#and he's crashing out to him and dumping all the torrent of thoughts he wanted to confess to him for sooo long...peak gothic

[borgialucrezia]

he's too clingy and pathetic that even cesare knows what he truly feels for him and that he'd drop everything with zero hesitation the moment he hears his brother wants to talk to him despite every encounter between them ending in a clash

[cannonfullofcanons]

         ‎‎‎‎‎Ichigo actually picking up was a surprise, but the near-immediate question as to whether she needed anything was no surprise at all. It was typical of him; always more worried about others than himself. She'd never admit it, not to his face, but Tatsuki had always admired that about Ichigo. Even if she would, at a moment's notice, give him grief for not taking more care of himself.

         ‎‎‎‎‎She doesn't answer right away. There was so much she wanted to say to him; a simultaneous desire to chew him out & to thank him, for so many things. She also wanted to ask if anyone else had bothered to reach out. If anyone checked on him. To make sure he was okay. A feeling she can't quite identify surges through her, just for a fleeting instant; anger, melancholy, or a somber sentimentality, she didn't know. Ordinarily, she'd put on a front, act like she was fine and play it off, but she didn't especially want to try tonight.

         ‎‎‎‎‎"Hey, Ichigo. Sorry for calling so late." There's irritation, but also a rattled weariness to her tone that she's only scarcely let show before, and previously, only in front of Orihime. She hated showing weakness, but if she couldn't trust Ichigo, who could she trust? "I, uh... I've been better. I've got this seriously bad feeling, and I really don't want to be alone. But I also wanted to check on you. We haven't talked in a while, and..." And what, Tatsuki? Where are you going with this? Mental chastise given for not planning this through better, for not bothering to think ahead. But why should she need to with one of her oldest friends?

         ‎‎‎‎‎Really, had it been so long that talking to him didn't feel so natural anymore? That it had almost become difficult to start a conversation? That thought hurt - she didn't know why. But it did. She wanted to ask him to come over, or to meet her somewhere, but everyone else was always asking things of him. Often asking too much, in her opinion, but that wasn't a rabbit hole worth digging into. But knowing how much was already consistently on his plate, was it really right for her to drag him somewhere in the middle of the night, with everything else he had to deal with? In spite of herself, she wanted to help him for a change, if she could. Of course, that was assuming he would accept help; she knew how stubborn he could be. Still, it wouldn't do to just let silence hang on the line. She had to continue.

         ‎‎‎‎‎Clearing her throat, she pushed through - speaking aloud the first thing that came to mind. "...Are you okay, Ichigo? I mean - you're always so strong, and you shouldn't have to be, y'know?" So much more followed, a torrent of thoughts, like ocean waves, crashing through her mind. But none of these were spoken; it was all too much to dump on him out of the blue. She already felt she was overstepping, being rude by calling so late. Why add onto that further?

LONELINESS. It was a terrible thing & something that would sneak up on him from time to time-- an unpleasant, unwanted feeling making him want to do nothing but curl up into a ball in his room & cry. & sometimes, he did do just that-- But it never really helped. Crying never solved anything, if anything it just made him feel WORSE.

But he couldn't help it. Even though the logical solution to making the lonely feeling go away might be reaching out to a friend, venting, that had never been easy for him. He'd lost his mother at such a young age & since then he'd had to learn how handle things on his own, he'd had to grow up too soon--

& at this point calling out for help just felt downright wrong for him. Weird. So unlike him because he was used to being the one helping people ( the HERO ), & never the one being helped by anybody. & that was no one's fault but his own, truly. He pushed people away, he refused to let them in to help, to pull him out of this DARKNESS that threatened to swallow him sometimes. He didn't always do that on purpose, it was just... So automatic at this point.

It was the only way he knew how to deal with complicated emotions.

He'd been lying in bed awake for a good few hours ( his mind having decided to be particularly mean to him tonight ) when he heard his phone ring on the desk by his bed-- he looked at it, his hand immediately reaching out to grab it because if someone was calling so late at night, surely something bad had come up, right? ( ANXIETY made his heart beat faster ).

The caller ID read Tatsuki, making him furrow his eyebrows. He hadn't talked to her in... A long time. Was she okay? He hoped so.

"Tatsuki? What's up? Is everything okay? Do you need anything?"

[sergeantsporks]

writing request: hunter being comforted by camila + him being able to enjoy the rain, plus a little bit of protective big brother instincts over gus? :D/nf

“Hey, what was that?”

Hunter glanced over at Camila, tossing his old clothes into the washing machine. “What was… what?”

“Down in the basement last night. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Gus, but…”

That wasn’t helpful. “…the broken snowglobe? I’m… I’m really sorry, it fell out of the wrapping Gus was fiddling with, we didn’t mean to—”

“No, Hunter, I mean… the kneeling?”

Hunter squinted. She HAD seemed uncomfortable with it.  “…I… apologize?” he tried.

“Oh, I didn’t… you don’t need to say sorry, I just… was wondering why?”

“Why…?”

“Why you’d do it?”

“You provided us with shelter and safety. I was expressing gratitude. I just assumed—we are unexpected guests, I thought it was best to be polite. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“No—Hunter, sweetheart, I already said you don’t have to apologize. It’s okay.” Camila measured a white, grainy substance into the machine. “How are you feeling? Sore anywhere? Cuts healing up alright?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Thank you, don’t worry, I’ve had much worse injuries, hardly even hurrrrrrrrttssssss hi.”

Camila had reached out towards him, but as he shied away, she withdrew her hand. “Sorry, I just… you’re safe here, okay, Hunter?”

“Oh,” Hunter said simply. He turned back towards the washer, even though he didn’t have any more clothes to put in. “Okay.” He gripped the top of the washer. “Okay,” he repeated, blinking rapidly, “Okay. Okay.”

“Ay,” Camila muttered to herself, “Creo que lo rompí. Hunter?”

“You promise?” The words escaped before he could stop them, and he flinched at the questioning tone.

“Yeah,” Camila said softly, “I promise.”

“Okay.”

Stop saying that, stop saying that, stop saying that!

“Thank you,” he managed, “Uh—that’s okay, right? Just saying thank you, no kneeling?”

Camila smiled. “That’s perfect. But you don’t need to thank me, not for this. I’m happy to help. And if you, or any of the other kids need something…”

“I’ll let you know,” Hunter promised, slipping out of the laundry room. He went outside, leaning on the porch railing. The rain was still coming down in torrents, turning the ground to sludge.

The door opened and closed, and Gus charged out, wearing a bright yellow jacket and matching boots. Hunter instinctively snagged his collar just before he ran out into the rain, yanking him back. “Whoa, careful!”

Gus yipped. “Hey!” he twisted around in Hunter’s grip. “Human rain, remember? We walked here in it.”

Hunter let go of the jacket. “Yeah, sorry. Force of habit.”

Gus took a running leap off of the porch, splashing down into a puddle. “WHOO!” He kicked up water. “This is never going to get old! C’mon, Hunter!”

“Mmmm, I don’t kn—”

Gus kicked another puddle, sending a wave of water up on the porch and soaking Hunter’s socks.

“Hey!”

Hunter stripped his already-soaked socks off and ran out after Gus, grabbing the branch of a tree and shaking it violently. Water scattered out of the tree and splashed all over Gus, who yelped. “AH! COLD!”

He kicked another wave of water at Hunter, but Hunter skipped backwards to avoid it. “Nice try. Can’t get me with the same trick tw—”

Gus appeared behind him, and dumped an old flowerpot full of water on his head with a snicker. Cold water crashed down on Hunter’s head, soaking him instantly. Hunter yelped and cringed, his shoulders hunching. “Cheater,” he sputtered.

Gus laughed, then fled into the house and safety before Hunter could react. Hunter squished his way back up to the porch, shaking his head to dislodge the water from his head. He leaned on the porch railing again, shivering.

It’s so cold.

Hunter reached out, feeling the cold raindrops sting his palm.

“I always liked the sound of rain.”

Hunter jumped as Camila came to stand out next to him. “Hi!” He settled back on the railing. “I didn’t want to go inside soaking wet.”

She handed him a towel. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Hunter toweled off his head and feet, and wrapped the towel around his shoulders. “It boils in the demon realm. The rain, I mean.”

“So I’ve heard. Sounds like it’s pretty dangerous there.”

“It is.” Hunter shrugged. “It’s not all bad, though. There’s a lot of good stuff that came from there. Like Flapjack. And Gus and Willow.”

“And you.”

“I’m pretty dangerous.”

Then again, so was Willow. Gus, too, if he had a mind to be. Maybe everything from the isles was dangerous.

“Doesn’t mean you’re not good, too.” Camila leaned on the porch next to him. “Luz was… happy? In the demon realm?”

“Oh. I…” Hunter scratched the back of his neck. “Luz and I… we weren’t on very good terms until recently. I, uh.” He coughed. “Ikindasortatriedtokillher,” he said in a rush, staring out into the rain. “Sorry.”

“I know,” Camila said evenly, “Luz told me.”

Hunter’s shoulders tensed up. “Oh.”

“That’s why I wanted your opinion. Of course her school friends will think she was happy, and will want her to keep going. But you became her friend during the worst of it.”

Hunter traced the grain of the railing. “Luz… Luz loves the Boiling Isles. And… she’s done a lot of good there. She saved me from Belos. Twice.” Hunter rubbed his coven brand. “If it weren’t for her, I would have died on the day of unity with everyone else, still trusting Belos to have the right plan.”

“I had her promise she wouldn’t go back,” Camila murmured, “But I’m starting to think that was too hasty. I can see how much she misses it, even only back for a day.”

“Yeah.”

Does she want to go back, though?

She thinks the day of unity is her fault.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Of course I do. I’ve lived there my whole life!”

“Doesn’t mean it’s home.”

Hunter twisted his hands around each other. “I don’t have a home. I… I thought I did. But that’s gone now. I just… the boiling isles is what I know. Or—well… I guess I don’t know how the Collector’s changed it.” He sighed, staring out into the rain. “I guess I don’t know what I want.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Hm.”

“No, you will,” Camila insisted, “It’ll be when you least expect it. But suddenly, you’ll just know.”

Hunter twisted his head to look at her. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 4,705 Dean x Reader Summary: Bobby hatches a plan to try to get you and Dean to reconcile after months apart. Warnings: None! A/N: Angsssst and then a happy ending. What more could one ask for?

Your name: submit What is this?

Dean turned when he heard a car door slamming across the yard and he immediately recognized the vehicle. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin and glared at Bobby, who was clearly pretending he hadn’t noticed your arrival and was making himself busy flipping the burgers on the grill.

“Bobby? Are you kidding me?”

Bobby glanced over at Dean carelessly. “What?”

“You called her? Really?” You were making your way up to the house and Dean thought your posture looked stiff.

“Oh, calm down, son. Not everything revolves around you. I lent her some gear and she’s just bringing it back.”

Dean chewed his bottom lip and glared at the back of Bobby’s head. “Uh huh. Uh huh, she just happens to be bringing it back the day I show up here with Sam.”

Bobby smirked to himself. “I don’t know what’s got your panties in a twist but it seems like maybe you have some unresolved issues to deal with…”

“Bobby,” Dean growled.

He finally turned and vehemently pointed at Dean with the spatula. “No. Now you listen to me. You two idjits belong together and everyone knows it. Figure it out!” he spat, before casually turning back around to the grill.

Your boot scuffing on the gravel finally forced him and Bobby to turn. You had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to crash the barbeque. You didn’t tell me you had company,” you said pointedly to Bobby. Dean thought he saw you swallow hard and you looked about as uncomfortable as he felt.

“Must have slipped my mind,” Bobby said, giving you a tight smile.

“Mhmm… I’m sure,” you said. You dropped the duffel bag with a heavy thud onto the porch and couldn’t keep your eyes from landing on him any longer—Dean was standing there with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and although it had been quite a long time since you had seen him, the expression on his face was one you still could readily decode. He was supremely uncomfortable. Bobby was looking back and forth between the two of you but finally turned back to the grill. You were about to open your mouth to say something when the front door swung open and Sam wandered out. He had a novel in one hand and an apple in the other and the slam of the screen door matched perfectly with the struck expression of surprise on his face to see you standing there so unexpectedly. The next moment he was grinning at you and before you could say anything he had you wrapped in a big bear hug, squeezing you tight enough that a little exhaled “Oof!” escaped your lips.

“Y/N! I didn’t—Bobby didn’t tell us—it’s so great to see you!” he said drawing back and taking you in, looking you over. His expression was so open and earnest and warm, just as you remembered, that you couldn’t help smiling back at him despite your annoyance at Bobby’s obvious scheming and the residual anger you felt toward Dean, with a heaping side of discomfort.

“Yeah, well Bobby forgot to mention you’d be here, too,” you said. Sam could hear the edge of tension in your voice and the swell of happiness he had on seeing you began to sink as he glanced over at Dean, trying to read his older brother’s mood. Dean was avoiding looking at you, mainly staring down at his boots.

An uncomfortable silence settled until you cleared your throat awkwardly and picked up the duffel bag again. “Well, I guess I’ll just go dump your gear in the house, Bobby, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“What? No! Y/N, you can’t leave. We haven’t seen you in forever,” Sam pleaded.

Bobby was pulling the last burger off the grill and he looked over at you with an obnoxious little uptick at one corner of his mouth. “I already counted you in for dinner so you have to stay or it’ll go to waste.”

You gave him a knowing look. “Go to waste? You’ve got a fridge. And two giant men visiting. It’ll get eaten or keep just fine…”

“Y/N, you can’t leave,” Sam said again. You made the mistake of meeting his eyes and goddammit, you didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose but those fucking puppy eyes. You couldn’t say no to that expression.

You sighed heavily and passed a hand over your brow, shaking your head a little at yourself for what you were about to agree to. “Alright… I’ll stay for dinner, but that’s it!” you said, vehemently pointing at Sam, who grinned triumphantly.

“Good. Now get on in the house. Sam’s already got the table ready, so we’ll just set an extra place. Dean—” Bobby held the laden burger plate out to him. “Take this in. I’ll be there in a minute. I’m just gonna clean off the grill.”

“Uhh… alright,” Dean said begrudgingly. He followed you and Sam into the house, his apprehension growing. He wanted more than anything to let his eyes wander over you there in front of him, in the flesh, not just some image conjured in his mind late at night when he couldn’t quite drown out his regrets with whiskey or blaring rock music.

“Beer?” Sam asked, opening the fridge.

You heard footsteps behind you and turned, meeting Dean’s striking green eyes for the first time and awkwardly sidestepping out of his way so he could get to the table. He tore his eyes from yours quickly and you felt that familiar twist in your stomach. “Umm, got anything stronger?” you asked, with a wry laugh.

“Stronger?” Sam repeated. “This is Bobby’s house,” he said, walking across the kitchen and opening up a cabinet which was stocked with liquor. “What can I get you?” Sam asked.

“Rye whiskey, neat.” You and Dean had both said it at the same time and your mouth fell slightly open in surprise. He was straightening up from setting down the tray of burgers and this time when he met your eyes he didn’t pull them away.

He smoothed a hand down his shirt and you thought you saw the muscle in his jaw tense. “Sorry,” he murmured.

You just vaguely shook your head. It was the first time he’d really spoken since you had arrived and it was to recite your drink choice as if he had been sitting next to you sipping them in the evening in front of a log fire just the day before. In reality it had been months and months and months since you had even spoken to each other.

Sam watched the extended gaze between the two of you, the air in the room feeling thicker by the second and he thought about making some excuse to leave, but Bobby was expected in at any moment anyway so he cleared his throat and busied himself with a glass and the whiskey. “Comin’ right up.”

“Umm—” Your eyes were still connected with Dean’s and he was finding it hard to look anywhere else now that he had started studying you. “I’m just gonna—jacket…” Dean said, starting to take off his coat and heading out of the kitchen toward the front room. You didn’t want to admit it but just the sound of his voice, deep and somewhat gruff, was threatening to make you weak at the knees. It conjured images in your mind of lost times that were both precious but also now profoundly painful now that they had passed.

When Sam next looked up, you were standing stock straight in the middle of the room, staring in the direction Dean had gone with a queer expression on your face. It was questioning and a bit sad, but Sam noted that there was no hostility. “Here you go,” he said, breaking the spell you seemed to be under and handing you a small tumbler with your drink.

“Oh. Thanks,” you said, accepting it gratefully from him and immediately taking a big gulp.

Sam’s brow furrowed slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Me?” you asked in surprise. You constructed the most casual expression you could and shrugged. “Yeah. Fine. Just… I don’t know what the hell Bobby was thinking—”

“Well, you could ask me yourself,” he said, rushing into the kitchen.

“Good. Fine. What the hell do you think this is going to accomplish?” you asked him in a hurried undertone.

“What? Dinner? Well, I think we’ll all be a bit less hungry at the end of it,” he said, clearly snarky on purpose.

You shut your eyes and gritted your teeth against the wave of annoyance. “You know that isn’t what I mean.”

Bobby sank into the chair at the head of the table. “Dean! Get your hide in here! Time to eat!” He turned his eyes to you again. “Y/N, are you going to join us or are you just—going to run away? Again.” He knew what he was saying. He knew that would get you fired up. And it did. You opened your mouth to argue, feeling another swell of exasperation rising up inside you but Dean was breezing into the kitchen again and taking a seat at the table, leaving the only empty chair the one right between him and Bobby. You felt like the wind just went out of your sails and Bobby smirked at you from his seat.

You bit your tongue and sank into the empty chair.

Dinner was composed almost entirely of Sam and Bobby asking questions of you and you and Dean avoiding looking at each other. You answered the queries as succinctly as you could until Sam finally found something to crack open the hard shell you were holding around yourself.

“Y/N, what happened here?” he asked, pointing to his own forehead above his right eyebrow with a vertical slashing motion. “You didn’t have that scar before, did you?”

Dean’s eyes shot over to your face immediately and you actually froze with your glass halfway to your lips, the next moment setting it back down without any thought of a sip. You cleared your throat and pressed your napkin to your lips briefly, almost as an excuse to hide part of your face for a moment as you steeled yourself against the involuntary torrent of residual fear. “No. No, that one is new.” You had sincerely hoped that Sam would allow you to leave it at that but, of course, he didn’t. And you could feel Dean’s eyes drifting over your face and sense his… apprehension? Concern?

“What happened?” Sam asked, his eyes now narrowed a little in genuine concern too.

“Just a hunting souvenir,” you said, trying to manage your tone so it sounded casual. You avoided everyone’s eyes.

Bobby was considering your body language carefully. He was debating about pressing you further. He could see that there was real fear surrounding that memory. Not only did he now want to know what had happened, but he knew this would break down both you and Dean’s constructed walls. What would be better at getting the dialogue going than vulnerability? “What was the monster?” Bobby asked.

You couldn’t avoid such a direct question without it being blatantly obvious. “Vamp nest,” you said, staring down at your plate. You felt like you couldn’t breathe. The familiar tunneling at the edge of your vision warned of a panic attack and you stood up abruptly, the movement emphasized by the groaning of your wooden chair on the floor. “I need some air.” You practically ran out the front door and onto the porch, leaning heavily on the railing and trying to force your heart and lungs to slow. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re fine. Just bad memories.

Inside, Dean was staring down the hallway where you disappeared and Sam and Bobby exchanged a concerned look, both now feeling a little guilty for pressing you. Something had happened on that hunt, more than the usual bumps and bruises.

Dean felt a familiar tightness in the center of his chest and even reached a hand up to absently rub at it to no effect. “Someone should go make sure she’s okay,” he said, turning back around to look at his little brother.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Sam agreed, but he made no move to get up. Dean’s eyes next landed on Bobby.

“I agree with Sam,” he said pointedly, also stubbornly leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

Dean’s jaw tense and the muscle twitched. “Oh, come on. I can’t—I’m probably the last person she wants to talk to right now,” he growled.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just leave her out there alone,” Bobby said, reaching for his beer. “She’s a grown up. She’s tough. She’ll be fine.” Dean was stubborn, but so was Robert Singer.

Sam was almost ready to cave and go check on you when Dean stood up abruptly, the same groan from his chair mimicking the one yours had made, swearing under his breath. You heard footsteps coming up the hall and the familiar sound of the squeaky screen door and straightened up. You were surprised to see Dean when you turned.

“Oh—” The noise of surprise escaped your lips involuntarily and Dean shrugged in response.

“Yep. It’s me. …sorry,” he said.

Your heart had slowed mostly back to its usual steady pace and you just stared at the older Winchester for a long moment. The silence was awkward, tense, and you found yourself wondering how long it was going to go on.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stole fleeting glances at your expression. He had to clear his throat. Why did it feel so suddenly constricted. “Umm—are you okay? You left kind of suddenly in there?”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, his lips pressing together in a thin line, the corners turning downward. “Good. …okay.”

You expected him to leave, having done the bare minimum to check on you, but he just went on standing there. So, you just went on waiting… for what felt like an eternity. You had a feeling that he was teetering on the edge of saying something and you gave him an inquisitive look, one of your eyebrows lifting of its own accord.

Finally, his green eyes rose from staring at his boots and landed on your face. He seemed to decide something in that moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“… ‘it’?”

“The hunt. How you got that fresh scar?” he asked, inclining his chin and his eyes flashing toward what had obviously been a good gash on your forehead.

You turned away from him again, trying hard to suppress the flash of fear you felt from changing your expression, and leaned on the railing again, looking out over the junkyard. “Not really,” you murmured.

“Not really or just not to me?” he asked. You were a little surprised at his bluntness and turned to look at him again, but you didn’t say anything. You straightened up again and after giving him one last, long look you sighed.

“I, uhh… I think I’m just gonna head out,” you said. “This was—whatever Bobby was thinking, I just—I’m gonna go.”

You could see Dean chewing the inside of his cheek, nodding ever so slightly, his lips pressed together again. When he spoke there was an edge to his voice. “Sure. Go. I guess the good thing is I’m not surprised this time,” he said.

You felt like you’d been punched in the gut and the air rushed out of your lungs like it had been forced. “What?”

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? You run. When things get hard, you leave. How many other people have you left in your wake in the past six months, hmm? And here I am, fucking stupid enough to somehow experience it twice. Well, at least this one is mostly on Bobby.”

You were breathing fast and hard now, anger and hurt boiling in your chest. “I ran? That’s what you think happened? I just—I just up and ran? Dean Winchester is the sole victim.”

“No, I—”

“It couldn’t have had anything to do with the person I cared about more than anything else in this world lying to me, for months, and betraying my trust over and over again. No, that wasn’t it!” Your tone was dangerous and rising in volume along with your anger.

“I never said that I didn’t fuck up!” Dean roared back. “But you didn’t stick around long enough to even try to fix it—so I obviously,” his jaw clenched, “we obviously didn’t mean that much to you if you were able to just go tearing off like you did!”

You stared at him, incensed at his accusation. Your fists were clenched so tight your fingernails were digging into your palms, and you didn’t give a shit that Sam and Bobby could probably hear every single word.

“I couldn’t even get you on the goddamn phone,” Dean said. “You were just gone! Do you know what Sam and I thought? For months, we thought you were going to go barreling into something and get yourself killed, which is what started this whole thing in the first place! And now you show up here with that new scar on your forehead—what the hell have you been doing? A vamp nest? Jesus, Y/N, do you think you’re fucking invincible? You need back up!”

You broke your dangerous silence violently. “I had fucking back up! I had back up!” you yelled, sounding almost desperate. Dean’s anger broke at that exact moment and he watched you turn away from him again, slumping your weight down onto the railing. “I had fucking back up…” you said quietly.

Dean’s mind was whirring and he had a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach.

You were staring down at your clasped hands. “You really think all I do is run? That’s what you think of me? Well, guess what? I didn’t. My hunter partner, one of my oldest friends, got caught and he tried to tell me to get out and I didn’t. I stayed. And you know what happened? They killed him in front of me and they turned me. I woke up with my head split open and the worst—I somehow managed to fight the bloodlust, murder those sons of bitches, and give myself the cure.” You sighed heavily, hanging your head and shutting your eyes, before straightening up again and looking at Dean. He thought he saw tears starting glisten in your eyes. “So, running or staying, I guess I can’t win.”

Dean was at a loss… He had said so much in hurt, in anger. He felt like a complete jackass. “Y/N, I—”

But you interrupted him and held up a hand. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t want to fight with you, Dean. I’m just… I’m just frickin’ tired. From all of it.” You stepped past him and grasped the screen door handle when he interrupted you again.

“No,” he said suddenly, forcefully. “No. This time I’m not just gonna let you go.” There was a fire suddenly blazing in his green eyes, making it look like the hues in his irises were dancing.

“Let me?”

“That was maybe the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life,” he said. “And I don’t care if you don’t want to fight with me, I want to fight with you. Because I can’t go on like this, pretending that I’ve just moved on and that I’m fine with you not being in my life anymore because I’m not. I have to try. So, let’s fight. And, if at the end of it, you still don’t want anything to do with me, I can—I can try and live with that, because at least I’ll know I tried.”

You peered at him in bewilderment, your hand still on the screen door, but slowly your fingers slipped from it and the glassiness in your eyes returned as you looked at him. “You hurt me so badly—”

“I know. And you’re right about everything you said. I betrayed your trust. I lied to you for months, and the whole time Sam was telling me I was being a fucking idiot, and, God, I hate it when he’s right…” Dean gulped and stepped a little closer to you. He wanted so much to break that space barrier between you, just to touch your arm… just to hold your hand. “And if I could go back and do it over again, I wouldn’t be so insecure and so—so terrified. I would do it all differently. But at least allow me to explain to you—” he sighed in frustration. All his words were trying to come out at once. “I thought that because I was trying to protect you that it was justified. I didn’t—I didn’t—” he let out a frustrated growl at himself, that he couldn’t find the words. “Relationships are a partnership. We were a team. And I went completely against that and I made decisions for me and for you without including you. I see that now. And I’m so, so sorry. But then you just left… you just—” Dean felt like his voice was about to break and stopped. “And that hurt me more than I even allowed myself to realize at the time.”

Your face softened as you looked at him, the evening now wearing on and the diminishing light making his eyes look deeply emerald. Dean watched your lips part a little in a soft frown, saw your shoulders fall a little.

“Everyone leaves,” he said, and in that moment you saw the little kid in him, simply afraid of losing again and again and again. “One way or another everyone leaves and I just—I never thought that it would be you.”

That stung like a hot knife between your lungs and you felt off balance. The silence stretched for a long moment before you broke it with a heavy sigh. “To be fair, neither did I,” you said. You squeezed your eyes shut along with one of your fists. “I was just so angry and so—it was my fight! And you took that away from me. And I can’t get that back. Can you imagine if I had done that to you? What if I had gone off and killed the thing that killed your mom or your dad without you? And had lied about it to you for months?”

“I know,” Dean said, and took a step toward you. “And I’m so sorry.”

You sighed again, feeling like the last of your walls had just come tumbling down, like Dean had pulled one brick out from the bottom and the whole structure collapsed. “Me too.” You realized that, in a way, by leaving as you did you had betrayed his trust in turn.

“Y/N, you have to know that you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. Every day. Still. Always.”

You felt yourself, your resolve, crumbling further. Dean took another step toward you. “If you don’t feel anything for me anymore, then—please, just tell me right now and I swear I won’t—I won’t bother you again. And I’ll tell Bobby where he can shove his meddling."

You could only gulp nervously and go on looking back at him, the eye contact between the two of you magnetic. You wondered at how earlier in the evening you could barely look at each other and now you couldn’t stop. You felt tears stinging your eyes again and let out a wry laugh, blinking them away. “You’re an idiot,” you said through a teary smile.

Dean stepped a bit closer, his eyes not leaving your face. “I know.”

“This isn’t all just magically fixed—”

“I know,” he said again, his voice now a bit breathy. He was so close you swore you could almost feel the deep timbre in your chest, feel the heat of him, the weight of him.

You stared at him and only had one more second of indecision before you gave in. “Well… kiss me, you idiot.”

Dean didn’t need telling twice. You collided as if you hadn’t spent any time apart. Dean’s arm wrapped around your lower back and his other hand tangled in your hair. The kiss was fierce, insistent and you felt like you were clay softening in a sculptor’s hands. It was blissful to be melting into him again. It felt like you had been underwater for months and were finally able to come up for air. Dean was your air and you drew in deep lungfuls. He deepened the kiss and his hand pressed harder on your lower back, pushing you into him, your body arching against his. He clasped your face and kissed you desperately. Slowly his lips softened on yours and became pleading, gentle, and finally he pulled away slightly and heaved in a deep breath, leaning his forehead against yours, both of you breathless with your eyes closed. Your fingers trailing lightly down his back were familiar and felt like home. Your arm around his neck was comforting, safe. He pulled back so he could look into your eyes and your heart leaped at being able to study his eyes and count the freckles on his nose and cheeks.

“God, I missed you,” he said softly.

You smiled a little at him, still a little overwhelmed. “I missed you.”

His face turned suddenly serious again and he placed a kiss gently on the new scar on your forehead before meeting your eyes again. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that—and I’m—I’m really sorry about your friend.”

Your eyes fell. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Dean’s hands were resting gently on your hips now and you took in another deep breath, just thinking of how much time you had wasted when you should have been right there with him… True, there was work to be done, trust to be repaired, but this felt like someone had just turned on the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Suddenly, hushed voices just inside drew both of your attention and you caught a glimpse of Bobby shouldering Sam out of the way and both of them trying to sneak back up the hallway, rather unsuccessfully.

You laughed and pressed a hand to your forehead. “Oh no…”

Dean gave you a comical look. “This is going to go right to Bobby’s head.”

“He’s going to go on a total power trip,” you agreed.

“Ehh… honestly, I think given the consequences of his actions I’m kind of okay with it.”

You stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Dean pulled you in for another kiss before you could set your heels back down…

[catracorner962]

Glitra Week Day Six: Underprepared Camping Trip

Written for Glitra Week on Tumblr even though it is well past a week! Adora convinces the Best Friend Squad to go camping. They haven't even reached the campsite when the canoe tips over.

Glimmer whipped sweat from her face, muscles aching. The afternoon sun bearing down on her back. She squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position to paddle.

Add this to the list of things Adora has dragged me into.

She reminisced with a mixture of irritation and begrudging fondness.

“We’re almost there guys!” Said friend shouted from the front of the canoe. 

“Just keep paddling!”

“I think my arms are going to fall off,” Bow complained, though Glimmer could hardly see him over the large bags of tents, cooking supplies and sleeping bags.

“We’d get there faster if we had everyone paddling!” Glimmer quipped, driving her paddle into the water with more force than necessary. Their third paddler answered with a non-committal groan, curling herself into a ball between the camping stove and the food cooler.

“Catra! We need three people to paddle! Get your oar, let’s go!” Glimmer shoved her with the corner of her foot irritably. Catra snarled, baring pointed teeth, ears pinned to the back of her head but she made no move to do anything.

“We’re almost there!” Adora encouraged, “it’s just around that bend! I think I can see it!”

“Mmmmghhh that’s what you said about the last  three bends,” Catra whined, trying to twist herself tighter in the low slinking belly of the canoe.

She does have a point... Glimmer had to concede, tightening her grip around the paddle and shoving forward. The waters lapped, sparkling with each thrust of Bow and Glimmer’s rowing.

“Hssss!!” Catra bolted upright, a splash of water sprinkling over her. The boat teetered.

“Aaaah! Catra! Sit down!” Glimmer shrieked, bags began to fall, out and every which way. Bow and Adora scrambled to get them, even as the canoe teetered. It jostled too and throw,  water coming in over the sides.  

Teleport! Teleport N…

Glimmer shrieked, toppling over with a dozen bags into the frigid water. She kicked, waving her arms in an attempt to get to the surface. Something grabbed at her, tight and sharp. Claws wracked into her arms. She kicked harder, striving for the surface.

“B...Bow! A...Adora! Are you O..”

Catra’s weight threatened to shove her down once more but Glimmer tilted her head upward, desperate to keep nose and mouth above the choppy water. Catra’s arms were around her shoulders, their legs tangled. Glimmer tossed and turned, fumbling for any sort of purchase.

“We’re good! We’re here!” Adora’s breathy shouts sounded over Catra’s incessant snarling. Glimmer tried to turn her head towards the shore line where Adora and Bow had managed to push the canoe.

“Get off’a me!” Glimmer attempted to free herself from the frenzied feline but Catra’s claws were unrelenting. She winced at the sight of blood in the water.

“Catra you’re hurting me! Can’t you swim!” Glimmer tried to teleport, but between the treading water and trying to keep herself from drowning she couldn’t focus.

“Glimmer! Catra! Hold on!” Glimmer turned to see Bow fire an arrow towards them, Glimmer struggled to grab it, hoping it wouldn’t snap.

“Ahhh!!” Catra continued to scream, her entire body shaking as she tried to push herself up, away from the water.

“Stop it! You’re going to drown us!”

“N...No!” Catra coughed out water, as Bow and Adora tugged them to shore. “No! P...p...please...don’t..”

“Catra?” Glimmer tried to crane her neck to the side to see the feline girl. Her miss-matched eyes were wide, glossed over. Almost unseeing...a shiver ran up Glimmer's spine.

“Ju...just hand on a sec...if you stop moving I can teleport us the rest of the way.” Glimmer closed her eyes, keeping her grip on the rope even as Bow and Adora tugged them in. Sparkles surrounded her, the feeling of being lifted out of the water, and then…

“Are you two okay?” Adora hovered over as Glimmer opened her eyes, now on solid ground.

“Y...yeah,” she answered, looking over at Catra who had, at long last, detached herself from Glimmer’s shoulders.

“Well, we got to our campsite!” Adora announced triumphantly.

“Tsch, I can’t believe people do this for fun,” Catra growled, shaking out her hair. It was still growing out somewhat, near the length of her shoulders now.

“It WILL be fun! We just have to get set up!”

---

Much to Glimmer’s chagrin “just setting up,” turned out to be three hours of salvaging any supplies that weren’t soaking wet and scrambling together to get the tents set up. Well, one tent. They had only packed one.

“I thought we were going to bring two tents! Two people per tent!”

“Oh...yeah...we were supposed to bring two, weren’t we?” Adora stared at the mess of poles. They cobbled it together well enough after three or four tries.

“We should probably make a fire right? Those clouds don’t look too friendly.” Bow pointed towards the tree-lined horizon. Glimmer grumbled, having just changed into dry clothes.

“First the canoe flips and now it’s going to rain?” Catra screeched, tail on end.

“It’s going to be fine!” Adora steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, “we will eat some warm food and then all head into the tent and snuggle up!”

The warm food turned out to be cold, as neither Bow nor Adora or even Glimmer herself could get a fire going before the rain set in. Catra, sensing it coming, ears flicking, dumped her cold chili on the ground and headed into the tent ahead of them.

What is up with her? I know this camping trip has been a disaster but even Catra isn’t usually this angry.

Glimmer finished her food, more for Adora’s sake than anyone else's, and headed into the tent as pelts of water began to bounce off the leaves above.

“Umm we got another problem,” Bow pointed out as they all scrunched together. The flimsy tent vibrated in the harsh wind.

“What now?!” Adora exclaimed from her place beside Glimmer her ever positive facade quickly slipping.

“We only have three sleeping bags.”

“I thought you were in charge of packing!

Bow bristled, even his patience was beginning to wear off, and honestly, Glimmer couldn’t blame him.

“I….!”

“It’s fine, I don’t need a sleeping bag,” Catra commented dryly. She’d hardly spoken since she and glimmer were pulled out of the water.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t see any of you covered in fur.”  

Too tired to argue the point, they slipped into their respective sleeping bags, with Catra sprawling over their feet. It would’ve been cute...if the tent wasn’t in fear of collapsing and the rain wasn’t coming down in sheets.

Glimmer twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable.

Too bad we’re in the middle of nowhere! I can’t teleport us to an inn or back to the castle! This is ridiculous, I thought Adora was the queen of planning! She…

“Mmmmm…….gmmmm…” Glimmer cracked an eye open as she felt something shift. Nudging at her feet and legs. Uncomfortable weight pressing against her ankles. Catra’s bony arm no doubt.

“Catra! Stop it!” Glimmer kicked roughly. “Catra! Stop fidgeting! I mean it, you…!”

Catra whimpered, Glimmer steeled herself, sitting upright, wincing as a torrent of rain crashed against the side of the tent nearest her.  She watched the feline girl, flinch, her whole form trembling. Glimmer hesitantly reached out, touching her soft shoulder.

“Cata, psst, Catra do...do you want to sleep up here? Next to me?”

The only thing more unsettling than Catra being ruefully angry was her being frightened and Glimmer didn’t hate her after all, didn’t wish her ill. Not anymore. She was trying to do better after all, and so was Glimmer. Like it or not, and Glimmer spent a long time denying it, they both had dues to pay. They were both trying to be better.

Catra’s face contorted with discomfort. A booming clap of thunder made her snap awake, ears pointed forward and tail stick straight. She scrambled up through the array of sleeping bags and dug herself into Glimmer’s curling tight against the princess’s side. Glimmer bit her lip, unsure of what to do.

Is she really this frightened over a thunderstorm? Why didn’t she go to Adora? She’s lying right over there…. sure enough Bow and Adora were snoring nearly as loud as the rustling branches. Unsure what else to do, Glimmer wound her arms around Catra, one hand reaching up to tangle her fingers in the brunette hair.

“Shhh...it’s okay,” she murmured, recalling how her mother used to comfort her during the storms on Brightmoon. “You really don’t like water huh?” At this Catra’s head shot up from where it had been pressed against Glimmer’s chest. Her eyes were somehow scathed with sleep but panic as well. Glimmer gripped her tighter, swallowing her attempt at a joke.

“New flash princess, I was drowned.”

Horde Prime...I should’ve known…

“I...I never thanked you...for what you did for me,” Glimmer realized as she said it. Somewhere amid the sleeping bag, Catra’s tail curled around her leg with a grip of its own. The tent shuddered with another round of rain and thunder. Lightning flashed and Catra winced, eyes pinching shut.

“I told you I didn’t do it for you,” Catra managed between gritted teeth. “I did it for Adora.” Glimmer ran her fingers through Catra’s hair absentmindedly. It was softer than she would’ve guessed, despite being drenched earlier. The girl’s warmth and pressure against her chest as she curled up made Glimmer’s breath shudder with comfort. Who knew the prickly feline girl could be this...soft?

“Well...still….you saved my life. If you hadn’t sent me to the others I don’t know what would’ve…” she cut herself short. Of course she knew what would’ve happened.

As soon as Prime got what he wanted from her he would’ve done to her the exact same thing that he’d done to Catra. Glimmer tightened her grip on the girl beside her at the mere thought. Catra’s quickened breaths shuddered against the princess’s neck. She shivered pleasantly.

“As bad as it was….” Catra whispered into the hollow of Glimmer’s shoulder, “I’d do it again...if I had to. I’d do it again...for you.”

Glimmer shifted, turning on her side until Catra’s miss-matched eyes were glowing in the dark inches from her face. She reached her other hand up, gently touching one of the many freckles on her face.

Lightening cracked, illuminating the two of them for one instant. Catra’s hand reached out in panic and Glimmer took it, squeezing.

“You sure you got all that water out of your head earlier?” Glimmer attempted at some levity. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Catra?”

Luckily this provoked a smile from the feline girl.  She leaned into Glimmer, pulling their entwined hands up under her chin. Glimmer’s heart softened,

We’re both screw ups aren't’ we? Just trying to remake ourselves.

The princess’s heart melted, watching Catra shiver against the damp, quaking fabric of the tent. She leaned forward tentatively, kissing her hand. Catra clumsily beant her head downward, nudging, nuzzling? Pushing Glimmer’s head upward until, in the dark, Glimmer could taste full lips against hers. Warm and inviting. She kissed her more, shifting her hands from Catra’s, down to her waist, fumbling with the clumsy sleeping bag. Catra let out a breathy noise, somewhere between pleasure and surprise as Glimmer pushed herself flush against hers, their hips locking in the narrow containment of the sleeping bag.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” Catra asked between kisses, her tone returning to its usual snark.

“About as long as I’ve wanted to kick your ass,” Glimmer answered. Catra smiled, giving the princess another kiss, this one with a hint of want and heat.

“Trust me, Sparkles, feelings mutual.”

THE END

[shutupandshipit]

Little Life - Ch.10

Summary:  A baby could ruin his career before it had even started. If anyone found out, he would be kicked out of the Hero Course at the very least and UA at the very worst. Even then, how was he supposed to care for a baby once it arrived? He was a fucking seventeen-year-old boy, not a twenty-nine-year-old omega with their shit at least somewhat together.

…..

Or where Katsuki get pregnant, but is determined to make it to graduation. No matter what it takes.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language mostly)

Chapter: 10/16

Previous <- Chapter 9

Chapter 11 -> Next

Master Post

NOTE (MUST READ BEFORE PROCEEDING!): Just a heads up! TW: Blood, miscarriage scare, nightmares. If you're sensitive to any of those, you should skip the italicized portion at the beginning! Possibly the whole chapter actually, but the italicized portion is the worst of it. Next chapter we hit 9 months!

Chapter 10: 8 Months

Pain ripped through Katsuki's abdomen, exploding out through his entire body. With trembling hands, he gripped his stomach and gasped out, "I-Izuku- Alpha- Help!"

He was so hot, hotter than any heat had ever made him before, and he was terrified. He could feel his baby, distressed and flaying in his body. Their tiny little feet pressed out desperately against his skin. They were too big. Why was his baby so big? What was going on? He needed help. He needed to help his baby. Alpha! Alpha!

"Izuku!"

But he was alone in some side alley, his hero uniform ripped to shred and body trembling. He could hear the battle still raging outside the alley, but he couldn't see anyone. When had he gotten there? How had he gotten there? Where was the blood coming from?

The blood. There was so much blood. On his hands. Coating his legs. Growing in a pool beneath him.

Another wave of pain ripped through him, and a torrent of blood flooded from between his legs, gushing and warm.

"No," he croaked as he felt his baby's movements slow, "No! No! You can't have my baby!"

But whatever god may have heard him wasn't listening.

The blood continued to flow, growing faster while his baby's movements only grew slower.

"Alpha!" he called out desperately, flinging out his scent as far as he could. Still, no one came.

No, that wasn't right.

A shadow filled the opening to the alley, and it shambled forward, hands shoved deep into pockets. "Guess we were wrong to try for you after all." There was a sneer in their voice, harsh and reveling in his pain. "You can't even protect your unborn pup from your own body. What a useless hero."

Fear roared up in Katsuki louder and hotter than before. Desperately, he called out, "IZUKU!"

.....

Katsuki woke with a strangled gasp of Izuku's name on his lips, his scent overpowering in his room. He clutched at his drenched shirt over his abdomen, blinking into the darkness around him. His heart hammered in his chest. Gasping, he slapped around until he found his lamp and switched it on quickly. Soft amber light banished the darkness, but he still wasn't comforted. The now oft repeated nightmare hung over him like a layer of miasma.

A quiet, mewling, "Izuku," slipped out before he could stop himself. There was no one in his room to see him. That was the problem though, and he wrapped his arm around his stomach and curled his knees close to his chest. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'm not. I swear. I'm not."

He jumped when someone knocked tentatively at his door, but he didn't move.

The knock came again. "Kacchan? Is everything alright? Your omega was calling out."

Bolting off the bed, he jerked his door open and pulled Izuku through. He wrapped him up close, pressing his face into his neck.

"Did you have a nightmare again, Kacchan? It was only a dream," Izuku whispered sleepily, voice soft and soothing as he ran a hand down his back, "You're safe. I'm here. Hey, don't cry."

And he was crying. Shoulders shuddering. Tears hot on his face.

"Ssh, ssh. It's over. Was it one of the usual?" Izuku effortlessly lifted Katsuki in his arms and took him to his nest. He settled them their, Katsuki cradled in his lap, arms strong and warm around him.

"No."

"A new one?"

"I- I couldn't- protect someone- who is important to me. I couldn't- stop it from happening," he whispered in spurts and stops, grip tightening in the back of Izuku's shirt, "I was so fucking useless. I couldn't even protect someone who is helpless."

"It was just a dream. Whoever they are, they're still alright. It's fine. Everything is fine."

'Pup. Tell him. Keep pup safe, alpha,' his omega whimpered.

'I'll tell him today,' he promised silently, and let Izuku comfort him.

.....

Katsuki was fucking pissed. Primarily because the sidekick he'd been patrolling with had told him to go home early. He knew he wasn't in top form after the abysmal night's sleep with his nightmare still haunting him, but he'd thought he'd been hiding it well. Secondly he was pissed because he was feverishly hot and now, achingly horny.

Those were the only things his mind could really focus on as he found Izuku alone in the locker room. He was fiddling with a broken clasp on his glove, looking more battered than usual after a patrol with Endeavor. It had been more than half a year since he'd felt the almost primal urge to pin Izuku to the ground and ride him until he was the only thing Izuku knew. Curiously, his omega was wary in his chest, but he ignored that for pushing Izuku against the lockers.

Crowding Izuku's space, he worked his fingers into his belt, jerking at the material to get it to loosen. How the fuck did he get this stupid utility belt off again? He couldn't remember. His mind was a haze of heat and lust, but he wasn't above tearing his uniform to shreds if Izuku didn't start getting undressed. Now.

"Kacchan! Wha-"

"Get naked. I need you in me this time yesterday. Immediately. No arguments. Hurry the fuck up, Deku," he panted, kissing up the side of Izuku's throat to nip at the tender skin beneath his jaw. "Hurry the fuck up before Icy-Hot comes back."

"He already went back to the dorms for today," Izuku stammered, wrapping his fingers around Katsuki's wrists and holding fast. He struggled, but Izuku only tightened his grip. "Kacchan, when did you go into heat? You should have called me so I could take you back to the dorms. That was really dangerous."

A bucket of ice water dumped into Katsuki's system, and he stilled. "What the fuck did you just say?" he asked numbly, the haze of heat fading at his words. Now, he was present enough to think. Present enough to hear the worried whine from his omega vibrating against his breast bone. Present enough to actually feel what was going wrong. How wrong it was.

Izuku's frown deepened. "You're in heat. Didn't you feel it coming on? Doesn't it feel familiar?"

No, in fact, it did not feel familiar. He hadn't gone into heat for eight fucking months! No, it did not feel familiar!

"It's weird though. I don't feel my rut coming. I don't really even smell your heat. We've never been out of sync bef-"

Katsuki's nightmare crashed over him, and his knees went weak with horror. "Take me to a hospital." Fear roared through him, overshadowing everything else in his body. He and his omega simultaneously pumped out their pheromones in cloying waves, filling the room with the noxious scent of their fear and mounting distress.

"What? No, I have to take you-"

"Take me to a goddamn hospital, Izuku!"

Izuku's nose twitched, and understanding, or at least acceptance, dawned on his face. He released Katsuki's wrists but caught him immediately as he collapsed to his knees. "Okay, but we need to change. I need you to tell me why though."

"No! There's no time for that! We have to-" He was hyperventilating, could barely gasp out a single word. There was no strength in his body in the only moment he needed it to be there. This fear was paralyzing, so much worse and different than anything he'd ever felt before. Different from battle, from when he'd feared Izuku, from when he'd been told he was an omega. It was so incredibly different from when only his own life was on the line.

"We can't go to a hospital in our hero uniforms," Izuku said gently, lowering him to the floor and crouching in front of him, "Please, Kacchan, what's going on?" He was trying to blanket Katsuki in his own calming scent, but there was nothing he would be able to do to calm Katsuki right now.

He grabbed for Izuku, fingers trembling, and whispered, "Please, take me to a hospital. There's no time."

.....

Izuku got them changed quickly, and they were lucky no one was in the hospital waiting room. Silently, while they both continued to panic, they were led into an exam room. Izuku was left outside while Katsuki changed, had a vial of his blood taken, his vitals checked, and asked pertinent questions about his condition. When Izuku was finally let back in, he was crying.

"Kacchan, please, what's going on? What's happening?" he whispered, searching for Katsuki's hand on the exam table.

His palms were soaked, but still, he took Izuku's hand and squeezed tightly. "Wait until the doctor comes in."

They stayed like that, the clock ticking away every semblance of calm Katsuki had ever had. The minutes felt like hours, only pushing him closer to joining Izuku's sobbing. Silently, he prayed as hard as he could to whatever god or goddess might be listening to him. 'Let them be okay. Please, anything you want, I'll give you anything you want for them to be okay. Please, please, please, not my baby. Not my baby. Anything but my baby.'

The doctor opened the door with a wide smile, chart open in his hands. Closing the door behind him, he sat down and turned to face them. "You can calm down, Mr. Bakugou, everything is fine. And you too, Mr. Midoriya. I'm guessing your panic came from the sudden onset of your heat?"

Katsuki nodded silently, staring fixedly at the doctor. Urging him to hurry the explanation along. He could still feel his heat bubbling in his veins, but there was only the warmth now. Nothing else. He didn't glance over as he felt Izuku's eyes boring into him.

"Right. That can happen. I assume you did your research?" Katsuki nodded again. "So, I assume you now what Braxton Hicks contraction are or spotting? It's similar to that. Being an omega, things are a little differently oriented down there for you, so you wouldn't exhibit the same things as a beta female. It's true that a sudden heat can be the precursor to a miscarriage, but you're far enough along that that's less likely than you may think."

"Miscarriage?" Izuku whispered almost silently.

Katsuki stiffened beside him.

"Yes. Sometimes early in the stages of pregnancy, a heat can indicate the start of a miscarriage due to the internal omega attempting to become impregnated immediately as they would be the most fertile at this time." The doctor continued, but didn't seem to notice the change in mood as he flipped through Katsuki's chart. "It can be induced by a number of things, but in your case, this is only your body getting ready for labor. Everything is opening up in preparation for the birth. It's perfectly normal, and nothing to be worried about."

"Labor?" Izuku squeaked, voice several octaves higher than normal.

"Yes, you are... 36 weeks along which is a little early, but again, not uncommon especially with how much stress you are not unlikely under. No need to worry though. You are completely healthy, and your pregnancy hormones are nominal." The doctor glanced up with another smile. "We'll run a few more tests for the baby since you're here. I'll be back in just a moment with a nurse." He was gone before Katsuki could wonder if he'd run mediator in the mounting shit storm brewing at his side.

"Baby?" Izuku's voice had nearly crested the frequency out of hearing range. Katsuki could feel rather than see him turn, and he braced himself as Izuku's voice dropped dangerously. "Kacchan, what was he talking about."

"I was going to tell you."

"Oh yeah? When? Next week? Two weeks? When you were going into labor and literally couldn't be there without me?"

"Today," Katsuki grit out. He could feel his temperature rising, the stress pushing out any relief he'd been feeling before. The juxtaposition of Izuku yelling instead of him was not a situation he was particularly a fan of, but he deserved it.

"36 weeks, Kacchan!" Izuku burst out, ripping his hand from Katsuki's and jumping up to stand in front of him. "All this time you were pregnant, and decided not to tell me? All of the weird stuff you've been doing because you were pregnant? How long have you known?"

"Right after that night. I was certain two weeks later."

"This whole time?" Izuku nearly screamed, "What would you have done if you'd miscarried because I wasn't around enough? Would you have even cared?"

Katsuki's heart stuttered at the implication, and he wrapped an arm around his stomach as if trying to protect his baby -their baby- from the onslaught. The tears he'd been holding back finally spilled over. He growled, "Stop yelling at me. How can you ask a question like that?"

"How could I not?" He was still yelling, his face red and tear streaked as green lighting flickered around him. He always did loose control of his quirk when he got emotional, even now.

"Of course I fucking care, Izuku. I've cared this whole time. They're our baby. I've been terrified that might happen," Katsuki whispered because it was the only volume where his voice didn't shake, "I've had nightmares about it. The nightmare last night- They're our baby. How could you think I wouldn't care? I've never cared so much about someone I haven't even met yet in my life."

"Then why?" Slowly, the atmosphere calmed along with his voice.

Katsuki breathed shallowly, and he hiccuped, betraying his tears. "Because I want us to be heroes, but if I was caught, at least you'd still make it. Is that wrong? Why do I have to keep repeating myself?"

Izuku was quiet for a moment, processing that bit of information. "You said you have to keep repeating yourself. Who else knows? Just tell me someone has been helping you, that you haven't been doing this completely alone."

Swallowing again, he said, "Kirishima, Mina, and Ochako. I told Kirishima because he was freaking out. Ochako figured it out on her own. Mina is just nosy."

"Thank god." Izuku's arms wound around him tightly, and Katsuki held onto his shirt with everything he had as his shoulders shook. "I'm so glad you're okay, both of you. God, I'm so glad."

"I'm sorry," Katsuki choked out because there was nothing else he could possibly say in this situation, "I'm fucking sorry."

"I know," Izuku whispered into his hair, "I'm going to be mad at you for a long time, but I know. I love you, you stupid, stubborn asshole."

They stayed there, crying into each other, until the doctor sheepishly came back in.

Together, they listened to their pup's strong heartbeat and watched in unadulterated wonder as they stretched and pressed a foot into the wall of Katsuki's womb. Izuku cried silently the entire time, and when the doctor handed them printouts from the monitor, he huddled over them.

"Do you already know the sex? Do you want to?"

"No," they said in unison.

"Okay. They're small and growing slowly, but healthy. It's typical for male omega babies to be smaller than normal for various reasons. They're probably the healthiest baby I've ever seen," the doctor said as he patted Izuku on the shoulder, "You're both very fortunate. Most male alpha-omega couples aren't. Hang in there you two. They're almost here."

When they made it back to the dorms and were safely cloistered in Katsuki's nest, Izuku whispered, "I'm still pissed."

Katsuki was wrapped around him, stomach pressed flush against his back as their pup moved and stretched and pressed their feet against Izuku's spine. This was the most they'd moved throughout Katsuki's entire pregnancy. He hadn't realized just how much they needed him and Izuku to be in concert together. "Yeah, not surprising. I deserve it."

Trembling hands wrapped around his arm, holding tight. "You can't hide something this important from me again. You're my best friend and mate. We're supposed to be able to tell each other everything. So, please. Don't keep stuff from me anymore even if you think its for my own good."

Katsuki tightened his hold. If there had been any space left between them at all, it was gone. "This is the last time. I promise," he said, and for the first time in a long time, he was being completely honest.

[duckseamail]

Break It - a short story

Here’s the short story I wrote for my english class!!! It’s about 2.5 k words, and kinda sad (it has a nice ending though!!!). I’m really happy with how it turned out, and would love any feedback!

Winona’s bangs are plastered to her forehead, rainwater sprinting its way past her eyes and over her lips. Her shoes slap on the saturated gray pavement.

Half a block away, she can see the faint glow of the porch lights from her apartment building. She grabs the edges of her raincoat tightly, hoping it's still wholly spread over her backpack, and sprints through the puddles and up to the front walk. Unfortunately, her face is assaulted with a smack by the large, unkempt bush that she can avoid on a good day. 

With a fierce kick at the stoop, Winona pushes into the small entryway.

She makes her way through the second pair of doors and goes to the stairwell. With a sigh, she starts the trek up to the seventh floor.

When she reaches her floor, she crinkles her nose in disgust. The thin carpet is thoroughly soaked and gathering little puddles of muddy water from all the people who have been coming in during the late afternoon downpour. 

She gets to her door and puts the key in the lock. It sticks a few times before finally, with much cursing and trying to force the locked door open, the locking mechanism catches and smoothly turns. Winona glares at the key as she pulls it out and enters her home. 

“Yeah...yeah, waiting for the rain to clear out next week sounds do-able.” A voice coming from the kitchen says.

Winona slips her soggy tennis shoes off and into the wicker basket by the door. She should ask her mom to take her to get some new rainboots soon.

“I actually did have a couple questions about the burial to ask you, Mr. Moro.”

Winona is about to hop past the square of harsh white light illuminating the hall when an arm shoots out in front of her. Busted. Mom is still on the phone with Mr. Moro, but the way her mouth is pursed conveys the “stay there and wait for a conversation” perfectly fine without words.

Mom walks around the small kitchen as she talks. She grabs a large, pink and green mug from the rack next to the sink. Winona watches as she takes out the ceramic jar labeled “calm” in a flowing cursive script and places a teabag from it into the empty mug.

“Thanks again for your time; I’ll call you soon.” Mom hangs up. Neither of them says anything.

The high, screaming whistle of the teakettle breaks the momentary silence.

Winona wishes she’d had time to change out of her wet clothes before having this conversation. The cold and sticky feeling of the bottoms of her jeans clinging to her ankles is almost as bad as the fact that her socks are basically little swimming pools. Rivulets from her hair drip over her ears and down her neck, soaking into the shirt collar.

“I got an email from your math teacher this afternoon,” Mom says

Winona ignores the insinuation that she should be explaining herself about now and asks, “What did it say?”

Her Mom’s hands tighten around her mug, and an angry flush breaks out high on her cheekbones. She seems to be so overcome that she can’t speak, so Winona unzips her dry backpack and pulls out the failed test and hopes it will explain itself and she can leave.

“Here,” she says, handing it over.

Mom sets down her mug with a dull thunk and takes the papers.

After a minute spent flipping through them, she says, “You said you spent all of last weekend studying for this.” Mom brings a hand up and rubs across her forehead that’s lined with tired wrinkles and fixes Winona with a disappointed sort of glare. 

“Yeah, well. I tried for a bit. But it’s not like anyone else cared about this test either, okay?” Winona says flippantly. She bites the edge of her hair, then continues speaking around it. “It just wasn’t the sort of test you’re supposed to study for.”

“What do you mean the sort of test you don’t study for?!” Mom asks incredulously. Her voice is creeping up, louder and louder. “You need to take responsibility. What would your grandma have to say about this if she were here?”

“ I am taking responsibility!” Winona shouts, her hair falling entirely out of her mouth and smacking her jaw.

“Obviously, you’re NOT!”

“You don’t even know how to organize a funeral! How can you talk about responsibility?” Winona yells back. All of a sudden, the frustration in her mom’s brown eyes freezes over. 

“Just. Just go.” Mom says, seething. She turns her back and dumps her over-steeped tea into the sink.

Rage at this icy dismissal floods through Winona’s blood and exits in a strangled roar. Before Mom can say anything back, she spins on her heel, storms out of the kitchen, down the short hall, and into her bedroom.

Winona grips her heavy wooden door with as much strength as she can muster and slams it closed.

“WE DON'T SLAM DOORS IN THIS HOUSE!” Mom shrieks from where Winona left her in the kitchen.

“I DON’T CARE!”

Her ears ring, and she flicks the overhead light on, only to turn it back off immediately. Though the anger simmering in her body is no longer boiling over, the bright light is too cheerful. The lightning that flashes through the window, however, is perfect.

Balling her hands up, Winona thrusts them under her arms in a half-pout half-hug and paces in circles. “This isn’t even a house. It’s an apartment.” She mutters snarkily to herself. She considers opening the door to send the comment her mom’s way but decides to keep stewing on it. She can come up with something better.

On her fifth lap around, her eyes catch on her grandmother's glass figurine, sitting primly on her cluttered desk.

It’s of a young woman lying back on a log, propping herself up on her elbows. Her tiny glass face looks up with a beautiful expression of wonder; the clear eyes seem to see everything and hold infinite wisdom. They’re surrounded by minuscule eyelashes that look too fluffy to be glass. The woman’s smooth glass lips are parted like she’s just seen something she needs to share immediately (more than once throughout her life, Winona had spoken to it in the hopes that maybe one day it would talk back). The woman’s hair is long and curls gently, sitting lightly over the figure’s shoulders and bouncing a few centimeters above the top of the log.

But Winona’s favorite thing about the glass figurine isn’t her face. It’s the sloping curves of the carved dress. It folds softly down to the ankles, each sweep lined with small creases, and the hem is covered in miniature flowers. The back fabric of the dress drapes over the log's rough ridges in a fantastic clash of textures. The sense of fluidity changing into firm resolve, the cracks and knots carved into the log holding strong. It knows exactly what it is; no room for doubts. It’s a log, each uncountable twist and turn working together to hold up the woman on top of it.

It’s fitting, though, because Winona’s Grandma Helen had gotten it the day she graduated college. Winona had been told the story of her family’s most prized possession many times. It was her favorite thing to do as a kid when Grandma came to visit. She and Mom would take turns telling the story, and when it was done, Winona always begged to hear it again.

Winona’s great-grandfather had been an extremely old-fashioned man and hadn’t been willing to help send her grandma to college. It had caused a massive fight between them that ended with Grandma leaving and vowing to only come back with a diploma in hand.

So, she’d left and spent the time working towards a degree in American history.

On the day of Helen’s graduation, she’d gone home to see her parents. Now, Grandma had kept in contact with her mother, but just like she had promised, this was Helen’s first time in years seeing her father again. 

He’d been sad and apologetic, begging for his daughter’s forgiveness. Apparently, there had been tears shed on both sides. And, of course, Grandma had missed her father desperately, and once she received an apology, she was quick to forgive him.

But an apology wasn't all Grandma had received. Her father also wished to congratulate her on her achievement in college. So he'd commissioned an artist to create a glass figurine of a young woman lounging on a log, looking ahead to the possibilities before her. It was based on a picture he had of Helen just before their fight, which made it all the more special.

Then, when Mom was a little kid, Grandma had given it to her. Mom brought it with her to every place she’d ever lived.

And finally, after a childhood spent pestering about when it would finally be her turn, Winona was given it for her sixteenth birthday just over seven months ago. 

Winona snaps from the torrent of memories to thunder booming. She takes a few steps up to her desk and runs her fingertips over the skirt of the dress.

Mom often comes into Winona’s room just to sit and look at it for a while - never touching - a habit that’s increased in the past few weeks since Grandma died.

She must find it comforting.

The thought of her mother feeling anything but sadness and pain swirls her remaining anger into a tempest. She wants her mom to hurt, to regret what she said about the stupid test.

Her head and her heart ache, and she wants her mom to feel that.

So, Winona wraps her hand around the glass figure and picks it up.

It’s surprisingly heavy for how delicate it looks, but Winona pitches for softball in the spring and has a good arm. She faces the plain door that Mom had just yelled at her about slamming and takes aim.

One of the ridges on the log catches against her palm as the figurine launches into the air. She doesn’t feel the cut, though.

The figurine tumbles over and over in the six feet it has to travel to hit the door, glinting a bit in the dark room. Adrenaline rushes through Winona’s brain, and with a crash, it collides.

The log bursts apart, tiny glass crystals falling like snow to the carpet. The young woman’s head breaks off and drops down in three chipped and scratched pieces. The body, surprisingly, is comparatively intact. The arms are gone, shattered among the carpet fibers; the dress's light folds are broken off, and there are deep cracks along the front. There is a large chunk missing from the upper back where the shoulders used to be. But, when Winona looks at where the body of the figurine rests, she can tell that it had once portrayed someone sitting.

And for a moment, standing and looking over the wreckage, calm and satisfaction is all she feels.

Then, the reality sinks in. Her mom’s, her grandma’s, her most special possession is gone. Winona broke it, and from the way it’s spread out over the floor, it can’t be fixed.

It feels like all the air has been knocked out of her. Winona opens her mouth, but she can’t tell if any sound comes out. It’s like all her senses are covered in a staticky fuzz.

Suddenly, her bedroom door flings open, knocking aside some of the larger pieces of glass.

“Are you okay? What hap-” Mom cuts herself off abruptly, and Winona wrenches her gaze up from the floor.

Mom’s eyes are fixed at her feet. Her mouth wobbles around words that die before making it out. Winona watches the tears drip down her mother’s cheeks, and everything feels terribly wrong. This shouldn’t be happening.

“Mom,” Her throat clenches, stopping her. She tries again. “Mommy, I- I didn’t mean- I’m-”

Her mom turns and leaves the room. The door is still wide open, and light from the hallway dances among the shards.

Winona finally notices her own sobbing. She isn’t sure how she missed it before because everything about her face feels wet. Her eyelashes are clumpy, and there is no break in the water streaming down her face. It goes past her nose, collecting snot on the way, and then parts. Some tears fall off her chin, and others collect in her mouth, coating her tongue with the taste of salt.

Slowly, she takes a blanket from her bed and curls up under it on the floor. Wiping her nose with her sleeve, Winona waits for the crying to stop.

-----------------

She wakes up to a pounding headache and a hand softly shaking her shoulder. Winona shifts the blanket off her face and sees Mom peering down at her.

Arms carefully reach around Winona’s shoulders and lift her so that she’s perched on the edge of her bed. Her clothes are removed and replaced with warm, dry pajamas. They’re the fluffy, purple polka-dotted ones - her favorite.

A plastic cup of water is pressed into her hands, and she takes grateful gulps of it ‘till the cup is empty.

The bathroom sink across from her room turns on, and Winona realizes her mom has left again. It’s only briefly, however, and Mom comes back with a wet washcloth in hand.

Winona takes it when it’s held out and rubs the sticky, overwhelming feeling of dry tears off her face. The water is warm and soothing, and even after she's clean, she takes an extra moment to press the cloth to her worn-out eyes.

She hands it back, and Mom places it on the bedside table before taking Winona’s right hand in hers. Winona wonders why she’s doing this when she notices a sharp red line crossing most of her palm. A throbbing heat is building there, but quick as a flash, her mom wipes a soaked cotton pad over it and then rubs on a layer of cooling antiseptic. Lastly, she places two large bandages over the entirety of Winona’s palm. Then, Mom helps her stand up.

Walking across the room into the now dark hallway, she realizes all the glass on the floor is gone. Mom must have taken the time to thoroughly clean up every last shard and speck while she was sleeping. Winona isn’t sure why, but as she’s walked over to her mom’s bedroom, she wishes she had been able to clean it up. It was her mess, after all.

But, her brain is moving too slowly to think up the words to best express that out loud, and moments later, she’s being herded onto one side of her mom’s bed.

The digital clock blinks at her. It’s 9:53 at night. Mom tucks the covers securely around Winona’s shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Nony. We’ll fix things in the morning, okay?” Mom’s voice is hoarse when she says this, but the time for thinking is over now. Winona nods her head sleepily in reply and closes her eyes for the night.

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 12 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 3200

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug for their encouraging comments, which are currently posted-noted to my wall

Requested Tags: @deraniel@iamverity@yasnooshka24@wegingerangelica@themusingsofmany @dark-night-sky-99@tarynkauai@stuffandstuff-stuff @angelicshinigami@my-current-fandom-is @geekysimmerthings

“You’re shaking.”

“Gold star, Trickster,” you mutter, dumping your stuff onto the table unceremoniously and heaving yourself into your chair.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just peachy,” you drawl, mimicking the tone of Loki’s own bitter sarcasm.

Loki sits up a little straighter, apparently to get a better look at you through the glass- you, in your disheveled uniform and messy hair, trying to hide the tremble in your hand as you heavily write the date at the top of today’s paper. His eyes narrow. “Are you- drunk?”

“God, I wish,” you mumble, half heartedly hoping the all-seeing camera won’t pick up your voice. “At this point just wildly hungover.”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” you snap. “Just- start talking about something. Quietly, please, my head is pounding.”

“If I talk, will you tell me what is wrong?” You’re so agitated you don’t notice he does in fact lower his voice.

You shake your head roughly, scrubbing your hands across your face and eventually resting it in your palms. “Ugh. Jesus. Can we just get this over with, please?”

He launches into some story about when he and Thor were young, which are usually your favorites, but today you just sit there quietly with your head in your hands, half ignoring Loki’s soft tones emanating through the room. You forget about taking notes. Eventually your shoulders loosen, just a little, but everything still hurts when the tale finally comes to an end.

God, it hurts.

“Witling,” he says softly, looking concerned, and you hate that look of concern because everyone has decided to look so goddamn concerned about you today-

“Don’t tell me you’ve never self-medicated,” you snap. “What, with that stuff they’ve got on Asgard? Bet it’s a lot easier to drown out your problems with that than the shitty crap I can afford.”

His eyes glow at your words. “Did someone hurt you? Are you hurt?”

Your hackles raise even higher. “No-”

He switches his train of thought on a dime. “SHIELD doesn’t pay you well enough to purchase top shelf? A shame.”

That earns him a small smile. “I know, right?” The both of you sit silently on your opposite sides of the room for a few minutes. Loki doesn’t look at you, or ask any more questions- he just sits there patiently, fingers folded together in his lap, humming something that sounds vaguely ancient and haunting.

“You know how I told you I have a brother?” You don’t lift your gaze from your metal table, eyes tracing the faint lines etched into it.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t. Anymore. He’s dead,” you say bluntly. “Yesterday was the anniversary.” You laugh, but it’s short and harsh and completely devoid of any mirth. “What a shitty thing to have an anniversary for.” At first you think he hasn’t heard you, because he doesn’t respond for a long time. But when you look up, he’s staring at you with clear pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you huff.

“Yeah. Me too.” You pick up your pencil and try to fiddle with it, but your shaky hands betray you and it clatters to the floor. You leave it there.

“How did he die?”

“Car crash,” you spit out. “Late night, stormy skies, slick roads, drunk driver. The whole shebang.” Your voice shakes at the end, to your annoyance. “It was a fun time.” Loki doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and really you don’t expect him to know. You still don’t have any way of dealing with the memories that all slam you one particular night of the year other than get drunk off you ass and try to drown them out. “Why do you hate him?”

“What?”

You look up, holding his gaze. “Thor. Why do you hate him?”

The god releases a small, controlled breath. “I-”

“Because he’s your brother,” you interrupt, and you don’t even really notice the rage that’s building in your chest. “He’s- he’s your brother, and he loves you, and you… you hate him.”

“Thor-”

“Loves you,” you repeat through gritted teeth. “And wants to help you. He still does, after all the shit you’ve done. He fights SHIELD on a daily basis to get you out of here even though it’s basically moot at this point.” You scoot your chair back with an unholy screech, giving you more space to breathe. “And you stab him in the back on like, any given Tuesday, and he just fucking stands there and laughs because he loves you.”

“I never-”

“Oh, don’t lie to me,” you throw at him. “I could pull any given story out of your file and there’s a ninety percent chance it involves you trying to kill him in some way.”

“Do you have a point.” Loki’s voice is colder than ice. His breath should have little crystals hanging in the air around it.

You’d probably wipe away the tears tracing their way down your cheeks if you weren’t so busy staring at the man across from you with such accusation. “You constantly throw away one of the best parts of your entire life. You take it for granted. Like it’s nothing. Do you know- do you know what I would give to have my brother back?” He opens his mouth but quickly shuts it when you stalk up to him, practically putting your nose right up to the glass. “And you have yours. Your brother IS ALIVE AND HE LOVES YOU AND ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS STAB HIM IN THE FUCKING BACK!”

At this point, the door to the room opens, and a few well-armed SHIELD agents enter hesitantly but quickly. “Agent,” one of them says. “You need to step away.” He goes for your arm but you wrench it away, causing your fist to thud against the glass barrier in front of you. Despite being behind layers of reinforcement, Loki bodily jumps back a few inches like it was aimed at him.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss, angrily closing your eyes against the torrent of tears now flooding your face. When you open them, Loki can see they are red-rimmed, and the brokenness in them makes him want to punch something as well. But he’s frozen, staring at you as you break down in front of him.

“Shit,” you mutter. You scrub your eyes. Stand up straight, turn to the guards, who clearly aren’t sure if they should try and grab you again. “Just… leave me alone.” Without another word, you walk out, not looking behind you once. The guards follow. Once the door is shut, and Loki is alone, he very carefully sits back on his bed, gripping the edges until his knuckles are white. He does in fact notice the small tear that decides to appear from the corner of his eye, but wipes it away before it can fall.

You can’t really see through your tears, so you just trust that people are going to get out of your way as you barrel down the hall. You don’t know where you’re going, exactly- no, strike that, you do, it’s somewhere with lots and lots of alcohol- when you are stopped dead in your tracks by a large palm square on your shoulder. It isn’t forceful, but you definitely can’t push past it.

“Thor,” you mutter. “Really not the time, just-”

“I am sorry,” he says, his voice low for such a big guy. “About your brother.”

“And I’m sorry about yours,” you reply thickly.

He makes a noncommittal noise. “Do not be. Loki is…” he trails off though, and never finishes his sentence, like even he isn’t sure what his brother is anymore.

“How do you do it?” You put a hand up to his, which is still on your shoulder, intending to remove it, but it ends up gripping his wrist instead. “Why do you…”

Thor smiles sadly. “He is my brother, is he not? And it is what brothers do.”

A sharp bit of anger dissipates somewhere deep in your chest. “Yeah. It should be.”

Me: You should set up a consistent posting schedule!

Me to me: Keep them in sUsPeNSe

[mildlyaverageamber]

The Art Of Disguise

Yaz goes on a date and the Doctor get’s jealous. Hijinks ensue

“What do you mean you’ve got a date?” The Doctor leaned against the center console of the Tardis, studying her friend.

Yaz sighed in exasperation. “I’ve got a date, with a boy back home. Can’t I have a normal life?”

The Doctor shrugged her shoulders, trying to hide her hurt. “Don’t know why you want to go on a date at a boring restaurant.” She slowly lifted her eyes, careful to be not too hopeful. “When I could take you anywhere in the universe.”

Yaz turned her back to the Doctor, her heart aching. So I can get over you. So I can feel normal for once. I can’t be in love with an alien. “Just...drop me off, would you Doctor.” Yaz was embarrassed of the tremor in her voice. “I won’t be more than a couple of hours. Then we can go on another adventure, promise.” She couldn’t meet the Doctor’s eyes, hating seeing her friend looking so hurt.

The Doctor didn’t respond but strode around the Tardis, pushing buttons and pulling levers without any of her usual energy or excitement.

 “Where’s Yaz?” Ryan inquired, finding only the Doctor inhabiting the control room.

“Oh, she’s a bit too busy for us today Ryan.” The Doctor stated nonchalantly.

“Too busy? No way! She’s alright, isn’t she?”

“She’s fine, Ryan.” The Doctor interrupted, hoping to drop the subject. “So where to today fam?” Saying it didn’t feel right without Yaz present.

“No, wait, why is Yaz too busy? This is the chance of a lifetime right here! You don’t miss out on the Tardis”-

“She’s on a date.” The Doctor stated bluntly, trying and failing to keep the venom out of her voice.

“A date?” Ryan questioned as Graham snickered.

“Yaz has got a date?”

“Yeah, so she’s too busy for us today.” The Doctor quipped, jealousy getting the better of her.

Graham raised his eyebrows, sensing the alien’s feelings. “You sound a bit jealous there, Doc.”

The Doctor froze, spinning around to face Graham with hands on hips. “What? No, I’m not.”

“Ah, I’d say you are.” Graham stated, not fazed by the Doctor’s sudden change in attitude.

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Okay guys,” Ryan interrupted. “You sound like bloody children. Let’s have an adventure that’ll make Yaz totally jealous.”

The Doctor turned to the controls, feeling saddened. “Off we go then.”

 “Hey Doc, where are you going?” Graham asked as the Timelord split off from her friends. They were back home, after quite the exciting day spent on the planet Thasao.

“Just going to nip over and check on Yaz.” She called back innocently.

Graham came to a halt, Ryan doing the same behind him. “What? You can’t do that Doc.”

“Just going to check on my friend.” The Doctor insisted.

“Your going to spy on her!” Ryan accused loudly, giddy with realization. “You’re jealous and you are going to spy on her date!”

“Ryan,” Graham chided. “Actually, that makes a lot of sense. Doc, you can’t do that! It’s not fair to Yaz.”

“I’m just checking on her.” The Doctor protested. “Isn’t that what friends do? I’m just looking out for her safety really.” She quickly walked away, hoping the other two had enough sense not to join her.

Footsteps echoed behind her and the Doctor whipped around in frustration. “Okay you two, shoo! Off with you lot!”

“No way!” Ryan protested. “We want to spy on Yaz too.”

“I’m not spying on her” The Doctor nearly shouted. “Now leave. I’ll see you two later, if I even let you back in the Tardis.”

“You wouldn’t”- Graham started but quickly quieted as the alien shot him a glare.

“Okay, well, see ya later Doc.” Graham supplied, watching as the Timelord turned on her hell and strode away.

 The Doctor peered inside the window of the restaurant, sighing in relief as she spotted Yasmin’s familiar face. Well, at least you are safe. Her gaze settled on Yaz’s partner and she gasped. It wasn’t a boy, but a girl! Not that sexual orientation particularly mattered to the Timelord. She was more hurt that Yaz thought it necessary to lie to her. “What does she have that I don’t?” The Doctor wondered aloud as she watched the two of them laugh. Yaz was beautiful when she laughed. Lighted up the room right proper. Quite contagious too. The Doctor’s face fell as she registered the fact that Yaz was laughing with someone else. Someone else who wasn’t her. It stung quite a bit.

She ducked as another patron looked her way. But she couldn’t leave just yet. A brilliant plan came to her, now she only needed the courage to pull it off.

 The Doctor adjusted her wig one last time before stepping out of the restroom. She spotted Yaz and her ‘friend’ and made her way towards them, growing quite anxious as the time passed.

“Ladies, how is the meal?” The Doctor asked smoothly as she approached the table.

“Excellent. Oh, what happened to our waiter?”

“Went home sick I’m afraid. Bit of a cold going around you know.”

“Oh, well I hope he feels better soon.”

Oh Yaz, always thinking of other people. “Yes, I hope so too. Now is there anything I can get you ladies?”

“No, I think we’re fine thanks.” Yaz said, looking over at her companion.

“Fine thank you.” She stated loudly.

The Doctor disliked her immediately. Too loud, too confident. And much too obnoxious. Something just rubbed her the wrong way. Could be that she’s sitting at that table with Yaz instead of you. “Oh, shut up.” She muttered, wanting to quiet the thoughts in her mind.

“Sorry?”

The Doctor blushed deeply. “Nothing. Enjoy your meal!” She scuttled away, only to watch the pair from afar.

They seemed to have a pleasant enough conversation as they ate. No more laughing, thankfully.

The Doctor fidgeted with the apron she worse. She looked longingly over at Yaz until another worker disturbed her.

“Hey, dreamland!” The Doctor looked up only to have 3 plates of foo shoved at her. “Table 8.”

The Doctor looked down in panic. I didn’t want to actually serve food! I just wanted to make sure Yaz was alright! She’d seen this done in movies though, how hard could it be? She placed one plate along her arm and picked up the remaining one in each hand. Slow and steady. She coaxed herself forward, taking careful steps as she searched for table 8.

She caught a glimpse of the girl softly moving Yaz’s hair out of her face and stumbled. The plates crashed to the floor, broken glass and food flying to the ground. The Doctor froze, deeply embarrassed for the second time that night. However, it wouldn’t be the last.

Everyone turned to stare at her and she fled to the restrooms before she made a fool of herself again.

“Leave.” She told herself as she attempted to clean herself up. Leave and forget this ever happened. It was a mistake. Yaz is allowed to do what she wants…to see who she wants…. The Doctor took a few slow, deep breaths and studied herself in the mirror. It was pathetic really, but the jealousy building inside her fueled her on.

After she had composed herself she peered her head out of the doorway. Everything appeared normal. Brilliant.

She gave a quick glance to Yaz and noticed they had finished their main course. Perfect! She grabbed a couple of desert menus and made her way over. “Desert, ladies?” She asked, careful to disguise her voice.

Yaz laughed. “Yeah, why not?” She looked over at her friend.

“Well, I’m not sure”-

“Oh, come on, have some desert. You only live once.”

The Doctor handed the customers their menus, taking special care to brush fingers as she passed Yaz hers. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

The Doctor was tingling from the feeling of their hands brushing. She smiled to herself, reveling in the feeling she had just experienced. The Doctor returned to collect their orders, careful to keep her hands to herself.

She retreated again and watched the couple in the candlelight. She swallowed as she felt emotions welling up inside her. Why can’t I have Yaz like this? Why doesn’t this stupid girl realize she is sitting with one of the most amazing creatures in the universe? She would never appreciate Yaz as much as I do. Could never show her the things I could. Could never love her-

“Your order has been there for 5 minutes honey, are you okay?” One of the other waitresses asked, breaking the Doctor from her thoughts.

“Yes, sorry. Just been in a bit of a daze today.” She laughed to play it off and gathered the pairs order. She approached the table and was fuming as she noticed the girls clutching hands. She dumped their food down, sending the other girl a vicious glare. “Enjoy.” She stated bluntly, spinning on her heel and stalking off.

Once she had regained her cool she realized she had forgotten their drinks. She sighed inwardly as she collected them, regretting every decision that brought her here. Watching Yaz find someone else was causing havoc on her poor hearts. As she drew closer she noticed how close their faces appeared and gripped the wineglasses so hard she thought they would shatter. Jealousy and anger burned inside her as she stalked towards the table. She was fuming as she watched them kiss. Nobody kisses Yaz...Except me! Her mind was in an uproar. She can’t kiss Yaz! She isn’t near good enough for Yaz! How dare she? Yaz is mine!! Without thinking the Doctor had reached the table and stopped, eyes about to burn though the other girl. A torrent of thoughts whirling through her mind seemed to block any sensible thoughts. She dumped the glass of wine onto the girl. Specifically, into her lap, but the Doctor hadn’t been aiming anywhere in particular.  Get away from my Yasmin. She watched it all happen in slow motion, horrid thoughts consuming her.

The girl cried out and the Doctor startled, realizing what she had done. A sinking feeling immediately settled in her gut, something she knew well. Regret.

“What the hell?” The girl cried.

Yaz looked up, eyes wide and the Doctor couldn’t help but notice once again how beautiful she was. Brown eyes locked onto hazel and a look of recognition passed over Yaz’s face.

“Doctor?” Barely a whisper.

“So sorry!” The Doctor cried, attempting to dry off the other girl with a napkin.

“I don’t need your help.” The girl said curtly as she snatched the napkin from the Timelord. She stormed off into the ladies’ room, a cloud of perfume following her.

“Doctor?” Yaz repeated.

The Doctor held her breath, afraid to look at her friend. She turned to flee but Yaz grasped her wrist.

“Doctor?” Louder and much more intense.

The Doctor lifted her eyes from the floor and met her friend’s.

Yaz’s eyes widened then hardened. “It is you! What…what are you doing here? Why are you dressed as out waitress? And why did you spill a drink all over my date?”

The Doctor looked around, knowing they were causing a scene as Yaz’s voice rose with each word she spoke.

“Doctor,” Yaz’s voice was venomous and the grip on her wrist felt vice like. “What do you think you are doing butting into my personal life? And make a fool of me!” Yaz finally noticed the other patrons watching and lowered her voice, her eyes watering with tears.

“Yaz…. I’m so sorry.” The Doctor supplied, pleading with her friend. “I didn’t mean to make you upset or ruin anything!”

“How could you? I just wanted this one thing!” Yaz let go of her wrist suddenly and ripped the wig off the alien’s head. “How could you?” She cried before turning away.

“Yaz, I truly am sorry.” The Doctor regretted her actions deeply and found the jealousy to justify them disappearing quickly.

“Just…don’t.” Yaz sighed and stood up to leave.

The Doctor watched her go before following at a safe distance. “Yaz!” She called once they were outside.

“What do you want Doctor? What more could you possibly want? You ruined my night, I was trying to have a nice time!”

“Yasmin,” The Doctor reached her and tentatively placed a hand on her arm. “Yaz, please, I’m sorry.”

Yaz stared at her, her normally beautiful face streaked with tears. The Doctor still thought her beautiful though. A beautiful disaster.

Yaz turned to go and the Doctor grabbed her other wrist, holding the human captive.

“Let me go, Doctor!”

“Yasmin Khan, I’m not letting go until you’ll agree to listen to me without running away.”

Yaz studied her warily.

“Yaz, I’m sorry.” She hurried on before her friend could cut her off. “I just wanted to check on you, I promise. Then… I saw you with that other girl and….and I wondered what she had that I didn’t.” The Doctor lowered her head, unable to meet her friend’s gaze.  “I was…jealous, Yaz. I was jealous that another girl could have you when I couldn’t. It didn’t feel fair. I was angry, outraged. Mostly, I was incredibly, stupidly, jealous.”

The silence seemed to stretch on for hours.

The Doctor finally raised her eyes only to find understanding in Yaz’s eyes. She laughed softly, getting louder and louder with each chuckle.

The Doctor blinked, stunned by her human friend’s response. She opened her mouth but seemed speechless.

Yaz continued laughing, pulling the Doctor closer to her.

The Doctor blushed, nervously fidgeting at their proximity. Yaz smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. She looked absolutely breathtaking and the Doctor loved it all.

“You...you were jealous?” Yaz whispered between giggles. “You of all people were jealous?”

“Okay, no need to rub it in.” The Doctor muttered.

Yaz shivered against her and the Doctor noticed that she had forgotten her coat inside the restaurant. “I can go get your coat.” She offered softly.

“No, I’m fine.” Yaz replied, bracing herself for an argument.

“No, you’re not. You must be absolutely freezing. Here,” The Doctor stripped off her jacket and draped it around her friend’s body.

Yaz grinned shyly and the Doctor’s hearts soared. She really is beautiful, absolutely precious.

“Come on then, let’s get you home Yaz.”

Yaz grabbed onto the Doctor’s hand, startling the Timelord.

She gasped before looking down at their connected hands. She tempted fate, interlocking their fingers and watching Yaz for a reaction.

She squeezed her hand and shyly grinned. “You know Doctor, you had nothing to be jealous about.” She stated softly, the lamplight just enough to illuminate them against the night sky.

The Doctor scoffed.

“Doctor, you have nothing to be jealous about.” She stated again, this time with authority. “I only went on that date to try to get over you.”

“Get over me?” The Doctor asked cluelessly.

Yaz shook her head. “You are thick sometimes, aren’t you?” She lowered her voice. “It never would have been a competition between the two of you, you know. Doctor, I’d chose you over anyone in a heartbeat. If you only wanted me”-

“I do.” The Doctor broke in softly, summoning all the courage she had. “Yasmin Khan, I do want you. I always have…most likely always will. You are absolutely brilliant Yaz. I genuinely enjoy spending time with you. You are amazing, brave, caring and”-

“Doctor,” Yaz swung her arms around the alien’s neck, burying her face against the others chest. “Oh Doctor, you are the one who is absolutely brilliant. I love you Doctor, I truly do.”

The Doctor wrapped the human in her arms, emotions of happiness and joy swelling up inside her. “I’m just a traveller, I’m nothing special.” She protested.

“Oh, but you are Doctor. You are the most amazing person I’ve ever met. You are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

The Doctor swallowed as she kept Yasmin close, smothering her in love. Drowning her, protecting her. She planted a gentle kiss atop her head as they stood there, wrapped up together and silent.

“I love you Yasmin Khan.” The Doctor whispered quietly as her lips brushed the others cheek. “I’m absolutely terrified, but I’m in love with you.”

Yaz chuckled. “You? Scared of a bit of feelings? Never would have guessed.” She pulled away to look into the Doctor’s eyes. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it together, yeah?”

“Yeah,” The Doctor leaned down and kissed her, feeling the beating of her chest against her own. “I’d love that Yaz.”

[ayearofpike]

Alosha

Tom Doherty Associates, 2004 303 pages, 21 chapters + epilogue ISBN 0-765-34960-4 LOC: PS3566.I486 A78 2004 OCLC: 54007210 Released October 1, 2004 (per B&N)

Ali Warner has an affinity for the forest, and so she’s spending her summer vacation trying to stop logging companies from cutting down the oldest trees. But she doesn’t expect to run into something else out there, something that might be seeking to cut her down. As Ali and her friends try to uncover the mystery of who - or what - is out to get her, she starts to learn just why she is so fond of these woods, and how deep that connection goes.

We’re back to YA, only this time it’s more along the shifted expectations of what YA is and who it should be for. I’ve talked variously about how Harry Potter really changed the way authors and publishers approached books for kids and teens, but it really is hard to overstate just what a major shift this was in the market. Like, suddenly it was not just acceptable but even cool to read a book that was aimed at a younger audience, and the young ones themselves got on board faster than anyone else. Like: you’re writing a book for me, about me, and you’re not underestimating how much I can handle or what kinds of thoughts I bring into this world? It’s no wonder it caught on so fast, and it’s no wonder adults also suddenly glommed on: we had to make up for all those juv/teen/YA years of our own when we were trying to power through some Stephen King or Danielle Steel because the stuff in our school library was for babies.

That said, we did have a temporal shift in our own lives as well as the market shift. That four-year gap in Pike production, as mentioned in the comments of the last entry, probably made a lot of readers forget about him as a modern author. Also, that whole market thing meant selling bigger and fancier books first: the hardcover edition of Alosha was released like a year before the paperback. I’m pretty sure this was the first Pike book I got out of the library rather than buying it for just that reason — I didn’t want to mess up the look of my Pike shelf by throwing a big ol’ hardback on it, and I wasn’t ready to drop $18 on a Pike book. (Of course, that all went out the window when I found The Secret of Ka at a big-box discounter in hardback, not even realizing it had come out, and was unable to walk away. And at any rate, nothing printed after 2010 came out in the smaller paperback, so I was screwed no matter what I did.)

Alosha follows the Potter wave in a couple of ways. It’s the start of a series, yes, and it’s got a teen who is beginning to realize magical origins and powers. But it goes a little deeper than that: where Rowling peppers in a handful of magical creatures to vary the world and spice up occasional interactions, Pike goes all-in on the magic race war. No surprise, if you’ve been paying attention: dude managed to work a Lord of the Rings reference into almost every Archway book, and he even got it into his Cheerleaders joint. But I think that I gave him a little more credit than he deserved the first time I read this book, largely because I hadn’t read Spooksville yet — because this is Pan’s Realm, fleshed out and beefed up and given localized importance through Ali, who is connected to the alternate dimension with the elves and dwarfs dwarves, and who will have to realize her power and importance across the series in order to seal the connection and heal the cross-dimensional wounds and hurts. I assume. (I’m not sure I’ve read all of these.)

Let’s begin. Ali is preparing for her long day of protesting by buying a sandwich at a local shop. When she comes out, she’s accosted by a tiny man who is attempting to sell her a watch and then a CD Walkman, but he doesn’t seem to know what the latter is. She rebuffs him and suggests he try to sell at the pawn shop, and then offers him her food because he’s obviously hungry. When he leaves, she realizes he’s stolen her money too, but doesn’t have time to go chasing because the lumberjacks will be showing up soon.

On her way up the mountain, she encounters the lumber manager, who asks that she please stay off the road to avoid making any trucks swerve and crash. What he means, obviously, is go home and quit bugging us, but Ali interprets his words to mean that she can still pester the lumberjacks if she just goes cross-country. But on the way she hears or maybe just senses something following her. Pike’s made her easy to see, with waist-length maroon hair (that’s literally how he writes it), so no surprise unless she wasn’t expecting loggers up in this part of the woods. She’s traversing a narrow ledge when a noise above her makes her look up — and some kind of giant hairy thing leaps out of the way seconds before a torrent of earth and rock comes down over her. She ducks into a hollow in the rock, but she’s still buried and needs to figure out how to breathe before she can figure out how to dig herself out. Luckily there’s a length of hollow bamboo unburied right next to her. Somehow. In the Pacific Northwest. (Maybe? He never exactly says. It could be coastal California, and this town could be Spooksville all over again, but it always struck me as Oregon for some reason.)

So she manages to get out and then makes her way back home, where we learn that her mom has died a year before and her dad is trying to make ends meet as a long-haul trucker, so Ali is alone a lot. She has to spend the night at her best friend’s house, in fact, because her dad is taking off again, and she tells Cindy (see? Spooksville) all about what happened to her. They agree that maybe Ali saw a bigfoot, and they’ll go the next day with their friend Steve to find footprints.

Ali’s on her way home the next morning to get supplies when she runs into the boy of her dreams, Karl Tanner. She mentions the bigfoots to him, and he seems amused but uninterested. So Ali has to go without this amazing boy, and instead goes with her dizzy friend and the fat kid who has a crush on her to try to take pictures of bigfoot prints. Sure enough, they find some, right where it would have had to be standing to dump a giant pile of dirt on Ali. But now Steve thinks that to make this irrefutable they have to find some hair. So the kids follow the tracks back down toward the river, but suddenly Ali is grabbed from behind and thrown into it.

It’s a swift river, a steep gorge, and there’s a waterfall coming up. What is she going to do? Luckily, there’s a tree bridging the banks just before the falls, and Ali manages to leap and grab it at the last second, and scooch herself to safety. But now as she’s trying to return to her friends, the bigfoots are back — three of them, forcing her back into the river. But she feels strong and secure: the current isn’t taking her anywhere this time, and she starts throwing rocks with unexpected power and accuracy. So the bigfoots take off, and now Ali is wiped out and falls asleep in the sun trying to dry out.

When she wakes up, there’s this tree she’s never noticed before, about thirty feet tall but as big around as a house, with a hole big enough to crawl into. She does it and finds this carved room inside the tree, where she sits quietly and starts asking questions — and the tree answers them. It addresses her as Alosha, which is a name she remembers but doesn’t recognize, and tells her its name is Nemi, which means “no one.” It also tells her that she’s more than she knows, and she will have to face the trials of the elements to truly know who and what she is. She’s already passed the trials of water and earth, and yet to come are fire, air, time, space, and the mystery of who she is. This is a good thing, because she also has to go to the top of the nearby mountain, 14,000 feet up, and close the Yanti, the interdimensional gate that is allowing these crazy bigfoots and thieving midgets into our world. If she doesn’t, Nemi warns, the elf and dwarf army will be using it to cross over and will then attempt to wipe out all of humanity for its sins. (I know, doesn’t sound so bad necessarily in 2018.)

But for now, Ali has to go back to her friends and plan what to do. She’s undecided right up until Steve calls with the news: a tree has fallen on the logging boss and he might not survive. Ali knows this isn’t a coincidence, and she has to act. She feels like she can trust Karl, for some reason, maybe because he’s just that much of a dreamsicle, and she tells him everything that’s going on and the task she’s been set. Karl doesn’t even fucking blink. Like, maybe he should have been named Bryce. He just starts collecting hiking and camping gear and asking when they want to go.

Steve and Cindy grudgingly come on board, but when they’re trying to buy food for the expedition they get robbed. Three guesses who. Ali is at the pawnshop in a blink, and sure enough there’s the little dude, preparing to unload a purse and a wallet. Ali finds her new strength and threatens him, and the guy breaks: of course he’s a leprechaun, hiding behind terrible stage makeup, and he’s crossed over to this dimension to be the first one to amass a pot of gold before the other leprechauns show up. He senses Ali’s power though, and that there’s more to her than she knows yet, and agrees to help on their journey when she asks. After all, someone from the other dimension might be able to help them understand what they’re facing. 

So finally four kids and a leprechaun take a taxi up the side of the mountain as far as they can. Karl warns that they still have a 20-mile hike ahead of them, and they have to traverse it in two days, before the full moon totally opens the Yanti. They make it about nine before Fat Steve needs to stop, so they make camp and prepare to spend the night, with Karl taking first watch. Ali dreams about the night her mother died: a car accident, a blinding red flash, waking up in the hospital hours later. When she wakes up, the leprechaun is sneaking back into camp, but Karl doesn’t think that was a big deal — at least, not until the dark fairies show up and start shooting at them with fire lasers. Karl suggests they split up, that Ali go ahead with Cindy while he and the others work to distract the fairies so the girls can make it farther.

Of course this is a fail. It’s nighttime and Ali doesn’t know the trail, so they ultimately end up making a circle back to the camp, which is totally on fire. Oh, and there’s a bigfoot trapped inside the fire, wearing the sweater Ali lost in the rock slide. She feels bad and wants to save him, so she leaps into the circle of fire and suddenly feels strong again, like she could just ask the fire to stop burning and it would. And it does. The bigfoot is actually a troll, and after securing his promise to not eat anyone, Ali conscripts him to come along.

The dark fairies attack again, but now Ali has a fire shield, and she can still throw rocks. She knocks one fairy out of the air and steals the stones it is using to make the fire lasers. They eventually make it to the intended campsite, where the boys are waiting. Karl has taken a shot to the stomach, but everybody else is OK — even Steve, who somehow beat Karl to this point and doesn’t have a scratch on him. However, all of their gear is gone, except the backpack Ali is wearing. It’s too late to turn back now, though. They sleep a little bit longer and then press on.

As they approach the tree line, they start to hear elf warriors coming up behind them. It becomes really obvious when the arrows start flying. The only thing Ali can think of is to get across the river gorge, to where the trees are thicker and they’ll be protected. So she cuts down a tree with the fire stones and everybody gets across this bridge. But they still have to get up the mountain, and the troll is going to turn to stone if he is out in the sun too long. Both of the creatures know about a cave, though, that passes through the mountain and climbs up a bit, emerging on the backside where the travelers might be more protected. Nobody’s psyched about going in, but Ali makes them do it anyway.

They come to a set of three doors where only the middle one is unlocked, so they keep going, Then there’s another set, of seven.The first and third are open, and even though everyone is pushing and clamoring for the third, Ali insists that they use the first. And this is where the shit hits the fan. They come to a giant crevasse before too long, with a bridge fallen down on the opposite side. Karl has a rope, and manages to catch one of the hooks in the floor, but before the gang can get all the way across, the dwarf army shows up. Ali is safely on the far side, but the weight of three kids, a leprechaun and a troll is too much for the rope, and the dwarf general throwing his ax and chopping it off on the other side means all of Ali’s friends are falling into darkness. She runs, but doesn’t get far before she’s hijacked by the dark fairies, who subdue her easily as the fire stones don’t work on this side of the first door. Shit.

Ali is taken to the dark fairy hive, where she’s hung from her ankles and taunted by the queen. She seems to feel like she should know something more than she does, and the dark fairy queen sees it too, that she’s forgotten important information. It doesn’t matter, because Ali will still make a delicious dinner. She takes off and leaves Ali to dread her fate, during which time she realizes that she survived that car crash for a reason. That it wasn’t the car crashing into something — it was being crashed by someONE, someone outside, someone who had the power to make red flashes, maybe with stones. This gives her the strength to want justice, and she manages to free herself and then waylay the fairy queen when she returns, forcing her to fly Ali back up to the gorge where she lost her friends.

See, Ali has realized something. She’s noticed her watch is running backward, and the buttons she’s ripped off her shirt to mark the gang’s progress have mysteriously reappeared. So not only do the fire stones not work on this side of this door, but also time runs backwards. If she can get up to the set of seven doors before the gang gets there the first time, maybe she will be able to convince herself to make the right choice. Unfortunately, none of the group can see her, because she’s still time-shifted too far out of sync. However, Ali-2 does hear the button fall on the floor just inside the third door, right when she’s ripped it off to drop it inside the first. So she calls her friends back and they go the right way, all the way to the outside of the cave, where it is dark but they still have about 2000 feet to climb to the peak.

Before the Alis leave the cave, though, they rejoin each other, with the knowledge and test completions that both have now done. And Ali has realized something else: one of her friends is working against the effort. As they climb the last distance to the summit, she confides in Karl: Steve is a traitor, and she needs him to be held hostage before they get up to the Yanti. Karl is only too ready to help, and tapes him up to be guarded by the creatures before he climbs the last stone dome (which looks to Ali kind of like a giant igloo) with the girls.

And sure enough, there on a pedestal in the middle of the roof is the Yanti: a seven-sided band surrounding a triangle surrounding a single diamond, none of them touching but still connected all the same. Only Ali can get close enough to see it, though: the other two are stopped by some kind of force field. Karl wants to know why Ali isn’t grabbing it to stop the dimensional portal opening, and that’s when he reveals himself to be the total shitbag and not Steve. In a former life, Karl was Ali’s chief advisor in the realm of the elementals, and when she wouldn’t heed his advice to cross dimensional borders and support war against the humans, he went to the dark fairies to get done what he needed to do. And now he wants the Yanti and all its power, and he’s got a gun to Cindy’s head and will blow her pretty brains all over the mountain if Ali doesn’t give it up.

Only guess what: Ali already knew that. Gagging Steve was a ruse to make Karl overconfident. And guess what else: she already found the gun and took all the bullets out of it. You don’t have to guess, though, that her super strength and powers are way too much for Karl — but just before she kills him, he drops the bombshell that her mother is still alive. He took her out of the burning wreck and substituted some other body that the dark fairies provided. If she kills him, he warns, she’ll never find her mother. So she lets Karl walk, just before a giant rainbow halo surrounds the moon and lights up the entire mountain, and just like that the elemental army is here.

Ali wants to talk to the lord of the elves, to try to talk him out of the war. He’s all, nah dude, we’ve been over this and reborning yourself as a human girl isn’t going to change my mind. But Ali tries more persuasion: it’s because she’s taken the human form, she argues, that she KNOWS humans aren’t totally bad, and that there is some hope for the earth and all its dimensions if they’ll just stop now. But the elves are determined to fuck some shit up, and it’s too late for Ali to do anything about it.

Or is it?

By whispering her secret name into the Yanti, Ali turns it back on, just like a light switch. She commands the elementals to be gone, and they all fade out — all except the elf king, who has used his OWN secret name to stick around and then suddenly has Ali at knifepoint. She knows he isn’t going to kill her, because she knows they have a history, and sure enough the dude drops his knife and backs off. For now. He is still convinced that there is a dark evil overtaking his dimension, and the only way to get rid of it is to get rid of humans. Because, dear Ali, the darkness is a product of this dimension, and destroying its origin is necessary. So we haven’t seen the last of the elf king, or Karl probably.

But we do still have a problem: we’re stuck on top of this 14,000 foot peak with no food or water. No sweat: Ali asked for a canoe, and it’s sitting right there. They literally snowboard it down to the river and then ride the rapids all the way back to town, undoing in three hours what took them two days to traverse. Then Ali goes to the hospital to see the logging boss, and with the magic of the Yanti manages to heal his ills and save his life.Then she goes home, where her father is frantically waiting for her, and he notices that her hair has gone from maroon to bright red. Just like her mother’s.

And that’s the end of Alosha! We certainly have a neat story here, tied off while still leaving enough open ends to explore further in future tales. Obviously Ali is going to have to battle the dark evil, and obviously she’s going to attempt to find her mother and thwart Creepy Karl. Still, I don’t really know if that’s all going to get wrapped up in three books. (Spoiler: I know it won’t, because Pike has written a fourth, which he’s holding hostage until whoever has the movie rights to this one makes a move and gets it produced.) I guess all we can really do right now as Pike fans is keep moving along, and hopefully we won’t have to go back in time too far to undo our own mistakes.

[red-5]

Consequences

Summary: Learning you may have had a one-night stand with the bane of your existence is bad enough. But having to team up with said one-night stand to track down possible video evidence is just a recipe for a bad day.

Pairings: Poe x Reader

Warnings: Adult themes, alcohol consumption, language

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone that has helped me get my groove back. I’m working on a bunch of Poe request that came in, but i’m still riding a crazed, derailed rollercoaster of emotions so just kinda writing my way through it. Wheeee.

As delicious as aged Corellian Whiskey was, it left one hell of an aftertaste.

You peeled your tongue from the roof of your mouth and scrubbed it across your teeth, trying to rid them of the vile fermentation that clung to them in a fuzzy film that your toothpaste just couldn’t quite get off. There had been a thought about hiding the bags that hung beneath your eyes and taming the wild flyaways that sprung from your head, a fleeting one, but a thought nonetheless. Chances were the majority of the fleet wouldn’t look much better than you anyway. Your only saving grace was there were no scheduled flights today. Red Squadron would be spending the day with their feet planted firmly on the ground. Thank the Maker.

You stumbled into the cantina, shielding your eyes from the intrusive light that seemed so much brighter than normal.  The cinched arms of your flight suit hung off your hips, you’d gotten it most of the way on, and you were 75% sure your tank top was clean. Most of them were stained with various mechanical fluids at this point so it wasn’t like it was a new look for you. The thick orange material was just too thick, and you were in no mood to bear the heat of a D’Qar afternoon any more than you needed to.

“Daaaamn, boss.”

You actively flinched away from the far-too enthusiastic voice that had the nerve to intrude upon your sulking. Bright, blue eyes raked across your disheveled form with just a hint of disapproval, blonde waves infuriatingly impeccable. Cora. You loved her, you did, but her ability to end the night barely remembering her own name and start the next morning fresh as a Noobian daisy was something you’d never been able to stop hating her for.

“Shhh.”

You heaved your hand up, pressing a finger to her lips to stop the assault on your eardrums that was sure to follow.

“Where’s Kato?” You croaked.

She laughed, pulling your hand from her mouth and taking hold of your arm.

“He popped off to talk to Miss Mira the second you stumbled in,” she chirped, dragging you in the direction of what you hoped was somewhere you could just sit down and wait for death. “He’ll be bringing you his life-restoring concoction in no time.”

You ducked your head and allowed yourself to be pulled across the cantina and dumped into your usual chair at your usual table, collapsing across the top and burying your face in your arms. It wasn’t quite as loud as it normally was at this time in the morning, so it appeared that as bad a shape as you were in, you didn’t seem to be the worst. Just as the spinning in your head reached it’s peak and you opened yourself up to the sweet embrace of death, a firm hand grasped your shoulder and hauled you into a sitting position.

Your mouth dropped open in preparation to unleash an unholy torrent of cutting insults until your eyes squinted Kato’s face into focus.

“You better drink this before the rest of your pilots show up. They’ll never let you forget it.”

He placed the cup in your hand, and you wasted no time raising it to your lips. You’d thank him when you could form coherent sentences again. The thick, green liquid coated your mouth and slid down your throat, but the knowledge of the sweet relief that was in store for you helped you fight against the churning in your stomach. The first time he’d made it for you, you’d made the mistake of asking what was in it. He had taken your hands in his, looked deeply into your eyes, and said in the ominous voice you had ever heard:

“You don’t want to know.”

You hadn’t wanted to drink it, but after he had coaxed it down your throat and you had felt the effects, you’d never questioned him again.

“You know,” Kato drawled, leaning lazily against the table next to you. “You look a lot better than I thought you would, considering the… company you had last night.”

You grimaced through a thick, sticky swallow and shot him a confused look before yelping at the sharp pain that exploded across your shin.

“Cora what the shit?!” You howled, lifting your glass into the air to try and salvage the nectar of life that sloshed up the sides and rubbing the burn away with your other hand.

Cora’s wide, panicked eyes darted between your face and Kato’s, perfectly pouted pink lips gaping between the two of you for a frantic moment before she remembered how to speak.

“S-sorry boss,” she squeaked with a shrug. “Leg spasms. My thighs still cramp up since the crash.”

You shot her an irritated look, but lacked the energy to do little more than raise your cup back to your mouth.

“What the hell are you going on about now?” You asked after another large swallow, wiping the corners of your mouth on the back of your hand.

Kato blinked back at you, suddenly nervous gaze snapping from your face to the frightening, pointed look the tiny blonde shot him from across the table.

“U-um, well- “ he stuttered.

“Kato, just spit it the hell- “

“What do you remember from last night?” Cora blurted over you, leaning onto her elbows to look at you carefully.

You looked back and forth between them for a moment, slowly lowering the cup to the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Just,” Cora began, pressing her lips together and drawing a sharp breath through her nose before continuing. “What is the last thing you remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but seeing no end to the interrogation, obliged.

“Black Squadron was throwing Snap a make-up birthday party, which, I’m sure you agree was a perfect opportunity to break out the whiskey Han sent me.”

She smiled and nodded, but stayed silent.

“I had a few drinks, gave my good wishes to the birthday boy, you-know-who showed up, so I decided to bail, ran in to Jess and you guys and we went to the hangar for a few more drinks, then I went home. Alone.”

She rested her chin on her hands, narrowing her eyes as she watched you. You could practically hear the gears in her head turning.

“Not… exactly.”

Your eyebrow shot into your hairline.

“What do you mean not exactly?”

She sighed, dropping her arms to the table and pressing her palms flat against the top.

“You did go home… but a bit more happened before then… and you didn’t go alone… “

You didn’t speak, but watching her squirm under your gaze was satisfying enough.

“Someone… else… showed up at the hangar…”

A chill ran up your spine. There was a relatively small list of people that warranted the kind of reaction that had been elicited from your closest friends, and only one name was coming to mind.

“Who?” You hissed.

Her mouth dropped open, and you watched the words die in her throat. Her eyes snapped helplessly to Kato before slipping over your shoulder and widening in a way you were certain she had no real control over. It felt like your life had been put into slow motion as you turned your head, meeting the wide-eyed look Jess gave you when she clearly had something she needed to speak to you about before landing on the head of unruly dark curls that walked in after her.

“No…”

You whipped your head back around to face them a little too quickly for your current state.

“If this is some kind of joke it isn’t funny.”

Their silence spoke volumes.

“There’s no possible way…”

More silence.

You whirled back around helplessly, unsure what seeing his stupid face again would solve but not entirely sure what else to do. Nausea twisted tight knots in your stomach when his eyes seemed to be waiting to meet yours from across the room. You barely lasted a more than a second of full eye-contact with Poe Dameron, your arch-nemesis, however childish Cora said having an arch-nemesis was, and apparently if your closest friends were to be trusted, lover. Kato’s miracle concoction crawled back up your throat at the thought, and you spat out a string of words that conveyed your intention before darting out of the cantina. You wanted to be behind closed doors when the few contents of your stomach made a reappearance.

A few deep breaths, a splash of cold water to the face, and a stiff cup of caf, and you’d managed to calm the raging storm in your stomach. Kato’s potion had finally taken effect, and you’d managed to work yourself into a state where it no longer felt like your skeleton was trying to crawl out of your skin. You’d resisted the urge to sit in the fresher under the hottest water it was capable of producing until your flesh melted off, ultimately convincing yourself that was a touch melodramatic. You were an adult. You could handle a regrettable one-night stand. Eventually the mortifying thumbs-up and sly winks you were receiving would stop, and everyone would move on to the next scandal. Until then, you would take out the frustration on all the little bugs and quirks you’d been meaning to work out of your beloved ship.

Once you’d nursed yourself back to a state of productivity, you’d beelined for the hangar and set to work without another word. You didn’t know where Cora and Kato were, and despite the look you’d seen on her face in the cantina, Jess was also nowhere to be seen. It was just as well. You had no intention of interaction with another person for a while. Because it seemed everything in the galaxy had made a pact to turn against you, the wrench you gripped in your cramping fingers seemed bound and determined not to move. You jerked it free from the crusted bolt you’d been attempting to coax free with a growl. With one more inspection of the bolt in question, you backed out of the maintenance compartment, mumbling obscenities under your breath, and turned on your heel to face your tool cart only to crash into a solid, warm figure. You realized with a sickening fury that you didn’t need to see the face to know who it was, you recognized their scent instantly.

“Woah, sorry,” Poe said with an awkward chuckle, innocently putting his hands into the air and taking a few steps back.

You glared holes into his head in response, folding your grease-slicked arms across your chest.

“Is there something I can help you with, Commander?” You ground out between your teeth.

His eyes floated across your face in a way that made you feed oddly exposed, and you fought the urge to squirm as you stared him into submission.

“I, uh… “ he started lamely, wringing his hands in front of him. “I was thinking we should… talk.”

Oh, no. Not happening.

You shouldered passed him, nonchalantly tossing the wrench onto your cart and rifling through your tools.

“About what?”

He didn’t respond right away. You could feel him fidgeting behind you. You were also slightly ashamed at how much satisfaction it gave you.

“About… about last night… “

You continued to search through your tools at a leisurely pace, picking through them one-by-one until finding the one you were looking for.

“I barely remember anything from last night, Commander Dameron, and the parts I do remember don’t concern you.” You spun back around to stride back to your ship without so much as sparing him a second glance. “If I can’t remember something, I can’t talk about it, now can I?”

Ignoring his sigh, you set back to work freeing the bolt from the dried, crusted oil that imprisoned it in place.

“That’s how we’re going to do this?”

Though your mind created a list of biting responses, you elected to simply continue to ignore him. Eventually he’d get the hint and go away. The seconds ticked by, and your skin still bristled at his presence behind you.

Fine,” he said after a while. “Will you at least tell me if you saw my datapad?”

You heaved a sigh, dropping your chin to your chest as your hands halted their work.

“Why the hell would I care about your damn datapad?”

The awkwardness, it at all possible, spiked to a record high between you.

“Because, the last time I saw it… was… well we were… “

The glare you shot over your shoulder was all the motivation he needed.

“The last time I remember having it was when we were… together.”

You stared at him while your mind caught up.

“…And?”

His eyes shot up, down, to the side, anywhere but your face as his hands found his hips.

“And… I’m pretty sure that the… that the video function… was used.”

For the next several seconds all you could hear was a high-pitched whine and your own heartbeat.

“I’m sorry?”

He winced at your low hiss, still reluctant to meet your eyes as he increased the distance between the two of you by a few strides.

“I’m pretty sure- “

“Well you better get really sure really damn quick!” You wailed. “For fuck’s sake, Dameron.”

You pushed off of the fuselage, drawing in a deep, steading breath as you paced the short distance between your ship and tool cart.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

He shifted uncomfortably from side to side, a brilliant shade of red painting his face and neck.

“You didn’t seem to have any complaints.”

The look you gave him could have melted planets. That’s it. You were smashing the next bottle Han sent you, regardless of what it was. Poe seemed to sense there were no words that would help him out of his current situation, and that the sound of his voice would only act as fuel for your roaring fire of rage. After several laps, and several cleansing breaths, your fists unclenched, your fingernails no longer tore through the tender flesh of your palms, and you felt confident enough to speak.

“Okay,” you breathed with a firm set of your shoulders. “Well, obviously we have to find it, so get to remembering. The sooner we find it, the sooner I don’t have to look at you anymore.”

You didn’t give any room for argument, tossing your tools unceremoniously back on your cart with a clunk and turning on your heel to log your progress before beginning what was sure to be the worst scavenger hunt you’d ever participated in. You could feel his eyes on you, but the only indication he gave that he agreed were two simple words.

“Yes, ma’am.”

@angelaiswriting @i-said-goddameron @geeksareunique @hanginwithmanerds@thefirebreather00

[brittysaucefanfic]

Brand New Blue

Part 35

(First)(Previous)(Next) (AO3)

Lance’s dream started in darkness. 

Just a black hole swallowing him up as he floated aimlessly. It was so dark, he couldn’t even see his own body. He could feel himself move as he shifted. Felt his arm lift to brush against his face. Felt tears against the fingertips of his hand, and something dripping from his other hand. Lance felt when he blinked, as if in slow motion, but there was no change in vision. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing, and ignoring the feeling of the same almost sludge like liquid smearing all over his face.

When he opened his eyes again he could see his hands. 

Horror rose in his chest as he recognized the blue liquid falling slowly from his hands. His wrists had a pair of chains that looked suspiciously Galran in nature. Lance looked up at the sound of a broken whimper and his vision blacked out again. The only thing he could see was a pair of teary eyes. They held no whites, no pupil, just a pure blue color. 

The color of his lion, of his very own eyes, the color of the sludge dripping from his fingers.

They grew from tiny little eyes, and grew and grew until Lance was nothing but an ant beneath their glare. A voice echoed in his ears, low and haunting and achingly familiar. A voice that haunted his nightmares, a voice he’s run away from ever since he escaped the arena.

Your fault, it says. If you had only done as I demanded, then this wouldn’t have happened. It repeats what is says in varying tones. Some echo, as if Lance was underneath the waves on Varadero beach. Blurred and distorted. Others are mocking, like it was laughing at Lance’s pain. 

He wanted to get free. He needed to wake up.

Wake up, Lance yells at himself. Wake up you idiot!

Lance looks down, looking at his chains again to not have to look into those horrible eyes. Horrible, sorrowful eyes. The chain, actual physical chains, is long and loose. The slack pools into two stacks of chain, his right one bigger as both chains trail to the right of Lance and behind him. They were unraveling, pulling behind him. It took him a second too late to realize that they were about to yank him off his feet. 

They only took him through the air for a millisecond, before he crashed into the wall, back first. It knocked the breath out of him, and he jerked forward in wheeze. His hands, chained above him, refused to allow him proper room to curl in on himself like his natural instincts demanded.

A clawed purple hand- slim, strong, and in a crooked sense, feminine- gripped his cheeks hard, digging into his skin and yanking his head up. He met glowing yellow eyes, and a pointed purple face shrouded beneath a hood. 

You will obey, the witch said. Obey me paladin.

No! Lance yells to himself and forces himself to wake up with a gasp.

~~~

Lance launches upright with a desperate gasp. 

He’s in bed, tangled among his sheets and sweaty. He pushes his hand through his hair, pushing the short strands out of his face. They were starting to get a little long again. He sucked in a breath, trying to slow his rapid breathing before he starts hyperventilating.

He’s successful, and he calms down enough to stumble out of bed and to the bathroom. The first thing he does is empty his stomach, which wasn’t all that full in the first place. Last night he got a taste of his own medicine at dinner. He had shown up for dinner, hoping to talk to Hunk, but he had never shown. 

The others did, and thankfully they didn’t ice him out. But Lance knew they knew a little something about the conversation he had with Hunk. If he knew his friends as well as he thought he did, it was probably Pidge who convinced the others to spy on them. 

Wouldn’t surprise him.

Lance washed his mouth out before stumbling back into his room, legs shaky and unstable. One hand, his right one, was pressed into the door frame to hold him upright. He curled in on himself again, bending almost in half as he struggled to get himself together.

Maybe Hunk was right.

The dreams have been so bad lately, keeping him up at all hours of the night. He tries to stare at the stars and planets in the distance to calm down, like when he was a kid, but it doesn't work. Never works. Lance just associates the stars with suffering now.

And that killed him, alright? It killed him to know that one of the few things he would always have as a constant in his life is now blackened with pain. Once upon a time, when he looked at the stars and planets, all he saw was new possibilities.

Girl or guy reject or dump him particularly harsh? The stars gave him faith he would find someone to love. A person drags him through the mud for his sexuality? Hope that times will change. The day his abuelito passed away? knowledge that he was in a better place among the stars.

They've always comforted him, until they only spelled out misery and pain.

And his eye doesn't help. The Galra eye that is. It's like Lance lost all control over that mental click that switches from Galra to human mode. Not often does it happen, but when he's stressed out, it's like an involuntary spasm.

On, off. Human, Galra. Back and forth.

And Hunk. Can't forget about the giant hunky Hunk.

Lance prides himself in being able to read people. Aliens, humans, machines, beasts, half beast robots of Galra creation. It's just an intuitive thing. Something he's positive he inherited from his mother.

So the stressed out tone when Hunk said he knew, and he heard? Well it doesn't take a genius to guess exactly how much. And the way Hunk talked about it. As if he knew they were being spied on, and tried to give Lance as much privacy as possible.

Hunk was good at reading people too.

So he probably understood why Lance couldn't say the goddamned words out loud. The trauma, the memories. It's all still too fresh in his mind. Present. Past. Lance can't distinguish them anymore. He can't pick apart the knot of thread to tell which was this recent encounter, and which one was a year or so ago.

Especially after Hunk and Keith got free.

Then things really got bad, and Lance was lost. He had to push his mind into a cage and wait out the hurricane. He's still feeling the aftereffects of the storm, pressing deeply on his mind. The high winds of what if. The down pouring rain of locked away memories breaking free. The torrent waves of the new experiences rocking his boat to make him drown.

Lance was no stranger to suffering.

When he was maybe ten years old, his best friend died in the ocean they so loved. An underwater current wrenched him away in a second, and his tiny body was found three miles downstream.

When he was fourteen, his older sister tried to commit suicide, all because someone at school started a rumor that labeled her as a whore. She's still recovering in rehab, in and out over the past couple of years.

When Lance was seventeen he followed in her footsteps. It was thankfully unsuccessful, and he didn't need a hospital. In fact most of his family don't even know, only his mom and eldest brother. Lance made them promise not to send him away, and their family friend, a doctor, diagnosed Lance with depression.

It wasn't too bad, definitely livable, and it only flared up every now and again. Never enough to warrant even a thought of suicide again, but enough to make him hollow inside. He was lucky, most didn't get the kind of second chances Lance did.

So yeah. He knew suffering. Knew it like an old friend. He was no stranger to pain and heartache. But Hunk? That was a different story. Of course, Lance was positive Hunk had his own problems, his own tragedies. Everyone does. But you wouldn't tell with Hunk.

He radiated warmth like the sun, kind and protective and life giving. The kind of suffering Hunk was exposed to, even if not his own, would be a game changer for anyone. Hunk was just in pain right now, Lance knew. He was hurting because Lance was, and it warmed him.

Made the hurt fade a little in his chest, knowing Hunk was so fond of him that he was in this pain while Lance worked through his suffering alone. Lance was never positive where he stood with the team. Yeah, they've all bonded a lot ever since they met. But he wasn't positive he was really apart of the Voltron family until now. Until Hunk showed how much he cared for Lance.

So maybe Hunk was right.

Maybe he should talk to someone. Maybe Lance should march his happy ass down to the bridge, call them to join him in the lounge and just spill his guts like he was dying. Maybe he should tell them, at least to get it off his chest. Out of his head.

The things he went through were of the worst kind of suffering. The kind that rips someone apart from the inside out. The kind that makes the skin a person wears feel foreign or tainted. The kind that brought thoughts of the pills Lance once took a little too much of. And the kind that put a blade to his sister's wrist, to create red flowers in the bathtub.

He shouldn't have to suffer alone. He doesn't have to suffer alone. These people, these amazing, talented people. They could help Lance get through this. It isn't like when he escaped the arena.

It isn't him locking himself in the room with his head in his hands and tears on his face and a scream dying on his lips. It isn't those cells he called home for months. It isn't prison.

This was his friends, his Found Family.

Mama once told him something that seemed so insignificant at the time. Said off handedly, like a passing thought, with no rhyme or reason.

She told him, there are three types of family every person has. No two types are the same for any person, and no two people's are alike. She said, the first family is the family you are born into. The people you call blood, who share your DNA in some way or another.

Not every Born Family are good families. Some are cruel, and some are absent. Some abandon, and some are killed. But no matter what, they are still your first family. You don't have to love them, you don't even have to like them. But facts are facts honey.

She said, then there are your Found Family. Some are small, and some are big, and some may never be found. But they are still there. These are the people you love, the ones that aren't related by blood or marriage.

They are friends, neighbors, teachers and even animals. These are the people you choose to have around you, that you would ride and die and kill for.

And she said, usually with a wave of a hand vaguely, then there are the Made Family. This one is simple honey. They are the family you create. Your loving spouse, your children and your grandchildren. Nieces, nephews, sons, daughters. More often than not they are blood, and you become their Born Family. But some aren't related in the slightest.

Mama meant adopted children and the like, though she never elaborated. Lance never asked.

So these people, these amazing people he surrounded himself with daily, were Lance's Found Family. They don't know it, or he doesn't think they do. And they might not reciprocate, but like Mama said, facts are facts.

It was wrong of Lance to push his Found Family away.

So when the time was right, and things slow down, and maybe after Lance gets some well deserved rest, he'll talk. He'll sit them all down at the table. They'll listen, ask questions, and accept if Lance can't answer. He'll throw some lame pick up lines at Allura, Shiro, Hunk, Keith, Pidge or Coran. They'll change the subject when it gets too much and set it aside for later.

So yeah, maybe Hunk was right.

But Lance wanted to wait until he was ready before he tried to talk to them about what happened. He didn't want to subside into a panic attack mid talk, that's for sure.

For now though, he had some training to catch up on.

******

(First)(Previous)(Next) (AO3)

[bestfriendforhire]

Children of BFFH, Entry 109

 Eventually, the mansion was relatively silent again with most of the inhabitants sleeping.  Messy, Crazy, Four, Aid, Luce, and Valeria were still awake, and all were looking at me.

 “I don’t really know.  Do any of you have a preference?” I asked hopefully.  During my time here, I had seen the kids laugh as they teased one another, fight against each other with far more skill than I could claim, use magic that still boggles my mind, and show me that they somehow had time to cultivate incredible characters in my favorite game as well.  How was I possibly supposed to choose what we do next!?

 Before anyone else could speak, Luce said, “I want to fight you.”

 “I am very well aware that you would win if you got serious.  I knew even before Aid helped train me for the battle, which I still lost.” I assured her, wanting to cut off that line of thought.

 “I’ll fight you, Luce!” volunteered Crazy, her face looking innocent with its broad grin as she waved her hand in the air.

 Luce frowned, staring at Crazy, but to my surprise she said, “Okay.  Let’s do this.”

 I very much wanted to protest, but I was also really interested in watching.  Luce didn’t even look scared!  Was she that much stronger than I had expected to be confident against Death’s granddaughter?  Before I could think what to say, a portal opened to the backyard, and everyone else started heading through.  I hesitated so long that Valeria peered back through the portal from the other side questioningly.

 There was a flash of light, startlingly bright in the relatively dark night.  Luce and Crazy’s clothes had both been replaced by suits similar to what Aid and I had used for our exercise yesterday.

 “Begin!” exclaimed Four, looking amused.

 Luce was a blur, but the dirt didn’t explode from behind her, protected by a quick telekinetic wall she had made.  Energy trailed in her wake, thick and relatively still, like a glimmering mist.  She attacked Crazy with a series of punches, kicks, and small spells meant to throw her opponent off-balance, nothing to account for the amount of her natural magic she had to be using, though the fleshy sound of the impacts was very loud.

 My eyes widened in shock as hundreds of thin beams of water were suddenly surging through where Crazy had been.  I couldn’t follow their individual movements, especially when more shot up from the ground.  Happening to glance up at where the streams seemed to have originated, I saw a massive body of water floating in the air, reminding me of when Luce had swept Father and I up with a river.

 “What if someone sees that?” I exclaimed, pointing up into the sky.

 Four laughed.  “Father placed an illusion over this entire yard and far into the sky years ago.  No one out there ever has a clue what’s going on anywhere on this property.” he explained.

 I certainly hadn’t even noticed the illusion when I entered.  James’ skills were legendary for a reason.

 When Crazy suddenly threw something that flew with the speed of an enchanted bullet at Luce, I thought she’d fall over, but a thick wall of ice had appeared in front of her, surging up from the ground.  I couldn’t guess at how much effort it took to keep ice solid enough to block an enchanted bullet, but the projectile didn’t even hit it.  Blackened, shriveled vines covered in thorns exploded out, wrapping up and around the ice.  Luce darted away, and the vines shriveled and fell to ash.

 Instead of keeping the offensive, Crazy just started walking forward until that huge body of floating water crashed down at her.  She didn’t even dodge, letting herself be swirled around in the sphere which formed.  Father had taught me how lack of oxygen could still affect me after enough time, and drowning made things even worse.  Swimming against that tide would be impossible for me with Luce actively manipulating it against me.  If she froze it, I didn’t have the strength to shatter it and might not be able to form spells even if she let me.

 “Should we do something to intervene?” I asked, feeling a little worried.

 Messy looked at me in surprise, smiling as she said, “If you interrupt Crazy fun, she might attack all of us.  Luce will probably forfeit soon.”

 “What?  Why!?” I asked in surprise, clearly seeing Luce as the victor.

 Messy turned my body to face Luce and pointed at her feet.  A single blade of grass had grown over a yard long and was periodically taking a stab at Luce, who kept moving to avoid being poked.

 Aid sighed and said, “I’ll help her.”

 He created a spell that lifted his sister into the air as he walked toward her and a large chunk of the yard seemed to erupt into flame, but I didn’t feel the heat at all, meaning he was protecting us.  Darkness seemed to envelop him for just a moment, and his clothing changed to match the one he had worn yesterday.

 Crazy suddenly shot out of the water straight at Aid, he ducked, kicking her into the air where Luce’s small lake surged after her, dividing once more into fast-moving streams.

 “She’s not even gasping for breath!” I exclaimed when I realized she seemed fine.

 “She doesn’t need to breathe.” stated Messy with a small shrug.

 “Yeah… I better help my siblings too.  Valeria, mind joining us?” he asked, looking back at her.

 Another puff of darkness, and both of their outfits transformed.  A chunk of the residual energy which had been forming up around Luce and Aid streamed toward Four, and I was stunned to see them suddenly firing off dozens of deadly spells each at Crazy.  I couldn’t follow her movements at all as she dodged.  Two of Valeria’s gateways appeared, and there was a large explosion in the ground, which could only be Crazy hitting it with her insane speed.

 “How did Valeria time that?” I asked in astonishment.

 “Aid’s keeping telepathy going between the three of them as he’s doing his other spells.  Four probably called it.  He’s still the fastest of them for now.” explained Messy with a smile.

 “How hard is keeping up with all of this for you?” I asked, watching as Crazy waded through the intense flames, frowning at the group.

 “Much easier than I can keep up with her when she gets serious.” she told me, nodding toward Crazy.

 Impressively, Crazy started countering the spells that were being thrown at her from the three siblings as well as Valeria’s slower and somewhat amateurish magic.  A continuous barrage of lightning bolts were deflected to the ground, flames couldn’t quite touch her, boulders of earth were caught by torrents of wind that lobbed the earth back at the siblings, water was vaporized, and… I believed there were other currents of air made by the siblings, meant to dismember through pressure.  The battle was far too much to follow.  Each of the siblings were doing magic beyond what I could manage.

 “Who’s going to tire out first?” I asked, some of my awe escaping in my tone.

 “No one.  I’m sure you can keep up a fight at this level for a good ten minutes at least.  Crazy doesn’t tire any more than I do, and she’ll probably fight back soon.” commented Messy, calmly watching the madness.

 As if on queue, plants thicker than the length of a limousine tore out of the ground all across the yard, and a deep, instinctive fear rose within me as I looked at them.  Before I could register what had happened, they moved and the Somersets as well as Valeria were dumped next to me.

 “She’s really getting better at holding back.” insisted Aid as he rubbed his head with a grimace.

 “Messy!  Messy!  Messy!” chanted what sounded like thousands of people.

 Messy frowned.  “Fine.” she replied as she pulled Valeria to her feet.

 As she spoke, light flashed around her.  Everyone’s clothing was returned to what it had been, and hers changed to one of their workout suits.  What happened next didn’t make sense.  There was darkness, light, and far too much movement that seemed completely unnatural all across the yard at once.  I didn’t know how long I stared before I realized that several hands were patting my back.  Tearing my eyes from the confusing images, I saw the siblings and Valeria watching me.  A spell gently wiped the tears from my eyes.  When did I start crying?

 “You’re fine.” insisted Four.

 Even Luce was nodding, giving me a sympathetic look.

 “The trick is,” said Aid as he stared into my eyes, “not looking directly at Crazy’s plants.  Non-demon brains aren’t wired to process demonic intrusions into this world, which is essentially what happens when Crazy uses her innate magic.  You have to force yourself to focus just around them, though that’s easier said than done in that mess.”  He motioned back toward the chaos where Crazy and Messy fought.

 He glanced at his sister before saying, “Sorry about all of this.  Luce really wanted to give you a better impression of what she could do, and we decided to go along with it.  Are you okay?”

 I nodded, but I felt physically and mentally drained even though I hadn’t participated.  For six thousand years, my family was said to be the strength that kept the monsters at bay for the sake of humanity, but what were we next to these kids?  I had to force myself not to look back again Crazy and Messy’s fight.  My family could not afford to anger these people.

[amydiddle-fanfiction]

April: Working at the Car Wash

.@gfhunklescalendar2017  (UNEDITED)

Ao3

A/N: The beginning of a year where once a month I post a fic based of this wonderful calendar. This pic by: @owlapinart (THIS ONE WAS LATE BY A WEEK AND I APOLOGIZE FOR THAT. REAL LIFE GOT IN THE WAY OF MY SELF-CHALLENGE.)

It had started out as a nice, warm day in late April. The sun had been shining down on the world and, more importantly, the car that was parked in the large drive way. The once brilliant red was very clearly covered in dirt and dust. The sight of the dirt had spawned the idea of going out and giving the car a good old fashioned wash.

Now, Stanford was kind of regretting his agreement to help his twin with the task. How he had thought that they could do a simple task like washing a car was a mystery to him. He should have stayed inside. He should not be out here getting soaked by a man that could not hold a hose still.

The man glared at his brother when he felt the spray of water once again hit his head as he was wiping down the hood. Stanley was leaning against the car casually and letting the water fly up and over; soaking Ford for the third time since they had started this part of the wash.

Stanford looked down at the sponge in his hand and then at his twin’s elbow and then smirked. Stan was most likely keeping his full weight up on the slippery wet surface of the red car; it would be easy. With a clean motion, Ford made the sponge hit his brother’s arm and watched as Stan slide down to the ground.

“Oh fu-!”

Stan did not fall gracefully. The man tried to catch himself on the car but the soap covered surface was not the best thing to hold onto when falling. It just mad Stan’s descent clumsier. The older man fell to the ground with a clatter. A bucket of soap covered water got knocked over in the fall.

The sound startled Ford, who stopped scrubbing the Stanley Mobile’s hood and began to move around the red car.

“Stanley? Are you alright?”

Stan laid in the drive way looking a little stunned, his arm on the over turned bucket and his shirt soaked with the water. The garden hose sat next to him, still raining water. The man’s eyes were closed behind his water splattered glasses and Ford started to panic some.

“Stanley!?!”

He had thought it to be a harmless enough action but the car was made of metal and the drive-way to the manor was concrete. They were both old in years and any little bump could send them into an awful lot of pain.

“Stanley? Come on, stop playing around.” He hurried over to his brother’s side and knelt next to him. He started to look over Stan for any blows to the head. There did not seem to be any.

“Wake up, Stan,” his voice was getting more panicked as he tried to shake his twin awake. This could not be happening. He could not have just hurt his brother like this.

Just as he was reaching for the hose to see if the water would help revive his brother the arm moved and he got a full spray of water to the face himself. Stanford sputtered in surprise and get a mouth full of water. The old man moving back fast and falling back on his rear.

Stan’s laughter filling the space as the man that had been on the ground ‘unconscious’ sat up and released him from the spray.

“That’s what you get for pushing me,” Stan said and turned the hose upwards so he was no longer spraying Ford in the face.

Stanford spit out water and rubbed his eyes; his hair dripped the water down onto his face and did not help this situation.

“Well you,” he paused to try and get some more of it off his face with his soaked shirt, “You should be more careful where you spray that thing. You’re hitting me all the damn time.”

“Oh. You mean like this?” Stanley laughed as he sprayed Ford in the face again.

Ford blocked the spray with his hand and scrambled to his feet.

“Yes! Exactly like that!”

Stan laughed and pulled himself up slowly. The old man giving a groan as his bones protested this after the fall he had just endured. He played it off as he stretched and let the hose start to fill the bucket again.

“I am just trying to help you with your monthly shower, Sixer,” Stan teased, “Your smell is starting to infect all of McGucket’s house and that is saying something.”

“You are a jerk you know that?” Ford huffed.

Ford glared at his twin and grabbed the wet and soapy sponge off the car. He tossed it at Stan’s face and smirked when it hit is target. The white bubbles streaking down the ex-con man’s glasses after it fell to the ground with a splat.

“So are you, Nerd, “Stan said as he retaliated by spraying Ford’s jeans with the hose.          

Stanford moved out of the hose’s range of spray and he looked around. He needed to think. The sponge had been a quick weapon but that did not stop Stan for long. He did not have anything else but the- AH yes. That would work.

Stan put his thumb over the opening of the hose but it was too late. In a fast motion, Stanford moved toward Stan and faked out. A torrent of water went crashing over Stan’s head as Ford dumped the bucket on him. The quick attack made Stanley drop the hose and move back as he tried to get the soapy water from his mouth.

Stanford dropped the bucket in favor of the house with a triumphant laugh.

“I win this round, Stan-.”

“What in tarnation are you boys doin’?”

Both of them froze where they were; the water from the hose seemed to slow down to a dribble as they looked over at the house. Fiddleford stood next to the faucet, his hand on the wheel as if to show he had turned it off.

“Um, we were just…” Stan began.

“Cleaning the car?” Ford finished in a question.

Fidds looked them over and shook his head; a hand going through his beard.

“Yer soaked to the bone,” he sighed, “Here I was comin’ out to offer some lemonade to ya and I find you have already got a way to cool off.”

The twins looked at each other. They were soaked completely. Their grey hair was plastered to their heads, water dripped from their glasses and shirts. When Ford moved, he could feel the puddles in his shoes. Stan could just feel the added weight to his jeans because of the water.

“Heck, ya got more water on yerselves then the car!”

They looked at the car and back at each other, silence between them. All at once they both broke out into laughter.

“Yeah, guess we did,” Stan said between laughs as he took off his glasses to try and wipe them off. The result was just water streaks across the glass.

Ford did the same and got a similar result. “We got a bit swept away in rivalry.”

“I can see that,” Fiddleford said as he turned the water back on, “I’m gonna get you boys some towels. Rinse the car off so it don’t try with soap on it.”

He turned to head back inside and stopped. The engineer looked back at the two of them over his glasses.

“And don’t start another water war. I may live in this here huge house but that don’t mean that I want to be payin’ a large water bill fer yer shenanigans.”

“Or course,” Ford said as he watched as the water came back out of the hose.

“No promises,” Stan said unhelpfully and picked the now dirty covered sponge off the ground. He waited until the man had gone before he flung it at Ford. “You heard the man, get to spraying me car down.”

Ford narrowed his eyes at his brother and put his thumb over the hoses’ opening. The spray of water doing just what he wanted and hitting Stan right in the face.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

[fluorescentmythicalbeastie-blog]

Fantastic Eggs and Where to Find Them - Chapter 6: Gathering Clues

Aaaaand we’re back with some more of FEAWTFT! In the following chapter, there will be mention of a Mrs. Esposito. I couldn’t figure out if her name was Mrs. Estosito or Esposito (or something else), so PLEASE correct me if I’m wrong. Enjoy! 

Chapter 6 - Gathering Clues

Newt never really believed he’d have to be stuffed into a closet with Jacob, but once he was, he realized it was no easy task. Coats fell from hangers and shoes were crushed underfoot as Jacob and Newt stood belly-to-belly. Mrs. Esposito knocked rapidly on the apartment door. Queenie rushed to answer it.

“Hello, Mrs. Esposito!” said Queenie pleasantly.  “I heard a loud noise.” said a somewhat grouchy voice. “Oh yes, we have a nasty Boggart in the drawer of that table. It knocked over all our pictures!” said Queenie with a skillful hint of drama to her tone. Newt peered through the small crack of the closet door, daring for a peek. He could see Queenie bending down, picking up the pictures one by one. Mrs. Esposito, her back to Newt, was hovering over her. She was a short woman, slightly stout and obviously suspicious. Her wrinkled hands clung to her hips while she examined the messy floor. “I’ll have someone remove it, then.” said Mrs. Esposito. At that point, Newt was sure he’d be panicking, but, despite her unique personality, Queenie was as sly as a fox. She lazily assured Mrs. Esposito by saying “Tina can handle it!” and herding her landlady out the door. Newt straightened back up, inadvertently locking eyes with Jacob. “Who put a pool stick up her craw?” said Jacob, a goofy smile spreading across his lips as he jabbed his thumb in the direction of Mrs. Esposito. Newt didn’t understand what he meant, but he joined in the laugh.

 The night passed in jovial conversation between Queenie and Jacob. It was stifling and very awkward for the third wheel (namely, Newt). Occasionally, Newt would interject a word or two before sinking farther back into his dining chair. The food was piping hot and deliciously fresh; he enjoyed every minute of it. However, after nearly two hours stationary, he excused himself from his company with the intent on checking on the dragon egg. Jacob misunderstood Newt’s standing up and immediately followed with a cigarette pack in his hand. “Do you smoke?” he asked Newt, a hopeful glint in his eye. “Ah, no. I have to—” Newt tossed a pleading look at Queenie who giggled in amusement “—shower. I have to shower.” said Newt. Why would I be showering? Newt wasn’t very good at thinking up excuses on a dime. Jacob hadn’t asked how Queenie knew Newt and wouldn’t want to cast doubts across his mind, just in case he wasn’t yet aware that they were friends. The two, Jacob and Queenie were very much interested in each other. That was a fact. Thankfully, Jacob simply sighed and laughed in his charismatic manner. “Me neither. My Pop gave me these for my birthday and I don’t know what to do with them.” said Jacob, motioning with his pack of cigarettes. Newt hurriedly excused himself, leaving a bewildered Jacob.

         Newt felt like he was coming off a day-long rush. Every piece of furniture in his workshop looked like a cozy place to sleep. His stomach was full of delicious sustenance and the egg still appeared the same—whether that was good or bad, Newt did not know. Soon after pushing a heavy wheelbarrow into the Erumpet pen and dumping a load of smelly slop (it was her favorite), Newt collapsed onto the sofa outside his workshop. The enchanted sky glittered above his head and a heavy fog drifted across the floor. The Graphorns were moving dutifully across the horizon, the young trailing after the adults. Newt felt a stirring of pride as he watched the beasts; they were the last breeding pair in the world. Amongst all the lands that Newt held in his suitcase, connected by a series of ramps and small curtains, he felt most at home in the very heart of them. He had a worktable set up in the center where he ground herbs and sketched in his notebook. It was the place where Newt could hear the sounds of every one of his creatures and still call it peaceful.

         Drowsiness swiped at Newt. He was sprawled out on the couch now, still staring dreamily at the sky. Why does this couch smell like flowers? It was a question Newt never had cross his mind. He quickly remembered that Tina had been the last person to sleep on the couch. Remembering Tina, Newt felt a pang of loneliness. After all, it had been nice to have someone nearby to talk to… to look at when Newt needed advice and ideas. He rolled onto his side and allowed himself to be overcome by exhaustion. His eyes slowly shut and his brain began a reel of dreams, each one becoming more confusing than the former.

         Swirling mist parted to reveal the same, fiery scene of terror that Newt had feared would infiltrate his sleep again. The bellowing of a dragon shook the ground, accompanied by flashes of flame against hex. Newt was glued to the ground again, still unable to move. He was behind the same broad-shouldered figure. This time, the details were subtly clearer. Newt could make out the shaggy head of the person in front of him, signifying clearly that it was a man. He could make out the figures of fellow wizards around him, clutching ropes and wands in their hands. It was a nightmare that wouldn’t relinquish its hold on Newt.

         The image shifted—but only slightly. Newt didn’t remember taking any steps, but suddenly he was close enough to touch the man in front of him. An iron head spear materialized in the man’s hand and his breathing became labored with anticipation.

CRASH!

Down came the body of the giant beast, wrapped in enchanted ropes that refused to loosen. Scales clashed against bare rock and screams filled the air as a torrent of fire was spat into the distance. Wizards dropped to the ground and attempted to extinguish themselves. Despite the intensity of the situation, the man ahead showed no sign of running. Instead, he raised a large fist into the air. Action ceased. A buzzing silence filled the air. The dragon (its breed indistinguishable through the bleary trance) became unsure. It made a terrible blunder and became still, allowing its head to come in clear shot of every evildoer. Try as he might, Newt could not scream the dragon back into action. The bulky man leaned back, his muscles rippling below his arm as he readied his spear. He launched it with startling accuracy. Newt watched it whizz through the air, its shining point aimed directly for the dragon’s weakest point—its eyes.

Thunk.

         At first, Newt believed it was his sweat-soaked body that brought him from his night terror. It wasn’t until he was sitting up that he realized a figure was standing before him.

“Tina.” he said weakly, getting to his socked feet. Tina’s tired form backed away to give him space, her eyes wide with concern. Newt’s two top button to his shirt were undone and his hair felt like one giant knot. According to the sofa cushions strewn across the ground, he had been physically terrified during his unconsciousness. “What time is it?” asked Newt. The sun was nearly whole in the sky and the area was unusually warm. Even as Newt thought this, the temperature began to lower to adjust to his preferences.

“It’s early morning… I-I’m sorry for waking you.” said Tina, gratuitously apologizing. Newt shrugged it off and quickly returned his buttons to their rightful place.  He imagined he looked quite haggard, but Tina might’ve looked worse. Instead of her usual tall self, she looked short and out of energy. She clutched a folder in her one hand and her hat in the other. Her hair was messy and shadows loomed under eyes. She was absolutely exhausted—and she did it all for the egg? She’s a criminal catcher! Of course she wants to see Igor locked away… The dream attacked Newt’s mind like a parasite. He openly flinched, but played it off as itch on the back of his neck.

         The two assembled in the Goldstein kitchen, accompanied by Queenie. Tina brewed a cup of coffee for herself and a cup of tea for Newt, all while filling Queenie in on the past events. Queenie would occasionally gasp or look to Newt with admiration, to which he would shy away, but she otherwise remained wordless. Finally, after the pair seated themselves around Newt, Tina began to relay her own discoveries. “I wasn’t on the investigative team for Igor Orgnuk—his background goes a lot deeper than I realized. Just look!” Tina opened the folder and drew out a thick group of pages stapled together. The papers were full of typed names under the list of “Frequent Contacts” Each one also had an updated bio next to them. Most of them were in prison. Newt scanned the names, immediately recognizing a few as notorious beast breeders. “He’s been abroad for years, but he’s originally from the Soviet Union.” Tina revealed yet another page, this time listing the known locations of Igor during his travels. Newt stood and began to pace the apartment while listening. His mind was focused heavily on Smidgens, but his train of thought was successfully broken by the reappearance of a picture frame. Its contents played in a never ending loop. Tina and Queenie stood shoulder to shoulder, young in the face, but still bright in the eyes. The significance of the picture belonged to that of a boy. He stood closely at Tina’s side—very closely.

“Newt?” Tina called from the kitchen. He redeployed himself to the case.

“There’s a pattern here.” Newt announced, approaching the table and running his finger across the locations on the map. “He’s visited all the places where dragons have habitats.” To this, Queenie sighed and shook her head in dismay. “Well, we already know he’s a well-known dragon hunter.” Yes, this was true, but there was still something more. Newt remained silent while Tina flipped through other papers, shooting off exclamations at the size. Newt looked up at the two, suddenly asking “What if he’s doing more than hunting the dragons? What if he’s hunting their eggs and illegally trading them on the side?” Tina and Queenie exchanged a brief look of suspicion before they both nodded at each other. Sister ESP, Newt thought with amusement. “It makes sense, but how would we prove it?” said Tina. Newt leaned back in his chair and idly fingered the leather handle of his suitcase. A creature or two rattled around inside, but he paid no attention to them. There was a piece of evidence lurking somewhere… he could almost grab it…

“Do you have a full list of all the dragon he’s hunted? If we were to prove they all had eggs...” Newt cut himself short. He barely knew that Smidgens had eggs and he considered himself a bit of an expert in that field. How were they supposed to know if dragons twenty years prior had eggs? Tina tried her best to accommodate him. “We do for the last five years, but any more than that is pretty spotty…” she said, tossing a terse glance at a clock on the wall. The clock chimed loudly, revealing to the apartment that is was now eight o’clock in the morning. Queenie was next to speak. “Well, I guess there’s only one thing to do.” she propped her chin on her hands and looked to Newt and Tina expectantly. Newt allowed his pale green gaze to connect with Tina’s poignant brown eyes. She, too, looked confused. “We have to find out who he sold the eggs to.” said Queenie, tugging a document loose from Tina’s grasp. It was the contact list. They’d have to comb through the entire paper. Fueled by tea, coffee and hot breakfast biscuits, the trio began their search for the possible buyer of Smidgens’ eggs.

*Feedback is appreciated!*

[yasbxxgie]

Read Excerpt From Curtis Mayfield Bio Detailing Tragic Accident

Curtis Mayfield was in the midst of reviving his career in 1990, after dealing with his record label going bankrupt and a stale reception for his 1985 album, We Come in Peace With a Message of Love. He put out two LPs Take It to the Streets and The Return of Superfly, embracing younger artists like Lenny Kravitz and Ice-T who cited him as an influence. That summer, he played an outdoor concert in Brooklyn where he suffered a freak accident that all but ended his career.

The singer's son, Todd Mayfield, recently released a biography of his father, Traveling Soul: The Life of Curtis Mayfield, with coauthor Travis Atria. The section of the book reprinted below recounts the fateful event, showing the struggle Mayfield faced, living as a quadriplegic, in the years leading up to his death in 1999.

Wingate Field, Brooklyn, August 13, 1990 — A heavy storm slithered across the Empire State, menacing Senator Martin Markowitz. He'd booked an outdoor show with Curtis Mayfield as headliner, and he didn't want to cancel it. He put on shows like this every summer as a gift to his constituents. Ten thousand people had already shuffled into the park and taken seats or splayed on blankets in the grass. Markowitz hounded his weather contacts, hungry for updates. As show time approached, he got word that grim weather rumbled an hour away. He decided to put Curtis on early, thinking even if they had to cancel, the band might at least get off one song.

After Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes performed a truncated opening set, my father's band, Ice-9, hustled on stage and exploded into the opening strains of "Superfly," drums thump-thump-thumping, bass pulse-pulse-pulsing. Markowitz ascended the stairs on back of the stage, pausing to give a quick greeting to Curtis, who hung out waiting for his cue. It was the first and last time they would ever speak.

Markowitz stepped to the microphone, front and center. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've decided that we're going to bring up Curtis Mayfield," he said. "I'm thrilled ..." and as soon as he hit the word "thrilled," something wrenched the first two rows of spectators from their seats and dumped them on the ground like several hundred discarded dolls.

Markowitz was confused. Then he felt it — a hurricane-force blast of wind. Stacks of speakers on the front of the stage — big mothers, heavy and stout — fell off like they were committing suicide. Trees thrashed above the panicking crowd. Markowitz didn't know what to do. He was in the middle of an introduction. The band was playing. Composing himself, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Curtis Mayfield," and turned to hand over the microphone. My father strode toward Markowitz, axe slung across his body. Halfway there, Hell paid him a visit.

It happened in a matter of seconds, starting with the wind that had thrown the first two rows from their seats and razed the speakers. The gust also toppled the cymbals on the drum riser. Drummer Lee Goodness leaned back and caught them with his left arm, keeping the beat with his right. As Markowitz turned with the microphone, another gust heaved the front lighting truss off the ground and sent it tumbling, knocking the back truss off the stage as it fell. Markowitz collapsed in fear, lying on his stomach. The front truss plunged down, down, down, like a freight train dropped from the sky. As it plummeted, stage lights fell from it like raindrops.

One of those falling raindrop lights cracked Curtis on the back of the neck and crumpled him to the ground. Then the falling truss pulverized the tom drums with a mighty crash. If Lee hadn’t leaned back to catch the cymbals, it would have severed his arms, maybe worse. His bass drum stopped the truss before it could squash my father like a bug.

Dad blacked out, came to, and discovered neither his hands nor arms were where he thought they were. He lay splattered on the stage, helpless as an infant. Then it rained. Big drops. Torrents poured from the sky; thunder exploded like shrapnel. Goodness rushed over to his bandleader. "Are you all right?" he yelled into the rain. "I think so, but I can't move," my father groaned, sodden in the squall, powerless to take cover. He kept his eyes open, afraid that if he closed them he'd die. Someone covered him with a plastic sheet, and everyone waited without breath until an ambulance arrived.

The ambulance rushed him to Kings County Hospital. In the only stroke of luck that day, the hospital stood right next to the field. Paramedics saved his life, but not his body. After stabilizing him in traction, doctors told him the brutal truth — the stage light had crushed several vertebrae. Paralyzed from the neck down, he would never walk, let alone play guitar, again.

He was forty-eight years old.

I flew to New York as soon as I could, and when I arrived at the hospital, my father's body was wracked with pneumonia. His system couldn't fight the sickness after enduring such trauma. He was stretched out in traction and hooked to a ventilator. Tears welled in his eyes. I'd never seen him cry before. He couldn’t speak, but he mouthed the words, "Take care of the finances."

In the hardest of circumstances, we show our true selves. Even at death's door, my father's first thought ran to finances. It was never money he cared about. It was always what money represented — the ability to take care of his family and ensure his children would never suffer the way he had growing up in the slums of Chicago. Without a working body, he couldn't guarantee that anymore.

After more than two months at Shepherd, Dad grew tired of life in a hospital bed. There was only so much rehab he could do, and even that wouldn’t bring his body back. He began lobbying for release, and when his doctors finally assented, he called me to pick him up immediately. I said I'd have to arrange for a van to help transport him, but he shot back, "No, come get me now." I raced over in my two-door Mazda, and the staff helped me use a lift to get him into the front seat. They gave me a huge strap, which I wrapped across his chest, under his arms, and around the back of the car seat to secure him. Slowly, cautiously, I drove him home. It was close to Thanksgiving.

Returning home from the hospital, he faced the greatest challenge of his life — learning to live without a body. It forced him to give up all control. In addition, there was the pain. He suffered from phantom hands — an agonizing sensation he compared to thrusting his arms in a bucket of writhing snakes. Atrophy set upon his muscles, and his feet began to curve downward from lack of use. Diabetes became a serious problem too, and the fingers that once effused elegant guitar licks now served solely as pincushions, caked in dried blood and wrapped in bandages from constant blood-sugar tests. On top of that, he suffered perennial urinary-tract infections as a result of his ever-present catheter.

His life crashed to a halt. No more performing, no more traveling, no more writing. At home, he stayed stuck in bed all day and night with the TV on. The first-floor library became his bedroom, and he sat there passively observing life go on around him. Interview requests flooded in, which gave him something to think about, and he did have days when the darkness lifted a bit, but just as often, his mood turned despondent. Always a man of capricious mood swings, he struggled to maintain a sense of hope and happiness while adjusting to a living nightmare.

Dad never succumbed to self-pity, though he suffered mightily. Every night, he lay trapped as the snakes slithered around his arms and a simple itch could drive him to insanity. He'd call out in the darkness, begging for someone to come ease his pain. My sister Sharon recalls: "When I would go to visit, I would hear him in the middle of the night calling out for [his wife] Altheida. And I just felt such hopelessness. He would just call for her, and call for her, and call for her incessantly through the night."

Altheida bore much of the brunt of caring for my father. Home healthcare workers came to ease her burden, but she still worked herself to the bone. One night, exhausted, she put a candle near the wall and forgot it. The wallpaper ignited. Soon, flames engulfed the second floor of the house. They had to evacuate fast, wheeling Dad beneath billows of black smoke and deadly fire. He watched his home burn, knowing if no one had been there to save him, he would've burned with it.

Dad kept his old master tapes in the basement, and when the fire-hoses extinguished the blaze, they also doused some of the most famous recordings in soul music history. I went back and salvaged everything I could. Some tapes survived, and I began the process of digitally remastering them, culminating in more than fifteen reissues from the Curtom catalog on compact disc. Many tapes, however, we lost forever.

For Dad, life had become apocalyptic. In a matter of weeks, he lost the use of his body and much of his life’s work, and he had to evacuate his home. We kept trying to take his mind off of his trouble, but his life had become an endless combination of medications and physical hardships. At one point he had some fifteen prescriptions for various ailments. "I think overall I’m dealing with it pretty good," he said to an inquiring interviewer, "but you can’t help but wake up every once in a while with a tear in your eye."

The next few years were a battle against atrophy — both of his spirit and body. Sometimes his sense of humor shined through. "I'm a fifty-four-year-old quadriplegic, and there’s not too much demand for that these days," he said wryly. But no amount of humor could mask the intense physical and spiritual pain he confronted all day, every day.

The outside world gave him few reasons for hope. Race relations in America seemed worse than at any point since King’s death. Reagan’s successor, George H. W. Bush, presided over a deeply conservative country and a new generation that had little sympathy for civil rights. A study concluded nearly half of African American children lived in poverty, and a national poll showed only 15 percent of white men (and 16 percent of white women) felt the government was obligated to do anything about it. In 1991, Los Angeles police beat Rodney King, an African American man, within inches of his life. Even though there was gruesome video evidence of the crime, the following year the jury acquitted all officers involved.

The resulting L.A. riots painted a heartbreaking, frustrating picture of how little had changed since a similar police incident had set off the Watts riots almost thirty years before.

Dad was keenly aware of these events. He couldn’t avoid them as he sat stuck in front of the TV all day and night. He didn’t want to avoid them, either—one of his favorite programs was the nightly national news. It frustrated him that he couldn’t counter these issues with music anymore, but that didn’t mean his music career was over. In 1991, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inducted the Impressions, and late the next year an all-star cast of musicians recorded a tribute album featuring selections from Dad’s entire body of work. Around the same time, the City of Chicago renamed Hudson Avenue “Honorary Curtis Mayfield Avenue,” and even today, the street sign stands outside the Cabrini row house where he once lived. These events flattered and revitalized him.

Then, he learned the Grammys would honor him with a Legend Award. At the Grammy ceremony, Jerry, Fred, and Sam wheeled him onstage where he gave a short speech. They ended with a chorus of the Impressions’ 1964 hit "Amen."

It was the last time Curtis Mayfield sang in front of an audience.

From the Book: Traveling Soul: The Life of Curtis Mayfield by Todd Mayfield and Travis Atria Copyright © 2016 by Todd Mayfield, Published by Independent Publishers Group