#I almost didn't finish writing it

[eggy-the-boy]

*poking my blorbos with a stick* 

[r0setyler]

i believe that shipping tentoo/rose and recognizing that the way it happened was fucked on the doctor's end and traumatic on the end of rose herself can coexist. saying both of these things do not contradict each other.

i can say that the metacrisis is still the doctor and say that rose was right at first to say "he's not you," because of the context rose has in the moment and the work rose had put into finding the doctor that she conceptualized as the doctor.

i can also say that he tried to manipulate her into choosing the metacrisis because that is what he believed was best for her, even though i can also say she did choose to kiss the metacrisis in her own right.

and finally, i can say, that it was fucked up he left her in norway, solely because, bro, that's a long way away from where they need to go lol.

[purgaytorysupremacy]

oh nuts. a life experience has given me a new layer of perspective on Cas's homosexual declaration of love to Dean.

recently I had occasion to tell a person I had feelings for them knowing full well they didn't feel even a twinge of the same thing for me. while the whole thing was a decidedly unpleasant experience, I kept laughing at myself internally bc I didn't want to say "the happiness is just in saying it" like fucking Castiel over here. (we don't need to talk about it, it's fine.) (I am happier having said it and it's kind of bullshit, but I digress.)

because the thing is, the happiness isn't in just saying it, right? the happiness is in the having. I made a whole TikTok "proving" that the Empty didn't come for Cas when he confessed his love, but rather when he realized Dean loved him back. even for Cas, the happiness was in the having, not in the saying, however brief it was.

and I've always been one of those people who rolled their eyes at the whole concept. why would the happiness be in just being, in just saying it, if it's right there in front of you to have. and then it hit me like a tonne of bricks (as I was washing my kitchen counters).

Cas really didn't think he could have Dean.

at all. in any capacity. he really, truly, and honestly felt to the depths of himself that Dean did not have any twinge of similar feelings, that this really was a Hail Mary shot-in-the-dark. and I think me, personally, really didn't understand that about Cas. that his belief in his love being unrequited was that unshakable.

something else I've been pondering is how audiences have so much more empathy for fictional characters who share traits that IRL they find objectionable and unappealing. but the thing is about fictional characters is that we follow them around in their most private, vulnerable moments. we see Dean mourning Cas when he dies, literally killing himself because he can't live without him, but it's so easy to forget that we're the omniscient ones here.

Cas never knew.

Dean's whole thing was pushing him away, keeping him at arm's length, making it seem like whatever heroic thing he does for Cas he'd do for anyone. he downplays how important it is for Dean to share the Deancave with him, to show him his favourite movies, share his favourite songs. he acts like the things Cas does for him don't mean that much to hide how much they do mean. he uses "we" whenever he even gets in the vicinity of expressing a feeling. "We were worried." "We're glad you're back." "We needed a win." "You're our brother." The audience knew the difference. We saw how he'd clench his jaw or swallow hard or make a face that said "God, I'm being such an idiot". Because we saw him in those little moments. We got to see the cracks in the mask.

but Cas never knew.

the self-hating angel of Thursday was never going to think it was all a way for Dean to protect himself. obviously, that's the delicious tragedy of it all, but what I think I realized at the end of all that is Cas confessing his love to a Dean who didn't love him back wouldn't have worked. Because the happiness really is in the having. If happiness was just in saying it, then The Empty would have come before Cas even finished getting the words out of his mouth.

so Cas's plan wouldn't have worked if Dean didn't love him back.

this is just me yapping on about my own nonsense, but I do think it's really interesting. there's contentment in "just saying it". there's freedom and relief and an unburdening. I think one can argue that it makes being happy in the being easier. there is certainly some joy in telling a person you think that highly of them. but true happiness?

nah.

true happiness is always going to only be in the having. Cas didn't understand the difference until he experienced it, and by then, it was too late.

[greenerteacups]

What do you think as Hermione's career would be post battle of Hogwarts? To me her being minister for magic really doesn't make sense. She does not have patience or tact to wade through murky waters of politics 😭😭

So hard to say! The Trio are so, so young when we leave them, I find it almost impossible to project their futures farther than a few years out. The job that suited me at 17 would be radically unsuited to me now. That's why of all the Trio, Ron's ending strikes me as the most realistic — he jumps straight into the save-the-world business again, burns out, realizes he's actually Done The Fuck Enough, Thanks, and pivots into a low-stress career where he gets to see his family a lot. Feels accurate! The others are weirder to me because they do seem to just... pick a lane and stay there.

With Hermione, you could spin her a couple ways. You could say that she leans into her bookish side and does research or teaching, which is not my preference for a couple reasons (namely, I don't think Hermione would like academia as a profession; she finds her classwork interesting and enjoys intellectual validation, but she'd be stifled and wasted in a DPhil program, and she'd be infuriated by the administrative politicking of your average higher-ed faculty). You could say that she gets disaffected with politics and ends up as a barrister or a lobbyist of some kind, but if anything that requires more political finesse, because you don't actually have institutional power, you're just handling the people who make decisions and trying to persuade them of your goals. This is not Hermione's preferred method of influence. She's not even particularly good at persuasion, she just happens to be smart enough (and right often enough) that people take her ideas seriously.

Or you could say her brashness fades with the years into a softened flavor of tell-you-like-it-is honesty, which some politicians actually do successfully trade on; as we see in British politics today, you don't have to be all that charming or clever to get ahead, you just need to be really driven and well-connected (which Hermione completely is; she fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the first postwar Minister and her bestie, the Literal Messiah, runs the Auror Office.) But I don't know if Hermione especially wants to be Minister, after the war. She's just watched years of horrendous bureaucratic incompetence plunge the country into a violent civil conflict. She's had not one, but two Ministers of Magic try to bully or shame her friends into complicity with fascism. Her view of government is... likely extremely dark.

But Hermione also isn't the kind of person who sees her life as a quest for happiness. Babygirl has a savior complex that makes Harry look selfish. (She basically kills her parents — yeah, obliviating is a form of murder, #changemymind — "for their own good," and justifies every batshit, vindictive, mean-spirited move she ever pulls on the grounds that it "helps" one of her friends.) She is a mean, lean, dragon-slaying machine, and she needs a dragon. After Voldemort, the Ministry is the no. 1 threat to muggle-borns and non-wizarding Beings. As a war heroine with basically infinite political capital, I'd be surprised if she didn't try to do something there. That said, Hermione is so vivacious and dynamic that she could potentially grow in a hundred different directions; it's possible that all of this, while true of her at 18, becomes completely inaccurate by 22. That's why I'm not too fussed about any particular fanon interpretation.

[wikiangela]

fuck it friday

tagged by @daffi-990 @thewolvesof1998 @giddyupbuck 💖💖

finally back with alive shannon! still not done with the conversation I'm stuck at, but just left it for now and gonna circle back later (and I can't even begin to tell you how much it bothers me that i'm not writing in order now omg) but small progress is happening so yaay! haha here's something from ch3 - buck's pov - it's a longer snippet that I literally just wrote so it's rough but it's something at least haha

prev snippet

___

“Buck!” Christopher exclaims, noticing him first, and he hears rapid footsteps and crutches hitting the floor.

“Hey- shoes!” Eddie sighs heavily, and Buck just knows he’s shaking his head.

“Hey, bud.” Buck smiles, finally turning away from the TV, giving Chris a hug. “How was school?”

“Okay.” he shrugs. “Hi, mom.” Chris adds, turning towards Shannon to give her a hug as well. “How are you feeling?” he asks quietly, concern in his voice, and Buck’s heart melts. From the look on Shannon’s face, so does hers.

“Better.” she smiles, running her hand through his curls with the softest expression on her face, just full of pure love. Buck’s so happy they get to have this, both Christopher and Shannon, that they get this time together they so obviously needed and missed. “Buck’s been keeping me company while waiting for you.” she adds, grinning at Buck.

“What are you guys watching?” Eddie comes closer and sits in the chair, gesturing for Christopher to come over to him, and then helps him out of his shoes. He’s glancing at the TV, probably trying to guess if he knows the show. 

“It’s just this telenovela your abuela was obsessed with a couple years ago.” Shannon shrugs, lowering the volume. They’ll have to rewind and see everything they’ve missed. Or maybe look it up and start from the beginning. Buck’s invested already, and she’s fun to watch with, and maybe if they bond over that, things will feel less awkward. “There’s reruns.”

“You’re watching telenovelas?” Eddie looks up at Buck, then at Shannon, and back at Buck, frowning. “Without me?” he pouts, sounding half-teasing. He keeps looking between them, almost nervously. Is he worried that they won’t get along or something? Ridiculous. Buck can get along with anyone if he wants to – well, almost – and he’s gonna try here, for sure – it’s Chris’ mom, he has to.

“Sorry.” Buck chuckles, leaning back against the couch. Eddie finishes helping Chris and stands up again, while the boy takes a seat between Shannon and Buck, grinning from ear to ear. He scoots closer to Shannon, carefully cuddling into her side, her arm coming up around him. “You wanna watch with us?”

“Uh, I’d love to, but dinner won’t make itself.” Eddie moves to go towards the kitchen, but then stops and hesitates. “Uh, Buck-”

“Ugh, you’re gonna cook?” Christopher wrinkles his nose. “Can’t we order something again?”

“My cooking isn't that bad.” Eddie says, mock-offended, crossing his arms. “Right?” he looks at Buck, and then Shannon. Buck winces and takes in a sharp breath, while Shan wrinkles her nose – and Buck sees such resemblance between her and Chris in that moment – but neither says anything. “Unbelievable.” Eddie shakes his head, and Buck and Shannon look at each other over Christopher’s head and crack up. They might be on the same wavelength, that’s good. Teasing Eddie is another common ground, it seems like. “We had take out last night, and the night before, and before that all the food people brought over after-” he pauses, swallowing hard, still not able to talk about the accident, about almost losing her. He told Buck about his abuela and tía, and Bobby, and even Hen and Karen, and some other people from the station bringing some food so he doesn’t have to bother cooking while taking care of Shannon. “Well, what’s left is in the freezer, and I wanted to do something nice and cook, but maybe I’ll just defrost something.” he sighs, defeated, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. “That okay, boss?” he adds, emphasizing the last word and looking at his son with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.” Christopher nods, then bursts into giggles.

“Fine.” Eddie turns and starts walking towards the kitchen. “Buck, you coming with me?”

“You need help defrosting? Wow, you are helpless.” he says, winking at Chris, who just laughs again, but then gets up anyway, following Eddie – who’s at the kitchen door already, and flips him off.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gayarthur @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @diazblunt @911onabc @eddiediaztho @housewifebuck @lover-of-mine @gayhoediaz @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @hoodie-buck @monsterrae1 @hippolotamus @ladydorian05 @forthewolves @honestlydarkprincess @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @eowon @theotherbuckley @weewootruck @thewolvesof1998 @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @jesuisici33 @callaplums @loserdiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @underwater-ninja-13

[screamingcrows]

AAAHHHHH WEBBY KISS!!!! 🎲

To the anon who sent me this on the 22nd of May at 4am, I'm sorry it took a while lmao, I forgot~

You rolled 5! That's "a firm kiss" :3 ('Beta' is the webtoon segment)

When you accepted The Second's proposition to shift your role into a companion of sorts, your expectations had been low to say the least. A man rumored for his astounding arrogance and even greater achievements appeared far beyond the reach of such mundanities.

Much less that he'd willingly sacrifice hours of a, competent you hoped, subordinate for such a thing.

'We have all been growing increasingly agitated, I hypothesise this might ease the worst of it.'

Clear-cut responsibilities. Reduced hours. Increased pay. A trial period to establish the effect. There'd been no reason to decline.

Upturned lips and satisfied hums had become more frequent after your tools had been replaced with access to his private collection of old tomes and a couch dragged into the workshop. It hardly came as a surprise that he'd been correct, not if the way his gait oozed with satisfaction every time those crimson eyes locked with your gaze.

Omega's head was currently on your shoulder, the segments voice tinged with thinly veiled excitement as he continued to elaborate on his newly acquired responsibilities.

The mission in Sumeru.

For all their knowledge and perspectives, envy seemed to remain a well hidden constant in all versions. Perhaps Dottore realised the chaos that would ensue were he to delegate such an important experiment when the segments were already barely remaining cordial.

You were a cushion. A brief silence ensued as Omega adjusted, face turning towards you in anticipation. The simple smile and nod you provided would've been adequate, asking a follow-up question made him grin, a low chuckle passing his lips before continuing his monologue.

His hair was soft between your fingers, neatly styled strands somehow always managing to return to their original position. Times like these, the accusations made against both the man in your lap and the Fatui seemed ridiculous.

The steady hum of machinery, gears clicking as they turned and steady footsteps as someone paced back and forth. Omega's weight against your body, the heat from him providing a pleasant substitute for the usual cool air, the slight tone of bragging, it was all so painfully normal at a glance.

Words of praise had barely left your lips when the air was sucked out of the room, the doors swinging open with too much force as everyone glanced towards the disturbance.

Ruffled cerulean hair and a black and white mask. What remained visible of Beta's face was contorted in a chilling sneer, his eyes burning with fury as they locked on you.

Words weren't exchanged as much as barked, nothing able to stop the young segment's advance through the room. The white coat was pulled taught across his shoulders, arms clutching a leatherbound book tightly to his chest.

A hand on your cheek forced you to look at Omega, a knowing smile on his lips when he gently chastised your mind for wandering, clearly intending to pick up where he'd left off as if uninterested in the commotion, several segments and assistants trying to placate Beta with reminders of the altered schedule. The raging segment all but snarling remarks about how one shouldn't be entitled to everything.

Clamor wasn't exactly uncommon, a shaky breath leaving your lips as your eyes closed in an attempt at refocusing, wishing you could tune out the callous segment as they so easily did each other.

A jolt to your left ripped any shred of tranquility from your clutches, heart thumpind loudly enough to hurt as your eyes flew open just in time to see Omega thrown aside. The downed segment merely laughed as he reached for the beaked mask now resting on the concrete floor.

Before you could stand to aid, intervene, anything really, Beta's lips collided with yours and stole away any coherent thought. Sharp teeth carefully dragged along your lips, swiftly replaced by a prodding tongue demanding entrance.

Quiet murmurs and uneasy discussions at the blatant breach of protocol were drowned out when a firm hand placed itself at the back of your neck, fingers gripping so tight it bordered on painful as it held you captive.

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

[buckera]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday 🎄

I was tagged by the lovely @jeeyuns @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 @disasterbuckdiaz and @malewifediaz thank you sweets 💛

Okay, so I'm only giving you a small tease, but I've been mainly working on my christmas fics (which now I have 3 of ugh) and I haven't shared anything from this one yet, so!

The insinuation was clear as day. Or maybe Eddie’s mind was just running away with him — but it was hard to think when other things were getting harder at the same time.

He tilted back just a fraction, his shoulder blade hitting Buck’s left tit head-on and his ear now pressing into Buck’s cheek.

“Buck, what…” He sighed, but before he could’ve finished the thought, footsteps started banging up the stairs and getting closer rapidly.

Buck stepped back in a hurry, leaving nothing but a rush of cold air in his wake and Eddie had to catch himself not to reach out and drag him right back.

✨no pressure tagging: @spagheddiediaz @ladydorian05 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @heartshapedvows @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @evanbegins @watchyourbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley

[keepswingin]

Skz Minho + Paranoia by Kang Daniel, 1500 words or less

The rain wakes him, pounding against the covered window beside his bed. 

He turns his head and stares at the wooden planks that cover it for a long moment, waiting for thunder to follow. Lightning flashes through the lingering cracks between the planks that he never bothered to cover, and he sits up, shivers shooting down his spine, eyes fixated.

He waits, and waits longer, heartbeat growing loud in his ears, nearly drowning out the storm. There's a loud crash of thunder that feels as though it shakes the house, lightning, and then he sees it again, through the tiny gaps in the planks, trying to push through. 

He jumps up and runs to the kitchen, blindly searching for something, anything, stumbling over his feet, pricking his fingers, before he finds a knife and bolts back into the bedroom, brandishing it at the rotted fingers that try to claw their way through the boarded window. 

His chest feels tight, and it's hard to breathe, hard to think, but he needs to go to it, he needs to kill it, kill it before it gets inside and kills him - 

"Jagiya?" 

Han calls from his right, voice muffled by the blanket he has tucked up to his chin. When there's no answer, the sheets shuffle with his groggy movement. "Minho?" 

The knife trembles in Minho's grip. When he looks back at the window and waits for the lightning to flash again, the fingers are gone. It's just them. Nothing is trying to get in. "I'm - I'm here," Minho whispers, willing his voice not to shake. "I'm here." 

Han makes a soft noise that's meant to be a confirmation. 

"Come back to bed," he mumbles, and Minho exhales, hand lowering to his side. He slides the knife under his pillow as he climbs back into bed, and tries to pretend that he doesn't feel something else watching his back as he curls around Han once more. 

x

It's always hard to bring himself to unlock the door, his hands shaking as he reaches for the final bolt just beneath the doorknob. Han is already hidden away in the basement, something he does now without being asked, Minho locking the door behind him.

Han hadn't understood it at first, why Minho had asked such a thing of him, but then the older had explained, breathless and trembling behind a hot cup of tea. 

The air outside wasn't safe for someone like Han, someone with skin untouched by a toxic sun. It isn't safe to breathe, to look, to be near, and Minho's skin was used to the ashes, to the radiation and ruin and rejection of a planet that never recovered. His skin wouldn't bubble or bruise or seep, but Han's would, and he needed to go down into the basement to be safe whenever Minho went to open the door. 

Han always needed to be safe. 

Minho couldn't protect him from the world ending, but he could protect him from this. 

The door sticks to the molding when he tries to tug it open - the Earth was too hot now, too cold later, too inhabitable for anyone but them - he gives it a shove of his shoulder, heart stuck in his throat, and staggers outside. 

He looks around, takes it all in, and nearly chokes on the acid taste of the air. The troves of rumble and rock and remains. He tumbles backwards, slamming the door shut behind him less than a second later, breathing heavily, tears in his eyes. 

There was no outside anymore, no matter how many times he checks. There is nowhere for them to go. They need to stay here. They need to keep staying here. 

He needs to keep Han safe.

x

"Minho," Han calls, thumbing through an old book that predicts a world of gentle ocean waves and lush, endless forests. Minho hums from across the room, counting their rations, trying to make them last. He doesn't want to go back out, not ever. He's done looking. They could just stay here, and if they lowered their intake...if he ate just barely anything and gave Han what remained...they could make it. 

They could do it. 

Han flicks through a few more pages before he stops on one filled to the brim with jumbled bits of writing. "Is it safe?" Minho pauses his count. Turns towards Han and watches as he traches over someone else's writing, like it means something. The thought nearly sours his stomach. 

Han had him. Why would he need anyone else? 

"No," he says, watching as Han's shoulders hunch inward and his entire body seems to deflate. "I don't think it's ever going to be safe outside." The silence stretches long after his answer. It makes Minho uncomfortable in a way, that Han could ever sit in silence with him like this when there are so many other things they could be doing instead. 

Han's finger traces over the writing again. It's not Minho's writing. 

Minho's stomach turns and twists itself inside out. He stands when he can't take it anymore, crossing the short distance between them and taking a seat on the floor behind Han, tucking himself against the younger's back. His chin presses hard into the curve of his neck, and he wraps his arms around him, holding him close. 

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to, when Han hesitantly slides his hand into his own a few moments later.

x

Minho feels pathetic today, standing at the kitchen counter and staring at the remains of an empty can. The remnants of sleep are crusted at the corners of his eyes, and exhaustion tugs at his body, weighing him down. His legs feel like lead, and his feet like cement blocks, meant to keep him below the surface, unable to catch a breath. 

There's blood on the counter. There's a knife beside it. 

He thinks it's his blood. 

He doesn't remember whose blood it really is, when a million eyes had turned and stared and asked him why. He doesn't remember taking the knife and running it across his wrist until his wrist had turned the color they had wanted it to be. He doesn't remember the smile they had given him as they had asked for more. 

Minho feels pathetic today, unable to finish the job they ask of him, unable to look Han in the eye and pretend that what they do is right when it all just feels wrong. Han was never supposed to be here, and Minho was never supposed to invite him in. Minho was never supposed to get lost - steal a glance at Han and never want to let him go, greedy in the way he grabs at his wrists, hungry in the way he presses close and doesn't turn away. 

Selfish. So selfish that he deserves being told to end his life so that another can start. 

Gentle fingers curl around his shoulder. Minho doesn't react. If they've come to take him, he won't fight. He's sick of them looking at him like this, sick of the torment, sick of all the images they paint for him on the backs of his eyelids.

"Hyung," Han whispers, gently tugging him back. "What'd you do?" 

Minho feels a shaky exhale rattle through his body, and doesn't know what to say. Does he say the truth, and let Han discover everything he's been trying to hide? Does he lift his arm and allow the blood to run freely onto the kitchen tile? Does he take the knife and slit his own throat before - 

"I thought we were eating dinner together." 

Han's cheek presses against his shirt. His careful fingers travel down and play with a loose string at the hem. The tone of his voice sounds...playful, not absolutely horrified, like Minho had thought it would've been. Something isn't right about this. He should say something, ask if the other is seeing what Minho's seeing, what Minho is, at the core of all of this, a twisted being with a disgustingly twisted mind. 

But then Minho blinks, and the world is brought back into sharpened focus. 

The counter isn't stained with blood, it's stained with what was supposed to be their dinner. Beets fresh from an old tin can, smeared against the counter, against the side of the sink, painting the side of the knife's blade. He dares to glance down at his arm, so sure it had been dripping blood, only to see more red. But it's the red of a vegetable, and not the inside of his arm. 

He hears laughter. Han's not laughing.  

Minho feels sick, and then he feels nothing at all.

x

He wants to say he doesn't remember how the fight started, but the truth is that he does, and there's glass shattering two inches from his head before he can stop it. He looks up and it's impossible to miss the glare Han shoots him, or the tears slipping down his cheeks. He's upset, and angry, and every other emotion close to it as he reaches for another picture frame. 

There's a part of Minho that tells him to stand there and not move, to stand there and let the glass puncture his body, his arms, his face, to let it stab him in however which way so that he can actually feel something that isn't the stare of a million eyes or the feeling of rotting hands pulling at his feet or Han's red cheeks and running nose. 

Han yells and tosses the frame, choking out another sob. Minho's body moves against his mind's wishes, allowing the picture frame to hit the hardwood floor behind him, glass fracturing into tiny pieces. 

Minho turns and looks back at the picture, half out of the frame and crumpled around the edges. It's one of him from what feels like another life; he was seven and had won his first sports contest, trophy clutched tightly between two tiny hands. His mother's finger is in the picture, taking up one corner of the frame. 

His father was gone by then, and it didn't take long for his mother to follow. 

"Don't you have anything to say?" Han screams, jolting Minho back to the present as he turns just in time for the other to launch himself forwards, fists pounding on his chest. Minho's back hits the wall with a thump as Han cries and hits him, over and over again. "Why aren't you saying anything?" 

Minho swallows, and avoids looking at the boarded windows, the duct-taped vents, the busted doorknobs. It's never enough, not when there's millions of eyes and only one of him. He can't keep them both safe anymore, not like this. Not when he's broken, and Han is ripping out the rest of his pieces. 

There's nothing left to say. 

Minho tries to grab his wrists, but Han jerks away from his touch, and one of his fists knocks into Minho's shoulder hard enough for it to sting. It stuns him, that the one person he's done everything to protect doesn't want his protection anymore. It echoes in his mind until it's the only thing he can hear, and he reaches a hand up to the side of his head, tugging at his hair. Han hates him. He hates him. Minho can't protect him anymore. It's all over. Everything's over. 

He should've known it would end this way. Nothing ever lasts, and he was foolish to think that this would. 

Han shouts again, and Minho blinks, tilting his head up. His heart aches. His head screams. Han cries into his hands until his tears spill onto the floor, one after another. Minho wants to reach out for him, hold him until he quiets, just like he used to when he first found him. He would cry for hours and hours, and all Minho could provide was the warm comfort of his own jagged body until Han had finally realized this was exactly where he belonged. 

He still belonged here, even if he didn't think so. 

"Han," he whispers, the letters bitter against his throat.

"That's not my name," Han says, sniffling, red-rimmed eyes locking with his. "Do you even remember?"

Minho's mouth opens, and then closes. They laugh at him from the shadows, cruel and callous, but Minho was cruel and callous, wasn't he? When he took Han in, and called him by a different name until it was all he could remember. Because his real name came from the outside, and they were no longer apart of the outside, not now, not after all of this. Minho never was, but Han used to be. 

He used to be.

"Let me out," Han says, already moving towards the door that sits on the other side of the room. 

Minho's heart jumps, beating hard against his ribcage as he stumbles over his own two feet. No. No, anything but that. He can't leave, he'll die if he leaves, his skin will burn, his breath will get caught his throat and Minho will be left all alone and he can't do this if he's alone, not anymore, not after being with someone else for so long -

"No!" Minho yells, throwing himself forwards, fingers slipping around Han's elbow just as he reaches for the knob. Han stills, still sniffling, chest heaving. Minho grips him tighter. Anything but this. Anything but losing the one thing he has left. "Please," he says, fighting against the sound of his own choked tone. "Please don't." He pauses, unsure of what to say. Would anything make him stay now that the truth has come out? "I can't lose you." 

Han huffs, the sound strangely twisted. "You already have," he mumbles, defeated, and before Minho can stop him, he's pulling out of his grip and reaching for the door. It's easy for him to unlock even though he's never touched the bolts before, something that itches at Minho's skin, because how would he know when he's down in the basement every time Minho tries to glimpse the outside? Unless...

The door is thrown open. Minho flinches, stumbling back.

Han opens the door, expecting ruin. What is revealed to him on the other side is anything but.

[brekitten]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Danny Phantom, Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cassandra Cain/Danny Fenton Characters: Danny Fenton, Cassandra Cain, Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane (DCU) Additional Tags: snowstorm, Protective Danny Fenton, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Hallucinations, danny would murder people for cass, Fentonic 2024 (Danny Phantom), Beta Read, One Shot Series: Part 14 of Cat Soulmates Fentonic 2024 Spoilers Summary:

Scarecrow has escaped Arkham Asylum. Black Bat and Phantom search for him.

Then Scarecrow fucks up.

OR

Scarecrow gasses Cass with Fear Toxin and Danny shows him exactly why that was a mistake.

Snow Storm | Dry

Day 14! Luckily I had most of this oneshot done before this morning, so I only had to finish it. Ignoring the fact that I started writing it a week ago. @catnek-writing-things beta'd this for me, so thank you!

Happy Valentine’s Day yall!

[stickiy-note]

Close-up prosecutor blackquill jumpscare was not something I was expecting tonight

(I may or may not have screamed while in a vc when this happened...)

[chocosvt]

hi choco! i'm so excited to see you back on my tl; i've missed you and your god-tier fics & i'm super duper excited to read your wonwoo fic as well (140k words? we will all be well fed fr 🤲)

i had a little rant? not exactly rant but something that's been itching my mind a bit haha, i hope you don't mind me sharing it with you! i genuinely want some advice over this.

as a long fic writer, how do you consistently come back to writing your fic without getting bored? i looooove writing long fics too (big lover of slowburn and angst lol) but i always get so impatient and bored of writing the story so quickly :(

i'd posted a teaser for a fic a while back and it got a good amount of traction (something i will always be grateful for) and someone asked me when i would release the full fic, to which i gave them a tentative date. fast forward to the day before the day i said i would post the fic and you have me typing out paragraphs upon paragraphs of stuff that i absolutely loathe in my writing. i ended up posting the fic anyway, but it's been only a day and i already want to take it down—not bc it's not getting any attention, because it is, but more so bc i hate that fic and would do anything to rewrite it.

iirc your joshua fic, 'best friend's brother' was a rewrite of a fic you'd written earlier, right? was your thought process similar to this? where did you start your rewriting process from? did you have any second thoughts when you took it down the first time?

i'm really sorry if this is too many questions 😅 please take your time if you do choose to answer this! much love and have a great day, choco!!! thank you so much :)

(is it alright if i use an emoji to sign off so i can find this ask later?)

— 🍫

first of all, THANK U SO MUCH <3

and i don't mind at all! these are rly insightful questions :o though i'll just chunk my answers a bit so i'm not all over the place.

not getting bored to be honest, i'm not sure if i ever "get bored" of writing out the plot. but i definitely get burnt out, and sometimes i get downright sick of reviewing my own writing, to the point where i just have to close my laptop and walk away. i think the most important & overarching piece of advice i can give--not just in terms of long fics but any fic for that matter--is to never force anything & take breaks!

when i'm busy at uni, there are like 5 month breaks where i don't bother writing at all. i always think that the second i have free time, i should theoretically want to write, but sometimes i just don't. and i make peace with it bc i know the second i force anything i will end up hating it (also takes the fun & enjoyment out of the process).

i think if you're getting bored, it's probably a sign that your body & mind just isn't interested in writing at the moment. so i would step away & take a break and attempt to get your mind off the plot. i think that taking a break also invigorates your mind a bit and gives you newer, better ideas (at least from my experience).

bfb rewrite the reason i rewrote best friend's brother was bc the og fic was from 2016, when my writing style was completely different. i still liked the concept but naturally, as my writing grew, i just detested the way the old ver was written, which spurred me to create the rewrite.

i wanted to give the characters a lot more depth & beef up the plot, so the new fic is actually a lot different in comparison to the old one. i wasn't attempting to do a scene-for-scene rewrite--it was simply just my approach to an old concept that i felt i could now execute better.

as to how i went abt rewriting it, i just picked out moments from the old fic that i liked and built around them. for instance, i rly liked the "skipping stones" scene that shows some intimacy & tenderness between joshua and reader. but it can't just happen out the gate. so i had to figure out the typical "why, when, and how is this moment happening right now?" from scratch.

the thing with long fics for me, it honestly is a test of patience & dedication!! bc it can truly be so frustrating :( a lot of times, you want to jump right into the good parts bc those are like the shiny glimmers that make the fic attractive. but depending on how impactful you want those moments to be, build-up is sooooo key! the thing is, build-up is just so critical in my opinion, but it can also be such a pain to write :p

i find when i review my writing, these are scenes i criticize or change the most--more than the big, hard-hitting scenes. bc to me, it's such a specific thing that you have to nail down justttt right. it's a lot of thinking and finagling and i think this process is what i dread the most? especially when it refuses to turn out how you want it--ugh, so discouraging!! but once you get it's like a silky flowy river!!

the big takeaways (i guess?) 1. taking breaks is so important! 2. don't force anything xxxx 3. take the big moments & build around them i totallyyyyy understand your frustration!! there have been so many moments where i'm like I NEED TO WRITE AHHHHH and then i promptly open the document only to sit there, blankly read a few sentences, and then get this rly big sinking feeling in my gut that is essentially telling me "never mind" and honestly i just listen to it bc if i'm gonna close & open the document 10 times in a row i obviously don't want to write. i'm just searching for something fulfilling and clearly not finding it in the task at hand so i should do smth else.

THIS IS EXTREMELY LENGTHY AND I''M BEYOND SORRY, but i hope somewhere amongst this mumbo jumbo there was something that stood out & may give you a bit of closure!

[cartoonsaint]

back in 2020 i wrote a werewolf!David fic for Camp Camp and then got through about a quarter of its sequel before getting distracted. at this point it's unlikely i'm ever going to finish it but it sounds like there's at least one person out there who wants to read it, which makes this a good advertisement for leaving comments on seemingly abandoned works, doesn't it? anyways this is 7.8k, probably rated T, and i do not have the wherewithal (werewithal? hohoha) to reread rn so i can't offer any content warnings or fix any weird grammar or anything, but. here's it.

my semi-jokey working title for it was THERE'S ONLY ONE BED AND ALSO ONE OF US IS A WEREWOLF

CHAPTER ONE

Gwen wakes up.

She’s not sure what does it, because usually it takes the blaring of her alarm — as well as a few judicious smacks to the snooze button — for her to admit that the day is starting whether she wants it to or not and she had better drag herself out of bed if she doesn’t want the camp to burn down around her ears.

She’s long since come to terms with the fact that while she can effortlessly stay up late into the night reading fanfiction or binging television, even with a full eight hours under her belt the first thing she’s gonna want to do in the mornings is take a nap. Gwen just really, really isn’t a morning person.

By the grey light filtering through the windows, Gwen bets the sun hasn’t even properly risen yet. She’s not due to muddle her way through her morning routine for at least another hour, and in fact it’s so early that David’s still probably asleep.

That catches at something in her sleep-foggy brain. Had she had another dream about him, maybe? Something about… monsters? Statistically, and given the subject, it was probably a sex dream, but what…?

On a whim she turns over, intending to send her sleeping coworker a baleful glare for daring to have a presence in the confusing subconscious arena of her dreams — it’s not the first time, sure, but she uhhh.

Wolf.

That, uh… wolf.

Gwen stares at the sleeping beast in the room with her, suddenly wide awake, and does her best to regulate her breathing as she simultaneously curses David to hell. This is somehow his fault, she just knows it — leave it to Mr. Nurse-Back-to-Health-the-Wolf-That-Tried-to-Kill-Me to bring a wild animal into the cabin without telling her. Now she’s probably going to get eaten and leave behind all her unedited work and become famous for her talent posthumously instead of midhumously, or whatever, which is how she’d really, really prefer it.

Can wolves smell fear? She’s pretty sure they can, so she thinks happy, not-scared thoughts, like how happy she’ll feel when she throttles David for this. The animal is huge, taking up a sizable portion of her co-counselor’s bed, even though it’s curled up sleeping at the moment. The bed’s wool blanket and sheet are half-covering it, almost like it tried to burrow itself underneath them, and it has David’s stupid plush log between its front paws. It breathes in and out with great, calm gusts of breath, and Gwen thinks about how often wolves need to eat, how fetid its breath probably is, and the fact that she has virtually nothing with which to defend herself besides some trashy magazine she could maybe roll up and use to bonk its nose, like a poorly behaved mutt.

I’m freaking out a little, Gwen realizes, watching the tendrils of first light reach across the room. Knowing her luck, they’ll wake it up. Oh well. I had a good run. Well, an alright run. Well, I definitely had a run, anyway.

She practically holds her breath as the sun creeps in through the windows, sure that any moment might wake the beast and spell her doom. Maybe she’ll be able to miraculously pull David’s guitar out of nowhere and defend herself — but no, too quickly, the barest hint of sunlight touches the thing’s paw, and it gives a great twitch that has Gwen flinching — and then the wolf changes.

She’s not sure what she’s seeing at first. Its muzzle wrinkles as though in a snarl but then shrinks. The pointed ears on its head flatten back and disappear into its dark red fur, which itself seems to be absorbed back into its skin, leaving pale, pinkish flesh behind. Its paws stretch and lengthen into long, calloused, human fingers, and the whimper that comes out of its throat morphs mid-syllable into a distinct, familiar, and absolutely absurd “ouchie.” The figure left half-blanketed on the bed opens ocean green eyes over an upturned pink nose and effortlessly smiles at the new day.

The figure looks an awful lot like David sporting a week’s worth of facial hair.

The figure is David.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Gwen croaks, and David blinks his big green eyes over at Gwen, looking faintly puzzled.

“Gwen? What are you doing awake?” he whispers (only sounding a little raspy, the bastard).

Gwen’s mind is racing, frantically calling up memories from the past two days, belatedly recalling that last night she’d learned without a shadow of a doubt that David — bouncy, clumsy, sunshine-y David, her coworker of too many years and the least brood-over-his-loss-of-humanity guy she’s ever known, that David — was a bonafide werewolf.

He’s still looking at her, apparently wide-awake and ready to be properly concerned about his “CBFL!” despite the fact that no sane person should be awake at this hour. She tries to say something, something intelligent, so that he knows she’s fine and can stop turning the force of his way-too-bright eyes on her.

“Wurwuf,” her stupid mouth manages.

He looks confused, briefly, before a metaphorical lightbulb goes off so obviously that Gwen practically has to squint at its brightness. “Oh yeah! I change back when the sunlight hits me — it hurts, but I hope I wasn’t too loud. Did I wake you up?”

He looks so intensely unhappy at the possibility that Gwen finds herself shaking her head before she can properly process what he said, and he smiles warmly at her. Fortunately it’s not one of his overwhelming ones but instead the softer kind, the kind he wears when he’s had a long day or a camper pleasantly surprises him.

“I’m glad,” he says with one hundred percent honesty, and he sits straight up in bed like it’s easy to get his muscles to work in the morning. “I was a little worried! You should go back to sleep, Gwen. I know how hard you’ve been working, and I dumped a lot on you last night. I’ll take breakfast duty, okay?”

“Mm,” she says, and he gives her another smile — jesus it’s too fucking early for this — and daintily wraps a sheet around his body, heading to the bathroom. She watches him go, humming like it’s any other day, until he closes and latches the door behind him with a snk.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT, Gwen mentally screams, and bites her fist hard. David’s a werewolf. David is a werewolf. It’s a brand new day and her coworker (and, fine, friend) David is a WEREWOLF who literally transformed in front of her very eyes into a huge, potentially terrifying beast.

She’s going to have so much to write about.

Speaking of, she scrambles out of bed for her notebook and pen. She’d been limited by David’s inability to talk as a wolf, but through yes and no questions and some dubiously successful attempts at charades she’d ended up with a decent number of pages written out about his new condition. It’s a solid start on figuring out what they can expect and how this whole thing works.

Of course, like every normal person, Gwen herself went through a Weird Wolf Girl phase. Though it’s been considerably more than a decade since then, she’s sure she hasn’t forgotten that much about them — and besides, with all the supernatural shapeshifter romances she’s read in the years since then, she’s pretty confident she can fill in any gaps in her knowledge.

She starts drafting questions, both for David and the Quartermaster (who of course has a hook in this, that guy is so freaky). Like: David turns into a four-legged wolf every time moonlight touches him, but is there a way to control when the change happens? Could he stop the change partway through? Is his werewolfism unique, or is there a pack out there somewhere? And are there any single werewolves her age? If so, how would Gwen go about meeting them?

Quietly, Gwen lets out a high-pitched squeal — werewolves are real, and she knows one. It’s too bad it’s David, since that precludes any hot paranormal action on her end, and has precluded any action between them since their first week working together. But maybe he’ll meet some other, more masculine werewolves and he could introduce her?

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Gwen,” she whispers. “Reel it in.”

She spends a brief moment in deep breathing, trying to meditate… and then shrugs it off to bounce excitedly on her bed. Even if this isn’t quite the way she’d imagined it, werewolves! This could be a major change in her life, the kind she’d hoped Graggle would be, the kind she’s been waiting for as long as she can remember.

And who knows — he might still be David, but being a werewolf might make him more interesting, too. She grabs her pillow and muffles a disbelieving, embarrassingly girly squee into it, grinning. She can’t wait to see how things change.

***

In retrospect, maybe Gwen should have expected to be disappointed.

The activity for that day is Rube Goldberg Machines (“Max really enjoyed this one last year, Gwen!!”) and even though, as always, Gwen had told him during last week’s activity-planning session that it was going to be a disaster (“David, it’s going to be a disaster.”), the day is just… regular.

Which isn’t to say it’s not a disaster, but it is a pretty regular one. Harrison and Preston team up against Erid and Nerris to create competing death machines, which results in David stepping into the middle of their feud and getting the crap beaten out of him by mechanically-operated cardboard. Max and his friends are suspiciously quiet in a way that Gwen would be more concerned about if she wasn’t so busy trying to prevent Nurf from incorporating Dolph and Space Kid as living pieces of his machine. Mr. Campbell shows up at some point with an intriguing but useless story about his time in a Russian ballet school and then disappears pretty much as soon as she asks him to help. The Quartermaster is there.

Gwen waits all day, anticipation thrumming through her veins, for David to do something different. Just… one thing that would indicate that he’s secretly a paranormal, shapeshifting, not-quite-human creature. Maybe some supernatural speed, or a snarl at being bashed over the head by their terrible campers. Hell, she’d accept a mysterious, darkly longing look towards the woods. Anything.

But David spends the whole day totally normal, with his usual mix of peppiness, anxiety, and the occasional oh-so-human shriek of pain.

It’s not like Gwen really believed (much less had her heart set on) all those books about the super capable, brooding werewolf leads, but… It’s not easy to reconcile the rugged, snarling, coverboy antiheroes with a twiggy, delicate David who’s too busy trying to put a positive spin on marble-powered rocket launchers to realize his bandana is on fire.

Needless to say, Gwen’s exhausted by the end of the day, and for all his talk David hurries the kids along to bed as well. She leans against a tree, watching him interact with the torturous little shits with near-endless patience even in the light of the rising moon. It’s impressive, given that David wears his heart on his sleeve (along with every other organ he has in his body), but right now his impression of not being twitchy as hell is nearly passable. Even if some of the kids notice, they won’t worry; besides the Problem Trio, none will suspect it’s anything to do with the supernatural.

Also, of course Max, Neil, and Nikki found out about it; Gwen is going to grill Max about that as soon as she gets the chance, and then she’s going to kill David for letting it slip so quickly.

...then again, it’s admittedly something of a miracle that the whole camp doesn’t already know; she might have to let this slide. You should still know better! she thinks loudly, glaring at the back of David’s head as he suffers Nikki using him as a climbing post. He glances back at the same moment, catches her look, and hurriedly starts trying to disentangle the wild kid from his hair.

Gwen winces, then sighs in frustration — she hadn’t actually meant for him to catch that. Great going, Gwen.

Despite the revelations of the past few days, David really does seem just the same: goofy muppet-long limbs, pointy elbows, big smiles papered over a mess of anxiety, enthusiasm, and bad ideas. He’s not even more muscular or anything — though to be fair, he’s always been stronger than he looks. With his wiry muscles, he’s capable of lifting way more than Gwen expects — but the fact remains that he’s always looked delicate.

He’s not, of course — though he cries more easily than most people, it’s usually an emotional rather than physical response. He bounces back from just about any injury, leaping into the next activity with all the grace of a newborn deer. Gwen can admit that it’s somewhat compelling; she can’t help admiring his determination to keep moving forward.

Finally disengaged from Nikki, David puts his hands on his hips, tilting them in the opposite direction of his head. The move puts him on an appealing slant that emphasizes how long and slim he is, the slope of his neck leading into the sharp cut of his shoulders, hidden slightly by his dumb bandana. He fiddles with it now, throwing an uncertain glance her way.

He’d said the freaky magic necklace wasn’t comfortable to wear, and she wonders exactly how: does it intensify things? Is it like holding in a sneeze? After working so closely with him for so long, she’s intimately familiar with his energy levels; it’s not been the kind of day that usually ends in mania or an anxiety attack, but he’s twitchier than usual anyway. Is that related?

Finally taking pity, Gwen steps in. She manages to convince Harrison that the woods aren’t going to come alive while he sleeps (a weird, newly emerged fear she’s keeping a close eye on) and bundles Space Kid in his favorite rocket blanket so that David can devote his attention to Nerris’s pleas to stay up later so they can fight the dark elves together (which honestly seems like the kind of bullshit she should read up on, because that doesn’t sound like the sort of thing an impressionable kid should be absorbing). Together, they get the kids down only twenty minutes past the scheduled time.

David is unmistakably anxious on the way to the Counselors Cabin. When he hesitantly asks, “Am I in trouble?” Gwen can’t help but sigh.

“No, David. I’m just thinking,” she admits. “We need to make sure none of the rest of the kids find out that you’re a werg— a, a werewolf.” She silently curses herself for stumbling over the word again. What’s wrong with her? “Why did you have to let Max know? You must have realized he’d find a way to take advantage of this.”

“We-e-ell…” David starts, avoiding eye contact in a way that compounds Gwen’s fatigue.

“David.”

“I didn’t mean to!! He was just there and the moon was out and he broke the necklace and obviously if I had known I wouldn’t have put him in that situation, but the Quartermaster was being very coy about my being a werewolf so I had no idea what was coming —“

“Wait wait wait,” Gwen interrupts; David shrinks guiltily. “You didn’t know? You mean Max was there the first time you —?” She cuts herself off, brain whirring through his behavior since he got back from his disastrous trip in the woods a few weeks ago. She doesn’t like the conclusion she comes to.

Dreading his answer, she asks, “When was this?”

“Um.” David counts briefly on his fingers, lips pursed in thought. “A-about a week ago?”

“A week?!”

“A, a little less, actually,” he admits, cringing.

Gwen stops walking. “It’s been less than a week.”

Cautiously, he nods, his red hair flopping, and Gwen stares at him. It occurs to her suddenly that David has, hilariously, really been thrown to the wolves here: he doesn’t actually know anything about being a werewolf. His life has just changed, majorly and possibly permanently, and his only guide is the laconic and decidedly unhelpful Quartermaster… and Gwen herself.

“Right,” Gwen manages, and starts walking again. David follows, chattering nervously, but she barely hears him, thinking about what he’d said to her yesterday morning (practically forever ago): that he hadn't wanted to be a burden, but he needed her help.

Where is she even supposed to start?

She watches him throw his arms up to emphasize a point she hasn’t heard and catches sight of how long and delicate his fingers are, even with his summer camp callouses. They’re the same as ever, but somehow that makes Gwen feel like he’s even more fragile than usual, like if she even touched his shoulder he might shatter or maybe even bolt. But if she wants to figure this out properly, she needs more information… so she’s extra careful when she puts forth her next question.

“So you gonna let me watch tonight?” she asks, and then bites her tongue hard because that did not come out like she wanted it to, Gwen what is wrong with you.

Fortunately, the look David sends her is one of innocent surprise, rather than one assuming that she just propositioned him.

“Um, sure!!” he says, voice edging just past bubbly and into manic; he tugs at his bandana, revealing a flash of silver chain. Then, to her horror, a very noticeable flush starts to crawl up the back of his neck — shit, does he think she just propositioned him? “I-it’s just… well, I can’t really afford to ruin any more camp uniforms, s-so, um, I’d have to be —“

“Spit it out, David,” she advises, not completely dickishly.

“—naked, I’d have to be naked,” he blurts out, and pulls his bandana up around his cheeks to hide his embarrassment.

Gwen has to blink at him for a few seconds. Is he seriously that embarrassed about her catching an eyeful when they’ve lived in close quarters this long? And when he’s going to turn into a giant, fuckoff werewolf??

“David. I promise not to look at your dick,” she says, which to her amusement makes him squeak and turn as red as his hair. He flutters a nervous hand at her, glancing around like a camper could appear anywhere — which, to be fair, they could: Gwen has learned not to underestimate the little bastards.

She bumps her shoulder into his, because she’s too awkward to offer comfort in a normal way. “Are you seriously more freaked out about the naked thing than the werewolf thing?”

“It’s not… appropriate,” he hisses, still flushed and harried-looking. “You shouldn’t have to —“

“I don’t have to; I want to. To see you transform, I mean,” she corrects. “Into a wolf. Not to — yeah. But I do want to see the transforming shit again because it was seriously the coolest thing I have ever seen.”

As per usual, David opens the door to the Counselors Cabin and lets Gwen through first, which is why she sees the set-up, recognizes the intended purpose, and is already exhausted and dismayed by its outcome by the time David cheerfully flicks on the lightswitch.

“Oh,” he says, pleasantly surprised, as his action triggers the set of three marbles to start rolling down the halved cardboard tubes that have been taped together into an impressively complicated contraption. The blue marble hits and tips over a precariously balanced jug of water, the yellow one continues to pick up speed as its path steepens, and the mint-green one just barely nudges a piece of cheese into the grubby little hands-reach of a caged squirrel. “Wow,” David says, delighted, while Gwen traces the future paths of the machine and reaches the signs neatly taped to the wall above David’s bed.

“GWEN DON’T INTERFERE. I PROMISED I WOULDN’T SET A FIRE BUT NEIL DIDN’T. MAX.”

“Ooo, great use of weighted pullies,” David says appreciatively, while a baby headache is born right behind Gwen’s eyes.

Next to Max’s note is one with Neil’s precise handwriting. “Sorry for getting carried away but I needed to test my abilities. Neil.”

The squirrel has tugged up the string tied to the key to its cage and is furiously trying to unlock its prison; another domino falls just as the scale overbalances. Gwen’s headache has learned to walk and is joyfully crashing into the walls of her brain.

Nikki’s note (which, for some reason, is dripping with an unknown reddish liquid) says, “it seemed like the best use of our time. also the squirrel needed to know who was boss.”

“That’s such a creative use of a windchime!” David says, proud as anything, as Gwen recognizes an open container of lighter fluid, realizes that the last note is written in Campbell’s chunky scrawl, and her headache throws a screaming teenage tantrum about how unfair its life is.

“IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD CAMP ACTIVITY FOR THE CHILDREN! ALSO THEY BRIBED ME. SORRY! CAMERON C. CAMPBELL.”

“Gwen, look at how they combined their machines here! Oh, I’m so proud, this is such great teamwork,” David coos and then the lighter fluid tips over, the bedspread catches fire, the squirrel frees itself to launch its horrible little rodent body across the room, and Gwen’s headache graduates summa cum laude with a full degree in Fuck You Gwenology.

Even if she hasn’t been through this exact scenario before, Gwen knows how this goes. David’s mattress will be reduced to kindling (an inevitability each summer; honestly, she’s a little proud of how long it lasted this year), David will shriek as the squirrel makes claw-contact with his face, and Gwen will calmly murder every person responsible for ensuring she has more work to do before she can goddamn relax. She’s already heading towards the fire extinguisher when David surprises her.

Instead of getting a faceful of furious-slash-terrified squirrel and screeching his fool head off, David whips a hand out faster than Gwen can follow and snags the thing out of the air. She hardly notices, though, distracted as she is by the sudden, ferocious snarl that transforms David’s face, revealing a set of gleaming, razor-sharp fangs that make him look a whole lot more… monstrous.

Oh, fuck, Gwen thinks, frozen to the spot.

The squirrel squeals, panicked, and David’s growling cuts off abruptly with a sharp little gasp. He loosens his grip enough that the animal can scramble out of his hands and out the swinging screen door, not even bothering to scold them on the way out. David automatically tracks its movements, his green eyes flashing and shoulders tense.

Thwack, goes the cabin door. Gwen stares at David, who himself stares at where the squirrel had disappeared, before a full-body shudder goes through him and he wraps his arms around his middle.

“S-sorry,” he says, voice small. Gwen blinks at that, still a bit dazed, but he keeps his eyes down. “I didn’t mean — I mean, I just —“ He hunches into himself, making himself even smaller.

Realization sparks in Gwen — he feels shitty about this, I should do something — and then David takes a sudden, deep breath, filling his lungs and straightening to his full height. His shoulders are still tense but he’s forced them down, like he’s relaxed, and when he smiles at her it’s practically normal.

But Gwen knows David, and she knows his smiles, and this one is bad: her eyes rove over his face, cataloguing the tension in his brow, the slight tremble of his upper lip, how few teeth he’s actually showing. “David,” she starts, uncertain what she’s going to say.

“It’s okay!” he assures her, voice bright and tight, flapping an insistent hand in dismissal. “I was just — that, um, startled me, is all. I didn’t mean to — to… is something burning?”

Gwen turns so fast she gives herself whiplash. “Oh fuck, the bed!!”

“O-oh — !”

These days she’s old hat at putting out fires, but the lighter fluid and the relatively extended burn time mean that even after Gwen empties a full fire extinguisher, it’s quite clear that the mattress isn’t the only thing sacrificed to the blaze.

“My bed,” David says weakly. The headboard has collapsed into the slats of the bed frame, which are themselves burned through, and its legs are heavily charred; it looks like it might fall apart in a stiff breeze, leaving behind just a pile of ashes. “W-well, we could —“

“The extra camper cots won’t hold an adult’s weight,” Gwen points out numbly. Do they still have — ?

“And Mr. Campbell took the last bedframe from storage when he moved in,” David notes, and Gwen adds another thing to her mental “Reasons to Kill Cameron Campbell” list. “Good thing I —“

“No, Max traded your sleeping bag to the Wood Scouts to get them to take Jermy back,” Gwen reminds him, pinching the bridge of her nose. Quartermaster probably has more supplies, but he’s left for the night to do… Quartermaster things, and Gwen doesn’t actually know how to contact him until the morning.

“Right,” David sighs. “But the hammock — ?”

“Could you even use it when you’ve got —“ she claws at the air, giving him a faux snarl, which immediately makes her feel like a huge, stupid asshole, but she perseveres — “you know, four legs?”

With each back and forth, David sinks down a little more — but at that last one he perks up a bit. “Oh! Gwen, I’ll be a wolf. I don't need a bed, I’ll just sleep outside!”

“David,” Gwen begins, already prepared to try to make him see reason, but then she actually catches sight of his expression and pauses, considering.

Because David isn’t looking at her. His eyes dart from the remains of his bed to her desk to the bathroom door to the open window, whereupon he flinches and looks anywhere else til he’s inevitably drawn back to it. His hands are clasped in front of him like he’s pleased, but Gwen can see them trembling. “Plus, I feel like — I think there’s something different in the air, and I just want to check it out, make sure everything’s okay. And Harrison was so nervous at bedtime — I should probably check on him. And the Quartermaster probably needs help setting things up, so…”

He wants to get away, Gwen realizes. His reaction to the squirrel was different than he’s used to and it scared him. He needs to process it alone.

“Fine,” Gwen blurts out, and David shuts his mouth, eyebrows dipping in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Go. We don’t have to — You can show me the transformation another night. I’ll take care of the bed and any kids who come calling. If you need — some time, or some space, David, then go get it.” She has to mentally scream at herself to do it, but she raises a pretty convincingly casual hand to pat his shoulder. “I’ll take care of things here. You go do what you need, okay?”

He looks uncertain, but he does lean into her touch. Gwen fights to keep her face normal. “Gwen, are you sure? I don’t want to leave you alone with everything again…”

“It’s fine, David,” she says, and finds that she means it. He asked her for her help, and if this is what it takes, well. “Go. Run around, burn off some energy, do what you need. I’ll cover you.”

He bites his lip, incidentally flashing those sharp teeth. Gwen determinedly keeps her eyes on his. “If you’re sure it’s okay…”

“I am. Go do your thing, David.”

The tense worry on his face melts away, and when he smiles at her it’s easy. “Thanks, Gwen,” he says, and before she can react he wraps his arms around her in a firm hug.

Gwen tries not to freeze up or anything, but she’s so awkward — she ends up patting his shoulder again (like an idiot) until he finally loosens his warm grip and steps away to open the cabin door. He aims one last grateful smile at her; it practically lights up the whole room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Gwen. Thanks again.”

“Yee-up,” she says, and gives him a thumbs-up until the screendoor thwacks shut behind him.

She stands there for a long moment, listening to his footsteps fade away. Then, when she’s sure he’s gone, she numbly reaches for her pillow. She presses her face into it and takes a couple deep breaths.

Then she screams, because she has to clean up the remains of the burned bed and figure out how this werewolf thing works for David and make sure the camp keeps running and now she’s going to have to do all that with the awareness that David might be hot now.

He’s not allowed to be. Their whole thing works because he’s not her type. They have to work so closely together to make this damn place run, reading each others’ intentions and patching each other up and practically working on top of and underneath each other; Gwen can’t do that if she has to worry about her hormones acting up just because her stupid coworker actually has some monster-y traits to go with the fact that technically, now he’s a monster.“Fuck,” she says, and it scrapes at her throat but it feels good anyways, so she says it again as she tries not to think about sharp teeth in an innocent smile. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

CHAPTER TWO

Gwen wakes up.

She keeps her eyes shut for a few moments. Sleep waits for her, solemn and warm, but something in the outside world is just off enough that she doesn’t surrender to it quite yet. Sluggishly, consciousness comes online.

She has a body. Her body is wrapped in a warm blanket. She’s still cold. She scrunches her nose and pulls her limbs in tighter, which helps a little, but not as much as the sudden cut-off of cold air that accompanies the screendoor’s muffled thwack.

Is David seriously coming in and out of the cabin at this hour? That deserves a squinted glare at the very least. Gwen rolls over to offer the stink-eye to her erstwhile coworker for his early morning volume, only —

The windows show only dark grey outside. Rain splatters half-heartedly against the panes. The digital clock on David’s night table illuminates the digits 7:08, more than twenty minutes before her first phone alarm is due to go off. Though the light inside the cabin is limited, it’s enough for Gwen to make out the rough outline of an enormous animal standing just in the doorway. It looks directly at her; its reflective eyes are brilliant and strange.

Her heart skips a beat. Then its pace increases, along with her breathing, because what the fuck, it’s gonna eat her —

A quiet, pitiful whine escapes the beast. It sounds pathetically sad, like Missy when Gwen’s dad won’t share his hamburger, but besides that universal doggy plea, something else about it seems... familiar.

She switches on her lamp before she can doubt herself.

The scant golden light reveals an unnaturally large wolf, its four paws placed carefully on the doormat. It is covered in thick red fur, Gwen knows, but not one hair of that is visible beneath its coat of caked, dripping mud. Its big green eyes are pleading. 

“Christ, David,” she says hoarsely, and stumbles to her feet, already reaching for the box of garbage bags left out last night after she cleaned up the charred remains of his bed. She can cut one open and lay it down like a tarp; it’ll catch any mud he drips on the way to the bathroom so it won’t spread to the rest of the cabin. Where are her scissors?

She lurches about the cabin, trying to prep it for a muddy werewolf. Her brain is working, technically, running through where the spare towels are and what she’ll need, but it’s still too early for things to quite make sense. Werewolf? Sure, that’s logical, she can handle that. But shouldn't David have turned back by now?

“C’mon,” she says to him once she has a line of slit open trashbags laid out. David steps carefully along her path, his tail and ears down, and hops immediately into the tub without the need for her to explain. Pulling her hair back in a loose ponytail, Gwen locates an old, refillable slurpee cup, then squats on the bathmat and turns the water on.

It’s cold, as it always is first thing in the morning, but David doesn’t even react; his fur must be super thick. Still, she waits until it hits a reasonable temperature before plugging the bath and filling the mega slurpee cup. “Stay still, okay?” Placing a hand on his furry brow to prevent the water from getting in his eyes, she pours it over his head… which makes hardly any difference to the mud stuck fast to his fur.

Gwen rocks back onto her heels, frowning. “Think we’re gonna need more than water,” she tells David, who woofs so very softly in reply that even in her sleep-muzzy state she can’t help smirking a little. “Is that a yes?” His tail starts to wag, disturbing the already-clouded water filling the tub. “Yeah? You want some soap or shampoo or some shit, David?”

To her amusement, his tail wags even harder — he’s always so delighted by her solutions, even when they’re obvious, but somehow the tail-wagging hits different than his normal bouncy enthuthiasm. She idly wonders how far she can take this as she stands to examine their toiletries.

There’s not much left in his shampoo bottle, so Gwen grabs her body wash as well — it’s cheap and she has tons of it, so it’ll have to do. She kneels back down and softens her voice a little more, like she’s talking to a toddler or something, as she squeezes some shampoo into her palm. “You wanna get clean, David? Huh? Get all this crap off of you?”

He gives her a happy whine that is so very David, despite the species, that she can’t help the giggle that escapes her. 

His tail stills for a moment and he stares at her, ears pricked high, the expression on his muzzle so close to human surprise that she starts to feel self conscious. Then he starts wagging his tail so furiously that Gwen has to quickly splat her shampooed hand on his head. “Shut up,” she tells him, and starts to rub it into a lather.

Gwen doesn’t really touch people. Growing up she’d been used to living in cramped spaces — Dad’s tour bus chief among them — which meant that being able to spread out was always such a luxury. She quit touring once she hit high school, but by that time the damage had already been done: after so many years of enforced closeness, Gwen never really figured out how to initiate physical contact when she wanted it, without a lack of room causing the press of bodies on all sides. 

So she’s not good at touching people. David, on the other hand, is bad at not touching people. When Gwen awkwardly offered her hand to him during their first meeting, David went right in for an extended hug. He hasn’t gotten much better since; it’s taken years for her to train him to let go of her, dammit, and she’s given up on ever getting through a day without his hands fluttering around her shoulders, arms, back, casually and constantly touching her.

And though Gwen pretends not to notice or care, on the relatively rare occasions that she initiates contact, David always, always relaxes into her touch. It makes her feel… well, stupid, yes, but also warm and — damn him — kind of fond. Right now, it’s somehow even easier to slip into that feeling: he leans obviously into her hands as she works the shampoo and then body wash through his thick fur, the mud coming away under her fingers and slowly revealing more and more red fur.

It should be stranger, not least because he’s currently in the form of a predator that has terrified man for years. But Gwen keeps at it, soaping and scrubbing and rinsing, til her friend stands there on four paws, clean as can be.

...and, once she takes a step back to get a good view of him, looking a bit like an enormous drowned rat.

“Holy shit, you’re so skinny,” Gwen exclaims, leaning against the sink. She crosses her arms as she gets a good look at the wolf doing his best to pout in their tub. “All that fur almost made you look intimidating, but you’re all elbows, huh?”

David’s furry brow creases. He seems to think hard for a moment; feeling generous, Gwen waits him out. Finally, he sticks the very tip of his tongue out in an impressively snooty blep.

She snorts, snagging some ratty old towels, and drops back into the voice she uses for dogs and babies. “Well, does David wanna get dry now? Huh? Does Davey wanna let Gwen towel him off so he can be a big, scary fluffball again?”

When she turns back, his muzzle has contorted into one of offended realization. She can hear his voice so clearly in his scandalized expression: Wait, have you been making fun of me? That, plus the fact that his tongue is still out in a petite blep, has her pressing the towels to her face to muffle a laugh.

“David,” she starts, once she feels capable of facing him without making a fool of herself -- and then she startles at the spray of cool water against her skin, soaking into her pajamas, and the pafwappafwappafwap sound of a dog shaking itself dry. “David!” she snaps, horrified, and backs away, but the bathroom door is closed — she’s stuck — she holds up the towels, as if that will protect her. She’s going to kill him.

He woofs, sounding terribly pleased with himself, and Gwen blindly chucks the towels at him. By her ear, they splat against the tub -- she wipes at the water in her eyes, cursing. “I’m going to kill you,” she announces to the bathroom, fuming, and feels the rasp of something warm and wet on her free hand. She jerks away, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.

David stands beside her, fluffy and damp and way too smug, his green eyes sparkling in amusement. He’s big enough that his head hits her waist; if he stood on his back feet, he’d be tall enough to crowd her in, look down on her. As it is, he looks up at her, a distinctly… David look of affection on his face.

Gwen’s stomach swoops, but just a little, and that’s kind of embarrassing so she glowers at him. “Dick,” she mutters, yanking open the bathroom door and storming half-heartedly to her “dresser” (a shitty filing cabinet, because Campbell’s too cheap for real furniture). She can hear the click of his nails on the hardwood as she pulls out a camp shirt and a relatively clean sports bra. Her pajama shirt is soaked thanks to David’s sense of humor so she tugs it off and flings it into her laundry basket. “Shouldn’t you have changed back by now anyway?” she asks him. “It’s way past sun-up.”

She just buys whatever fits from the sales rack, so her sports bras are always wacky colors; this one is fuschia with vivid teal piping. She yanks it on over her head and makes sure her tits are facing the right way before realizing that David has gone totally silent.

She glances over her shoulder to find him staring at her with wide eyes, his tail frozen straight out in shock. When they make eye contact, his ears flatten against his skull and he seems at such a panicky loss for what to do that he actually yelps, which startles them both so much that they spend another precious second staring at each other in mutual what-the-fuck-do-we-do-ness before Gwem gets her shit together and throws her camp shirt at his face.

“I —! You were a dog! I forgot!” she snaps, face burning. Stupid. “Stay there!” 

It takes Gwen seconds to get another shirt on, but her inner voice is shouting rapidly the whole time. He’s a wolf but he’s a werewolf so he’s a person so you can’t change in front of him dumbass! Unless you’re trying to get it on in which case why would you think unsexily shoving your boobs into a sports bra would be the way to do it?! Plus even if he is a werewolf he’s still David who isn’t supposed to be hot! ...But maybe he is now?? Even if that is the case you know you can’t handle a fling with a coworker so quit thinking about it, especially cuz right now he’s still in the form of a dog!!

In her mind, Gwen shouts inarticulately back at the voices and smashes their heads in with David’s guitar. In real life, she zips up her shorts and hesitantly lifts the spare shirt off David’s face. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, his ears back and head down, everything about his posture saying I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

Gwen huffs out a breath — he gets so apologetic for the stupidest shit — and taps his forehead to get his attention. “David, it’s fine, it was my fault anyway. You can open your eyes.” 

A fine tremble goes through him, but he peeks one eye open and, seeing that she’s telling the truth, opens both eyes to focus entirely on her. Gwen feels like squirming — even in this form, his focus makes her a little nervous. “Well?” she blurts out. “Why aren’t you human again?”

He flicks an ear in mild irritation (is he conscious of that, she wonders) and pads over to the cabin door, pointing his muzzle towards the outside. Gwen follows, looking out: the camp is muddy and full of puddles, rain drizzling down from pale grey clouds that take up the whole sky. Her stomach sinks.

“You need sunlight to change back?” she asks; he confirms with a prim little nod. Gwen tugs her phone over by its cord (it’ll probably break at some point, but what the fuck ever) and checks the weather app for the hourly forecast in Sleepy Peak. She can’t help hissing at what she sees.

“It’s supposed to be cloudy for the next twenty-four hours,” she says, feeling a little numb. David’s ears sink in clear dismay that matches her own. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

***

It turns out David doesn’t even need to speak for them to reach a decision.

He suggests (through a series of wolf-sounds and some poor pantomime) that he stay inside all day, but Gwen knows that he couldn’t even make it an hour being cooped up inside with no camp activities to run. So as long as he can avoid the mud, she’s sentencing him to spend the rest of the day outdoors on the off-chance that any sunlight makes it through the thick cloud cover. 

Which means that she’s basically going to be running the camp alone today. Great.

Gwen rolls up a pair of his shorts and pins them onto a long-sleeve camp shirt so at least he’ll have clothing if he happens to change back. Obedient, David sits very still as she ties the bundle around his neck like a bandana. He looks up at her attentively when she smooths down the tree insignia so it lays flat against his red fur.

Despite the fact that he’s an enormous wolf, and despite the fact that he’s David, her brain says dog! and she has to resist the urge to pat his head. He almost looks cute.

“Okay,” she says, shrugging on her raincoat and opening the front door. “Quartermaster needs to get into storage to get you a new bed anyway, so I’ll do blanket forts for a bit and see how it goes. You — don’t get seen, don’t get too muddy, and come back as soon as you’re human again. Got it?”

David’s eyes turn determined. He lifts a paw to his nose in what Gwen assumes is his best “campe diem!!” and this time she really can’t help it — before she can stop herself, she’s running a hand down his fluffy head and scratching behind his ears. David leans into it, tail wagging, and by the time Gwen realizes what she’s done he’s already hopped out the door and trotted off into the woods.

Gwen is too awkward, too nervous, too weird — even after years of patching him up, she hardly ever touches David on purpose, but… that had been easy. His fur had been warm, his green eyes bright.

She stands there for a minute, blinking at her own hand, imagining she can still feel fur, dense and fine against her fingers. Then she shakes her head and gets going.

[berlinbabylon]

i’m two thirds through s4 (finished ep 8 tonight, didn’t have time to watch when it was airing live) and... it’s kinda not very good :( there are some things that i love (abraham and his whole storyline, litten who i already loved in s3, some scenes here and there) but overall i’m not feeling it. i have a lot more thoughts but i’m just wondering what the consensus in the fandom is?

[davishater]

Guys, I am so sorry.... This post might just break Tumblr.... If you see my post and your Tumblr breaks, I apologize IMMENSELY! I have just written a Winter Moriarty X Reader that is 5,284 words..... Please forgive me..... 🙏 At the end, there is a part where Winter and the reader watch TV. I got that idea from @kawasemy I hope that I have been able to feed my fellow, starving, Winter simps. Again, please forgive me for everything and read the tags for more humor. Also, masterlist link in the beginning, cause it's too long to scroll....

Masterlist

Winter shoves her pale hands into her pockets and watches the sky, as the heavens shed their tears on the city of London. She was never fond of the constant rainy weather, but it's where she's lived her entire life, so all she can do is accept the gloomy weather. At least, it was gloomy until she met a certain someone.

Winter exits the store she's in and runs towards a canopy in the park across the street. She watches her only friend jump in the puddles on the basketball court the rain created. Her laughter reaching Winter's cold ears, even from that distance.

"Y/n!"

Winter calls out to her friend and she waves with a bright smile on her face. Winter weakly waves back, but quickly returns her hand to her warmer pockets.

Y/n moved here for school, from a dry climate in America. They met in a cafe, when the clumsy girl tripped and dropped her books and computer on Winter, also spilling her coffee on her in the process. The coffee had also gotten all over Y/n's computer. Winter felt bad for what happened, and even though she doesn't make it a habit to help everyone who crosses her path, she offered to fix the girls computer. Y/n's outgoing personality had pushed the unwanted friendship onto her, but after sometime, Winter couldn't bother to avoid the strange girl. She finally accepted the friendship; the first one she's had since her younger sister died.

Winter calls out to her friend again and she comes running. She stands underneath the canopy with Winter and laughs from all the fun she was having.

"You've been out here forever, aren't you done?"

Winter slightly shivers as she shoves her hands deeper into her pockets.

"What? You're such a party pooper! Why don't you come join me? You'll have more fun."

Y/n pulls on Winter's arm.

"Hard pass. You know I'm not a fan of the rain."

"And yet, you're out here with me."

Winter goes quiet at her comment and looks back out at the rain. She then speaks up to divert from the topic.

"I can't believe you forgot your umbrella."

"Well, I didn't think it was going to rain." She replies.

"Y/n, it's London. It always rains here."

"Well, it's been sprinkling lately, so I didn't think it'd come down this hard..."

"Never trust the weather here." Winter advises.

She turns back to Y/n, wipes some wet hair off of her face and brushes it behind her ear.

"Did they look at your motorcycle?" Y/n asks, brushing the rest of her hair back with her fingers.

"Yeah, just some minor issues. I can pick it up tomorrow afternoon."

"That's good, it wasn't as bad as we thought."

Winter nods and shivers again.

"If we don't dry you off, you'll catch a cold." Winter says a little concerned.

"Nah, I'm sure I'll be fine!"

"What?" Winter smirks. "Cause 'idiots don't catch colds?'"

"What!? No!"

Y/n huffs and dramatically folds her arms across her chest. Winter chuckles at how naturally expressive she is. She's been surrounded for so long by people hiding their true feelings, it's refreshing seeing someone that's so easy to read.

"It's not that funny..." Y/n continues pouting.

Winter ignores her and grabs the back of her shoulders, pushing her towards the main road.

"Come on, let's get you something warm to drink."

Winter and Y/n walk alongside the sidewalk towards the cafe that's nearby. A truck drives by and Winter tries to shield Y/n from the large splash from the truck running over the puddle, but it drenched Winter and still got on Y/n.

"Oh my gosh, Winter! Are you ok?"

Winter sputters to try and get the muddy taste out of her mouth, but fails, and wipes the excess water from off her face with her hand.

"I'm fine. What about you?"

"I'm good, but most of the water got on you! Uhg, you're more soaked than I am! Man, what a jerk!" Y/n shouts, sounding annoyed.

Winter looks at her a little questioningly.

"It happens. Come on, let's head inside."

"Are they even gonna let us inside with how wet you are?"

"Yeah. It's normal to see people drenched walking into places to get dried off from the rain."

"I see."

The girls walk into the cafe and a hostess immediately runs up to them with two towels.

"I saw what happened through the window. Are you two alright?"

"Yeah." Winter replies, plainly.

She takes the towels and places one on her shoulders and the other on Y/n's head.

"Could we use your restroom to clean ourselves up?" Y/n asked the hostess.

"Of course! Follow me."

They followed the hostess to the restrooms meant for paying customers and unlocked the door for the drenched girls. They walk inside and Winter starts rubbing the towel over Y/n's head. She swats Winter's hand away and dries off her own hair.

"I'm fine, just take care of yourself."

Winter takes a step back and stares at Y/n out of the corner of her eye. She then goes to the sink and starts washing her mouth out from the dirt taste she had since earlier. Winter wipes her mouth on the towel around her shoulders and then slowly puts it over her head and starts drying off her hair. She glances at her friend again and sees the small pout on her face.

"Are you upset with me?" Winter asks quietly.

"What? Of course not! Why would you think that?"

"You're not you're usual happy self..."

"Oh... No, I'm upset with that truck driver... There's no way he didn't see us or the puddle! He should've slowed down! Driving through puddles like that can ruin your car and it gets people wet! It was so unnecessary and if I could, I'd definitely yell at him about it! I swear, some people are just so inconsiderate!"

"He really got you that upset?"

Winter looks a little surprised.

"Of course! Now there's a possibility of you getting sick! Oh, I swear, if you do, I'm going to hunt him down and give him a piece of my mind!"

Winter accidentally lets a chuckle escape her lips and she's shocked from her own reaction.

"What? I'm serious you know!"

"I know."

"Then why'd you laugh?"

"Well... I don't know myself... I guess, it's cause I'm seeing a new side of you. I don't think I've ever seen you get mad before. I almost thought you weren't capable of that kind of emotion."

"Huh? Well of course I get mad! That's a normal human reaction, so I wouldn't be a normal human otherwise."

"Oh, my bad! I didn't realize you were capable of being normal." Winter mocked.

"What? Hey! I can be normal!"

"I'd bet my life you can't be normal about anything."

"Now that's just mean!"

Y/n pouts and Winter chuckles again. She stares at Winter's face and sees black streaks running down her cheeks from her eyes.

"Oh dear, your makeup is running."

She grabs some toilet paper and wipes off the black streaks from Winter's cheeks. Winter stares into her eyes as she does so.

"I could've done that, you know."

"And I could've handled getting drenched, so we're even now."

Winter looks away and continues rubbing the towel over her head. She then frantically pulls out her wallet and phone from her pockets. The few bills and business cards she had in her wallet were far from saving and just made the wallet look like a mess. She puts her wallet on the sink and then tries turning on her phone, but it refuses to respond. Winter cusses underneath her breath.

"That bad?" Y/n asks.

"Well, I can't contact anyone, which isn't that big a deal, but I don't have access to money either."

"Oh... Yeah that's pretty bad."

"How's your phone?"

"Well, let's see."

She pulls out her phone, which has a heavy duty case on it, and tries turning it on.

"Oh yay! My phone works!"

"I bet the case is what saved it."

Y/n chuckles, a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, I tend to drop my phone often... I guess my clumsy nature helped us a little there?"

Winter smirks and shakes her head.

"Well we at least still have access to my money, if there's anything we need." Y/n says, hopeful.

"No, save your money. Use that for your school needs."

"But I want to help out, too."

"You don't have to worry about that."

"Ok, then have you figured out how we're going to get back to my apartment without using money? We came kinda far and it's too far to walk in the rain without an umbrella."

Winter goes silent and looks away. She takes off her leather jacket and hoodie and tosses them to the floor. She then starts pulling on her t-shirt that's sticking to her body and rings out some of the water. Y/n sighs and looks around the bathroom. She then grabs Winter's hand and leads her to the hand dryer.

"Come on, we can at least dry you off a little, while we come up with a plan."

Y/n turns on the hand dryer and it blows in Winter's face. She closes her eyes and winces from the sudden intensity. Winter takes the towel from off her head and shakes her head as the warm wind blows her hair dry. She then lifts up her shirt a little, showing her stomach and waist. Winter looks up and notices Y/n staring.

"Is there a problem?" Winter asks.

"Oh... No, it's nothing."

Y/n turns her head away and Winter notices her cheeks are slightly pinker than before. Winter pulls her friend closer to her as she looks surprised from the sudden notion.

"Dry yourself off with the hand dryer, too. I don't want you getting sick, either."

Y/n complies and starts to try and dry her clothes while they're still on. The feeling of her clothes slowly drying on her made them feel icky. She scrunches her nose from the feeling and feels awkward drying herself off with a small hand dryer and Winter standing closely next to her. She knows it was her idea, but didn't realize how awkward, or embarrassing, this situation would be. Lifting your arm up to dry your armpit, while someone you care about is standing so close to you, isn't the ideal situation...

"This isn't working. We'd be able to dry our clothes better if we took them off." Winter suggested, sounding a little annoyed.

She starts lifting her shirt even higher to take it off, but Y/n stops her.

"Wait, wait, wait!"

"What?"

"Well... I uh- I'm not exactly comfortable with that..."

"Oh..."

Winter put her shirt down, then picks both her jackets off the floor and starts ringing out the water in the sink.

"So? What should we do now?" Y/n asks.

"Well, this little hand dryer isn't going to be enough to dry us off. We're going to have to change into different clothes in order to get warmer."

"Well then, at least let me buy us some warm drinks as we come up with a plan."

Winter sighs and gives into the girls protests.

"Fine, but that's it! Nothing else."

"Deal."

Winter collects her things and they leave the bathroom and sit at one of the small tables next to the window. A waitress comes over and takes their orders. Y/n stares out the window as they sit in silence until their drinks come.

Once the waitress gives them their drinks, Y/n thanks her and drinks from her cup. Winter immediately puts her hands on her cup and keeps them there. Every so often, she sips from the mug.

"I swear, how does someone not bring an umbrella along when it's raining?" Winter mocks a second time.

"Hey! You don't have one, either!"

Winter sighs.

"Ok, that's fair."

"There's a hotel across the street there."

Y/n points out the building and Winter follows the direction she's pointing in.

"Why would we go to a hotel?"

"Well, we can shower, and they have a washing machine, and we can stay there until the weather lightens up. The forecast also says tomorrow won't have as much rain as today."

"And who's money are we going to use to stay there?"

Y/n goes silent and pouts again.

"I told you, you need to save your money for school. I'm sure the fees take up the majority of your allowance anyways."

"You don't know that." She says, still pouting.

"Ok, then how much do you usually have left after you've paid the fees?"

Y/n blows a bubble in her cheeks and pouts more.

"That's... None of your business."

"Which means it's not much."

She whines and turns her attention outside again as Winter shakes her head. After sometime, her friend starts chuckling.

"What's so funny?"

"No, sorry. I just realized, it's kind of like we're on a date and you're the guy who wants to pay for everything just to make a good impression."

Winter becomes flustered and rests her chin on her hand to hide her embarrassment and slightly pink cheeks. She looks out the window as she speaks quietly.

"O-oh, uh... Does it?"

Y/n sees through Winter's failed composure and continues chuckling.

"I'm sorry, maybe that was too much for me to say."

"No, you did nothing wrong."

Winter puts both her hands back on her cup and stares out the window, watching the rain fall as Y/n looks at her. She then turns her attention outside as well. After some time, Winter speaks up.

"If you let me pay you back, I'll let you use your money to at least pay for a taxi."

"Yes!"

Y/n's face brightens up.

"Let me use your phone to call a taxi." Winter says, putting her hand out.

"Why can't you use your phone?"

Winter's shoulders fall and she frowns at her friend.

"Oh right, I forgot."

Y/n pulls out her phone and gives it to Winter as she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, as she dials the number to order a taxi. After a few minutes of Winter talking on the phone and growing more annoyed, she scoffs and hangs up the phone.

"They're all gonna be busy for a while."

"Well should we wait until one is available? Or take the trains or bus?"

"Rather not be in a crowded place if I don't have to."

Winter replied, with her fist pushing into her cheek, and the way she spoke sounded silly. Y/n giggled and Winter paid her no mind.

"I remember you don't like crowds. If only your motorcycle could be ready in a few hours."

"We can't do anything about that. Why don't we just start walking? There's a small store around the corner from here. We can buy an umbrella there and dry off at your place."

"If you're ok with that."

"There's nothing else we can do and it won't be good if either of us get sick. Gotta do what we gotta do to get dried off as quickly as possible."

"Yeah, you got a point."

The two girls finish their drinks and Y/n goes up to the counter and pays. Winter holds both of her jackets and waits by the entrance. They walk out together and quickly head to the general store around the corner. Y/n grabs one umbrella, pays for it and then heads back to Winter, who's again waiting by the entrance.

"Give it to me."

Y/n gives the umbrella to Winter as they walk outside. She opens it up and holds it over both of their heads as they start walking towards her friends house.

"Why don't you let me walk on the outside of the road this time?"

"No, you stay on that side." Winter says, bluntly.

"But what if a car comes by and splashes you again?"

"I'm more aware of my surroundings, so I can move us out of the way faster if that happens."

"What about earlier? You didn't move out of the way then."

Winter sighs.

"I shielded you, didn't I?"

Y/n goes quiet and looks down at her feet as she walks. Winter notices her silence and mentally scolds herself for not being good at relaying exactly what she wants to say.

"Besides, I'd be more comfortable if I was the one next to the road." Winter continues.

"Alright fine. Guess I can't really say anything if that's the reason."

Winter pats her head and they continue walking down the street towards Y/n's apartment.

"What if you let me hold the umbrella?" Y/n ask after a minute of silence.

"No, I'll hold the umbrella."

"Well, I want to help with something, too."

"You've done enough."

Y/n huffs while Winter stares at her and sighs.

"You really want to do something more?"

"Obviously..."

"Here."

Winter hands her jackets over to her sulking friend.

"This helps me."

Y/n smiles a goofy grin and giggles contently as she holds Winter's jackets close to her. Winter looks away and scratches her cheek. Y/n looks up at her and swears she saw a light pink color dust Winter's cheeks, but it was too dark outside for her to tell. They walk in silence for a few minutes.

"So, what do you want to do once we get back to my place?" Y/n asks.

"I just want to get warm, I don't care about anything else."

Y/n hums in response.

"Are you gonna stay the night then?"

"No." Winter replies, furrowing her brow at her friend.

"How come?"

"I'm not going to intrude on you."

"But you won't be! Besides, how are you going to get home without your motorcycle?"

"I'll manage."

"What if I force you to stay?"

"Well, then I wouldn't have a choice now, would I?"

A wide grin is placed on Y/n's face and she hugs Winter's arm as they walk.

"Then I guess that's what I'm going to have to do! I'm forcing you to stay over!"

Y/n giggles with excitement and starts skipping.

"You're that happy to force me to stay over?"

"Of course! It means we get to hangout longer!"

Winter stares at Y/n.

"You're weird."

Y/n giggles again.

Winter looks out at the street, watches the cars drive by and the people traveling to their destinations. She sees the many different expressions and judges their thoughts accordingly. Some enjoy the rain, some aren't fond of the weather and some just accepts this as a part of their life. Winter remembers that she doesn't like the rain, but finds she doesn't mind the gloomy weather at this moment. She feels a shiver come on, but the feeling immediately goes away, and her body starts to warm up without the need to shiver.

She listens to her friend hum the chorus over and over from a popular song in London right now. It's a song Winter isn't fond of, but she finds herself fighting the urge to hum along to the stupid song. She hears splashing at her feet, along with the pitter patter of rain echoing all around her, and looks down. Y/n has continued to jump in each puddle they come across again today, but Winter pays her no mind. Her friend grips her arm, for support, as she jumps in ever puddle. Winter doesn't mind it when the water splashes up onto her shoes, or even the bottom of her pants. In fact, she finds it more comical, than anything.

"If you keep skipping like that, you're going to slip and fall."

"No I won't, cause you'll catch me!"

"Will I?"

"Mh hm!"

Winter stays silent and after a few seconds, she starts moving her body weight downwards. Y/n doesn't notice until she jumps in another puddle and her grip on Winter's arm becomes unstable, from her change in posture, causing her to slip. Y/n shrieks and Winter holds her up with her arm to keep her from falling to the ground. She smacks Winter's shoulder annoyed as she spots a small smile creep up on Winter's lips.

"You did that on purpose!" Y/n yells annoyed.

"Maybe that'll teach you to be more careful." Winter says, chuckling.

"You're so mean, betraying my trust like that!"

"Well, I never told you to trust me."

"I know, but I wanted to trust you."

"I don't know why."

"Well, obviously cause you're such a good person... Somewhere."

Winter chuckles again at the "somewhere" part.

Winter stops walking and pulls her friend back, before she walks out from underneath the umbrella.

"Where are you going?" Winter asks.

"Huh? What do you mean? Aren't we going to my apartment?"

"Yeah, it's right here."

"What?"

Y/n turns her head and sees they're standing right next to her apartment building.

"Oh, yeah, you're right! Wow, I thought we would have to walk further."

"Well, we have been walking for a while." Winter replied.

"Have we? I never noticed. I guess I was having so much fun with you, time had gone by much faster. Do you ever get that?"

Winter hesitates to speak, but decided to just say what's on her mind.

"Yeah. I wasn't expecting the walk to go by that quickly, either. I almost walked past your apartment building, too."

"You and I are just so silly, huh?" Y/n giggles.

"No, being with you just lowers my IQ."

"What!? You can't say that! That's so mean!"

Y/n hits Winter's shoulder again. She chuckles as she watches her friends reaction.

"Come on, let's head inside and dry off. I'm so done with being cold and wet."

"Ok, let's go!"

Y/n holds onto Winter's arm again and they walk to the front entrance. When they get to the door, Winter closes the umbrella and continues to walk up to her friends small apartment. When the girls walk in the entryway, Y/n shuts the door behind them. They both sigh loudly, in unison, and then look at each other chuckling.

"Why don't you take a shower first?" Y/n suggests.

"I can't do that. You go take the first one."

"I don't have the energy to argue with you. Give me your clothes to wash and hop in the shower, right now." Y/n says sternly.

"O-ok." Winter says a little surprised.

She starts lifting her shirt up and Y/n stares at the curves in her sides and back. Winter's pale skin, how curvy she is, the placement of her veins and the thickness of her spine, Y/n takes a mental note of all of it. She even becomes jealous of the few droplets of water sliding down her back and disappearing in the fabric of her jeans. She wishes her fingers could feel Winter's skin, just like the rain that soaked her today.

Y/n realizes she's staring and the kind of thoughts she's having, so she immediately covers her eyes with her hands. She hears the sounds of Winter stripping down and the wet fabric pulling away from her skin. Y/n feels a tap on her arm, and while keeping her eyes closed, she holds out her arms and Winter lays her clothes over her arms.

"I'll get you a towel and a change of clothes as soon as I start the laundry." Y/n says.

"K."

She hears Winter's bare feet walk across the floor towards the bathroom. When Y/n hears the door shut, she opens her eyes and sighs. She then goes to her laundry room, shoves Winter's clothes into the washing machine and strips down to put her own clothes in as well. After starting the machine, she grabs two towels and wraps herself in one. She goes to her kitchen and fills her kettle with water and puts it on the stove. Then, goes to her room and grabs some comfy clothes for Winter before knocking on the bathroom door.

"Winter, I'm coming in!"

"That's fine."

Y/n walks in the bathroom.

"I'm putting a towel and some clean clothes here on the counter. I'm also boiling some water, so you can come and make a hot drink for yourself while I shower."

"Alright."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"I'm probably fine. I'm almost done in here."

"Ok, I'll give you privacy, then."

Y/n leaves the bathroom and starts collecting clothes for her to change into once she's finished with her shower. She sits on her bed as she waits for Winter to finish up. Winter exits the bathroom and heads towards the kitchen with a towel wrapped around her shoulders and Y/n goes in the bathroom to shower.

When Y/n gets out of the bathroom, she's dressed in comfy clothes and heads towards the kitchen and living room area. She spots the back of Winter's head, tilted slightly to the side. She makes herself some tea and heads to the couch.

As she comes around the corner, she starts laughing. She spots Winter, curled up on the far end of the couch, mouth slightly a gaped, bowl of cereal in her hands resting in between her knees and chest, and one of Y/n's thin blankets wrapped around her legs. Winter breathes in deeply and sits up straight, rubbing her eyes. She starts to continue eating.

"Did you fall asleep?" Y/n asks, still laughing.

She's never had the opportunity to see Winter in such a vulnerable state.

"No... At least... Not completely..." Winter says quietly.

Y/n sets her cup down on the coffee table and takes the damp towel from around Winter's shoulders and puts it in the laundry. She comes back and relaxes on the opposite side of the couch.

"Did you want to sleep?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You sure? I don't mind if you do. We had a long day, after all."

Winter takes a few bites of her cereal before answering.

"Maybe."

She finishes up her cereal and then puts the bowl on the coffee table in front of her. She motions Y/n to move closer to her. Instead, Y/n picks up the bowl and takes it to the sink. Winter starts to untangle herself from the blanket to try and get up.

"That's not what I meant for you to do. I was going to take care of it later."

"I know, just stay there. Now you don't have to worry about it later."

Winter leans back on the couch when she sees Y/n coming back.

"Where's your phone?" Y/n asks.

Winter pulls out her phone, that had fallen in-between her and the couch cushion, and shows it to Y/n. She dramatically snatches it from Winter's grasp and Winter looks surprised as she watches her friend walk back to the kitchen.

"What are you-"

Y/n pulls out a bowl and a bag of rice. She then takes Winter's phone out of its case and places it in a bowl. She pours the rice over the phone, making sure it's completely surrounded by rice.

"And now we wait."

"Are you performing some kind of voodoo over there?"

"Um... No? Putting your phone in rice can actually get the water out and fix your phone. At least, it's supposed to do that. Doesn't always work, though."

"You don't have to do that. I can always get a new phone."

"But then you'll lose the silly messages I've sent you! I know if it was me, I'd be sad if that happened. This way, we can say we did all we could to fix your phone."

Y/n goes back over to the couch, picks up her and Winter's cup of tea, which was also on the coffee table, and brings the two cups with her as she sits next to Winter. She gives Winter her cup and Winter moved the blanket so it's covering Y/n as well.

"You don't have to do things for me. I'm capable of doing them myself." Winter says, a little irritated.

"Oh, don't be like that. You always help me out, so I wanna help you, too. Besides, if I didn't try to help fix your phone, I'd feel somewhat responsible that it broke."

Winter purses her lips together and then takes a sip of her tea.

"Thanks." She says quietly.

Y/n smiles wide. Winter then picks up the TV remote next to her and tosses it into Y/n's lap.

"Why don't you turn on that show you like?"

Y/n thinks for a bit.

"The baking one?"

"Yeah."

"Well, why don't we watch what you want to watch?"

"Cause I don't care. Just turn it on."

"Ok, ok." Y/n chuckles.

She turns on the TV and starts playing The Great British Bake Off.

"These people are so stupid."

Y/n laughs at Winter's comment.

"That's why I like it."

"Oh, that's right, they're your people."

Y/n looks at Winter confused.

"But I'm American?"

"No, it's cause you're not the smartest person."

"Wha-! You are so mean to me, and for what?"

"Are you saying you're smarter than these people?"

"Obviously."

Winter looks at Y/n questioningly and sips from her mug.

"You think these people are smart enough to stick a wet phone in rice to fix it?"

Winter starts laughing as she sips from her mug and almost chokes on her tea.

"Please, do not die on me, I would literally cry."

"You don't want a crime scene here?"

"No! I do not!"

Winter giggles and buries her forehead into Y/n's shoulder.

"What in the world is wrong with you?" Y/n laughs.

"I don't know. I never stay awake when I'm this tired!"

"Then sleep! I literally do not mind!"

"No."

Winter starts giggling again.

"Oh my gosh."

Y/n shakes her head.

"Uhg! Why am I like this!?" Winter leans her head back and whines.

"I like this side of you. It's fun watching you act in a way you usually don't."

Winter buries her face into Y/n's lap and groans. Y/n giggles and runs her fingers through Winter's hair.

"That's nice."

"You like it when I run my fingers through your hair?"

"Mmh."

Winter reaches over and puts her cup on the coffee table and then points at it.

"Stay."

Winter then rolls over and points up at Y/n as she giggles.

"Ok, I'll make sure the cup stays." Y/n says as if she's talking to a child.

Winter's arm falls onto Y/n's lap, next to her head and then positions her legs so they're hanging over the side of the couch. Y/n fixes the blanket so it covers Winter and continues playing with her hair.

Winter stares into Y/n's face curiously.

"It's a shame that you don't know how pretty you are..."

Y/n immediately stops playing with Winter's hair and feels her cheeks heat up. She watches as Winter starts to relax down and her eyes fight to stay open. Y/n recomposes herself and turns off the TV, then continues to play with Winter's hair to help her fall asleep. Her breathing slows and her finger wraps around the hem of Y/n's shirt. She smiles and watches Winter for a while, before she starts falling asleep herself. One hand entangled in Winter's hair, other hand resting on the cup at her side. She couldn't have asked for a better day.

Later, Winter wakes up and crouches on the bathroom floor, cursing herself for acting the way she did before she fell asleep. She decided to pretend as if she never acted all 'cute' like that and swears to force herself to never act that way again for as long as she lives. She'll never speak a word of that moment to anyone and hopes Y/n will forget all about it. Although, Y/n will probably only want to talk about that one moment as soon as she wakes up....

[slumbergoblin]

Something I was working on for a bit :)c

A written thingie under the cut:

Betrayus comes home from school and locks himself up in his room. Stratos comes home later and notices he hasn’t seen Betrayus at all and goes upstairs to knock on his little brother’s door. No response.

Stratos knocks again and asks “Can I come in?”. There was silence for a little while until the door knob clicked. Stratos waited a minute before opening the door, slowly, finding his younger brother sitting on the side of his bed, looking at the floor. Stratos sat down besides Betrayus and folded his hands. “You alright?” Stratos asks. Betrayus gives him a little shrug without breaking eye contact with the floor. “Do you want to talk about it?“ Stratos asks again. Betrayus slowly shakes his head. There was silence between the two for what felt like forever to Betrayus. For Stratos, it was more like 8 minutes. Stratos then got an idea; he looks at Betrayus and asks “Have you eaten yet?” Betrayus finally looked away from the floor; his interest was piqued. He hadn’t eaten a single thing since he had gotten home. Stratos nods his head towards the door and says “Come on.“ He got up and walked out the door.  Betrayus hesitated before getting up to follow after his brother. (This was all I could manage with writing. Basically it just goes like “Stratos(18) takes Betrayus(14) out to a Diner at 11 PM to make him feel better” and yeah! It does make Betrayus feel better! Betrayus even does the whole “kid pretends to be asleep so they can be carried back inside by their guardian” thing after they get home)