#and there’s always roofs i guess far away from the ledge but those aren’t good for falling in

[seveneyesoup]

google search considerate ways to work on a handstand as an upstairs neighbor

[bazzpop]

I went with a different approach than a shopping mall with this

To Breathe in Smooth

@flashfictionfridayofficial

London, Soho, 2008

Crowley didn’t smoke often.

Sure, he’d done it when it was in fashion (same as Aziraphale had), quit many times over the centuries (also same as Aziraphale had), but he always found himself starting back up again whenever he was stressed about something— especially when it was something entirely out of his control.

Tonight was one of those nights, having just been forced to deliver the very literal Son of Satan, The Antichrist, onto the world— the world he was quite fond of and didn’t want to end— and Crowley found himself desperately craving for the smooth burn of a good cigarette at the back of his throat as soon as the deed had been done. It would taste loads better than the rotten taste of Hell stuck in his mouth.

And so, shortly after convincing Aziraphale to join him in playing Godfathers to the Antichrist, Crowley had caved to that need.

He sobered up and bid the angel good night before, quite literally, taking off on dark wings and landing softly on the roof of the bookshop. Settling himself over the edge, legs dangling down over the street, Crowley reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a brand new pack of Pall Mall cigarettes that hadn’t been in there a moment prior.

He tapped the bottom of the box, forcing one of the cigarettes to pop up for him to take, and he called a tiny flame to the tip of his finger like a lighter. Real neat party trick, that, and one that Aziraphale seemed to like whenever they smoked together, but he hadn’t told the angel he planned on loitering up on his roof for the next few hours.

Not bothering to pocket the pack and put it away before he was done with it, he rested it next to him on the ledge and look a long, savoring drag off his first cigarette. The familiar taste of the smoke eased away some of the tension while he looked up at the stars he helped create, blowing smoke up into the sky.

The last time Aziraphale had seen Crowley light up a cigarette and take long drag off of it had been when he was in the planning phase of mapping out the corrections needed to turn the M-25 into the equivalent of a demonic prayer wheel. Though tonight, the night Crowley had delivered the Antichrist, Aziraphale could have sworn he smelled the familiar scent of the Pall Mall cigarettes, the same ones Crowley had preferred to smoke on and off since 1899, wafting in through the open window.

Closing his book, the angel made his way upstairs and onto the roof to investigate. He had a hunch he would find his demonic friend hanging around up there, most likely on the roof if he had to guess, chain smoking his stress away after this whole Antichrist business.

And his suspicions were confirmed when he saw the silhouette of a lanky figure with a shock of shoulder-length red hair perched over the edge of the building.

“You should have told me you were going out for a smoke, I would have joined you.” Aziraphale came right up behind the demon as he lit his finger for the next one, causing the poor dear to startle and almost falling off the ledge he was sitting on. He was definitely stressed, and anxious too, from what Aziraphale had observed thus far.

“Nhhh.”

“I see. Care to tell me why you’re out here inside of inside the shop, then?”

“Couldn’t smoke around your booksss,” Crowley bit his lip around the hiss that slipped out, “ your shop’s already flammable enough as it is, doesn’t need my help.”

“That’s very considerate of you, my dear, but—”

“‘M not considerate.” Crowley finished lighting up his fresh cigarette and breathed it in deeply, causing a decent amount of ash to accumulate on the end that he knocked off into the miraculously placed ashtray. He couldn’t remember if he’d summoned it or if Aziraphale just had.

“Oh, of course you aren’t.” Aziraphale said, knowing better. “Mind I bum one off you?”

“Starting up the nasty habit again, are you?” Crowley teased but still reached for his half empty pack while Aziraphale came around to sit next to him over the ledge, overlooking Whickber Street.

“Only when you do.” Aziraphale accepted the stick of rolled tobacco and placed it between his lips, unlit. “Ah, would you mind…?” He asked, expectantly raising an eyebrow, and waited for Crowley to summon a delightful tongue of fire on the top of his finger to give him a light. Crowley, as always, obliged him. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, angel.”

They sat on the ledge for a while, enjoying the rare peace of a quiet London night while they steadily worked their way through the rest of the pack and filled the ashtray to the brim. Their minds still whirled with the thoughts of an impending apocalypse and back up plans they could use to weasel their way out of it just in case their original one went pear shaped (according to a certain angel) or tits up (according to a certain demon).

For now, though, those thoughts had quieted considerably for the first time since Crowley received a basket with a baby and from the time he’d given Aziraphale the news while getting absolutely sloshed. They had each other in this mess, they each could count on that.

Crowley rested his hand closer to the angel’s soft one, pinkies nearly touching with how close Crowley got without actually touching. Aziraphale noticed the demon’s carefully inched approach and, deciding to give into just a bit more temptation tonight, laid his hand over top of Crowley's night-air chilled one. Aziraphale was glad when Crowley hadn’t immediately pulled his hand away, though he’d stiffened at the touch at first, before he turned his hand over to lace their fingers together.

Aziraphale smiled and squeezed their joined hands reassuringly, letting Crowley know this was okay.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?” He asked softly, stubbing out his current cigarette. “Some brilliant looking stars up there, more than you can usually see on a night like this with London’s dreadful light pollution drowning them out.”

“Yeah, you could almost say it’s a miraculously clear night.”

“I bet it is, my dear.” Aziraphale leaned in closer, resting his head gently on Crowley’s shoulder while the demon started the last cigarette in the pack. “Would you like to come back in after this?”

“Isn’t it getting too late?”

“It is rather late, yes, but I’d rather not be alone tonight. I know I don’t usually allow you to spend the night, but would you be amicable? You could sleep on the couch, if you’d like, or we could have another drink?”

Crowley stubbed out the cigarette, only half finished, and eyed the angel over the top of his dark glasses. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I really would prefer you stay here tonight— unless, that is, you have somewhere else you need to be.”

“Nope,” Crowley stood, vanishing the ashtray and empty carton into the nearest rubbish bin, “no where else to be.” He held out a hand to help Aziraphale up off the ledge.

“Splendid,” Azirpahale took it and levered himself up with Crowley’s support, dusting off his trousers as soon as he stood, “I’ll put the kettle on. Coffee or tea?”

“Could go for an Irish coffee with a very generous pour of that whiskey you used the last time you made it for me.”

“I think that can be arranged, my dear.”

“I’ll stay then.”

Together, hands still laced, they made their way back downstairs into the warmth and safety of the shop and its cosy backroom. They would certainly need to discuss things about their plan to avert the apocalypse at some point, but tonight was for them to enjoy.

After all, they were in the supposed End Times and it could all be over in the blink of an eye for them, better to enjoy what little time they might have left if their plan didn’t exactly pan out the way they wanted it to.

[divine-mistake]

this is our last stop, love — one.

Everyone knows you don’t leave the Organization. No one wants to anyway—until they do. Assassin AU.

Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), mentions of death, guns, violence, mentions of suicide

Word Count: 3408

A/N: It's finally here! My baby is finally here!

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3 | PLAYLIST

the place you exist you never call home, did you know that?

"More than anything, I want you to know that I love you. And I’m sorry."

The only beautiful thing about Neon City is that it’s lawless.

I’ve seen Neon City from the highest floor of the tallest skyscraper and I’ve seen it from the sewers so far underground you think you’ll suffocate, and this city looks the same from every single angle.

Fluorescent and dirty and lawless.

From up here, on the darkened roof of a crumbling hostel that’s been abandoned by everyone but the squatters ‘cause the walls have sucked up so many blood stains and bullet holes they’re threatening to collapse, the city looks exactly like that. The bright lights of Upperside pulse with every single color the universe could have created, tinting the darkness of the night like a kaleidoscope. Even on the eighteenth story, the thumping bass from the strip of clubs just a street over shakes the foundation underneath my feet.

Peering through the scope of the sniper positioned on the roof’s ledge, I zoom in on the street corner at the left-hand side of my vision with a lazy twist of my wrist. Two women, one with hair as dark as night that streams down her back like a river, the other with a short, platinum-dyed spiky cut, smoke rolled cigarettes. They’re dressed to the Neon City nines: a leather corset underneath a metallic jumpsuit unzipped below her belly button and a slinky dress paired with a buckled harness and knee-high platform boots. Leaning against a grimy street lamp with a busted bulb, it isn’t long before a man dressed in a white fur coat shows up, throws his arms around them, and walks them toward the nearest club.

When he adjusts his coat, it lifts just enough to reveal the assault rifle hanging from a shoulder strap. There’s a pistol just above the hem of the dark-haired girl’s dress, strapped to her thigh, only visible by the faint outline in the silk. I don’t even want to guess how much heat the other chick is packing; that hideous jumpsuit she’s got on is loose enough to hide an arsenal without suspicion.

In the distance, all the way from the Kill Zone, a rapture of gunshots goes off just louder than the EDM pouring from the strip. Or maybe it’s quieter down on the streets, air hazy with cloven smoke and threat of death. Maybe no one gives a fuck.

The ugly thing about Neon City is that it only has one law.

No one leaves Neon City. At least not alive.

A weak vibration against the inside of my left wrist, right above my pulse point, steals my eye from the scope. Fifteen minutes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing this?” I sit back on my haunches to glance at my partner.

“Why?” He’s laying flat on the roof, boots crossed at the ankle and an arm thrown over his eyes, not a care in the world. A prickling of annoyance makes its presence known at the back of my neck—not the first of the evening and certainly, definitely, unfortunately not the last.

“‘Cause you’re the sniper?” I hiss, but he only laughs quietly in response. The sleek black cuff that bumps against my radius flickers to life with one tap of my finger, an interface made of light projecting itself upon my forearm to show the countdown. Thirteen minutes.

“The World’s Best Sniper,” he corrects, sitting up with a grunt. His legs are sprawled over the dirty ground, black combat pants picking up a coating of dust that’s collected on the roof for what must’ve been ages.

I purse my lips. “World’s Laziest Sniper, you mean.”

“Hey, I resent that.” The heavy soles of his boots crunch gravel and grit beneath them, a grating sound, as he shifts over and bumps me out of the way. “Move.”

“Oh, now you want to do your job?”

Bucky doesn’t reply and it should make me feel better, but it only serves to annoy me further. I fold my legs underneath me and sit back to stare at the building across from us, the one he’s busy scoping out now, letting the irritation simmer through my veins as the cool air of the night rolls over my skin like toxic gas. The black stealth suit glued to my skin does nothing to keep the freezing air from chilling my bones. I envy Bucky’s tactical suit, the combat vest hugging his chest with all its bulletproof padding.

Not that it’s cold enough outside to hurt. Neon City is so alive with masses of squirming, sweaty bodies and drugs and guns and lights and music that I swear the air is always ten degrees hotter than it should be. I don’t even think the dead bodies stick around long enough to grow cold.

The buzz on the inside of my wrist alerts me.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“How long have you known that?” I pick grit out from underneath my fingernails idly.

“Since the day I met you,” he mutters back. “When they told me you were my new partner, I almost choked one of the Exec’s out.”

I snort. “Which Executive?”

He doesn’t even glance over at me. “Not tellin’ you, snitch.”

My teeth grind together. He’s said it so easy, nonchalantly, like a joke, but it strikes a nerve in me that turns those prickles of annoyance into something more aggressive. Something that heats my blood. I’m not a snitch.

But everyone thinks I’m a little goody-two-shoes just ‘cause I’m on Pierce’s good side.

I take a deep breath and ignore him. “The mark is coming from Black Mamba—he’ll be here soon.” With a quick turn of my wrist, I check the time. “Eight minutes.”

“He own the place?” Bucky asks, twisting the scope and centering it on the fourteenth floor of the apartment building in front of us. The mark will arrive from the left side of the complex, just off the elevator, where the landing is lit with a soft yellow light. The glass windows give Bucky a perfect shot.

“Dunno,” I tell him honestly. “I didn’t read the file.”

Bucky’s head snaps back to look at me. “What?”

I recoil, eyes narrowing. “What?” I mimic. “What’s your problem?”

“You didn’t read the file? And you’re calling me lazy?”

“Calm down.” I wave him off, but he doesn’t turn away from staring at me, his eyes narrowed into a glare. “I read enough of his file to know when and where and how he’s arriving, as usual, so don’t get your panties in a twist. You do your job, I’ll do mine. As usual.”

It’s like I can hear the blood vessels in his neck pop and burst as his jaw tightens.

“Your job is to read the dossier,” he grits through clenched teeth. “The whole dossier. On every single mark.”

A new surge of anger rushes through me, drowning out the loud cacophony of the city beneath us. My fingers twitch and flex, heat pooling in my palms like an itch that needs scratching. Bucky Barnes, out of all people, shouldn’t be sitting here treating me like a goddamn child. Calling me annoying, calling me a snitch, calling me out for not wanting to read a full case file on a man who deserves to die.

I have to twist my fingers in the thin material of my stealth suit to keep my hands busy.

“I don’t need to know a single thing about these marks besides how to kill them,” I say, voice low, and Bucky presses his lips together. “He’s on our list for a reason. I don’t need, nor want, to know why.”

Bucky scoffs, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “You really don’t want to know what he’s done to get the Org’s attention? To get a contract?”

The image of the stacks of files piling up on Pierce’s desk, threatening to fall over and collapse, worms its way into my head. Only a week ago I had seen the brown folders collecting in his office, strewn about his shelves, all filled with names and numbers and photos of people who need to be eliminated.

They’re all bad. I’m not going to sit around and read a dossier about what they’ve done; whose blood stains their hands for money or for fame or for shits and giggles and fucks. If Bucky wants his reading material to be covered in a thorough coating of Neon City squick, then by all means, he can read their files.

Not me, though. I just need to know how to kill them.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t want to know.”

He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in me, and his eyes fall on the apartment complex again. “Part of our job is reading those dossiers, y’know.”

Embarrassment spreads through me, the heat of an anger that threatens to boil over flooding my synapses. It’s like he’s scolding me. Like he’s insinuating that I can’t—that I’m not doing my job right. It makes my palms start itching again so bad that I curl my fingers into a tight, shaking fist.

“The only people who read the full files are the ones who don’t trust the Organization,” I snap, and Bucky’s neck nearly breaks from the speed at which he turns to look at me.

Like you, I let go unsaid.

From far away, but still close enough to send a shiver up my spine, the rattle of Neon City’s train tracks hits me as the cars speed past Upperside, never slowing, never stopping. If I look off into the distance, peer down past the rest of the skyscrapers blocking the view, I bet I could see it making its rounds, a black bullet rocketing through the brightly-lit city night, its horn never braying.

The black band on my wrist vibrates. “Three minutes.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, and stares at me. His eyes look black tonight. With another shake of his head—in disappointment or frustration, I’m not sure—he pulls his goggles down from his hairline and sets them in place as he looks away from me. He palms his sniper rifle, back to adjusting the scope, and my hands are still shaky with a fury I didn’t think would rupture from inside me tonight.

“I don’t get how we’ve worked together for years and I never knew you didn’t read the files,” he grunts.

“‘Cause we’re killers,” I spit, “not Birdies. I don’t need to sit and read a dossier to know how to kill a man.”

He snorts. “Not Birdies,” Bucky mutters sardonically. “As if we don’t skirt the law the same way they all do.”

That’s the problem with being lawless. All the gray. Bucky might think we’re like the Birdies—the cops and the corpos and the politicians who walk around like they’re untouchable, like they’ve got a Get Out of Jail Free card in their pocket—but Neon City doesn’t have laws for people like us. All Neon City’s got is a morality scale weighted by cash. Neon City doesn’t care about the Organization.

‘Cause the Organization is who’s really in charge of this city. We’re the ones who keep the streets clean of Birdies, like tonight’s mark, for the right price.

“That’s him,” I say, nodding my head at the black car that just pulled up to the front of the apartment complex, disappearing around the corner we can’t see from our angle. “One minute.”

“Damn, you’re annoying,” Bucky says again, and he pulls his mask up from where it hangs around his neck, covering the rest of his face.

“Shut up and do your fucking job.”

Everything goes quiet and I shift forward, laying flat on my stomach beside Bucky. About the only time that he ever goes quiet is when he’s behind a scope—my favorite place to have him. In the darkness, Bucky looks like nothing more than a shadow. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark mask. But in the artificial highlights of Neon City, I could almost paint him as a god, with streaks of bright, holocene colors slicking through his hair like an oil spill.

He looks like a killer. A Neon City native.

But I guess I am too, since I’m right here next to him.

There’s only the slight squeak of the scope that Bucky adjusts and adjusts and fucking adjusts, whether in nervousness or in necessity, and the hammering of my heart as we watch the apartment complex from our vantage point. Bucky can probably see the numbers on the elevator as they light up, signaling our mark’s arrival. I don’t get much special equipment like he does with his sniper’s visor. All I have is my C-Link wrapped tight around my wrist as it buzzes with alerts. Infiltrators never get much—occupational hazards and all that. The Org never knows how long an infiltrator will last.

And even after a decade of doing this, of lying prone on rooftops watching Bucky aim for a mark’s forehead, of dressing in a disguise that isn’t my own to sit on the lap of a greasy-haired gang leader with rings on each finger, of slipping poison in my own drink and hoping its effects won’t just take my target—

Even after all these years, I still get nervous before the kill.

“Thirty seconds,” I murmur under the cacophony of Neon city and the twisting of Bucky’s scope, more for myself than for him.

“Can you stop staring at me?” he answers back, and a spark of irritation shoots up my arms like my nerves are on fire.

“I’m not staring at you anymore,” I hiss. “Please, for the love of god, concentrate.”

His voice is smug. “So you admit you were staring at me?”

“God no.”

Then, suddenly silence drapes itself upon us like a cold, tense air as the mark steps off the elevator Bucky has been watching. The bodyguard who flanks him is too relaxed, moving too languidly, and I can tell, even from a distance, that he barely glances out the big glass windows that we use to peek into their lives like a little kid pressing their face to a fishbowl.

A mistake like that is fatal.

“Count me in, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and I can’t help but scoff.

“A second ago you were telling me that it was annoying.” My eyes track the position of the mark as he speaks to someone—another one of his guards—on the landing just outside his apartment.

“I changed my mind. C’mon, doll, for good luck.”

“Yeah, alright Barnes. Like you need any luck.”

The countdown is quiet, breathy, and feels like a rollercoaster crashing straight into my stomach as Bucky squeezes the trigger and the shot rings out, deafening, the glass shattering upon impact, blood spilling all over the white tiling beneath the mark’s feet as he staggers back into the arms of his closest bodyguard, yellow light illuminating his dying face from so far away.

Easy. Quick.

Always so quick.

Then Bucky’s hand, a little warm from his hold on his rifle, is pressing down on my head and forcing me to duck down. We lay there for a few seconds, with only his gun between us, listening carefully for the sounds of someone rushing the building. My cheek is pressed against the cold, dirty surface of the roof, staring at Bucky as we wait the last few minutes.

When he’s sure that no one is coming after us, Bucky pulls his mask back down and shoves his goggles up through his hair, catching some of the chestnut strands in the straps.

His blue eyes flick up to meet mine and he flashes me a smug grin. “See?”

I snort. “Yeah, okay. So you did need the extra luck.”

“Hey.” He frowns dramatically, and I almost crack a smile.

“World’s Best Sniper my ass.”

Bucky breaks into a laugh at that, chuckling softly as he shifts onto his knees and grabs his rifle. A giggle nearly slips through my lips in tune with his own. He props himself up on his elbows to peer over the ledge of the roof one more time. I turn my wrist inward to check my C-Link, swiping past the map of our area to scroll over to the mark’s file. His bio-feedback uploads directly to my Link and a red word projects over the dark sleeve covering my forearm, blinking brightly.

DECEASED.

“Clear,” Bucky declares and I nod my head in agreement, the interface of my Link disappearing as I twist my arm.

Good job, I want to tell him. My lips feel sewn shut and my tongue is dry.

Instead, I watch as he takes apart the pieces of his rifle, slowly, carefully, fluidly. The hands that know where to shove a knife to neutralize a target, that know how to keep still in order to pull a hair trigger and still take the recoil, those hands know how to take apart each intricate section of his gun without hesitation. As if he��s on autopilot, Bucky unscrews each part and packs them in a padded case with a delicacy I only ever see him exert on firearms.

Maybe he uses such care when handling his weapons because he wishes someone would use such care when handling him.

Bucky’s always said he’s just a weapon, too.

In the background, the rattling of the train tracks bursts through the stagnant air of Neon City yet again. This will be its last circuit through Upperside for a while, making its way down to the Lowerside to loop around the gutters of the city instead. And by the time it comes back our way, we’ll be far enough away that the rumbles of the cars won’t vibrate through the concrete. In fact, on the top floor of the Org’s high rise, the black train is but a speck of speeding lights, nearly invisible.

I roll onto my back, the roof hard on my spine, cold seeping through the thin fabric of my stealth suit. The faint clink of fiberglass fades and is replaced by a snap of metal and the click of a lock as Bucky presumably closes the case to his rifle. Above me, the sky is as black as the train that rockets through the city, dark and unending.

“You haven’t always lived in Neon City,” I mention, hearing Bucky’s combat boots shuffle toward me.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. He doesn’t offer anything more, and I breathe in the smoky, dusty air, my eyes searching every corner of the sky that I can see for something—for anything.

But there’s nothing there.

“What do the stars look like?” I ask him quietly. On the edges of my vision, the glowing lights of the nightclubs below us tint everything in red and blue and pink and purple, so bright, so sickening, and it drowns everything in the vicinity. I wonder if there’s a sky out there, somewhere, that can’t be drowned.

‘Cause Bucky might not truly be a Neon City native—and fuck him for that—but he’ll never leave it now.

And I’ll never know why Bucky traded a sky filled with stars for a city born of blood.

He never answers, and I never expect him to. Instead, Bucky’s hand appears in front of my eyes, his calloused fingers reaching out for me. And when I put my cold hand in his warm grasp, he locks our fingers together tightly, and a spark ignites when our palms meet as if my mind is still asking to see the sky light up, electric.

As easy as he pulls a trigger, Bucky pulls me up from where I lay on the roof. His arm slips around my waist to hold me as I gain my footing, and he’s so fucking warm it makes me shiver in response, but when I look up to meet his gaze, he tugs his hand out of mine and drifts away. Without a word, Bucky grabs his weapon case and nods toward the open hatch where a ladder leads us back down to the eighteenth floor.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

No one leaves Neon City alive—and that’s usually why no one chooses to arrive.

[dayurno]

@andrewsrabies and i had a very productive conversation on the kandreil server about catholic au kandreil so here it is the result of my moral obligation to write it as an ex catholic school student

no tws this is just gay as hell. i also might crosspost it on ao3 at some point. so who knows. please be aware this is definitely a little bit blasphemic

the father.

“You will never have him.”

Neil smirks. “Are you talking from your own experience?”

The roof is too windy, too dark —  Neil, with his back to Andrew and draped over the ledge, knows just one push would be enough. He doubts he’d ever resist the fall: Palmetto Academy is too lofty of a building to match its even loftier saints. 

Yet Andrew does not dare to approach the ledge, and Neil does not turn around to see him. There is no reason to, when both know what they are here for — “He is better than you,” Andrew tonelessly points out, the edge of irritation making something red and ripe unfurl inside Neil, “in every conceivable way.”

“One thing we have in common,” Neil observes, crushing his cigarette against the ledge. “You do not strike me as worthy of Kevin Day, either.” He pauses, then lets his smirk widen. “Not that it stops you, of course. He is the best thing you want. The only, too.”

A heartbeat. Two. Neil would never survive the fall —  as he would never survive Kevin. Some choices are easy to make with your head on the line. 

“Are you a believer?” Andrew asks, at last, his voice ghosting over Neil’s back. It drips and overflows, patiently waiting to sink Neil beneath the waves, every turn of his tongue vicious. 

How can a tongue so cruel be used to kiss someone so good, Neil wonders. Surely Kevin had a taste for poison. 

“Oh, am I?” Neil muses, turning ever so slightly. He does not find Andrew —  doubted that he would. Andrew is as much of a nothing as Neil is. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

“You will not have him.”

“Why?” he hums. “You won’t let me?”

“I find it useless to repeat myself.”

Neil taps against his wrist watch. “You should know better than to think that that has ever stopped Kevin before.”

“Define that,” Andrew lazily prompts. A challenge.

“Me, being worthless. Another thing the two of us have in common.”

“We,” he viciously hums, “are nothing alike.”

“No,” Neil agrees. A lie, not his first and definitely not his last. “You hate me and I hate you. Let’s see who hates best.”

Andrew’s gaze burns against Neil’s nape. “I do not hate you more than I want Kevin.”

“How sweet of you.”

For one, Neil wants Andrew to be proved wrong: in some twisted way of his, he wants Andrew to hate him as much —  or perhaps even more —  than he wants Kevin, if only to solidify Neil as a permanent presence in their not-relationship. Hatred, he thinks, is just another form of obsession; almost as intense as desire, but not as contagious. 

One thing was true, though: Neil would not leave Palmetto without having felt Kevin Day’s mouth pressing against his, sweet and young and oh so ill-advised. If that meant having to push through the taste of Andrew’s sour tongue, so be it. The sweetness of Kevin was worth it. 

Neil taps against his wrist watch again, not bothering to look back at Andrew as he says, “Tick tock, your detention is about to start. I believe you have some daily worshipping to do.”

“Daily worshipping,” Andrew scoffs, but, Neil notices, does not disagree. “Is that what you call it when you imagine it in your head?”

“Oh?” Neil drags out. “How Christian of you to think I have to imagine.”

He cannot see Andrew through the ever-thickening fog of tension surrounding them, but Neil knows the twitch of his eyebrow well enough to build a picture in his head. “You will not have him,” he repeats. His voice is far away now — so ready to leave, Neil muses. For all of Andrew’s so called toughness, Kevin’s mouth must keep him on a tight leash. “Even you, stupid as you are, would know not to touch what is mine.”

Neil turns to look at him, catching only a glimpse of Andrew’s pale hair under the dim lighting of the staircase that leads to the rooftop. He hovers by the doorway — waiting for Neil’s next move. Calculating, even; math Neil barely knows the numbers to. “I will make you no promises we both know I will not keep,” is what Neil hums back, dragging out his words like cheap perfume across a hotel room. “I can touch anything, and Kevin doesn’t seem too opposed to it. Kind God of yours, right? Always thinking of those who have less.”

Andrew does not reply. He slams the door behind him, and Neil is once again alone on the roof. 

He lights another cigarette.

Smiles.

Lets it burn.

Rinse and repeat.

the son. 

“And then you— Andrew, you’re not listening to me,” Kevin sighs, his upper lip curling into a soft frown under the egg-yellow lights of the detention office.  

I believe you have some daily worshipping to do. Andrew Minyard hates everything about Neil Josten, from the sharp tip of his tongue to the dim freckles on his cheeks, but for once he is right —  when was the last time Andrew had fulfilled his worshipping duties? Was it last night’s mass, or this morning’s confession? 

Either way: it has been too long. A good Christian is always ready to do better, and Andrew has never been one to slack off on divine duty. 

“No,” Andrew agrees, because he does not lie to Kevin. Leaning against the edge of the teacher’s table and looking all high and mighty with his primly tucked dress shirt, Kevin looks as if he knows he’s worth gold, or at least as if he needs a reminder. “I am not.”

Kevin’s dark eyebrows furrow. “What has gotten you so distracted that you can’t even listen to me?”

Foolish, foolish man that Kevin is, to think that Andrew has ever thought of anything but him. “You,” he replies, blunt and toneless. “Pretty mouth of yours. I couldn’t hear a thing.”

 “Andrew,” Kevin warns, dropping the hands he had just been using to gesticulate. 

“Yes?”

“What are you trying to do?”

Andrew feels the corners of his mouth twitching. “Why, complimenting what is mine. I do it all the time.”

Kevin’s mouth closes, cheeks blushing a ripe red. He is too far away for Andrew’s liking, but preamble is Andrew’s only game, and the view is rather pleasant from his spot at the second row of seats. “You,” he slowly says, raking a hand through his hair, “are too much.”

Andrew motions dismissively, leaning back on his chair to take in all of Kevin’s image. “Kevin and his unwavering self-restraint. So good, hm? I like you best when you give up control.”

“You do not like me.”

“Oh,” Andrew muses, smile sharpening, “I like you.”

It makes Kevin roll his eyes, the reply, but it’s quite fond. “I told you that if you want a kiss, you just have to ask for it.”

He hums in acknowledgement, but changes the subject, “Does your God forgive you for what we do?”

“She knows I’m good,” Kevin replies, all warm smiles and deep dimples. “She’ll forgive me.”

Too good, Andrew thinks —  too good to have anything to do with someone like him. And yet. “Come here, then,” Andrew beckons, motioning him forward. “Give Her something to forgive you for.”

Kevin’s answer is a huffed out laugh, but he complies: Andrew watches in barely-concealed anticipation as he slides through the first row easily, stopping near Andrew’s seat and gracefully leaning against his desk, keeping some respectful distance between them. “I thought I said come here,” Andrew remarks, resting both of his hands on Kevin’s knees. 

Mine, he thinks. And fuck Neil Josten for expecting anything else.

“Lead the way,” is what Kevin says, offering his hands for Andrew to do with them what he wills. 

He does. He tugs on Kevin’s hands to bring him into his lap, to which Kevin easily complies, crossing his hands behind Andrew’s nape and offering him a curious look. “You’re angry about something,” Kevin quietly points out, tipping his head to the side.

Andrew’s hands fly to rest over his thighs. “Ran into your friend at the roof just now.”

Kevin mulls that over on his head for a little before guessing, “Neil?”

“Mhm,” Andrew replies, “the very one.”

It doesn’t fluster Kevin —  Andrew hadn’t it expected it to —, but it does prompt a pensive look in his eyes. “I suppose it makes sense that you don’t get along. You’re too alike.”  

Andrew brushes his lips against Kevin’s, reaching a hand to lightly tug against his tie. “The only thing we have in common,” he says, “is that we both want you.”

Kevin doesn’t look surprised by the new piece of information, but leans in to thoughtfully nibble on Andrew’s lower lip. “Yes,” Kevin agrees, as if he knows the extent of both their devotions —  as if he’s not surprised at all by the enormity of their desire. “You do.”

“And you like it,” Andrew points out.

He is silent for a small while, a warm weight on Andrew’s lap. “He asked me for one kiss,” is what Kevin chooses to eventually say, “and one kiss only. Before he gets expelled.”

“And you love a lost cause.” Andrew tucks a strand of hair behind Kevin’s ear. “Will he get his kiss?”

“I won’t let him get expelled,” Kevin answers, nuzzling against Andrew’s palm as painstakingly eager as always. “I’ll strike a deal if needed. He has potential.”

“To what?” he wondered aloud. “He is nothing.”

Kevin frowns. “No one is nothing. Everyone is worth something.”

“Savior complex,” Andrew teases, fitting his palm against Kevin’s jaw and bringing him down. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“One kiss can’t hurt,” he says. Not an answer as much as it is a thought. 

Andrew hums, fitting their noses together. “But do you want him?” he asks, brushing his mouth against Kevin’s. “Or do you just like that he wants you?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“No.”

“Hm,” Kevin says, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

Then leans in. 

Andrew forgets what he was talking about. 

the holy ghost. 

“Have you thought about my offer yet?” Neil asks, perched on top of a bench as he stares over at Kevin, the early morning light brushing through his auburn hair. Palmetto’s garden is paler than it has ever been at Autumn’s peak, but Kevin loves the season —  finding Neil on his morning was just a bonus. 

Kevin stretches his arms out lazily, feeling Neil’s eyes follow his every movement, before replying, “What can I give you to make you stay?” 

Neil smiles, tight-lipped. “I don’t stay, Kevin.”

“Well,” Kevin draws out, supporting himself against the bench Neil is perched on to stretch his right leg. “Then I suppose you don’t want that kiss like you say you do.”

“Oh,” Neil’s smile melts into a lazy smirk, the dark bags under his eyes competing against the brightly lit end of his cigarette. “Oh, you don’t know how bad I want it.”

“Prove it,” is Kevin’s easy reply, his rosary dripping down his chest as he moves to stretch his other leg, Neil’s eyes boring holes through the exposed skin. “Put some effort into staying. Don’t let yourself get expelled.”

Neil mulls it over in his head for a moment, but Kevin is in no rush —  this early in the morning they are the only people awake on campus, which means there is no danger of interruption that is not divine. 

Good Lord, Kevin quietly thinks to himself, all of my life I have been good. Let me have this. 

At last, Neil prompts, “You sure think highly of yourself to believe that one kiss is enough to make a man stay. Aren’t your people supposed to be humble?”

“I’m God-fearing,” Kevin corrects, “not stupid. I see how you look at me.”

“We all have our gods,” Neil hums, turning around to straddle the back of the bench and stare straight into Kevin’s front. “I’m just wondering what I have to do to keep the Goddess on my side.”

“Which Goddess?”

Neil smiles. “You.”

“Stay,” Kevin replies, “and I will be close enough for you to get tired of me.”

“Oh, I don’t reckon I will.”

“Can’t know if you never try.” Kevin bends to stretch his left leg one more time before pulling himself up, now face to face with Neil. “And you still haven’t disagreed with me, so I’m guessing a kiss is enough to make you stay, after all.”

“Hm,” Neil hums, thoughtful, without ever taking his eyes off of Kevin’s face. “It might just be circumstance. You should burn those shorts of yours before the fire of Hell does.”

Kevin tips his head to the side in challenge. “But Andrew likes them so much.”

“I’m sure that he does.” He breathes into the smoke of his cigarette one last time before killing the flame against the bench. At last, Neil concedes, “Keep my interest, Kevin Day, and I’ll stay.”

“You’re interested aplenty already,” Kevin observes as Neil’s eyes dart downwards. “So much so I might have to schedule a session at the confessionary for you.”

Neil swipes his tongue over his teeth like a snake licking venom out of its own fangs. “Why wait? I’ll confess to you now all of my thoughts.”

“I recognize I’m a creature of the divine, Neil, but I’m not fit to be a priest.”

“Of course not,” Neil solemnly agrees. “What would be of that Andrew of yours, if you were?”

Kevin presses his lips together, the memory of Andrew’s bed still fresh against his skin. “He’d be just like you,” is what Kevin limits himself to replying. “Just waiting to get expelled.”

Neil’s mouth spreads in a smile that’s a bit more genuine, not snarky or coy as it usually is, and Kevin offers him a curious glance. “Ah, so the rumors are true: you did straighten him up. Was one kiss enough, I wonder, or was Andrew more expensive to keep?”

“He knew what he would lose if he got expelled,” Kevin replies, “and he made his choice.”

“So you say,” Neil hums. He pushes himself closer to Kevin almost lazily, using his hands to keep himself up at the same time as Kevin leans an elbow against the back of the bench to stare up at Neil, meeting him halfway. “The Catholic church owes you so many converts. You are a Saint among men.”

“It is the men that I often convert,” he chooses to say. “They are easier to lure in.”

Neil chuckles under his breath. “I think Andrew and I are just weaker than the majority,” he observes, then pulls away to light another cigarette. “Go have your run. Burn those shorts when you’re done with it.”

Kevin rolls his eyes, but does what he’s told.

Not the shorts, though —  those stayed in his closet.

[basicjetsetter]

Part III

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Mild Language, Small mention of suicide attempt, Start of the Slow Burn

▹ Words: 3.1k

▹ A/N: Get ready for the slowest slow burn of your life.

Peter Parker is your Soulmate.

Peter Parker is also Spider-Man.

Your bewildered brain tries to rapidly absorb this news as he swings you back onto your apartment’s roof and nimbly sets you down on your feet, safely away from the ledge.

Well, that explains all the times he went missing during school trips. Those days are like a distant memory now, but you hazily remember the day Spider-Man rescued your classmates from a collapsing elevator in the Washington Monument. It was all anyone in Midtown talked about for weeks.

The boy-next-door was your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man all this time. Shock lags in your system. For some weird reason, you aren’t that surprised by the sight of Peter in the Spider-Man suit or by the idea of him being an Avenger, and as you stand on this roof mere feet from him, all you're concerned about is what he might possibly say.

Your heart races as you skeptically watch him spin around to face you. 

He rubs a quick, nervous hand against the back of his neck and then, in a split second, pulls off his mask.

Time’s barely touched him, but then again, you long pieced together that your Soulmate must have suffered from the blip. His slightly disheveled hair is still the same chestnut brown, and his cute, boyish features remain intact. The only thing different is his eyes. Nothing extremely drastic changed about them, but even in the dark of night, you spot that they’re somehow more mature than you remember, older in a way that oddly aches a small place in your heart.

All while you scrutinize Peter’s exposed face and apprehensively stare into his eyes, part of you braces for the fireworks to explode and all the stars in the universe to align. This is it, isn’t it? The fated moment your childhood stories preached to be an epically magical experience? Aren’t you supposed to feel something? Anything?

A cricket chirps nearby.

Peter clears his throat, extends a hand to you, and sheepishly says, “Um, h-hi.”

You stare at his hand until it drops down to his side.

“Oh, geez!” he smacks a hand to his forehead. “Sorry, sorry. That was dumb. You probably aren’t thinking about that right now. Are you okay?”

It takes a while to part your lips, and once they’re open, all that comes out is, “Huh?”

“Are—are you okay? You just fell off that ledge over there,” he adds the last part with a gesture to the ledge, as if he’s trying to jog your memory.

You glance at the edge of the roof behind you, then slowly drag your gaze back to him. “Yeah.” Shaking your head, you repeat louder, “Yeah, I’m fine. It was… it was an accident.”

He blows out a relieved breath. “That’s great. Glad I got to you in time cause that would have been a nasty fall.”

You try to hide your flinch, but you’re sure he catches it because he immediately casts his eyes downward, mumbling more apologies while shuffling from one foot to another.

Sobering silence clouds the air around you as the last five minutes replay in your mind. You nearly died. You were seconds away from ending your life. Peter Parker saved you.

Gulping past the enormous lump in your throat, you whisper, “Thank you.”

Both sides of Peter’s mouth quirk up into a soft smile. “You’re welcome.” He pauses for a few beats, appearing to choose his next words carefully, then says, “So… you’re my Soulmate.”

Hearing him speak the words aloud thickens the obstruction in your throat, and all you offer back is an acknowledging nod, which expands Peter’s smile into a grin so bright it trips up your galloping heart.

“I was beginning to think I’d never meet you. I kept, you know, hearing you say my name in my head, so I kinda guessed you were still out there somewhere. Just never thought you’d be in my neighborhood.” He holds out his hand again, and this time you grudgingly shake it. “We had Spanish together, right?”

Once again, you’re stunned into silence. How the hell does Peter even know you? Back in your high school days, you don’t ever remember speaking a word to him, let alone doing something memorable enough for him to know which class you took together. As far as you can recall, Spanish was the only class you shared, and half the time, he was too busy waiting for class to end to notice you.

While you search your memory's repressed files to trace back any time you may have interacted with Peter, he says your name, causing your eyes to flash to his. 

“You know my name?”

“Yeah…” he answers like it’d be strange if he didn’t. “We were in the same class for a while, and you painted that really awesome Starry Night with my friend, Ned.”

Something faintly warm and fluttery pitches around in your chest, but you’re quick to stow away the feeling into a locked box. It’s just a compliment—nothing more, nothing less. He seems like a nice guy and all, but there is clearly nothing between you two. No sparks. No deep gazes. No instant connections. Nothing.

Disappointment stings like a cut in your chest as you hurry over to the ledge and gather up your art supplies. When you turn back around, Peter’s staring at you with disheartened confusion, furrowing his brows.

Words haphazardly spill out of your mouth. “It was nice meeting you, Peter, and um, thanks for saving me, but I gotta go cause I have work early in the morning, and it’s super late—” 

“Wait, wait, wait!” he rushes, marginally lunging forward as you take a few steps toward the exit, hand outstretched to stop you. “I just—can you tell me where you work? Maybe I can come by, and we can, y’know, talk a little bit. Get to know each other?” he ends with a hopeful, lop-sided smile.

The “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea” sits right on the edge of your tongue, armed and ready for dispatch, but Peter’s anxious little smile stalls it in its tracks. Instead, you shockingly find yourself replying, “Hal’s Diner.”

Peter perks up. “Oh, cool. I know that place. It’s got good pie. So… um, guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, trying hard not to kick yourself for giving in so easily. Out of courtesy, you force a small smile onto your lips and say, “Goodnight, Peter.”

He returns your smile ten-fold. “Goodnight.”

As the exit door shuts behind you, you hear the slightest Thwip.

Why couldn’t you just say no?

✦ ✧✦ ✧

Bright and early, you show up at Hal’s Diner thirty-five minutes before you’re scheduled to be there, currently helping Hal prep for the Sunday breakfast crowd. To say your boss was astonished to see you at the front door nearly an hour before opening would be an understatement, but he thankfully didn’t question you.

After everything that transpired last night, from the fall to meeting Peter, the last thing you expected was a restful night’s sleep, but you were zonked the moment your head touched the pillow. For the first time in forever, those words didn’t plague your dreams and your every conscious thought. Your mind is now gloriously quiet.

You finally met your fated person, and now, you can eventually move on.

Except, not really… because Peter thinks it’s necessary to get to know you. Not if you can avoid it.

With that thought looming over your head from the second you woke up, you zoomed through your morning routine and made it out of your apartment in record time. You didn’t really have a game plan or destination in the works when you left, but you knew that your hands and mind needed to be busy to keep the more pressing thought at bay. Hence, your reason for prepping with Hal. At the moment, he’s droning on and on about what a mess last night’s shift turned out to be while you peel potatoes.

“And that new hire, the Dennis kid, screwed up three orders. Three consecutive orders! Two of ‘em from the same couple. If the boy weren’t so good at cleanup, he’d be out the door,” Hal swears, eyeing his inventory list. “Looks like we’re gonna have to stock up on eggs again.”

You hum to show you were listening, but it didn't really matter. Hal could go on like this for days, with or without an audience.

He leans his heavy body against the gigantic industrial refrigerator, then perches his thick-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his bulbous nose. “Alright, now you mind telling me what’s got you here so early?”

“Nothing,” you lie breezily, taking your bowl full of naked potatoes to the sink to rinse them off. The hot water runs freezing cold but gradually warms as you painstakingly rinse the whole surface of every potato, struggling to keep your hands and mind busy. “Just thought I’d be a good employee and help out my boss.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs with a laugh, “If that’s true, then there must be pigs flying in Central Park.”

You counter, “Are you insinuating I’m not a good employee?”

“No. Good help like you is hard to come by these days, and everyone in Queens knows I’d be the first in line to praise your workmanship. I’m actually just expressing a nagging concern I have with you notoriously being late and then, in the blink of an eye, turning up here before I can even fit the key in the door. Now, either something’s real wrong or something’s real right. Which one is it?”

Experience with Hal and his prying questions over the last three years taught you how to lie tactfully. Always start with a full lie, then go with a half-truth to throw him off your trail. “I finally got more than four hours of sleep.”

“Great!” Hal beams, clapping his hands together. “Now, why’s that?”

You sigh exasperatedly, “For the love of—Can’t good news just be good news, Hal? Must there be an explanation?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll back off.” He pushes his glasses back up, harrumphing, “Just know that truth is too damn narcissistic to be kept in the dark. It always finds a way to be seen.”

With that, Hal grabs a tattered dishrag and a bottle of cleaning solution off the nearest counter and leaves you in the kitchen, heading out to the dining area to give the booth tables one more wipe down, grumbling about buying new upholstery for the seats.

Try as he might, Hal doesn't have a hope of scaring you into telling him the whole truth. You’re not rolling over that easily. No one in this diner is ever going to find out that you met your Soulmate, and if you’re lucky, it’ll stay a secret until literal pigs are flying in Central Park.

Somehow, someway, you’re going to figure out how to escape whatever this connection is because there must be some cosmic loophole for those who simply don’t want their destiny. There’s no way you’re the only person on this planet who’s ever decided to break from their Soulmate.

If there is any sliver of a connection between you and Peter, he’d understand why you can’t stay. He’d understand, and he’d move on.

You hold onto this hope throughout the rest of the workday. Hal doesn’t badger you again as the diner opens and the Sunday crowd comes bustling in, hungry for syrup-saturated French toast sticks and freshly brewed coffee.

Every time the welcoming bell at the entrance jangled, your eyes fearfully snapped to the door, expecting chestnut hair and a boyishly thousand-watt smile. And every time it wasn’t him, an obnoxious pebble of dismay sank to the pit of your stomach. Between serving customer after customer and watching the door, time slipped away from you, and before you even registered the difference, the warm afternoon sun streamed directly into the diner, and the last ten minutes of your shift approached.

Chris is dragging out a goodbye with a dazzled mother and her teenage son, inadvertently milking more tips out of them with a hilarious story about his favorite ketchup stain on his apron, while Wendy mops over the same black and white tiles for the seventh time, blinking in and out and stifling yawns. You set down two plates of grilled cheeses and steak fries for a young couple, smiling with your plastic smile and brightly telling them to enjoy their meals and to call for you if they need anything else.

As soon as you turn around to check up on the regulars sitting at the stools, the bell jingles, and there in the entrance stands Peter, cheerfully greeted with a perfectly timed, “Welcome to Hal’s, dude!” from Chris.

Your heart stutter-stops, then bursts into a full-on sprint, and before you even understand what you’re doing, you duck down, scurrying behind the bar. Two regulars on the stools, a middle-aged biker nicknamed Spikes and his buddy Garrick, lean over the counter with querying stares. Hastily, you mouth, I’m not here, and they curtly nod in unison, sitting back down.

On the other side of the bar, you hear Chris seat Peter in a booth that sounds dangerously close to your hiding spot, so you squinch down as far as you can go, balling yourself up in a position your knees and back will hate you for later.

“My name’s Chris, and I shall be your server this fine afternoon. Anything I can start you off with…?”

“Peter,” Peter fills in, then answers, “And a slice of Banana Cream Pie would be great.”

You intently listen to the scratch of pen against paper as Chris scribbles down the order. “Sweet, dude. I’ll bring that out to you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks. And, hey, um… does a girl named Y/N work here?”

Your eyes bulge.

“Yeah! Do you want me to get her?” asks Chris helpfully while you internally scream, adding, “I think she might be in the back. Could have sworn she was out here a second ago.”

The best scenario out of this situation would be if Chris miraculously misses your hiding spot, walks into the back and sees you’re not there, then comes back out, missing you again, and informs Peter that you must’ve gone home early. The absolute worst being Chris trips over you and nearly breaks his neck.

By the way things are shaping up, you might as well give yourself away.

“Y’all talking about the little miss with the bun in her hair?” Spikes gruffly interjects. “Cause you just missed her.”

You almost puff out a sigh as relief washes over you like a tidal wave. Spikes has got free burgers and milkshakes coming his way for a month.

“Huh… thought she was here.” Chris stays quiet only for a second, probably questioning the efficacy of his eyesight, before speaking to Peter again. “Sorry about that, man. Still want that pie?”

Just like that, your heart kicks into high gear. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes. Please don’t say yes.

Again, to your utter relief, Peter says, “No, thanks, I actually gotta get going. Mind if I borrow your pen and paper real fast?” You hold in a tense breath as Chris rips off a piece of pad paper and hands it to him. More pen scratches against paper, then Peter speaks up, “Can you make sure this reaches her?”

“Definitely. Have a good rest of your day, and come back anytime, dude.”

You don’t uncoil yourself from behind the bar until the door jingles again and a good five minutes pass. Your muscles and joints achingly cry out from the mistreatment as you warily stand to your full height, and Spikes and Garrick give you a confirmational thumbs-up when you smile at them gratefully.

Chris, spotting you out of the corner of his eye, swivels around and gapes, “Where’d you just come from?”

“The back.” Not entirely a lie.

Chris frowns, “But Spikes just said—”

“I was leaving,” you hurriedly cut in. “But I—I, um, I forgot to…” Your eyes rove around the diner and land on the couple you recently served. You hit your head with your palm in an oops manner and nervously chuckle, “I forgot to give those guys their check. So, I’m just… gonna go and… do that.”

You skirt around Chris’s inquisitively raised eyebrow and head over to the cash register to tabulate the couple’s bill. That was a way too close call. And by the way Chris is still staring at you, it looks as if you’re far from being out of the woods.

Once you hand the couple their check, rush to the back and clock out for the day, and come back out in the dining area to leave, Chris is waiting by the door, holding up the triangled piece of paper Peter left for you.

“Some guy named Peter came by to see you. You know him?” A flash in his eyes dares you to deny it, as if he caught onto your game.

You defiantly square your jaw. “I might. Did he leave that for me?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “Wanna tell me who he is?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” you winningly grin as you snatch the paper from his hand.

Chris wears the same winning smile. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll ask him when he comes back tomorrow.”

You blanch, “Wh-what—what makes you think he’s coming back tomorrow?”

“All my customers come back. Always,” he promises. Chris never seemed like the type to issue positive threats, but here he is, threatening you with that friendly smile lighting his jovial face.

The promising threat rings in your ears as you walk out the door and head to your apartment. Halfway there, you remember the crumpled piece of paper grasped in your balled-up fist. You move out of the flow of pedestrian traffic, lean against the brick façade of a mini-mart, and unfold the paper.

Peter’s straight-forward scrawl reads: Sorry I missed you. Be back earlier tomorrow :) – Peter P., and at the bottom of the note is a phone number with an arrow pointing to it, saying, My cell #.

A small, itty-bitty smile flits across your lips as your eyes linger on Peter’s smiley face, and for the briefest moment, you’re transported back to the roof, losing your breath all over again as he smiles that innocently beautiful smile.

Avoiding him is going to be tougher than you thought.

...

Part IV

[brasskier]

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary:  Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death. 

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind. 

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks. 

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge. 

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand. 

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.” 

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…” 

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.” 

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively. 

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it. 

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations. 

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.” 

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?” 

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself. 

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves. 

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes. 

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment. 

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood. 

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—” 

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it. 

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders. 

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck. 

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious. 

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.” 

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth. 

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale. 

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words. 

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him. 

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never. 

[fruitchii]

Under the Same Stars (Bang Chan x Reader Fluff)

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 you and chan have been best friends since freshman year. it’s now senior year. one day you both decide to stay after school so you can catch up on work. after you finish he has a sweet surprise for you.

genre: fluff

type: one shot

words: 1297

*bell chimes*

“Ahh Y/N! Haru and I are gonna go eat tteokbokki! Wanna join?” Your friend Mina asks.

“Ah fuck, I wish I could but I have a shit ton of work due and you know the quarter ends this week.” 

“Damn, good luck Y/N!”  Haru says and grabs Mina’s hand pulling her out of the room. 

“Bye Y/N! We’ll treat you after the quarter ends doll!” You hear Mina yell down the hall. 

You smile and sit back down in your desk. You pull out your materials and notebook and start on all your missing work. This is gonna be dreadful. You think to yourself. If only you hadn’t spent the last critical moments of this quarter goofing off with-

“Why are you still here loser?” Chan questions.

Ahh, the man himself. Bang Chan. The reason you could possibly fail this quarter.

“I’m here because YOU have been distracting me from doing my work! I’m weeks behind in all my classes and this is my last week to get my shit together!  So kindly piss off Chan.” you reply with a smile on your face and your finger in his.

“Jesus, chill N/N. How bout I stay here and help you with your work?” He offers.

“Ha! In your dreams Bang Chan! You’re literally in an alternative class BECAUSE you never do your work.” 

“And? That won’t stop me from staying here and keeping you company while you do your work dumbass” he says while roughing up your hair.

“Fine, But sit over there!” You point to a spot two desks away.

“Of course, princess.” He says while bowing and a smug look on his face.

You flip him off. You focus your attention back to your work and notice as Chan falls asleep with his airpods in.

*two hours pass*

“FUCK!” you scream in frustration.

“Why?! What’s wrong?” Chan wakes up and comes rushing to your side.

“I’m so bored. This shit is so aggravating.” You say while putting your head down on the desk. “I’m gonna be here for hours.”

“Let’s take a break.” He says while nudging you up.

“Chan, I really can’t aff-” 

He cuts you off. “Shhh, just follow me loser.” He grabs your hand and leads you throughout the school and up the stairs to the roof. 

“Chan… we aren’t allowed to be up here.” You say nervously.

“Lighten up princess, it’s school after hours. All the teachers are in meetings, besides those bums never even check up here like they should.” he says while sitting down on a table.

“Okay, I guess.” You hesitantly sit beside him. 

A different day, same distraction. Goof-off boy himself, Bang Chan. You and Chan have been close since he moved to your town in middle school. He has always been the type to never focus on school and just spend his time cracking jokes and getting in trouble for it. He has always walked you home since you started high school. Now it’s senior year. Time for both of you to figure out what you are going to do with the next chapter of your life.

While you reminisce about your past with Chan, you feel a force pushing you down against to lay on the table. “Lay down loser, the stars are about to come out soon.” It was his arm, he was already laying down.

“Never took you for a star guy.” You say in a teasing voice.

“Yeah, I actually study them in my free time.”

“Woah? Chan actually focusing his energy towards learning something?” You laugh.

“Hahaha!” he says mockingly. “If school actually gave me the choice to learn about things I gave a shit about. I’d actually apply myself.” He says while pouting.

You laugh at him. “Aww I’m sorry Channie. Teach me what you learned then!”

You see him inch his head towards yours until he is right next to it. He takes your hand in his and points towards a big constellation. “That’s the Libra constellation.” He points towards the most noticeable star, “That’s the brightest star within the constellation, it's called Beta Libre.” 

Chan begins to talk about all the different stars and constellations you both see in the sky that night. You turn your head to look at him and see his eyes light up while talking about his passion. 

Without thinking you mutter out, “Your eyes look like Beta Libre.”

“Thanks? Damn loser, don't get all corny on me now.” he says while staring back at you.

You sit up in embarrassment. “Shut up! I just said that to see what’d you say.” You’re all flushed and can feel the redness seeping all over your face. You get up off the table and walk towards the roof ledge to overlook the view. “Can we go back now? It’s cold as shit and I REALLY have to finish my wo-”

Before you could finish your sentence you feel a familiar warmth enclose around your body. The warmth could either be Chan himself, or his jacket. You turn around to see Chan looking at you with a deadpan look on his face. 

“Damn, can never bring you anywhere without you complaining about how cold it is.” he says while walking towards the door.

“I HAVE ANEMIA DOUCHEBAG!” you yell whilst chasing after him.

You manage to grab a hold of his shirt and pull him back towards the roof.

“I wanna look at the stars more… if that’s okay with you?” 

You both walk back to the table you were on. This time sitting on the ledge and dangling your feet. The both of you spend what felt like hours talking about the sky and the lore from different cultures about why the stars are where they are and what it means.

“We’ll go back inside in 10.” He suddenly mutters. “I want you to finish your work for today.”

“Thanks Chan, for all of this.. You really didn’t have to stay with me.” You say while looking up at him with a smile.

“Of course loser. So.. what are your plans for when we graduate?” 

“Hmm, I’ve applied to the top schools around us. You know I have to stay close to home due to my family life. What about you?”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” He looks down and pauses for a second.

“I’m moving back to Australia.” He says nonchalantly. Suddenly your mind goes blank and you feel a wave of sadness fall over you.

“Oh, I’m glad!! You always talked so fondly of Australia!” You lie straight through your teeth.

“Yeah, even though I was born here, but over there always felt like home.” He says whilst looking at the sky.

His words saddened you, it was something you didn’t even know would affect you. Guess I always thought he would be able to walk me back home even after our high school adventure ended. 

“Do you have to go?” you say without even realising. Damn two for two. What is with you tonight Y/N? Chan looks at you and embraces you in his arms. 

Chan pushes your chin up with his thumb. He looks down at you and leans in forward. You feel his lips press against your forehead. He laughs. “Don't be sad, dumbass. Were you not listening to anything I taught you tonight?” He asks.

“You said something about Beta Libre. I don’t really remember the rest...” You respond.

“Bingo princess! We will always be under the same stars. Don’t forget that. Even if I’m far away, the stars will be watching over us”

You never did get to finish your work that day. But you did manage to learn a lot about Chan in a way you never did before.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆☆.。.:・

This is for Kenzo,, i am in no way stay affiliated so sorry for anything that doesn’t actually relate to Chan himself.

[shinebrite97]

Transcendent Love

Day three of @enbymagicianweek​

“Ah, Lochlan, what a lovely name. A musical name. Lochlan.”

        Lochlan couldn't pinpoint the exact moment they fell in love with Julian Devorak, only because they felt as if they'd know him for much longer than their memories went back. Which was true.          It had been almost a year since that masquerade party when they defeated the Devil, and now the most exciting thing they got up to together was an afternoon sailing with Portia.          On evenings like this particular one, Lochlan would glance over while Julian wrote away in journals or worked through cases as the palace physician, occasionally shaking out his fatigued wrists, swollen from overuse, and admire that concentrated pout on his thin lips.          "Julian…" Lochlan asked over the candle-lit din.          "Yes, my dear?" He glanced up with a fond smile, relaxing the tense scowl from the last few hours of work.          "Do you remember how we met?" They asked. Julian scoffed, placing his quill down and languidly stretching his back.           "As a matter of fact, I do." He replied. "It was about eight years ago," he stood up, making his way over to the window ledge Lochlan was perched on and leaned over his partner, resting long languid arms over their shoulders and kissed the top of their head. "In the mood for a story, my love?" 

         “Good afternoon, Salina,” Lochlan said with a wave as they entered the apothecary. They placed their hands down on the counter, leaning in with a charming grin as the girl behind it blushed. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes…” they said. “I’m sure glad to see you today.”          “Oh...Lochlan!” The girl at the counter coughed, trying to regain her senses.  “Welcome, what can I get for you today?” 

         “Julian,” they asked. “How do you know this part if you weren’t there?”           “Hush, my darling,” he replied. “I’m trying to set the scene for you.          “Well, I really need some mugwort and coneflower petals,” they replied. “Have you got any?”          Salina was already twirling about behind the counter, climbing the step-stool to reach for the jar of mugwort.          “How much do you need, handsome?” She asked. Lochlan smirked at the shameless flirting, not an uncommon thing for them here. They patted their pockets, pretending to check for money as they began their question.          “How much can I get for…” The paused. Cue the concerned expression. “Uhm…” One more pat-down. “Oh no,” They said with a pout. “Looks like I forgot my money today.” They pulled the puppy dog eyes.           “Man, I really needed that mugwort too…” Salina sighed in sympathy. “Do you think I could pay you for it later?” They asked.           Salina was losing the fight within herself. The battle between finances and her position working in the shop, and her desire to see that beautiful smile on their face again.           “I really not supposed to do that…” She said. “And I’ve already let you do it a few times before...”          “Our tragic hero knew there wasn’t much for them to do now,” Julian added with a dramatic flutter of his hand in Lochlan’s line of vision. “And when the apothecary door opened with a new customer, they were ready to cut their loss and leave.”          “But then a tall handsome stranger stepped in, right?” Lochlan asked.           “Ah yes,” Julian replied with a grin. “I believe it was a dashing doctor, standing at a gangly six feet tall.”          Julian entered the shop, stomping dust from his boots, as Salina directed her attention to him in hopes of evading the awkward stand-off with Lochlan.          “Hello, my dear,” Julian said. “I need some coneflower petals and cardamom.”         “Right away, sir.” She replied, quickly stepping up and reaching for the respective jars.          “I’m sorry,” Julian said to the wide-eyed customer before him. “Were you being served?”          “Uh, no…” Lochlan said. “I was just leaving…” They took a few steps, breezing past until Julian caught their shoulder.           “You came in here for a reason, didn’t you, kid?” He asked.           “I needed...some stuff,” they replied. “But I forgot my money.”           “Slippery mind, hmm?” Julian smirked. He stood up fully, neither of them having realized he leaned in so close and squared his shoulders, turning to the girl busying herself with scooping and weighing the herbs. “Let them get when they need,” He commanded. “On me.”           “Oh, you don’t…”          “Hush,” Julian interrupted. “What kind of doctor am I if I don’t help people?” He winked in Lochlan’s direction as Salina bowed her head, nodding when Lochlan asked for two ounces of each.           “What’s your name?” Julian asked.           “Lochlan.” They replied.           “Ah, Lochlan,” Julian grinned. “What a lovely name, a musical name. Lochlan…”           “And who are you?”           “I am Julian,” he said. “You can call me Doctor Devorak.”          “So, Coneflower petals,” Julian said. “Are you planning on using them for some kind of tea?”           “I steep them in boiling water and Prakran sugar until the whole mess bubbles, I’ve come to find that they make these little candies that help with cold symptoms. My friend and I sell them when we can.”          “Ah, so my money goes to a young upstart!” Julian laughed. “How about the mugwort.”           “It’s for my aunt. She’s feeling sick right now, and I know that tends to help her stomachaches.”                   “I’ll admit,” Julian said as he nuzzled his nose against Lochlan’s cheek. “I was impressed by your knowledge, after all...you were what, eighteen? And you already knew so much without being a doctor’s apprentice.”          “Asra always told me the little bit he knew of my parents,” Lochlan replied. “He said that I was from Zadith just like him, that I told him about my parents when we were kids.”          “Oh, really?” Julian asked.          “Yeah. According to Asra, my mother was a healer, not a doctor, but had experience; and my father had some magical abilities.”          “Amazing…” he said. “So you get your ability from your father?”           “I guess so.” Lochlan smiled as Julian peppered their face with kisses.           “My wonderful genius.” He mused.           “So what happened next?” Lochlan asked. “Did you sweep me off my feet or something?”          “I’m afraid that happened a long time later,” Julian replied. “I paid for everything, gathered my order, and left. You did ask me where I worked, but… I didn’t hear what you said fully, so I think I just laughed and walked out the door.”           “That does sound like something you’d do, love,” Lochlan replied. They chuckled, kissing away the pout that formed on Julian’s lips, before he settled on the window perch behind them, resting his head on their shoulder now as the two watched Malak fly around the roof of their home.           “When did we fall in love?” Lochlan asked. “Do you remember it?”           “The first time?” Julian asked. Lochlan nodded, and he gazed outward, staring into the sky, reddened by the setting sun.           “I remember it now.” He said. “For a long time it seemed more like a dream than a memory, but somewhere along the way, along all the adventures, it all came back to me…”          One long bony finger twirled a piece of Lochlan’s long hair as he considered it.           “It was early summer...after the plague broke out,” he said. “It had been maybe three months into the epidemic, hundreds were dead, and those who survived isolated themselves. We had been in the last lot of doctors, you were 0-65 and I was 0-69.”          “Really?” They asked. Julian nodded into the curve of their neck.          “Since we knew each other and Valdemar realized we worked well together, they paired us up, we did a lot, found a lot. We nearly perfect bloodletting,” He let out a breath that could have been construed as a laugh. “And somewhere along with all the work, we found time for each other, little touches as we read things, smiles as we fixed up each others’ uniforms, and one night you rested your head on my shoulder, falling asleep as we logged all the notes from the day, that was the part you never enjoyed.”          “How was I supposed to know that years later I’d use those notes and journals to find you again?” Lochlan smirked.           “You were so cute,” Julian replied. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you and send you to your own cot so we both slept on mine. A tight squeeze, I may add; and in the morning, you woke up on top of me,” He smiled fondly at the memory now. “And instead of being startled or angry, you just said good morning and kissed me.”          “I did?” They asked.           “Yes,” Julian replied. “I was still waking up, so it barely registered. But I know I returned the gesture, and we didn’t really stop until someone knocked on the door telling us to report to the morning meeting.”          “Oh…” Lochlan muttered.           “We ended up making a game of it,” Julian added. “If we were passing each other during the day and our hands were full, we’d brush shoulders. We’d often stand in the back during meetings and see how far we could go to make the other blush...and I seem to remember a certain someone keeping a hand on my behind for an entire thirty-minute meeting.”          Lochlan blushed, feeling the second-hand fluster years later.           “I’m sure I deserved it though,” Julian added. “Can’t for the life of me remember why, but I’m sure of it.” The way his side-long gaze landed on them made them think that he knew exactly what he’d done, but he would omit it for the sake of the story.           “I remember the second time then,” Lochlan said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the moment.”           “When?” Julian asked. Lochlan realized now that Julian was staring at them very intently. Eyes wide open and mouth pressed firmly closed. Eager to hear their truth. When had they fallen in love with him?           “It was at the aqueducts,” They said. “I think the moment you grabbed my hand to lead me down after ripping the vampire eel off of me. Maybe it was the way your face looked, so concentrated and professional, the way your voice dropped...it was sexy. You seemed to enter a whole other realm of existence. You weren’t the fugitive, or the stranger...you were just Julian. A handsome doctor with such skilled hands. Then when I realized you had taken on the pain for me, I really had it bad. You led me to a safe haven while bleeding and injured, and kept me safe, even though you barely knew me.”          Julian opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, drawing in a deep breath while his cheeks burned a hot red.           “You’re so cute when you’re flustered, darling.” Lochlan said.           “Only you, my love…” Julian finally replied after a moment. “Only you could render me speechless like this.” Julian stood up, holding out a hand to Lochlan and they took it. Soon his lips were smashed into their. A hungry kiss that took their breath away. Hands roughly entwined into his red hair.          “I love you, Julian.” the said.           “I love you, Lochlan.”

[lycorogue]

ML Secret Santa Story: The Great Debate

Holy smokes, it’s 2am! Uh, I wanted to have this done by Christmas Eve, but I guess an official Merry Christmas to my @mlsecretsanta giftee @mouserzwuzhere is now in order. So... Merry Christmas!

Sorry for the delay, it actually kept me most of this month to lock down what I wanted to write. In the end, I ended up going with something inspired by a Tumblr post. Of course, I can’t find the post now to link it, but it talked about the logistical fallacy of most Christmas movies where Santa is canonically real, but adults still don’t believe in him.

I went with mouserz preferences of fluff, friendship/family bonding, and LadyNoir. I hope this ends up being a pleasant surprise for you under your digital Christmas tree this morning. :D

UPDATE (12/25/19): You can now find the story on AO3, on FFN, and on DA as well as below.

The Great Debate

Summary: When Ladybug agreed to meet up later with Chat Noir, she never imagined they would end up discussing the validity of Santa being real. It’s funny the things you do for your loved ones.

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 4032

Status: Completed one-shot

Disclaimer: I’m ignoring the two-part season 3 finale with regards to Master Fu; pretend this takes place before that....

Ladybug breathed in the chilled, crisp night air. Her breath escaped in a thin fog. Her supersuit kept her warm, but her cheeks still flushed with the bite of wind as she swung through the city. Thankfully, the snow recently ceased, and the air was calm. Once she was at her destination she would be warmer.

Looking down the long roofs of the office buildings, she spotted a figure already perched six buildings down the street. He was there. He was waiting for her. She shifted the weight of the package nestled in the crook of her left arm, and sprinted towards her meet-up.

Chat Noir lazily kicked his legs as he leaned back on the tower roof's ledge, staring up at the sky; looking for stars he couldn't see. He hummed “Silent Night” to himself, and was on the third verse when Ladybug landed behind him.

“You're late, Bugaboo.”

“Don't-” It was on reflex, but there was no akuma around now. She simply sighed, and shook her head. “Sorry. I wanted to get something for you first.” She held out her package: a box of Tom & Sabine Bakery macarons. It was risky to bring them to Chat Noir, but it was also a bit of an impromptu meet-up.

Earlier that day, for the second Christmas Eve in a row, Hawk Moth decided to not take a vacation, and akumatized a poor distraught person. As they were fighting, Chat Noir seemed more distracted than usual, exchanging his usual ill-timed flirting for requests that they hang out again later. The more the battle wore on, the more Ladybug picked up that perhaps this get-together was something Chat Noir truly needed.

Then they defeated the villain. Ladybug purified the akuma, and used her ultimate power to restore Paris. The duo fist-bumped in front of the rush of reporters capturing the latest attack on their beloved city. Ladybug's earrings chimed that she only had two minutes remaining, and soon after Chat Noir's ring beeped for the second time. She couldn't say anything to him in front of the reporters; couldn't let Hawk Moth potentially know where they would be. Instead, she gave him a silent plead to forgive her abruptness, and swung away. Once out of sight, she used the last few precious seconds of her transformation to text Chat Noir where to meet up. She prayed that he would get the message before de-transforming.

It seemed he did.

She didn't have much time to plan a Christmas gift for Chat Noir. She didn't imagine an opportunity to gift him anything. It would be far too inappropriate while they were actively attempting to protect Paris, and she didn't want Chat Noir to get the wrong idea if she asked him for a meet-up for a gift exchange. She didn't have the time to make anything, and she barely had the time to purchase anything; most stores were already closed for the holiday. She lucked out that her parents had anything left in their bakery.

“Huh. Great minds, it seems, M'lady.” Chat Noir smirked as he grabbed a matching pastry box he had hidden beside his right hip. His contained a pair of over-stuffed cream puffs. He brushed the snow off the ledge beside him and patted the now-bare roof.

Ladybug studied Chat Noir. She sprinted through the list of patrons she saw in her parents' bakery that day, trying to remember any young men with blonde hair. None came to mind. Perhaps he had bought the cream puffs while she was in her room. Maybe that was why he was so persistent with wanting a meet-up.

“Great minds indeed.” Ladybug hummed inquisitively, but still accepted the cleared-off seat. Holding out her box to Chat Noir, she traded peppermint macarons for her puff.

“Mmm.” Chat Noir popped the macaron in his mouth in one bite. “I guess it makes sense that we'd both pick pastries from the Tom & Sabine. It is the best bakery in all of Paris, after all.”

Ladybug lightly blushed, and hoped her cheeks were already red enough from the cold for Chat Noir to not notice. “I'm sure they'd appreciate hearing that, especially from a superhero.”

“You should tell them too, then.”

She had never thought of that. “Perhaps I'll take the time to do so.” She bit into her cream puff, and quickly licked up the filling oozing out of the opposite side.

Chat Noir popped another macaron in his mouth. “Thank you for meeting up with me tonight.”

Ladybug stilled, looking deeply at Chat Noir. “You sounded like you needed it. Is everything alright?”

“It is now.” He gave her a sad little smile, and then scraped some cream out of the center of his puff.

“It's Christmas Eve, Kitty. Wouldn't you rather spend it with loved ones?”

“I thought I was.”

“Come on, be serious, Chat Noir.”

He put down his treats, and instead scooped up Ladybug's right hand, keeping her gaze. “I am serious. Please tell me that you know by now that I'm always serious with every love confession.”

“Chat Noir-”

He dropped her hand and scooted further away from her. “I know, I know. You're in love with someone else. I understand that, but it doesn't lessen my feelings for you, and how dear you are to me.”

“Kitty.”

Clearing his throat, he tossed another macaron in the air, and caught it in his mouth. “Sorry I'm keeping you from your loved ones, though.”

Ladybug rested a hand on his shoulder. “You're not. You're dear to me too, remember?”

They finished their treats with small, simple, stupid conversation. They talked about nothing in particular, for fear of giving something away that would reveal themselves, and yet they said a lot with the way they each talked about being a superhero, or how they felt about the past year, or even about the weather.

“How could you not love the snow?” Ladybug gathered the empty pastry boxes, and tucked them beside her.

“It's lonely.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Most people stay inside; isolated in their homes. Paris isn't as bustling as normal. It's quiet.”

“See, that's one of the things I like about the snow.” Ladybug scooped some off the roof, and started packing it into a ball. “It absorbs sound, you know. That's why Paris seems so quiet and serene when it snows. The lights then reflect off the crisp white, and the city just seems clean and new. It seems safe.”

“It is safe, with you as its savior.”

“Yeah, well you're not too bad yourself there, Kitty.” They shared a smile. “Besides, snow isn't lonely. It's inviting. Families huddle together to drink cocoa as they watch the snow. Friends play together making snow angels or snowmen, or race on sleds, or build forts together, or have snowball fights.”

Chat Noir's face fell, so Ladybug threw her freshly formed snowball at his shoulder.

“Hey!” He quickly packed his own snowball, but Ladybug was faster and hit him with another one. “Okay! Okay, I submit!” He dropped his snowball, and held his hands over his head.

“Haven't you ever just played in the snow? How could you not feel the magic of it while you dance under a soft snow fall, or catch flakes on your tongue, or simply lay in the cold silence, just feeling at peace with the world?”

“I'll have to keep all of those in mind the next time it snows.”

“Good.”

Another soft, shared look as they each offered the other a gentle smile.

Church bells softly rang in the distance; breaking the spell as Chat Noir turned to the sound.

“It's getting late. Should we head home? Don't want to chance Santa passing us up since we aren't asleep.”

“Wait, Santa?”

“Yeah. You think he's in the area already? I mean, I really couldn't ask for a better gift than to spend time with you, M'lady, but I wouldn't want to push my luck with the Big Guy in Red.”

“Chat Noir, do you still believe in Santa Claus?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, and playfully smirked.

“I mean, are you telling me you don't?” His face scrunched up as he stared incredulously at her. “We literally saw him! Twice!”

“First of all, those were both during akuma attacks, so who truly knows what is and isn't real during those? Secondly, Santa Claws seemed to just be a friendly old man who dressed up as Santa; not Jolly Old Saint Nick himself, and his 'Santa' powers were because of the akumatization. So he doesn't count. Finally, I'd hate to break it to you, but the Santa we met when Paris was overwhelmed by giant attacking toys wasn't real. It was Chris Master's powers manifesting his interpretation of Santa: the Santa in his snow globe.” Ladybug rested a comforting hand on Chat Noir's arm.

“How do you know that wasn't the real Santa? He said he'd see us next Christmas Eve; tonight!”

“He said that because it was what Chris wanted Santa to say.”

“How do you know that, though?”

Ladybug's breath hitched, and she simply shrugged. “What? You can have Cat Intuition about how the Agreste mansion security works or the fact that Volpina had an illusion instead of the actual Adrien Agreste, but I can't have Ladybug Intuition about whether or not that was the real Santa?”

Chat Noir studied her for a tell, but eventually caved. “Okay, you got me on that second meet-up with Santa; that probably wasn't the real one. Although, you were the top of his Nice list, so maybe you should hope that your Ladybug Intuition was off, and that was really him.” He winked. She groaned. “Either way, he looked a lot like the man who got akumatized into Santa Claws, which means it could be possible that the man last Christmas was in fact the true Santa, but was posing as a regular citizen.”

“Why? Especially on Christmas Eve itself? Wouldn't he be too busy delivering gifts?” Ladybug tried to keep the smug look off her face, but Chat Noir's lips kept puckering more and more with each question. She could tell that he was trying to build up a rebuttal.

Chat Noir opened his mouth to respond, pointing at her in stunned silence. A second later he relented, shrugging in defeat instead. “Alright, so maybe we haven't met the actual Santa, but that doesn't mean he's not real.”

“He might have been, once. There could have been someone who spent Christmas Eve delivering gifts to the children of a very large area – so that it felt like it was the whole world to those people – and the legend of Santa came from that, but I don't know if I trust that he's still real.”

“Well, why not? I knew you could be pragmatic, but even this seems a bit much for you.”

“He'd be well over a millennium old, for starters.”

“Yeah, but what about Master Fu?”

“There's a bit of a difference between two-hundred and two-thousand years, Chat Noir.”

“Still, Master is as old as he is largely because of the magic of the Miraculouses, isn't he?”

“Possibly.”

“So why is it such a stretch that Santa has magic of his own, and part of it is the long life, or even immortality? The Miraculouses can't be the only form of magic within the whole world, can they?”

She gave it thought. “Alright, valid point. What about the gifts, though?”

Chat Noir lounged across the roof and dismissively waved his hand. “I already told you: magic. He probably has a bag with access to a pocket dimension or some-”

“No.”

Chat Noir rocked his head to the side. Ladybug pivoted to face him, folding her legs in front of her as she anchored her hands to her ankles.

“No,” she repeated, “I'm not even talking about the plausibility of him carrying all the gifts with him or getting in and out of people's homes. If I'm going to agree with him nearing two-thousand years old because of magic, I'll concede on those other magical parts.”

“Okay, so what's wrong with the presents then?”

Ladybug scooted closer to Chat Noir and leaned a little towards him, energy buzzing off of her. “If Santa Claus truly delivers presents every Christmas Eve, then why is it that most adults don't believe in him? Wouldn't him delivering gifts to their children convince the parents that he's real? Since a large portion – probably even a majority – of adults are also parents, wouldn't someone somewhere have factual evidence of his existence by now? Or, at least, wouldn't it be a much more widespread belief, even among adults, that he's alive?”

Chat Noir sat up, hugging one leg to his chest. His eyebrows furrowed, and he wouldn't look at Ladybug.

“I mean, think about it,” Ladybug continued, rolling onto her knees as she began to gesture wildly. “You and your wife wake up Christmas morning, and gather around the tree with your kid- You're picturing me as your wife, and imagining what our kid would look like, aren't you?”

Chat Noir sheepishly smiled and shrugged.

“Never mind that. Not the point.” Ladybug waved the thought away. “So your kid is opening up gifts, finds one that is labeled 'from Santa,' and unwraps it. You don't recognize this gift. You haven't purchased it for your kid. You may just think your wife must have gotten it and not told you, so you let it go. But this keeps happening every year, so you finally ask your wife, and she tells you she always thought you were the one who bought those gifts, because she certainly didn't. Isn't that suspicious? A random present from neither of you managed to make its way under your tree? Every year? Wouldn't you want to figure out who put it there? And you hear your friends – who are also parents – saying the same thing happened for each of their kids. Wouldn't that alone be enough evidence for most parents to believe that Santa must be real, because what other explanation is there for the mystery gifts?”

Chat Noir tapped his chin with two fingers, scanning the clouds for answers. “Yeah, I guess that's true.”

“On the flip-side, if Santa doesn't actually leave any presents - so that parents don't question where they came from - then why does it matter if he's real, because he still isn't going to be coming to everyone's houses unless it's to eat the cookies.”

“I got it!” Chat Noir snapped and turned back towards Ladybug, he was also up on his knees, waving excitedly. “Magic again.”

“How so?”

“Santa's magic is memory focused. He doesn't actually use chimneys – which really helps explain all those homes without fire places – instead, he arrives just before the parents lock up for the night, and he uses his magic to make them believe they already did. He then enters, leaves the present, and locks the door behind him as he goes on his merry way. His magic then makes the parents believe they had munched on the cookies to give the illusion of Santa, and that they were the ones who purchased the gift for little Julien. The question of 'who got him that present' never comes up, and Santa still remains a glorious holiday mystery.”

“What if the parents, still disbelieving of Santa, already bought little Mary a gift from 'Santa' and already ate the cookies before going to bed?”

“Then Santa saves on unneeded calories, and he switches up the 'Santa' for 'Mom and Dad'. Then his power works exactly the same way; except this time it also makes them think they didn't label the one gift as from 'Santa' at first.”

“It's still too many homes to leave presents for in one night.” Ladybug sat on her heels and crossed her arms.

“I thought you were going to concede on all of the 'other magic stuff'?”

Ladybug shrugged.

“Okay.” Chat Noir thought for a moment. “What if his powers also allows him to teleport? Or to slow time? Or to pause time? We have Miraculouses that could do some pretty crazy things, after all.” Chat Noir's ears perked and his belt-tail twitched as if it were real. “Wait a minute! What if Santa has a Miracle Box? That feast amuk was encased in stone before leaving Tibet, and we stopped it while it was still in Paris, so what if it didn't have a chance to make it to Santa to eat his Miraculous?”

“Master would have told me if Santa was one of the guardians.”

“What if he didn't know? What if there were Guardians secretly placed throughout the world, and for their safety, the monastery Master Fu trained at didn't have their names?”

“And he only uses the Miraculous once a year to provide extra Christmas gifts?”

Chat Noir started counting out his points on his fingers. “He's not using the Miraculous for his personal  gain, so it's not breaking any rules. He's providing joy and wonderment to the world. He's making sure every kid gets at least one gift they'll love, regardless of the parents' financial or emotional standing. We don't know what he does with the rest of the year, so maybe he's protecting the world just like us, but with his memory-altering Miraculous powers, the world just never figures it out.”

Ladybug simply stared at Chat Noir. He held his ground and kept her gaze.

“Alright.” Ladybug pivoted on the roof ledge, and dangled her legs below her. “I relent that there's a possibility that Santa is real.”

“And a Miraculous Guardian?”

“It's a stretch, but I guess I can't argue against it. Not right now, anyway.”

“So does that mean you'll wait up for him?”

“No, that means there's no point. If he is real, and he does have a way of altering memories, then I doubt he'd let either of us remember seeing him. He's been doing this for over seventeen-hundred years, after all.” She gave Chat Noir a side smile.

“I guess that's true.” Chat Noir deflated a little and sat beside her.

“Besides, I thought you wanted to go to bed so you didn't chance missing out on your gift from him,” she teased.

Chat Noir curled into himself and blushed, again unable to look at Ladybug. She instantly knew she went too far. She couldn't say goodbye to him like that.

Ladybug detached her yo-yo, and looked intently at it. Chat Noir followed her out of the corner of his eye.

“Ladybug?”

She gave him the tiniest hint of a devilish grin while pressing a finger to her lips and shushing him. “Don't tell on me, okay?”

“Tell?”

Ladybug threw her yo-yo straight up, calling out “Lucky Charm!”

“What are you doing?” Chat Noir again hopped up onto his knees as he studied her. “What about no personal gain?”

The charm landed in Ladybug's hand, and she closed her fist around it before Chat Noir could make out the small red object with black spots.

“I think this one can be allowed.” Ladybug re-attached her yo-yo to her hip, and stood on the main portion of the roof. With Chat Noir still seated on the ledge, they were about eye-level.

He tried to spy her charm, but she kept her hand hidden behind her back. “So, what convoluted plan do you have for that?” He stood to try to look over her shoulder, but she blocked him with a stiff arm.

“Nothing too bad. Now sit back down.” She pushed gently on his chest, and he plopped his butt back onto the roof ledge. “Perfect.”

She then placed her hand in between them and unfolded her fingers. Resting on her palm was a tiny sprig of mistletoe, although, with the red coloring and black spots, it looked more like holly. With her spare hand, Ladybug held the Lucky Charm mistletoe sprig over their heads, then leaned in to kiss Chat Noir. Giddily, he rose to meet her, his hands reaching out for her waist as he puckered up and eyes fluttered closed.

She giggled, and used a finger to turn his head so she could kiss him on the cheek instead.

Chat Noir pouted and sunk back onto the roof. “You're supposed to kiss on the lips under a mistletoe.”

“Sorry, Kitty, but I do still love someone else.” She flicked his bell, and placed the sprig of mistletoe beside them. “I will give you one more gift though.” She cupped a hand on either side of his face, and pulled it towards her. Angling his head down a bit, she placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then rested hers against it. “Merry Christmas, Kitty.”

Chat Noir wrapped his arms around Ladybug and squeezed her close to him; breathing her in. “Thank you, Ladybug. Merry Christmas to you, too.”

She let him hold her for a moment, and she held him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. With their eyes closed, and the normally bustling city quiet with snow, it didn't feel like there was anyone else in all of Paris but the two of them. It only lasted a moment, but it was calming for them both.

He's right here, Ladybug thought, he's not Chat Blanc, and I'll stop him from ever feeling that desperate and alone.

She's here, Chat Noir thought, she loves someone else, but for right now she's here and I can pretend for a few seconds that I'm the one she's in love with.

The thought didn't make Chat Noir purr, as it usually did; instead, a small whimper escaped his throat.

“Chat Noir?” Ladybug leaned away from him, breaking the illusion.

“Sorry. I had a moment, but I'm fine. Thank you again for spending time with me tonight.”

“No problem, Kitty. As long as you don't want us to make a habit out of this.” She ruffled up his hair until he broke his hug in a giggling retreat. “You are a friend of mine, Chat Noir,” Ladybug continued in a serious tone. “I want to be here for you whenever you need me, and I do enjoy spending time with you, as long as you're not flirting.” She cocked an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest.

Chat Noir meekly smiled back as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Is my flirting really that bad?”

She simply raised the second eyebrow and pursed her lips.

“In love with another guy,” Chat Noir sighed, “Right.”

She took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “You'll find someone. I promise. She'll see the amazing Chat Noir that I do, but she'll get to know your actual name, and her heart will be only for you.”

Before Chat Noir could respond – and Ladybug knew he wanted to – she let go, and lassoed a nearby light post. “Merry Christmas again, Chat Noir.”

He gave her a genuine smile in return. “Merry Christmas, M'lady.” He said nothing else, and Ladybug was grateful. Her earrings started rapidly beeping. It had only been about three minutes, but Tikki always seemed to wear out faster if Ladybug used her Lucky Charm for personal reasons. She probably didn't have much time left.

“Let me know if you do catch Santa,” Ladybug teased. She then scooped up the empty pastry boxes,  and loosened the tension on her yo-yo, sling-shotting her through the Paris skyline.

Chat Noir looked at the discarded Lucky Charm sprig of mistletoe, and brought it up to his lips. The trinket cut their evening together short, but it was worth it for those kisses, and that hug. A couple of seconds later, the sprig burst into pink glitter that vanished in the air; like a miniature firework. Ladybug must have de-transformed, and the Lucky Charm vanished with her other superpowers.

Chat Noir no longer had his keepsake from the night, but he had his memories. Those were enough, and he trusted he'd make many more with Ladybug over the years.

Now he had to figure out how to capture Santa so he could prove to his lady that he was right.

[leagueofidiots]

People keep referencing the one chapter of you're NNWM, what happened??

Shigadabi, but my subconcious was shipping Spinnerdabi on main in retrospect/ Magnetmagic briefly

Song fic for Billie Eillish's Listen Before I Go

Last two chapters, needs a little context, but all the important stuff is explained

I'll also include the chapter after because I'd feel bad if I didn't

WARNING!! I'M VERY SERIOUS!! THERE IS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT HERE!! I EVEN TRIGGERED MYSELF WHILE WRITING THIS, AND THAT IS VERY RARE!! BE SMARTER THAN ME, AND MAKE SURE YOU'RE NOT SITTING ALONE IN A DARK HOUSE AFTER SKIPPING TWO MEALS!! HUG A PILLOW!! GET SOME WATER!! BE CAREFUL!! 💜

•Take me to the rooftop•

Tomura's asleep next to me, face still turned up to the stars. We've been up here for about two hours, but he finally fell asleep.

The promised celebration was nice. We had it as soon as I was well enough to be close to normal as I could, which only took about a week. They learned how to make a few things from what Hawks gave us before the battle, which I ended up eating some of to make them happy.

They did end up having to take me to Ujiko. My burns spread, now uneven again. He says he'll bring my aesthetic back next time I go in to get my staples fixed. I agreed. There will be no next time, after all.

•I wanna see the world when I stop breathing, turning blue•

After Tomura brought me up here, we simply talked. No unnecessary emotional dumps. No tears. No drama. Just simple things.

And now he lies next to me, a bandage he tied around his pinkie allowing him to grasp my hand in his own. It's nice, I'll admit. Breathing in the cool air as I sense his every small movement.

The stars are beautiful tonight. We snuffed the flame of our lantern, though that was nice too, just to see them better. The city lights make it so there aren't many, but it's still a good night for the sky.

•Tell me love is endless, don't be so pretentious•

Careful not to wake him, I carefully pry my hand from my boyfriend's. I'll do what I need to do, but I'd rather him not be awake for this. It's my time, no matter what.

I'm ready for the end, and apparently whoever it is that decides my fate agrees. All I can hope for is that Tomura doesn't blame himself when they find me dead on the sidewalk tomorrow.

What will they do? At least I'm not their leader, but I do still have an influence on the league. Even as useless as I am now, surely they'll still react.

Standing at the edge. It's coming. The end of it all. I'll never have to think about any of it ever again. The brutal training my father put me through. My mother going insane. Burning. Ujiko's experiments. The streets practically eating me alive. Giran's guidance into crime. Killing my father only a week ago.

•Leave me like you do•

The news has been all over the case. Endeavor and Hawks found dead. Witnesses say it was Dabi that killed them. Both burnt to a crisp, Hawks with half-grown-in wings.

Dabi's body hasn't been found, not even a trace. They think he might have burned too, that the black and purple flames seen from outside the wall of blue may have consumed him entirely, taking even his ashes with him.

•If you need me, wanna see me•

And they're right. Dabi's dead. Lost in the flames. Dabi carried rage and purpose, and all he stood for was taken with my piercings and my skin.

Touya died with his innocence, along with his weakness. And now Dabi has followed with all of his anger. Everything that fuelled him, that kept him going, is gone now. So now I am nameless.

•Better hurry 'cause I'm leaving soon•

I wonder what they'll do when I'm really dead. Will the news care? Or will it just pass by like anything else?

They certainly care about the rest of the Todorokis. The thoughts of my mother and siblings make more sense to me than my own at this point.

Rei Todoroki. Wife of Enji Todoroki. Recently released from the mental asylum. Deep in grief. She's planning the funeral for a month from the day of his death. Their deaths. She's set up a shrine for her late husband next to the front door, though reports say it's more for his identity as a hero than the shrine for her son.

•Sorry can't save me now•

Fuyumi Todoroki. The daughter of Enji Todoroki. She says she can't grasp that her brother is dead. She says she feels it in her soul that he isn't. That it's freeing, her father's death.

•Sorry I don't know how•

Natsuo Todoroki. The son of Enji Todoroki. He's avoided all reporters. Hasn't left his room since getting the news. His family says that he and Touya Todoroki used to be close, and Natsuo was elated to hear he wasn't dead. All that is gone now. That his only consolation is that his family is safe from the pro hero.

•Sorry there's no way out•

Shoto Todoroki. Son of Enji Todoroki. He's been busy with school, so not a lot of reporters have been able to talk to him, but his grades are suffering. UA is considering making him take a year off to focus on his mental health.

•But down•

The family as a whole is in general agreement. It's a tragedy to them. Both deaths. And while Endeavor may have had a negative influence on them in life, and they feel safer with him gone, they still mourn his death.

And while it's a painful blow that Touya has died again as Dabi, it is also a good thing. He had turned villain after all. It's for the best.

Well, I guess they'll really get what they wanted. Touya, Dabi, and whoever I am now are about to be long gone.

•Down•

What were my last moments with each of them? I want to think of each of them before I go. I at least owe each of them a thought.

•Taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks•

Start easy. Eri and Butt. They were together on the couch, weren't they? Yeah.

Eri was tired. Once it hit around nine, she lay down on the couch, calling up the dog to curl up next to each other. There was almost a smile on her face as she drifted off, and Compress carried her in.

•That's what a year-long headache does to you•

Hawks. He had done things, after all. And it was my fault he was gone. Even if he was a traitor, he still did the best that a pro hero could do. It's not him I'm mad at. Was mad at.

His last moment was spent trying to get Endeavor to stop. For legal reasons, surely not because he cared at all. And then my father just had to burn him up, like everyone else in his way.

•I'm not okay, I feel so scattered•

Compress. Where had he been?

His date with Magne had been postponed once I ended up injured. He'd said I was more important. Like I had any importance. After he'd taken Eri to her room, he'd gone to bed, saying he wanted to rest for the date.

I wonder if they'll move it again when they find me? I hope not.

•Don't say I'm all that matters•

Kurogiri. Tomura was right, he really is good.

His last action towards me was pretty simple. Before he went to bed, he gave me a pack of beers that we'd ended up taking to the roof. Told me not to drink too much.

I probably should have respected that wish more. I'm on my fifth can. I don't regret it though.

•Leave me, déjà vu•

Spinner.

His last action hadn't been anything much. Just said good night. Still, before that he'd told me off to the side how proud he was of how much of their food I'd eaten.

•If you need me, wanna see me•

Magne. Bless her, I wish I'd said goodbye to them.

Tonight she was having problems with her stomach, so she spent her evening in her room. The last I saw of her was her smile as we did each others' eye liner.

She was very helpful during my healing process. Brought me the closest to normal out of anyone.

•You better hurry, I'm leaving soon•

Toga. What will Toga think of me when she sees? Will she hate me?

Toga spent most of her time singing karaoke with Jin. My final memory of her is the sound of her cheery voice as she spun around, nearly forcing her hairbrush down her throat as a makeshift microphone.

What was the song? I wasn't listening. I wish I had been so I could hum it to myself now.

•Sorry can't save me now•

Jin. I'm a terrible person.

After most people had gone to bed, he'd pulled me aside. Asked if I was okay. That it was okay if I wasn't. And you know what I did?

I lied.

And he'd smiled. Like I'd said something amazing. And he spent the next five minutes saying how happy he was that I was happy.

He'll definitely hate me when he finds me.

•Sorry I don't know how•

And Tomura.

Tomura.

Before he'd slept, he'd looked me straight in the eye, my hand closed gently in his, and he'd said he loved me. That he needed me.

I'm so selfish.

His red eyes shone beautifully as he'd said it, filling me with butterflies. They'd died as soon as he broke eye contact, but it was the first thing I'd felt since the attack.

I'd told him that I needed him too.

•Sorry there's no way out•

I'm glad I saw them all. That I can recall what our final words were. Their last smiles at me. That I can picture them all in my mind. It'll help me when it's time.

There's no way I'd be strong enough without it. Even now, a foot away from the ledge, I'm scared. The end.

•But down•

The end has always been a comfort. Something to look forward to. Whenever my head got dark, and I couldn't see a way out, I just reminded myself that there was an end that drew closer with every second.

•Down•

And here it is. Waiting for me a short drop and a few seconds away. Since getting up has already felt like an eternity, but the six steps from where I started aren't that far compared to the path of life I've been lost on for so long.

•Call my friends and tell them that I love them•

The league helped me find it. Find life. They showed me where I was, and they've led me to this point. I'll have to thank them when we all end up dead and I see them again. If I see them again.

•And I'll miss them•

Even before Shigaraki bribed us with those dumb gifts to stay in the bar and treat it like a home, I considered them a safe place. Safer anyway.

•But I'm not sorry•

And they kept me on the path I needed to be on. Kept me alive. For the most part, kept my additional burns to a minimum.

The streets never did that. They left me to defend those younger than me, even if only by a few years, at the cost of my life if need be.

•Call my friends and tell them that I love them•

If not for the league, if not for seeing that newscast when I did, Endeavor would still be alive and active as a hero. Life would still be a spiral with no clear end in sight.

•And I'll miss them•

I step onto the edge of the roof, looking down at the end. Like in storybooks. The villain dies, and they all lived happily ever after.

The End.

•Sorry•

I drape one leg over, closing my eyes. I'm ready for it. My ending. I lean forward.

And just as my eyes snap open and a feeling of paralyzing panic fills me with regret, it happens.

A hand, one finger bandaged, reaches out and grabs my wrist, leaving me dangling by a foot and an arm off the roof of the bar.

Shigaraki's arms feel strong. So strong compared to me. After he caught me, he didn't waste a second getting me down from the roof. I can't say I wanted to stay up there.

My whole life led up to that moment. Everything I went through was just to end it all. And then I didn't want to. Right at the last second. Is that weakness?

Shigaraki's heavy breathing of panic and sobs managed to wake somebody up, and eventually they've all filed out to the scene of the two of us sitting on the floor, Tomura holding onto me tightly, my sight fixed firmly into the distance.

"Shiggy, what's wrong?" asks Magne, rubbing her eyes. 

He doesn't answer, still clutching onto me, and I can't find it in myself to answer. "Be careful of Dabi's burns," warns Kurogiri.

I can't feel them. Even if I could, I don't think I'd care. He's anchoring me, and right now I desperately need that hold on reality. Still, he loosens his death grip.

"Did something happen?" asks Spinner, his hair cascading around his face.

"Well obviously something happened. No, they look peachy!" Jin plops down in front of us. "Dabi, did you…?"

I finally snap my gaze to him, staring at his masked face. "I'm sorry, Bubaigawara, I just---" 

His arms wrap around me too, pressing my face into his shoulder. "You don't have to be sorry," he says in a broken voice. I wait for his contradiction, but it doesn't come.

I hear Compress kneel behind us, pressing his hand on Shigaraki's shoulder. "He's okay, Tomura. We'll look out for him."

My boyfriend's body shakes, his available fingernails digging into my chest through the front of my shirt. "Dabi, please don't, please, you said you loved me, please don't leave me," says his quiet voice.

I feel awful. I hurt him for nothing. And Jin. And I can feel in the air that the rest of the league is slowly figuring it out too. It didn't even come to anything but hurt.

"Dabi, I swear, you need to stop being so blind," says Toga, sitting behind Twice. "You know that we love you, right?"

"I know," I whisper. "I know. I'm sorry."

Kurogiri sits to the side of me Tomura doesn't take up. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. You just wanted the easy way out of your suffering. There's nothing so terrible about wanting it to stop. I just hope you'll learn someday that we can help you end it in a way that will let you keep going after that."

I nod, reaching up one of my hands to place over Tomura's. Geez, I'm crying. Again.

"And even if it's selfish of us," says Magne, sitting herself next to Shigaraki. "You're good to have around. And not just for your quirk, either, so don't start that nonsense again."

Tomura grabs my straying hand. "Don't you ever pull that crap again."

I squeeze his hand. "I won't. I swear. Thank you for catching me." And I mean it. There's something in me now that I think I've been stuffing down.

I love these people. And while it does scare me because of all that's happened with those I've loved and trusted before, I don't think it'll end like that this time. I love them. And I want to keep going, even if for a while it's only because I have them, that's okay.

I love them enough that I want to keep living. To keep trying. Past all the pain.

"I wish you'd told us before now," says Spinner, tying his hair back to keep it out of his eyes. "Maybe we could have helped before it got to this."

"No, I knew," says Twice, face still pressed into my shirt, dampening it with his hot tears. "I knew, and all I did was give him a little slap on the wrist. You people are just blind!"

"No," I say, bringing my other hand to his back. "It's not any of your faults. If anything, you guys already helped a lot. Please don't blame yourselves for this."

Magne ruffles my hair gently. "It's nobody's fault. Sometimes things are just like that. What's important is that you're still here with us, and nobody got hurt."

"Did you want to talk about it?" asks Kurogiri.

I shake my head. "Nothing new. I just had it set in my mind as the only option. It got to be too much a while ago, and that's what I decided, so then once Endeavor was dead...I just sort of went on auto-pilot."

Toga smiles at me faintly. "Well, don't worry about it. Just a week ago I killed a guy on a whim; we all do weird stuff sometimes. That was a bad example, huh?"

Shigaraki grunts. "It kind of was. I'm in a weird mood though, so I'll allow it."

The next hour is spent in silence as Tomura cries the rest of his feelings out and we simply sit in the bar. It's not the same, but it's good. I feel lighter.

The next day brings awkwardness and hangovers, but it really doesn't matter. We're all just sort of happy to be around each other. Grateful.

Magne and Compress do end up going on that date, and they end up having a lot of fun apparently. Whatever Sako did must have been very impressive, with the amount of blushing Kenji was doing when they came back.

Tomura and I go on an official date too, a few days later. It's very nice. I really do love him.

And now, it doesn't really matter what we're doing as a group, or where or next mission will take us, because regardless of whatever it is, we're doing it together. And really, that's all I've ever wanted in a family.

[realactualfancontent]

Crow Facts

“Come out and meet my friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Not human ones.”

                                                ~~~~~~~~

Somewhere between watching The Invisible Man at two am and feeding my crow at seven am, this happened.  Griffin meets Aster’s other friends and you’re all treated to a lot of pointless crow facts.

“Are you awake?”

It was a Rhetorical question. Aster knew he was awake, she could hear him shuffling around, grumbling to himself about something. 

She never listened to closely to his grumbling of course. That was one of the conditions of the arrangement. But she could pick up a tone of frustration.She knocked again, louder this time.

“WHAT!” It was more a roar then it needed to be, Aster flinched, hearing him stomping over to the door. Maybe this was a stupid idea.

“I asked if you're awake.”

“Well obviously.”

Too late to turn back now, she'd just be bothering him for nothing if she did. "Good, then you can come out and meet my friends.”

A beat, then. “You have friends?”

“Not human ones.”

Well that wasn't cryptic at all. Griffin leaned against the wall of his room and looked over the sickly disarray of last night's work. Bottles, papers, notes, a stifling collection of failures.

“I'm not dressed.” He said after taking a moment to consider. 

Griffin wasn't especially interested in meeting anyone, human or otherwise. But she had to be just weird enough about it that he was intrigued. 

And it wasn't as if he was really getting anywhere in here.

“Alright, come out front when you get your face one. Oh, and bring the scrap bucket, they'll appreciate that." She called from the other side of the door, before booted footsteps walked away.

When Griffin finally emerged, bandaged gloved and goggled he wasn't sure what he was expecting. 

It certainly wasn't a collection of crows at least thirty strong. Crammed on to every free tree branch, trellis or roof ledge while even more swarmed the ground frantically picking at left overs in the snow.

Nor was he expecting Aster, in her housecoat and trousers, standing on tiptoes with an arm extended to feed the birds out of her hand.

The door swinging caused them to scatter, rising from the ground in a brief flurry black feathers and cawing.

“Your friends?”

“Yeah.” Aster said, turning to flash Griffin a broad grin before returning her attention to the three birds lined up to take left over chicken from her hand.

“Snowed again, and they always show up when it does. In absolute droves. Don't you? You mooches.” Aster trailed off to address the birds affectionately.

"You can throw them some scraps." She said, gesturing idly towards the bucket Griffin brought out. The other hand remained patiently in position waiting for her bird to regain its courage.

It was only a moment before it did, side stepping carefully over to grab a shred of chicken breast. And another. And Another.

The contents of Griffin's bucket are far less appetizing. Mostly vegetable scraps, but on a day like this the birds would take any port in a storm.

He stood in the doorway staring for a moment. Aster's attention focused purely on her bird friends. Then something clicked.

"This is why you wouldn't let me eat the other chicken leg last night?!" Griffin waved a gloved hand at the birds, causing several on the ground to startle again.

"Isn't that cannibalism!"

"Chickens can and will consume other chickens."

The look on his face was unreadable of course, but Aster could imagine it vividly, after all, he wasn't the first person she'd impressed or horrified with fun bird facts.

"All birds are monsters. Now throw them some carrot skins before they decide to eat you."

It was a joke, he was sure of that. He’d finally begun to pick up on Aster’s often baffling sense of humour, but still, there was something profoundly unnerving about all those beady little eyes on him. And now they seemed to have noticed the bucket. 

Griffin tossed them a handful of Vegetable cast-offs. And a dozen or so more descended from the trees.

"Will they all eat out of your hand like that?"

"No, just these three." Aster's previous crow had moved on to make room for another.

Griffin watched for a moment then brushed some snow off the cottage steps to take a seat.

"How do you know it's the same three?" Griffin certainly couldn't tell a difference among the birds. But then he could barely tell the difference between people.

"Oh you know, beak shape, behaviour, you have to get up close though. You probably can, they're real tame when they're eating."

Griffin looked at the ground, covered in crows and quickly tried to plot a course that wouldn't have him disturbing at least a dozen. 

"No, I'm alright."

"I'm almost out of chicken anyway. But Wheatley has a pointier beak then anyone, and he's just massive. Scrappy here has a scar on his beak. He was getting into fights constantly last spring. He's still the boldest one, he gets a little nippy when you run out of chicken." Aster broke off here as Scrappy demonstrated the point.

"Hey! What did I say about manners. No more for you!" She waved a now empty hand prompting the bird to scoot away.

"And this one's Soot, his head is really round. That's how you can tell it's him. Even when he's not puffed up, he follows me to work sometimes. Just waits outside the inn and starts calling when he seems me with my lunch." Aster was busily tearing up more little chicken bits. And offering them up, sliding her hand away from Scrappy who was back for seconds.Aster continued to introduce birds, all of whom she lovingly referred to as "The boys", while Griffin absently chucked handfuls of food at them. The crows inching slightly closer as he did.

"They all recognize me though, they're just a fiendishly clever lot, aren't you?" She once again trailed off into baby talk before her attention wandered back to Griffin. 

"They'll probably recognize you now too."

"I'd rather they didn't. If they're going to follow me."

"Better they follow you around for food than any other reason, believe me, you don't want to be on their bad side."  Aster paused here to show off empty hands to the birds. 

"All gone, nothing left." Her three took this as a cue to fly off and join the others on the ground, while Aster waded through to join Griffin on the steps. They were barely bothered by her heavy foot steps.

"Bad side?" He asked.

"Oh yeah, they hold grudges. For years. Like I said, fiendishly clever." She plopped down next to him and Griffin tried to inch away from the close quarters, nearly falling off the stoop for his trouble.

"Really?" He asked steadying himself and hoping she hadn’t noticed him fumbling.

"Mhm, you know Fearenside? His dog attacked one once, neither of them can walk under a nest now without being chased for a quarter mile."

Griffin chuckled. "Serves the mongrel right." 

A loud singular caw.

"Look, your friend agrees with me." Griffin said waving in the general direction of the bird.

"Well, I think you're both to hard on him... The dog, not Fearenside. He's a prat. But dogs can't help themselves, they're only as good as their masters."

Griffin let out an irritable sigh and tilted his head in a way that gave the impression of an eye roll.

Aster decided to ignore him and instead chuck the last handful of kitchen scraps to the birds. Sitting in companionable silence as they watched them eat.

"I'm beginning to see why people think you're a witch." Griffin said after a moment.

"I guess when they're all assembled like this they are pretty of impressive." She answered. "But it's not hard, you just have to be nice to them and share left overs now and then. Anyone can assemble a small army of birds really.

""Hmm," Griffin said, thinking over the possibilities. "I can't imagine they'd be much of an army. Can they take orders?"

"One day maybe. I'm trying to train them to shit on people I don't like."

Griffin let out a startled laugh.

"And pick up loose change for me. So far I've got two shillings and a mouse skull out of it."

"Really?"

Aster nodded, standing up and stretching.

"Really. But until that get rich quick scheme pans out I have to change and get to work." She held the door open for Griffin motioning for him to follow her in before she disappeared into her own room.

 "Don't burn the house down while I'm out okay."

[balancingdiet]

Tabula Rasa

Detective Conan & Magic Kaito Characters: Shinichi/Kaito Words: 2500 ish Chapter: (1) ... (16) (17) (18)

Shinichi always finds his neighbour weird. But he didn’t expect to find his neighbour lying on a patch of grass and donned in Kaitou Kid’s costume, too.

“So... I’ve heard.”

“About the ice shard case?” Shinichi propped the phone in between his chin and shoulder while he flipped a file in his hands. “I got to admit, the murderer is smart to use it as a weapon, but he’d forgotten to—”

“I’m not talking about that,” Hattori said, exasperated. “But ok, I also think that ice shard trick was interesting when I heard it during the debrief, but it’s not da’ point why I called you.”

Shinichi raised an eyebrow, as if Hattori could see it. “Then?” 

There was a muffled sigh. ”Kazuha told me you went to find Ran-neechan.”

“Oh, right.” Shinichi placed the case file on his table and took the phone in his hand. “I did.”

“Previously I had to hear from Kazuha about your confession in London… And now this too." Hattori clicked his tongue. “You suck, Kudo.”

“It happened literally yesterday,” Shinichi said with some attempts of defence. But he leaned against his chair and stared at the ceiling, mulling over about how strange his words felt; even though it was just yesterday, it felt as though so much things had happened, and his meeting with Ran was almost like a blur...

“You still suck,” Hattori muttered. “But anyway, how did it go?”

“Toyama didn’t tell you?”

“I wanna hear your version.”

Shinichi glanced around his office and left his seat to get a coffee from the vending machine. And on his way, Shinichi explained his version of what happened (while answering some of Hattori's interjected questions too). Shinichi recounted the slight nervousness at the start, how Ran was empathetic all the time, and the eventual interruption when a new client came to look for Ran’s father. He wasn’t sure what the version Ran told Toyama was, but Shinichi still wasn’t going to mention Kaito.

As much as how Hattori could be horribly clueless in love-related matters (especially with Toyama), he could be pretty sharp about all the other things.

“After so long, everything is back to normal now,” Hattori eventually said after Shinichi finished the entire story within the same trip of getting coffee and returning to his desk. ”Maybe we can finally have a double date or something.”

Shinichi pursed his lips. All things were indeed good now like Hattori said, but like the quiet life he used to live, this new life—as well as his relationship with Ran—didn’t seem any close to being back to normal. It wasn’t just about the distance or time, but…

He watched the ripples on the surface of his coffee in the paper cup, not sure what to reply.

But Hattori helped him with that. “Anyway, are you gonna move back to your old home?”

Shinichi straightened. “Why the question?”

“Just thought your place’s really hella far from everywhere. You got to change so many metro lines.”

“That’s why I have a car.”

Hattori paused. “I thought there’s also no reason for you to stay there anymore, no?”

“Well, it’s…” Shinichi cleared his throat. “It’s not fun to move houses.”

“Hmm, that make sense.“

It might make sense to Hattori, and it might make sense when Kaito said it and referred to his 63 doves, but Shinichi found his answer made the least sense. There were almost no constraints for him to move; he didn’t have to go through the trouble of selling the house; his old home was ready to be occupied anytime; he barely had much belongings besides the few things in the study room. If Shinichi had to move, it might take him less than an hour of packing, including that two potted plants in his backyard too. 

But of course, Shinichi wasn’t going to go against what he literally said, so he hummed to Hattori’s response and went along with what seemed like the flow of the conversation before they hung up shortly after Shinichi received news to be dispatched to a murder scene. 

Though it wasn’t a happy thing for the dead victim, it was a good moment to temporarily distract Shinichi, just so he wouldn’t have to wonder why Kaito started popping up in his mind.

----

The next month that followed had been mad hell for Shinichi; A homicide division from a nearby precinct was shut down due to the high level of corruptions, and eventually, all their unfinished cases were sent to Shinichi’s department to deal with. He had been working full shifts almost every day, and not just sleep, he hadn’t even had time to get coffee sometimes.

But it seemed his department wasn't alone.

Aside from challenges, like what Sonoko’s uncle used to do, being Kaitou Kid was almost like a self-employed job; he got to choose the time and date for all the heists he’d done. But at the recent rate Kaitou Kid sent his heists' notes, the Task Force was also hustling hard to keep up with the thief’s pace. There was even once when Takagi said he had argued with one of the Task Force’s member over the last bento box in the convenience store (but none of them won because they let another citizen, who strangely happened to be looking for food at one in the morning, to take it instead). 

For now, Shinichi hadn’t figured out (or more like he didn’t have the time to figure out) Kid’s reasons for the spike in activity, but that wasn’t really part of his main concerns. What he cared—so much as to take the time out of his pile of cases, bring his walkie-talkie to the rooftop and stand by the ledge for the best connection to the Task Force’s frequency—was how Kid escaped.

From the dozen over times Shinichi had dropped into the Task Force’s “conversation”, he realised Kid had a lot more ways of escaping than he thought was possible (and it made Shinichi pitied the Task Force member for having to go through them sometimes). But half of Kid’s ploys would be either blending into the crowd with a disguise or flying away in his glider…

Tonight, Kid had chosen the latter.

And it was the one that bothered Shinichi the most.

Was the flight stable? Were there turbulences? Did he take off well? Did he land well? Did he stab himself? Did he hurt himself?

Did he do this? 

Did he do that?

When the Task Force’s commands over the radio weren't beneficial to Shinichi’s observation anymore, he then returned to his desk and pour himself back into work, just to stop himself from worrying about the thing he couldn’t control. But in most instances, he would just give up, apologise to Inspector Megure that he’d finish his work tomorrow, and leave the office.

Breaking promises was one thing, but now Shinichi had transcended to breaking laws; speeding and beating a red light or two on his way home.

As he found himself in the much familiar streets and nearing towards his mailbox—which strangely marked a greater sense of home than the actual, big house that stood behind it—he saw Kaito, who was also unceremoniously digging his ear as he skipped out of his door to throw a bag of trash (Shinichi guessed had to do with what he had used at his heist).

Kaito, of course, spotted Shinichi, and he gave an incredulous look when he stepped out of his car.

“You’re back earlier than usual,” Kaito commented after taking Shinichi’s hand to look at his watch. 

“And you too.” Shinichi gestured at him mindlessly. ”I thought you have a heist today?”

“I’m already done.”

Of course Shinichi knew Kaito was done, but for the sake of the pretence, just so Kaito would never, ever suspect Shinichi to have used his radio and keep track on his activities… 

Damn, now that Shinichi stupidly realized, he had not only broke the law, but his work ethics too.

All for the man standing before him.

Shinichi irritably put out a hand. “Ok, where’s the jewel?” 

Kaito blinked. “Why?” 

“I figured if I’m not going to turn you in, I should at least do my part for the police and get the jewel back.”

“So righteous.” Kaito clapped his hands. “If I’m still in Kid’s attire, I’d definitely take my hat off to you.”

“Don’t change the subject. Jewel?”

“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll get suspected if you return my loot again?” Kaito said as he raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I’ve disguised as you before so it’s kinda on the track record.”

Shinichi put down his arm and narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for bringing up those memories.”

“My pleasure,” Kaito said before sighing wistfully into the dark sky above them. “They were good times indeed.”

Good times, huh?

Shinichi followed his gaze.

The thing was… it wasn’t just in the past.

Shinichi found this time a good time too.

But he wasn’t going to say that.

As he kept his head up and eyes still staring at the dark sky, he wondered if time would still treat them as kindly as they were now in their future.

----

“Hey, Kudo— Oh, where are you going?”

Shinichi’s hand froze, but just a millisecond too late, he’d already pressed for the lift, exposing where he wanted to go. Because given that they were on one of the few highest floors, the only place accessible, alongside with what his identity card allowed, was the roof.

Shinichi robotically turned as he watched Takagi and Shiratori approaching him, the questions still hanging heavily in the air.

Making sure the hand with the radio was behind his back, he pointed the other free hand to the lift. “Just— To the roof," he admitted.

“Did you start smoking?” Shiratori remarked. “I noticed you’ve been going to the rooftop lately.” 

Ah, it seemed his past movements weren’t that discrete after all. “No, I don’t smoke,” Shinichi clarified.

Takagi nodded understandingly. "If you’re finding a place to relieve stress and share a moment, I think the roof is an excellent choice," he added, “The view is nice at night.” 

Shiratori scoffed. “Sounds like you have lots of experiences with someone about that.”

They talked for bit until the lift came, and Shinichi believed he’d used up all his lucks in his prayers as Takagi and Shiratori left for the office and didn’t suggest on following him. But not all luck was on his side when he realized the heist had long started. He tried to switch his radio on in the lift, but the signals were bad, so he had to do it when he was by the ledge.

By the time Shinichi finished adjusting the radio’s frequency, it seemed he was much later than expected; the heist was over.

Almost over.

“zzztttt—zzztzt... Kid is on the other rooftop!” 

“Is he going to escape by air this time?”

”Wait, he’s still checking the gem, but…”

“But what?”

“What the…?

”Hey! What is going on?”

”The gem! The gem is glowing!”

“What the hell do you mean?"

"It’s literally glowing— Ah shit! Kid’s flying away!”

“Where did he go?!”

“He’s flying northeast!”

“Team C dispatch! I repeat, Team C dispatch—”

Shinichi switched off the radio. 

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath the entire time until he released it.

Then, something pulled in his stomach, something unlike his past gastric attacks or the bullets or knives or even what the APTX pill did to him... he still wasn’t sure what, but it was just something so, so bad that it sent him running straight down the building via the emergency stairs, not bothering to inform anyone about his departure before he drove back home.

----

Shinichi shut his car door and walked over to the mailbox.

He had seen the dove—Tamago?—sitting on it countless of times, but never had he seen it standing like this now, as though it was awaiting for Shinichi’s arrival all the while.

It cooed in greeting

Shinichi bit his lip. He wasn’t sure if this was the best moment to realise the dove was actually… cute.

The sky rumbled, and Shinichi raised his head. He smelt some moisture in the air.

Yeah, definitely not the best moment. 

“Are you… Tamago?” Shinichi asked.

It stared at him.

“Whoever you are, do you know—”

Fluttering its wings, it flew off before Shinichi completed his sentence, but it wasn’t towards an aimless direction. Similarly to that time when it stole his mail, it looked like it had a purpose as it soared and curved towards the backyard behind Kaito’s house.

Once bitten, twice shy, but Shinichi would rather be bitten over five hundreds time than risk ignoring what the dove was trying to imply.

Since he couldn’t get through Kaito’s house and to his backyard, the only way was to climb over from his. He jogged into his house, past his kitchen and before climbing up the fences in his backyard.

The first thing Shinichi noticed when he jumped over was the stark whiteness across Kaito’s dim-lit garden. It didn’t just belong to the few doves that were standing around. Shinichi also found Kid’s abandoned white hat, his cape, and his white suit scattered from one spot to another.

As for Kid, he was standing before the bush of blue roses at the other corner of the backyard.

His gloves were still worn, but they weren’t white.

They were red.

Shinichi widened his eyes.

Blood?

The only remaining white on Kid was his pants.

“How sad, no one cares about Kaitou Kid’s white pants.” 

Shinichi wasn’t sure why that scene suddenly popped up in his memories, but if he had to relive one moment, he wouldn’t mind taking that than this. 

The stillness in the dense air, alongside with Kid’s stiff back and lowered head sent Shinichi’s wariness up to the sky. 

“Hey,” Shinichi called out as he trudged across the garden and towards Kaitou Kid—Kaito. 

He didn’t move, or respond.

After what seemed like an eternity, Shinichi finally neared Kaito enough and patted on his shoulder.

Kaito flinched under his hand, and that movement sent a squeeze in Shinichi’s chest. 

“Hey,” Shinichi repeated. “Kaito. Are you—”

Kaito half-turned, his hair sticking closely to his forehead. He was still wearing his monocle, but the glass was misty.

And his eye, the one that wasn't covered by the monocle… 

It brimmed with tears. 

Shinichi’s heart hurts (yes, he was sure it was the heart now) as he watched Kaito’s pitiful attempts at changing his quivering lips into a smile. 

“I destroyed it.” Kaito weakly lifted a hammer that Shinichi didn’t notice in his hand. “I finally destroyed it."

Shinichi glanced down.

The red gem, which he didn’t notice earlier either, was all shattered on the grass.

Before anything else could be said, Kaito slumped into Shinichi’s arms.

[wilhelmjfink]

Weather The Storm - Pt. 1

A/N: THIS SHIT TURNED OUT TO BE REALLLLLLY LONG!! So it’s 2 parts now :-) Sorry guys but I hope this warrants everyone that reads it to follow me in anticipation for the next part! Also this part is  mildly shmutty (rated m for mature if you will because I REALLY try to be classy with this shit you guys) and took me forever to write becauseeee I literally just can’t write erotica unless I’m good and drunk??? But then it gets gooooood so I hope you guys enjoy this because it stressed me out for like a week :,) You guys know I’m 110% for angry and sad Daryl because I love suffering but I tried to go for a little bit of a relaxed, positive vibe on this one... part 2 is going to be hot mother fuckers so stay tuned!!!! 

@samlott2202 requested a young reader so I hope that this satisfies! hehe xoxo

“It’s getting real dark over there,” you told Daryl from the second floor balcony of the suburban home you both occupied. Gated communities were always a task considering you never knew whether or not they would be full of walkers from the people who fled there before it got bad in hopes of some security. This one, unfortunately, had been quite populated — however the haul you would return with that night would be worth every walker you’d killed to get there.

Daryl appeared behind you, his boots shuffling tiredly against the concrete until he reached your side and leaned his arms on the iron rail and allowed himself to stretch out and relax as he exhaled smoke from the cigarette he’d lit. “Reckon it’s gonna storm bad tonight.”

You glanced at him beside you, fighting a smirk and looking back away toward the distance where the dark, angry clouds rolled in over the horizon and the crashing water further out beneath it. “Wow. Daryl Dixon, on the spot,” you giggled to yourself. “And now over to Tom for sports.”

“Shuddup,” he nudged you playfully with his shoulder, smiling just the slightest bit but enough to have your stomach flip at the sight.

Stop, stop, stop. It was becoming increasingly difficult for you to stifle the feelings that had developed ever since Daryl had swooped in and saved you from the trio of strangers that cornered you on a run several weeks ago. Two men and a woman that had quite literally appeared out of thin air, knife to to your throat, knees forced down in the dirt as they began to rifle through your bag in search of any goods you’d worked for that day.

But an arrow through the skull of the man that had his weapon held to the flesh of your neck had frozen the other two in shock and while they then spun around furiously in search of the perpetrator, you’d managed to grab the shotgun from behind you and slice the other woman as she receded back toward you threateningly, luring you into a struggle with her. And, a split second later, Daryl and then Rick had appeared, the second hauling the woman off of you while the other pounded on the man like a tiger and landed punch after punch until he was positive he wouldn’t come back as even a walker; and you’d never seen him so angry.

Rick had managed to simmer him down but he still went to you, eyes wild as he interrogated you about what they’d done, if they’d hurt you, if they’d done worse in the moments he’d been gone. But you could only stare stupidly at him, shaking your head before the dwindling adrenaline finally allowed you to step forward and wrap your arms around him at the realization that this man has just saved you from all of those potentially deadly and horrific things. And the anger and worry that laced his words had your heart fluttering because he cared.

But after that, nothing had changed — at least on his end. You still had the same, comfortable interactions, the same friendly demeanor about them. And that was all it was — friendly. And you knew you needed to smother your schoolgirl crush before you did something outlandish that you’d regret, knowing it would scare him off and you’d lose him as merely a friend and shoot down any potential of there ever maybe being something in the possible future. 

It was a struggle with your easy-going and flirtatious nature but you couldn’t help but swoon at the way he blushed at your comments, always averting his gaze and hiding his small smile, the tips of ears turning light pink. 

But you guessed that, like most things life held for you nowadays, it too would pass.

There was a low rumble of thunder that echoed from far off, growing louder as it neared you and confirmed your suspicions of a bad oncoming storm. If you had to guess you would say it was late April, early May; showers were common lately and thunderstorms were no different, though this one held a little bit of a heavier weight it seemed.

“See how the leaves ‘er flipped upside down?” Daryl asked, motioning toward a towering oak tree in the back yard of the luxurious home you sought shelter in when a light rain had started to sprinkle down only to stop shortly thereafter. You followed his gesture and noticed the greening leaves were indeed turned over, the lighter side upright as they rustled in the wind. “Almost always means a storm’s comin’.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “And you see how dark it is there — where that bolt of lightning just flashed?” Daryl then nodded in response, awaiting your answer curiously. “That usually means that it’s lightning somewhere.”

Another playfully harsh shove had you stumbling over yourself as you laughed at your own sarcasm, not missing the way he exhaled a genuine but breathy laugh that had butterflies coming to life in your stomach. “Man, you’re just full’a shit today, aren’t ya? Ya high or somethin’?”

High on you. Even you rolled your eyes at your subconscious. “No, just in a good mood, I guess.”

“Why’s that?”

You shrugged, holding your hand out flat to test if it was in fact a rain drop that had fallen on your head. “I dunno. I don’t question it anymore. Just take advantage of it when it happens.”

Daryl flicked the cigarette butt over the ledge. “Smart thing t’do, I spose.” 

Another rumble of thunder caught his attention and you watched him curiously as he observed the distance, his eyes narrowing in thought. 

“Think we should get back?” You asked, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“Nah, it’s rollin’ in quick. Either means it’ll hit here hard n’ pass by... or it could be a real bad one, too.”

“What do you mean ‘real bad’?” 

You asked him, pushing the sliding glass door open the remainder of its frame to allow him in beside before you pulled it back shut. “Should we wait until it passes?”

“Look down there,” Daryl pointed to a patch of sky to the east of the oncoming storm where the giant wall of clouds seemed to break enough to reveal some sky. It seemed to be dark itself, though, the hue turning greenish yellow as the patch stretched in its direction. “S’not a good sign.”

You tucked yourself back inside the master bedroom around the corner, backing away from the glass doors and windows. “Is it gonna tornado? Because I don’t do tornados.”

Daryl threw a glance at you over his shoulder, quirking up an eyebrow at your confession. “You afraid of storms?”

“No, not storms,” you corrected. “Tornados.”

“Same thing.”

“Uh, no — not really!” He smiled at the way your voice inflected as your apprehension became more and more noticeable. “Thunderstorms I can handle. A fuckin’ freight train whirling through town and sucking up everything in its path? That’s a little different. I’m not down with that — I’m not built to withstand that shit.”

Daryl chuckled at what you knew was a relatively silly fear to have, but at the same time, was justifiable considering the circumstances. No more weather warnings, no more emergency shelters and emergency responders when they were needed. No assurance that the house you were in was sturdy and had been kept up with in terms of construction so that the roof over your head wouldn’t blow the fuck off. You could feel your heart beginning to race and you forced yourself to keep a level head which became more difficult as the rain began to pick up, rapping loudly against the ceiling above you.

“It’ll be fine, alright? I promise.”

If you told him that his reassurance offered you absolutely no comfort, you would’ve been lying through your teeth. The way he approached you, strong and confident, his bright blue eyes boring into yours in a way that had you feeling like you were staring at an open, blue sky basking in sunlight. You couldn’t even find your voice at that moment, your mouth going dry and unable to respond verbally in any way despite your desire to thank him for simply being there. So you nodded and gazed back at him, unable and unwilling to tear your eyes away from him as he stared at you with his own thoughts whirling through his head before he broke it and made his way out of the master bedroom. 

“C’mon. Let’s go find some flashlights or candles or somethin’. Might as well get comfy.”

Trotting after him, you peered out the windows as you followed his footsteps down the winding staircase, flinching at the proximity of the lightning as it grew nearer. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“Why?” He asked you, rifling through a closet at the foot of the steps. “You gotta date or somethin’?”

When you heard him respond you knew that he was consciously making an effort to put your fraying nerves at ease, light-heartedly teasing you and steering the conversation away from the oncoming storm. You couldn’t help but laugh, dry as it was, and roll your eyes.

“Don’t be a dick,” you replied, joining him in his search through the first section of the large home.

“Oh, like ya weatherman comment was so flatterin’.”

“I thought they were funny,” you mumbled to yourself, reaching into the cupboards above the refrigerator on your tiptoes. Your fingers brushed against glass and you fumbled for a grip on it until you managed to wrap your fist around the neck of a bottle you pulled down to eyesight. “Will this help?”

Daryl careened his neck around the doorframe to see what you were talking about and you could tell he was as pleased at the sight as you were. “If tha’s your poison. Crack ‘er open.”

You eyed the bottle in your hands, watching the clear liquid slosh around against the glass. Bacardi 151. “I’ve never really drank before,” you admitted. 

Daryl turned and eyed you incredulously. “Huh?”

“Well, I was only sixteen before all this.”

With a low whistle, Daryl shut the door of the closet he was digging through, his arms full of some odds and ends that would be useful as the storm raged on outside, picking up with each passing moment. “Never woulda guessed you was just a kid back then.”

You merely shrugged. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Well, got that a lot. I think that would make me about twenty now, right?”

He grunted in response and you found that you were slightly upset at his lack of response.

“I’ve told you that before,” you added to break the silence. He shrugged, staring down at his hands.

“Guess I forgot,” he muttered.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

When he didn’t answer that time you turned to face him, your cheeks flushing instantly under his stare as he seemed to be holding some internal dialogue with himself; you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes and you looked away almost instantly before he caught himself and cleared his throat.“Uh — yeah, no, it don’t bother me none.” He was fidgeting with the lantern in his hands until it flickered and the dusty bulb inside came to life. He shoved it in his backpack in the countertop, trying to distract himself as he stuffed it with cans of food and batteries and anything useful he could get his hands on. Anything useful he could grab to avoid looking at you; still he spoke up: “You’re more mature than lotsa other people your age.”

Sifting through the cabinets in search of glasses, you smiled at him. “Had to be. Can this stuff be drank straight? Well, never mind, I guess it has to be. Not like we have a chaser or anything...”

Daryl snorted: “chaser? Thought ya said ya didn’t drink?”

“I said I didn’t drink much,” you sat a glass down on the dusty granite island in the center of the kitchen, catching his attention enough to bring him over, hopping on the barstool across from where you stood. He watched you carefully pour the drinks, flinching when a crackle of thunder broke suddenly through the silence.

“Ya sure ya ain’t afraid of storms?” He smirked.

“Fine,” you sighed in defeat. “Maybe I am a little afraid of storms.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ to be afraid of,” Daryl replied after kicking back his drink and wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I told ya, I ain’t gonna let anything happen to ya.”

It was a small phrase, hardly mentioned in passing and otherwise quotidian. But when he said it to you, it had your pulse racing, the blood rushing to your cheeks. And he noticed, too; he hadn’t meant for it to be laced with an underlying affection but it came out that way naturally and the short silence that followed it was thick and heavy but sweet like molasses.

You decided to take a taste of your own drink and brought it to your lips, shuddering when it stung your tongue and burned down your throat. Of course Daryl laughed at your reaction, the sound a beautiful antonym against the rolling thunder and harsh winds that blew outside that would’ve left you terrified if he wasn’t there with you.

“Ya don’t sip it,” he told you, reaching for the bottle to pour another for himself. “C’mon, kid.”

Determined to rid yourself of the ‘kid’ tag he’d categorized you in you tipped the glass back, downing the liquid in one gulp before slamming the glass back down against the granite and exhaling deeply, fighting the unappetizing burn it gave you as Daryl continued to sit by and enjoy watching you do so.

“At’ta girl,” he said lowly before kicking back another. Innocently enough, you presumed, but the heat that had just ran down your throat and into your stomach pooled even farther down and you felt your face flush in an instant, your pulse racing. Inside your head your brain was reeling, trying to figure out the next thing to say or do, whether or not to read too much into it, what to do to make the situation carry on like normal.

But he’d gotten distracted, leaning over to peer around your head to the bay window behind you. You followed his gaze and relaxed at the sight of stillness, noticing then the rain had stopped and left you both in a comfortable silence.

Daryl pushed himself up from the island and walked toward the window and you followed, shadowing him timidly, fiddling with your hands awkwardly against your chest while you waited for him to inform you of what he was so interested in. 

However, when he did speak, you wished he hadn’t: “I don’t think s’over with yet.”

You cocked your head curiously, standing on your toes to look over his shoulder. “It sure looks like it.”

“Nah,” he took a step behind you, his hands moving to your side as he gently guided you to where he’d been standing before he leaned in so close to you his breath against your skin it rose goosebumps over every inch of your body. “Ya see over there? Funnel cloud’s formin’.”

It was incredibly hard to focus on where he was pointing with his proximity demanded all of your attention; the scruff feeling against your skin, the scent of cigarettes and Bacardi, it had you faint. You swallowed hard, knowing you had to answer or he would notice how incredibly turned on you were: “Yeah, lots of clouds.”

He shot you a look that had you instantly red before he slowly smirked; and you saw the unmistakable telltale signs that he was just as flustered as you were. And the way you faced each other held your lips mere inches apart and you both held your breath; while his eyes were trained on your lips yours darted between both his and his eyes. Watching. Waiting. Both of you — waiting a cue from the other, some form of confirmation...It was silent. Too silent, actually. Still.

Then, in an instant it seemed, the rain had started back up, pattering in the rooftop and drastically increased over the course of several seconds until it became obnoxiously loud.

“Hail,” Daryl said suddenly, leaning back from with such a shift in demeanor you knew he was genuinely worried. Throwing his arm further around you, he ushered you out of the kitchen. His free arm did stick out and swipe up backpack on the counter and you threw open the heavy wooden door, and Daryl slammed it shut behind you.

He’d already explored the basement while you got topside: it was a nice, luxurious space that matched the rest of the comfortable home. Finished with carpeted floors, a full bar with decorative track lighting and furniture, the works. Daryl locked the door shut after assuring it was completely closed.

“What do we do?” You asked him quietly, anxiety rising at the sight of him even the slightest bit uptight. You were noticeably shaken and you trailed after Daryl as he flicked on the lantern, setting it on the coffee table to shed at least a little light on you both.

“Why are ya whisperin’?” He asked, his own voice mockingly quiet. “The storm can’t hear ya.”

You were upset for half of a second after being mimicked, but it immediately dissipated at the sight of his slight smile and you knew he was teasing you to get your mind off of your worries because that was the only way he knew how.

“Stop making fun of me,” you giggled, falling back onto the plush sectional couch behind you. Stretching your legs out, you admired the lavish furniture. “So if you’re not worried, I shouldn’t be worried, right?”

Daryl rounded the corner to the bar and snatched a bottle off of the shelf before he joined you, dropping his bag at his feet. “Just gotta stay down here, lay low. If it gets bad...well, we’ll know, I s’pose.”

“And what do we do if it does get bad?”

“We’ll be fine down here,” he reassured you, turning so his boots were propped up onto the couch and popping the cork off of the bottle in his hands. “I wouldn’t lie to ya, alright? Told ya I’m gonna keep ya safe.”

“You always do,” you felt yourself relax at his confidence and leaned back into the cushions behind you. “Thank you.”

“For what?” He passed the bottle to you and you sheepishly took it.

“For always making me feel safe.” Drink and pass it back. You’re getting comfortable. You knew there was a chance the comment could make him slightly uncomfortable but you swore he smiled the slightest bit before he answered quietly and took the bottle from your outstretched hand.

“‘m glad ya feel safe with me.” 

It was both comically and ironically demonstrated when the thunder crackled so violently the walls around you physically shook, and you instinctively jumped up from the couch with a terrified yelp and Daryl reactively reached for you as if he could’ve stopped you from running away.

“Thought I made ya feel safe,” he joked as you caught your breath. You brought your hand to your heart, too, sure that the sound might have actually stopped your heart.

“You do!” You smiled despite being winded and shaken. “But the things you make me feel can’t stop the loud ass thunder from scaring me half to death.”

He caught it before you did, the liquid courage heightening his sensitivity to the vibes you gave off the loser it made you. “Things? What the hell else do I make ya feel?”

You felt called out and shifted uncomfortably as you tried to think of a response to being called out. “Uhm, good things — happy. You make me... really happy.”

It was a genuine response but Daryl looked away, snorting in derision and unable to accept the compliment. “It’s true, Daryl!”

He was twisting the glass bottleneck in between his fingers sheepishly and the sight made your heart flutter familiarly once again and you stopped, the idea crossing your mind but ultimately burying itself away.

“Ya make me happy, too,” he told you shyly, his voice low and hoarse and the tone unusually musical to your senses.

At that, your heart stopped beating in your chest. “Do I really?” You asked curiously, not catching yourself as you leaned in closer to him unconsciously. He watched you intently, nodding in response. You smiled, mouth dry as you tried to formulate your next few sentences. Nervous. Fuzzy. Horny. What don’t you make me? 

Thunder roared again and the house shook all around you. You subconsciously scooted yourself closer to Daryl, your brain seizing the opportunity and timing, and not missing the way he stiffened when your bodies touched lightly touched. He held his breath. His eyes watched yours, intrigued, awaiting your next move. And you knew that you had to make it, because he never would. So you leaned in slowly, hovering before him, you’d lips inches apart just as they’d been upstairs prior that drove you insane. It was painful; the distance desperate to be closed by an unseen force that had your heart and mind racing. His hair fell in front of his eyes but you could still see them, flickering between your eyes and down to your lips hesitantly, debating. You knew you could and probably would stay there forever and never close the gap between you two — so you did it yourself.The rain and winds raging audibly on outside only seemed to encourage you, your own storm inside of you brewing the second your lips touched his. You know well enough to gauge his reaction, too, and would pull back from him just far enough to see his face and try to read his expression. But, if you knew Daryl like you thought you knew Daryl, you anticipated him being very hard to read if he wasn’t outright appalled at what you’d done in the first place.

But as you retracted, he went with you; an unseen bond pushing him forward into you as you leaned back, both fueled with a combination of adrenaline, alcohol and a mutual attraction. It surprised you at first, the fortitude of his reaction as it was so unlike him. But it was a good sign and an even better reassurance that whatever it was you had been doing, you needed to keep doing it.

Deep down, you knew the faux confidence he was exuding was due to the Bacardi, but you were also positive that he wasn’t drunk enough to do something like this if he didn’t really want to. Drunk words are sober thoughts.

So you began to sit up, not breaking the heated kiss between you with tongues brushing against each other and teeth grazing lips, your hands moving from the cushion they supported you on to his chest where they gently coerced him to lay back on the couch. It allowed you to crawl forward, your bodies meshing together as you moved naturally, you overtop of him and him comfortably beneath you as if you were one whole being instead of two separate people.

When you pulled away breathlessly Daryl looked up to you, his expression soft but unreadable behind the strands of shaggy hair that fell in front of his eyes. You gazed back down at him, infatuated entirely already, your heart pounding relentlessly at the sight and the feeling of him beneath you, and the lack thereof on your lips if even for just a minute for you both to catch your breath. During the silence, his rough hands caressed up your arms painfully slowly, blanketing you in chills as he observed you above him like you were something entirely new and enticing, just as excited but just as nervous, if not more, as you were.

Though you were over the moon and thrilled that you’d made the jump in the first place, sure that it wouldn’t have happened otherwise, you found yourself burning beneath his gaze and you looked away, biting your lip nervously to distract yourself from the fact that his gentle touch already had you giddy.

“Ya alright?” He asked quietly, his words obviously driven from concern and what you assumed was skepticism. And you knew that if you apologized and climbed off of where you hovered over him from his lap he wouldn’t argue or hold any resentment toward you and the thought alone was meant to comfort you but all it did was drive you further down the rabbit hole you were falling into.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice hardly a whisper. “Are you?”

You worried when he hesitated a moment, afraid that this newer and confident Daryl might have withered away and left him full of regret and embarrassment, but after awhile he nodded and responded in such a way that had you wondering if you could read this thoughts. 

“‘m great.”

You couldn’t stop yourself then from falling back forward and reconnecting yourselves with a hungry kiss, your lips crashing into his so eagerly that it elicited a low growl from somewhere inside of him, lighting your own flame inside of you that quickly spread through every nerve ending over your body — some more than others.

You descended down his jaw line, planting soft kisses before lowering yourself down to his neck where you allowed your innate desires to take over and kiss and bite at his sensitive skin and you felt his soft grip tighten into a desperate clinging, his nails dragging down to your hips and around your back as he encouraged you on, also fueled by the natural feelings that you were giving him as if you’d done it all before a hundred times. When you felt his calloused fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt you held your breath and he noticed, halting his movements immediately.

“Is this okay?” He asked you, genuinely unsure of himself which only had you even more convinced that it was much more than just okay.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly, lowering yourself back down toward his broad chest. If the whole thing was going to be filled with doubtful questions and the need for reassuring consent, that was fine with you. The next words that came out of your mouth surprised even yourself: “Please.”

That was the only word he needed to hear in order to continue, his hands then moving up to your breasts quicker than they’d hesitantly started out. He became greedy then, not that you minded, pulling your shirt off over your head and tossing it carelessly aside. Even in something as simple and unobtrusive as the black sports bra you were wearing, he eyed you lustfully like you were prey, eager to taste like you were his last meal on death row. Shortly after, in the midst of heated kissing and moans you both failed to stifle, his hands went to the waist of your jeans and fumbled with the button for hardly a second before he managed to unfasten it with ease. And once again you hesitated for just a second where, caught up in the moments prior, you’d managed to block out your inexperience and let both Daryl and your body do all the work so that your brain could just follow, barely keeping up with the hands moving up and down and all over you. But the lower his hands drifted and the deeper your need for something more grew, the more obvious it became to him.

“Ya want me to stop?” He asked curiously, halting all his moments in fear of making you uncomfortable.

“No,” your brain immediately responded without even consciously allowing you to think of a different answer. “No, I just... I’ve never really gone much farther than this before.” You’d looked away shamefully, afraid of how he might react although you knew confidently that he would never get angry or upset, but you didn’t expect a slow smile to creep on to his face; and the sight of him beneath you with his gentle expression that still somehow held bad intentions behind it had you swooning.

Leisurely he sat upright, pushing you down this time so that you slowly lay back onto the cushions behind you, allowing him carry out whatever plans he was formulating.  “Well, we can take it real slow...”

You about melted into couch beneath you; the mixture of his words and the chivalry they held laced with desire were enough to have you squirming beneath him but combined with the way his voice growled the words lowly in your ear almost had you erupting in flames right there.

With a newly discovered confidence you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you while all fears and worries of the storm outside left you entirely. You had the notion that he was slightly hesitant as you were considering how careful he was with his movements even after you’d nearly begged him to continue, pulling your jeans off of your hips so slow it was almost painful. But when you kicked them off your ankles and discarding them to the floor. Again you found yourself slightly self-conscious in your choice of plain grey panties, but Daryl didn’t seem to mind at all as his hands went back to your abdomen and trailed lower, unhurriedly as he took his time, knowing that he would have you writhing beneath him. And he was absolutely fucking right.

LIKE & REBLOG & MAYBE I’LL POST THE 2ND PART!! ;-)

[meowloudly15]

Stranded: Epilogue

First | Previous

Gwen sat on the ledge of a skyscraper back home in Connecticut City, posting a five-star Welp review for her phone provider. They had provided quality interdimensional cell service.

She closed her browser and was about to switch off her phone when she accidentally selected her photos app. Intrigued, she scrolled through them.

The first one was super blurry, but she had kept it because Noir didn’t have his mask on in it. Ham had pulled it off, and Noir was considerably less than pleased.

The second one was the selfie on the bus home from Alchemax. Gwen’s gaze lingered on the photo, precious because it had captured rare footage of her being happy. Such moments were few and far between these days, but she wondered if they would increase. After all, she did have hope now. And she knew that she wasn’t alone.

Gwen smiled softly and switched off her phone, sliding it into her pocket. She pulled on her mask and hood and pushed herself off of the roof, falling into the emptiness below as though she were descending into a pool, knowing that something would catch her.

That safety net was her.

A webline blossomed from each of her gloves and adhered to the side of the building across the street. Gwen yanked downwards on the lines, redirecting her momentum.

It was time for her to fly.

But first, she needed to make a long-overdue pit stop.

Gwen landed in the cemetery a few minutes later. She approached the headstone of a certain Peter J. Parker. Nobody was around to see her, so she pulled off her mask and sat down on a mixture of dry grass and dead leaves.

“Hey, Peter,” she finally said. “It’s… it’s been a while.

“I should have come earlier. I, uh, I should have been at your funeral. But… but, you know, there are lots of things I should have done. And it’s no use dwelling on them now. The past has already passed.”

That last sentence was a good one. Gwen paused to jot it down in her notebook.

“Anyway… I’m here now. I’m here, and I just got back from an adventure. I… I hope you’ve been having fun, wherever you are. I hope you’re having a less interesting time than I’ve been having.”

Gwen sighed, pressing her hand to her forehead.

“I, uh, I went to another dimension a couple days ago. It feels like longer. It was longer. I think. Time is weird. Time travel, that is. So is dimensional travel. But you probably knew that already. I’m sure you’d love to hear more about the sciencey stuff, but I don’t really get it. You’d be able to explain it to me, I know that much.

“Well… I met you in that dimension. Not the real you. I mean, he was real, that’s for sure. He was Peter, but he was a different Peter. Older. Blonder. He had spider-powers, like I do. And he married Em Jay, who was a lot less of a jerk in that universe.

“You… he died again. And I didn’t stop it. Even though I could have.”

Gwen exhaled deeply.

“Then I met you again. This Peter, Peter B., was from a third dimension. He was older. A lot older. No glasses. Spider-powers, too. Consider yourself lucky you didn’t have to live that long.

“There were other Peters, too, but they were a lot less like you.

“Then there’s Miles. He ended up getting spider-powers. And he took over from the Peter in that dimension, the one I went to, after he died. Miles was really sweet. He was kind and nice and went out of his way to make people happy. He’s a lot like you, at least in terms of personality.

“Seeing all of them… it made me remember you, even though I didn’t want to. It made me remember what I did. And… I’m not trying to put blame on you or antagonise you or anything, but… I wasn’t in the right, but neither were you. We both made mistakes, and we both paid a price. You paid a bigger price than I did, obviously.

“But I’ve died, too, in some ways. Really, from learning about the other dimensions, I should be dead and you should be alive. And that makes me feel super guilty. I feel like I’ve stolen something from you, the life that you should have had.

“I… I don’t really know what it is I did that made you so, uh, vitriolic. I could try and guess, but then we’d be here all day. I know you have all the time in the world, but I don’t.

“Whatever it was that I did… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ticking you off. I’m sorry for not caring about you. I’m sorry for making you envy me. I’m sorry for being a bad person.”

Gwen blinked. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

Why did she bother bottling up her emotions, anyway? What good had that ever done? She was going to lose people. People were going to die, to move on, to leave. She would do the same one day. It was the way of the world. But did that make friendship, or love, any less worth it?

She hung her head. A valve hidden deep in her heart swung open.

“I made a silent promise not long after you… after I killed you. And I’m repeating it here and now, so that you can hear me. You can quote me on this. I mean, you probably won’t, but... you know what I mean.

“I said I’d never stand back and watch another innocent die because of me. Or because of anybody. I’ll never take a seat and watch somebody’s suffering. Not again. Never again.”

Gwen sniffled, her voice cracking.

“You always made me a better person, Pete. And now… now I’m gonna be better. Forever. For you. I’ll never forget you again. I promise.”

Gwen stood up and dried her eyes, pulling back on her mask. Her father’s “missing” police scanner was abuzz with chatter. She listened to it.

“...suspicious blue-and-red man with a skull on his chest walking down Birch Avenue. Appears to have some sort of glowing watch.”

Gwen turned back to Peter’s tombstone. “I’ll visit you again. I’ve got so many more stories to tell you. I’m sure you’d love them. But right now… I’ve got a job to do.

“See you around.”

She shot a webline into the air and swung away.

THE END

First | Previous

WARNING: LONG AUTHOR'S NOTES INCOMING

I started writing this story on my phone during a long car ride on the 28th of December. It grew from a small what-if concept into... this. This is the most ambitious fanwork I've yet published. I say "yet published" for reasons I'll discuss later.

A huge shoutout to @gammathetaalpha, who was kind enough to betaread this story for me in its almost entirety. If there are problems in Days 1 or 9, I'm to blame. Please check out her other fics; she writes lots of MCU stuff! And thanks to my other friends off of whom I've bounced the occasional idea!

Of course, thank you all for reading this story, whether you've been here since the beginning, left halfway through, or joined near the end! It's been a heck of a ride completing this thing, but your continued support has helped make it worth the while!

Now, I'm sure you're all wondering, "What's meow up to next?" Of course, you probably aren't. But I'll tell you anyway! I'm working on a webcomic, due to be released in December! Keep up with my Tumblr blog (the username's the same) for more info! Also, I fell headfirst into the Homestuck fandom a month ago, and I started writing a fic. The first chapter will be posted tomorrow, on the 25th! For those of you who are only here for the Marvel, I'm sad to say I don't have anything much ready for you right now. I have a one-shot regarding Endgame and a couple of Spiderverse fic ideas that are both halted. But stay tuned, just in case I do anything else!

Oh, yeah, and I'm thinking about posting dramatic fic readings on YouTube! This is definitely one fic that I would love to record myself reading! So stay tuned, yet again!

Thanks again for reading! I hope it was as much worth your while as it was mine!

[literarytrashcollection]

Where Are Any of Us Going? (Part 1/?): BYOC

(Bucky x Reader) Follow for more! I’m just starting, but I plan to post much, much more!

I pushed my sunglasses back up my nose, swirling my coffee in the mug as I watched passersby living in their own heads with their own complex lives swirling around them.

“Anything else, sweetheart?” Asked the waitress as she approached with a coffee carafe in her hand and a sweet smile on her face. She was probably fun outside of work, a sweet girl with lots of friends. She was cute too, with her cheerleader pony tail and the soft corkscrew curls that framed her freckled face.

I held up my mug for her and smiled. She refilled it for me and sauntered off, a swing in her hips that was almost irresistible. Maybe I’d give into the old cliché of leaving my number for her, leaving her the decision on whether or not to reach out to me. What was the worst that could happen?

I opted against it, when she finally brought my check. As cute as she was, in an open air cafe like this, I was sure she got hit on day in and day out. I could appreciate her from afar. I could come visit more often, become a regular, be a normal person.

I left the cafe, ducking out of the foot traffic as soon as I entered it so I could slip into an alleyway. Once out of eyesight of curious pedestrians, I scaled the brick wall on the back of the cafe, my fingers whirring mechanically as they sunk into the soft brick. I knew that the sound was all in my head, I had my roommates listen to my straining fingers and arms often enough to know that no one else could hear it.

I could hear the sound of the bionics that had been implanted in me after the car accident on my eighteenth birthday. Instead of going out with my friends, enjoying my first taste of adulthood, I spend the next several months grieving the death of my parents from a hospital bed as my body learned to use the bionic arms and hands.

Now, most people couldn’t even tell that I wasn’t 100% American-bred human. My hands and arms looked realistic. There was no scarring to show that I had ever had surgery, that the implants had ever happened. Maybe it was just a grief crazed dream, my mind coping with my parents’ death by dehumanizing myself into some kind of monster that only I feared.

I reached the top of the building and brushed off the plastic lawn chair I had secreted up one night when I was in particular need of a place to just be by myself. My roommates never intruded at home, I think because they were scared of what might happen if I got too freaked out (especially after I ripped a door off its hinges when I was drunk), but I still didn’t want to be near them. At least up here, I didn’t feel crowded into a small bedroom as my only solace from the world around me.

“Who are you?” I asked aloud to what had been nothing but thin air. The silent steps that had been creeping up behind me faltered, a scuff of gravel across the roof top as they stumbled a little.

“I came to ask you the same question.” A gruff voice behind me answered. “How’d you just climb the wall like that?”

“Parkour. You didn’t answer my question though,” I replied, still not turning. Worse came to worse, it was just some guy, who happened to need the roof and found me up here. If he wanted to get violent, I could take him, no problem.

“I… My name is Bucky.” He informed me. “Parkour doesn’t let you dig your fingers into a brick wall like that.”

I sighed heavily. “It’s above your paygrade, man.”

“I seriously doubt that, doll.” He chuckled, drawing out the term of endearment like a taunt.

The fact that he seemed so calm made me falter a bit. I turned enough to look over my shoulder at my guest and immediately swallowed the lump that formed in my throat. “You’re the Winter Soldier.”

He shrugged. “I’m at a disadvantage, I think. Fame has its downfalls.”

I looked back at the crowds dutifully marching down the street towards their destinies. Was this mine? To be cornered, maybe even killed, by the Winter Soldier? Had I become a threat to the general public’s safety? There was no other reason SHIELD would send someone after me. “If you’re here to kill me, then you probably already know my name.”

“Who says I’m here to kill you?” I didn’t realize that he had moved closer until he sat on the ledge of the building, facing me. “Maybe I’m just a curious bystander, awed by the fact that a human just climbed a building like she was crawling across the floor. I know a kid who can do that shit.”

“I’m not Spiderman’s long lost sister.” I sighed, flexing my fingers. Was he here to kill me? Could I take the Winter Soldier? No. Definitely not. I didn’t have to put much thought process into that to know that he could kill me with a flick of his fingers.

“No, we would have known about you long before this.” He smiled, shiny white teeth glinting through the dark scruff of his beard. It was thicker than TV made it look, or maybe he’d just grown it out. His hair was back in a messy bun, strands falling loose around his face. That was the first I realized he also wasn’t in combat gear, but jeans and a Henley, a leather jacket layered over it. I wouldn’t have even known it was him, were it not for the metal hand. “Can I know your first name?” He asked, breaking the silence that had grown between us during my mental analysis of him.

“Y/N,” I replied slowly. I could hear the whirring in my arms again, like muscles tightening in advance of a fight.

He nodded slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not here to kill you, by the way. I don’t think anyone even knows about you. I mean, maybe the Avengers but,” he shrugged. “Not enough for you to need to worry, I guess.”

“So you really just happened to see me climb the building?”

He nodded, metal fingers drumming lazily against his arm. He was the picture of patience, other than those fidgety fingers.

“The sound of the mechanics in your arm ever drive you crazy?” I asked instead of answering. Maybe he would pick up on the double meaning to the question, maybe he wouldn’t.

He looked down at his hand, stretched his fingers out straight then clenched them into a fist again. “Only at night, when I’m trying to sleep. Every time I roll over, my arm has to shift around and it’s loud when the only other sound in the room is your own breathing.”

I nodded and looked down at my own twitchy fingers. “I can hear it anytime I move. Roommates say they can’t but,” I shrugged, gritting my teeth against the sound in my own head.

Realization dawned across his face, then pity, then curiosity, the whole gamut. “Those aren’t real?” He stepped closer before he even realized what he was doing, hand half way stretched out to grab mine to examine. I met him halfway and let him turn my hand over. “They look real.”

I nodded. “I got them couple years ago. Modern medicine, man.” I clicked my tongue to emphasize my appreciation.

“Did Stark build them for you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know who it was. Doctors put them on me after a car crash that left both of my arms and most of my rib cage shattered. My ribs are all metal too.”

“Damn, must’ve been a miracle that you even survived.”

I nodded. Why was I telling my life story to the man who tried to kill Captain America? I mean, I knew that the Wonder Pals were all friends now, but still. I had a therapist for this.

“I guess you probably know my story already.” Bucky said and leaned back against the edge of the building. “Well, the publicized parts.”

“I saw you try to kill Steve Rogers. And the rest of the Avengers.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Brain washing isn’t a quack, ya know? I used to be skeptical of it but… now I’m skeptical of everything.” He forced air through his nose, I think meaning it as a laugh, but for a second, I almost felt bad for him. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything, I was just curious.”

I waved it off. “You’re not the worst company I’ve ever had.”

“That’s probably fair.” He chuckled. “I like coming up here sometimes. It’s kind of off anyone’s radar just because it’s so close to Stark’s tower and,” another shrug, “the coffee is good.”

“I’m kind of addicted to coffee,” I laughed. “Ever since,” I held up my hands for him to see, “I don’t sleep much. Coffee is kind of my saving grace.”

“I can relate.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit, I was pretty excited when the chair showed up. The ledge here isn’t too comfortable. And it draws attention.”

I smiled a little, thinking about all of the times that I sat on that ledge, legs dangling over the edge as café patrons stared in astonishment at the person defying all natural instinct. “BYOC, Tin Man,”

He frowned for a minute, and I thought maybe I had stumped him. How old was this guy? Would he get the BYOB reference? Lord, how much was I going to have to explain? But then his face cleared and a small smile broke across his face, which he quickly turned to look over the street.

“Do you, um,” he took a deep breath, still looking away. “This is going to sound cheesy, but, do you come here often?”

He was right. It was cheesy. But also, kind of endearing. “At least two or three times a week.”

He nodded, his face a mask of overstated casual-ness. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” he offered, eyes flickering over to me for a moment before returning to the road. “Unless you would rather I not come back.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “We could always just go get coffee.” I countered. “You know, instead of this whole interrogation thing we have going so far.”

His smile widened, and dimples (ugh, swoon) appeared under the scruff on his cheeks. “I might be around here tomorrow at 6:30, you know, if you wanted to maybe get some coffee then.”

I stood up and brushed myself off. “Well, I might be here too.”

“Where are you going?”

I shrugged. “Where are any of us going?” I knew it was vague and it sounded horrible coming out of my mouth, like a corny line from a bad movie. But, it made the dimples come out of hiding again, just for a moment before I started my descent down the back of the café.

[stylesmyth]

FLOURISHED SUN

I take the marble staircase two steps at a time with Brandon on my heels. He begs for me to slow down, but with my father’s office doors in sight, I refuse. Without knocking, I barge in, using such a force that sends the large doors slamming into the walls they hinge on. It startles my father, who jerks his head towards me.

          “A curfew?!” I cry out.

          Brandon, just now catching up, nearly rams into me as he enters the room with momentum. “Miss Burrell,” he says formally. “Your father has asked to not be disturbed.”

          “It’s all right, Brandon,” my father assures, voice impeccably calm.

          I start again. “I mean, shutting down schools, I can understand! Not telling me there were twenty-three other deaths, I can excuse because it’s confidential. But a curfew? Really?!”

           He stands from his desk. “Yes, Delaney, really. Until everyone is medicated properly, I have to make sure there is as little contact as possible between the contagious and healthy.” He walks to me, words growing more heated by the second. “And as for the little stunt you pulled tonight. Leaving the house without permission? What were you thinking?!”

           “For Christ’s sake, I had Brandon there for protection!”

           “And I’m sure he agrees that, regardless, you were too close to that boy that you know damn well is sick.”

           My jaw tightens. “You told him about Ernie?” I ask, turning to Brandon.

           Father answers, “He called me from the diner before the speech, as he should have. And because you tricked him, and disobeyed my wishes, I’m putting you under house arrest.”

           “What?!”

           “The guard at the front gate has been informed of this decision, and Brandon is to stay here, around the clock until further notice, to ensure you pull no funny business like you did tonight.”

           I throw my arms up. “What is so wrong with wanting to see him one la—”

           “Delaney!” he raises his voice. “We will not be discussing this any further in the company of a guest!”

           At those words, I peer over my father’s shoulder. Sure enough, a man that looks vaguely familiar—perhaps I’ve seen him at dinner parties or public events—sits in one of the two chairs placed in front of the desk, watching the whole ordeal.

           The man rises from his chair. “Please, Samuel, do not stop on my account. The work day is technically over, and family matters must be...attended to, nonetheless,” he says in a deliberate tone. “But, if I may introduce myself, I am Zachary Masters—”

           I interrupt him, now knowing how I recognize him. “Parliament member, and the man who will be appointed Interim Leader if anything were to...happen to my father.”

           We’ve been at several occasions, in many of the same rooms, but I’ve never been formally introduced to him—if one could even call this a formal introduction. He was always with other government officials, whilst I grouped with several other daughters and sons of those officials. From far away, he looked kind, his greying hair gave him a grandfatherly vibe. Now as we stand with closer proximity, and I can feel the full force of his dark eyes upon me, I almost want to coward away, even if his gaze isn’t intentional. But this isn’t about him, and I can’t lose what spite I have towards my father so easily.

           The room grows strangely quiet in the vocalisation of my words. Zachary takes to looking at his shoes as I turn to my father, who avoids my gaze. It lasts for a moment, before a ring of a telephone on my father’s desk sounds. He’s sighs, glancing at Zachary before turning to attend to the phone call.

           Father attempts to answer the call in a hushed tone as I focus once more on Zachary.

           “So, what are you doing here?” I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Is there something he’s not telling me?”

           Zachary senses the hesitation in my question. “Oh, no, no! There is nothing wrong with your father, I can assure you. No, I am simply here to assist Samuel in some work.”

          “What kind of work?”

          He pauses, and I can see the debate with himself to answer or avoid me. “Well, we’ve been in contact with America—their labs, the embassy, Congress, even the President—pretty much nonstop for the last day. We’re are trying to find the origins of the virus, and what the best way to distribute the medicine is. Basically, just where to go from here, with what we know.”

          “And what do you know?” I ask.

          He grins. “I’m sure you understand why I cannot disclose that information, Miss Burrell.”

***

           friday night

Delaney: brandon told my dad i saw you tonight

              he put me on house arrest

 Ernie: wtf

            Why would he do that?

 Delaney: i didn’t tell Brandon that you were gonna be at the diner

 Ernie: why not?

 Delaney: I’m not technically supposed to see you whilst you’re still sick

 Ernie: Delaney!

 Delaney: what?! I wanted to see you and just have a nice night

 Ernie: but something could’ve happened

            u could be sick

 Delaney: i could be sick regardless

                I’ll just get the medication like everyone else on Monday and everything will be fine

 Ernie: can I call you, or facetime?

 Delaney: not unless you want brandon to hear everything we say

                He’s “posted” outside my room and my door “must remain open unless I’m changing”

 Ernie: sigh

            I guess i won’t be able to see your pretty face for a while then, huh

 Delaney: you’re a dork

                but sadly no

 Ernie: you like this dork

 Delaney: hmmmmm

                Perhaps

 saturday

 Delaney: i feel like i might go stir crazy if i have to sit in my room for the rest of the weekend

              Avoiding food>getting another lecture

Ernie: [imaged attached]

           you could look at this instead :*

 monday

 Ernie: [imaged attached]

          Look at this queue outside of Boots

            We’ll be here for hours

 Delaney: is there nowhere else a little less crowded?

 Ernie: nope all the same

            A lot more people than i thought need this stuff too

 Delaney: well let me know when you get towards the front

 Ernie: hopefully it won’t take too long

           I’m not feeling very well and Ty is noticing

 Delaney: please stay safe <3 keep me updated

 tuesday

 Delaney: hey

                I hate being that girlfriend that keeps tabs on you

   But you didn’t text me back yesterday

                Is everything okay? Are you feeling better?

 Ernie: hey, sorry about that

            It was a long da y

            did u get the meds???

 Delaney: yeah, dad brought home some of the pills instead of the injections

                But are you sure you’re okay?

                We never use text slang with each other

 Ernie: i cant starw at the scrreen to long

           I think a symptom of gettn the shot is migrains

 wednesday

Delaney: how are you feeling today?                              

Delaney: You might still have a migraine so maybe that’s why you aren’t answering

                If you get a chance to read this, though, just let me know you’re okay

 Delaney: please answer my texts, Ernie

               It’s worrying me sick to not hear from you

 thursday

 Ernie: delaney

 Delaney: thank God you finally answered

                I’ve been pacing around all day

                Are you okay

                Is everything alright

 Ernie: the medicine isn’t working

           Ty didn’t make it

          And I don’t feel so good

 ***

          I will for the words on the screen to change. Maybe if I stare at them long enough, the letters will shift, and he’ll be telling me that all is well. The medicine is working. Everyone is healthy. Ty is not dead.

          Ty is not dead.

          He can’t be. He was feeling better last week. If Ty was feeling better, that means everyone else sick would feel better, too. They have to feel better. They can’t die.

          Ernie can’t die.

          When I was old enough ask my dad about my mum, I also asked why he didn’t remarry. He told me that, after her death, he was in a state of shock, and then grief struck, followed by a period of depression. He said it was the worst time of his life. He knew, that even after losing my mum, he couldn’t remarry. His grief was as large as love, and he knew he’d never love someone else that same way.

          I understand the first feeling of shock now.

          The difference between him and me, though, is that I have a warning. My shock comes before any loss, and it’s crippling.

          But there’s one thing on my mind: I am getting out of here.

          No tears have formed, but when I call, “Brandon,” there’s a notable shake in my voice.

          Through what little open space there is in my door, he responds, “Yes, Miss Burrell?”

          “Could you please shut the door, I’m going to change. And then, I’ll go to bed.”

          It’s fairly dark outside, so I know Brandon will believe my lie, thinking that I’m getting ready for bed. I wait just a few seconds to run on tiptoes to my window. My bedroom is on the first floor, overlooking the road to the house’s front door, where Brandon would always drop me off. Where the reporters once stood across the street. As I push up the window, I see no one on the street at all.

          Thankfully, on the ground floor, below my bedroom, there is an alcove that juts out from the house, allowing a small roof just outside my window. I do not bother shutting my window as I step outside. Brandon won’t check my room for the rest of the night, thinking I’m asleep, so I keep it open to sneak back in the morning.

          The distance from the ledge to the ground isn’t far. I sit down with my legs over the edge, and then slowly twist around, so my front is against the blue bricks as I hang on with what very little upper body strength I have. Then I let go.

          With bent knees, my feet hit the green ground quickly. I catch myself from falling over into the damp grass, but waste no time in surveying the area once more. The easiest way to get to Mayfair, where Ernie lives, is the back streets. Last I saw, and heard from Dad, there’s only one guard on the perimeter, and he’s at the gates in the front.

          I start to run in the opposite direction.

***

           Ernie’s mum answers the door after three rounds of persistent knocking. She’s wearing a bathrobe, likely never having changed from it this morning, and her brown hair looks unkempt. In one hand is a box of tissues, and in the other, a balled-up tissue that she raises to her reddening nose before speaking.

           “Delaney, what are you doing here?” she asks, mouth hanging open at the sight of me.

           Tears that were kept back as I ran appear suddenly, clouding my vision.  “I heard about Ty.” My voice trembles. “Ernie told me. And I am so sorry, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. But can I please see him? I need to see Ernie, please.”

           She looks hesitant at first. We both know what allowing me inside means; the medicine doesn’t work, and anyone who steps across the threshold is going to be, at the very least, exposed. But after studying my pleading eyes and dejected form, how desperately I need to see Ernie regardless of the consequences, her elbow nudges the door open. I thank her profusely, stepping by her to get inside, ready to dash to Ernie’s room. The low sound of Mrs. Winland calling my name again stops me.

           When I turn towards her, she nods and says, “Make it count.”

           She walks into a different room, leaving me with her vague instructions. It’s not hard to connect the dots, though.

           With Ernie.

           Make it count with Ernie.

           With that, I start down the hallway to his room. Family portraits and school photos, even Ty’s drawings, hang along the walls, but I don’t look at them. I can’t bare the think that the little boy will only remain in the photographs and the art he created, forever immortalised behind a piece of glass and four cornered frames. I can’t even bring myself to think about looking at the older boy in the pictures, so I keep my head down until I reach his door and push through without delay.

           He doesn’t hear me come in. He also doesn’t hear the small click the door makes as it closes behind me. I begin to wonder if he’s asleep, but as I move around his bed, wading between the piles of clothes on the floor which were never there before, I see his eyes are open and looking out the window next on the parallel wall.

           “Ernie?”

           He suddenly snaps to attention. When he sent me a cheeky selfie last Saturday, I thought he looked a little worse for wear than he did the previous night I saw him. But, as I watch him now, I can see the sheen of sweat covering his sinking facial features. His skin is paler, which is saying a lot for someone who lives in a city that receives very little sun to begin with. Even from my distance, I can see a notable change in his irises; a few off-white spots have appeared close to the edge of them, standing out against the brown colour.

           I lose all words. I’m not even sure if I had any coming in.

           He shifts under his pile of blankets, no doubt the source of his sweating, but I can also make out the slight shivering to his body. “De...What are you doing here?” he asks with a hoarse voice.

           I sob.

           “I had to come see you,” I force out. “I’m not going to let you be alone when you said you weren’t feeling well.”

           He frowns. “I-I said that?”

           Ernie poses the question more for himself than me. I walk closer, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here now, and I’ll be here. With you.”

           “No…” He starts to shake his head. “No, but you shouldn’t be here. Y-you could get sick. No, no, no.”

           As if to prove it, he begins to cough.

           “I don’t care anymore,” I stress. “I could already be sick and just not know! But I do know that I am going to stay beside you, regardless of any virus, or parents, or the fucking rapture!”

           He looks over my shoulder, eyes going out of focus like he’s daydreaming. When he glances at me again, he asks, “Why are you crying?”

           It only makes me cry more. “Because I love you, damn it.”

           These words aren’t a revelation. We said them for the first time a few months ago, but only sparingly since then. For the special occasions or moments when we were caught up in each other. We never take the words lightly, and always cherish them greatly.

           Make it count.

           Ernie’s frown grows in confusion. “You shouldn’t be crying because you love me.”

           “My grief is as great as my love,” I whisper. “And I haven’t even lost you yet.”

           He doesn’t seem to have heard my words, his attention is back to the window. I stare at it with him, willing myself to calm down at least a little. There’s nothing outside of his window except the view of another building, but having something to focus on helps for the moment. Ernie coughs at times, and at one point, I feel him shift until his hand is free from the confiding blankets, reaching for mine. It’s a small comfort to know that, whilst it seems his mind is somewhere else completely, he’s still present in some form.

           Eventually, he speaks again. “Do you want to lay down?”

           Make it count.

           “I want to kiss you.”

           I don’t think it’s what he expected me to say from the look on his face, a look reminds me of the healthy Ernie. He says with a small smirk, “We could do both.”

           I laugh. I am actually able to laugh in such a moment, after a week of feeling like I’d never laugh again.

           So, caution is completely stranded on the side of the road as I lay down on his right side, on top of his mounds of blankets. And I set an alarm for five in the morning, early enough to run back home before anyone else wakes up. And I kiss Ernie, because I want to make everything count.

           And I wait for morning, praying it will never come.