticipate your mood through classes, but what about teachers in other departments? You supposed it was necessary information; however, you silently hoped your stilled retained some secrecy in your personal affairs.

You passed through the C hallway and multiple teachers looked at you.

I’ve never even met these teachers before. If they were told about my family predicament, you told yourself, how could they even know it was about me?

Still, the eyes that lingered on you longer than you wanted and did nothing to ease your nerves.

When you finally arrived in front of room 21A, you awkwardly knocked on the open door, affectively waking up your teacher. You stiffly greeted Aizawa with a bow and a “Good morning!” before sitting on a chair before he was awake enough to offer the seat. He groggily woke up, unzipping himself from his large, yellow sleeping bag, and rubbing his eyes.

Silently, he opened the top drawer in his desk and pulled out a small white bottle. Once opened, you realized it was an eyedropper. Groaning, Aizawa put a couple of drops in each eye and blinked rapidly to ease the slight sting.

“How are you?” He asked once he was awake enough to speak. The question wasn’t a passing greeting, but a real question. His drawer creaked closed as he shut it and finally looked up to meet your eyes.

“Fine,” You replied curtly, looking away from his powerful, prying eyes.

The guilty tug that plagued you this morning once again showed up at your door, reminding you of the uneasiness in your stomach and shifting through.

Shouldn’t I be more worried? You questioned yourself. I shouldn’t be happy—a slow exhale left your lips—I shouldn’t be thinking about when I will see Bakugou next. I should be fearing for my family’s life. You bit your lip in frustration, suddenly feeling much worse than you did when you woke up.

At this very moment, all you wanted to do was get back in bed and sleep your life away until this was finally all over.

Aizawa hummed in response to your short answer. “You just have to keep living your life,” He explained, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from a mug you assumed held coffee, “Things will get better soon.” Albeit a short phrase, it was clear that he was giving you advice he believed was wise. “I know it is difficult to sit back,” Aizawa continued, deciding to explain his thought process, “But your family wants you to. They want you to live your life while they protect you. Please take it easy.”

You felt like Aizawa could read your mind. It was as if he knew that you and Bakugou met up last night as if he knew that you put part of your heart out there to test the waters. It was as if he knew you were regretting the choice to follow your heart and he was trying to tell you to listen to your heart. He was trying to tell you not to regret your decisions.

Despite this statement of reassurance, it did not ease your worries in the slightest. Of course, I’m concerned for my family! It is only natural that, even though I believe in my family’s abilities, I worry for them.

You took a moment, breathed through the frustration, and tried to reiterate Aizawa’s wording. Maybe I should just listen to my heart, you debated, still unsure how to feel and what actions to take. “Yeah,” You barely whispered.

Aizawa sighed and you wondered if he knew you were still resisting his encouraging mentality. He made work of silently preparing the phone call, giving you time to think, knowing there was only so much he could say.

“I’m sorry I have to stay in the room,” Aizawa finally spoke once more, “I’m sure you would ideally want some alone time.”

“It’s fine,” You immediately replied, waving him off. You trusted Aizawa and knew that he would think of what was best for you.

Aizawa nodded and began speaking once more, “You can talk first and once you’re done talking to her, I will just need a few minutes to touch base. At that time, you can leave for class.”

You nodded your head, thinking of everything you wanted to say. You felt an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach as if you were about to go on stage and perform something you never learned.

When your mom picked up the phone, you felt a wave wash over you. It was as if hearing her voice reminded you that you don’t need to know everything. It was a reminder that your mother would always be there, even in her worst time, she had your best interest at hand.

It was like a warm blanket was placed over you and told you to forget all your worries and simply let someone else worry.

You felt tears prick out your eyes as you blubbered out a “Hi, mom.”

You didn’t know how familiar Aizawa was in English, but it provided you a small sense of privacy to be speaking in your native tongue.

“Hi sweet-pea,” Your mother's calm voice cooed. “How are you?”

“I’m good, fine.” You shrugged as if she could see you. “How are you?”

“I’m good too,” She replied, “I’m just thinking about you a lot. I hope everything goes well with me gone.”

“I know I’ll be fine,” You responded, “It’s you,” You paused, “And everyone I’m worried about.”

“No need to worry,” Your mother assured you. It was a statement you had heard before. Compared to everyone else in your family, you were the one who worried.

You worried over your oldest sister as she went on a mission across the globe and decided to overtly travel using her wind manipulation quirk.

You worried when you were 10 and a rumor broke out that your father had connections on the outside and your mother insisted on moving into a rural town, but refused to tell you where and when.

You worried when your brother, who was the only other sibling you had related to your father, broke down and disappeared for over a year.

You mother and siblings were calm and collected, almost to a fault as it seemed like they had no worries or fears. Despite knowing your mother had your best interest in hand, it was clear that she was unwilling to give you information.

Your call soon became a game where you would sneakily try to get information out of her. It was a tactic that never worked in the past, but you still tried. Instead, she simply assured you that everything was fine and that you should focus on school.

You practically laughed at her comment. You were never one to ignore school, but you were currently riddled with anxiety at the unknown. You wanted to know the most possible when it concerned you. However, your mom was the type to leave people in the dark ad handle issues on your own.

What a combination, you thought as you listened to her motherly words which told you to make sure you eat three meals a day.

The conversation went by much quicker than you thought and suddenly, Aizawa was asking you to say goodbye and get to class.

Sighing, you wished your mother and all your siblings well and bowed to Aizawa. In regards to your home life, you felt better knowing your mother was handling the situation, but also anxious as she refused to share details with you.

When you exited the room, you began walking away as if everything was fine. In a split second, you whipped back, staying close to the room, but out of sight of Aizawa’s door. You were perched around the corner, head peeking out slightly in order to peer at the door. You pulled out an earbud, hoping to hear what you could.

If you focused enough, you would hear dialogue. Your mother’s words would go through his brain and be processed. He would then think a response. These situations lasted only a second, meaning it could be difficult to decipher.

It also required you to be quite close to the person, block out all other thoughts, and focus intensely. It was a technique you rarely used because it only lasted a few minutes before you had a pounding headache.

From what you could understand, your mother had reason to believe your father was in Washington. A team, which included your oldest sister and only brother, was currently making their way to Washington in hopes of scouting the area. Multiple people were hypothesizing how to approach him. If they were unable to surprise attack him, your father could easily overtake a group.

Additionally, they were also looking for heroes across the country who could overpower a mind control quirk.

You subconsciously leaned in closer as your mother divulged important information, unaware that you were only a few meters away from the phone.

“What are you doing?”

Loud, gruff, and right into your ear that had no earbud muffling sounds.

“Fuck,” You, without thinking, hissed as you clutched your ear and turned to scowl at the perpetrator.

He was hovering over you, much too close for comfort. Red orbs stared at you, squinted in a smirk while the overhead lights caused them to glint. His teeth were bared in confidence because he just caught you doing something you shouldn’t.

You stumbled back into the hallway where Aizawa could easily spot you. Thinking quickly, you pushed at the blond’s chest, moving him back so there was enough space for you to hide from the teacher. Unsurprisingly, the blond was difficult to push back. forcing you to lean into him slightly.

Keeping close to you, he leaned down so his mouth was near your ear with no bud. His breath was hot, and the smell of his explosive sweat-filled your nose with burnt sugar.

“Why are you sneaking around our teacher’s office?” He whispered. You watched Bakugou look down at your clenched hands. His own hand went to yours, peeling it back to show you earbud which he grabbed. “Up to no good I see.”

You cleared your throat of your nerves and snatched back the earbud. You didn’t put it back in an attempt to subconsciously listen in case Aizawa left his office. “For your information,” You began, “I just got to talk to my mom and am listening in on her conversation with Aizawa-sensei in case she gives him information she didn’t give me.”

Bakugou simply looked at you, unsure how to reply.

You heard Aizawa’s thoughts change and knew he would soon be leaving his office. “We have to go.” You pushed Bakugou through the hall and he followed your lead, walking at a not-to-brisk pace to the classroom. You put your earbud back into your ear.

“Did you get any good info?” Bakugou asked curiously.

“Some,” You replied. “They think they know where he is.”

Bakugou hummed in response.

You got to class only a minute before the bell would ring. Ironically, that meant Aizawa was probably three minutes away. Most students were already in their seats, chatting amongst small groups. When the heavy door slid open, their eyes snapped to the movement.

You and Bakugou entered the room close together and you knew that if you had your earbud out, everyone would be wondering just what you two were doing together and why you looked so flustered.

It’s because I am spying on my mom and teacher! Not because I’m kissing hot-headed boys before class, your thoughts pleaded. Bakugou slipped past you, his hand leaving warmth across your back and waist.

You told yourself once again that people subconsciously look toward movement as you slinked away into your seat. The conversation continued normally, but Ashido, who was perched on Kirishima’s seat next to you, gave you a knowing look.

Eventually, although it was really only a minute later, Aizawa walked into the room and every person still out of their seat scurried to their desk.

~~

During class, you found yourself thinking about the blond all too much. You tried to focus, you really did, but your mind wandered. You doodled spirals on your notebook as Ectoplasm droned on about algebra. You struggled to focus on the Japanese work you had while Present Mic taught English.

It was at lunch that you practically jumped out of your seat. Nerves swelled in your chest as you thought about how this was once again an opportunity for you to talk to Bakugou. You bit your lip in excitement. You felt like you were on the verge of something special with him. It felt like he could confess at any second, or even surprise you with a romantic kiss.

Hoping to catch his eye, you turned to look in his direction. However, the blond was already up, out of his seat, and dashing toward the door.

Huh?

Maybe he just needs to use the restroom, you reasoned as you approached Ashido.

The pink-haired girl had also noticed the blond’s sudden leave and snickered. Leaning in close to you, she whispered in your ear, “Maybe he was just so horny from your make-out session earlier.”

“Oh my god,” You exclaimed, shocked at the idea. You turned and swatted the girl away before hissing, “We didn’t even make out!”

At that moment, Hagakure arrived at Ashido’s desk, her own being only a few seats away. “He was quite touchy with you though,” Thee invisible girl added. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way his hand lingered at your side.”

Ashido squealed in excitement at the idea and you blushed horribly bad. “Shut up!” You pointlessly countered.

“You know what,” Ashido began, “I take back my previous statement that you two will be dating by the end of this year. I bet you’ll be dating by the end of the week!”

Hagakure hummed in agreement, only making you feel even more flustered.

In an attempt to shrug them off, you mumbled out, “Whatever, let’s go get some food already.”

Your trio made their way to the cafeteria, far behind the rest of the class due to your small conversation. Luckily, the two girls weren’t as focused on you after the subject change and instead began talking about training for the week.

You found yourself drifting away from the conversation, knowing it revolved around preparation for the Sports Festival which you are unable to participate in. As a result, your mind drifted away from their discussion and more towards your current, familial predicament. It felt like you couldn’t escape issues. Either you were worried about your family, worried about your tentative relationship with Bakugou, or bummed because your hero career just got stunted.

You thought back to your mom’s emphasis on focusing in school and wondered just how well you were doing. Well for starters, I barely paid attention in class today because I was too busy focusing on a boy, you scolded yourself. Then again, she probably just gave me that advice to keep me from thinking about her trip.

You bit your lip as you entered into the cafeteria and simply followed the other two girls. You wondered if they were thinking about your conversation with Aizawa last night. Maybe all they want to do is ask me about it, but know I won’t want to talk.

Lunch moved by in a flash. To your recollection, you sat with Ashido, Hagakure, and the other girls from class. Each of them kept the conversation moving, whether naturally or in order to keep the attention off of you. Some effort was made to include you, but your answers were always curt.

It was weird. You didn’t feel horrible. You didn’t feel like breaking down and crying, but you were simply lost in your thoughts. You didn’t want to converse, but you didn’t necessarily mind the company. This was a common occurrence with you and was one that worried your ever-talkative siblings. Well, except your second sister. You reminisced at memories where the two of you simply sat together in nature, reading your own books.

This sister was the one who could control the Earth. She was quite powerful and quite calm.

Sighing, you stood from your seat at the table and excused yourself.

“I think I could do with a walk right now,” You explained before tossing away your trash and leaving your lunch tray in the designated spot.

Your walk was peaceful. There were a plethora of students who sat outside as they ate, but each was quiet enough to provide a sense of comfort that you truly needed right now. You trekked around the fields and walkways until the bell rang and you needed to make your way back to class.

The rest of the class went by smoothly. Although once again, you were unable to make eye contact with Bakugou, you forced yourself to focus on academics.

After class, you once again gave a sorry attempt to meet eyes with the blond who rushed out of class. Begrudgingly, you simply walked back to the dorms. Even though you felt antsy, you knew your other days were filled with activities.

Tomorrow you would have training with Shinsou, you agreed weeks ago to train with Ashido this Saturday, and then your week started back up. Training, cooking, training, and even more training. Sighing, you arrived at the empty dorm. Most students were out working on their skills or interning with a pro-hero. Feeling tired, you immediately changed into a more comfortable outfit and sat on your bed, ready to play on your phone until it was finally time for dinner.

~~

At dinner, Bakugou was nowhere to be found.

You tried to reason with yourself that his internship was once again running long, but Midoriya and Shouto were already eating when you made your way down.

Or maybe he just wanted some extra practice today, you reassured yourself as you plastered on a smile and ate dinner with the usual group.

Bakugou’s empty chair at the head of the table felt cold, but it seemed to bother no one else. You found your eyes drifting to it and the door, hoping he would simply appear out of nowhere.

He never did.

After dinner, you curiously lingered, craving him to finally show. You helped Jirou gather dishes and utensils from the table and then helped Tokoyami dry the freshly cleaned dishes in order to put them away.

You made idle talk with the duo, Sato, and whoever was spending their evening in the living room.

It was after an hour of sitting on the couch and talking to Iida and Aoyama that Bakugou finally showed. Your head immediately snapped at the clicking of the door opening. Aoyama and Iida paid no mind to the door and simply continued the conversation.

When you met his red eyes, Bakugou looked stunned.

It was as if, through no communication at all, he knew you stayed down here to specifically wait for him.

You found yourself tentatively rising from the couch, tempted to call out and say ‘Finally home? Let me make you a plate of tonight’s dinner.’

However, at the sight of you standing, Bakugou cleared his throat and rushed past the sunken living room, leading into the hallway towards the elevator.

You debated briefly, wondering if you should follow after him. However, Aoyama and Iida were now looking at you and your nerves prevented you from drawing more attention to yourself by sprinting after him.

The living room is quite full right now, you noted as you looked at Tsuyu and Ochaco who were working on a puzzle, and Momo who was making tea for them.

“Sorry,” You mumbled out as you looked back to Iida who was lecturing you on his training regimen. It was a boring conversation but was easy to squeeze yourself into in order to have a reason to stay downstairs. “Go on.”

You stayed there for another half an hour, knowing you couldn’t leave too quickly after Bakugou arrived and rushed upstairs dramatically. However, you were barely able to focus on Iida as your mind kept drifting back to the hot-tempered blond.

When you finally went to bed, after working on homework and doing your nightly routine, you found yourself wide awake. Bakugou’s awkward entrance continued to plague your mind.

You had no idea what his sudden change in personality meant. To be fair, you thought, Bakugou wasn’t acting like he normally did these past few days. Bakugou was fairly independent and rarely showed care. However, he had been bending this pattern quite extremely with you recently.

Sighing, you hoped Bakugou would at least talk to you tomorrow.

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Homecoming part 2

Summary: Slow burn. You are forced to move back to your home town due to the pandemic. When your high school tormentors return to remind you why you never wanted to come back. This gets darker as it goes. I’m not a good writer folks sorry.

Warning: forced masturbation, groping

Any critiques to make me better are more than welcome.

Dark Steve Roger x black reader and [Dark Bucky x black reader comes in later], Cop AU

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4; Chapter 5

After the run in with Steve and Bucky you were overly nervous when you finally made it to the grocery store. Even with your mask on you felt as if eyes were on you. You kept your head low and shopped for your needs as quickly as possible.

When you arrived back home you parked and got to unloading everything by yourself. It took two trips of you waddling back and forth before you finished. All the while you felt your purse buzz, you knew who it was, but you didn't want to think about it.

Had he followed you to the store? It was as if he knew you were home by now.

*Buzz Buzz

Every buzz sending a cold bolt throughout your body. It had been years since you ran off to the city, but it was as if seeing you today rekindled a spark in him.

*Buzz Buzz

Grabbing your bag from the table you rifled through the purse to find the culprit. As you suspected it all came from the same unknown number.

MSG unknown number: Hey Spit Roast WELCOME HOME!

The nickname once again filling you with anxiety and dread

MSG unknown number: Did you miss me? MSG unknown number: I missed you. MSG unknown number: I'm so excited to spend time with you again

You didn't want to think about what he used to do, but as more messages came in the more flash backs flooded in. The memory of the terror and torment he bestowed on you. Throwing your phone back in your purse you try an sooth the knot in your stomach.

*Buzz Buzz

MSG Steve: *sent image[dick] MSG Steve: *sent image[dick] MSG Steve: *sent image[dick] MSG You: Please stop. Im trying to have dinner

After your plea Steve surprisingly stopped. You were able to start cooking in peace. Calling your uncle to the kitchen for dinner you both  sit and eat.

He didn't ask how you were, because he could tell by looking at you. He finished his plate while you just stared at yours. You hadn't even noticed he left the kitchen until you heard the sound of the t.v. turning back on. Snapping out of it you clean the kitchen before heading back to your room.

Throwing your bag on your dresser before laying out on the bed. You tried to control you're breathing, tried to push him out, but the memories of him were relentless. He was living rent free in your mind and there was no way to evict him.

*Buzz Buzz

You knew the reprieve wouldn't last. Sitting up you walked to the dresser to grab your discarded bag to retrieve the phone.

MSG Steve: Show me what's mine

He wanted to you to expose yourself to him. Refusing him wasn't an option.

Maybe if I send him some random girl from the internet.

You searched on your phone to find someone. It didn't take long to find a girl that kind of looked like you. Cropping it just right you could probably pull it off. Your heart was pounding hard in your chest as you readied yourself to press send.

Holding your breath you waited. Hoping he just might fall for it.  

*Buzz Buzz

MSG Steve: ☹️😡 MSG Steve: I know you Y/N don't play with me.

You fucked up. He did know you. He had remembered you. He had violated you so many times how could he forget. You tried to be slick and you blew it completely. Your hands trembled as you remembered how harsh he was to you when you didn't play right.

What little food you had didn't stay long as you dropped your phone and made a mad dash to the waste bin by your nightstand. As you emptied your gut you hoped that your uncle was too preoccupied to notice.

How after so many years was he still hell bent on tormenting you?

After a few more dry heaves you wiped your mouth with your sleeve. Staring at the phone from the floor. You heard another buzz and braced yourself for the consequences.

Rising to your feet you walk over to the bed and pick it up again. With a deep breath you read it.

MSG Steve: be ready at 7pm and wear a dress 😘 MSG Steve: nite!

*Bang Bang Bang

After a few minutes the front door swung open, your uncle filling the door frame staring Steve down. Both men visibly annoyed at the sight of each other.

"And to what do I owe the honor of your visit Steve?" Uncle Nick inquired.

"Tsk... Ha...its officer Rogers these Days Nick." Steve corrected with a smirk.

"It's General Fury last time I check my ranking" Uncle Nick parried.

Nick knew that Steve contributed to your grade school torment, though he never new the full extent. He did try to help you, tried to get them to stop, but he couldn't. You broke his heart when you skipped town, but he understood it was for the best.

"I'm here for Y/N" Steve huffed clenching his jaw.

"Oh really" he nodded, cocking a brow.

"Yes... really" his says, his mouth closes in a tight line, taking one step forward. Puffing out his chest taking a step forward, crossing his arms.

"Why don't you just go away and leave her alone?"

"Unc!" You shout from the kitchen.

"I don't want anyone else to have her" He answered Fury unabashed.

"Unc, it's fine" you say walking up from behind him, trying to wedged through the door and his body.

"You sure about this?" He asked in a hushed tone over his shoulder still blocking you.

Inhaling and sighing slowly you reply "yes."

Side stepping to let you pass you could feel his concern on your back as he watched you file out. Steve's face turns from stern to wholesome as you walked up to him. Placing a hand on your lower back you fight the urge to turn and run inside. Looking over his shoulder to Fury with a smirk as if he had just won a small victory over him. The sound of his chuckle prickled your skin as he led you down the walkway. Each step forward was harder than the next as approached the vehicle.  

Opening the passenger door for you it all of a sudden became hard to breathe. As you lower yourself to get inside your body started to tremble. When the door closed you felt almost suffocated. Your shaky hand reached for the seat belt as he walked around the car to the drivers side. Before he started the car you could tell he was looking at you, but you couldn't face him.

"I thought I told you to wear a dress?"

Instead you wore a pair of boot cut jeans, an oversized sweater and no makeup. You knew he would disapprove and you knew this bit of defiance would not go unpunished, but wearing a dress around Steve would be like showing red to a bull. You wanted to be covered from head to toe. Whenever he touched you your skin felt as if it were on fire, this small barrier of fabric would protect you for the time being.

"I don't have any" you lie as your body trembled. Hoping against hope he was too focused on the road to notice.

"Tsk Tsk Tsk we will have to change that" he said matter of factly as he turned on the radio.

Shifting your body to face the window you stare out at the changing land scape hoping the motion would settle your nerve. Steve rested his hand on the stick shift as he sped through the streets, but eventually found your thigh. At first you brushed him off, but every time he switched gears the hand would fall and squeeze your leg.

"You do that again and I will fuck you on the side of the road in the middle of rush hour." He spoke while keeping his eyes on the road. This time when his hand rested on your thigh you just  left it.

"You remember I asked you first. I wanted you. Remember? Mrs. Pepper's English class?" He chuckled lightly at the memory. Keeping his eyes on the road.

"We were kids Steve that was more than a decade ago" you say flatly facing the passenger window.

He didn't retort only allowing the radio to fill the silence as he drove on.

Freshmen year of High school in Mrs. Pepper's English class was were you first met Steve. The scrawny little boy way shorter than you sat directly behind you. Aside from the occasional passing back of paper assignments you two never really spoke.

Until one day he passed you a note while Mrs. Peppers back was turned. Unfolding the letter and hiding it between the pages of your book you read it. In it he poured out his heart to you.

He talked about the way you wore your hair, your smile and how he was most definitely failing the class because all he could think about was you.

It was sweet and the first ever confession you ever received. But you were interested in someone else at the time. So without a second thought you wrote him back a reply.

It wasn't until the sound of him tearing the note hit your ears that your heart sank. When you told your bestie, Peggy, about it she scolded you for being so cold hearted.

After the twenty minute drive he turned down a cul-de-sac. The car crawled to a stop in front of a white picket fence. Rolling into its driveway where a two story house sat. It looked like the American dream.

You looked at him with dread in your eyes. Steve was really taking you to see Peggy. He ignored your stare, putting the car into park and shoving the keys into his pocket.

"Peggy should be just about finished."  Smiling to himself as he smoothed out his hair in the rear-view mirror.

His hand fell from his hair landing on your lap again. You shifted uncomfortably as his hands trailed up your jeans. You squeeze your legs tightly together, but Steve doesn't stop until he reaches your crotch. You take your hands and try to push him away, but he doesn't budge.

"Don't" you say flatly. When Steve turned to look at you his sky blue eyes grew dark and you could see a familiar hunger in them. Turning to look at the house you hoped Peggy couldn't see or wouldn't walk out to greet her husband.

"Stop... please" your voice softly pleading. Tears threatening to fall as his finger dip low onto your crotch. The friction of his hand on your jeans sending a jolt throughout your body. When he felt the warmth between your legs he bit down on his bottom lip. Rubbing up and down the seam he watched as you fought against him and the wetness building between your thighs.

"Hope your hungry!" He spoke with a now chipper tone. His wholesome smile returning to match. Slipping his hand from you to unbuckled your belt. You sat there frozen as he then unfastened his own before pulling the strap back. Acting as if nothing had happened before he opened his door to get out.

You watched him from the car as he walked up to the porch, pulling out his house keys. You thought for a moment if there was something you could do or if there was somewhere to run, but you already knew the answer was no.

He waited at the door for you as you finally got out. Even outside of the car the air felt too thick to breathe. Making your way up the porch he open the door and you reluctantly followed.

"Honey I'm Home!" Steve sang out to his adoring wife who seemed to be busying herself about the house.

There was a shuffle in a distant room. A head popped out from around a door way and there you saw her, Peggy. She was breathtaking. She looked like Mary Tyler Moore from the Dick Van Dyke show you used to watch with your uncle. Her hair fixed, makeup immaculate and a dress that you would never cook in.

Running from the kitchen all smiles Peggy kissed Steve on the cheek.

"Oh honey I missed you" she embraced him as if he had been gone for centuries. "Who do you have..." her words stop short as she regarded you. Her smile almost falling when she sees your face.

"Hi Peg" you say meekly.

She looked to Steve as if to protest but something in her eyes told you she knew better of it.

"Oh Hi Y/N, Long time no see." She smiled brightly at you, but it was so fake and empty. Even after all this time she still held that grudge against you.

Peggy and you had been friends all through grade school. You two used to be inseparable, always having sleepovers, eating lunch together and bus rides home.

That was until she started dating Steve. The scrawny kid that had once passed you a note with his heart attached had changed drastically over the summer. Puberty had hit him like a ton of bricks. Coming back over six foot tall, muscles and newly appointed captain of the football team. If his name wasn't Steve Rogers you would've sworn he was someone completely different.  

Despite his new found popularity and budding relationship he made time for you. He started of small by playfully tripping you every time you passed him. Then your lockers lock would break almost everyday you couldn't prove it was him, but he would always be close by when you discovered the broken lock. Your uncles house on more than one occasion would be egged or tepeed leaving you to clean up the carnage.

It wasn't until the day of the incident that everything became truly clear. Immediately after that Peggy ended your years long friendship.  

*Knock knock

"That must be Bucky" Steve said while walking off to get the door. You wanted to say something to her in his absence, anything, but she just turned on her heals. Leaving you to go back to the kitchen from which she came.

As her body cut the corner to the kitchen you could hear the sounds of their voices. You wanted to vomit. You didn't want to be left alone with them. The closer they came the more rapid your heart beat inside your chest.

"Bucky why don't you help Peggy set the table while I give Y/N a tour." Steve suggested as he entered the dinning room.

Your back was facing them. Frozen in place as you waited for your school daze tormentors to make their moves.

"Sure Punk"

You could tell he was annoyed with the order, but complied as he always did. Making his way toward the kitchen he bumped your shoulder and you stumbled on to the chair placed at the dinner table.

Steve came behind you though he hadn't touched you yet the heat that radiated from his body electrified your skin. When he took you by the hand your stomach fell. Turning you around his heavy strides headed to the banister, ascending up the staircase you tried to pull back, but his hold on your hand was like steel. Engagement and marriage photos decorated the walls and as you passed each frame it felt as if Peggy's eyes watched you scornfully.

When he got to the top of the stair case he took a right. Opening a door that was less than a foot from the banister. Flicking a switch the room flooded with light.

"And this is the baby room" he said proudly.

The air smelled stale, as if it hadn't been aired out in ages. Stuffed animals stared out blankly from atop a shelf positioned high above a white crib. Next to it along the wall a window with sheer curtains, further over a changing table with a package of unused pamper sat on top. Opposite the changer a closet filled with baby clothes, shoes and a stroller still in its original packaging. The tiny room looked like it was ripped from an Instagram post.

He grabbed you're belly from behind and squeezed it tight.

Whispering in your ear. "I cant wait to hear the pitter patter of little feet."

A shivered rippled through your spine at the implication.  Pushing you to the center of the room you almost trip over the oval rug in the middle of the floor. The damn in your eyes broken instantaneously. Steve could hear your sobs, but he didn't care as.

"Steve.. Peggy is down stairs... please" Your voice was shaky, turning to look at him your face wet with tears. He stepped in further, but didn't close the door. You could tell by the look on his face what was coming next.

"Get into position"

It was a command you hadn't heard in ages, but it still filled you with the shame just the same as it had ever.

You sunk slowly to your knees. Unfastening your jeans, hooking your thumbs on your belt loops forcing them down past your thighs. Then you did the same with your panties.

From behind you could hear Steve start to rub the fabric of his jeans. He loved watching you, toying with you and playing with himself as you did as he commanded.

Lowering your head to the floor you keep your ass up facing him. With your head pressed to the floor you take one arm and snake it in-between your legs. Separating your folds with your fingers so that he could see your inner pink.

Holding there for a moment before moving on to massaging your clit. Rubbing it slowly with your finger tips. The sensation awaking your sex.

You wished you could press your face deep into the floor as you felt the pleasure build. Moaning as you feel yourself grow wet. Dragging your fingers down your slit you take two fingers and trace around your entrance. Slickening your fingers with the wetness of your cunt. Whimpering as you pressed them into yourself. Steve groaned at the sound of your pathetic noise and again at the sloppy wet sounds that you made as you pumped in and out of yourself.

He huffed out a deep grown. "Look at you, my Y/N, dripping wet like a little bitch in heat." He chuckled darkly.

You could feel yourself tightening and spasming, but you had to ask him for permission to cum. Steve always demanded it that way so you fought of the building climax.

"Are you close" he asked. You refused to answer only focusing on keeping yourself at bay.

The metallic jingle of his buckle could barely be heard, but the down ward pull of his zipper was louder as he step closer behind you. His jeans fell down his legs softly resting a top his shoes.

The sound of your sex became louder as Steve lowered himself to you.

"Show me Y/N, show me how you fuck yourself" he said as his hands glided up and down your ass.

"Look how needy you are for me, just for me"

Stroking himself with one hand while the other halted you. Holding your fingers inside you before slowly pumping them in and out.

"Do you want to cum for me" Steve asked whilst he readied himself behind you.

"Yes!" You begged and you could practically feel his elation.

*Whack

The loud sound rang out through the room.

"Yes what?" He wanted you to call him by his high school nickname.

"Yes Captain" You whimper.

"Mmmmmm... I missed that" he hummed. Steve pulled your hand away you braced for him to violate you.

"Steve! Honey!" Peggy's voice called out through the open door from down stairs.

The tip of his cock was aligned with your sopping cunt, but Steve hesitated sticking it in.

"Steve dinner is ready!" Peggy called again. This time a bit closer than before.

As his nails dug into your ass a pain shot through your body. The grip he had on you only increased in intensity as you could tell he was debating on what to do.

"Fuck" he hissed. The pressure of Steve pushing himself off your butt had you collapsing at his release.

"Coming doll" he shouted back at her.

You could hear him pulling up his pants as you lay motionless on the floor. You had to leave town again, but with no money you knew there came no hope.

The dinner was an awkward affair and if she knew what happened up stairs she wasn't letting on. At the round table Steve sat next to you while Bucky flanked your other side. Once seated Peggy brought out the food.  It all looked delicious there was a roasted dish no doubt at Steve suggestion, mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables and a chilled bottled of white wine.

Steve poured you a glass of wine almost to the brim.

"Um I don't drink Steve" you lie as he finishes pouring your glass, but of course he ignored you. When you were around him you wanted to have all your senses. As Peggy served the group Bucky conversed with Steve while you stared at the plate you had no apatite for.

"Are you dating anybody? Anyone missing you in that big city?" Peggy asked with a sly smile as she took her place on the other side of Steve.

"Oh you know how it is now a days" Looking from her to him when you answered. Hoping that response was vague enough to not stroke Steve's ire, but you didn't see any of his familiar tics.

"Well, James is single. Didn't you two have a little thing in high school" she looked over at him, but he was more focused on the plate in front of him.

Could she see the sudden tension on your face you wondered?

Steve's hand glided up in your lap, giving it a squeeze. He had done this before every time you were forced to have dinner at his parents house. When he squeezed again you wondered if she knew about those dinners too. How you both got caught fucking in his room by his mother or that awful time with his father. How each time his she demanded you to stay. As if she wanted you to see your future.

Bucky had distracted Peggy with some mundane conversation about shopping or cooking. You couldn't really focus as you bit down on your fork when he tried to go into your pants again.

Putting the utensil down you slip your hands from the top of the table to unbutton your pants.

Leaning over to your ear. "A dress would've made things a lot more fun."

Even with Peggy at the table he was embolden. Trailing a hand up your thigh while smiling in his wife's face. Before he got to close you turned your wine glass over, spilling the liquid all over Steve.

"What the hell" Steve cursed as he grabbed a table cloth to bolt himself.

"Oh gosh I'm sorry Steve it was an accident" you lied. "Um you know its getting really late maybe I should go home now"

"Fuck fine come on" he stood up still drying himself off.

"You're a mess Honey. I’m sure James could take her home" Peggy interjected sweetly to her husband.

Steve’s jaw tightened you could tell he didn't like the idea, but sighed and resigned his objections.

"Buck would you mind?" The smile plastered on his face was faker than a three dollar bill.

"Sure thing Punk" Bucky patted Steve on the back of his shoulder as he got up. Pushing your chair back you hurry to follow him, you could feel Steve's eyes on your back.

They didn't see you two to the door, but you could hear Peggy wishing you both a goodnight and safe drive.

"Why did you do that?" Bucky as he riffled for the keys in his pocket.

*Buzz Buzz

You hadn't even made it to the car before your cellphone went off.

MSG Steve: Im going to fuck you for hours tomorrow. So get some rest 😈

Chapter 3>>>

[janekfan]

Choke

Prompt from @taylortut's blog! “...I always think about both jon’s hand and his time in the buried right after getting TWO RIBS pulled out. burns get infected very very easily, which i’m sure he’d push off as nothing until he couldn’t anymore, who knows if he even went to the ER when it first happened? and lung problems can arise from blunt trauma and say, dirt in the lungs?”

<3

Heaving for breath that never reached his lungs and made the empty spot where his ribs used to be ache, Jon watched Basira spirit Daisy away from him as though he was the danger, as though his presence, his Knowing, his hunger, was going to take more from her than the Buried. He’d barely gotten a chance to see with his own two eyes that Daisy was alive and well, or at least as well as she could be given the circumstances, before he was left behind.

Sighing, he plucked at his jumper with his one good hand, holding the other close to his body in an unconscious effort to protect it. He was damp and filthy, streaked with earth and sweat and stinking of fear and grime. He coughed, the clot of muck stopping up his throat didn’t want to move, and while he was on his feet so soon after the Boneturner had his way with him, the agony was sharp and insistent, greedily demanding his attention.

Alright. No coughing for a while if he could help it.

Exhaustion, like a wave, rolled over him, and the tide of it threatened to tug him to the floor as his knees went weak and his sight went black. Without truly thinking, he caught himself on the wall, shaky and unbalanced, sliding down just a few centimeters and pressing his hot face against the cool surface.

“Need a, need a lie down.”

Murmured to no one, Jon moved forward on unsteady legs, taking ages to reach the room where his meagre belongings were stored, sitting heavily in a desk chair before his limbs gave out completely. He was panting. Shallow. Painful. Skin itching and prickling with dirt and the phantom sensation of pressure and he pulled off his clothes, petrichor blossoming in the small room enough to make him gag on the scent of it, to drop them as far from the cot as he could reach. When he touched his shaky fingers to his forehead, they came away muddy and as much as he wanted to change into the softest clothes he had and collapse right there, he needed something of a wash. A cat bath would have to do because there was no way he’d make it back to his feet a second time.

It took several tries, his injured hand was beginning to make itself known in earnest, to open one of the bottles of water he kept and pour some out on a flannel without making an even larger mess, folding it smaller on every pass over his soiled, scarred skin. Logically, he Knew, it took only minutes, but by the time he deemed himself clean enough, Jon was struggling to keep going, tears of frustration and pain squeezing between tightly closed lids despite his best attempts to stifle himself. He selected another cloth, dropping the last one with his clothes, and soaked it liberally before scrubbing it through his already disheveled hair, finger combing what he could to get it as orderly as possible. Finally, he was able to crawl his way to the cot, wrung out and so weary the effort to breathe almost didn’t seem worth it.

Whether through mercy or exhaustion, he didn’t dream.

Hunger, deep inside where he couldn’t reach, woke him late in the day and he spent a long time reigning it in to a manageable level where it didn’t consume his every thought. Jon rubbed at his chest; it felt too heavy, a full feeling that reminded him of the Buried, of being crushed on all sides, except this time he was alone, no one was there to speak with him, to keep him grounded when the panic began to set in. Profoundly, he missed Daisy even though he wouldn’t wish this back upon her for anything and as he suffocated the Eye fed off fear of his own making, draining what little strength he’d managed to shore up for himself until he was a hollow, empty thing.

And still, Jon was on his own, even as he sought the comforting presence of Martin who he Knew was still in the Archives somewhere, he couldn’t focus long enough to calm down and find him. He curled up, tight, small, caging his face behind a clawed hand, lungs working like a bellows and doing absolutely nothing.

Help.

Who would help you?

I can’t breathe.

Then you can’t hurt people anymore.

I need help. Please. Please.

Please.

When the coughing began it was hard and harsh, and he was unable to stop, stomach roiling, the nausea flooding his mouth with salt while he fumbled for a bin, grabbing it in time to lose the churning combination of bile and mud.

Hurts.

Hurts.

The Beholding rippled, an emotion pretending to be mirth, oily and disgusting, oozed just beneath the surface of his skin as he begged to be allowed to stop until finally he was left coiled around the bin, one arm pressing so tightly into his belly he thought he might be ill again. A sob dropped from his lips, tears slipped off the end of his nose and he cried and cried with such force he didn’t notice when his consciousness fled.

This time when he blinked awake, dizzy and disoriented, Jon let himself lay in his discomfort, turning his thoughts towards Daisy and hoping, praying, she wasn’t experiencing the same symptoms. Or at the very least, Basira was able to handle it. He refused to Know, instead he drifted, the Eye feeding him bits of random information he never asked for while he planned his next course of action.

He needed a proper wash. To rewrap his hand. To get back to work figuring this thing out. Work would take his mind off the ache in his chest. That would be. That would be good. Staggering to bare feet, Jon limped his way to the restroom, ignoring the way the halls shifted and swam. He’d feel better after he cleaned up. Startled at his reflection in the mirror, Jon ran the pads of his quaking fingers along his jaw. His face was streaked in sludge, the shadows under his eyes like bruises, and his dark skin was ashen, the old scars standing out as if to remind him he would be forever marked. Ugly. Unwanted. The sheen of sweat on his forehead was a surprise, he’d been trembling with cold this whole time, so off balance he was afraid if he removed his hand from the sink he wouldn’t be able to stay standing.

“Okay, Jon.” Gingerly he unraveled the dirty bandages from around his hand and fingers, wincing at the angry, red surface. Days in the dirt hadn’t done the newly healed skin of his palm any favors. Hissing through his teeth when he ran it under lukewarm water, Jon closed his eyes against the sting, moving as quickly as possible so he could get back to his desk and sit down.

The next few days? dragged on and on, the chill sunk deep into his aching bones so persistent he’d taken to wearing an old jumper Martin left behind in a drawer. Curled up in his chair, bad leg stretched out on a stack of file folders, Jon snuggled as deep as he could into the well worn yarn imagining he was held within warm arms instead before the cruelty of the Beholding reminded him to stop daydreaming and get to work. He wasn’t well, found it harder and harder to focus when compounded by the gnawing hunger in the back of his mind. Jon was counting the beat of his pulse throbbing through his burned hand when he heard the creak of a door down the hall. Basira, he Knew, scrambling upright and only swaying for a moment before following the tug of want.

“Jon.” Of course she would notice him coming, he wasn’t exactly fit for spycraft at the moment. She was collecting a few things and cramming them impatiently into a bag. Eager to get away from this place. Eager to get away from him.

“How’s Daisy?” Immediately, he grasped his throat with trembling fingers. How was this his voice? Raspy and painful and rough with the remains of mud he knew only existed in his imagination. He’d checked. He coughed. Stopped as soon as possible if only to prevent an untimely collapse to his knees, head spinning so much he had to close his eyes against it briefly. Basira had yet to look at him, the tense line of her shoulders the only indication that she was even aware he was still there.

“Fine.” The relief filling him up was sweeter than the oxygen he craved and helped push away the Dark that kept trying to overtake his vision, at least for a moment. Daisy was fine. He. He’d helped someone, he’d saved someone. “She has a long way to go.”

“Ah, of course.” It hurt to speak, but that was okay. Daisy was okay.

“Jon.”

“Yes?” He perked up, eager to provide anything she might need, anything at all to make sure they were alright.

“I think it would be best if you stopped trying to contact us.” Suddenly, it was very cold, it cut straight to the center of him, clutching his heart in an icey fist. His ignored messages and calls made more sense now. He felt foolish. He should have known.

“Ah.” But he understood. Basira was likely going through a lot trying to help Daisy recover.

“Maybe if you’d gotten to her sooner?” Guilt swept him up, made it harder to breathe. He couldn’t fault her; he’d been struggling with that himself. “She just. She needs time right now. Just until she gets back on her feet.”

“Of, of course!” He chuffed, it was that or he would cry and that wouldn’t help either of them. “I. Of course. Take all the time you need.” Basira still hadn’t spared him a glance, lingering only for a second with her fingers gripping the door frame.

“Right then.”

And Jon was alone.

Jon wasn’t getting any better and if anything, was becoming worse and the sudden, intrusive Knowledge that he would need a live statement to heal on his own at this point made him ill. There was too much wrong all at once and the old ones weren’t enough, keeping him just on the right side of vertical, caught in between conscious and unconscious and barely able to keep moving. He Knew he was intensely feverish (39.7 the Eye helpfully provided), Knew his hand had become infected. Even Knew he had pneumonia and Knew there was nothing he could do about it.

He wouldn’t die.

Of course not. Couldn’t take the easy road for once.

At least he didn’t think he would anyway and the Eye had no opinions about that, content to prod him up, up, up to find statements, reading himself hoarse through bouts of coughing so taxing he’d come to only to find himself on the floor, fallen out of his chair. Pathetic. He was pathetic and he was glad there was nobody around to see him mope. He’d lost count of the number of times he woke amongst piles of folders between the stacks, tugging random statements off the bottom shelves and hoping one day he’d just choke on them instead of staggering upright. There wasn’t a place on him that didn’t hurt and more often than not his voice barely rose above a sob, whole minutes of eldritch tape consisted of him crying into his folded arms.

When finally he was forced to stop moving because of the pain, the breathlessness, the dizziness, Jon found himself cradling his phone in hand, scrolling through contacts, some of whom were gone and others who wanted nothing to do with him He found himself reading old messages and listening to old voicemails. The only one he had from Martin was one telling him to stop seeking him out.

“Stop looking for me.” Jon let his cheek collide with the papers on his desk, phone pressed to his ear, slipping back and forth between asleep and awake. “G’bye, Jon.” And again. “G’bye, Jon.”

“G’bye, Jon.”

If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it was a late night. That Martin had stopped by with a final cup of tea for him before heading home, reminding him not to work through until morning. That he could hear Tim and Sasha laughing somewhere in the Archives at no doubt a horrible joke.

“G’bye, Jon.”

That Martin smiled that warm smile just for him and how did he not notice it before when he’d still had a chance at humanity.

“G’bye, Jon.” The phone slid out of his fingers and he pulled in a ragged breath of stale air that smelled like paper and ink and the dirt he couldn’t scrub out of his skin no matter how hard he tried.

“G’bye, Martin.”

“Stop pushing me.”

“Walk faster then.”

“Daisy. I’m sorry, I wanted you to get the rest you needed.” Basira stopped, gripped her narrow shoulders. “To figure out how to go forward.”

“So you told him to not to contact us?” Daisy shoved forward, legs tiring so quickly she was furious.

“Daisy--”

“He pulled me out of the Buried. You could have at least checked on him.” Terse silence filled the air between them until they reached the Archives.

“It’s like a bomb went off.” Daisy shot her a look but couldn’t help but agree. Papers, files, statements, old tapes littered the floor with no reason that she could discern. What was Jon doing down here? It smelled stale, musty, heavy, sick she realized.

“This way.”

They found him hunched over his desk, turned away from them, asleep or worse, and surrounded by the scent of infection and illness such that Daisy had to cover her nose and inhale through her mouth until she acclimated.

“Jon?” Carefully, slowly, gently she laid a hand on his shoulder and grimaced at the searing heat and his poorly dressed burn. If not for his avatar status he would surely be gone. Face flushed and slick with sweat, he was burning up under her palm when she brushed limp gray strands away from his forehead. When he breathed, so fast, so shallow, there was a crackling like dry leaves. “He needs to go to hospital.”

“What about--?”

“I don’t think a statement is going to fix this.” Maybe that’s why this place was such a mess. “Call, I’ll see if I can get him up and awake.”

Someone was calling for him from far, far away and it took all he had left to follow it back to where everything echoed with pain.

Her voice was familiar, comforting and horrifying in the same moment.

“Daisy?” Oh God he couldn’t breathe and he knew they had to be back in that coffin, he’d screwed it up, gone wrong somewhere and now they were both here drowning together in the black. Trapped. He was trapped in here. Daisy was trapped in here and calling his name.

Trappedtrappedtrapped.

“Jon, hey, shh.” This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she had to do this for him, she needed someone stronger. Someone who wasn’t him, who wasn’t a monster, who wasn’t, wasn’t-- “You’re alright. You need to breathe, Jon.”

How?

How?

When there was a boa constrictor wrapped around his chest, squeezing him like a vice. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was touching him and it hurt, skin on fire, burning, blazing, blistering like his hand, his hand, his hand where Jude. The Desolation. Burning. He didn’t know where he found the breath to cry out and could barely understand himself as he begged and begged and begged for her to please, please, please

“stop hurting me.”

“Hush, hush, okay. Okay, Jon.” They shouldn’t have to do this. Deal with him like this. Panting, a mess of tears and soil and pain. “Okay, Jon. Okay. You’re alright.”

He wasn’t.

How was any of this alright?

Daisy held Jon’s thin hand, rubbing her thumb over the back of it, charting the delicate, human bones and sinew, and purposefully blocking out the medical chatter humming in the background.

Stop hurting me.

The way he said it. Pleading and so small.

Hopeless.

Because they would never stop, would they?

“Mr. Sims?” The voice of the paramedic cut into her thoughts. “Mr. Sims? Can you open your eyes for me?” Daisy glanced up at Jon’s face, watched his throat work and his mouth twist beneath the uneven fogging of the oxygen mask. When his lashes fluttered she caught a glimpse of glazed brown, deep and unfocused, but received praise for his attempt. Good. He deserved praise from somebody. His fingers spasmed in her hold, he swallowed with a heavy click in his throat, chest stuttering, tears slipping into the damp hair at his temples. “Do you know how long he’s been ill?” She shook her head, not even sure herself how many days it had been since stumbling out of that coffin herself.

After that it was all a bit of a blur until Basira found her in the waiting room, guiding her by the elbow to a room smelling of antiseptic where Jon lay small in the bed, made smaller by the lines and cords and machines.

“Overnight for observation, fluids, and antibiotics.”

“They ask questions?” Daisy dropped gratefully into the chair beside him, running her fingertips over the crisp bandages swallowing up his wounded hand. He still smelled sickly, hot and sweaty, but also of the inoffensive soap the nurse had washed his hair with and when she stroked through his curls they were smooth and clean.

“I implied it was genetic?” She chuckled at that. “I don’t think they believed me.”

“He should have been able to call us.”

“Mm.”

“I’m serious, Basira.” The stubble on his cheek was scratchy under her palm, skin hot, face slack and lined deep with exhaustion. “We. We have to look out for each other, best we can.”

“B’sira, you, you don’t.” Jon couldn’t speak and stumble along beside her, still found it hard to catch his breath or stop coughing once started.

“I do, Jon.” Clipped, but he was too tired to analyze it any further than that. “Daisy made me promise to get you settled in. We’ll be coming back in the morning.” When he tripped she was there to catch him up again before he hit the floor. Making doubly sure he could change into soft clothes for sleep without falling over, Basira left briefly to gather supplies, laying them out on the desk within easy reach.

“Thank you.” Still whispery, completely done in from the short cab ride here, Jon dutifully held his hand out for the prescribed medications, sipping from the bottle she pressed into his grip afterwards.

“Should do you for tonight.”

“I. Yes. I’ll be fine.”

“There are a few statements, water--it best be gone by tomorrow, Jon. The rest of your medications, phone, inhaler. Something to help you rest if it doesn’t come quickly.”

“Thank you.” So scolded, he hung his head, knowing better than to argue against sleep. Trying to stay out of the way and he’d ended up being a bigger problem than before.

“If you need anything--”

“I won’t. I promise.” Her warning to stop contacting them sat heavy in his stomach and stopped up his throat with emotion. When she sighed heavily he was caught off guard, risking a glance to see Basira holding her head. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that you couldn’t ask for help.”

“N’no! I--” in his haste to reassure, Jon found himself instead bent double around his hacking, taking a measured sip from the bottle Basira shoved at him again. “I know, you. I understand.”

“Well. She’s doing better. We’ll be back, like I told you earlier.” She held out Martin’s jumper, the last item in the bag from the hospital, and he took it reverently. “If you need anything, Jon. Please call.”

“Thank you, Basira.” Like before, she didn’t turn away from the door, pausing instead to take a deep breath.

“Get some rest, Jon.”

[buggiesbuzzing]

AMARANTH [ c. cullen ]

TITLE :: Amaranth

CHAPTER ZERO :: The Beginning of the End

PAIRING :: Carlisle Cullen x reader, various x reader

GENRE :: Drama

SUMMARY :: Once leading a life of what she seen as relative normality, a sudden change sends poor y/n into a disastrous spiral.

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Y/n had a normal life, as normal as she could possibly have, and she was happy with the mediocrity. She was rather successful; she was getting married soon, she was working as the personal assistant to a regional manager for some big corporate business and made good money — hell, she even made an effort to reconnect with her parents, before they passed away, that is — she even planned on going to college after getting married so she could pursue a career as a pediatrician. But, of course, life hardly ever goes as planned.

Her life came crashing down towards the beginning of January, during her bachelorette party with a few of her close friends. At first, she hated the idea of having a bachelorette party, but after endless pestering, her friends convinced her to go to a club with them. However, Y/n happened to more introverted and somehow came up with an excuse to hang out in the empty alley behind the club for a breather, and sneaking a secret smoke. She lit the tobacco and inhaled the chemicals, her lungs stinging since she'd abstained from cigarettes for a while. She knew they were toxic to her health, but in overly stressful situations, she would break out the ol' cancer sticks for a bit of relief.

The cool night breeze sent shivers down her spine. She was not wearing the most comfortable winter outfit. Quite frankly, she was freezing her tits off at the chill. The outfit she was in was a pretty small dress with a pair of black boots, revealing a lot of skin, which was borrowed from one of her friends’ closet.

Her cigarette had almost completely burned out when she heard some gravel being kicked around while feet quietly shuffled around on the ground. She became slightly paranoid at the thought of someone being in close proximity to her. She dropped the cigarette butt and stomped out the faltering flame, picking it back up once it was out and tossing it in an outdoor trash bin. When she turned back to see if an animal was causing the little noises, but she was met with a man who had stunningly pale skin and blond hair held up in a ponytail. She was terrified, and her eyes scanned him, looking for any sign of familiarity. Alas, she found none. He was wearing a pair of jeans, but no shirt, which she found strange, especially because it was January and there were flurries of snow falling to the ground.

Y/n had no idea what was going on, but couldn't help the small, scared whimper that she let out when he clamped his cold hand around her mouth with fast, bruising force, ensuring that she couldn't scream out for help. Tears streamed down her cheeks as he sunk his rather sharp teeth into her clavicle. She was terrified, she could only see a glint of red in his eye, before a rush of intense pain coursed through her veins. The blond pulled away from her neck, a bit of red liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth. She choked out a sob and fell to the ground once his hand left her jaw, bare knees hitting the rough, loose gravel.

The doors of the club opened, to reveal a couple of Y/n's girlfriends, worriedly chattering; the stranger darted off, not wanting to be caught. She struggled to stay conscious, her vision becoming worse by the second, black dots spotting her surroundings. She squeaked out a small "help" before collapsing on the ground entirely, the ache still running through her body.

The girls panicked, seeing their dear friend fall unconscious in their peripherals, turning and running toward her. At first, they thought she was a goner, but one of them thought to pull out a small mirror from their purse and stuck it below her nose. Although it was minor, her breathing caused a slight fog on the mirror, letting them know she wasn't dead yet. They let out sighs of relief and did their best to pick up their friend, but the heels they chose to wear were no help to them. Instead of attempting to lug her out and flag down a cab, they focused on trying to find out exactly what happened and who they had to kill for causing this.

One of the girls, Stephanie, looked her up and down, seeing if she had any injuries, and came across a large, bleeding wound on her neck that looked like a bite if you squinted. Stephanie pointed out the spot to the other girl, Lisa, while she fished a makeup wipe out of her purse. She used a wipe to clean up the injury, but Y/n hissed in pain as the wipe made contact with an open part of the wound.

Y/n's eyes opened, and she took a moment to regain herself, pressing her back against the wall of the building. "I. . . I'm gonna go home." She grumbled, bending down to pick up her clutch.

"Are you kidding, Y/n? You need to go to the hospital! That thing on your neck is disgusting!" Stephanie was shocked, she was clearly concerned about the wound, but Y/n didn't seem to care as much.

Lisa chimed in, "It could get infected if you don't get it treated, Y/n, you should have it checked out."

The corner of Y/n's mouth twitched upwards, a weak smile appearing. "Steph, Lis, I can take care of this, it's nothing," It was definitely not nothing. She could feel an ache all throughout her veins and her head felt like it was about to explode. Y/n didn't want them to worry, she knew them all too well and she knew that if the weirdo who bit her gave her some disease they wouldn't stop blaming themselves. "I'll go home, get some bandages and antibiotic ointment, then I'll be good as new. Don't worry."

The girls, very reluctantly, let her go — trusting her instead of arguing with their stubborn friend. "Do you want me to come with? I can help, it's kind of an awkward spot to be fixing up on your own." Stephanie offered.

Y/n shook her head and politely murmured, "No thanks, Steph." They respected her wishes and headed back inside while she caught a cab driving by.

It took only about fifteen minutes for the cab to get her home, opposed to the usual twenty — the driver had seen the dried blood that had stained her skin and decided that it would be best to get there as fast as he could. She thanked the man and paid her fare, plus a hefty tip, before stumbling into her home. It was around midnight when she decided to stop waiting on her fiancé, Tyler, to get home since he was working late, yet again. She dressed her wound in bandages and took some pain killers along with a shot of whiskey to dull the ache, then retired to bed.

The next morning, she felt nothing but the raging pain of her blood coursing through her veins like poison. She swallowed it down with a few shots of hard liquor and her daily medicine. The entire day she was on edge, always looking over her shoulder. She took the day off from work, but her husband hadn't; something about extra paperwork to file before dinner. His parents were coming over to celebrate their engagement over dinner, and although Y/n wasn't feeling good, she wasn't going to up and cancel.

Instead of making a meal, Y/n called a nearby Japanese catering company, ordering a few plates of assorted sushi rolls to be delivered by four o'clock. She didn't worry over the cost, but rather plopped down on the couch, trying to rest before she'd have to deal with her to-be in-laws.

She must've lost track of time because before she knew it, there was a knock at the door, and she was mindlessly getting up to open it. There stood an awkward-looking teen with a few insulated cases in hand. "Ms. L/n?" In response, she nodded and he gestured to a receipt sitting on top of the boxes. "Sign on the dotted line," The delivery boy pulled a blue pen out of his pocket and handed it to her, which she took with hesitation. She signed for the food and took the boxes. "Have a nice day!" He spoke quickly as she shut the door.

"Why can I still smell him? He smells like Frito's dipped in guac," Y/n grimaced, however, the stench made her hungry. "Whatever, I can dig in once they're here." She sighed.

Only moments passed before the door opened, revealing her soon-to-be husband, Tyler, and his parents. Tyler took it upon himself to set the table and help his parents settle in for their stay. Y/n stood in the bathroom, observing her neck and shoulder — whatever used to be there was now but a faint ring mark. Unfortunately, that didn't mean her pain stopped. Thankfully, she had a higher tolerance than most, and a bit of liquor helped.

They were part-way through dinner, and Y/n was picking at her second California roll. She could just barely stand the scents her nose was taking in — and the sushi wasn't the cause. She could separate the smells too; one of them smelt like rotting pears, another was a variation of sour wine, and the final one was by far the one that made her hunger plunge deeper — it was floral, and yet bitter. The sushi was no longer of any interest to Y/n; those smells, though, they were mouthwatering.

"Oh, dear, Y/n," Tyler's mother, Jill, started. "I just don't understand why you couldn't have made the food yourself; then again, you've always been quite a lazy lady." The last part was more of a reminder to herself but still, hurt Y/n nonetheless.

Y/n smiled, but everyone could tell it was fake, and there was nothing but pure rage behind it. "Oh, Jillian, you always critique my cooking skills anyways, so I thought why not save you the trouble and just get food elsewhere." Bitterness seeped from every word she spoke as she glared daggers at Tyler's monster of a mum.

"How thoughtful." The father, Wayne, added, shoving a spicy tuna roll down his gullet.

Jill obviously wasn't happy with the retort and turned to her beloved son. "I can't see why you didn't try to get with that Jessy girl at your office, she was an absolute sweetie; but I guess you like the sour bunch."

Wayne chuckled. "Yeah, if I were in your situation, I'd take the bait," He paused, taking a bite of another sushi roll before speaking up again. "Put in some extra hours, if you know what I mean." He spat, a piece of rice shooting out on his mouth and onto Y/n's nearby plate. Tyler let out a nervous laugh, looking towards his fianceé.

As she got angrier, the smells got more intense and the sound of rhythmic beating and rushing liquid filled her ears. She snapped her eyes shut so she could try to focus, but she just couldn't. Tyler attempted to bring her out of her pained expression with aggressive shoulder tapping, he was met with a push with massive force behind it. Said push sent him hurtling backward into a wall, causing his body to leave a hole in its place before he fell to the ground. Wayne stood up in shock, confused at what had just happened, and something had completely taken Y/n over.

No longer could she ignore her hunger, or the pent up fury within her. She leapt at Wayne, smacking his head against the wall harshly, before looking at Jill, who was going through her purse desperately looking for her Blackberry.

"No phones at the table, Jill." Y/n hissed before, kicking the leg of her chair, snapping the wooden block off, and making Jill fall to the floor.

To Jill, all hope was lost. Within seconds, Y/n fell to the floor and grabbed Jill's arm, biting it. The latter cried out, but Y/n quickly grabbed as much sushi as she could handle and shoved it into her mouth, muffling the screams.

Sharp and strong teeth replaced Y/n's former ones and she mercilessly sucked the blood from Jill's arm. Y/n's eyes had gone dark, and that was all Jill saw before she'd lost a large amount of blood and lost consciousness.

Y/n physically had to rip herself away from her would-be mother-in-law to prevent herself from draining the body completely. Once she had seen what was done, tears streamed down her face. Panic set in, and Y/n stood up and looked around at the mess she made.

Something felt off. Her hands wandered to her mouth, poking at her mouth to realize that her teeth felt much stronger than before and there was a thick layer of blood on her bottom lip. "Holy shit. . ." She gasped, scared of what idea came to mind. "Am I a fucking vampire?"

It sounded even more ridiculous out loud.

Her mind circled back to the blood dribbling down her chin and onto her blouse. What a shame. It was one of her favorites. How was she ever going to rid herself of this mess? This was her house, people in the neighborhood knew her, she would obviously be suspect number one and she had zero idea how to drop off the face of the earth.

Y/n's eyes shifted around the room, looking for some sort of sudden solution to her problems. Sushi, blood, candles, broken wood. . . Candles. . . Fire. She could burn the evidence. Her mind wandered back to the gas canister for her lawnmower; Tyler always kept it full so it would be there when he needed it. She rushed out to the garage, surprised at her speed, and retrieved the red can.

She poured gasoline on the floor, making sure the bodies were doused in the extremely flammable liquid. Let's be honest, if the bodies burnt enough, the police of this town probably wouldn't care enough to look too far into it — they'd most likely mark her off as deceased as well.

She had changed into a pair of thick spandex, a pair of comfortable sneakers, and a hoodie two sizes too large; and at the ripe, late time of '1:27 AM', Y/n snatched one of her lighters and her pack of cigarettes and went outside. She lit a cigarette and took a couple of moments to reminisce. She adored her house, but it could no longer be her home. She wouldn't be safe there, and she couldn't come back. She needed to be far, far away. She couldn't spend a second more there, so she took one last hit and flicked her lit cigarette through the door of the house and took off as flames spread through the house.

Hour, upon hour — they simply passed like minutes. It felt exhilarating to not be tired. She ran all night and the sun was starting to peek over the horizon, soft rays of light filtered through the crowds of trees. She was in a forest of some kind, and she had absolutely no idea where she was. After a couple of minutes of nothing but trees for miles, she stopped.

Somehow she felt absolutely no exhaustion from the obscene amount of physical work she'd just went through. She must've been at least a couple of states away, she should be safe.

tags :: @whattheheckisevengoingon​

[mynachopaper]

Tickle Anomaly Files #7

Codename: Shivering Strings

Subject: An oversized cello originally found in Belfast, Ireland.

Description: Standing at 2.5 metres (8.2 feet) it is impossible to play properly, the bow found with it is also much too large for a human to feasibly play.

The wood forming its frame is dark brown, testing revealed it to be maple. There are also strands of unknown material woven into the strings and body. The bow itself appears to use human hair instead of horse hair. DNA tests have found no match.

Found in a run-down inn 37 miles from the city, the cello was collecting dust in the basement of 'The Qurvering Quail' until a recent incident. The owners reported strange music mixed with screaming emanating from the basement. Once they rushed down they only found their barmaid, she was shivering and covering her ears. Beside her was said subject, leaning against the wall. The barmaid would refuse to speak on her experience and soon went catatonic.

The owners claimed they had been gifted said subject years ago by a relative for their wedding. However they were more than happy to be rid of it as it made them uncomfortable. Foundation agents retrieved the subject and brought it to site zero.

Once the preliminary examination was complete the foundation decided a live victim would be perfect for testing. Luckily we had a recent capture.

23 year old Olivia Broen was recently caught trespassing near the east wing. She had broken into the lower archives, once caught she claimed she was only searching for "Some CIA shit to sell on the web not kinky SCP fanfics". Unfortunately she had seen too much of our sensitive data and had to be made a permanent test subject. Her reaction to the news was quite severe, thankfully we gagged her before her screams disturbed our agents.

We brought her to test chamber 9, once there we removed the blindfold and gag. Next we stripped her of her shoes and jacket, leaving her in basic clothing to make her vulnerable before we bring in the subject. We left, locking the door. She was alone in the empty white room. After some time she became hysterical, slamming the walls and kicking the frame. Eventually she tired herself out and simply laid down.

Behind the two way mirror sat agents Londra and Prentiss. The following information was recorded in their report.

P- She seems to have curled up on the floor, I think she's doing some breathing exercises. Her hair is frazzled and she's biting her nails.

L- Glad we have a live one today. It's always nice to be first to witness something magical happen.

We unlocked the door and wheeled in the cello. Olivia leapt back and clung to the wall. She seemed to be terrified of the subject. We stood it in the corner of the room before leaving.

P- It's much more intimidating than the photos give credit. It's tall dark curves seem to permeate the glass. I'm not sure how anyone could physically play it.

L- Tall, dark, and handsome. I wish I could meet it's maker. Surely a giant creature perhaps, or a large otherworldly being. In any case my ears hunger for its song.

Hours passed, neither the subject or Olivia changed. Eventually she succumbed to her fate and crumpled to the floor, sleeping in the fetal position.

The agents also fell asleep a few hours later.

2:37 am. The microphone picked up a soft hum. Motion cameras detect slight vibrations emanating from the subject. Olivia is still sleeping, the agents are given a soft alert.

P- We've woken up in the early morning, the system is detecting some sound and movement. I can feel a low hum shake through my bones.

L- I can feel its presence, it reverberates in my core. I can taste the cruelty in the air. I can't help but smile.

Olivia wakes up. She slowly turns towards the subject. Her eyes widen as she crawls back, softly whimpering. The frame of the cello hums, vibrating in the low light. The bow twitches on the ground, small jerks of movement inch it towards Olivia.

P- The subject is active. Cameras are running to capture the event.

L- The calm before the storm, such thunder shall crash...

The strings of the cello snap off, lashing out as they snake along the floor. The sound of scraping echoes in the chamber as they crawl along the tiles. Olivia screams as they approach her, desperately trying to sink into the corner as they wrap around her ankles. She is pulled to the ground, her hands grasping at any form of grip as she is slowly dragged towards the dark figure.

P- Oh God, it's like nothing I've ever seen. The strings seem to be longer than they appear, they seem to act intelligent, cruel.

L- Such spectacle, a terrifying display of predatory prowess. I am both jealous and fearful.

As Olivia is dragged closer she starts begging. "PLEASE! PLEASE! I'M SORRY, HELP ME!". Her arms clinging to what little traction they can find. The strings separate, two latch around her wrists while the other two hold her ankles. They slowly pull her upright, displaying great tensile strength. She is stretched over the cello, aligning perfectly where the strings would be.

P- I wish I could help her, her begging was terrifying. I cannot possibly imagine the fear coursing through her.

L- Such sweet begging, I cannot possibly imagine the fear saturating her lovely skin.

The bow shakes violently on the ground, the sound causing Olivia to shudder. It starts to levitate, slowly floating towards her body. Suddenly a quick cut rips through her shirt leaving her midriff and ribs completely vulnerable. She yelps as the tattered remains gently fall to the ground.

The bow rests on her side, she is frozen as the tension builds.

Slowly it begins to draw across her stomach, gliding along her sensitive skin. She shrieks as it passes over her belly button. Each slow drag extracting squeals from her. A low sound can be heard, actual chords being played. No known tune or symphony is recognised.

P- It's so alien, unnatural. I am not familiar with this piece, or if it is even of this earth.

L- Strange is the beauty of sound. There will always be a unique song somewhere in the universe.

The bow picks up its pace, switching to her ribs as it begins to play over each one. Sending her into a crescendo of screams as it spreads ticklish shocks throughout her body. Making her squeal an octave higher once it glides between her ribs.

P- It's playing her with such precision. Whatever made this intended it to merge torture with music. Every sound a part of a nightmarish harmony.

L- It pierces my soul. This beauty could only have been made by such a connoisseur of ticklish suffering. My heart swells as her screams send shivers down my back.

Olivia starts to lose her mind, her body drained of its energy as she is played beyond her limits. Her hair whips around her head as she cackles into the night. Tears stream from her eyes as she slowly loses herself in the music.

After 6 hours the bow stops playing, the subject releases Olivia, letting her slump to the floor, exhausted. Its strings slink back into place as the humming fades away.

In the morning Olivia is taken to the recovery ward. However, it has been noted that the usual classical music played during lunch hours has caused her to panic. Full restraints have been employed to keep her safe for the duration of her stay.

Agent Prentiss has requested 2 days of leave for psychological recovery. Status: Granted

Agent Londra has requested both the subject and Olivia to be moved to her quarters for personal enetertainment.

Status: Granted

Object class: Tool

[fang-wolfsbane]

Transformers Generation One: A Seeker's Triangle: Chapter 05: Adjustment

The drive back to the squishy being’s home had been strange. First Starlit Meadow had learned that Zett’s species were known as ‘humans’. Adjusting to driving on the pavement road wasn’t all that different from Cybertron, which in itself was a release, but after being forced to stay in her newly scanned alternative mode in what Zett called a ‘garage’ was beginning to get on her nervous system.

The first couple of nano cycles had been fine, but after awakening out of what she could only assume had originally been stasis lock, hunger had begun to gnaw at her. She didn’t know how long it had been since she had consumed energon and sitting in this human’s ‘garage’ was working her up more than she liked.

When she had first tried transforming back to her bipedal mode, he’d asked, no, begged, her not to, claiming that he didn’t want to risk her being found out. The thought of that was annoying enough, but she chose to take his word for that. She had to stay out from underneath the Autobots’ radar, at least until she could figure out what to do next.

Zett had a point in her staying in this ‘car’ mode that he’d called her current form. She didn’t have a reflective surface to overlook her said car mode, but from the Earth vehicle she had scanned, she could assume that her frame had followed its usual protocol to turn her into an exact copy of her scan, save for the colouring. No matter which form she took, her colour scheme always stayed the proud black and green she had known since the moment she’d first learned the name of her two colours.

Every morning Zett came into the garage, bid her farewell to attend the Earth version of an academy, then he’d return at night after attending to work on the site he’d found her at. She wasn’t sure if Zett was keeping her a secret from the Autobots like he had promised to do but considering that she still remained incognito in the small, cramped wooden room, she could only assume that he did. Even if the Autobots had won the war against the Decepticons, there was no chance that they would simply leave a stray Decepticon out in the open. They would have dealt with her, one way or another.

Each day that passed, the only indication of time passing being Zett’s visits, seemed to take longer and longer. At first she had planned to wait, to lay low to try and come up with a plan, but her tanks were churning, demanding to be filled. When she had requested Zett bring her some energon, he only looked at her like she had lost her processor. She hated that look. It was the same one Astrotrain had given her once when she had snapped at him to keep his servos to himself when he thought she’d give him what he wanted because she was the only Decepticon femme at base. He had backed off, only after she had to show what her arm blades were capable of.

She should have checked them, ensured that they were still locked firmly into her arm plating, but that would require transforming, something she didn’t have the energy for. Whilst waiting on Zett to return, babbling on and on about how his day was, she took stasis naps in an attempt to conserve what little energon she still had within her. she contemplated forcing herself back into stasis lock to try and conserve more but thought it to be useless. If she did that, she’d be nothing more than an average car, as Zett put it.

She didn’t tell Zett about her thoughts on conserving what she had, but when he told her that not everything moving on the road was an Autobot or Decepticon, questions had popped up one right after the other. She must have spent a good amount of time asking him about his planet, which Zett had decided to sum up for her through video files he called documentaries and homework.

Earth was strange. There was no doubt in her processor about that, but the way Zett spoke about it, Starlit Meadow couldn’t help but find it interesting. She missed Cybertron, just like any other Cybertronian that had possibly gone off planet at some point in their functional life, but there was no use in longing for a planet she had no hopes of returning to. If she ran out of energon, then she definitely didn’t have any hope.

Letting her processor wander, Starlit Meadow felt ashamed of herself for not noticing that Zett had returned, rolling up the metallic garage door as he did. Usually the wide door made enough noise for her to at least be aware of his presence, no longer detectable by the systems she had forced herself to shut down in an attempt to conserve what she had.

“Hey Star. How are you holding up?” Zett asked as he rolled the door back down behind him, a rusted maroon coloured barrel beside him. From the sound of it, there was something inside, possibly a fluid of some sort. It stunk.

Shifting her sideview mirror, she caught sight of the human. If it weren’t for the concerned look on his face, she would have laughed, if she could manage more than a dry chuckle. He must have noticed her eyeing the barrel with her mirror when she didn’t respond because the next moment he was pushing it over towards her, leaving behind a steel-curling screeching noise as he did. She would have scolded him for it, but only watched instead, her curiosity getting the better of her, especially after what he said next.

“I brought you a little something. A little pick-me-up if you will,” Zett said once he had the barrel right beside her. “I know its not exactly that energon stuff you need, but I figured that since you’re, well, a car-”

“Transformer,” she felt herself correcting before her CPU registered her words as they played through her radio. An interesting device, one that she had thought about using to try and contact her old teammates but absolved from in case the Autobots were monitoring radio frequencies.

“Right, sorry. Anyway, since you won’t let me ask someone for help, and said that your kind needs this ‘energon’ stuff to survive, I might have had an idea. You see, when the Autobots set up base here, the government let them have stuff like oil and that kind of thing, so maybe it’s the same thing? I don’t know exactly, but this is the best I could think of,” Zett rambled on, barely able to keep her attention as he scratched the back of his helm, no, head, he had told her when she had asked about the strange covering he called ‘hair’.

“Get to the point,” she said, groaning inwardly upon realisation that she might have used the energy she needed to talk where she could have been conserving it.

“Hn? O-Oh, of course. I, uh… do you remember when I found you almost a week ago?” he asked, taking her silence as confirmation. “Well, I found this old oil barrel and thought that maybe you could… you know, drink it?”

“Oil?” She would have arched an optic ridge at the strange word if she had been in her other form.

“Yeah. I know you said you’re not a car, but it is still something cars use to get around. I thought that maybe it could help, at least until we figure out a way to get you some energon.”

She went quiet once more, this time for longer as her thoughts ran through her processing unit. Finally when she spoke, her voice was a bit more strained than she would have liked.

“Why are you doing this?”

This time it was Zett’s turn to go quiet. At first she thought that she might have fallen into stasis lock and was merely imagining his presence before his hand touched her side window. Her mirror readjusted itself so that she could see his face a little clearer. Due to her lack of fuelling, her vision had resorted to its basic function, making her see everything in a dark red hue, and not the once bright colours everything had originally been when she first onlined on this planet.

“Because… you’re my friend,” Zett said, a small smile spreading across his lips as his hand moved over her red-tined window, brushing away a spec of dust that she’d previously ignored. “That and you looked like you needed help. Something tells me you’re the stubborn sort that even if I went to the Autobots and told them were you were, you’d be out of here before we make it around the corner and the only way I’d see you again is when you come to kick my ass for it.”

She didn’t bother confirming or denying his assumption, leaning more towards the former guess herself.

“Anyway, I know its not the energon you need, but maybe it could help. From the looks of it, no one’s going to claim it anymore either. It’s probably been abandoned for more than a year already.”

Letting a sigh reverberate through her systems, Starlit Meadow put the last of her reserve tanks into forcing herself to transform into her bipedal mode. Usually when a protoform went through their very first transformation, it tended to hurt, only because their joints and mechanisms weren’t used to the process. After at least a stellar cycle of practice, the pain faded, never to be felt again, except apparently on a near empty fuel tank.

When her doors had shifted into her arms and her back end of her car form returned to a pair of legs, Starlit Meadow hunched over in the garage, the wooden building feeling even smaller than before as her hunched back touched the ceiling. How humans could stand living in such small spaces, she didn’t care to know, even if it was big compared to them.

Looking over to the barrel, she wasn’t all that keen on tasting this thing Zett called oil, but considering her situation, it was either go to the Autobots and hope to be helped or swallow her pride with the oil and hope for the best. This time she chose the latter option.

As much as it pained her, Starlit Meadow was relieved to see that at the very least, she still had the blades on her arms, something she had ever since Megatron first found her. The relief she felt was comforting as she used the one on her right to slice the top off the barrel.

The liquid inside was thick, and black, not at all the bright pink she was used to seeing in cube form whenever rations were divided up amongst her former team. She tried ignoring the smell as best as she could, wishing she’d chosen to disable her ol factory sensors as well.

From the corner of her optics she knew Zett was watching her, anxiously awaiting her reaction. She hesitated then tossed back the thick liquid in a big gulp, nearly gagging at the taste. She nearly snapped at the human that he was trying to clog her fuel lines when her tanks grumbled with the need to consume more. Before she knew it, she had swallowed half of the barrel’s contents. It wasn’t energon, that much was certain, but it was still comforting, filling.

“How is it?” Zett asked, taking a step towards her, although judging by the smile on his face, he seemed to be pretty well informed that his decision might have just helped her after all.

“Horrible,” Starlit Meadow admitted, finding a smile on her own lips as she looked down at the human, watching his facial expression fade at the realisation. Before she knew what was happening, she found her servo reaching over towards him, taking a gentle hold of the shoulder that she could crush so easily with a simple flick of a digit. “But… edible, as you humans say.”

Zett’s smile returned to his lips, the moment a pair of words she thought she’d never ever say again crossed her lips.

“Thank you.”

[fancat-not-fangirl]

It’s Not You Pt.16

a/n: hi everyone! I’m so so so sorry that this took so long. I was super busy and barely had any time to write, but I made this chapter extra long to make up for that. (I was actually going to make it even longer than it is now, but I decided that it would just be too much.) Thank you to those who read and review, I love y’all more than I can say <3. So sorry again for the long wait. Enjoy :D

**********

Cas’s dreams were plagued by his argument with Dean. By the moment his record hit the ground and broke into pieces. By the name ‘Mary Winchester’ and the file. By the words that were written on the pieces of paper that all pointed at Claire Novak as the only culprit that could have committed the crime.

The crime being the death of Dean’s mother, as well as the destruction of a happy childhood for Sam and Dean.

At first Cas hadn’t believed it. Not even a bit. But by the tenth or eleventh time he had called his mother and received no answer, by the twentieth or thirtieth time he had read the file, he had become less and less willing to believe that it had all been a mistake.

The file said it all. How Claire had mixed up the meds. How Claire had gotten fired. How Claire had killed Mary.

And so the night before Christmas, Cas went to sleep without any hope left for himself that everything would be alright.

The morning didn’t help.

Not that Cas woke up in the morning. No, he slept through the early hours of the day, only opening his eyes somewhere around 12:30. Even then, he stayed in bed and stared at anywhere that wouldn’t remind him of Dean. But that was easier said than done.

The walls that were covered in pictures of Cas and his family in various different countries had been joined with ones of him and Dean. Ice skating. Making snowmen. Cuddling on the couch. Cas tried not to let his gaze be drawn to those.

Cas’s dresser also offered unwanted memories. More specifically, the Lord of the Rings LEGO sets on it. Unbidden, Cas remembered the sparkle in Dean’s eyes as he had looked at the sets. He remembered their conversation in the car, where Dean had sadly admitted to Cas that he had never had his own LEGO set, but how he’d always wanted one that was big and expensive and intricate. Cas remembered the feeling of wanting to do anything and everything in the world to help Dean.

Cas remembered too much. The laughter, the smiles, the conversations. Everywhere he looked, there they were. Painful and sharp and Cas wanted them to stop.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep didn’t come, but Cas didn’t want to get out of bed. He didn’t want to start his day, or walk through the silent house, or spend the day trying to pretend that everything was alright. Which it wasn’t. Not at all.

But soon the hunger in Cas’s stomach drove him out. He had tried to keep it down, but the pains were too much for him. Cas didn’t bother changing or looking in the mirror. He already knew that he’d have red rimmed eyes and that bags would have formed under them. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him that.

Stumbling downstairs and into the kitchen, Cas put two pieces of bread into the toaster and drew out a jar of peanut butter and one of jelly from the fridge. He sat down at the empty table and waited. The wall against the memories Cas was building in his mind went crashing down as he stared at the table. At the spot that Dean usually sat. Could it have been that a mere day ago, he and Dean had shared dinner here, laughing and joking around? And had Cas only imagined that Dean had woken up early in the morning to make Cas breakfast, and had burned the blueberry muffins so bad that it took them hours to clear out the burnt smell and clean the kitchen from the multiple layers of flour that had coated it? 

The toast jumped out of the toaster, jerking Cas out of his thoughts. Heaving himself out of his chair, Cas strode over and took the pieces of bread out, all the while shoving the memories back down and starting to work on that wall again. This time he wouldn’t let it break.

Cas finished breakfast in record time. This time, there was nobody to chat with. To joke with. To laugh with. He was alone. 

He did the dishes alone, too. No music this time. Music was only for when he had someone to dance with. To sway and bump his hips with. Someone like De-

No.

Cas made sure the wall in his head grew stronger.

He stood in the empty kitchen for a moment. The memories were pushing against him but he held fast. Cas needed a distraction.

Striding into the living room, Cas dropped onto the couch and firmly decided that he would watch a movie. He didn’t let his mind wander to a time where Dean had sat on this very spot and critiqued Cas as the freshman had hung ornaments on the tree. He didn’t think about how then they had switched spots and Cas had fallen asleep watching Dean’s lulling movements. And Cas definitely didn’t let himself think about how afterwards, they had napped on the couch together, wrapped in each other’s arms.

No.

Definitely not.

The wall stayed firmly in place and Cas added reinforcements to it. He couldn’t let it break.

Hands shaking, Cas gripped the remote and turned on Netflix. He needed a movie. Any movie, really.

But today was just not Cas’s day. The first movie on his List was The Mask of Zorro. The one after that was the Princess Bride. Cas felt the wall in his head cracking and he quickly shut off the tv. He didn’t need those memories. Memories of him and Dean snuggled in blankets in Cas’s dorm. Memories of them falling asleep together afterwards. And especially not the memory of the first time Cas had thought to himself that he wanted to be with Dean for the rest of his life.

Cas rose from the couch and almost sprinted out of the room. The ornaments on the tree were smiling at him with their bright light but Cas felt no urge to smile back.

It was then that he passed the door to the basement, which was still open. Cas realized that the files had to be cleaned up by the time his mother got home the next day. The day after Christmas.

What a lousy Christmas Cas was having.

He steeled himself and trudged down the stairs, wincing at the creaking noises. They split the silence in the air like knives. Not unlike the way the record sounded as it-

No.

The wall grew higher in his mind.

Cas reached the bottom of the stairs and groaned inwardly at the sight of the countless files strewn all over the floor. This would certainly take up most of his day. In fact, he hoped it would take up most of his day. It would give Cas a chance to avoid the thoughts howling and screaming at him. 

Sinking to his knees, Cas started with the grueling work. Picking up a file, checking the name, and putting it into its corresponding location. Picking up a file, checking the name, putting it into its place. Pick up, check, put away. Pick, check, put. Over and over and over.

It really, really wasn’t Cas’s day. No surprise there. Because Cas was finished within the hour. 

He contemplated sitting on the beat up couch against the wall but immediately discarded the idea at the sight of the photo albums still lying open on it.

Sighing, Cas decided that he’d go back to bed. There was no use doing anything else. 

He started up the stairs when something caught his eye. Something red and bright that was covered for the most part in boxes shoved under the stairs. Cas’s heart twisted as he turned around and crept over to it, moving the boxes aside. Staring back at him were the presents he had bought and wrapped for Dean. The ones he spent hours picking out so that Dean could have the perfect Christmas.

Only that Christmas was now ruined.

The sad twinge in Cas’s gut turned to anger. This was Dean’s fault. If he hadn’t knocked over the files, none of this would have happened. If he had just waited until Claire got home and explained that it had been a mistake, everything would have been fine. A voice whispered to Cas from the darkest parts of his mind that there hadn’t been a mistake. That Claire had killed Mary. And then Cas’s anger turned on his mother. Why hadn’t she said anything about this before? She had known Dean’s last name. Hell, she had lived with a son who had it printed on his wrist. And yet she had said nothing.

Cas should throw them away. The presents. It’s not as if Dean was coming back. And it’s not as if he dared keep them for himself. They would only widen the cracks in his wall further. 

That was the last thing Cas needed.

Letting out a soft noise that was almost like a growl, Cas reached for the wrapped packages, ready to rip them apart and get them as far away from him as possible. But then he froze.

He was hearing things. He had to be. But he could have sworn he heard-

There it was again.

Knocking.

But who-

Cas hastily turned away from the boxes and flew up the stairs. His heart was singing Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, but the rest of him was snarling the name. How dare he come back? After everything that he had said to Cas? After everything he had done to him? Cas couldn’t forgive that.

He wrenched the front door open just as the meticulously built and enforced wall in his head started to crumble.

All of the thoughts that were circling above Cas like vultures promptly vanished, leaving him staring dumbly at the person standing in front of him.

Dean looked more nervous than Cas had ever seen. More nervous than the day that it was Claire opening the door to him instead of Cas. More nervous than the first time Dean and Cas had met. More nervous than when Dean made his first steps on the ice rink.

Cas took in Dean’s appearance, from the unkempt hair, to the slightly red rimmed eyes, to the bit lip, to the sweater that Claire had knit for him, to the bags at Dean’s sides. Cas’s tongue was caught in his mouth and he stood there, frozen.

“Hey.”

Cas barely heard Dean, but it was enough to shake him out of his trance. “What are you doing here?” Cas’s voice was harsher than he had meant it to be and he saw Dean flinch at the words that flew out of his mouth. Thoughts of an apology swirled around in Cas’s head, but he resisted their pull. He was not apologizing to Dean. Not after what Dean did.

He saw Dean shift from one foot to the other and the fingers tightened around the straps of the bags. Dean cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk. To you. If that’s ok?”

“No. It’s not ok. You can leave now,” Cas hissed and stepped back, closing the door in Dean’s face. 

Before it could slam shut, though, he felt Dean’s hand pushing against it as Dean tried to keep it open. Dean’s voice turned desperate. “Cas, wait! Please! This is important! It’s about your m-”

Cas ripped the door open, making Dean stumble a bit, and cut him off. “You wanted to talk about my mom? Didn’t we already do that yesterday? Oh, wait, it wasn’t really talking. More like screaming while you accused her of murder,” Cas growled out. He saw Dean shrink in on himself. “And I’m so sorry if I don’t want to repeat that again.”

 He moved to try to close the door again but was stopped by Dean for a second time. The look in Dean’s eyes broke Cas’s heart. “Please, Cas. If you don’t like what I have to say you can kick me out. I’ll leave right away. I promise. Just please, please let me talk to you.”

They stared at each other, the silence stretching between them like infinity. Finally, Cas huffed a breath and turned on his heel, marching away from the door (away from Dean) and towards the kitchen, leaving Dean to enter and close the door behind him. Dean came into the room without the bags, which he must have left in the hallway. That was just as well; Cas didn’t want to know what was in them. He didn’t care. Or so he tried to convince himself.

“Sit.”

Dean hesitated for a moment before dropping down into his usual seat at the table. Cas noticed that Dean was fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater. Cas tried to refrain from doing the same.

“Well?” Cas spoke after a while of tense silence. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”

Dean took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. Hair that wasn’t quite blonde, but not brown. Cas had always thought that it looked like a mixture of honey and almonds. And when the sun hit it, the colors turned to-

No.

Cas stopped himself. He wasn’t here to admire Dean’s hair. He was here to listen to what Dean had to say and then kick him out. Simple as that.

“I drove to my dad’s yesterday,” Dean started. Cas felt his eyes widen. Dean’s father lived hours away. He must have gotten there at around one in the morning. But why would Dean go there? He and his father barely ever spoke, and from what Cas had learned about John Winchester in the past months, it was that family reunions were never his thing. “I don’t honestly know why I went. I only realized I was headed there when I was nearing his place.”

Oh.

“I asked him if he knew Claire,” Cas sucked in a sharp breath but Dean continued. “And if she was connected to my mom’s death. He said yes. To both questions.”

Cas’s heart sank lower and lower under he felt it shatter into pieces. So it was true. His mother had killed Mary. He had the evidence. The files. And now the confirmation from Dean’s father. Everything Dean had said had been true. Claire was a murderer. 

Dean must have seen the relinquished look on Cas’s face because he quickly reached across the table and grabbed Cas’s hand to reassure him, but Cas pulled his hand out of Dean’s grip. A brief look of hurt crossed Dean’s face before he withdrew his hand and started fiddling with his sleeve once more.

“Is that it?” Cas growled. “You wanted to come here to tell me that you were right? To gloat?”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “No! No, that’s not it. That’s not even close to-”

“Because if that’s what this is about, then you can leave right now.”

“I’m not done, Cas, I promise. Just hear me out, okay?”

Cas hesitated but nodded tersely.

“My dad told me that my mom never got better after the fire. She only got worse.”

What?

“It came to the point that she was only being kept alive by machines. She couldn’t go anywhere, do anything. She was stuck in the hospital. And so were we,” Dean lowered his eyes. “She kept telling my dad that we should leave. Leave her in the hospital and go live our lives. She said that she was holding us back. But my dad wouldn’t listen,” Dean’s voice hitched and the next words came out in a whisper. “So she asked him to kill her.”

Cas’s breath caught in his throat. No. No, this didn’t make any sense. Why would Mary have wanted to die?

“My dad said no at first. But then she became more persistent. She kept asking and asking and asking. She was tired of seeing the same white walls and eating the same food. She thought she was being a burden on us. She said that what she was living wasn’t a life at all. So my dad agreed. Only, he couldn’t get her the drugs. But they knew someone who could.”

Cas’s world was collapsing and all he could do was sit grounded in his chair and listen to the words spilling out of Dean’s mouth.

“Our moms were close. Really close. My dad said that they were more like sisters than friends. So they asked your mom for the drugs. She had refused at first. Obviously. I mean,” Dean’s eyes rose to meet Cas’s. “Who could live with themselves after they had hurt someone they loved.”

The words echoed inside Cas’s head.

“After a while, though, your mom agreed. And so she snuck my dad in one night and they said their goodbyes and gave my mom the drug. Claire took all the blame and was fired because of it. My dad never told us the whole truth because he thought that we were too young to understand why they killed Mom. But I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, right?” Dean smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. He lowered his voice. “Just don’t tell Sammy.”

Dean had obviously expected Cas to nod at that and tell him that no, he wouldn’t tell Sam, but all he got was a blank look. Cas was still processing the information. It was too much. Mary had wanted to die? But was Claire still justified in killing her? Had it been the right thing to do? Why didn't Claire tell Cas? He was old enough to understand. Had she been planning on keeping it a secret forever?

“Cas?” Dean’s voice brought Cas back to reality. “You doing alright?”

Cas snapped. “NO, Dean, I am most certainly NOT doing alright! I’ve just learned that my mother KILLED SOMEONE, and not just any someone, but the mother of the person that I love more than anyone else, and now I have to live with this information inside my head for the rest of my life and I don’t even know what I’m going to tell my mom about it, or even IF I’m going to tell my mom that I know. I mean picture me, the day after Christmas, telling my mom that I know that she killed your mom. How will she react? And Gabe! Oh Jesus Christ, what am I going to tell him? Will I tell him? He deserves to know, right? But what if it ruins him and Sam?” Cas couldn’t help but add, “What if it ruins them like it ruined us?”

“You think it ruined us?” Dean’s voice asked from beside him quietly, and Cas jumped as he realized that during his outburst, Dean had moved around the table and was not mere feet away from Cas, unsure on what to do to comfort him.

“I mean, you hate me,” Cas whispered. “My mom killed yours. You can barely look at me. And after what I said, I don’t know how you can even stand to be in the same room as me.”

Dean looked a little taken aback at that. As if he hadn’t been expecting it. As if that’s not what he thought at all. But Cas knew better. Or did he?

“I don’t hate you.”

Cas froze.

“I could never hate you,” Dean was shaking his head. “I said all those horrible things to you yesterday, but I didn’t mean them. I didn’t mean a single thing. You’re probably the best thing that has ever happened to me, Cas. You’re funny, and kind, and amazing, and your hair is so soft, and your smile makes me happy, and when you laugh you scrunch up your nose and you just look so, so cute and I could never, ever hate you.” Dean paused to take a breath. “I love you, angel.”

Cas stared at him, not daring to move a muscle. Not daring to believe.

Dean took the silence as rejection and his face fell as he stepped backwards. Away from the table. Away from Cas. 

“I should go,” he whispered.

And then Cas was launching himself out of his chair and at Dean, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. His soulmate. The love of his life. Cas gripped him tight and didn’t let go.

Dean let out a small noise of surprise at the sudden contact but didn’t hesitate before bringing his arms around Cas and burying his head in Cas’s shoulder. One of his hands went around Cas’s waist and the other to the back of Cas’s head as Dean dug his hands into the silky strands of Cas’s hair. Any other time Cas would have complained that Dean was pulling too hard on his hair, but he couldn’t have cared less at the moment. What mattered was that Dean was here and he forgave him and he loved him. Just like Cas loved Dean.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so sorry.” 

Dean was mumbling apologies into Cas’s shoulder but Cas shushed him and tightened his arms around him. Dean didn’t stop, though, and kept up the mantra of “I’m sorry”s muffled by the long sleeved shirt Cas had on.

Pulling back, Cas cupped Dean’s face in his hands. “I love you too, you idiot. Now shut up.” And with that, Cas crushed their mouths together.

You might have thought that they had gone years without seeing each other instead of hours. They kissed as if their lives depended on it, as if the world was ending and they had mere seconds to live. They kissed like they were drowning men, clawing for life.

When they finally pulled apart, both were panting. Dean’s face was split into a smile so wide Cas thought his face would crack in two. And if that smile was a feeling, then it was filling Cas up from his head to his toes. 

Dean opened his mouth again, no doubt to make another apology, but Cas cut him off before he could say anything.

“Don’t you dare say that you’re sorry again. I forgive you, Dean.”

And Cas was surprised to say that he was telling the truth. Yes, Dean had said some horrible things the previous night, and yes he had broken Cas’s signed vinyl record. But Cas had said some horrible things, too. And, after all, the record was an object, and although it wouldn’t be easy, it still could be replaced. Dean, on the other hand, was a living, breathing person that could never, ever be replaced. Not for Cas.

His thoughts were interrupted when his stomach growled, and Cas realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d had hours ago. He was actually famished.

“Sounds like somebody is hungry,” Dean said softly and brushed past Cas and into the hallway, where he came back from seconds later with the bags he was holding earlier. Cas craned his neck and made out the logo of one of their favorite burger places. 

Plopping the bags down on the kitchen table, Dean started rifling through them. He took out two wrapped packages, placing one in front of his seat at the table and the other in front of Cas. He then reached in and brought out a box of fries, and then two iced teas. Smiling, Dean then dropped into his own chair and started unwrapping his burger. Cas did the same.

“Oh, Dean…” 

Dean had remembered. Even after their fight and after they hadn’t had burgers in weeks, Dean had still remembered. He’d remembered the incredibly specific way that Cas liked his burgers; double bacon with cheese and no pickles.

“What?” Cas looked up to see that Dean had already taken a larger-than-was-probably-healthy bite of his hamburger and had just tried to talk through it. The light from the window was hitting his hair and Cas couldn’t help but think that Dean had never looked better.

He shook his head softly. “Nothing.” Taking the burger in his hands and biting into it, Cas savored the flavors that exploded in his mouth. This Christmas dinner was better than he would have hoped for, even if he did only have breakfast hours ago. Or would that have already been lunch since he had eaten so late? Whatever. It didn’t matter to Cas. Because Dean was here, with him, and Cas couldn’t have been happier.

Both boys jumped when the muffled sounds of one of Bruno Mars’s songs split the air, and Cas immediately recognized it as his ringtone. Wiping his hands on a napkin, he made a quick apologetic glance at Dean before sprinting up the stairs to his room. Turning his phone over, Cas’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of the caller.

It was Claire.

Hitting the accept button, Cas brought the phone to his ear, stomach in knots.

“Hey, Cas! I saw all those missed calls that you made. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t talk before, but I’m also really busy now. Is everything ok? If it’s really important I can make time.”

His mother’s voice brought a wave of memories crashing down onto Cas, but he held them back while his mind raced. What should he say? Should he confront her about what she did now, or would it be better to do that in person? But if not that, then what excuse could he make up?

“Hi, mom! Umm, yeah, I did call you a lot but it’s okay that you didn’t pick up. I can ask you about it when you get home tomorrow.”

“Great! I hope you boys are doing fine back there without me.”

Cas resisted the urge to snort. Yeah, they were doing absolutely fine. “Don’t worry about us, mom. We got into a… small fight… but we’re ok now.”

“Aww, I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie.” It sounded as if she was about to say something else, but then Cas heard a muffled noise on the other end of the line and Claire quickly apologized, saying that she had to go.

“It’s ok mom. See you tomorrow. Love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye.”

Cas hung up and dropped the phone back onto his bed, running a hand through his hair. He let out a breath and made his way downstairs. Dean was still sitting at the table, already done with his hamburger and he had now moved onto the fries. He looked up as Cas approached and sat down.

“Who was it?” Dean asked, dipping a fry into ketchup before making a show of putting in his mouth and chewing.

Cas couldn’t help but smile at the display. “My mom.”

Dean stopped chewing and his eyes grew serious. “Did you-”

“I didn’t tell her anything. I’d rather do that in person.”

Dean nodded and continued chewing, this time with less vigor. Cas picked up his burger once more, and this time he managed to finish it without any interruptions.

When they were finally done with the food, both boys did the dishes, and Cas couldn’t have been happier when he turned on the music and they stood side by side, swaying and bumping their hips by the sink. 

The opening notes of Bruno Mars’s Just the Way You Are started playing when Dean suddenly jumped and his eyes went wide. Cas didn’t even have time to ask him what was wrong before Dean dried his hands on a towel and sped out of the kitchen, calling a quick, “I’ll be right back! Finish up!” to Cas.

Extremely confused, Cas hurried up with the dishes (thankfully there were only a few more), and was drying his own hands when Dean came rushing back into the house. In one hand he held a wrapped box, and in the other, his guitar. Baby 2.0.

Smiling, Dean held out the wrapped box to Cas. “I almost forgot this.”

Cas was about to take it when he remembered his own presents. Now it was his turn to dash out of the room. He raced down the stairs and into the basement. The boxes surrounding the presents were already out of the way, and Cas recalled with a twinge of regret how he had been about to throw them out before Dean came. And thank god that Dean had come.

Grabbing the two wrapped boxes, Cas sprinted back upstairs. On his way to the kitchen, he passed the living room, where he saw Dean sitting on the couch in front of the Christmas tree. Backtracking, Cas slipped onto the couch alongside Dean and grinned at him, holding out his presents. “And I almost forgot these.”

They exchanged gifts. Cas held his present in his hands. It was nicely covered with wrapping paper that was adorned with flying angels. Oh, Dean. Cas quickly glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean, who was ripping the first box apart with a childish smile on his face and eyes that twinkled from the light reflecting off the ornaments.

Cas turned back to his own present and slowly tore apart the paper. 

He only saw the corner of something black when he was engulfed in a hug from the side. Almost dropping his gift, Cas carefully put it on the coffee table in front of him and returned Dean’s hug, burying his face in Dean’s hair.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!” Dean sang.

Cas smiled. So Dean liked his presents.

Dean pulled back and grinned at Cas like a madman. In one hand he held the fuzzy socks that Cas had gotten him. They were incredibly soft and comfortable (Cas knew from experience), and Dean had always complained that his feet were cold. The socks had Chevy Impalas on them, something that Cas knew Dean would love. And on Dean’s lap, almost too big to fit there, was a LEGO set. But not just any LEGO set. A Star Wars Death Star set. A twenty-one pound, 4,016 piece, $500 LEGO Death Star.

Dean’s grin made the sun look like it wasn’t shining. He leaned forward and gave Cas a kiss, mumbling a few more “Thank you”s before and after.

“Can we build it together?” Dean asked, not even waiting for an answer before tearing the box open and starting to spill the contents out onto the couch. 

Cas rolled his eyes. Of course they would. But first, he had to find out what his own present was.

He picked the wrapped box back up and hooked his fingers under the paper, pulling it back inch by inch. He almost stopped breathing.

There, in a glass case, was a new vinyl record. A new, shining, Bruno Mars vinyl record. And that wasn’t all. Inside the case, lying on top of the record, were two pieces of paper. Or, more specifically, two front row concert tickets to one of his concerts.

Cas looked up and met Dean’s eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, both beyond glad that they had the other, before Cas leapt forward and their lips collided in a kiss that was so unlike the others. This was one that spoke of forgiveness and love and or never letting go. This one was passionate and harsh and exactly what Cas needed.

Dean was exactly what Cas needed. 

And Cas was never, ever going to let him go again.

**********

(another small a/n: A few things in this fic were factually incorrect. Firstly, the Princess Bride is not on Netflix. But for the purposes of this fic it was. Secondly, a lego death star is not that cheap. In reality, it’s more like $800. So don’t go on Amazon thinking you can buy one for the price I put here. You can’t. Sorry.)

[bombshellsandbluebells]

First, Do No Harm Chapter 7

Summary: During the 5+ years aboard the Ark, Murphy stumbles into becoming the designated doctor.

Chapter Summary: Murphy isn't sure what's harder - asking for forgiveness or forgiving. Emori and Raven bond over machines.

Relationships: John Murphy/Emori, Murphy & the Space Squad, background Marper

I am so sorry for the wait. I do hope - and plan - to finish this story, but life keeps getting in the way. Thank you so much to everyone who’s left comments on this fic or told me how much they love it! I appreciate it so much!

Thank you also to all the helpful people on Tumblr who tried to teach me about concussions. Hopefully what I wrote is at least mostly accurate.

Also, as usual, I could not do this without my wonderful editor @infernalandmortal. She is a Queen among men.

Previous Chapter

Read on ao3

The skin of Emori’s knuckles is split, but she won’t let him look at the cuts, rolling her eyes and pushing him away when he tries. She’s defensive in a way that makes Murphy ache somewhere deep inside his ribcage, in the part of him that knows intimately what it feels like to be cast aside. She’s not guarded against him, exactly – she’s used to him examining every part of her so often and thoroughly that studying her hands is nothing new – but it’s as if she wants to ignore the whole fight happened at all, going as far as to hide the evidence under the layers of her clothing, as if once it’s out of sight it hasn’t really happened.

He understands without her explaining. She’s upset she reacted so strongly to Echo’s words – afraid that her lashing out, even justified as it was, is a strike against her, and she’s unsure, like he is, just how many strikes they have until they’re out. He’d told her about his father once, late at night when the emptiness of the cave they were in nearly swallowed his words. She knows what it means to be floated, and he’s seen her eye the windows of their new home with wariness.

Murphy gets it, because he’s just as worried, even if he wants to go slap Echo around himself for what she said. But for some crazy reason Murphy can’t fathom, Echo has Bellamy backing her, and Bellamy probably doesn’t even need a good reason to kick Murphy out.

None of the people here need a good reason for kicking either of them out. They’re the odd ones out, like usual. How much would it take to get sentenced to death this time? How different is the Ring than the Delinquent Camp?

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging Emori until she turns to look at him. “If she says anything else about you, I’ll kill her.”

Emori snorts, but a soft smile tugs at her lips. “They’ll float you.”

Murphy shrugs, because it’s probably true, before he realizes what she said. He grins. “Hey, you used it right.”

Emori rolls her eyes. The smile tugs harder. “I still think it’s silly. There isn’t even any water.”

He laughs, grabbing at her shoulder and tugging her close enough to wrap her tight in a hug. Her arms wind around his back, fingers digging into his shirt to anchor herself there.

Silently, Murphy repeats to himself the thought that’s starting to become his mantra: they wouldn’t float a doctor.

--

For the next few days, Murphy does his best to avoid everyone but Emori, moving only from Medical to his room, scoping out hallways before he chances them. He buries himself in the files, reading and rereading over and over again until pieces of what he reads finally start to make sense. It’s like trying to keep a sinking boat from filling with water; every time he makes progress, he finds himself in a sea of impenetrable language and information.

If only Clarke was here, he thinks – for probably the first and only time in his life – but the thought quickly passes. If she were here, he wouldn’t even have a job to do.

It’s frustrating work, especially piled upon a body that’s already stressed and fatigued. He half-wonders if he’ll be anything but a starving, weathered husk stuffed with anger ever again. Still, if it means survival, it’s worth the headaches and frustration.

Anything’s worth it.

A knock on his door interrupts his thoughts. When he looks up to Bellamy standing there, he has to fight the incredibly strong desire to throw the tablet he’s holding at the other man’s head. It’s too valuable to lose. And he’d probably miss, anyways.

Bellamy’s beard is out of control, bushy and thick and unkempt. It makes him look ten years older, as do the dark circles under his eyes. Murphy can’t really find it in himself to feel sympathetic. He hasn’t looked in a mirror lately, but he expects he looks similar, plus an ugly black eye that’s just now starting to fade into a patchwork of green and yellow splotches.

“What?” he snaps.

Bellamy crosses his arms. His large frame fills the doorway. Murphy can’t tell if it’s meant to be intentionally threatening or not, but it digs at him either way. It’s like Bellamy knows he’ll win a fight if it breaks out and he wants Murphy to know it, too. Not that he needs reminding; if he focuses, he can still feel the dirt and twisted roots underneath his back, Bellamy’s heavy weight pushing into him, the skin of his face stinging and his nose screaming with pain, and the blood filling his mouth, making it hard to breathe. It’s almost been a year, but sometimes it still feels like just days ago.

The sounds of it rings in his ears clearly still  – Bellamy’s desperate shout of “he deserves to die” ripping at something inside of him that’s already sick and rotting.

“Echo says it’s time for her stitches to come out,” the Bellamy of the here and now says, and Murphy snaps back to the present.

His fingers dig into the cool metal of the tablet. “No,” he snarls. “Get out.”

Bellamy huffs, an explosion of stress and frustration. Murphy wants to throw Raven’s words at him. They’re all hungry. Get over it.

“Come on, Murphy. Stop being an –“

“She hasn’t apologized!” he shouts, tossing the tablet aside so he doesn’t break it. He really wants to break something right now. If only Bellamy would hold still long enough so that something could be his face; Murphy thinks that would go a long way in improving his mood.

“Kind of hard to when you’re clearly avoiding everyone.”

“To Emori,” he growls. Bellamy shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “She hasn’t apologized to Emori for calling her –“ He doesn’t even want to give it name. “What she called her.”

Bellamy hesitates for a moment. Finally, he sighs and uncrosses his arms, lets them dangle by his sides. “It’s about her hand, isn’t it?”

Murphy pushes to his feet. His body feels electrified, untapped energy buzzing beneath the surface like a live wire, and he wants to punch something so badly he can feel the desire tingling in his hands as he clenches them into fists. He wants to push Bellamy to the ground and climb on top of him , punch his face in over and over and over again until he’s choking on blood, scream his own words right back at him until he feels them like Murphy felt them – like he still feels them at odd times when Emori isn’t there or it’s just a little too quiet. He hasn’t felt this angry in a long time. He wonders how much of it is the hunger and how much is the feeling of the Ark pressing down on him day after day, hour after hour, like a specter he can’t shake free of.

Everything was fine in the bunker until Bellamy decided to let his sister and the grounders in and steal that little bit of hope he and Emori had started to build their future on. Whatever the hell Bellamy wants, damn everyone else - just like always.

“Don’t you dare say a fucking thing about her hand!”

“I wasn’t,” Bellamy says quickly, backtracking. He throws his hands up in surrender. “I’m just trying to figure out what the problem is.”

“The problem,” Murphy snaps, “is that you let a grounder we can’t trust onboard.”

“I don’t trust her either,” Bellamy admits. “But I trust that she wants to stay alive and killing any of us isn’t in her best interests. And the only reason any of us are alive is because of her.”

Murphy snorts. If they want to start listing things, he’s pretty sure none of them would have been alive if he hadn’t told them about the lighthouse bunker. “I’m still not helping her,” he insists, voice like steel. “You want to help her so bad, you do it.”

“Fine,” Bellamy snaps. He runs a hand roughly through his hair, leaving the curls even more wild than they had already been, some of them standing up on end and making him look ridiculous. “But you have to tell me what to do.”

It feels better than he wants to admit to hear Bellamy ask for his advice.

“Just cut part of the string and pull it out. And make sure her arm isn’t red or swollen. Could mean it’s infected.” Emori had made sure he’d known the signs of infection when she taught her how to stitch up cuts; it was more dangerous than any injury could be.

“Okay,” Bellamy says and starts to leave, but then he stops, pausing in the door to look back at Murphy. “Thanks,” he adds.

That feels better than he wants to admit too.

--

The next day is a ration day, but Murphy hesitates to go claim his. Emori’s still out, probably finding her own solace in the depths of the Ring, and Murphy doesn’t really want to run into anyone else along the way. And he certainly doesn’t want to visit Echo in the supply room to get his ration, as hungry as he is.

He waits a couple hours for Emori to show up so they can go as a united front – or for someone to take pity on him and bring it to him, as unlikely as that is – before the tantalizing prospect of abating his hunger, even just a little bit, becomes unbearable.

He slinks into the hallway like a wounded animal, praying to whatever it was Jaha thought might be up there that he doesn’t run into anyone. And, of course, because fate has never blessed him once in his life, he hears footsteps approaching just a few turns away from the supply room. It’s not Raven, whose uneven steps are distinctive, but that leaves five other possible options and only one good one. He’s just wondering which option would be the worst when Monty rounds the corner.

Well, of course, he thinks. This is the worst option.

Monty comes to an abrupt halt, eyes wide as they catch on him. Murphy stares awkwardly back. They haven’t seen each other since the last group meeting and it seems like time hasn’t healed any wounds. Monty glances at Murphy’s yellowing eye with the shadow of satisfaction on his face and a coolness in his eyes, then moves to walk past him and ignore him completely.

Raven’s advice comes to mind, and Murphy isn’t quite sure if that’s why he does it – or if it’s just because being ignored really sucks and he can’t stand the thought of having to avoid everyone but Emori for the rest of his time here, or even if it’s just because he’s having a wild, uncharacteristic moment of maturity. Whatever it is, he grabs Monty’s arm before he can pass and pulls him to a hard stop. Monty’s head whips to stare at him, eyes hot with fury now, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Murphy cuts him off before he has the chance.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was a dick move.”

Monty’s mouth hangs open, previous words abandoned in shock. He closes it after a moment. “Are you - are you apologizing?” he asks, sounding baffled.

Murphy crosses his arms, shoulders hunching up defensively. Everything about this sucks. Can’t Monty just take the apology and leave? “I’m trying to,” he snaps.

Monty stares some more. His eyes narrow as he studies him. “Did Bellamy put you up to this?”

“What? I can’t decide to apologize on my own? And I don’t do what Bellamy tells me to.”

Monty leans back slightly, eyeing Murphy like he’s trying to figure out what makes him tick, and Murphy feels like he’s being dissected. He wants to be anywhere but here right now. He looks away from Monty’s face, eyeing the far wall. Like the rest of the Ark, it’s not much to look at, but it’s better than making eye contact.

“I’m not going to apologize for hitting you,” Monty says finally.

Murphy shrugs. “Fine. Whatever.”

“You deserved it,” Monty says with conviction.

“Okay,” he says for lack of anything better to say. He rubs at his nose. “So you back to hating me?”

Monty hums. “Not sure. I’m on the fence about it.” It’s a shockingly honest answer. Murphy kind of appreciates it.

“That’s…” He trails off awkwardly, not sure what he wants to say. There’s a few things he could say – things about how everyone hates him for everything anyways so this isn’t new, or how Monty needs to toughen up like he’s had to, or how a couple mean words aren’t nearly on the same level as getting hanged and banished and he’d been expected to just get over that and wasn’t given the luxury of holding a grudge about it, but he’s pretty sure any of those are just going to end with him in the airlock after all.

And he’s realizing that not only does he really want to make sure he makes it through these five years alive, he’s also kind of hoping he’s not going to have to make it through these five years alone.

He doesn’t say any of them. Maybe that is some sign of maturity.

“Fine,” he settles on finally.

Monty doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that either.

They hover together in a silent moment of uncertainty. Murphy isn’t familiar enough with apologies to know what comes next. For some baffling reason, Raven had hugged him. He hopes Monty doesn’t try.

It’s Monty who talks first. “You can come back to the algae farm if you want.”

He recognizes the olive branch for what it is. Murphy appreciates it. But he also has no desire to take him up on it.

“Nah, that’s fine. I’ll leave you lovebirds alone. I found another job to focus on, anyways. Just let me know when the algae starts growing.”

Monty nods. “I can do that.”

When they part, Murphy feels lighter. He walks easier through the hallways.

--

Raven is leaving the supply room when he gets there. When she sees him coming, she makes a beeline towards him – or as much as she can, with her limp. It’s even more exaggerated than the last time he saw her, every step a clear feat of strength. The skin of her forehead is pinched with pain.

He ignores it.

“Hey,” Raven says as she nears. “You seen Emori?”

“Not since this morning, no. Why?”

“I heard what happened with Echo.” She comes to a stop and turns her head to nod at a pile of items stacked neatly outside of the door to the room. “Guess that’s her solution. Bellamy said she’s been leaving stuff outside of the door so she doesn’t have to go in. Then Echo comes and grabs it when she’s gone. Better than a fight, I guess. But I figured -” She pulls a ration from her pocket. “-if she wanted her ration today, she’d have to go in the room, and that wouldn’t be pretty for anyone. Thought I’d save everyone the hassle and bring it to her.”

“That’s….nice,” Murphy says slowly, eyeing her with suspicion. Raven’s never seemed to have a problem with Emori, but generosity is always suspect.

Raven places the ration back in her pocket. When she looks back up at him, her eyes are strikingly earnest. “I saw how Roan treated her. Echo’s Ice Nation too. I can imagine the kind of things she’d say about her hand. Emori doesn’t deserve to deal with that.”

“None of us do,” he says dryly. “How many votes do we need to bring back floating, you think?”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you joke now, but you’d regret it the next time you do something stupid.”

He shrugs. The comment would hurt more if Raven sounded more serious about it, but he recognizes the humor in her voice. “I’m kidding. The Ark’s all about peace and second chances now, I get it.”

“Yeah, you of all people should be happy about that.”

He doesn’t look down at her leg; it’s difficult to resist the urge, though.

Instead, he steps past her and starts down the hallway, moving slowly enough to give her time to catch up. “I can help you find her. I just need to get –“

“Way ahead of you,” Raven interrupts, following him. She pushes something into his hand. “Grabbed one for you, too.” It’s a ration. At his surprised look, she shrugs. “I figured you’d be with Emori. I didn’t really know where you’re hiding these days.”

This generosity is even harder to trust. One day, his mind whispers seductively, the other shoe will drop. When he responds, it’s mostly on auto-pilot, mind still reeling at the presence of the ration in his hand, tightening his grip slightly to test the realness of it. “Medical, mostly.”

“Medical?” Raven asks with surprise. “Why?”

“Because no one else goes in there.” It’s only partly true, but his time spent reading the medical files feels like a secret. He’s not sure he wants to tell anyone what he’s been spending his time doing, though he’s not quite sure why it feels like such a vulnerable thing to share. They’d probably find it hilarious he was even trying. Maybe he just doesn’t want to hear how much of an idiot they think he is.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says to change the subject. “For doing this for her.”

Raven shrugs, brushing it off. “We’ve gotta stick together. Because, well, you know.” She gestures down at her leg, avoiding making eye contact with him.

Murphy avoids it too, gaze locked on the hallway ahead of them. He focuses on a flickering light in the distance. “Yeah,” he forces out. “Still. She doesn’t usually have people looking out for her.”

He feels Raven’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t know what she’s thinking. He’s not quite sure what she sees, either. Eventually, she looks away and focuses her gaze ahead, and they continue walking in silence, ducking their head into rooms as they pass, before moving on. Raven’s uneven footsteps fall loud on the floor as they walk.

She caves first, breaking the silence. “I do have an ulterior motive.”

He glances sharply at her, surprised by how surprised he is. Of course; no one does anything for unselfish reasons.

But Raven just grins at him. “I wanted to see how much experience with machines she has. I sort of remember her when I had the chip.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s – we were all sort of connected when we were chipped. What we knew, ALIE knew. And what ALIE knew, we all knew.”

“Sounds confusing.”

“It was. Or, it wasn’t really at the time. It just kind of felt normal. It’s hard to explain.” Her eyes go distant. “I don’t really remember that much, but when Emori was helping refit the rocket, I remembered that I used to know she collected machines for ALIE.”

“She did.”

“Does she know how any of it works?”

The truth is he doesn’t really know. But he remembers how well she knew her way around the motor of her boat – how one day when it had stalled and sputtered and coughed up thick, black smoke, she had shucked her glove for the first time since they’d met, sat herself down with some kind of tools, and rearranged wires and metal until it started working again. He had sat on the opposite side of the boat, pale skin baking in the midday sun, mesmerized by her certain movements.

“Yes,” he insists. “And she’s a fast learner.”

Raven smiles. “Good. I’m starting to realize I probably need another hand to help me out.”

--

They eventually find Emori at the far end of the ring. She’s in the depths of one of the rooms, her makeshift cart with her, hard at work attacking the screws securing a metal shelf to the wall. In her cart sit two similar shelves, and Murphy notes the empty, discolored spaces on the walls where they must have once hung.  

She turns when she hears them coming, pocketing the screws she’s removed, and eyes Raven warily before she notices Murphy beside her. Her eyes soften when they land on him, and, like always, it makes something in him shudder at the idea that someone could ever be so happy to see him. He wonders if he’ll ever tire of it or grow familiar with it. He doubts it.

Before he can say anything, Raven pulls out the ration she brought and waves it in the air. “Can you take a break? I brought you a present.”

The skin of Emori’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “A present?” she repeats slowly. Her eyes flick to Murphy, questioning. He nods, hoping it’s reassuring. They might have enemies here, but Raven is a friend – or he’s pretty sure she is, at least.

“Yeah, I figured you were starving,” Raven says, the corners of her mouth quirking with false humor. She passes the ration over. Emori takes it, cradling it her hands like something precious – and to be fair, it is.

“I don’t think this will help with that,” Emori says dryly, eyeing it.

Murphy silently echoes the sentiment.

Raven grimaces, but shrugs it off. “Better than nothing.” She ambles over to a chair and slowly lowers herself into it, face softening in some relief once she’s no longer standing. She grabs the calf of her bad leg and moves it into a more comfortable position, and Murphy wants nothing more than to flee the room. But Emori takes her own seat and pats the one beside her, beckoning him over, and he follows.

“These taste awful,” Emori says after her first bite. It’s not the first time she’s said it, and Murphy just nods in agreement.

Raven snorts, swallowing her own bite. “Be glad you didn’t grow up on stuff like this. This and algae. Every other week you’d get real fruits and vegetables, but our selection was kind of limited. I miss panther.”

“And rabbit,” Murphy adds, imagining the taste. “Fish is kind of weird, but it’s good.”

“Fish?” Raven asks curiously. She looks at both of them. “What’s that taste like?”

“There’s lots of different kinds,” Emori explains. “You can’t fish in certain waters, though. The fish are bad. It will make you sick.” Then she eyes the ration in her hand. “Still probably better than this though.”

Raven laughs outright. “Yeah, probably. Ark food is pretty much shit. Unity Day was the best, though, because you got something sweet. Not a lot, but kids always got part of a cookie or wafer or something.”

“I remember that one time we got chocolate.”

Raven’s eyes go wide. “No shit? Mecha must have missed out on that.” She grins a humorless smile and adds, “Or Mom traded it away for booze.”

He looks up sharply at her.

“What?” Raven asks, shrugging, overly casual. “You aren’t the only one with a shitty mom.”

“What’s ‘Mecha’ mean?” Emori asks curiously, looking between them. She’s eaten half of her ration and stopped, just like she always does. Murphy knows she’ll wrap the rest up and hide it somewhere safe so she can eat it tomorrow; he’s never sure if spacing what little they get out like that actually helps or just makes things worse, but having something on the days they don’t get a ration seems to at least reassure Emori.

“The Ark was divided into different stations. I was from Mecha, Murphy was from – “ she cuts off, turning to him expectantly.

“Factory.”

“Same as Bellamy, then.”

Murphy shrugs. “I never met him.”

“How did you live with so many people in such a small space?” Emori asks, eyeing the walls.

Raven shrugs. “I don’t know. It was just normal to us.”

“I didn’t even realize places could be so big until we got to Earth,” Murphy admits. He rolls the ration wrapper between his fingers, listening to it crackle.

“You’ve never spacewalked then,” Raven says. “It’s not really the same as Earth, but at least you feel free.” She catches Emori’s interested look and grins at her. “I could teach you if you like. I’ll probably need some help with a few things out there.”

“Out where?” Emori asks warily, eyes flicked towards the open door as if she can look out into space from here.

“Space. It’s like when I used the suit to float to the airlock doors.”

Emori turns quickly back to her. “When you were floating?” she asks excitedly. Her grin threatens to overwhelm her entire face.

“Yeah,” Raven says, her grin matching Emori’s. “You interested?”

“Yes,” Emori says. Her face is alight with wonder. It’s a relief to see after all that happened with Echo. Murphy ducks his head to hide his smile. “Why do you float, though? John told me about gravity -” She stumbles slightly over the word, still not quite familiar with it. “ - and Monty said the Ring has “artificial gravity,” but what does that mean?” Her eyes are alight with curiosity, bright and eager to learn more.

Raven looks just as excited to teach her.

Murphy zones out as Raven launches into an explanation and Emori holds raptly onto every word that falls from her lips. His empty stomach still claws at his insides, and he knows they still have several days to go with limited rations. The Ark still feels like a dismal specter and a cage all at once.

But here, in this moment at least, with these two people at his side, he feels content.

--

Bellamy is like a bad cold he just can’t shake. Murphy still isn’t quite sure where they stand, both hovering in some awkward, unknown space between friend and enemy, taking two steps back for every step forward in the world’s clumsiest dance.

When he shows up again for the first time after asking about Echo’s stitches, it’s with Harper in tow. Or rather, Harper is the one towing Bellamy, who seems to need her guidance to walk in a straight line. He looks dazed, maybe drunk even, blinking frequently and slowly, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkled and pinched. His pupils are blown wide. One is larger than the other. Harper looks sober, but like she wishes she could be anywhere else in the world rather than standing in front of Murphy. He echoes the sentiment.

“What’s up with him?” he asks.

Bellamy doesn’t seem to even register his question. His face twists with pain. Harper answers for him. “Echo was teaching us how to sword fight, and she hit him pretty hard in the head. He’s bleeding.”

Murphy stares at her in confusion for a moment. “We have swords?”

“No – well, Echo has hers, I think. We used some pipes we had in the supply room.”

Murphy winces in sympathy. There’s no way that didn’t hurt.

“I’m fine,” Bellamy announces suddenly, though he raises the arm not held hostage by Harper to prod gently at the back of his head, grimacing. “Just – “ He blinks a few times, trying to find the words. “Walk,” he settles on, which makes no sense to Murphy. He looks to Harper for explanation, but she shrugs, just as lost.

Bellamy starts swaying dangerously in place, and Harper pushes him forward to sit on one of the many chairs in Medical. When he moves his hand back down to his side, Murphy can spot blood on it.

“Let’s just look you over, anyways,” Harper tells him, gently. Bellamy flaps a hand at her as if to brush her off, and Harper just narrowly dodges it. “Echo said she thinks his brain is loose.”

Murphy looks at her sharply. Whatever that means, he certainly isn’t prepared to deal with it.

Harper laughs a bit, though it fails to fully bury her obvious concern. She gnaws at her lip as she looks back down at Bellamy. He’s leaned forward over his knees, face buried in his hands, eyes squeezed tight. She rubs a hand gently over his shoulder. “I think she means concussion. She probably doesn’t know the English for it.”

“Oh.” Murphy’s heard the word before, though he doesn’t know much about them. What he does know is how to deal with a bleeding wound, though, so he focuses on that, grabbing the last of their clean rags and moving to look at the back of Bellamy’s bowed head. It’s easy to see the blood; it clumps his curls together, turning the hair even darker than normal. He pushes the rag against the wound. Bellamy flinches and tries to push him off.

Murphy bats his hands away. “I’m trying to help you. Calm down,” he says testily.

“I’m fine,” Bellamy insists. “Get off.”

“You’re bleeding,” Harper tells him gently.

Bellamy blinks in confusion at her, then tries to prod at the back of his head again. “Oh.”

Murphy rolls his eyes and pushes his wandering hand away. Then he motions Harper over. “Here, hold this.” When she takes his spot holding the rag to Bellamy’s head, he moves to fill up a small container with water and grabs the last of their alcohol, along with the sewing kit Bellamy found for Echo, just in case. He moves with certainty through Medical this time, familiar with the steps to this now.

“How’d you know I was here?” he asks.

“Echo seems convinced you’re our healer. She figured you’d be here.”

There’s that word again. When Murphy looks over at her, Harper is staring straight at him, expression shrewd and judging. Bellamy is, too, he supposes – or he’s trying, at least, but his gaze goes a little high of Murphy’s shoulder.

Murphy stares back at Harper.

They wouldn’t float a doctor, he thinks again.

He makes a decision.

“I am.”

“Since when?” Harper demands.

“Since I decided we need one if we don’t want to all die. Since our last one -” He cuts himself off, glancing down at Bellamy. He’s not sure if the other man is even aware they’re in the room with him, let alone if he’s following the conversation, but he’s not sure he wants to risk it. Bellamy hits harder than Monty. He looks back to Harper and shrugs his shoulders. “You know.”

Harper’s lips drawn into a thin line. “Died, you mean?”

Murphy shrugs. He’s not going to beat around the bush like it isn’t true. “Yeah.” Harper’s face sours. “What? It’s true.”

“Who died?” Bellamy asks suddenly, blinking at them.

Murphy and Harper fall silent, glancing at Bellamy and then back to each other. Harper’s eyes dare him to say Clarke’s name.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says instead, taking the rag from Harper. “I’m sure you’ll remember tomorrow.” Harper makes a derisive noise, but he ignores her and focuses instead on rinsing the rag out. The water turns bright red, but there’s less blood than he expected, which seems like a good sign.

When he cleans the blood off Bellamy’s head, the wound is smaller than expected too. There’s a decently-sized bump that he’s sure will bruise something fierce, but he doesn’t think he has to waste any thread on stitching it up. He does sacrifice about half of their remaining alcohol to rinse it, though, just in case. Bellamy, as expected, jerks at the sting and tries to move away from him, but Harper helps hold him in place.

Murphy wonders if he even really knows where he is or what’s happening. His gaze won’t seem to focus on either of them, often bouncing off their shoulders and landing on open air instead.

Harper gently taps his shoulder. “How do you feel?”

It takes longer than it should for Bellamy to process the question. He stares at her in silence for an uncomfortably long time, before finally saying, “My head hurts.”

Murphy snorts. “Yeah, I’d imagine.” That seems to be beyond Bellamy’s comprehension right now; he doesn’t respond.

“Do you know anything about being a doctor?” Harper demands. “You can’t just decide you are one.”

“Obviously,” he shoots back, then holds up the tablet. “I’ve been studying.”

“Studying what?”

He’s suddenly wary of giving too much away, in case someone else decides they could do a better job than him. “Files and articles and stuff. There’s all sorts of information in here from the Ark doctors.”

“Oh.” She falls silent.

Murphy looks up at her. “Oh?” he asks defensively. “What’s ‘oh’ mean?”

“I’m just surprised. That’s...smart.”

“I know - beauty and brains. How’d I end up so blessed?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Harper’s face, but she wrestles it back down.

Murphy pulls up the search feature on the tablet, then hesitates, suddenly very aware of two facts: Harper is watching him closely, and he doesn’t know how to spell concussion. A blush starts to creep up his neck.

He takes a wild stab in the dark and waits for the results to come up. Nothing does. When he chances a glance at Harper, her sharp eyes drill into him. Bellamy’s got his face buried in his hands again, oblivious to everything but his aching head.

Murphy steels himself for the coming laughter. “How do you spell concussion?”

“Oh,” Harper says, surprised. Then she frowns. “I’m not sure. Um, try c-o-n-c-u-s-h-i-o-n.”

He feels a rush of relief as he follows her suggestion. But still, nothing comes up.

“That wasn’t it.”

Harper glances down at Bellamy, then comes to stand by Murphy looking down at the tablet. “Try c-o-n-c-u-s-i-o-n.”

He does. Still nothing.

“Um.” Harper looks lost. It’s reassuring. “Two s’s?”

Several files and reports fill the screen. Quickly, he identifies the style of entry he’s come to recognize as a general overview and clicks on it - and when he sees the massive block of flickering, jumbled letters greeting him, it suddenly hits him that he’s going to have to try to make sense of the words while Harper’s reading over his shoulder, no doubt three times as fast as he will.

He feels hot; the blush creeps higher up his neck.

Harper’s eyes are running left and right across the page, devouring the information at a speed he could only dream of, and he feels sick with jealousy and embarrassment. Trying to save face, he studies the first line, slowly making his way through it.

“I think Echo was right,” Harper says, glancing back at Bellamy. “You should look at what it says to do.”

“Yeah,” Murphy says slowly, hands clenching tighter on the tablet, trying frantically to identify the right words.

He goes too long without reacting. Harper notices. Murphy wants to melt into the floor when he feels her eyes on him. When he dares to look back at her, she’s staring at him intently. “You checking me out, McIntyre? I know it’s a good view, but I’m spoken for.”

“Murphy,” she starts, then stops. She works the question in her mouth a moment, hesitant, then blurts out, “Can you read?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Of course I can read.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Well, maybe you need to get your eyes checked.” He scrolls down the page blindly. The pressure of having Harper hovering over his shoulder is making everything worse; he can’t focus.

“Why do you have to be such a dick all the time? I’m just asking.”

“No, you’re implying I’m an idiot. I’m not the only dick in the room.”

“It’s loud,” Bellamy groans, interrupting them.

“Sorry,” Harper tells him, dropping her voice to a whisper. He doesn’t respond.

“I can read,” Murphy insists, desperate to explain. “The words just get all fucked up.”

“What do you mean?” There isn’t any judgement in her tone. Just curiosity. It makes it easier to answer.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “They just move around a lot. Makes it hard to read. It’s a thing. My dad had it too.”

“My dad had an autoimmune disorder,” Harper says quickly. “The doctors thought I’ll have it too. I didn’t get a place in the bunker because of it.”

“Shit, that sucks,” he says, because he can’t think of anything better to say to that.

Harper shrugs. Her smile is brittle. “Yeah. Guess I wasn’t healthy enough to save.”

“I didn’t get a spot either, if that helps.”

Harper snorts a laugh. “Guess that’s why we’re all here.”

“Guess so.”

She looks down at the tablet again. “So the letters just move around?”

“Yeah. It’s called dyslexia. Makes reading fucking hard.”

Harper hesitates. “I can read it aloud. If you want.”

It would make things easier, but it sounds humiliating. “Are you trying to steal my job, McIntyre?”

“No way. I heard about how you stitched up Echo’s arm. I don’t want to do anything like that.”

He thinks about it. For almost the entire time they’ve been back in space, Harper has looked at him with judgement and contempt. But now, shockingly, both are absent. There’s only sincerity - and something like understanding.

He hands the tablet over. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Harper smiles. “You’re welcome.”

--

Turns out the treatment for a concussion is just a lot of waiting. 24 hours of observation, the tablet tells him, which is way longer than he wants to spend stuck in a room with Bellamy, but he’s determined to prove himself as a doctor after his earlier failure.

Harper sticks around for a while. Apparently, there isn’t much for her to do in the algae farm now either - not while they’re waiting for a miracle, at least. She offers to read several other files aloud too, and after a bunch of annoying pestering, Murphy relents. It is kind of humiliating, but it also does make the process of working through the nearly-incomprehensible files much easier.

She shocks him by scrolling through the list to find the most disgusting entries and reading aloud the worst parts just to watch him squirm. He doesn’t even realize her intention until he notices her grin as she reads aloud a description of scurvy in vivid detail. Turns out Harper’s more of an asshole than he thought. It’s kind of great.

Eventually, though, she leaves, and it’s just Bellamy and Murphy alone. Bellamy keeps drifting in and out of sleep, never staying out for more than five minutes. Usually he wakes up with a random question or half a thought that is absolute nonsense. Usually, Murphy just ignores him.

When Bellamy wakes up this time, though, he looks around as if to orient himself, eying the walls and landmarks to identify the room. Then he stares at Murphy for a long time, the gears in his brain clearly turning through his sluggish thoughts. His gaze is a little more focused than it has been before, though it still lands just slightly to Murphy’s left and flickers back and forth between the real Murphy and the space beside him.

“The grounders killed him,” he says without preamble. Murphy brushes it off as more of the same nonsensical muttering he’s been doing for the past few hours when he adds, “John.”

That grabs his attention. Bellamy has never once called him by his name.

“Mbege,” Bellamy clarifies.

Oh.

Murphy grunts, shaking off the shock. “Yeah, I figured.”

“The trees,” Bellamy says. “I couldn’t - so many of them. There were - “ He trails off, his gaze drifting straight through Murphy and staring at something that isn’t there. This time, he’s not sure it’s just the concussion. “And Roma.”

Panic starts a slow creep across his skin; he doesn’t know what he would do if Bellamy actually starts crying, and he seems poised to, his eyes blinking furiously against whatever emotions are brewing within him. There’s a shine to his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Murphy blurts out quickly. “You did the best you could.” It burns his throat coming out. It feels like a lie – it is a lie. Because Bellamy hadn’t. Not at first. Not when Murphy was there. And maybe nothing changed when he left. For all he knows, public hangings became the delinquent's version of floating. Who else got the short end of the stick when Bellamy was in change?

Looking back on those first few days on the ground, it’s easy to see just how stupid Bellamy and his little faction had been – himself included. They hadn’t been at all prepared for survival on Earth. They hadn’t even done much to survive, except maybe catch a few animals to eat. Bellamy hadn’t cared about collecting water or storing food – not until someone else mentioned it. Wells first. Clarke at times. Bellamy hadn’t even worried about building a real camp until the grounders had appeared.

Bellamy had been more focused on giving the delinquents what they wanted than leading them like he should have, the only adult amongst a bunch of – fuck, they’d just been a bunch of stupid kids.

“He came with us,” Bellamy continues, words coming slowly. “To save Octavia.” His mouth gets tripped up over his sister’s name, stumbles over the consonants. Then he pauses, jerked out of his own daydream. He looks wide-eyed at Murphy. “Is she here?”

“What?” Murphy asks, baffled. “No. Why would she be?”

“Is she in the floor?” Bellamy asks seriously, and then, sure enough, looks down to study the floor below him and nearly tips right out of his seat.

Murphy catches him and pushes him upright. “No, she’s not in the floor, you dumbass. She’s on Earth. And we were talking about Mbege,” he reminds him.

Bellamy blinks slowly, processing the name. “It was my fault,” he says finally. The words linger in the air. Murphy’s temper rises like a fever across his skin.  

“You’re fucking right it was,” he bites out, and Bellamy blinks up at him with wide, shocked eyes, like he thought Murphy was going to reassure him instead. No, fuck that. It’s about time Bellamy owns up for the shit he does same as everyone else, and Murphy certainly isn’t going to pat him on the back and tell him that letting him hang or letting Mbege march off to his death was okay.

“You made shitty decisions and got people killed,” he growls. The scar on his throat throbs with an old ache. If he ran his fingers across It, he could still feel the slightly rough skin left behind. “We thought you knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” Bellamy whispers, so soft that Murphy nearly misses it in his anger.

“We listened to you,” Murphy says, “And you screwed us, Blake.”

His eyes sting. His lungs burn. He doesn’t think he’s talking about Mbege anymore.

Bellamy stares up and him. He blinks. “I’m sorry.”

It’s sincere, even if it’s confused. Murphy’s not quite sure Bellamy even knows what he’s apologizing for, let alone if he’ll even remember this tomorrow. Still, the words are comforting; they soothe some of the ache, and it’s such a relief that he can’t even hold onto his anger. The anger is exhausting; his body doesn’t have the strength for it anymore.

If Bellamy was actually coherent, he might have asked whether they were good now. Murphy thinks he might have stolen his response from Monty. I’m on the fence about it.

But maybe he’s hovering slightly towards the side of forgiveness. Just maybe.

[stand-of-fish]

Just a Taste

A/N: I honestly hope I finish this. Should be 3 or 4 chapters in total, maybe less. I don’t know too much about African culture and how it all works at this time of the year but it’s just me incorporating vague themes for a fic. So hope I’m not stepping on toes or anything like that with this fic.

Summary: You get to meet King T’Challa who seemed to be a big fan of America’s Halloween. Especially Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Funnily enough, you dressed as ripe little Mina for the taking.

Tags: Blood and Blood Sucking, Instant Attraction, Biting(vicious and otherwise)

Warnings: 18+, Death

For my sisters and aunties out there needing black fantasy and fiction for us and by us. All my love. Definitely not nervous about this. Not nervous at all lol.

1.7K+ words

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T’Challa wondered what was going on with himself as he stood in front of the full body-length mirror. He had been sweating heavily as a blast of pure, hot hunger, which hit him an hour ago raged on. He attempted for the third time to stretch the arms of his dashiki inspired blazer, which clung tight to his arms and showed off thick muscles with no success.

Being uncomfortable and hungry was just not on the agenda of the King’s tonight.

He gave up with a shake of his head and thanked Bast that he was able to blot away the unwanted moisture on his forehead and neck after a few minutes of meticulous drying, making sure that he got every spot. The towel, barely dampened was handed off to him per his request by a server who could not keep her eyes off of him. Her eyes, unnaturally predatory- roamed his body before taking her time to leave. He shivered and smiled graciously, if not uncomfortably at her before thanking and sending her away. After all, it paid to be polite even in the face of possibly compromising situations.

He was supposed to be the predator after all. But that one. He’d have to watch out for her as he filed away her face for later use so he could avoid her.

Not wanting to deal with her lust or anyone else’s adding fuel to the fire, or even bringing about the monstrous side of himself too early into the night before getting a chance to enjoy the celebration- he barred entry of his rooms to everyone but the Dora Milaje. He wasn’t impulsive or dangerous. Just grumpy and even more hungrier than before.

Thinking about the meal he leisurely enjoyed not even 24 hours ago. He was under the assumption that he could make it through the day with no hindrances such as this. He always fed a full day before events and meetings because it was never good to deal with stress on a full stomach, especially for him. Vampires rejecting blood because of their bodies stress factors never bode well for any one vampire. They either sweat it out or vomited point blank unless they could quickly find a bathroom. Otherwise, the room wouldlook like a scene from the original Carrie film as she went on a vengeful, murderous rage. It didn’t help that his fangs, now that he thought about it, slid out so quickly from their hidden spaces in his gums which made him groan in bliss- the sweet pressure being lifted from his head.

With everyone on his team throwing their all into a Wakandan inspired Halloween party after Shuri had told him and their mother about it 6 years ago. She made sure to show him holo-vids, photos and even planned invites to other celebrations accordingly. T’Challa could not deny being a bit jealous himself that his sister had been able to enjoy those parties while he’d had to stay back and deal with diplomatic and international affairs.

He. Was. Hooked.

They’d made it tradition to host a festival or party every year after that moment. The small Panther Clan had come to love every bit of the holiday with its spooky decorations, costumes, candies and traditions behind it. Especially the pumpkin-carving.

It was so easy to try to incorporate things from their culture into it and create a mix by tracing traditional clan and tribal masks into the largest of pumpkins and painted with family colors by elders and children. The last bits which were the preferable Kimoyo bead lamplight that switched on and off with a snap of the fingers and levitated, gave off no heat. They made the decorative plant-based ornaments shine like no other.

Seeing his people in Wakanda and America coming together to just enjoy themselves this way always made him happy. He was surprised and awed at seeing his and his sister’s ideas, really her work firsthand. It made for integration with home bases go smoother than anything else they’d ever done. Schooling and better job opportunities for their brothers and sisters and their children, a close second. They were the number one priority by all means to build trust and support; but having the funds and proper locations for safety, security and functionality was always preferable.

Halloween had made him hungrier than any other time of the year for whatever reason. He once briefly considered it being what the Americans called it- the Harvest Moon, which could’ve been a possibility that aided in affecting him but quickly brushed it away. He wasn’t superstitious but he did have sets of religious and magical practices that he followed within his own culture.

He was ever curious about mortals who would dress up as supernatural creatures and parade around as if they were nothing more than masks, stories. They were very brave to parade around as creatures they didn’t know existed beside them, truly roamed the world. It was for one night anyway so why bother?

Giving himself a cursory once over and sniff before nodding in confirmation that he was ready to go down to the party as soon as he was notified of the last guest arriving.

Okoye approached the doorway of T'Challa's open wardrobe hesitantly. “My King- Are you alright?” She asked after some time, frowning. She stepped further into the room and noticed that her King was silently brooding. His was a little paler than usual, almost like a ashy tone took ahold.

He looked to be in the beginning stages of his hunger.

It didn't feel right. She escorted the numerous donors to and from his personal quarters herself and assumed him to be adequately satisfied after he signaled he was done for the night just the other day. She immediately stepped forward and offered up her wrist.

She inquired again, but softly this time sympathetically. “My King?”

Snapping out of his almost trance, he looked at her and politely declined. Covering his mouth, he muffled out, “I should be fine Okoye. I still do have blood in the cooler.” He motioned to the compact fridge with a clear door with his free hand. Three drawers stacked on top of the other holding bags of cold blood that would be quick and somewhat filling until he could get his next warm meal.

Okoye waited a moment for any change. T'Challa's eyes crinkled in delight and appreciation at her thoughts of him as she tapped the bottom of her spear on the floor before excusing herself.

This was one of those moments where he needed a little time to get his thoughts together.

One hour later~

T’Challa sighed and snatched a packet of Universal blood out of the cooler and snarled before biting into it. Careful not to make a mess of his outfit for tonight, he sucked the thick, cold blood down quickly and greedily. Once the plastic crinkled with emptiness in his hands, he threw the empty packet into the trash with precision from his chair. A booming voice as soon as it made it into the basket came from nowhere. “A perfect 3 points brother! Are you ready for the party? Everyone is accounted for and gathering into the main room.”

Shuri walked over to her brother and began brushing off invisible dust from the shoulder of his blazer and handed him a hat which perfectly added to his look.

“You look good brother!”

“So do you sister.” He glanced curiously at her well put together cosplay of a character from a show she called Cannon Busters. S. A. M. as he recalled. From a ‘fire anime’ as her and her American friends mentioned.

T’Challa stood and grinned down at his sister before hugging her tight. Thinking about the not so recent fight slash inner country war that happened with Erik and traitors from their country who believed violence was the answer. It wasn’t as if T’Challa was blind to his people’s plight outside of Wakanda. He just didn’t know what to do or how to react to it all, admitting that he was foolish not to take a stand for what was right. It took for a near death ass-beating, a spirit talk with his Baba and some serious soul searching to truly realize how beneficial it would be to reach out with resources his people needed. Their people everywhere regardless of who liked it or not.

Shuri snatched back, yanking T’Challa out of his musings and patted his shoulders once more.

“Well I think that’s enough of that brother.” A knowing and sad smile ghosted her face as she dragged him from his wardrobe and room. “Come, we must see everyone and their ideas for this year. You might even get new features on your suit brother!”

“A tease sister, the suit is fine as it is so nothing funny this time. I'm onto you.” He linked his arm through Shuri’s and dutifully followed where she lead.

With a soft shlik, his fangs pulled back into their homes. The move reminding him of how his hunger was abated for now but he would still have to be careful around the guests so that there wasn’t any unexpected feats or surprises.

A comfortable pause fell over the Udaku siblings on the short journey to the downstairs wing where guests waited.

“Shuri… Do you ever find yourself hungrier during this time of the year?”

Watching her face for any similar symptoms, Shuri shook her head no.

“Maybe it is just you brother. There are more people than last year’s celebration showing up so it may be just your hunger. Excitement maybe. Is that why you had an emergency blood packet?”

He nodded after a pregnant pause, noting that since he had become the Panther, he’d grown thirstier than he generally was. Never taking more than 1-2 liters of blood from designated donors who lived near the house he currently owned and resided in.

Maybe this was another effect of him being stronger, faster, smarter after being brought back to life. He needed to compensate for the changes in his body and mind.

“Well, let us get to this party before we are late and Mother kills us both.” Excitement in his tone as they grew closer to the music seeping out double doors ahead.

“Agreed brother.” Shuri nodded and sped up toward the main hall where four Dora were standing guard, doors open to guests piling in from the foyer still.

With a nod, they acknowledged their King and Princess, who adjusted her wig before hooting and running into the crowd, joining her friends.

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

Cannon Busters is a pretty great anime that was recently released on Netflix. Everybody black was in on it so I had to go and represent by watching. I did my best so I hope ya’ll enjoy it.

Tags: @thehomierobbstark @twinclaws @thorsthot @killmoncoochie

[imagines-oneshots-blog]

The Boys in Blue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

 Chapter 3: Sturdy Wooden Desks, Longing Looks, and The Weight of Things                                                          Left Unsaid

If you were being honest with yourself, you’d admit that you were loitering.

As soon as the clock had hit five Flo had been up and getting ready to leave, packing her gaudy faux leather purse with a gusto you only saw from her at times like this, when the day had dwindled down to it’s dregs and the bullpen was so empty that it seemed you could hear a pin drop. Callahan and Powell had been gone since late afternoon, so that just left the Chief in his office with the door closed, a barrier more hewn out of steel and something like circumvention instead of Indiana pine, you feeling about a million miles away from him on the other side of the aperture, and Flo, who was busy booking it. While the older woman hurriedly prepared for her hasty exit, throwing last minute instructions about how to handle various Hawkins citizens your way, you lingered and reorganized some stray files at your small desk to look busy, wanting to try and catch Hopper before he huffed with his customary grump out of the station, leaving you once more with your unspoken words and your heart planted firmly in your throat.

"And if Mrs. Damers calls again about her damn flower beds, just hang up on her. No one cares about her plants.” Flo was busy explaining as she slung her burgeoning bag over her shoulder in a few sharp, angry movements that perfectly mirrored her caustic tone.

"Flo!" you exclaimed, resting a hand on the swell of your skirt clad hip to compensate for the smile beginning to curl around your lips, the older woman's blatant disregard for the endlessly disgruntled residents of Hawkins making a strange kind of fondness erupt in your chest.

Flo just passed an apathetic shrug your way as she breezed out of the bullpen, waving goodbye to you over her satin and corduroy bedecked shoulder once she reached the wide double doors to the station. You chuckled softly as you watched the aperture swing shut behind her, grateful for the brief distraction that her amusing exit had provided you. Once alone in the seemingly endless, cavernous office space, however, your worries suddenly seemed crushing as they settled about your shoulders, bit at your heels.

And the foremost among the whetted, tangled mass of them was Hopper.

It seemed that your relationship with the Hawkins Police Chief was currently suffering from a condition disdainfully coined by the numerous other women he'd had flirtations with; something known colloquially, and with no measure of fondness, as the Hopper Effect.

Symptoms included limited contact with the Chief, ranging from unanswered phone messages or evaded conversations and a general feeling of unfinished business to an unrequited desire for something more, usually on the sufferers part. In your case, you could add weeks full of longing tinged looks exchanged between you and the Chief to that running list.

Actually, those fierce aching looks exchanged across an ocean of dingy linoleum tile and polyester blend carpet were the only things currently keeping you in your job at the station despite countless weeks worth of awkward bumbling kitchen encounters and embarrassingly short interactions in dim hallways. Just today as you’d poured yourself a mug of coffee and adjusted the plunging neckline of the new blouse that you wore you’d felt a strange heat prickling down the back of your neck and glanced up across the station to find yourself firmly trapped in the dark, churning blue of Hopper’s gaze, fixed on you where he was leaning against Powell’s desk, getting briefed on some new minor Hawkin’s catastrophe or other.

Your lips had parted in shock at the obvious hunger banked in the Chief’s gaze as it settled unexpectedly on you, at the naked, throbbing want laid bare in the storming tempest barely contained above his cheekbones and for the space of a few marvelous heart beats you were sure that he’d toss aside the boring manila folder clutched between his thick fingers, cross the sparse length of the bullpen in a few powerful strides, take you in his brawny arms and slant his hot, hungry mouth over yours.

The sharp clack of Flo’s heels as she’d strode into the room, all jaded bluster and stalwart intent, had broken you sharply from whatever it was that had begun sizzling across the bullpen between you and Hopper, and you couldn’t quite stem your frown as she abruptly plopped a stack of files that were to serve as your blessed distraction from any Hopper tinged thoughts until late afternoon right into your reluctant arms.

Sometimes you thought that it was better this way, with your heated memories of huge calloused hands curling around shaking thighs, of a ragged slip of beard rasping against your sensitive flesh, of eyes like storm churned ocean waves meeting yours while your body bowed, shuddered with unimaginable pleasure, locked safely away where they couldn’t spring vibrantly into the harsh fluorescents of the station or the dim sunlight of the Chief’s office. But then you’d share one of those heated, intense, goddamn looks again and you’d deprecatingly welcome the sizzling heat that splintered down your spine, the fierce longing that bloomed low between your hips, and you’d wonder if maybe today you’d pluck up the courage to say something.

So far you hadn’t quite been able to, but something was different this afternoon; something was virile and alive, sparking with a distinct ripple vaguely reminiscent of the taste in the air that blissful night a lifetime ago when you’d finally known the feel of Hopper’s hulking form pressed against yours, when you’d reveled in the gravel of his pleas and the blissful, fervent slip of his hands against your heated skin.

That was the thing about living in such a small town; things happened slowly. But somehow you knew that tonight everything would change. Tonight you and Hopper would finally talk.

And you weren’t quite sure if you’d be pleased or devastated by the outcome.

Hopper wasn’t particularly good at compartmentalization.

Which was a damn shame, cause there was so much shit he would have loved to never think of again. Shit like the first time he’d seen combat in Vietman, back when he was as green as goddamn springtime and more than a little wet behind the ears. Those memories of red and heat andjungle still made their occasional appearance in his nightmares.

Shit like more recently when he and Joyce had made their way through darkness and desolation to find her son, both trying valiantly not to think too hard about the fact that these were the familiar shapes and sights of home. That this scorched, hellish landscape thrumming with alien life, with sinister purpose they could feel chattering in their teeth, burrowing into the hammering of their hearts, was coiled right beneath the rippling flesh of their safe known world, their Hawkins.

Or like the time that his girl, his Sara, had slipped away, the doctors beating fervently at her skeletal chest, her limbs white and painfully thin beneath the papery sheets of the hospital bed, those crystal blue eyes, her mother’s eyes, closing and never opening again. That one had a particular sting to it, like a phantom limb or a branding scar; necrotic flesh and dead neurons tingling in some vain attempt to feel something that wasn’t pain.

No, Hopper wasn’t particularly good at compartmentalization, though he wished he was.

He made both physical and mental boxes where that shit was supposed to stay hidden far from his collective conscious, but sometimes they found a way to escape; a crack in the stalwart steel of his mind, a sinew of weakness in his faltering resolve.

Cigarettes helped keep them at bay. Booze helped more.

And now, after letting Eleven know he’d be home late, as he poured over more reports of dying crops on the outskirts of Hawkins, having exhausted his last pack of Camel’s and without access to any booze, he felt strangely defenseless, vulnerable almost, and that just pissed him off more. The shambly filing system within his head was collapsing, and Hopper felt each box tumble open with a keen, sharp kind of ache that nearly brought him to his knees.

That was until a relatively new box, one not quite so tattered at the corners or covered in duct tape, one that reminded him of dive bars and beer and a smile so warm it made his ears ring like he’d just been boxed square in the jaw, spilled open. It brought with it memories of your laughter ringing like the toll of an Easter Sunday church bell and your small determined hand sliding further up his thigh, igniting a fire that simmered wildly beneath his skin, caught in his throat and had his lips forming the syllables of your name, of your back bowing like a plea beneath his touch, of his fingers slipping hungrily down the notches of your spine, curling around your eager thighs.

That box had a more poignant ache than he’d remembered, or maybe it was just freshest in his mind, he wasn’t quite sure, but he also couldn’t seem to seal it back up again. He rasped in a deep breath as those memories washed over him, and he was almost grateful that he could still remember the details of you with such stunning clarity. He’d hadn’t quite gotten used to keeping his distance from you, to struggling to catch even the faintest whiff of your lilting feminine perfume as you breezed past him in the hallway, to having your interactions limited to searing looks shared once every few hours and the sharp whisper of memory stinging against his weary temples.

Hopper was no stranger to meaningless sex, he’d had his fair share of it in Hawkins, but what he was a stranger to was intense, gratingly intimate, fun sex. The kind that he’d had with you.

Read the rest of the fic here!

Tags!

Hello! I hope this little (6k + words long) slice of Hopper fic can start your Monday off right :)

@jobean12-blog

@raspberrymama

@darthnerd25

To the newer tagged blogs below, welcome and thank you for your kind words on pervious chapters! I can’t wait for you to read this new installment!

@dorned

@lauuerodz

@kiwiphroot

@beltzboys2015-blog

@nerdysuperchick

[gilliansanderson]

If Ever There Is Tomorrow; Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry this took forever, I had to physically beat the words out of the muses mouth for this, I tell you. Next one should be up quicker I swear. Anyway, tagging @fictober and @today-in-fic

[Chapter 1] [AO3]

2. Where The Wild Things Are

Fall 1971

The once green leaves have fallen and turned to rust. They rustle softly in the breeze, accompanying a symphony of cicadas as they mourn the end of summer. Mulder is ten years old today, and in typical Mulder fashion, had decided the only just way to celebrate hitting double digits was a trip to the gloomy forest. Dusk seeps in like the tide; Home-time has long since passed, but Mulder has a flashlight and a story to tell.

“Once,” he begins, voice dramatically hushed. Perched on the rotting trunk of a fallen tree, his young audience leans in, eager to catch his words. “In these very woods, lived a very old, very bad man. He lived in the very tops of the trees and from up there he could the whole world. He lived on rats and owls and, occasionally, lost little girls,”

The mid-October wind picks up forcefully, a chilling wail punctuating his words, the small group shivers and huddles ever closer. “One day there was this girl, she was nearly seven years old and had long brown hair, her parents were worried, because she went away one night and never came home, so they went looking in these woods all night, but when they finally found her she was dead, in a nest of bones on the top of the highest tree and the man had chewed her face right off…”

“Stop it, Fox! You’re scaring Samantha,”

Samantha had grown visibly pale. Scully, snapped out of her trance, puts a comforting arm around her, “Don’t worry,” she whispers in the other girl’s ear, “It’s only pretend,”

Mulder’s inner circle consisted of his sister, his best friend, and his best friend’s sister, who though quite fond of Mulder was even fonder of Samantha, with her braid-able hair and a mutual love for Barbie dolls which Dana, despite her greatest efforts, had never come to share. So it comes as no surprise when Melissa jumps to her defence.

“I think I’ll take her home, Danes,” she tells them, rising to her feet and dusting off her floral skirt.

“Aw, c’mon Missy, don’t be a killjoy,” Scully groans, but Samantha stands and throws her an apologetic smile, “It’s okay Dana, I’m kinda tired anyway,”

“Don’t stay out too late or mom will freak,” Melissa says with the proud authority only an older sibling could possess, before tugging the younger girl gently behind her, until the warm glow of her lantern fades into the distance and plunges the forest into black once again.

“Well, what do we do now?” Scully huffs. “Have I told you the one about the Jersey Devil, Scully?”

She rolls her eyes towards the moon. “Only like a billion times,”

“How about hide and seek?” he concedes, “Or are you afraid of the bad man too?”

They glance up at the twisted treetops concealing the glittering night, no monster in sight. “I’ll play with you, Mulder,” Scully smirks and quickly turns, “But you have to find me first!” she calls behind her as she darts off through the trees.

Mulder shuts his eyes and counts to ten.

Fall 1978

Dana hovers nervously on the fringe of the cafeteria, a plastic tray filled with questionable mac and cheese and neon green Jell-O held in an iron grip, for which she is quickly losing her appetite. This is the part she despises. catching people’s eyes, pretending to be interested, to be interesting, trying in vain to explain where she came from; everywhere and nowhere. She hates feigning a confidence which she so desperately lacked.

Dana’s tendency to overthink was new and overpowering. Somewhere along the way, in some school locker room or some sleepover where she was just a pity invite, she had lost the invulnerability of childhood, and let insecurity seep under her skin with every whisper and sideways glance, at every failed attempt to infiltrate friendships which had already been forged in the fires of early adolescence.

Her code-breaking docs squeak on the linoleum floor, she is painfully aware that she’s beginning to attract attention. She feels too small and too large all at once, somehow taking up too much space, yet not nearly enough.

That’s when she feels the hand on her back.

“Scully,” he all but whispers, “Can we talk?”

She trips over air as she recoils. Macaroni becomes airborne, half the room turns to stare. Dana’s face matches the ketchup splattered on the floor. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” She seethes. She had been avoiding him like the plague since she ran out of the principal’s office, thinking she’d be doing them both a favor by avoiding confrontation.

“Scully, I’m sorry, I just…” Mulder stammers, his gaze intense, mournful, nervous. What right did he have to be nervous? Anger overrides anxiety as years of dormant resentment bubbles to the surface and erupts like a volcano.

“Don’t call me that. You have no right to call me that, you can’t talk to me as if you know me, like we’re still friends. Friends write, Mulder! Friends talk to each other, friends acknowledge each other’s existence! I don’t care what you have to say, it’s too late for this, Mulder, I don’t want to talk to you or Samantha or anyone…”

She’s cut off by someone grabbing her wrist, pulling her roughly away from Mulder’s wounded expression, from the hundreds of eyes trained on the scene before them and into the girl’s dingy bathroom.

“Missy, I was handling it,”

“You weren’t handling shit, Dana. Fuck.” Her sister curses as she bolts the door and cracks open the window. “Why did you have to go and make a scene? It’s been hard enough on him already,”

Dana catches sight of herself in the mirror and quickly looks away. She already hates her features, they’re worse when twisted with rage. “Hard enough on him? What the fuck, Missy, who’s side are you on?”

Melissa sighs and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, putting one shakily to her mouth, “I knew I should have just told you,”

Dana is momentarily stunned. Her mom had made them promise that they would never smoke when her grandfather passed away, after years of sucking on cigars turned his blackened lungs to ash. She’d already broken that promise several times, but she hadn’t thought that her sister ever would, and for some reason, this fills her with unease.

“Told me what?” Her fingers fumble to strike the match, but she finally sparks a flame. After a long moment of silence, she speaks. “Dad made me swear not to tell you” Smoke billows from her lips, curling and dancing under the fluorescent light, poisoning the air with her poison words. “Samantha was taken, Dana. She was kidnapped, I guess, a few months after we left Massachusetts,”

The walls constrict and the world turns on its side. All Dana could focus on was the tears trailing down her sister’s cheeks, leaving track marks in her rouge, as the things she was telling her registered in her brain. “I guess they thought… How do you even explain that shit to an eight-year-old? What if we had stayed a bit longer? you practically lived there and…”

Dana remembers how to breathe around the same time she remembers how to speak. Oxygen feels like fire in her lungs, her fury burns in her throat. “And what?” she rasps, “What? you think it could have been me?”

“Dana, don’t…” her sister pleads.

“How could you even think to keep something like that from me? She was my friend too, Missy. Mulder was my friend and…”

Mulder. Shit.

Dana bursts out of the bathroom, throughout the crowded dining hall, conversations stall. Mulder is already gone.

Fall 1993

As a child, Scully had a recurring dream of being stuck in a museum overnight, the exhibits would come alive and start to speak. The Smithsonian at this moment was dead, as she stares at the Neanderthals behind the darkened glass, Darwin’s apes learning to walk, she wonders what they would say.

Nature had never come naturally to her. While it felt like practically all her friends were getting married, getting pregnant, getting mortgages, all she was getting was older. And then there’s Mulder.

She feels his lingering presence long before his reflection appears the glass.

“You always did have a knack for running away,” his voice echoes throughout the empty room, life amongst the ruins of the ancient and extinct.

“You’re one to talk, Mulder,” she bites back, feels him flinch, and immediately wants to stuff the words back in her mouth

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant,”

This was something they were still getting used to. Their dynamic was all new, yet all too familiar, a battle of wits in an instant turn into a hesitant dance. They compliment and contradict each other to the point that it was maddening. There had always been something about this man, and the boy he used to be, which sparked an insatiable curiosity, a hunger for the extraordinary, one that could never be satisfied by homily divorcees or besotted superiors to her eternal frustration.

“Are you going to let me look at that?” she softly breaks the silence, nodding to the fresh wound on Mulder’s ribs, which he was gingerly palming through his blazer.

“You just wanna see me with my shirt off,” he grunts, “You shouldn’t abuse your medical license for personal reasons, Scully,”

“It only seems fair after Bellefleur,” She allows her self a smirk

“You have some recently un-repressed memories you want to discuss?” He laughs humorlessly, their banter turning dry as it comes back to Samantha, as it would always come back to Samantha. Scully remembers listening to his regression tapes, seeing her picture in that file, how her heart hit the floor. The doe-eyed girl in a nightdress, the girl who had cried when other kids scraped their knees or stepped on ants. Scully can see the Samantha-shaped hole her absence left behind his eyes, and she can’t blame him at all. She gives up the attempt to lighten the mood and cuts to the chase.

“I know you believe she’s out there Mulder, I want to believe she’s alright too, but…“ she chooses her words carefully, “But I don’t want to see you keep getting hurt,”

The silence is deafening, she starts to think that the wax figures might break the silence before Mulder does, but then he hooks his fingers gently around hers and anchoring her gaze to his. “I just… need to find out, Scully,” he murmurs, “Even if that means doing it on my own,”

Scully studies Darwin’s early men and thinks of how far they’ve evolved, how far they still have to go. Maybe subconsciously she feels she owes it to the girl she once was or the girl she once knew, but she feels herself being drawn in deeper down the rabbit hole, drawn back to him. She takes a deep breath and squeezes his hand, answering his unspoken question.

“You won’t be alone,”

[dahlialittlejames]

@brynwrites​ inspired me with this and it snowballed from there while I moved. Here’s a thing.

Something rattled the grass, with what sounded like a gasp of fear not far behind it. The siblings startled, Ed’s arm already on Robin’s. Robin listed closer. “You heard that, right?” she asked.

Ed pressed their lips together. Their black brows narrowed. “Who’s there?” they called.

The gasp came again, and skittered further into the brush behind the fence. The two looked at each other. Robin could have sworn she’d seen a pale limb wave in the grasses. Slick but opaque, wet and mottled with needles from the lone conifer in the reserve. All the other trees were oaks or birches, leaves burnished with autumn. Made it easy to see when another limb showed through the canopy, just as pale but shaped more like the bones of a wing, curling at the tips like a fist opening and closing.

Robin held her key between her fingers but drew to the fence. Then she pocketed the key and jumped over.

“Robbie! Get back here,” Ed said. They followed, though, catching their jeans a second on the wire. They were thinking the same thing Robin was. Had to be. A grin quirked the corner of their mouth as they skid down the mud to where Robin already stood.

The air died. The fence closed in around them, like the world outside and the whirr of cars passing and geese honking had all gone black and empty, a background for a scene that hadn’t been even been sketched yet.

There was only the two siblings, and the pale thing trapezing from the canopy.

Robin’s heart faltered a moment. It had to be the birch branches rustling. Fooling her into believing any creature could move as the pale thing did, curled tips finding footholds and spooling down off one like a spider. Pointed feet met the dirt and the pale limbs retracted, wing-like appendages folded to its back and still more but shorter and bluish pinning along its head.

Inky eyes blinked at the humans. The lipless mouth opened in what seemed to be cautious relief.

The wings unfurled again. Robin drew back into Ed but the pale thing’s blue tips came down on her hairline, its eyes boring into hers. The tips clung to her, brought to mind the time she’d stuck her fingers in an anemone.

A shaky glimmer flashed over the pale thing in a ring. The bluish tips on its head arranged into something like hair, the wings fusing to arms and its stretched proportions settling to passably human. Even lips and a stubby nose and whites in their inky eyes etched into its face. The tendrils pressed to Robin didn’t retreat.

“I.” Thin and uncertain.

Robin and Ed couldn’t speak back. The pale thing put its new hands on Robin’s shoulders. “You!” it attempted. They attempted. “You! I need you!”

“Who are you?” Ed asked, hands on their sister’s shoulders as if to contest the pale thing for the real estate. The pale thing didn’t remove their hands. Their skin still glowed faintly, fresh teeth too sharp and feet too pointed. Like an axolotl ballerina with the fan of frilly tendrils still on Robin’s face.

“The mirror! My mirror.” They closed their mouth. Almost embarrassed. They tiptoed backward toward the birches, as if to shield their now empty back. “I was followed. I waited. You helped me.”

“We did what?” Robin chuckled. Grimacing a little, because did she even dare hope this was happening? She dug around her bag. She wasn’t the type to have a compact or something floating around. Still, mirrors were easy to come by.  “We can get you a mirror.”

The pale thing shook their head, tendrils curling in agitation once more. Their eyes scanned the two humans. The glimmer returned, flickered, fell away and the pale thing’s face tugged. Robin and Ed were to their side.

Hands on their face, the pale thing quivered. Their back arched. Set at the base of their spine were shards of crystal, shining but embedded deep as shrapnel.

“Oh my god,” Ed breathed. “Let us get it out.”

“No!” the pale thing shrieked. “It- it can’t come out. My only mirror. You only get one, if you’re honored. I was just honored. I had- I was-” The words choked out, hands returned to their face.

The bluish tendrils touched both humans now. A glittering tunnel, more pale things as this one had been milling about caverns of glass and stone but others fluid, encased in those glittering rings before becoming colored, thinned or thickened, altered slowly but surely until new things emerged to the joy of all.

This pale thing did the same. Pride swelled in her at the thought. Finally, all these years being so diligent, and she would be free to explore the other properties of the mirrors granted to those who earned them.

Her mirror projected out before her waiting tendrils, a shard like a jagged J. The shard spun and spun at her encouragement, other pale things looking on. Her people. Her people would be so proud of her work, for she had earned this and she would prove what they now knew. That their world was not alone.

The shard became a blinding disc. She reached a tendril into it, not hesitating a second. And the tendril came away unscathed. The mirror didn’t hurt her. The mirror led to something more.

She tinkered, building on the work of many, many others who came before her. Crafting tears, raking their mirrors down the walls of her world and this vibrant new one of color and noise. Talk circulated in the pale things’ touchy language of an expedition, a formal one and solidified beyond the hearsay of former mirror wielders.

Her work! All of this, for something she’d done! She had to be part of the expedition, it was agreed, and she glowed as she arched the whole of her shape through the shard and fell into these trees.

She and her crew jumped back and forth more and more. It was their mission.

And the tears grew. And the darkness hungered. And they were pursued, descended upon until only she arrived in this world intact. But her mirror, her shard to be spun back home, had been shattered.

She bided her time and waited. Protocol since the expedition’s foundation was based on prior claims, that these humans were warriors. They could bear the mirrors as any life could. It was encouraged to grant this power to aid her people, as the darkness assembled and would surely pour through the tear they’d carved.

“We need a champion against the darkness. Do you accept the mirror?”

Robin and Ed held to each other. Like the nights Robin had snuck into their bed, wriggled close to fend off the nightmares that would only fade with daylight or the warmth of her sibling. Or with a story. They’d stay up watching Power Rangers reruns in the wee hours, or making games, or eventually just lying together and feeling like they could guard each other from whatever monsters dared lurk in the dark.

Robin’s breaths trembled. She didn’t detach from Ed.

“Will you accept the mirror?” the pale thing repeated. “Young one, you have a hero in you. Protect your world and my people.”

Ed’s hands were gently removed. Robin was drawn into the pale thing’s grasp. Her heart thundered and a smile set her mouth. Holy shit. Was this actually happening? She was getting a magic mirror, a painful one but superpowers had to have some kind of sacrifice to them, didn’t they?

She’d have to balance school and hero life, fighting off the darkness in both worlds. She’d seen the cartoons, she’d read the comics. So the protagonists tended to buckled under the strain of the secret keeping, but they always got back up again. She didn’t even have to bear the strain so hard as they, really! She had Ed, who’d been privy to this whole origin story. She’d be fine.

“Are you kidding me?”

The pale thing blinked.

“Quick question,” Ed said. “You said she was young. You, not me. Like you know that. Who the fuck goes around giving magic maguffins to a kid?”

The pale thing’s shoulders hunched. “I have my protocol. The darkness comes for this world. Someone must take the mirror and wield it.”

Ed dug into their jacket, produced their phone from their side pocket and held it out.

“A mirror?” the pale thing asked, thin. Her fingers curled and uncurled.

“A resume. My resume’s on here. I’m just graduated and I’m between jobs. She’s still going to school, lives with our parents, and is fifteen. Fifteen. I don’t know about you world but that’s too young to be taking on that kind of burden.”

The pale thing read over the file on Ed’s phone, cupping it like a handful of water. Robin let out the breath she’d been holding, a tch of shock. “Ed, she’s an alien-”

“I want the job,” Ed told the pale thing. “I’ll take the mirror. You can’t have my sister for this.”

The pale thing looked between the two. Her hands wrung around the phone and she stumbled a little. “You are… more prepared. Protocol can’t reach me here, but… Oh. Oh, you accept?”

Ed took back their phone and inclined their head. Their hair fluffed over and they combed it with their fingers as the pale thing went clamoring up the tree. She dropped back down with as much finesse as before, a glass shard between her fingers.

The pale thing even smiled. “This is an honor. Even if it isn’t the same as our ceremony. Ed,” she said. “I pass the glass to you.” Sincerity filled those inky, pupiless eyes. “Please protect us.”

Ed reached out. The glass met their palm and fused and Ed didn’t scream as the shard burrowed into their skin. They just looked on, and so did Robin.

[honorstripped-blog]

tag drop one

[those-bulletproof-boys]

Last Words {Part 3}

Part 3/6

Published: January 22th, 2017

Word Count: 5,160

[Warning: Dark themes, Mentions of suicide, Explicit scenes, Explicit language, Suggestive Themes. Read at your own risk.]

“Namjoon-ah?”

A hand gently shook the sleeping boy’s figure, trying to pull him into the world of the awake. “We have to go to practice, Namjoon,” the voice said a bit more agitatedly.

Namjoon could feel the words going through his ears and to his brain. He could feel the sounds being processed, but couldn’t bring himself to follow the orders. His eyelids felt as if they had been glued shut through...sleep? No, that wasn’t how he’d arrived here.

Instead of words, the sounds of water began to flow their way into and through Namjoon’s ears. Muffled voices, waves lapping against his eardrum, the drip drip of a faucet in his brain. Water.

“Wake up, already, Namjoon,” Hoseok’s now recognizable voice made its way through the water to Namjoon’s auditory understanding. The sleeping boy attempted to reach up with his hands to rub his face; he couldn’t feel his arms, but was shocked by a sudden sensation of his own rough palms against his cheeks, surprised by his arms’ obedience. Slowly, after rubbing the sleep from his consciousness, Namjoon was able to open his eyes to the familiar room around him and the familiar face of the smiling boy that slept in the bunk above him.

“Finally,” Hoseok blew air out of his lips in annoyance at the length of time it had taken to awaken his roommate. “C’mon, the rest of the boys are waiting to leave and we only have one car today.” The older boy stood up and turned on his heel before walking out the door, gesturing for Namjoon to follow him over his shoulder without looking back.

Reflexively, Namjoon jumped to his feet from the time sensitivity and began scurrying around to room, following his normal regime for morning practice days and dressing in loose fitting clothing and sneakers. He barely had time to think about his recent experiences and was walking out the bedroom door with his phone in only a few minutes.

“Namjoon-hyung is finally awake! Let’s go, guys,” Jimin said as he flashed a grin at his leader. Jin walked over to Namjoon and handed him a container. Based on the heat radiating from inside, and the smell that leaked its way out of the confinement, he could tell that Jin had saved him some breakfast.

“You seemed tired last night, we didn’t want to wake you prematurely,” Jin admitted after emptying his hands of the food meant for the younger boy, “but we do need to go now, Joon, c’mon.”

Following the order of those closest to the door to those furthest from in, the group descended the steps in a line, walking from their dorm to the car waiting outside for them. Namjoon brought up the rear.

As they all piled into the car, quickly filling the 7 open seats, Namjoon stared at the food on his lap, his mind wandering.

Again. It had happened again. Was he doing something wrong? A quick glance at his phone confirmed his suspicions. Today was, in fact, June 27th, 2017, again.

His head swam from the multiple different memories of his past June 27th’s. A roof. A dorm. A bathtub. What was causing this?

Taehyung, sitting next his leader in the middle row of seats, gave the older boy his iconic impish smile before producing a pair of chopsticks. “You might want to eat before we start practicing, hyung.” He respectfully offered a pair of chopsticks to the older boy and Namjoon took them with a mumbled thank you.

The car settled into casual and familiar silence. Namjoon tried to focus his thoughts on the different flavors of the food that landed on his taste buds, in the silence. Some of them rang sweet while others pulled savory. Occasionally the nuttiness of sesame oil would cut through other flavors, changing what Namjoon thought he knew. Although they all had many opportunities to eat Jin’s food, every time it was an experience that made Namjoon grateful for his friend and his abilities concerning a kitchen.

By the time their uncomfortably full car had arrived at the studio, Namjoon’s stomach was full and the container on his lap was completely empty. Lethargically, he made his way out of the car and into their practice building, walking through the door that Jungkook held open for him.

Once in their practice room, Namjoon slumped to the ground and leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back with a sigh in contentment. Shouts and screams from outside a bathroom door or from the roof of a building suddenly began bouncing around his skull, bordering on deafening. He frantically pressed his hands against ears, trying to quiet the voices of the boys around him from days that they never experienced.

“Namjoon-hyung?” Taehyung called from across the room where he sat, pulling on his practicing shoes. Surprised at the different calling of his name, not a desperate tone; the older boy looked up at who had called his name. “Are you ok?” Taehyung asked slowly.

Namjoon blinked himself back to reality before realizing that pressing his hands to the sides of his head might have drawn attention to himself. “I–I’m ok. My head just hurt a bit.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in an attempt at smile and Taehyung nodded, but still looked wary.

“Alright, let’s start,” Hoseok called as he walked into the middle of the room. The other 6 boys followed his example and filed into their places.

“Namjoon-ie,” Hoseok called as he leaned against the wall of mirrors opposite the entrance to the practice room.

“Mhm?” Namjoon hummed in response his spot where he lay on the floor with his eyes closed and his hands resting on his lower abdomen. They’d practiced for multiple hours and  were all starving, thirsty, and exhausted.

“Would you go get lunch from the convenience store down the street?” Hoseok’s voice was barely more was a whisper as he drank from his second water bottle. A chorus of pleas sounded from the other 5 completely limp bodies around the room.

Slowly, Namjoon pushed himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes. Exhaustion was slowly taking over his body and he didn’t even want to move, but as he looked around the room at the boys scattered here and there, his gut tightened. He was the leader; these kinds of things were his responsibility.

“Yeah, sure.” Namjoon made his way to his feet, stretched his arms into the air, upwards and side to side, and yawned. “I’ll be back in 20 minutes, ok?” Sounds of excitement were heard from 6 different boys and Hoseok gave Namjoon a big grin before Namjoon waved and walked out of the door.

Namjoon’s body dragged with exhaustion as he walked down the street to the convenience store that they almost always got their snacks or lunch from. The bell chimed as he walked through the doors and threw a smile at the familiar older lady that ran the store. “Hello, Namjoon,” She called to him as he walked over to where he normally purchased their lunches.

“Hello,” He called back politely. As he wandered his way through the aisles his mind switched between thinking about the boys, back at the practice room, the other June 27th’s that he’d experienced, and what he wanted to eat for lunch. Bored, he pulled out his phone and headphones, pushed the earbuds into his ears, and clicked play.

A slow song with sad lyrics began to play as he continued walking through the store, almost floating as his feet followed instinctual dance moves. Before he knew it, tears pricked the back of his eyes and his stomach dropped because of the lyrics. Annoyed, Namjoon angrily brushed the tears away, but the feeling in his torso remained. An intense headache began as a result of suppressed tears and his throat went dry. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it and hurried to pick out the rest of the food, his arms already quite full. Out of the corner of his eye, as he picked up something that he thought Jimin would enjoy, he saw a simple looking bottle and quickly grabbed it. He might need it eventually.

The familiar store owner raised her eyebrows at the uncommon addition to Namjoon’s purchases but scanned it anyway, deciding not to question it. Namjoon’s legs and hands began shaking violently with hunger, exhaustion, and stress. With his shaking hand, he grabbed the small bag from off the counter and walked out of the store without another word.

Namjoon’s headache began to escalate as he walked on the sidewalk next to an empty road, and soon it felt as if he was being stabbed at the nape of his neck and at his forehead. He was almost at the dorm when an intense stabbing pain shot through his temple and felt as if it had reached all the way through his skull into his brain.

A shout tore itself out of his throat before he fell against the wall of the building next to the pavement that he’d been walking on. His teeth were clenched as his back arched off the wall behind him. Ragged breaths tumbled out of Namjoon’s mouth in waves.

His eyes flew open in remembrance and, with a quivering hand, he reached into the plastic bag containing 7 different meals and fumbled around until it landed on the smooth plastic container that had been added to his purchases. His other hand jittered as he tore off the plastic wrapping and pressed down on the lid of the container before twisting it impatiently. It flew off with the sudden force applied to it and landed a few feet away from Namjoon’s side.

He tried to take a deep breath and heard his own breath hitch; the pain in his head was mounting. He tried again and took his time pulling the sour street air into his nose. Slowly, his hands began to shake less. Namjoon carefully tilted the container and shook it until 2 white tablets fall onto his open hand. He closed his palm around them and carefully replaced the lid of the container.

The first tablet landed on his tongue as he threw his head back and pressed his palm to his lips. He swallowed it dry, knowing that he hadn’t bought any water, and winced at the feeling of it going down his throat. His eyes stayed shut, trying to manually numb the now familiar pain in his head. As soon as the first tablet had gone down his throat, Namjoon pulled another breath through his nose and threw the second tablet onto his tongue.

Deep breaths traveled through Namjoon’s respiratory system for multiple moments as he sat, waiting for his headache to reduce in pain. After a few minutes, he glanced at his watch, stood up, and grabbed the bag of food on the ground, a sigh leaving his mouth. He shoved the small bottle of tablets into his own sweatpants pocket before setting off to the exercise room, ignoring the dull pain that still remained in his head.

By the time that he pushed the door of their practice room open, Namjoon’s headache had begun to recede slightly. His senses were slightly dulled, but some of the pain had been relieved.

“Hyung, what took you so long?” Jimin said as he stood up quickly and walked over to take the plastic bag from Namjoon’s grip.

A fake smile flew onto the older boy’s face. “I was just a bit indecisive today, Jimin-ie. Why don’t you hand out the food and I’ll sit down?” Jimin nodded to the leader and made his way to the middle of the practice room, only to be swarmed in seconds.

Impatiently waiting for the painkillers to properly kick in, Namjoon rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers. When he opened his eyes again, 5 of the 6 boys had settled down in pairs or by themselves to eat. Hoseok was in the middle of the room, alone. Moments after he took in Hoseok’s location, Namjoon watched the boy stand up, a sandwich in each hand and walk towards him.

Hoseok took seven steps before he turned around in order to sit next to Namjoon, both boys now leaning against the mirror.

“Are you hungry?” Hoseok asked holding out one of the sandwiches. Namjoon shook his head, consumed with focusing on the fact that he his headache was still there.  

“Are you ok? You keep holding and massaging your head; do you need more rest?” Hoseok continued questioning the boy, that was barely younger than him, as an older brother.

Namjoon squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds and reopened them. “I’ll be fine,” he said in a raspy voice.

Hoseok held out the sandwich again. “Eat it, Namjoon,” He said, worry laced throughout his voice. Namjoon looked over to see Hoseok’s face dark with sincerity. The sun had gone out. Namjoon shivered in fear of the unusual look on his friend’s face and took the sandwich slowly.

“Thank you.”

Hoseok nodded curtly before standing up and walking to the other side of the room to sit beside Jimin and discuss choreography.

With a deep breath, Namjoon leaned back against the mirror, his hearing dulled by painkillers, and closed his eyes.

He had begun to unwrap the sandwich, which had been placed into his possession by Hoseok, when the pain in his head flared. He winced and twitched, his head moving to the side, as he tried to disguise the discomfort. He clenched his jaw against another spike of pain before standing up abruptly; the sandwich, that had been in his hand, fell to the ground.

Six pairs of eyes snapped up to their leader in curiosity. Namjoon was about to take a step forward when the door to their practice room opened and Bang PD walked in, a serious look on his face.

“Bang Pd-nim,” seven voices chorused together in respect, their heads bowed. Their producer nodded in response and turned to the boys’ leader.

“Namjoon, can we talk outside?” He asked. His voice was quiet and the 6 other boys knew that he only lowered his voice when he was holding back anger.

Namjoon’s eyes widened in fear before Jin walked over and slung his arm over his shoulder.

“You can speak freely in front of all of us together, PD-nim,” Jin said politely, but the undertone of his voice showed his protectiveness towards the younger boy.

The producer sighed. “If you insist. Namjoon, I want to know how a scandal about you and Park Ji Soo appeared right as we were about to announce your comeback, next week.”

Eyebrows all around the room went up except Namjoon’s. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at his superior. “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” He said slowly, his breathing struggling to stay even.

Bang PD’s eyes closed as he took a deep breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. When he was finished, he held the phone out to Namjoon, who reluctantly took it.

On the screen was a blurry photo of a man and woman walking together, holding hands, clearly a couple. A familiar outfit hung on the man’s frame; Jin took a breath when he saw the photo from over Namjoon’s shoulder. It was the same outfit that had recieved so much attention from fans at their performance last week.

A shudder made its way through Namjoon’s body; he knew how much trouble this photo would be for the company. “That’s not me,” He said shakily, scared of what could happen because of this photo. He desperately wracked his brain for some way to prove his statement.

The man before him frowned and took his phone back. He sighed. “How do you expect us to clear this up in time for the announcement, Namjoon?”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, knowing that his superior’s short temper was coming slowly to the surface. If he didn’t calm him down, the man’s impatience could result in trouble for all of them or even a postponement of their upcoming comeback.

“It’ll blow over quickly, they always do, Bang PD-nim. I’ll make a statement if I need to, but for now if we ignore it, it might not blow up.” Namjoon’s hands shook as he took a deep breath. “I will take care of it–”

“You don’t know how to take care of it, Namjoon!” Bang PD bellowed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You have never learned how to deal with things like this; we have to do this for you...of course we do,” He mumbled the last words.

Namjoon lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry sir–” His voice was cut off, interrupted abruptly by a shout from his own throat, another wave of stabbing pain behind his eyes. His knees buckled and he fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain.

“Namoon?” voices called from around the room.

Namjoon shook his head violently, trying to dull the pain again, and put his hand out to keep anyone from coming closer. He looked up to see the 6 boys and their producer around him; he felt closed in. He pushed himself to his feet, still holding his head, and pushed through the bodies around him. “I’m–I’m fine, I’ll be right back,” He called in a strained voice before he practically fell through the door that exited their practice room.

Frantically, Namjoon made his way down the hall, half slumping against the wall beside him when the waves of pain crashed onto the beach of his brain. He opened the last door on the right side of the end of the hall and rushed through, locking the door behind him, immediately, before falling to the ground and pulling himself into the fetal position against the torment.

It felt like a knife was cutting into his head, right between his eyes at his glabella. Another sharp feeling shocked Namjoon, making him pull away from his knees and sprawl on his back on the floor. When his legs moved from being pressed against his chest, a shaking sound made its way to Namjoon’s ears.

He blinked, to clear his vision, before looking down to see the small container that he had purchased earlier that day on the tile floor of the bathroom. It had fallen out of his pocket. He sat up, sweat peppering his forehead and temples, and snatched up the plastic bottle from the tile ground.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes before pressing down on the lid of the container and turning the top immediately. His hands began to shake again as he poured the familiar tablets onto his open palm. In his rush, too many fall onto his hand and he was left with six tablets on his hand.

He grit his teeth as another piercing stab of pain shot through his temple. “Fuck it,” He whispered before throwing the first pill into his throat. The other five followed in quick succession and he twisted the cap into its place on the bottle. His breath echoed off the walls around him as he sat, waiting impatiently for the pills’ pain killing abilities to kick in.

Namjoon couldn’t tell how long it’d been when the doorknob to the bathroom shook violently. “Namjoon? Are you ok?” The concerned voice of Bang PD floated through the crack under the door and Namjoon stood up shakily, his legs half asleep, and leaned himself against the wall next to the door.

Half heartedly, Namjoon opened the door in front of him, his head still aching but put on the backburner of his mind. Band PD stood on the other side of the door worry in his eyes which widened as he saw Namjoon’s exhausted and pain wrecked state. “I’m sorry, Band PD-nim, I just needed some time to rest. My head hurt a bit from not eating any lunch after practicing for so long, and I didn’t sleep well last night.”

The boy’s superior relaxed and his eyes softened. “I understand. Take a break, Namjoon. Drink some water and come back to the practice room; you’ll just have to watch practice today.” Bang PD handed Namjoon a water bottle, nodded, and turned on his heel and walked down the hall.

Namjoon pulled out the small container of pills from behind his back and released a breath before slipping them inside his pocket.

As he sat in the practice room, sipping his water, Namjoon watched the other 6 boys practicing, all smiles, pain free, and laughs bubbling out of their mouths every few seconds when one of them messes up the relatively new choreography.

Namjoon always seemed to be the one messing up, having problems, leaking samples, being featured in scandals; was this what came with the responsibility of being the leader? The pain caused by common scoldings to him by Bang PD was almost too much to bear. His chest began hurting just thinking about what had been accused of him less than an hour ago.

He felt like he was being pressed up against a wall, his lungs slowly collapsing from the pressure.

“I’ll be right back,” Namjoon breathed as he snatched up his water bottle and left the practice room without looking back to see if anyone had heard him or looked up from their dancing. He looked around the hall in front of him slowly until he saw the door to the stairwell and pushed it open.

Carefully he made his way up the steps until he got to the door, 6 floor later, that read “Roof” in large red English and Korean letters. He pushed against it impatiently and immediately felt a strong breeze blow across his face. His feet stepped in front of each other until he was standing behind a small bench, a few feet from the end of the roof. With an heavy breath, he turned and sat down on the bench, his back towards the wall that bordered the rooftop. He gulped and pulled out the now familiar bottle of pills. The pain in his chest had spread in just the few moments that he had spent traveling to the rooftop. His throat felt tight, and his chest felt like someone was drilling through his sternum.

Reflexively, the familiar actions of opening the bottle of pills were done and he had poured out four more tablets onto his hand. He downed them quicker than the others, aided by his mostly full bottle of water. Namjoon’s head felt like it was surrounded by a bubble, and yet pain was still seeping through.

The sounds of the city that surrounded him were muffled, like they were traveling through water, but Namjoon didn’t notice. All he could focus on was the intense pain spreading all over his body despite the multitude of painkillers that’d he’d already consumed. It had started in his head and traveled to his chest, but now he could feel it working it’s way to his fingers and toes.

Pin pricks peppered the upper parts of his legs and arms, and it felt like spiders were crawling up his back. He almost screamed as the feelings crawled up his body, covering every inch of his skin. Scared of imminent pain, Namjoon’s knuckles went white from clutching the plastic container and its lid in his hands. Pain shot into the side of his calf and Namjoon cried out at the terrible pain.

Slowly the container began to empty, a few pills traveling down his throat at every new jab. Within 45 minutes, Namjoon had almost drained the bottle, desperately trying to stop the bursts of pain that would flare anywhere and everywhere on his body.

Eventually, his whole figure had become numb, and his head felt like a 30lb weight. Only his thoughts could break through the barrier between himself and the world around him. “You aren’t even strong enough to deal with this?” “You’re even too weak to stand up to Bang PD-nim.” “What an inconvenience you are, making the company clean up your mess.” “Don’t people die from too many pills? Maybe you should follow suit.”

Namjoon’s eyes snapped open to look into the jar in his hand. “It wouldn’t take much more, would it? It has to work? I can’t be,” he exhaled, “broken.” He said quietly to himself. Slowly, he turned the bottle upside down above his palm, letting the remains of its contents spill into the hollow of his palm. At a glance, Namjoon guess it was about 25 more tablets, but his vision couldn’t be trusted. He looked at the water bottle beside him: still about half full.

He picked up a tablet from the top of the pile and place it on his tongue before pouring water a gulp worth of water down his throat to help it on its way. This action had become so routine that it took barely any effort on his part. So many of the tablets were gone because of worry: at the slightest pain, Namjoon would down a few tablets, trying desperately to prevent any more pain like that that had caused him to collapse downstairs.

His mind went back to the boys on the first floor, practicing away with smiles on their faces, barely worrying about him here, only worrying about their upsoming performances; meanwhile, Namjoon was here, terrified of any feeling on his body. His mind went back to Bang PD-nim walking through the door to the practice room, the unforgettable look of disappointment on his face.

Another 13 tablets had made their way down Namjoon’s throat as his mind wandered for minutes at a time. He looked up at the sky above him, surprised to see the skyscrapers in his peripheral vision moving and swirling around. He had time to smile at the sight before he felt a sharp stab of pain in his side, unline anything he had felt all day. He shouted and pressed his hands to his side, accidentally dropping the pills in his hands. It felt as if a burning poker had been wedged between his ribs. Fractically he picked fallen pills up off the ground and shoved a few into his mouth, desperate for relief from the new and excruciating pain. Nothing happened. Namjoon new he would have to wait to see any results from those painkillers but he couldn’t. The pain began making his vision black and red at the edges and Namjoon needed relief, desperately. He pushed himself up onto his hands, holding his chest off the ground, and moved his shaking hand around, trying to snatch up the tablets that had fallen.

He picked up half a dozen or so and rushedly swallowed them. A gulp of water chased the pills and Namjoon winced. The pain in his side subsided slightly and Namjoon’s ragged breaths could be seen in the air that was growing chilly with coming night. He looked around himself as his vision returned to normal, surprised to see that no other pills lay on the ground around him. He held his head, trying to remember when he had swallowed the rest but couldn’t. Slowly he looked around at the unstable rooftop around him. After a failed attempt by himself, due to the ground tilting beneath his feet, Namjoon used the wall at the edge of the building to pull himself into a standing position. He looked over the edge in front of him, his vision swirling around him, and saw the street multiple floors below. He clutched his head as the the street seemed to come closer and move away, like he was jumping on a trampoline.

The sight disappeared as he turned his body away from the edge to the rooftop. He lifted his foot to start to walk towards the door to the stairwell, but his leg collapsed under him because of the weight and he felt his body falling towards the concrete below his feet. The roof around him spun as the stone bench that he had sat on only an hour or so ago rose up to his vision. He felt one last stabbing pain in the side his head before his vision went dark.

Hoseok’s Letter {June 28th}

I can’t even comprehend how it happened.

We found you on the roof with blood pouring from your head and an empty bottle of painkillers a few feet away. We’d just seen you an hour ago, how could this happen?

Did you overdose? If so, why was your head like that?

He were all so confused by your disappearance when you ran out of the room suddenly, but we just assumed that you had to use the restroom or something. We never would’ve imagined this.

We knew that you hadn’t felt well at lunch but how did it come to this? Bang PD is tearing himself up about it, saying that he should’ve kept a closer eye on you because you didn’t feel well. Even when we began looking for you, the rooftop was the last place we checked. Why am I getting deja vu of being on a rooftop with you in some sort of danger? I can’t pinpoint any details, but it feels like a dream I’ve forgotten, like I’ve seen this happening and didn’t do anything to try to stop it. I’m sorry, Namjoon.

Even though we were born in the same year, I always felt like I needed to look out for you, partly because I was born first, but also because I could always see the strain that being our leader put on you. I can’t stand to see any of you six sad and I can almost always see when I need to cheer one of you up, but I didn’t even comprehend the look of pain on your face when you left the practice room. I should’ve.

We immediately called an ambulance, but your skull had cracked and you’d lost too much blood. We were barely late. The paramedic said that you had died only a few minutes before we’d gotten there. We were barely late. I was barely late.

I’m writing this was 3am because I can’t sleep with so many questions flying through my head. How will we tell your family? How will we tell Army’s? We have no idea what your wishes were, and now we never will. Jin took it upon himself to be the head of planning your funeral, but we’re all really just guessing.

I’ll make sure that your grave is somewhere that gets a lot of sun. I’ll bring you sunflowers. I’m sorry I couldn’t be bright enough for you in life, so I hope that I am able to bring some light to you in death, Namjoon.

Message me if you would like me to post part 4 when I write it :D -Katie