#anyway brain empty i cannot and will not elaborate any more on this

[onecanonlife]

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

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

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

[subwalls]

Tales from the SMP Presents: The Haunted Mansion

An ongoing exploration of how the Inbetween drives my Kingdom Hearts brain crazy with paranoia! Less of an analysis this time, because we got confirmation (VALIDATION!!), and more of speculation, but yeah!

First of all! I was right not to trust this fucker.

Just kidding, that’s not the first thing we’re gonna talk about here. First of all, a gentle recap!

As I’ve mentioned before, the Inbetween has some uncanny resemblance to the Kingdom Hearts world known as Castle Oblivion. Castle Oblivion is known for being the place where the main series protagonist lost all of his memories, and even had false memories implanted while he was getting deeper and deeper into it. 

You might be curious as to how the Kingdom Hearts protagonist escapes.

He doesn’t.

He needs outside help, and a lot of it, to get him out of that situation. Even then, it takes a whole year. He drove his own heart into the bottom of the abyss in his desperation to save someone he was tricked into thinking he knew, and he didn’t even regret it, because he was saving someone.

... A lot of people on Dream SMP have different ideas on what it means to save people.

Also, the castle also had a very plot-twisty secret where it used to be the lush and wonderful home of these three friends before they fell apart; one was lost to the Evil Dark Side™ (not real name), the other was trapped in the Realm of Darkness (real name), and the last one fell into a coma for TEN (10) YEARS and his body was left to be protected in the heart of the land, which was then locked and turned into Castle Oblivion.

So, pretty fucked up place! Not inherently evil, but the place of great misfortune and just... not very good for everyone there.

Let’s start at the beginning!

Welcome back indeed. Take notice of the wither rose in the pot, by the way, I’ll come back to this in a bit.

The first thing that stands out to me on this page is the smiley face, of course. It’s not the ever-iconic, ever-evil “:)”, but it’s similar enough that I think the callback is intentional. The smiley is c!Dream’s icon, of course, which... honestly makes me think that “:]” might be DreamXD, but that might be because I’m very very biased for the server god who simps for a dangerously apathetic cottagecore once-king.

Of course, it does also look kind of like Quackity’s face, and cc!Quackity has said something about big lore coming for him, but until further evidence is presented I’m disinclined to draw a connection there.

The Inbetween, as we’ve come to know the author of some of these books to be, being happy that Karl is continuing—it reminds me of the KH protagonist being told yes, good job, keep going, as he stumbles deeper and deeper into the castle that strips away memory after memory from his heart. Why does the Inbetween think that Karl’s time travel is important, his careful documentation of every story? Is it because the more he does it, the more he becomes attached? The more he becomes reliant on the Inbetween to feed the missing pieces of his memory?

Is it because the Inbetween, in parallel to c!Dream and c!Wilbur, prioritize the concept of story over the characters?

Things to think about. 🤔

Also kind of interesting that the Inbetween thinks Karl will eventually uncover “all [he] needs to”, which continues to make me think that the more c!Karl comes to the Inbetween the more he becomes... either dependent or over-trusting of it. Not sure. But weird things happen when it’s magic that tampers with memories, rather than trauma.

Basically, I’m getting “there is no war in Ba Sing Se” vibes.

The book continues to say that Karl probably has a lot of questions and that it would love to answer :] but never actually does. It’s trying to come off as helpful without actually being helpful. All it does is tempt him with the prospect of answers, and then draws him in deeper. “Continue onward, Karl.” But why?

Another wither rose pot.

Sidestepping the very innocuous, very surface-level information offered here (because that’s it, it’s nothing about the workings about the Inbetween, it’s just a little sweet carrot to distract with), I cannot even begin to convey the absolute terror that consumed me at the word “sleepy.”

I mentioned earlier that one of the original characters who lived in the land that would become Castle Oblivion went into a coma, right? But it’s more commonly referred to as sleeping. The game is even called “Birth by Sleep”, and there’s a whole thing about trying to get him to “wake up”. So the idea that time travel can take something out of the traveller that makes them tired, the idea that there is one specific room for sleeping quarters within the Inbetween, paired with that not-quite-right smiley face—I am traumatized, I tell you.

Yes it could be a “haha look what I did with the sentence, because day is a form of time and they time travel so long day is a funny term” kind of smiley, but. Kingdom Hearts has trained me to be suspicious of any talk of sleep.

There’s something just mildly unsettling about the way it continues, with the references to the “many Karls” and the “many many great stories” that sounds borderline condescending.

And now we get the, uh, “other” author. Notice how this one actually did not have a corresponding wither rose in a pot. I’m starting to think that the flower might actually be an indicator of the not-this-author-pictured-above, the probably-Inbetween-itself, so the fact that this book was found separately from a wither rose pot and it was tucked away under a tree... A tree, under which c!Karl will later find a bit of a refuge... yeah, different author. Or at least an author from a different time.

I’ll elaborate in a moment, but I do think that there’s three (3) mindsets/authors happening here: the sickly sweet Inbetween pretending to be good, the person trying to get c!Karl to distrust the Inbetween, and... someone who desperately wants c!Karl to stay in line.

This is the third... I don’t want to say author, because it too has the wither rose pot and is trying to keep c!Karl playing along with the Inbetween, but it’s much less coherent and much more desperate.

No “:]”, either.

Some possibilities I’m considering:

the Inbetween, but it’s like, a security subroutine or a glitch in the system,

the Inbetween, but it’s from a future wherein c!Karl has fucked it up to the point of desperation,

Karl / the other author, but it’s from a future, where trying to stray from the Inbetween resulted in something traumatic happening and they don’t want it to happen anymore.

Some fun possibilities to keep in mind. Anyway!

Ooh, the return of the wither rose pot.

For this part, the only thing I really have to say is that the repetition of the Inbetween trying to present itself as “a place to feel at ease” is... Well, as the lovely Fear has said in this post linked here, a place that tries and makes itself seem safe probably isn’t, because a genuinely safe place wouldn’t need to announce it all the time.

Very much sounding like a Ba Sing Se thing.

More importantly, the book actually says that it’s “wild” how the Inbetween is “so beautiful that even time travellers who go anywhere at anytime ever and they still choose here” with a good old “:]” tacked on at the end. That’s... that’s not just me thinking like that sounds kind of threatening, right? Like, time travellers can see anything anywhere, and they keep coming back to the Inbetween. Why?

Is it because they forget the beauty of anything else? Is it because it’s not beauty, but rather attachment and emotion that keeps someone going back to a place? If someone forgets their loved ones and precious things, then why would they go anywhere but the place where they’ve put all their stories?

Why did KH’s protagonist keep going deeper into Castle Oblivion even though he knew that the castle was taking apart his memories? Because he had one thing left: the fake, implanted memory, which told him that in order to save someone, he needed to push on no matter the personal cost.

So the real question is: are the time travellers coming back to the Inbetween because they want to, or because they no longer have a choice?

It regards all the different Karls with such... distant affection, too. “How beautiful,” it calls them, for wandering the blank halls with blank stares and blank hearts, none of which react to each other. It says that they “choose” to walk the halls, uncover mysteries, and tell stories. But what was the other choice? Was it really a choice at all?

Hmm.

Karl goes on to explore, and finds another book that does not have a wither rose pot, which tells him he has to go Under The Tree.mp3 and informs him that he “can’t afford not to”. Cool. Not ominous at all.

He finds another, which says the same thing.

Definitely not ominous. /s

The phrasing here is interesting, because it’s also phrased like a threat. Usually, when someone tells you that you “can’t afford not to”, you’re either looking at a scam or at the business end of a weapon. But the empty pages tell you that the author is trying to keep it down low. That’s one of the ways Minecraft players have found to express tone in the very limited form of Minecraft books, and it works splendidly.

Not to push my DreamXD agenda, but like... the door was iron. Iron doors are a weakness for Dreams and dreamons and, mayhaps, Dream’s dreamon.

I know it’s probably just because the iron door keeps in line with the color palette of the build but let me dream, alright.

Anyway, book content! And an interesting point of order: there is a wither rose pot. I said earlier that it might be an indicator of the Inbetween as an author, but that doesn’t make much sense now, does it? This is meant to be a place hidden from the “it” that I assume to be either the Inbetween itself or the one/s controlling it.

So why the wither rose pot inconsistency?

Unless it doesn’t mean that. Unless it’s just a metaphor for, say, memories withering away or something. Or maybe it’s just a pretty plant, for funsies! Who knows. If I had to guess, I’d say that (after much reflection) it’s likely less a mark of author and more a theme of, mm, memory status. The withering away of memories. It fits in with the Inbetween, because that’s what might be responsible for it, but the author/s of the book aren’t immune, either. They get blinks of clarity, with the hidden, tucked-away tomes, but they might not be completely free.

The next book, however, again lacks the wither rose pot. It might not be a coincidence that the one without the potential mark of a withering memory is the one that actually divulges some more information.

This book goes into slightly more detail about the warning, though not about whatever actual threat it is that the castle (which... Castle Oblivion, you know) presents.

It says that 1) it’s not what it seems, 2) the "truth about the other forms of you”, 3) this place “is not okay”, and 4) get in that portal we saw that was blocked off before.

We know that the Inbetween isn’t what it seems, but the “truth” about the other forms... Hm. This is, in fact, another Kingdom Hearts Thing. There’s a running joke that everyone on the very large cast of characters in KH that in the end, every person is actually either secretly a version of the antagonist (through possession or body splitting or whatever), or a version of the protagonist (through similar concepts). Multiple bodies and other forms is definitely a Thing in KH, though it’s not as oh-god-not-again definitely-bad as the sleeping thing.

I think the other forms have either become reliant on the Inbetween or have forgotten everything but the Inbetween, or both. Maybe more of the prior, since the warning is against trusting the place.

And, uh, this? Fucking terrifying. I love it to pieces.

Every single one of these books has a wither rose pot, and this is kind of why I think that the Inbetween or its master/s is, in some way, possibly functioning via routines and like... an AI. Or a genius loci kind of thing.

But good news, there aren’t 13 books, there are 14! This is important for Kingdom Hearts reasons, because Kingdom Hearts has a big thing about the numbers 13 and 7 (13 is the number of pieces of darkness, and 7 is the number of pieces of light, and this is equal somehow, don’t question it).

Now, 14 is an important meme number in the MCYT fandom, of course, but I don’t think it has terribly too much to do with the lore beyond a fun easter egg.

The books themselves trying to tell c!Karl to, essentially, go with the flow and the path that the Inbetween has set up for him is... something. I like the idea that it’s some future version of something trying to stop something from happening, but we all know it’s probably not going to work. Fun times.

And finally, this.

The Inbetween is a bit of a narcissist, huh? It won’t shut up about how it’s so pretty and irresistible and the whole definition of, like, a honey trap. Oh my god it even describes it as ~mysterious~ as a good trait, that’s hilarious.

More pertinently, it also calls the Inbetween “a time traveller’s dream”.

A time traveller’s. Dream.

Again, not to push my DreamXD agenda, BUT—

But! Getting back on track, the book expresses its eagerness to see Karl again, says their relationship is gonna be great, reminds him that his stories are important, and then tells him that he needs the Inbetween/author just like the SMP needs him.

Uh. He’s going to need the Inbetween?

Hello?

Why? How? So far it’s presented itself as being pretty and perfect but it never said anything about necessity! What’s going on!

Very much reminded of how Castle Oblivion was presented as “you need to keep going in even though it takes your memories away because there’s someone you need to save [fake but you don’t know that because you don’t remember anything]”, and I am afright.

Talk about subtle strings being tugged at here. I’m really seeing the beginning seeds of a dependency thing being sown, and if it weren’t for the side books painting giant neon warning signs everywhere, I don’t know if it would’ve caught on. An artificially cultivated concept of how important and great the Inbetween is, and don’t you just want to take all those stories from that messy world elsewhere but come back here in the end to take a break and exist and explore and oh, isn’t the Inbetween great, isn’t it wonderful?

Man, c!Dream wishes he was this good at subtle manipulation.

tldr; there are multiple authors trying to tug c!Karl in different directions via those books. The Kingdom Hearts parallels predict that his memory will be at stake, and he might not be able to escape without help.

[organabanana]

Leaves of three, let it be [1/?] || harlivy

Chapters: 1/?

Fandom: DCU (Comics)DCUHarley Quinn (Comics)Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle

Additional Tags: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of batman fucking bats, most of this is straight up idiocy tbh, i just finished watching the cartoon so everyone swears like a sailor i'm sorry, rated for (ahem) happenings later on, ivy/harley/catwoman frenemies

Series: Part 1 of the Cliché a Week 2021 series

Summary:

Aided by a terrible hangover and a severe lack of impulse control, Harley accidentally drinks an unknown substance at Ivy's apartment and suddenly remembers why Ivy goes by Poison Ivy in her professional life. Luckily for Harley, she's immune to Ivy's toxins. Unluckily for Harley, she may not be immune to her love pheromones, and turning into a human-plant hybrid is not her idea of a good time.

Telling Ivy so she can give her an antidote may seem like the obvious course of action, but there are very few things Harley hates more than disappointing Ivy with her poor decision-making skills. Besides, like Selina said, if she'd drunk pheromones she'd be in love with Ivy by now, right?

And Harley Quinn is absolutely not in love with her best friend.

Notes:

This was (loosely) inspired by Prompt #1104 by @promptsforthestrugglingauthor: “Hey, do you know if potions expire?” “I think it depends on the potion. Why?” “Well, I was really hungover this morning and grabbed the wrong glass and I feel super weird right now.” And "Everyone knows they’re dating except them” from the Cliché A Week Challenge by @montocalypse. The plan is for this to be 4-5 chapters at most BUT I'm not ready to commit to a number just yet so we'll see how that goes!

[ao3 link]

Harley wakes up with a pounding headache that makes her wonder if someone stole her bat and tried to crack her skull with it last night. 

"Ughhh..." she groans, squeezing her eyes shut. Her mouth feels like sandpaper. Her throat feels like... like sandpaper. Listen: she's not in any kind of mood for elaborate, imaginative similes right now. Everything is pain and/or sandpaper. Deal with it.

"Fuck me." It comes out in a whiny, pathetic little voice, and Harley is almost more pissed off about that than about the hangover itself. Where is she, anyway? She forces herself to sort of... perceive  the world around her without moving a muscle or opening her eyes, which may not be the best approach but it works anyway because she totally knows Ive's apartment by smell.

As friends do.

Once that's settled, and she knows she's in fact safe (how could she not be? She's at Ivy's!) Harley moves her right hand and feels around for the bedside table, but apparently she didn't climb into her usual side of the bed (friends have sides of their friends' beds, obviously) because what she feels on her right side is soft and warm and definitely not a bedside table.

"Sorry." She mumbles, affectionately patting Ivy's ass before turning over to the other side and trying again. She does find a table this time, and she nearly cries in relief when she finds a little water bottle waiting for her parched lips to drink.

Score.

It's only when she's downed the whole thing that she realizes two things:

One, that did not  taste like water.

And two, there is a reason Pam goes professionally by Poison  Ivy.

"Shit," Harley stage-whispers, blue eyes now wide open as she stares at the empty bottle in her hand, "shit, shit, shit."

Harley knows she's not dying. She knows she's immune to toxins, and she's cuddled the fuck out of Ivy (as friends do) on enough occasions to know she doesn't break out in hives at Ivy's touch. But the thing about Ivy is, she's kind of an overachiever. There aren't just toxins to worry about. Harley could be about to turn into a fern or something, and nobody could do anything to prevent it.

Well, except Pam.

But you know what? Considering the kind of mood Ivy gets in when Harley makes a less than stellar choice, she's gonna risk turning into a plant rather than waking her up.

"Morning, sunshine." Selina walks -- nay, prances  -- into the bedroom looking flawless as always, which is pretty fucking unfair considering her presence at Ivy's can only mean she was there for whatever hangover-causing shenanigans they all happened to get into last night. But of course, Selina Kyle is above looking like shit while hungover. 

" Selina ," Harley all but hisses (which is fitting, considering Selina's... you know), showing her the empty bottle, "I fucked up."

"When do you not  fuck up, Harley?" It comes off as both smug and somehow charming, which is, again, pretty fucking unfair. "What did you do this time?"

Harley shows her the empty bottle once again, shaking it slightly like she cannot  believe Selina isn't getting the gravity of the situation right away.

"What? I don't get it-- ohh ." Selina lets out a quiet chuckle that sounds almost like a purr. "Yeah, you fucked up."

"Dammit, Selina! What if I turn into a fucking succulent?"

"Oh come on, don't be dramatic. What color was it?"

Harley stares at her. "Don't you think I'd have known not to drink it if I'd looked at it?"

"I mean, I tend to assume people look at things  before putting them in their mouth. But you did  fuck Joker, so..."

"Hurtful." A beat. "Fair, yes, but still. Hurtful."

As if on cue, Ivy rolls over in her sleep, draping her arm across Harley's lap. Harley smiles, momentarily forgetting the bottle and its contents and the potential result of her having drunk them, because Ivy is just such a good friend. Protecting her from Selina's... well. Selina-ness even in her sleep.

"You guys need some privacy?"

Harley doesn't stop gently tracing the vines on the back of Ivy's hand, but she does look away from soft green skin to shoot Selina a teasing look. "Aw, does someone need scritches? Here, pussy pussy..."

Selina rolls her eyes. "Fine. Turn into a fucking sequoia for all I care. At least you'll be good for climbing."

The soft movements of Harley's fingers stop as Selina's words fully sink in. "Wh- what?" Harley's voice sounds a bit deflated, like one of those sad clown balloons after a sad balloon fart.

"I'm just saying. Pheromones and chill forever as a human-tree abomination? Kind of her signature move."

Harley just stares at Selina, horrified at the prospect of spending the rest of her life as a brain-dead tree and trying (and failing) to come up with a plausible reason why there is no way Ivy's pheromones were in that bottle.

"Anyway!" Selina sighs, stretching her arms up over her head. "I should get going. I have cats to feed."

"Wait. Wait!" Harley stage-whispers, and she's suddenly extremely thankful for Ivy sleeping like a log.

Heh. Like a log .

"You can't leave me, Selina! What if you're right?"

"Oh, come on, kitten," Selina says over her shoulder, already on the way to the door, "if it was pheromones you'd be in love with her by now."

The sound of the door slamming shut behind Selina is enough to finally wake Ivy, and Harley feels her best friend's arms tighten around her as Ivy stretches awake.

"Mmmhey, Harls." Ivy mumbles, voice rough and heavy with sleep as she moves even closer to Harley. 

Normally, Harley would've just sunk back into the most comfortable bed ever (there's a reason she rarely sleeps in her own!) and gone in for a round of lazy morning cuddles. She'd have basked in the smell of Ivy in the morning (freshly cut grass sparkling with dew drops) which is so different from the floral notes of Ivy at any other time of the day. She'd have pressed a kiss or two to Ivy's warm skin, felt her lips tingle with the sweet taste of a poison she's very much immune to, and maybe even fallen back to sleep listening to Ivy's heartbeat and the soft rhythm of her breaths.

You know. As friends do.

But today, thanks to Selina (the fact that nobody forced Harley to drink that stupid bottle is irrelevant, of course), Harley can't relax. She stiffens, even, becoming virtually un-snuggable and making Ivy fully open her eyes to give her a questioning look.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, Ive!" The enthusiasm is as fake as her smile, and the way Ivy's eyes narrow tells her it's been very much noticed. "Bit hungover, that's all."

It takes a couple of seconds for Ivy to speak. Like she's pondering whether to mention there's never been a hangover bad enough to keep Harley from getting her cuddle on or to just let it go for now. Harley's delighted to see the second option win in the end.

"Want me to give you something for the headache?"

"Nope!" Harley's on her feet in two seconds flat, practically jumping away from Ivy's warm body and her warm eyes and the warm offer of some nice natural drugs. "Thanks, though. You're sweet as pie, butter...fly."

"Butterfly." Ivy deadpans from the bed, looking more and more like she's mere seconds away from researching actual mental health facilities in Gotham (Arkham does not  count).

"Buttercup doesn't rhyme with pie. Listen, I should go. I have so much to do. There are-- well, you know! Havoc won't wreak itself, right? Gotham needs me."

"To... wreak havoc."

" Pre cisely. Gonna wreak it real good. You know me! Won't settle for a half-wroken havoc." 

"Wro... ken?"

"Oh, for sure, for sure!" What is she even saying? Harley grabs her bat and swings it a little like she's holding a purse and not a weapon, but thankfully she doesn't break anything in Ivy's room, which is great. "Text ya later, yeah?"

Ivy looks like she's struggling to even begin to process everything that's happened in the five minutes she's been awake. And honestly, Harley's grateful for it. She hasn't noticed the missing bottle, and she's not forcing Harley to stay and answer questions, so it's a win/win/win situation if you ask her. You know... other than the potential mutant tree issue.

"Okay!" Harley grins. "Good talk. Bye, Red. Love ya!"

Shit . 

Harley freezes for a moment. She's told Ivy she loves her before. Of course she has! She loves Ive, and Ivy loves her. They're pretty vocal about that. But today isn't just any other day. She always loves Ivy as a friend, of course. As her best friend she adores and would absolutely kill and die for. The most important person in her life. The one person who's ever made Harley feel safe and loved and appreciated unconditionally. She loves Ivy in a way that makes her feel like her heart is a bit too big for her ribcage and sometimes it gets so crowded in there she's afraid she may pop a rib out of its socket or something, but then Ivy holds her and everything settles again.

You know. A friendly kind of love.

But does she love  Ivy? Harley looks at her hands like she's expecting a few leaves to have sprouted there already. 

"Harley. Seriously, are you okay?"

Ivy's voice snaps her out of her funk, and Harley knows she needs to get out before she's forced into a whole conversation about this thing. 

"Peachy keen, Pam-a-lamb." Harley forces herself to walk towards the door without looking back, just in case. Just in case suddenly Ivy's surrounded by a pink fog of love, or whatever the fuck people see when they look at her while under the influence of her pheromones. I mean, she can't look even more  beautiful than she does normally, right? That's not even possible. So it must be like... a heart emoji filter or something. She really  doesn't want to find out. "Talk later!"

***

Harley looks at the melting cheese on her third egg sandwich like she's expecting it to hold the meaning of life. Or, at the very least, an answer to today's big conundrum. Is she or is she not turning into a tree?

And sure. Sure! She could ask Pam. This would be solved immediately, she knows. She could just ask Pam what was in the bottle and confess she's drunk it and just... put up with her mood for a while. No big deal! Except she really fucking hates disappointing Ivy, you know? When she gets all... cold and detached, and feels more like lettuce than lush tropical foliage. 

Listen, trust her, okay? Sad salad buffet lettuce Ivy is just the fucking worst.

So she takes a bite of her sandwich and tells herself whatever she drank can't have been anything too dangerous. It's been a couple hours now, so she should've felt some kind of effect, right? She should be feeling a bit plant-y, at the very least. Maybe a bit nauseous or something. But she feels fine. 

Well-- not fine , fine. She's still kinda rattled, but that's Selina's fault.

She's fine.

***

"Are you sure you're up for this?"

Ivy lets Selina handle the entry point (you'd think Gotham millionaires would've given up on skylights by now) and looks at Harley with a mixture of concern and distrust in her eyes. She clearly hasn't forgotten about their conversation in the morning.

"I'm fine!" Harley swings her bat around just to loosen up her bat-swinging muscles. She's fine. Not a plant, not in a love fog, not in any way dying. Totally fine. And , most importantly, not dealing with limp lettuce Ive. "It was just a hangover."

Ivy's eyes narrow just enough to make it crystal clear how little she trusts Harley right now, but for once Selina Kyle makes Harley's life easier instead of harder when she speaks.

"Ladies. This is a truly riveting conversation, but I have shit to do.”

“Like fucking a bat-fucking bat?” It may be a cheap shot, but it makes Ivy stiffle a laugh, and Harley kinda thinks that makes it the best joke ever.

But Selina simply cocks an eyebrow at Harley. “Are you sure you want to discuss regrettable sexual partners?”

Ouch. “Fair enough,” Harley concedes, already jumping through the hole Selina’s cut in the glass, “come on, we have an oil tycoon to kill.”

“Not an oil tycoon, Harls.” Ivy glides down on a vine, looking all majestic like some kind of forest nymph, and Harley simply has to stare and smile because how can she not? Look at her friend! “He’s been using an experimental fuel that causes—“

“Does it matter?” Selina sighs like even interrupting Ivy is exhausting, plucking a shiny gold ornament from a nearby table and making Harley wonder (honestly, not for the first time) if she just keeps shiny trinkets hidden in her catsuit like a magician to make it seem like she’s finding them everywhere. “Guy’s loaded.”

“It matters to me, Selina. Not all of us have the moral compass of a magpie.”

Harley giggles at Ivy’s joke. You know what? It may not even have been a real joke, because Ivy’s sense of humor is not exactly her best quality. But it was funny anyway.

“And if it matters to Ive, it matters to moi .” Harley points at herself with her bat and winks at her best friend, and honestly, who the hell cares what this guy does, exactly? Maybe he’s single-handedly destroying the Amazon, or maybe he just happens to walk through the grass instead of using the little paths when making his way across the park. Whatever it is, it’s important to Ivy. And if it’s important to Ivy, it’s important to Harley. And if it’s important to Ivy in a way that makes her smile like she does when Harley winks at her? Well, then this is absolutely Harley’s top fucking priority.

Things get interesting as soon as they turn a corner and step onto the plush carpet of the experimental fuel (hey, she actually listens when Ivy speaks) tycoon's private wing. And you know what? Harley's delighted to hear the alarms go off and a bunch of goons crawl out from their hidey holes like buff armed cockroaches. She knows Ivy and Selina prefer the whole... well, you know. In and out, clean and easy kind of approach to murder and robbery, respectively. But Harley's an action gal. She has the energy to burn and a bat to swing, and most of all, she has shit to not think about.

So she's delighted when this guy's goons happen to be relatively okayish at fighting, which is much more than can be said for most men she fights in this city. 

"I'll go deal with him before he can escape," Ivy says, already walking towards the door to his office. "You guys all right out here?" 

"We're great ." Selina says in that tone she has where she pretends she's annoyed but you can tell she's having a blast. 

Honestly. Who wouldn't  be having a blast? It's like whack-a-goon!

"So," Selina says as soon as Ivy's out of earshot, which Harley can appreciate as an act of friendship, "no pheromones, I take it?"

"Nope!" Harley punctuates the word by slamming her bat into some guy's face. "None at all."

"Huh."

"What?" She's distracted enough by Selina's reply that she actually takes a punch to the face, which only manages to piss her off. She turns to look at the guy who delivered the blow just so he can see the look in her eyes before she completely obliterates his face. "Holy shit, dude. Can't you see we're having a fucking CONVERSATION !?"

For the next few minutes, Harley focuses on getting rid of the last few men around them so they can finish talking. Sure, beating up idiots is fun, but that little 'huh' was just mysterious enough to grab Harley's interest. What could possibly be so huh-worthy about her being fine? 

By the time they're done, there are a number of unconscious goons scattered all over the place. Harley pants, using her hand to wipe blood (mostly not hers) and sweat (mostly hers) off her face as she catches her breath.

"Whew. That was fun, right?"

Selina, as usual, manages to look spotless even if Harley saw her deal with several men with her own two eyes. Is Selina Kyle secretly magic? 

Could be.

"I've had better." Selina uses one of her claws to unlock an ornate little box and gather the jewels inside. Can she smell  expensive stuff? "Come on, let's go get Ivy."

"No, no, wait." Harley lowers her voice like she's scared Ivy may hear them somehow. "What did you mean earlier?"

"What do you mean, what did I mean?"

"You know," Harley motions in the general direction of the spot where Selina was when they were talking before, "with the huh."

"The what ." 

"The huh, Selina! The huh!" Dark olive eyes narrow in confusion (and annoyance), and Harley groans because she can't believe Selina Kyle is being this thick. "I said no pheromones. And you said huh."

"Oh, that." Selina uses a polished silver platter as a mirror to reapply a lipstick Harley is frankly not sure where one would even carry in a skin-tight leather jumpsuit. The more time she spends with Selina, the more convinced she is she just doesn't abide by the laws of physics. 

And the more time she waits for Selina to elaborate, the more Harley realizes she just... isn't going to, apparently.

"Uughhh!" Harley groans and uses her bat to smash a nearby sculpture. "You're killing me, Selina! What the fuck did you mean!?"

Selina cocks one perfectly manicured eyebrow (Harley can tell it's happening under the mask) and gives Harley a look like she can't believe she'd have the audacity to speak to her in that tone. 

"I meant," Selina's tone is a warning, like she wants to make it clear she could have made Harley suffer more if she wanted, but she's choosing not to, "I found it surprising. You looked a bit loved up to me."

"What? Pffft." Harley lets out a chuckle and nudges one of the pieces of the sculpture with her foot. "Cut back on the catnip, Selina."

Loved up. Ridiculous. Does she love Ivy? Of course. Is she loved up? Of course not . There's no heart emoji fog. None at all.

"If you say so." Selina gives her A Look. The kind of look says she doesn't believe Harley, and she wants Harley to know that even if she won't engage in an argument about it right now. Selina Kyle can say a lot with one look. 

For a moment, Harley considers pushing the issue. She could insist. She could give her a list of reasons why she's absolutely not loved up at all whatsoever. She could tell Selina how what she shares with Ivy is actually true friendship, and Selina would know if she was capable of bonding with anything other than cats and jewelry. She could tell her how there's nothing even remotely mind-foggy about her feelings for Ive (she could bring up she's seen that mind fog in action the many times Ive's put Batman under her spell, even). Harley could tell Selina how her brain always feels a bit foggy in a vague kind of way -- just foggy enough to keep Harleen quiet and let Harley take the wheel -- but being with Ivy makes her feel more lucid, more real , than anything else in the world. How when Ive says she loves her Harley feels it right in her bones, in the very marrow of them, in the deepest, darkest, longest-forgotten parts of her brain where no other feeling can ever reach.

She could tell her how wildly different all that is from a silly potion-induced love fog. But she doesn't think Selina would understand their friendship even if Harley actually spelled it out. So she doesn't.

Instead, she silently follows Selina towards the office where Pam's been doing her thing. Where Pam's still doing her thing, actually, and Harley can't help but smile and lean against the doorframe to watch her best friend doing what she loves most (after Harley) in the world: eco-conscious murder.

"I fucking swear ," Ivy hasn't realized they're there, so she must be talking to what Harley can only assume is the tycoon himself even though only one of his legs can be seen outside the enormous mouth of a very happy-looking carnivorous plant, "how hard is it to not print out e-mails? Look at all this shit. Do you know how many trees had to be killed so you could print out your shitty... whatever the fuck this is?" 

Ivy groans like she's frustrated she can't use her powers to just will all the papers scattered everywhere to turn back into trees. There are vines everywhere -- like nature reclaiming the furniture and the walls and the floors and really every surface of his office. There's a strange beauty to it, Harley thinks. Haunting, like those pictures of abandoned buildings covered in grass and moss and weeds. Even when she's angry -- and oh, she's angry  right now -- Ivy really can't help but make the world a more beautiful place, can she?

Even when she was on the other side of the reinforced glass, wearing her glasses and her white coat, Harley never fully understood why Poison Ivy was lumped in with the rest of the psychos in Gotham.

Harley doesn't know how long she stays there. Selina's happily working on the safe next to the carnivorous plant, and Harley's more than content to just watch Ivy in her element for a while.

And then, it happens. 

Ivy's going on a rant about a bunch of single-use coffee cups she's found in the trashcan by the desk when she suddenly stops in her tracks. Harley can't see what she's looking at until Ivy turns around with a small flower pot in her hand, a sad-looking, mostly dry plant limply hanging off its side.

"Fuck him."

Ivy touches the plant and her brow furrows, and Harley knows she's feeling the thirst and the pain in the little plant as if it was her own. "You're okay now," Ivy says as the plant starts to recover, and her voice is so soft -- so full of love for a dry, nearly dead plant -- that Harley swears she feels her heart grow at least a couple sizes. She watches her best friend breathe life into a little plant, watches it turn from brown to green, brighter and taller, watches it sprout new leaves that make it look like it's stretching after a long sleep. And then she watches a bright yellow flower bloom, and when Harley finally manages to tear her eyes away from the flower to look at Ivy instead, she swears she feels her heart stop dead in its tracks.

Ive's always beautiful. Always, without fail, no matter what time of day or night, lounging at home or brooding in an Arkham cell. Pam is beautiful always. But Harley doesn't think she's ever seen her look more beautiful than she does right now, with her hair slightly disheveled after a fight and some blood (not at all hers) splattered on her face and clothes. It's the way she's smiling at that little plant. The way her smile grows and softens when she notices Harley looking at her. Harley's so enthralled by Ivy that she doesn't realize what she's thinking until it's been running through her mind for a while.

God , Harley's in love with her.

And that's when she realizes. That's when she hears the proverbial record scratch in her brain and her eyes widen in horror because there it is. There's the pink fog before the botanical mutation, right? I mean she can't exactly see a literal pink fog, but she may as well. She can feel her heartbeat all over the place. The butterflies in her stomach. The nearly all-consuming need to grab Ivy and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. 

"Shit. Shit, Red, shit, shitshit shit ."

Ivy's no longer smiling. At all.

"Oh God, Pammy. I fucked up." Harley feels her eyes well up with tears as she rushes towards her best friend because this is no longer a hypothetical: this is happening. She did  drink something dangerous. And suddenly keeping Ivy from finding out and getting mad at her feels less important than fucking surviving. "I fucked up, Ive, I drank a potion and now I'm turning into a fucking plant, please  tell me you have an antidote."

"Harley. Harl, look at me." Ivy looks so genuinely concerned Harley's sure the ridiculous amount of love she can see in green eyes must be part of the potion's effects. She's hallucinating, isn't she? "What potion? You're immune, Harley, you know that. Calm down."

"No, no! Not poison, I mean--" Harley shakes her head but has to stop when Ivy places her hands on Harley's cheeks to hold her head steady and look into her eyes like she's wondering if Harley's on drugs or something. "I mean a love potion, Ive! Shit, I thought it was water and I just drank the whole thing and I thought maybe it was nothing because I felt fine but now I know for sure  I fucked up because I'm so in love with you like-- just feel this!" Harley grabs one of Ivy's hands and moves it from her cheek down to her chest, pressing it right where her heart is still skipping all over itself. "Right?"

"I-- I don't-- Harl, what potion ? You're immune to all of my--"

"The pheromones! I don't know what it was! God I'm such a fucking fuck-up and now I'm just-- shit I hope I at least turn into a rhododendron bush or something because I don't want to be a succulent, Ive. Don't let me turn into a succulent." Harley's really crying now, black mascara running down her cheeks and staining Pam's hand as she struggles to breathe through her words. "I know I should've told you but I didn't want you to be disappointed and now I'm in love and it's just-- Selina, you tell her!"

"Selina?" Ivy turns around like she's just realized Selina is still in the mansion, let alone in the room with them. "What's going on?"

Harley was expecting Selina to tell Ivy exactly what happened that morning. She was expecting Selina to tell Ivy all about Harley being an idiot who drinks things without looking first, about the pheromones and chill, about Harley's refusal to tell Ivy right away. Instead, Selina looks... almost like she's the one who's been caught in a lie.

"Selina, what the fuck did you do?" Ivy's voice sounds like she's mere seconds away from feeding Selina to the plant, too. Harley can feel the anger like tingles where Ivy's hands are still pressed against her skin. "What did you give her?"

Selina lets out a sigh. "Margarita mix."

"What?" Harley feels a lightbulb go off inside her brain. That  was the weird taste when she drank whatever was in that bottle. Fucking margarita mix. But just.. "Why? What the fuck, Selina? Why would you let me think it was pheromones? I know Batman doesn't actually fuck bats, probably. Come on, it was a joke! Mostly!" 

"Will you relax?" Selina sounds like she can't believe Harley may be a bit agitated after spending a whole day thinking she's going to die and/or mutate into a plant. "I'm sick of watching you two idiots pretend that ," she points in the general direction of Harley and Ivy, "is just a couple of gals being pals. Figured I'd help you out."

"Help!?" Harley could just-- God , she could just smash Selina's face in with her bat. But she suddenly realizes there's a much more pressing issue to handle before revenge can even begin to be considered. "Shit, Red," Harley takes one step back to look at Ivy, and for the first time ever she's surprised to see she can't read the look in her eyes, "I didn't mean-- you know I didn't mean any of it, right?" For a split second Harley swears something like pain flashes behind green eyes, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared. "I was just worried and I-- I got in my head about it. But you know I didn't mean it. You know , right? Pammy?"

It takes Ivy a few seconds to answer, and when she does she sounds... different. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

For some reason, it doesn't sound as reassuring as Harley though it would.

"Come on, Ive--" Selina tries to keep talking, but Ivy cuts her off.

"Listen, we're done here. So I'm just gonna..." Ivy shakes her head like she's trying to physically clear it of thoughts and feelings and general clutter, "I'm just gonna go home."

Harley feels like she's stuck to the floor. She just stands there, silent and frozen in place as she watches Ivy leave. She knows this isn't right. She knows something  just happened -- something she can't quite wrap her brain around right now. All she knows is Ivy's leaving, and she wants her to stay but she doesn't know how to make her body move or make any noises until her gaze drops to the desk and she sees the little plant right there.

"Ive!" Harley grabs the pot and runs out just in time to see Ivy's vines lifting her up through the same skyline they used to get in. "Ivy, you forgot the plant!"

But Ivy doesn't come back.

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 2

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: light anxiety Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Chapter 2! Our pals are kicking it off already. Can you smell the chemistry? The rOMANCE? LESSGO

Pictures used in this chapter were found on google images :)

Beta: no one.

Catch up! : Part 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2: overthinker.

From: y/n_andrews85 To: D_impala67 Subject: I have your phone. That sounds creepy. I don’t think there’s a non-creepy way of writing this. Whatever.

Dear Dean, is it?

I just wanted to let you know I found your phone at the bus stop the other night. I wasn’t planning on holding on to it, really, but I got worried that you may have been in trouble, and then you never really looked for it either so, I don’t know, I figured better than someone who’ll snatch it and leave, you know?

Anyways, that’s why I’m emailing. I snooped through it a little, sorry, hopefully you’ll understand it was kinda necessary? Maybe we can arrange something so I can get it back to you. This girl, Jamie, keeps sending me (well you technically) topless photos of her. It’s not really what lights my candle. I’m assuming you’d like it back too.

I hope you’re safe. Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Y/n Andrews

-

Do you believe me now?

oh god

you didn’t

Sure did

wow. just wow.

you just handed his ass back to him holy shit!

last time he called, he said he dropped his phone while walking back to his motel, so

he’s okay.

That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe.

I was planning on including something along the lines of “This would’ve been easier if you were an active member of the 21st century and used social media”

But I figured the Jamie thing was motive enough?

yeah. topless Jamie? that’s something else.

Don’t be getting any ideas, dude, I don’t do nudes lmao.

oh god, no i didn’t think that

you did not just type lmao though. how old are you again?

oh god, you’re not 14 or something right? i don’t know what that would make me.

Don’t worry about it, I turned 16 last week.

…

are you serious?

Lmao, no, I’m kidding. I’m twenty-two.

But I think the word you’re looking for is a creep. Oh, and an ageist.

ouch.

Haha, I’m joking.

Lighten up, what are you, ninety?

hi pot meet kettle.

Shit I walked right into that one.

also i’d like to think i don’t text like a ninety-year-old man. could be wrong though

to answer your question i’m twenty-four.                                

Twenty-four huh? I assume you’re done with college, no?

Or- wait, I guess not everyone goes to college.

Yes, this is me fishing for information.

well… i kinda dropped out.

decided to go on a road trip with my brother.

things went a little south I ended up continuing the family business.

Damn, college drop-out ey? Where from?

Also, Family business? What do you do?

Is this too interview-y? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snoop.

you’re good.

stanford. pre-law.

and my brother and i are private investigators. that’s why he’s not in Kansas with me. he’s working a case.

Daaaaamn. Stanford AND a lawyer? And now working as a PI? You’re pretty smart, then.

an ageist and a generalist? i didn’t take you for such y/n.

Fuck, okay, you sound like a lawyer too.

hahahah

so what about you?

What about me?

are you in college?

Oh yeah! Film school. My dream has always been to be a director. It’s rare to find someone who loves movies more than I do.

that’s really cool.

hey i’ve been meaning to ask.

Thinking of me, Sam?

…

Do tell.

how come you were walking home through a park in the middle of the night the other day?

Ooh, I was coming back from work.

I’m a bartender and I had a late shift on Friday.

oh I see. That makes sense yeah.

I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m legitimately three seconds away from falling asleep. I’m gonna hit the hay.

See you later, Sam :)

See you, y/n :)

A smile creeps on Y/n’s features at the thought of more conversations with Sam. He has given her something to look forward to, something to make her a little more excited during her boring every-day life. As she tucks herself in under her covers, eyelids heavy enough to droop involuntarily, the last thing she thinks of is him, the clever, sassy, twenty-four year old college dropout on the other side of the cracked phone screen. The overwhelming urge to get to know him overtakes her as she succumbs to sleep

--

So

Do you believe in ghosts?

that’s… random.

May be

why do you ask?

Idk, just wanna get to know you better.

that’s what you ask people you want to get to know better?

Yes?

Are you avoiding the question?

no

i do. believe in ghosts.

You?

So do i.

Well, sorta. I guess I believe in souls more than anything.

hm?

Well… I guess I hope (more than believe) that we are more than our corporeal selves.

In the sense that, it’s comforting to me that when we die, and our bodies stop working, we don’t evaporate.

I guess.

yeah I understand.

i don’t know. i guess i wanna believe in science more than anything but i know better.

How do you mean?

call it a hunch.

Oh c’mon, it’s gotta be more than that.

Sam…?

Y/n huffs out a breath, gnawing at her lip. She hopes her anxiety isn’t right, that Sam isn’t sick of her silly questions and existential dread, and is actually doing something. Perhaps his battery ran out.

...Sure.

She was doing something too, before she decided to text him. Eyes falling on all her books and notes, spread around her like ugly, depressing, anxiety-inducing flower petals. There’s a blanket over her legs, chilly fall weather seeping through her bones, and there’s a half empty pizza box in front of her. She’s full and the left overs are kept for her sister, Emily, who’s currently locked up in her room.

Damn it. Y/n is stressed and tired, and now her distraction is refusing to reply. This sucks. She hates the crawling, awful, gooey feeling of cold anxiety gripping every beat of her heart and stupidly convincing her he’s purposefully ghosting her, because he doesn’t like her.

Not knowing what to occupy herself with, she heads to take a shower. In the back of her head, she knows that she’ll probably not study any longer, so she takes it upon herself to sink under the hot water and wash thoroughly, trying to get her mind off Dean’s phone. When her feet step out of the shower and she has towel-dried herself as best as she can, she tosses her wet hair in a haphazard bun, and gets dressed.

Books stack under the rickety, stained coffee table, and she grabs her sketchbook, her favorite pencil, as well as her and Dean’s phone. She shoots Connor a text, arranging a hang out of some kind, and opens her little booklet, when a text vibrates Dean’s phone.

hey i’m sorry i got caught up in something.

It’s alright.

She doesn’t press the ghost subject, because he doesn’t seem into it and she really doesn’t wanna make him dislike her any more than he possibly already does.

The empty page of her sketchbook daunts her. With a tight grip on her mechanical pencil, she urges her creativity pumps to use some gasoline, but they seem limp and dead, and once more unwilling to help her. As her eyes fall on Dean’s phone, like a light bulb out of a cartoon, she gets an idea.

Hey, this might sound creepy, but what do you look like?

She stares at the phone. This feels like a risky question. God, if he wasn’t done with her before, he certainly must be now. But then, he surprises her.

why do you wanna know?

I’m in the mood to sketch some, and my creativity has officially left the building.

Care to help a girl out? Maybe your literary descriptions will spark something in me lmao.

i didn’t know you sketched.

Yeah, sometimes. Nothing great though, I promise. I’m certainly no Picasso.

i mean you don’t have to be picasso to sketch well. and you don’t have to sketch well to sketch at all.

Yeah, may be.

I don’t wanna pressure you into anything, you really don’t have to humor me.

If you do feel like it though, don’t send me a picture. Kinda wanna spark some life into my brain cells.

haha i will. only if you show me the finished product tho.

You’ve got yourself a deal :)

She simply cannot believe he has just agreed to this. Her breath is caught in her throat.

so.

what do you want me to start with?

Just whatever. Idk, tell me about your face.

well

i have brown curly-ish hair that reaches my ears. uh, my eyes are hazel.

Okay, that’s a start.

What’s your nose like?

it’s a bit pointy. thin i think?

Jawline?

sharp? i guess?

this is by far the weirdest thing i’ve done.

Lmao, yeah, this is pretty weird.

Exciting though.

She shouldn’t have said that. Fuck, that is definitely overeager.

yeah it is.

Her stomach feels floaty at his response.

Eyebrows?

uh

normal?

How do you classify “normal” eyebrows, exactly?

i don’t know? they’re simple i guess.

Are you implying complicated eyebrows exist out there?

…

Elaborate, Sam. Are you shy? Do you not have eyebrows? Are they bushy? Or too thin? Or pointy?

i’m telling you they’re average.

Sam

what

You officially suck at this.

oh fuck off how would you describe yours?

Y/n proceeds to write a cohesive sentence that includes adjectives apart from “normal” and “average”. Words like bushy, thin, arched and curvy.

well shit yeah i guess i do suck at this.

i think it’s not a skill i mind not having.

That… is a confusing sentence.

just… draw them however. what difference can eyebrows make?

Oh you have no idea.

Okay, last thing.

Do you have a fringe?

yeah but not for long. i’ll probably let it grow out.

Okay, I can do something with that. Thanks :)

no problem

Her creativity is finally servicing her according to her commands, and Y/n puts pen to paper and scribbles messily. Line after line, they curl and sit on the page, forming a smile with thin lips, a sharp jaw, a pointy nose. She has to guess the eyebrows a bit, and the eyes are more cartoonish and generic than she likes. In the end, she gets anxious at the prospect of having to show him, and gives him a hood, so she won’t fuck up the hair.

Okay, I’m done.

that was quick, actually.

Well I didn’t have much to go on.

Sam doesn’t reply. She worries he might have misinterpreted her teasing tone.

Gimme a sec, I’ll send it over.

Ugh, Dean’s camera is such shit. Do you mind if I send it from my phone?

no go ahead.

[Y/n has sent a picture]

As you said, it didn’t take long. It’s really not the best.

that…

is actually not too far from the truth

it kind of looks like me from two years ago

wow, really?

yeah.

and it’s honestly a pretty good sketch. good job.

Thank you :)

Sam doesn’t say anything after this, and she huffs. Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares at the ceiling. She should go to bed soon, it’s getting late.

isn’t this strange?

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit, she thinks. He’s regretting this. He doesn’t like her. He’ll stop talking to her and that’ll be it.

Why does she care so much? It’s a thought that passes through her mind. It hasn’t been long since they started talking and, after the near-kidnapping encounter, they’ve been having nearly daily conversations, but that still doesn’t mean much. She knows barely anything about him.

She guesses, she wants to get to know him better. He seems like the type of guy she’d enjoy hanging out with and she has so far. Stopping any kind of conversation would surely feel like a loss. She’d have to go back to her boring routine. This is the most exciting thing she has allowed herself to do in years.

A part of her feels rather lame for finding such a thrill at something so trivial. She’s talking to a stranger, and that’s all it is, but the prospect that he could be anyone at all, and she’s never even seen his face… well… It feels refreshing, new. Scary in an adrenaline-rush kind of way.

What is?

us. texting.

isn’t it a little odd?

I guess it is a bit.

I mean we’ve only known each other for, what, a week? And a half?

yeah.

should we stop?

I don’t know

Do you want to?

The extra moment his reply takes to arrive makes her want to vomit.

no

Then there’s your answer.

okay then

can I save you in my contacts?

Sure, go ahead.

I just did too.

alright.

Okay :)

I’m sorry, I have to go.

I guess I’ll text you later, Sam.

Go be whoever Sam Something is.

it’s winchester.

Like the shotgun?

yup.

That’s BADASS. Can you even get more badass than this? Pre-law, now a PI, and you’re named after a shotgun? Damn dude.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Sam. I’m Y/n Andrews.

Haha thanks.

nice to meet you, too

goodnight Y/n Andrews.

Night Sam Winchester :)

--- Part 3

A/N: Thoughts? How are you liking the newer version of this? right after I post it, I’m gonna delete the other one.

Taglist:

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii  @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain

[virtuangel]

bye bye 2020, hello 2021 !!

happy new year everyone!! there’s a lot of people i want to thank for making last year so much more bearable so i tried writing some messages for some of my dearest mutuals this year as well!! (keyword tried because i absolutely cannot put my feelings and thoughts into words. i love you all though and thank you so so so much!!!)

@angelhyunjin : angi!! i know you’re not on here anymore (actually i just found out . i ran to twt to find u as quick as i could!!) but it felt weird not?? putting you on here because you WERE a big part of my year!! i was always excited to chat with you and i rlly rlly loved (still do) seeing your art and your dance covers i can’t believe how talented at both you are!! you are really really lovely and even if it’s been a while i hope you know i still think of you and hope you’re doing well!! this year might have been hard but i hope 2021 will be much nicer to you because you definitely deserve it!! i love you!! 

@cinanamon : stephie!! i think we haven’t talked in a while until we started suddenly bonding over minho but all is well that ends well because now we are the founders of a minho cult and that’s all i could hope for in life i think! we don’t talk that much but seeing your tags in all the minho posts is always a TIME i absolutely love reading them! thank you for being there to lose it over minho, always, but also for being there in general! you are really sweet and i do love to talk to u!! i also know you are a really good writer so i hope 2021 brings you lots of inspiration to write more!! (and i’ll finally catch up on your fics too! hehe) happy new year!! 

@cocogoat : puppy !! i think we haven’t been friends for long actually and that sounds fake because that would mean there was a time i didn’t instinctively check your blog when i woke up in the morning (or the evening let’s be real)?? you are so! adorable and for what!!!!!! i really do love seeing you pop up in my phone notifs and reading your posts even if i dont have any idea what they’re saying half of the time unless it’s dgrp (i cannot believe i have a dgrp friend now. amazing i think i won) u are so funny and so cute and i’m really glad i got to know you because!! you’re such a nice friend that i! love! times can be hard but i hope 2021 is gentle with you because that is! what! you deserve! gentle pats and tight hugs! (maybe that’s why i associate ab6ix’s heaven with you it’s the gentle vibes) <3

@glossiers : miss bri i am in love w u that’s it. no i’m kidding that’s not it i have much more to say . i am in lov w u though #brillie2k21 i think. i think it’s been a surprisingly short time since we’ve actually started talking?? which is kinda crazy if u ask me because?? how the hell did i live my life without screaming BRIIIII whenever i see u on the dash like for real how . that sounds like a life so empty like. that would rlly be missing . something?? anyways u are a dear dear friend that i really really love and i’m sure you know that but i will keep saying it anyway! i’m sure i’m pretty annoying so thanks for putting up with me! and for talking to me! i feel like i’ve said it before but! you are a delight to see on the dash and i lovlovlov talking to u (and sending u pics of my cats, thank u for appreciating them). i still cannot believe u managed to convince yourself i was a hyeongjun stan though. hope i can be convincing enough to clear that up and leave no doubts in your brain this year. anyways i love you and i hope we can continue to be friends and talk even MORE this year!!!!!! happy new year ilu <3

@hwacinth : miss dia my sweet sweet floral nymph real life shirayuki and queen of urls! i am? so so so so so glad that we are friends you literally have my heart it is YOURS i can’t even try to claim it back!! you literally are shirayuki i don’t even know how to elaborate i think it’s just self-explanatory but you are just. such a sweet little sunshine!! it’s like you bring spring everywhere you go!! we could be in a middle of a metaphorical storm but when you appear the skies clear up and flowers bloom wherever you step and i cannot help but smile when i see you online!! thank you so so much for being my little ray of sunshine in these tough times! i hope to see even more of your posts this year!! don’t hesitate to live blog anything you watch in my dms if you feel like you’re posting too much (but i hope you never feel that way because you’re not . love seeing u live post it is absolutely amazing i won’t ever get tired of it)!! happy new year and i love you!! ps only 1 more hour until your birthday HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIA ILUUU <3 I HOPE YOU CAN HAVE A WONDERFUL ONE!! IM SENDING YOU CAKE TELEPATHICALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

@hwisgf : sorinaaaa! happy new year!! we don’t talk that much but it is always nice seeing you around! you are vv sweet and i really appreciate that, thank you for taking the time to talk to me sometimes!! you are also probably my only fantasy mutual?? which is terrible on one side because i think everyone should stan sf9 but that’s besides the point . i really do love the fact that i at least have u to talk to abt sf9 if need and i LOVE seeing u in love with hwi it is absolutely amazing. i am forever grateful for all the free hwi pics days too!! <3 i hope 2021 can be a year full of happiness for you!! (also that is also besides the point but @ fnc i want an sf9 cb announcement) ILY!! (and so does hwi)

@inkigayeo : miss vivi galaxy brain happy new year!! we only started talking recently but u do have my heart already!! i hope this year treats you well and that we can get to know each other more and be friends hehe!!!! <3 (my other wish is for u to stop breaking my heart with those fake titles. please . why should san NOT come back explain yourself .)

@jeongcheols : mimi . mimi mimi mimi im literally typing this as u are listening to that ten n dj stage ok now it’s kai ok anyways . ANYWAYS i am loving your sm concert live commentary . criminal is sounding amazing taemin is insane indeed (yes i took a break before coming back to writing this) i truly don’t know what to say?? n i have to keep watching the time so that i can scream HAPPY NEW YEAR into the mic in 14 minutes. but like?? i love you?? like. like for real i don’t know what i would’ve done without you?? also it’s weird writing this for tumblr instead of just in your messages (also i can’t focus with idea playing. idea soty). and i mean. you technically know all of this but like?? i can’t believe we’ve known each other for so long but also such a short time at the same time like. what. thank you for being my bestestest friend and my soulmat i don’t think i would’ve been able to remain sane this year (and last year too honestly) if it wasn’t for you?? thank you for always listening to my incoherent rants and i’m always so sorry for spamming you while you’re asleep i know you must wake up to like 150+ messages with absolutely no connection between them and they’re all just so random i truly don’t know how you manage to not get annoyed and to just stay with me all this time i’m- getting emotional. you had a terrible year, i know it! i really do!! and while it might not be looking too bright right now, i hope the universe hears me and treats you much better in 2021 because!! you deserve so much more!! you deserve the world, really!!! i love you!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (i would write more really but like what is there to say literally i’m just (your emoji)) i love you for real;;

@nakyngs : ele <3 happy new year!!!!!! we haven’t talked much this year but i do think of u a lot daily i hope you know that!! and i love u a lot! even if i still need to catch up on all your aus </3 i hope 2021 can be a fun and stress-free year for you!! and we should catch up sometime too!! ps i hope your fish are ok

@ncityzen : dear spring fairy!! i already sent you a new year’s message earlier today like what. 6 hours ago but! once again!! i really do hope you can leave the hard times behind in 2020 and only get the best things possible this new year!! i’m always very happy to see you appear on my dash and curious to see your life updates and your random literature-related mini-rants in the tags they are always very interesting to see!! so! hoping to see even more of that this year <3 i hope you know that i love you and i really care about you!!

@woojjongs : MISS IRI! i am screaming this very loud so hopefully u can hear me all the way in canada! okay i had to leave this one for last because i?? don’t really know how to start i’m just a pink glittery puddle with lil hearts flowing in it that is how i feel towards u right now . how does one think and how does one write down their thoughts coherently give me a second. this is going to be a mess maybe u shouldn’t read it (‘accidentally’ forgets to tag u). just know that i decided to play txt’s wishlist to write this and u might be confused by that but all u need to know is that it means i love you very much. OKAY so miss iri you are . such a wonderful pal i truly don’t know what i would’ve done without you like . it would feel so weird not seeing you around tumblr would be so so so so empty i don’t even think you can begin to imagine how empty i’d feel without you around here ksdjbskbds i absolutely adore you but we already knew that. i’m always super excited to see your gifsets and your nonsense!! be it your love for woojong or u missing lim jimin (play m.. 🔪) or your snoo brainrot or hating literally anyone on smtm or whatever else it might be i love it all!! you are so cute and adorable and talented and sweet and funny i cannot believe you also happen to be the prettiest person on earth too. how does that feel! anyways i love you so so so so so much? i keep telling you to hold back from committing crimes but i absolutely WOULD commit a crime for u i really do adore you!! i mean . how many groups did u make me stan . (ok actually i don’t think there’s that many. but STILL) i know i can be super annoying but thank u for taking the time to chat with me nonetheless!! i’m all over the place but . there’s times i come online literally just to check your blog nothing else! i hope we can continue to be friends this year too n perhaps talk more (or the same amount idk please tell me off when i’m too annoying)!! happy new year, i hope it holds wonderful things in store for u!!!!!! and we really are starting off great since victon comeback is approaching <3 (this got way too long i’m so sorry i’ll cut it off now before i write 10 pages)

@xiaocity : miss siya hello hello hello first of all i’m just so very glad that you’re back i l o v e you!!! i love seeing you around be it your gifs or your text posts which yes. i cannot properly understand half of the time but google is my best friend after all! you’re such a wonderful person and i’m just?? really glad to have you around like?? you feel kind of like a cousin i don’t always get to see but am always excited to talk to when i can? this might not make sense but. you are vvv cool and talented and funny and feel very like. reliable? i feel like i am not making any sense so like ignore me. what i’m saying is i really really like you a whole lot and i really hope we can talk even more in 2021!! happy new year, i hope it’s a wonderful one for you!!

@yunwoo : miss anna we haven’t been moots for that long and we haven’t talked much but u are vvv cute and i hope we can become (better) pals this year!! i’m looking forward to seeing u on the dash more often, hopefully!! happy new year <3

[redevenir]

rigil kentaurus (pt. i)

The brightest star of the Alpha Centauri solar system – our closest neighour. Its name is the latinisation of the arabic رِجْل القِنْطورُس‎ Rijl al-Qinṭūrus, meaning the Foot of the Centaur. It is slightly larger and more luminous than the Sun. W

seungkwan x reader

wc : ~ 4000

summary : you are only a spectator of your life until they take your hand and let you live it.

a/n : started it as a seungkwan piece, then turned it into a johnny one then coming back to seungkwan bc this is how i wan to keep writing it. it's like i can't keep writing it if it's not seungkwan i don't know.

« It’s the fourth one. » Chan’s voice is only a hushed whisper but you hear how bothered he is. You don’t answer.

I know…

No, It’s already the fourth one tonight, and it’s only eleven!

I know…

It’s like they’re not even trying! Seungkwan barely avoids the tea towel as Chan raises his arms out of exasperation. If they don’t what a cappuccino is, why do they order it anyway? It’s a coffee shop, just buy a coffee! You know you don’t need to answer that. You’ve been working here for months and complaining about customers seems to be a universal way of breaking the ice. You’ve heard this speech from your first week at the counter, and with time you’ve come to agree with whatever colleague you were with, on every single point. Not once have you considered quitting to find something else instead. It is, indeed, not the best place. At the entrance of the city, the beginning of the highway. It is neither cozy nor warm. The air conditioning is too strong half of the year, the radiator too hot during the six months of winter. You are either sweating or shivering. The playlist is sickening, and never in tune with the season. You ignore Maria Carey’s christmas’s vocals as you give a customer a refill. Night workers and truck drivers are your only customers during the night shifts. You have stopped judging them long ago.

For months on end, the only thing Chan could tell about his coworker was that you were not a model employee. It was hard to blame you for anything specific. But you felt off. You felt nothing. When Seungkwan asked him how his shifts went, he would just shrug. It felt like he spent many of his nights on his own rather than with you. Like you were not there with him. Every evening he would arrive, greet you and feel like it was the first time ever. And he would grumble about it.

Can you believe I know nothing about her ?

Well, she’s surely a very private person.

Yes, and that’s rude.

You make little to no effort to appeal to the customers. In fact, you barely engage at all with them. Although, and this is your secret, you do have your favorites. From the three maintenance workers of the power plant to the security guard who comes four times a week, before the end of your shift, after the end of his own, Chan has found out that, if he listens to you close enough he’ll learn their names. Because you know them. You often seem to be elsewhere, but when you wish them a nice evening, or good luck, you do say their name, quietly, without any fuss. A sign to him you weren’t completely indifferent but thoughtful in a different way from his. There is nothing likeable to the Dreamy Drivin Chan works at. First of all, it is not a drive-in, nor a drive-through, it is a mere coffee shop. Not a fancy one, not a chain one. The counter’s light green is ugly, the temperature’s always off, and the pay is honestly not much. This is how life is at the border of the city. You catch what you can get and you try to make it work. He assumes the reason you’ve landed there is the same as his and Seungkwan’s : dropped from school, without any proper qualification for a living. He assumes you are his age, that your face must look younger when you are not tired. Chan is nice. Well, Chan likes to tease his friends, but Chan is nice. He tries to reach you, one sentence at a time.

White noises. The purring of the coffee machine you’ve never seen off. They come in, white shirt, stained jeans, black coats. They order the same thing, the largest, darkest coffee you got. You serve them with a « good night », « good luck » if you feel in a kinder mood. Since Seungkwan’s smile is bright and big and loud, you’ve decided you didn’t need to fake one of your own. They pay for their order and leave for never ending roads you cannot quite picture in your mind. When you work long shifts, it seems to you the world is shrinking, that if you open the front door you will fall into a bottomless pit. That the joke of a coffee shop you work at is some sort of asteroid gas station where rocket drivers stop by on their way to the Andromeda galaxy. You tell yourself Earth is also a little rocking drifting among the stars. You welcome a new customer. You dream of outer space. It is known people turn to alcohol and other substances to forget their troubles, but you don’t need that. Numbness greets you every time the pointing machine does its trick, and you even lose sight of your daily life. Surely you have one, plants to grow, books to read, hiking to walk and messes to clean. People to see and a sun to meet. But here, behind your pale green counter, you consign it all to oblivion. Here, there is only the world in your head and the star who takes orders by your side that exist. Your hear Chan’s annoyed sigh. You serve another coffee. It feels like taming the crow that lives in the tree in front of his building. Like he could give you bread and even croissant crumbs every single night and you would still be distant. And one day, you initiate the conversation, and he knows he’s done well. He remembers it just fine now. It was probably a boring wednesday, late in the afternoon. It had been a cloud few hours since he had woken up. A dim midday sun dissolving into the thick gray air. He was already behind the counter, checking the clock, when you had busted in the room, panting. There was some pathetic charm about the whole scene. You don’t hide your surprise when you see Chan already there, and a smile had made its way – oh so joyful and unsettled. The smile on your face had remained unchanged when he had asked you. And why are you late ?

I am not ? You had answered. What the manager doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

Ooh, so that’s how it is. Chan relates to that. He never complains about you again. Next time he talks about you, he tells Seungkwan you are his friend now. His quiet, merry friend who never works day shifts. Chan does. As it happens, Chan hates working the night shifts and only does it when Seungkwan can’t. Seungkwan is kind. Seungkwan is the most loveable being Chan has known in years. Seungkwan is grounded and warm, and steady. Moving in with him was like having finally his roots planted into rich, reliable earth, instead of the slippery mud he had been walking on for most of his life. Chan is heard, is seen. Chan sleeps well, and goes out of his way whenever Seungkwan asks him a favor, because it is easy to satisfy him. Easy, and right. He tells Seungkwan you’ve asked after him, and watches as the other chokes on his coffee.

Can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t notice.

When Seungkwan comes back to the night shifts, you don’t mention him ever leaving, but he notices the change in you immediately. When you greet him, he looks at your face and wonders what was so bad that your better rested face still looks worn out. You’re not as lively as he is, you’re not as lively as Chan is, hell, you’re not even as lively as Chan said you were with him – which wasn’t that much to begin with. But you are here. There is a relief in your presence. Seungkwan said nothing about his absence, and diligently drinks the cup of coffee you offer him around three. Seungkwan regrets the day shift but still. It could be worse. As he tries his best to maintain his customer service to its level – it is hard and how, how did he manage to do it before ? Is this the reason why you don’t ? Don’t set any standard, at all, so no one can be disappointed – and especially not you – when you don’t live up to them. Seungkwan wonders how hard you really are on yourself, and if he isn’t being dramatic. Maybe you’re all right. Maybe you look terrible because that’s how you look. Maybe you were born tired and he has no need to worry about you. Maybe you don’t need him to meddle in your privacy. Surely, if you wanted him to know about your life you’d tell him yourself.

The softest clunk ever heard by a human ear snaps him out of his thoughts. He meets your concerned look and the large cup of latte you’re handing to him.

Seungkwan, you should go home. Take it easy. Night shifts are hard.

He looks at you with wide eyes, opens his mouth, close it, opens it again and stutters.

But- no ! I mean- I can’t- I- I- you- I can’t let you do this alone- It- It- no, it’s not right! You shrug and gesture vaguely toward the empty diner hall.

It’s whatever, really. You try to elaborate as he doesn’t answer. No one’s here, you’re clearly not here, there’s only two hours left, just, you know. Go to sleep. I really don’t mind. You don’t have to fight me on this, by the way, it’s not like I’d tell anyone.

Seungkwan does as you say, doesn’t fight you on this. He can’t manage a proper thought, a proper thank you. He goes in the locker room, picks up his stuff, only to hesitate before the front door, until you repeat yourself, a sweet promise of rest. He spends the journey back home away from his body, replaying the scene over and over. He knows he’s screwed when he opens the door to his and Chan’s apartment. It’s ridiculous, and he would feel ashamed if he wasn’t so tired. How easy it is to let you take care of him. He crashes on his bed still in his work clothes and forgets his last thoughts.

Your shift passes without a fuss. It doesn’t feel like you’re there either.

You close your book when you realize you’re not reading anything. There is a light buzz in your brain, but it is quiet. Unthreatening. You close your eyes and your reaches for the cup of hot cocoa on your desk. It’s all nice and quiet here, and you wonder how you’ve managed to make your apartment such a peaceful nest when your mind is so often washed out by fierce tempests. You let your mind drift away, floating on a safe shore. Breaks from work are nice. Your sleep schedule is well set by now, and you can properly enjoy those forty-eight hours for yourself. You don’t spend every week night longing for them, because you never project yourself into the future, but you would if you did. Dawns are definitely your favorite moment of the day. Either they mean you can go home, or that you have an entire day to relish in the warmth of your place. It is a nest indeed. A kitchen and a bedroom, all stuffed into the maze of a much bigger building. The wooden floor is quite creaky and you do hear when the neighbor upstairs wears their heels. The walls are a very faded shade of orange, which you love – sun-like colors are for good luck. The furniture is definitely older than you are – older than your parents, probably – but it is nice. And the day you’ll leave it will remain exactly the same. More used but untouched. In a way, the atmosphere is not unlike the Dreamy. Homey and decay. Anonymous, but in a belonging way. Chan would hate it. His apartment – well, their apartment – is probably… You can’t picture it. You don’t know enough about home interiors to picture someone else’s home. Comfortable. Maybe furs as bed-covers? You have never touched one before, but sometimes you catch a glimpse of them on the passenger seat of a car. Your gaze never lingers though : you are not to look at a car owner in the eyes.

Seungkwan feels like he’d sleep nested in a bed of wool and furs. He’d probably like the soft but rough feeling of it against his skin. There’s something comforting about raw fabrics, isn’t there? A bubble of heat slowly builds in your chest and you close your eyes shut to chase the thoughts of Seungkwan’s bare skin in his bed.

Seungkwan is quiet, but not discreet. He is clumsy and always in his own world, parallel to yours, but you wonder how many light years are between you, and it is all to his credit. There is something you find commendable to his behavior. A reliable honesty. Not unlike a dog, you can tell from the look on his face whether he is content or anxious or annoyed. You do not have to imagine his hidden agenda – you are positive he has none. The easiness with which Seungkwan expresses himself still amazes you, even after a year or so of observing him a few nights a week. It seems to you his feelings have no hindrance to them : pure joy, pure irritation, pure panic whenever one of you breaks a cup – it happens more than you like to admit. When his voice rushes to tell you a quick joke between two customers, the joyful spontaneity of his tone carries you miles away from the counter, to bright afternoons on windy shores. He is quick-witted and never misses a chance to tell you whenever he notices something amusing. Simplicity is Seungkwan’s most beautiful quality, you have decided. When you are not drifting around other solar systems, when you come back home to your place, when you are lying in bed a few minutes more before getting dressed up, you try to imagine what he is doing at the same time. What does his apartment look like, what does he like to cook, does he have a dog and why is his smile so charming. Sometimes under the shower you wonder what he would think about you if he were to see you naked. You try to leave these thoughts in the shower where they belong but you cannot always control your mind and you find yourself embarrassed in front of him more often than you care to admit.

You collect information about him like a gold digger their gold nuggets. Every word he addresses you, you replay in your head again and again until you can hear him breathe them against your ear in the darkness of your bedroom. So when Seungkwan comes back, all quiet and cautious, pondering on his words and his welcoming attitude almost erased, you act on it as best as you can. You are not brave enough to properly ask him about it, so you do what you do best. You observe. How quieter he has become, and the slow but unstoppable growth of the bags under his eyes. Not that he seemed well-rested at all, which is also worrying. What did he go through that was even more tiring than working night shifts? Of course, it is none of your business. If Chan were there, maybe he’d spill the tea, but Chan made it very clear he didn’t want to work a night shift ever again. Will you ever talk to him again? The little one you’re so found of. Chan said Seungkwan was a neat roommate to have, and for him to give up the sunlight for months, you assumes he means it. The understatement is lovely. Chan would never spill Seungkwan’s secrets.

You light up the gas, put the little orange pan on it, pour the milk in it. With that you empty the milk carton, and throw it in the trash. Who knows when you’ll be able to afford milk again? You haven’t seen any in the store for weeks – and you restrain yourself from stealing the Drivin. It isn’t worth it. As you wait for the milk to heat up, you hear a gentle knock on your door. You lower the fire, apprehension growing in your chest. You’re not expecting anybody, so this can’t be good. On your tiptoes, breathing deep, you reach the front door and slowly open it. Wary, you let yourself look at whoever is standing outside.

Oh, miss, hello! Sorry to bother you! Someone just called after you, so I thought I’d let you know ! She lived here too. You don’t know her name, but she’s definitely older than you are. She lives upstairs, you’re not sure of the floor. She looks like a teacher, and her enunciation sounds like that too. She has a little polite smile on, aware of your discomfort, the stiffness of your body being obvious. As she sees your absence of reaction, she hands you a piece of paper, covered in smooth carbon writing. Definitely a teacher. One of your coworker, he said he was. I forgot yo ask for his number, but if he calls back, do you want me to tell him something specific ?

Huh, no! I mean- No, no, no, you don’t need- you don’t- you don’t need to do anything, miss. I’m- I’m sorry he took the liberty to call you, I don’t wish to bother you ! You mouth is so dry. Thank you! Thank you! Sorry again! I’ll leave you be then! Have a nice day! You shut the door without noticing the smile she has on again.

The ringing in your head takes over everything else. You try to reach for something to keep your balance and crumble against the wall, choking for air. You crumple the piece of paper in your fist, nails digging in the soft flesh of your palms, tearing little moon crescent that taint the words you haven’t even read. She knows now. What kind of person doesn’t have a telephone at home? Who, if not someone who is trying to remain unreachable? Untraceable. Your head is about to implode from the pain. Now she’ll know. Now, she knows you have something to hide. You lie on the floor, chasing after your breathe. Who will she tell? Does she live alone ? Is she a public teacher ? How long do you have until she tells on you? You cannot dare to think you might have to go now, tears burning your eyes as you hiccup desperately. The hawk claws on your chest only dig deeper and deeper until your forehead is against the floor, searching for cold, for a relief from the blades in your brain.

The crisis lasts for hours.

The room is dark when you emerge, and a faint, panicked thought about being late comes to you but you’re quick to remember you don’t have to work tonight. Smoke and the smell of burnt is all around you. Shit, the milk. Mouth dry, head numb, you slowly sit up, body hoarse. Feeling a light pain in your hands, you let your fingertips brush over the scab already formed. The piece of paper is still in your left hand, torn and bloody. Finally, you smooth it and read the few words on it. Coworker wants to know when next free day is. also have a good day. You stare at it without making any sense out of it. What coworker? Which one? Your planning is with everyone else’s at work. You feel nauseous. Muscles sore, you stand up and go to the kitchenette to turn the fire down. Without second thought you throw the now empty pan in the trash. Fuck all of this. Mindlessly, you reach the bathroom, undressing yourself as in a dream. After you’re done you let yourself fall on the bed. Quiet, in the back of your head, you start to make a list. Tomorrow, tomorrow you will pack. Just in case.

When you arrive at work the next night, you put an obviously packed bag under the counter. You don’t greet Seungkwan. You don’t look at him. The shift goes by without a word addressed to him. At dawn, a few minutes before you’re both free to go, Seungkwan clears his throat next to you.

I-… Hum. I, well, it’s obvious you don’t want to talk about it, but- Well, just- Just so you know. Chan says he’s sorry. He would never hav- You cut him off, stern, as you wipe the cloth over the counter to make it shine. So it was Chan.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. You hear him open and close his mouth. He seems to understand his place.

O- Ok. Have a good day rest then.You don’t bother to answer him before leaving, bag on your shoulder.

Time passes slowly.

You haven’t looked at Seungkwan in the eyes for so long now, Chan wonders if you still know what he looks like. Every afternoon when Seungkwan eats his breakfast and Chan comes back home to a most welcome snack, the night worker sighs heavy, burdened by your silence. It’s unbearable.  It’s unbearable for him to go to work every night with someone who was once friendly and has turned into a wall, a wall for which he longs to love. It’s unbearable for Chan to see his roommate on the verge of tears because of the guilt. It’s unbearable to know their action has you ready to run away every minute of every day.

The thing with Seungkwan is that he is quite good at reading people. Even though he does enjoy some unnecessary drama as much - and maybe more - as others - he usually manages to get through his life without ruffling any feather. It makes it a lot harder to comfort him with empty words when he knows you’re avoiding him, because he has been looking at you. This is how one should talk to people, he has learned. Not everyone is comfortable doing so, he also learned. Sometimes, Seungkwan says nothing, for he is afraid to annoy you away. There is no pleasure whatsoever in taking the night shift. The place is already dull by day, but by night it reaches a new dimension of boredom. Sure, it pays a bit better, but it is not worth it. Since he is not asked anyway, and he does not get to choose his shifts, Seungkwan tries to prize the strays of light in this fog of ennui. First, the night regulars seem to like him better than the day ones. He likes to think they enjoy his enthusiasm and maybe it is one of the reasons they keep coming and ordering there. The other one is you. Although now you are not at all like a light ray and more of a far away storm, high at sea.

Seungkwan would’ve liked it better if had you unleashed hell upon him. Before you used to not talk to him, but it felt more like you were shy, or reserved. Or merely didn’t know what to say, which is a very understandable feeling when you’re still at work at two in the morning five days a week. It didn’t feel awkward. Well, it sometimes felt a bit awkward, but not in the bad way. Now… Now you’re very obviously pretending he is not there, and Seungkwan wants to cry. All of it is his fault. Chan only called to you because of his rambling. I would have called her anyway. I like her. She’s my weird work friend. It’s unbearable. He jumps when Chan drops his fork on his plate with a loud clunk.

I’ll make it up. I can fix this. The eldest doesn’t look up from his meal. Chan wants to rip his own eyes and scream. With her. Inquisitive and tired eyes shoot up. I’m gonna do something about it.

Wha- Wha- Chan, there’s no fixing it, what are you talking about ? She comes to work every day with a bag which I’m sure is full of necessary stuff. You know what that means. I know what that means. She obviously know what that means. There is no fiwing this.

I know, I know. I don’t mean- Deep breathe. I know I can’t fix everything, obviously. But I’m going to apologize to her, and she’ll talk to you. And, well. It’s going to work. Seungkwan shrugs. He says nothing more until he leaves for work.

Chan slumps into the sofa. He’s fucked up big this time. It sucks. He really is a fool. Living one day at a time, he’s lost perspective. He has even forgotten why his life is like that in the first place. How could he be so careless? He’s a fly. Well, all of you are flies. Clearly, you’ve managed to get out the web and he has brought you back into it. Chan’s a fool. He stands up in a sigh, put on his shoes and goes back to the Dreamy Drivin’.

[heartslogos]

mafia!verse: hunting season [1]

“Fabricci! You’re late for dinner! You should phone ahead. Your wife and I had a lovely dinner together, but the entire time we were missing you.”

Dick doesn’t even blink when the lights flick on and the man in the doorway freezes. Dick’s eyes travel over Fabricci’s body. A little rumpled. Rosy complexion — drunk, possibly. Dick can’t smell the booze from here, but he’s sure he can figure it out without having to do a sniff test.

Fabricci is one of the stubborn hanger-ons that thinks with enough gumption, enough muscle, and enough brass he can upset Gotham’s status quo. He’s one of those who thinks that it’s time for a change and that change should be his family’s name on the billboards and in the news as Gotham’s — well. Family. Gotham only has one family and it will only ever be Wayne. That’s how Gotham started and that’s how Gotham is going to end.

If it wouldn’t get Dick teased he would have made a comment about the attitude of new money when he was discussing this with Jason and Damian.

The man turns to, no doubt yell at the poor woman huddled against the wall and ready to flinch. She’s holding the man’s coat up like a shield. But Dick stands, drawing attention back to himself.

“Oh, don’t get mad at her. She was kind enough to let me in to wait for you. And goodness how we’ve been waiting!” Dick smiles. It’s not the gentlest of smiles in his arsenal. But it’s definitely not the meanest. The woman averts her eyes anyway.

It can be hard to look into the sun, regardless of how gentle it seems.

“What did you do to her?” Fabricci demands.

“Nothing.” B’s instructions aside, Dick isn’t the kind of person who would resort to threats or violence first anyway.

There are people who get by with acts of dominance enacted by fists and fury. And that can be well and good for them, but Dick isn’t that type of person and he never will be. He’s never led with a fist. Dick’s prelude is his smile and if that doesn’t get him where he needs to be that’s when the fists can fly but there aren’t many places a smile won’t get him.

“Why are you here? You aren’t welcome in my home. You want to talk? You set up business like anybody else.”

Dick barely refrains from saying, but I’m not anybody else.

Instead Dick says, “And why aren’t I welcome in your home? You come into mine so casually.”

Dick gets a certain kind of thrill in watching the blood drain from the other man’s face. In the background the man’s wife retreats out of view. Dick would be worried if he didn’t already know who’s side she’s on. Good on her for knowing not to mess with the Wayne name. Shame that Fabricci isn’t the type of man who listens to his spouse. Dick has a feeling that if he did they might not even be living in Gotham. A man like this could probably do well elsewhere.

Dick would bet a good amount of money on Fabricci’s wife being a Gothamite. At least one person in this house respects the Wayne name and influence. All Dick had to do was knock and she’d opened the door and opened her mouth with everything she knew. Like she’d been waiting for him to show up. She almost looked relieved to have told him everything. It’s not often that Dick feels close to god, but as he sat across from her at the dining table, listening to her divulging every single detail she could remember, he almost felt like a priest hearing a confession.

“I can’t promise that you’ll be spared,” Dick had told her. She’d closed her eyes like she knew. “But I will do my best. I’ll remember what you’ve done for my family today. It takes great courage and great strength to go through what you have. And it takes a great deal of character to know when to cop up to when something’s wrong. I can promise you, after tonight, your husband’s part in this will be over.”

“Over?” She’d repeated.

Dick did not elaborate. She didn’t really need him to anyway.

“Bludhaven is mine,” Dick says plainly. “And I could have sworn that everyone knew that. But you came in with your guns and your drugs and your money, and I can’t help but wonder if perhaps it was a mistake on your part. Some sort of simple oversight. Maybe you didn’t realize that your little grab for power had spilled over the borders. If that’s the case I thought why not talk this out, all quiet, away from everyone else. You know. In case it was a mistake.”

Ah, the men of bravado and pride. They are so easy to bait. Dick feels a small curl of satisfaction as Fabricci tilts his chin up in defiance.

“And if it wasn’t, Grayson?”

“Then we have a problem, you and I, and it’s a problem we’re going to settle tonight. One way, or another.”

“Yeah? And how are you going to do that?” Unusual confidence for someone in his position. Dick doesn’t know if that’s real or fake. Or maybe there’s something else worth poking at here.

“I had thought we could talk it out over dinner. Peace isn’t made on an empty stomach, but you never showed up. Your poor wife didn’t seem to know where you were either. Or when you’d be back. Long day at work, Fabricci? What sort of trouble were you trying to cause today?”

Fabricci glares at him, face red and blotchy with fury rather than whatever was causing it earlier.

The smile never slips from his face. The harsh and angry one-sided silence is broken by the ring of a phone.

“One moment,” Dick pulls his phone out of his pocket, not looking at the screen as he answers. “What’s up, little D?”

“Are you still at Fabricci’s?” Damian sounds slightly out of breath, wound up tight like a trap ready to spring, and heated past a point of safe handling.

Dick’s smile, for the first time tonight, wavers.

“Yes. He and I are having a nice little chat. Why? Is there something you’d like me to ask him? Should I put you on speaker?”

“There was a shoot out,” Damian replies. “Near the theater house.”

Tim’s house.

Dick’s grip tightens on the phone, and his smile slides away from morning star to something brighter. Something meaner. Something infinitely vast, infinitely furious, and immeasurably lethal.

The thing about stars is that they are not immortal. The thing about stars is that with something that large, something that indescribably and incomprehensibly present, there is no way for that kind of death to go quietly.

When a star dies the rest of time and history feels it.

When Dick Grayson stops smiling the world takes notice. And it runs to hide and pray to saints who’ve barred the gates and martyrs who’ve turned their faces away.

“Thompson has him stable last I was informed but he’s still in surgery,” Damian says. “Cain and Todd are already on their way.”

“And where are you?”

“I was with him.” Damian pauses, but only for a moment. His voice gets soft. If someone was a fool they would say it goes frail. Childlike, almost. If someone had more brain cells than the fool who called it frail, they would call it warm. And if someone had more brain cells than either of those two dunces they would say Damian’s voice was fond. “Drake covered for me.”

Dick breathes in, a star getting ready, “Well what would you expect, D? That’s what family does. B say anything?”

“Father is not the most particularly verbose under stress.”

“Right. But?”

Dick pulls the phone away from his ear and switches it to speaker, thumbing the volume up to max so Fabricci can hear.

“If there is one thing Father cannot tolerate even more than guns,” Damian says after three heartbeats worth of blood and breath, “It’s injury to his people. All restrictions are, for now, off. To use Todd’s phrasing, it’s hunting season.”

Dick’s smile holds shadows that the stygian catacombs of Hell would turn away from.

“I’ll be there.” Dick hangs up, stowing his phone back into his pocket. “Is that why you were late for dinner, Fabricci? You know. You could have just said you had a prior appointment with my little brothers. You see, if there’s any exception to any rule it’s family.” Dick rolls his shoulders, fingers curling. “That’s the one thing you should never fuck around with. Especially in Gotham.”

[mnthpprt]

Chapter 16: Secrets Of Sorrow

The walk to the market is peaceful, a welcome moment of calm after the ordeal in the coffee house. Arthur points out his favorite spots as we pass by them, and we talk about every topic under the late morning sun, the conversation peppered with his usual innuendos, at which I simply roll my eyes and laugh.

I already thought he was fun to be around, but I have now seen a whole new side to him under his nonchalant charm and flirty jokes. The way he rushed to help me has made me appreciate his company in a different way. Despite his predatory attitude, I know that he would never hurt me, that he cares. He showed me the goodness in his heart, and I trust him that much more for it.

We’re in the middle of passionately discussing one of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, which I just told him about, when we run into someone.

“Will,” Arthur greets him. They know each other.

“Lucky to encounter thee on this quaint day, Arthur.” The man speaks English, but he sounds so... old. Even for the 19th century. He turns to me, his mismatched eyes on mine as he reaches for my hand and bows down to kiss it. “Forgive me, my lady, but thou art so lovely I cannot help but admire thy beauty. William Shakespeare, at thy service.” 

Well, that explains the antiquated way in which he talks. He stands straight again, and his long hair falls over one of his eyes. I forcibly shove my confusion to the back of my mind and decide to just go with it as I introduce myself, my hand still extended into his.

“Anaïs Bertran. Are you a friend of le Comte?” He nods, understanding the implication of my words. So he’s a vampire too. “How odd, I’ve never seen you at the mansion. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” There is something off putting about the way he smiles at me, almost as if he is plotting something. Regardless, I am intrigued by the glimmer in his golden eye. He finally releases his delicate hold of my hand and pushes his long hair behind his ear, revealing his other eye. The sunlight makes the red in it seem even brighter, the odd shade of pooled blood visible where his iris should be. I wonder how it got that way. 

It is then that I notice how quiet Arthur has been and glance at him. The smile on his lips is tense, forced for the sake of politeness.

“We should go,” I say. “Sebastian must be waiting for me at the market. I don’t know how I’ll get back if I miss the coach.”

Arthur nods before putting his arm around my waist.

“Good day, William.” He seems eager to usher me away, but the other writer stops us before we leave.

“Wait,” he calls out. “A friend of mine will hold a ball this week. It would be my pleasure to invite thee, lady Anaïs. Thou mayst bring whomever thou wishest as thy companion.”

“Thank you, William, I’ll be there.” Unnerving as he is, the prospect of experiencing a party in this time period sounds appealing enough for me to accept. “You know where to send the invitation.”

As soon as I nod goodbye, Arthur begins walking away, discreetly pushing me along with him. Once we’re out of earshot, I turn to him.

“So, what did he do that was bad enough to get kicked out of the mansion and warrant this cold attitude from you? Come on, spill the tea.”

“You’re quite perceptive, dove,” he chuckles. “As you have already deduced, he was turned by le Comte, but by the time I arrived he was no longer a resident. I heard he left of his own accord. As to why, I cannot say.”

“So you just dislike him because he’s creepy?” I tease him, although I would be a hypocrite to deny Shakespeare gives me a weird vibe, too.

“No, dear. I dislike him because I do not trust him.” I raise an eyebrow at his answer, and he goes on. “Dazai and I meet with him sometimes to discuss our work, as fellow authors, but there are certain... creative differences that I cannot overlook.” Before I can ask him to elaborate, he changes the topic. “I am afraid I will be unable to attend the ball with you, darling. I am approaching a deadline with a publisher and I have work to do. You should ask the other residents, though. I’m willing to bet at least one would be thrilled to accompany you.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but ultimately buy his excuse. He must be using a pseudonym or something. I decide against pressing the matter any further. Instead, we go back to where we left off our previous conversation.

“What’s the name of that book again?” he asks. “You’re doing an awful job of explaining the plot, dear.”

“Murder on the Orient Express. Don’t blame me,” I laugh, “ I just don’t want to spoil the mystery, and it’s hard to remember exactly how all the clues were presented. Piecing them together is most of the fun. Such a shame that you can’t read it, it won’t be published until 1930... something. 34, maybe? Whatever, ” I turn to him with a smile, “just know that you are the one responsible for making this genre so popular. I’ve lost count of all the adaptations of Sherlock Holmes there are in my time.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because he frowns and looks away from me. I remember reading somewhere that Arthur disliked Sherlock Holmes, but I never really knew why.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was such a sensitive topic.” I gently squeeze his arm, prompting him to face me again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He quietly shakes his head. For a moment, I am taken aback by all the pain harbored in his blue eyes. It is fleeting, and disappears so quickly it makes me question what I just saw, replaced by his usual smirk.

“We’re here, darling. Welcome to the market.”

I quickly spot Sebastian in the crowd. He is carrying a canvas bag, like mine, but the flaccid and empty appearance of it leads me to believe he must have done multiple trips to and from the carriage.

“Thank you, Arthur.” I stand on my toes to wrap my arms around him, pulling him into a hug. “For everything. I better go before I lose sight of Sebastian again.”

“See you at the mansion, dove” he winks, before promptly turning around to walk away. I take it as my cue to penetrate the mass of people, and slowly but surely, I eventually squeeze through to make my way to the butler.

“Hey,” I poke the back of his shoulder to get his attention, and he smiles when he turns away from the fruit stall. “It was a bit of an adventure, but I finally got the coffee. Also, I’m never doing that again, ever.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it on the way home,” he laughs. “I’m almost done here, Anaïs. You can go wait in the coach, it’s parked on the other side.”

Thankful for the option to finally put down the heavy sack of coffee creating indents on my shoulder, I nod and disappear into the crowd after calling a lazy “see ya” over my shoulder. The market stalls are nothing special, all of them displaying all sorts of foods and handcrafted items. The people browsing them, though, I find incredibly fascinating. Ladies in full skirts and big hats ponder which kind of artisanal soap to buy, while gentlemen clad in suits hassle with the vendors. Like in my time, people are just people, but observing their fashion and etiquette is nothing short of interesting.

I roam through, slowly making my way across the market, when something catches my eye. Near the exit, a stall selling herbal remedies and various plants has a bouquet of tall yellow flowers on display. They are a kind I had not seen in the gardens of the mansion, but my eyes widen when I recognize them.

The Saint John’s Wort is a sudden reminder of a very important thing I left behind when I was transported back in time. With everything going on, I have completely forgotten to take my antidepressants. Not that I could have, had I remembered, for I do not have access to that kind of medication here. Those small yellow flowers are the closest alternative.

I approach the stall and inspect the flowers, confirming that they are, indeed, Saint John’s Wort. Making a strong enough concentrate out of them will take me weeks, so I better get to work before the withdrawal symptoms start.

“I’ll take all of these, please,” I tell the vendor, a short man with a bushy moustache and a rounded belly. “Do you also sell tincture?”

He puts up his index finger, indicating me to wait, and digs around some boxes below the counter. When he emerges again, he puts a small vial by the bouquet.

“There you go, mademoiselle. It will be seven francs.”

“Merci,” I thank him as I hand him the required amount of coins. With the large bouquet in my arms and the vial safely inside my bag, I make my way outside, where the same carriage that brought us here awaits me and Sebastian.

When he finally joins me, I shuffle over to the side, trying to make space for him between all the crates of produce that cover the seats.

“Nice flowers,” he simply says. “Though if you wanted an arrangement we could have made a better one from the garden.”

“They’re not for decoration,” I explain. In part because I need it, and in part to illustrate my point, I fish out the vial of tincture from my bag and pour a drop into my mouth, which makes my face contort from the bitter taste. “They’re medicine.”

“Oh.” Sebastian’s brows join in concern. “Do you mind me asking what for?”

“It’s nothing serious, don’t worry. I’m not ill or anything,” I hurriedly reassure him. I have no qualms about telling him the truth, but I don’t know how he will react. Even in our time, prejudice surrounding this topic is still a problem. I notice he is still observing me, patiently waiting for an answer, and I turn my gaze to the window. “It’s, uh...” I stammer quietly, “for my brain. Can’t exactly get meds around here...”

“I am so sorry, I didn’t know,” his tone suddenly softens. I am relieved by the lack of judgement, but the pity... The pity is almost worse. “If there is anything I can do for you -”

“Sebastian, it’s fine,” I interrupt him. “I’m fine. I just... I get a little sad and a little anxious sometimes, that’s it.” That is a massive understatement, but I really don’t want to delve into it right now. “You don’t have to treat me any differently. Please. That would make me feel worse.”

He takes a deep breath and stares at me for a few seconds, as if pondering whether I’m telling the truth or not. After what feels like an eternity, he finally smiles.

“Okay, Anaïs. I will keep being strict, I promise.” He chuckles, breaking the awkward silence, and I smile too. “Alright, now tell me what happened with the coffee! I want to know!”

[spookyceph]

Peace Offering, a Shigadabi Fanfic

The first in a series of Shigadabi fics. Because why not?

WARNINGS for mention of destructive/depressive thoughts, language, and unabashed self-indulgence.

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 3,378

Also, find it on my Ao3 account @ CarlyChameleon.

For someone who hated to drink, Tomura spent a lot of time sitting at the hideout’s bar. He couldn’t have done it if the place were still in business—some unlucky server would’ve had several drunk assholes to mop up off the floor before the night ended. But with it sealed off from the outside world the atmosphere suited him fine. It was quiet. Clean. Both adjectives that applied to his room upstairs, but locking himself in there too long gave him the urge to start climbing the walls. Even he needed to get out of his own head once in a while, whether that involved speaking with Sensei or just watching Kurogiri dust the glasses.

The open space of the bar never threatened to close in and suffocate him. All the different sizes and shapes of the bottles occupying the shelves, glinting in the low lighting, gave him something to look at while he thought besides a glowing screen or blank ceiling as he laid in bed. Or, like now, he could simply trace the swirling grain of the bar top with one finger and think nothing. Or what passed for nothing in his case—his mind churned and surged as relentlessly as the sea grinding away the edges of the land. He’d only learned how to roll back the tide enough to allow for some sleep or brief breaks that kept him from throwing himself off the roof and quieting his brain for good.

The Internet had fished up terms like rumination and obsessive compulsive and thought loops when he’d done a search once. Psychobabble for being his own worst enemy, in other words. Tracing patterns in fabric or wood or pictures or whatever did help sometimes like a few of the articles had suggested, though. Listing colors or items in his surroundings too when he became overwhelmed and started to flounder. (Breathing exercises, however, could fuck right off—all those did was cause him to hyperventilate as he counted each inhale and exhale faster and faster.) The tricks allowed him to hit reset and go back to a previous save point, in a way. The level didn’t get any easier when he returned to it, but the momentary respite allowed him to regroup and adjust his tactics.

He’d been doing an awful fucking lot of both ever since Giran’s first two finds had moved in. Tomura’s nail scraped against polished wood, digging in while his mind replayed the conversation with Kurogiri the evening before, clear as a cutscene.

We cannot further our ends without skilled support, Shigaraki Tomura.

I know, damn it. He couldn’t have even said what his party was fighting on-screen. He’d just kept selecting Attack each round. That doesn’t mean we have to take in every stray Giran drags in from the gutter.

True…yet please recall why we hired the man in the first place: to scout for promising candidates. He wouldn’t present us with anyone he considered beneath our notice. Each point had been spoken with the polite but unwavering logic that had won him the job as Tomura’s handler to begin with. Drifting over to the computer desk, Kurogiri had warped two manila folders onto it. At least skim their profiles before declaring your ultimate decision.

So, Tomura had. And he’d seen beyond a doubt that the fucking walking Rorschach test had been right, as usual. The description of the brat’s quirk had been particularly surprising. Tomura’s mind had roiled with all the possible uses for her. The smartass’s, on the other hand, didn’t boast as much versatility, but it did promise the kind of ranged and wide-area attacks needed to control a battle.

Giran had brought him an illusionist assassin and a black mage. With them, he’d have a better chance at clearing higher level quests. He hated the facts, but that didn’t change them, as he’d been taught in no uncertain terms during the little excursion to UA’s training facility.

Thus, Toga Himiko and Dabi, whoever he really was, had been granted permission to move what worldly goods they possessed into rooms of their choosing upstairs. Tomura hadn’t bothered to learn which. He figured he’d reduce the chances of murdering them in their sleep if he didn’t know.

His hand left the bar and relocated to his throat. The fingers didn’t scratch, but they flexed in the familiar pattern. Letting those two move in might have been a mistake—yet another in a growing string of them. He shouldn’t have given in to Kurogiri so easily because of rattled confidence. He should have insisted all recruits stay somewhere else until they proved their worth and loyalty. To hell with Giran’s professional instincts. What if they were spies for some hero agency? The Toga brat especially, with a quirk like hers. Barring that, they still hadn’t made it past basic introductions without trying to kill each other. How could they be expected to follow orders or not botch a mission because of their own petty goals? And anyway, both of them were just fucking weird.

A sound barged into Tomura’s thoughts from the outer world. Only the small, metallic click of a door handle turning, but it made his head snap in the direction of the hallway. Kurogiri never used the door. He didn’t need to.

Sure enough, there slouched a tall, ragged figure. The zombie. The one name wonder. Dabi.

The skin of Tomura’s throat stung as his nails finally found purchase. Of course the last person on Earth he wanted to see would show up at that very moment. Of course. Because the universe fucking hated him and the feeling was very much mutual.

For a minute, Dabi just filled up the space in the doorway, watching and being watched. When Tomura didn’t move to attack, he finally stepped into the room. His ugly boots clomped on the floorboards as he approached. Still wary, still keeping an eye on where Tomura’s hands rested, he paused at the far corner of the bar. Kurogiri must have had a chat with both newcomers, oh yes. Now they had to be aware of just how close they’d come to never annoying the shit out of anyone ever again.

“So.” Dabi nodded toward the shelves. “We gotta pay for booze or is it included in our membership?”

Even while asking a simple question he couldn’t sound anything less than full of contempt. Putting on an air of boredom despite the knot of tension between his shoulder blades, Tomura shrugged. “Knock yourself out. None of this shit comes out of my pocket.”

No further invitation was required. Dabi strode behind the bar and started examining labels, back turned. Tomura’s fingers twitched. Patchwork asshole. Like he’d fall for a trap that obvious.

Dabi settled on a dark blue bottle with a foreign label. Turning around, he grabbed a glass from beneath the bar, twisted the cap open, and poured without restraint. Fumes wafted over, crinkling Tomura’s nose. Great. Wonder-fucking-ful. The reek of alcohol made his stomach tie itself in knots just as much as it had after his first and final hangover.

He’d thought that drinking the toxic shit might help shut his brain up. And, after choking down an acidic gulp—he’d chosen something a deep gold because he’d just liked the color—it had, sort of. His thoughts had softened, stretching out and slowing with a new elasticity. So, even though his chest and nostrils had still been full of napalm he’d knocked back another swallow. The volume of his mental chatter had faded with the third. By the fifth it became benign background noise. The alcohol’s chemical burn had faded away on the seventh. Memories slid into blank blackness sometime after the tenth.

Kurogiri must have warped him to bed that night because when Tomura woke, sweaty, shaking, sicker than a lab rat, the man already had a bucket at the ready. He spoke not a word while letting Tomura puke his guts up. Or when he brought miso broth, umeboshi, and tea after the dry heaves stopped. He didn’t have to. Tomura hadn’t drunk a drop since.

“You look like you swallowed a bug.”

Tomura’s gaze leapt up from the bar to find Dabi staring at him over the rim of the now empty glass. A little riff of unease jangled his nerves. He’d never seen eyes such a deep blue. They caught and glinted in the low lighting the same way the selected bottle did. The patches of ruined skin sagging beneath just made them more striking.

“Must be the company.” His tongue moved too sluggishly to be sharp, turning the comeback into little more than a mumble. Another jolt of realization lanced through Tomura: Father wasn’t shielding his own face. There wouldn’t be much to see with his hair hanging in a messy curtain…but he still had to repress the urge to fidget on the stool and shift away.

Dabi smirked. Tomura couldn’t tear his stare away from how the smooth skin of his upper cheeks and the trauma-purple scar tissue of his jaw pulled in opposite directions against the surgical staples—the fuckmothering staples—binding them at the seams. The smirk only grew under the attention.

“Yeah, about that…” Dabi reached into his raggedy jacket and Tomura tensed. Then mentally cursed when not a weapon but a small jar was produced. Dark glass, unlabeled, it looked utterly boring in the other man’s palm (also stapled, also intensely weird) as he offered it across the bar. “For you.”

“What…what’s in it?”

“A gesture of goodwill.”

The scarred corner of Tomura’s upper lip peeled back just enough to show a glimmer of teeth. “You couldn’t have given me one in the first place by introducing yourself properly?”

Those disquieting eyes almost glowed. “Sure. But then I wouldn’t have seen who you are. People always show their real selves when they’re pissed.”

A fine tremor infected Tomura’s hands. One swift, short lunge. That’s all it would take to disintegrate Frankendick’s face for good. There would be no Kurogiri to play referee either… “So, what? That was just part of some elaborate test? You going to amaze me with an in-depth character analysis now?”

“Nope. I’m not feeling that generous.”

Right. That did it for his quota of fucks to give for the day. If he stuck around for another thirty seconds there really would be a murder in progress. Tomura turned away from the bar with a scoff.

“Hurts, huh? The stuff around your eyes.”

He froze with one foot on the floor, one still hooked on the bottom of the stool.

“Itches like a sonuvabitch too when it’s humid probably,” Dabi continued, sensing the hook had set. “What’s in the jar helps with that kind of thing.”

“Nothing helps.” The words hissed out of Tomura like a jet of steam.

“This will. I make it. Look how good it works on me.”

For the next solid minute, Tomura could do nothing except grapple with the question of how this staple-faced fucker could even be for real.

Dabi, for his part, let his smirk soften into something that almost resembled an actual smile. Unscrewing the jar’s lid, he set it down on the bar and dipped two fingers into the contents. When he reached forward, Tomura’s hand shot up and captured him around the wrist. Only his index finger didn’t touch, pointed at the ceiling and ready to clamp down in an instant.

On the verge of being reduced to bloody slush staining the floor, Dabi just cocked his head. “Jumpy, are we?”

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” It came out entirely too high and strained to spare Tomura’s dignity.

“I told you. Showing goodwill.” A pause. “Are you touch averse?”

“Am I what?”

“You know. Like, being touched gets you nervous or grosses you out. That sort of thing.”

“The fuck would I know? It’s not like I ever let anyone try!”

Okay. That hadn’t come out quite as intended. Tomura dug his fingers into Dabi’s wrist, deep enough to leave marks even through the sleeve of a jacket, daring the bastard to laugh or make a crude quip. Instead, said bastard quit smiling. His strange, stained-glass eyes only observed, absorbing details while giving none away. Contrary to the lack of mockery, hot blood rushed straight up Tomura’s neck and flooded his face.

All he had to do was flex one finger and Dabi would be dead. Every scenario that played out in inside his mind showed him having the clear advantage at such a close range. So why, why, why had the pulse in his chest and temples kicked into hyper mode?

“Think of this another way,” Dabi said, as if reading his thoughts and causing another spike in blood pressure. “As a show of trust.”

“T-trust?” The word tripped up Tomura’s tongue like it came from an alien language. “We tried to kill each other yesterday.”

The response was a shrug. “That’s yesterday. Like I said, you showed me what I wanted to know. Now I’m returning the favor. That’s why you were so pissed, wasn’t it? When I didn’t make an introduction? You wanted to see if you could trust me. Well, here I am, close enough for you to use your quirk on without much chance to dodge. Still not gonna tell you my name, though.”

All valid points. And having Dabi at his mercy did make for a strong show of dominance. It still didn’t explain why Tomura was the one on the edge of his seat. He eyed the pale goop coating Dabi’s fingers. Sensei had educated him on a wide variety of poisons used for killing or incapacitating victims, but he held few suspicions from that angle. Another crackpot personality test sounded more plausible. For cowardice? To see if he’d flinch if confronted? The only thing Tomura knew for sure was that he couldn’t back down without proving both. He could do nothing except follow the limited dialog and action choices to see what ending he got.

Gathering his will, he eased his fingers from Dabi’s wrist. “Fine. I accept.” A little forethought went a long way; the words came across as gracious rather than sullen.

Dabi continued to study him for a few more heartbeats. When he caught no hint of a trick he reached out and closed the gap.

The warmth came as a shock. It radiated off his fingers just before they made contact with Tomura’s cheek. Against skin they bordered on searing. Despite the extensive training in muscle control and pain tolerance Sensei had drilled into him, a twitch from his jaw betrayed him.

Raising his eyebrows a fraction, Dabi pulled away a few centimeters. “All right?”

Mismatched ass rag. He’d probably raised his body temperature with his fire quirk to provoke a reaction. Rather than Decay his hand and snap it off at the wrist, Tomura said through a snarl, “I’m fine.”

Dabi’s hooded stare declared his doubts on that, but he reached out again. Tomura didn’t falter a second time. The ointment, whatever it was made of, glided onto his cracked skin hot, clingy, and stinging. The fingertips applying it, though, did so with gentle strokes. After a minute or so the sting fizzled into tingling and the heat turned tolerable. It seeped into Tomura’s skull, his jaw and neck. The pinched muscles of his face slowly relaxed. Not so terrible after all. Weird to the nth degree, and he had no clue what he’d do if Kurogiri warped in on them, but not awful. Maybe he’d order Dabi to do this again in the near future. See how much the fucker smirked when his plan worked too well.

Fingers sliding into his hair scattered all petty plans of revenge. Tomura jumped and jerked his head away, blinking, startled.

Dabi’s skin pulled at the seams slightly from a small smile. “Your hair’s covering the other side of your face.”

“Oh.” The only way he could have sounded stupider was if he’d fried his brain like the UA kid with the electricity quirk. A possibility, given how his cheeks and neck were burning up. How the hell had he wound up on the defensive—again? This was why he liked games: whenever a dialog option or approval interaction went wrong he could backtrack and do it over until he got the desired result.

He should kill Dabi where he stood. Eliminate such a major factor of uncertainty. The League needed members to grow, yes, but it also needed stability. Kurogiri would come to see that eventually. Even if he didn’t there wasn’t shit he could do about it in the end. Tomura’s fingers curled on his thighs, ready to leap up and grab any bit of exposed flesh.

A gentle, stitched up hand beat him to it. Dabi brushed aside Tomura’s hair, tucking it back behind his ear. The tickle of the messy strands and strokes from warm fingertips sent fireworks sizzling and popping along the bundles of nerves in his neck and shoulders. Instead of going in for an easy kill his fingers dug into his legs. He barely managed to swallow what would definitely have been a humiliating noise in his surprise. He didn’t even want to consider what his expression had betrayed in that instant.

Was this why people hugged and held hands and all that? Because contact gave them a high? Somehow, Tomura doubted it. Novelty and his inexperience were probably heightening the sensations. Every touch he could remember had been a threat, either given or received. This would turn out no different. He raised his eyes from the bar, intent on finding some shred of evidence to support the suspicion.

Instead, he caught Dabi watching him. Not focused on rubbing the salve in. Not gauging reactions. Just…staring straight at him, irises as bright as the hearts of candleflames. Brain upended, Tomura shrunk in on himself a bit. Seriously, what the blazing fuck did this guy want? Why not spit it out already? The game didn’t have a point without a clear objective.

Tiny sparks spat across the network of nerves in Tomura’s scalp as fingers slipped into his hair again, combing through it. The sharp, involuntary breath he sucked in had nothing to do with the few strands that got caught and pulled by staples. Dabi took his hand away only to let it settle against the curve of Tomura’s cheek. The mildly calloused pad of his thumb caressed soothing heat into the peeling skin.

“There. Better?” His voice was almost as soft as his touch.

Against his will, Tomura realized it was. Not just his face either. For several glorious seconds, his thoughts stayed silent, at rest. There was nothing but warmth and blue eyes and strange feelings he had no names for.

Then the last possibility he would have considered for the whole bizarre encounter breached the calm surface of his mind, churning it back into chaos.

The stool tipped precariously under Tomura as he lurched back from Dabi’s reach. He latched onto the bar’s edge in the nick of time, keeping a finger on each hand away purely by the grace of reflex.

“You really are jumpy. Like a damn stray cat.”

If looks could Decay, he would have given Kurogiri something to sigh about in the form of sixty-eight kilograms’ worth of dust sprayed all over the immaculate shelves and cabinets.

Willfully oblivious, Dabi pushed the little jar across the bar top. “Here. Keep it. Should last awhile.” The smirk returned to his mismatched face as if it had never left. “Don’t expect me to share my chapstick, though. You’re on your own with that one, creep.”

Nothing but a strangled sound of outrage managed to escape Tomura’s constricted throat while the unbelievable bastard grabbed his chosen bottle and sauntered away. He considered flinging the empty glass after him. Using his quirk to bring the entire building crashing down on everyone inside. Crawling into the nearest hole and never coming out too. By the time Dabi was halfway across the room, Tomura had made his decision.

Slowly, his hand went to the jar. One finger touched the lid.

Dabi stopped in front of the door.

A second finger touched the dark glass.

The handle turned.

Three points of contact now.

Faint light spilled in from the hallway.

Tomura’s thumb wrapped around the jar in fourth place.

The door swung shut behind Dabi just as Shigaraki Tomura made his gesture of goodwill disappear, not in his grip but into his pocket.

[pandawritespoorly]

Teamwork

Author’s Note: What?? Panda posting a work where Marinette collapses/is overworked/is sleep deprived/etc?? That's never happened before!

Sarcasm aside, I finished this a while ago, and figured I should probably post it before it's lost among my docs. This is basically along the lines of the early concept art where there was a team, rather than just the two heroes. I didn't use Bridgette though because 1) I don't really have as much experience writing for her, and I didn't want to start just yet, and 2) The personality I imagine her with isn't like Mari's in that she probably wouldn't overwork herself to this extent or be so stubborn about it.

Also, I'm sure you're all familiar with the 'Lila wants *insert big school event here* rescheduled after Marinette has already planned it, and Marinette gets pressured into changing it anyways' story prompt sort of thing. That's what's going on here.

Summary: Tikki isn't about to let Marinette run herself into the ground. Time to have the team intervene.

Ladybug really can’t wait for the weekend. She’s absolutely exhausted, and once she doesn’t have to worry about school, she’ll be able to sleep.

Well, once she’s got some of her planning done for the potential of a rescheduled school dance and if she’s going to be up, she may as well bake some stuff for the bake sale, because so much money of the school’s budget will be lost if Lila does manage to convince everyone to force her to change the date of the dance and if she’s going to be baking, she should really bring in some cupcakes for the class, because she needs to do something to make sure that everyone doesn’t turn on her, and if she’s making cupcakes maybe she can fit in a nap while they’re in the-

No. Her time would be better spent on designs for the dance. She’s got her own dress designed, and materials purchased, but everyone probably expects that she’ll be making theirs, so she needs to get that done and-

Suddenly, the heroine is limp, having fallen asleep mid thought.

And mid jump.

Before she falls far, a green blur races over, catching her and landing with her on the next roof. Gavroche looks at Kid Mime, both of their faces filled with concern.

They had just been about to call out to Ladybug to alert her to their presence, when she’d just… dropped. She’d gone from jumping across the rooftops to wilting entirely, collapsing in the air.

It’s worrying to say the least.

“Ladybug?” Kid approaches her, but the girl barely stirs.

Gavroche passes her to the other boy. “I’ll go grab Mel and Chat.”

Kid nods, sitting down on the roof with the spotted heroine and holding her carefully while waiting for the other three to join them.

Ladybug frowns, stirring a little more and sitting up on her own.

“Bug?” He squeezes her hand a little. “You up?”

“...yeahhh, ‘m up. ‘m up…” she slurs, opening her eyes.

“That’s good. You scared us-”

“Sorry.” She blinks, seeming to realize who she’s talking to and where she is. “Kid?”

“That’s me.” He forces a gentle smile, his worry not ebbing at all.

“So ‘m patrollin’?”

Before he can tell that no, she is not going to be patrolling now or anytime in the near future, she’s standing. The girl stumbles, tripping over her own feet and heading back towards the roof.

She falls onto her miraculous partner, Gavroche having returned with both Chat Noir and Melodie.

The cat hero looks at the girl slumped against him. “Are you feeling alright, My Lady?”

She hums half-heartedly.

“Maybe you should go home and rest,” Melodie suggests, “You aren’t in any state to be out right now.”

“No, I’m up!” She straightens, stepping away. “I’m up…” She teeters, and Chat preemptively grabs her. Instead of fighting, she just leans back, using him for support.

“Really, you should be going home.” Kid agrees. “You clearly need to sleep.”

“Nah, I jus’... need t’ bake, an’ reschedule… plans in case…”

Chat sits down, letting her rest against him, and they all follow suit.

“No, you need to sleep. That should be a priority.” Gavroche argues. “Patrol is canceled.”

Ladybug seems determined to try and patrol anyways.

Melodie plays a soft tune on her flute, a slower version of what she’s taught them to recognize as Ladybug’s song. She slows it further, and plays even softer over a few minutes and eventually puts the instrument down.

Ladybug is out, sleeping calmly in Chat’s arms.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“No problem. I’ve had to pull that trick on these two more than once when they think they can get away with not sleeping.”

“Hypocrite.” Gavroche mutters.

“That said, we know better than to try and go out on patrol when we’re tired enough to collapse,” Kid Mime frowns at his exhausted friend.

“Has she mentioned anything coming up that could have made her busy enough to forget to sleep?” Melodie asks, “I don’t remember her saying anything…”

“No, she’s been normal. Seemed busy, but not any busier than usual,” Chat comments. The other boys nod in agreement.

They end up letting her sleep for two hours or so before waking her up and telling her to go home and sleep.

They can only hope she listens.

---

“Marinette. You should stay home sick today,” Tikki pleads.

“’m not sick though.”

“You may as well be! You almost fell off a building last night, just take a break!”

Marinette shakes her head, ignoring how her brain feels fuzzy. “Can’t. Lila… she could do sumthin’...”

The girl begins heading out of her room. “Marinette, if you don’t let yourself rest-”

“‘m fine.”

Alright then. Tikki settles herself in her chosen’s purse. If that’s how it’s going to be, then so be it.

A Kwami may not be able to do much, but the girl’s superhero partners?

They’d certainly be capable of stopping her.

Especially because Tikki is releasing the spell. Any fellow superhero that Marinette trusts will recognize her now.

She honestly should have done this sooner, but she wanted to give the girl a chance to see reason.

Oh well.

---

Felix is sitting on a bench in the courtyard, reading. He glances up when someone walks by, returning to his book. It’s just Marinette.

Marinette who looks oddly like-

He does a double take and sure enough, he can’t miss his classmate’s resemblance to his partner.

It’s more than that though. Marinette is Ladybug.

How on Earth did he miss that?!

He watches her cross the courtyard.

“Plagg?”

“Yeah?”

“Marinette is Ladybug.”

The Kwami looks at him from his pocket, studying him. “Huh. Sugarcube must’ve dropped the spell. Guess ‘m doin’ that then. Yeah, Pigtails is Pigtails.”

“You gave them both the same nickname, how did I-”

“Magic, kid. Now go talk to her.”

That’s what it takes to shake Felix out of it. He snaps his book shut, putting it in his bag, which he pulls over his shoulder as he hurries after the girl.

“Marinette.”

“Hey, Feli’sss...” she mumbles, dragging herself across the courtyard.

“You cannot seriously be planning on attending school today?”

“‘m not sick. ‘s fine.”

He blinks at her. “That is a foolish excuse. Simply lacking illness does not make you well.”

She doesn’t respond, so he continues, “Given that you quite literally fell off of a roof during patrol last night, I do not think you have any sort of case here.”

She pauses, finally looking at him.

“Kitty?”

“Yes, now honestly, what are you doing-”

“Didn’ fall, I jump’d…”

For one moment, he was horrified, before he remembered the exact circumstances of the incident. “Semantics. Either way, you were - and still are - tired to a point where it is dangerous for your overall health and safety. You should not be at school today.”

“Gotta’ watch Lila…”

He pauses, glancing to where the Italian girl has just arrived at school. Frowning, he pulls Marinette into an empty classroom. “Is Lila the reason you are so exhausted?” he growls.

As usual, it takes her tired brain a moment to understand the question. While she’s thinking, the door opens.

He recognizes Allegra, the girl who opened it. They’re in the same music class, and her friend Claude has a habit of making obnoxious puns whenever he sees Felix. She and Allan are bearable though. This must be their usual classroom.

“Hello.”

The girl just stares at him. He raises an eyebrow.

“Allan, Claude, get in here and tell me I’m not hallucinating.”

“Why? You seein’ flying elephants or someth-” Claude cuts himself off as he enters the doorway. “Well. Okay. Not what I expected from today, but alright.”

“I guess this is an ‘or something’, then?” Allan comments.

“What is going on with you three now?”

Allegra shakes herself out of her surprise. She strolls up to him, sticking her hand out. “A pleasure to finally meet you outside of the suits, Chat Noir. I’m Melodie, that’s Kid Mime, and-”

“Gavroche,” Allan finishes.

Felix blinks a few times. “What.”

He hears Plagg cackle, “What, kid, didn’t listen when I was dropping the spell? Your team can recognize you.”

Felix glares at the Kwami who is now floating in the open, “I was rather distracted, and you failed to elaborate. In fact, you were the one to dismiss the conversation and rush me to move along.”

Plagg shrugs, “Not my problem.”

“So you’re Plagg.” Allegra studies the Kwami.

“And you’re Ladybug.” Claude approaches the pigtailed girl. She’s completely forgotten Felix’s question, and is staring at the trio that has entered the room.

“Hi?”

“You shouldn’t be at school, dear.” Allan chides her gently. Marinette just keeps blinking at the people around her, her exhausted brain doing little to connect any dots besides the fact that these are her teammates.

“Tikki’s Bugs are stubborn. Have fun trying to get her to go home,” Plagg comments as he curls up under Felix’s collar.

The other Kwami shoots out of the purse. “Plagg! They’re not all stubborn!”

“Just most of ‘em.”

Marinette still doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on, looking entirely lost as she watches everything going on in front of her.

Felix ignores the Kwamis, turning back to Marinette. “You did not answer my question. Is Ms. Rossi responsible for your current state?”

They all give her a moment to respond.

“No… I jus’ gotta’ make sure ‘m ready if we resc’edu’l-”

“For which she is entirely to blame.”

“What’s going on?” Allan asks.

“Our class consists of mindless sheep, who are infatuated with the tall tales of one Lila Rossi. She is currently working on convincing them that Marinette must reschedule the entire school dance so that she may attend.”

“They actually believe her?! I thought they were all humoring her!” Claude is incredulous.

“That’s ridiculous! The dance is a school event! We can’t just change the date! The class presidents have already spent most of the budget for it! It’s non-refundable!” Allegra fumes.

“Exactly!”

“So ‘m gonna do bake sale, an’ then-”

“No. No, you don’t have to worry about it being rescheduled.” Allegra goes to Marinette, giving her a hug. “Even if they tell you to, you can’t because you aren’t the only one in charge of it.”

Marinette slowly blinks a few times. “Then I shou’d pr’bly start designin’ their-”

Felix stares in shock as he realizes what she means. “Marinette. Please tell me they don’t expect you to design and make each of their outfits by hand.”

“‘s only fair…”

“How?” Claude challenges, “How is that fair in the slightest?”

Marinette seems to mumble something as she slumps further, the exhaustion beginning to win out.

The bell rings, and she jumps. Suddenly a little more aware of what’s going on, she shakes herself a little. “We gotta’ get to class now!”

“Honey-”

“Bye! I’ll see you between classes?”

“Yeah, but-”

Marinette smiles at all of them, then rushes away. They all stare at her, before Felix sighs. “I will follow her, as I fear she may collapse in the hallway.”

“We’ll make sure that everyone knows what Lila is trying to do. I don’t think anyone thinks it makes sense to reschedule a school event for one girl,” Allegra growls.

---

Marinette is trying to pay attention in class, she really is.

Her mind is determined to stay awake, well aware of all that she needs to do. All the tasks she needs to complete.

Her body, on the other hand, isn’t having any of it. Too many nights of no sleep, and her limbs are like weights, hanging in her seat and dragging her down.

Her eyes keep closing, no matter how many times she forces them open, they just keep slipping closed.

She falls to the side, leaning against her seatmate. Felix.

Chat Noir.

That had been a nice surprise.

She smiles softly.

“Ms. Dupain-Cheng? Is the lesson not-” Ms. Bustier cuts off suddenly.

Nonetheless, Marinette sits up again, eyes mostly closed, but doing her best to seem attentive.

Through her blurry vision, she can sort of see her teacher. The woman looks uncomfortable for a moment before she turns back to the board and continues on in the lesson as usual.

Bustier sufficiently cowed, Felix turns back to Marinette, who is swaying slightly and staring puzzledly towards the front of the room.

“Marinette,” he whispers, “You may rest again. Ms. Bustier is allowing it.”

She nods, returning to her previous position. Her eyes slip shut a few times, before they stay that way, and she dozes against the boy.

He does his best to sit still, and mentally thanks his ambidextrousness.

---

When lunch begins, a few classmates seem to be considering waking her, but he glares at them until they get the message.

“Geez, you know you could just talk t’ people, right?” Allan teases, showing up at the door just as the last classmate leaves.

“Self expression, Al’. That’s just his true self.” Claude appears. “Truly, I’m so proud, look at him with his very own personality.”

His glares are less effective on the two boys than his classmates, and before he can say anything in response, Allegra interrupts, “Those two are just taking advantage of the fact that you can’t do anything other than whisper and scowl at them with our fair lady right there.”

The braided blonde approaches the pair who are still seated, nudging the fatigued girl slightly. Bleary eyes crack open, and her mouth moves in a shadow of mumbled words that never get verbalized.

“Claude, get over here so you can carry her.”

He nods dutifully, coming over. Allan sees Felix’s expression and grins. “Sorry Fe’, but if someone saw you carrying an unconscious girl they’d think you were disposing of a body.”

“No one would think something so outlandish.”

Claude reaches for Marinette, who complies with being picked up, holding on like a koala. She doesn’t bother attempting to ask where they’re taking her.

Mostly because all her brain can register is that these are her teammates, and that’s more than enough for her. She’s safe.

The quartet keeps their conversation down, carrying the girl out of the class, then the school. Crossing the street, they enter the bakery. Once they explain a little to their friend’s parents, they’re allowed up, and easily find Marinette’s room.

“Here we are, sweetheart. This is your stop.” Claude starts to set the girl down.

Marinette teeters on her feet slightly, blinking around at her surroundings. She realizes where she is and shakes her head.

“Oh yes,” Allan counters, “This is where you’re supposed to be.”

She shakes her head again, still using Claude for support. Allegra thinks for a moment, then drags Marinette over to the chaise. “Alright. Then we’ll sit here, and I’ll try different hairstyles on you.”

Marinette blinks, which they take as confusion.

“Well, we’ve got to do something while we’re here, and I want to see what you look like without pigtails!”

Marinette is too tired to notice how the girl hums as she works, a quiet tune that’s familiar to the others. Allegra slows the song while she combs out Marinette’s hair with her fingers. Separating it into three parts, she starts making a loose braid, still humming.

By the time she’s finished with the braid, Marinette is asleep.

“Stubborn child,” Allegra whispers, standing and guiding Marinette’s body to lean backwards in a more comfortable position.

“Have you spoken to the other class presidents about Ms. Rossi’s ‘request’?” Felix inquires.

Allegra huffs, then her face splits in a grin. “Oh yes. I explained everything, and needless to say they were rather… angry. I don’t think Lila will be lasting much longer.”

---

Ladybug runs along her usual patrol route. She’d slept for a few hours, then woke up and moved on with her usual routine. It was for the best, given how many hours she’d lost.

She can just count those towards her sleep quota.

Her patrol is interrupted when she sees Gavroche sitting on a nearby building with an unimpressed look.

“Ladybug. You’re supposed to be resting. You’ve missed too much sleep.”

“I already slept for a bit. I’m fine. I should be patrolling,” she argues.

He responds by taking out his communicator, contacting every member of the team with one button. “You guys will never guess who I ran into.”

He never breaks eye contact with her, and she glares at him.

He responds by taking a picture of her and sending it to the other heroes.

“We both know you can’t outrun me. Accept your fate.”

“I don’t need to sleep!”

“Yes you do. You’re running yourself into the ground, and as your friends, we can’t just let that happen. You were barely conscious this morning.”

Chat Noir was the first to arrive, though Kid Mime and Melodie weren’t far behind.

“Ladybug. What do you think you’re doing?” “I was doing patrol.”

“Patrol was canceled, remember? Last night.”

“We’ll start patrolling regularly again once you have a regular sleep schedule.”

She huffs. “I’m not even tired.”

Melodie shakes her head. “Maybe not on the surface, but your song is exhausted.”

When Ladybug doesn’t respond, she continues, “I can show you. I don’t like forcing people to sleep against their will, because it makes me feel gross, but if you’re okay with it…”

Ladybug sighs. “...fine. But if I don’t fall asleep, I get to patrol.”

Kid seems to consider this, nodding. “Deal.”

The others look at him in disbelief, but he has a mischievous grin on his face, and they just go along with it.

Melodie straightens, taking a few moments to prepare herself before beginning the song. Once again, they recognize what she’s told them is Ladybug’s song. This time, however, she’s put more detail into it. It’s how Ladybug’s song sounds right now, not just the general feeling of it.

At a glance, it’s the usual. A strong, confident tune that makes you want to smile. Under the surface though, something lurks. As Melodie continues, she pulls the coverings away, bringing it to light.

It’s a slower song. Almost every note seems like it could be the end, as though it’s just going to drop and the song is going to end. Each one drags itself out into the air wearily.

Ladybug is no longer standing with the near perfect posture she had moments before. The longer the song drags on, the heavier her eyelids seem to get, and the more she droops. When she starts to sway, Chat walks over to hold her.

She fights a little to get herself back to a standing position. It doesn’t last long, and she’s leaning against her miraculous partner again, fighting to keep her eyes open.

Melodie puts her flute down, sitting down quickly. Sure, Ladybug is still awake, but there’s no way she’ll stay that way much longer.

Chat is holding her against his chest, likely purring while he rubs circles on her back. Ladybug keeps prying her eyes open, again and again. Finally, they close and stay closed. There’s a tense silence for a moment as they all wait to be sure she’s actually asleep.

Finally, Kid breaks the silence. “Well, aren’t you two sweet,” he teases.

Chat frowns. “It was simply the most logical way to get her to sleep quicker.”

“Mhm. And the fact that your tail is wrapped around her?” Gavroche raises an eyebrow.

Chat scowls, which does nothing to cover his blush.

“Kid, why would you agree to her deal? She shouldn’t be patrolling,” Melodie asks, suppressing a yawn.

“Well, if no one did, then she probably would have pushed it and made sure each one of us agreed. This way, I agreed to it, but you guys? You never said a thing, so if she tried to patrol, then we still technically fulfill the terms of her deal while being able to keep her from patrolling. Win-win. Not that I thought she’d stay up, just-”

“Good to have a back-up plan. Alright.”

“Mhm!”

“Well,” Gavroche says, “Chat will obviously be the one to take our Bug to her bed. Melodie, I’ll take the long way to my house so that I can stick with you. Can’t have you pulling a Ladybug on us.”

She nods tiredly. “That’s fair. Probably for the best - that took more out of me than I expected.”

With that, they all go their separate ways, Chat holding Ladybug delicately.

It’s only when he lands on her balcony that he realizes she’s still clinging to consciousness. Not really aware of anything, but not quite entirely asleep yet.

Her transformation drops as he enters her room. Her Kwami flies off.

“Marinette, it is time for you to sleep.”

She murmurs quietly, shifting as he places her on her bed.

Marinette has been drifting in and out of sleep. First she was on the roof, and Melodie’s song was really starting to get to her. Then she’s was with Chat. Then she was on her way home, Chat carrying her.

Now she can hear him speaking, and her very quick attempt to open her eyes show him leaning over her, facing towards her. She couldn’t make out much more.

Everything feels so heavy, and she just wants to sleep. For whatever reason, it won’t come again, and she lies there helplessly, waiting.

Someone (who was just here again?) pulls her blankets up around her, and tucks her hair out of her face. She feels gentle purring (when did she get a cat? Did her pillow come to life?) and that’s what eventually pulls her down into a deep sleep.

When her teammates come by the next day, late into the morning, they find she’s asleep. High fiving each other, they leave a note to contact them when she wakes up. She’ll need some help with the classes she’s slept through, but for now, she needs the sleep more.

---

Author’s Note: Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave any thoughts, theories, constructive criticism, or anything really in my ask box, in replies or through reblogs. I love seeing what you think!

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧ Chapter 177

July of 2015 started off with a bang. Several, actually. Huge ones. The fourth of July celebration at the Tower went off without a hitch, even considering you’d asked really late in the game for it to be put together. But anything that helped the general public with their consensus that not only superheroes were a good thing but that Stark Industries was a good thing- that you were a good thing… greasing the wheels didn’t really hurt. You also established a block party zone for restaurants to give out free tastings and booze (all paid for by Stark Industries, of course), and blocked off watching spaces far enough away. 

It was wonderful, really. Everyone had a good time. The papers the next morning were mostly all going on about the spectacular displays (some of which were Avengers themed, of course) and the happy faces. Mostly though, this was tempting fate. Something you and Tony found out the very next night. A Sunday. You’d just left a restaurant in Poughkeepsie after a small business meeting. It was hot. You were a little tipsy. And a woman was waiting right next to your car in an otherwise very empty parking lot. 

She uncrossed her arms and gave Tony a wide smile. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of your mind. Tony’s, too, as he put an arm around your waist and halted a few feet away. “Can we help you?” 

“I imagine you can.” Her tone was polite but coy. Not something that soothed your nerves. Especially not when she reached into her jacket. Quickly you put a hand up, not that it would have prevented something terrible from happening. Not as immediate as a repulsor blast, anyway. “Let’s not do something stupid.” You didn’t sense something that off about her. 

But she hesitated, nervous suddenly. ...perhaps it wasn’t wise, after all, to startle Team Iron in a parking lot after dark. She stopped moving, considering her options. The both of you were on edge. If she had a weapon, she was rethinking pulling it. But she edged the top of her jacket back just a bit to reveal papers. 

That was when your hand dropped. And she pulled them out all the way. “You are hereby ordered to appear before the United States Senate.” 

Even though you weren’t looking at him, you felt the roll of Tony’s eyes. “Gee, this seems awfully familiar.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” You put a hand on your hip- the hand that had been semi-threatening her (whether she truly understood or not), because you were not keen on taking hold of what she was offering. “They gonna tell him to give up the suits again? We’ve done this already. We have a military-liaison now. So whatever scheme they’re cooking up, he’s not going-”

She stuck her arm out hard, flourishing them. In your direction. “Actually, these are for you.” 

“Me?” “Her?” 

No surprise that both you and Tony took some offense to that. Probably for very different reasons. “July 13th.” She flapped the papers again and you finally took hold of them. No reason not to. This was happening whether you liked it or not. 

That was a Monday. Your brain was already churning. Once she’d done her duty she walked away, and you opened the packet, reading the highlights allowed. “-regarding the damage reports necessary to make prudent decisions and swift actions after the devastation in Sokovia.” Your stomach did a little flip. This was not good. 

Tony’s hand raised up, rubbing absently at your shoulder. “They’re just putting on a show.” 

“Yeah. Well.” Your gaze was not as steady as you would have liked as you glanced up at him. “We’re the main attraction.” 

                                                                    --- 

Press was absolutely everywhere that day. Crawling out of every hole. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, being back on Capitol Hill. Although at the very least, you knew you would not be facing down the rat known as Senator Stern. That wasn’t cause for complacency, though. If not him, it would be a different rat. All with the same motive. They wanted a spectacle. And they wanted someone to blame. 

It was actually a bit of a shock- that they wouldn’t call Tony, but instead you, as if you had any more pertinent information. But maybe they knew they wouldn’t get anything out of Tony, if his first and last senate appearance had been anything to go by. What they were hoping to get out of you… you didn’t know. As much as you could guess the motive for this, it was to pin blame on the Avengers. And for them to start doing that- that led down a very long and terrible road. 

One you’d warned not only Tony about, but the team. This was not what you wanted. This wasn’t even remotely what you wanted to be doing. But you didn’t have a choice. 

So you sat down at the table, in front of cameras going off, in front of microphones hot to pick up every word, and in front of senate members, all looking down on you. They’d immediately disallowed Tony from sitting at the table and instead remanded him to the seats behind. Taking away what little comfort you might find. The lights were getting a little blinding, but you made every effort to not show your nerves. Or your anger over the continued need to play this little blame game. 

...much as you may have been starting to understand it. 

The last time you’d been in this room was not with Tony, it had been with Natasha and Maria. Now it was just you. Alone. Isolated. If you said one wrong thing, if you made the exact wrong move… 

Everyone paid the price. 

Senator Wenham was taking charge. Not a man you admired. He’d been one of the harshest critics during the hearings about the fall of SHIELD. It was no surprise to see him bearing down. He opened with lengthy remarks about how terrible he felt about the people of Sokovia. But eventually that empathy ran out, and he made his position perfectly clear. That Americans- the United States Government- should not be penalized for the failure of rogue superheroes. That they should not be asked to bleed red, white, and blue for a nation that had never done anything for them. 

America first. The cry of god-fearing nationalists. And what a perfect time to get those so-called Americans onboard with such a terrible notion. Ellis was up for reelection next year. You had a very big idea of who was filling his pockets. You took dry questions that were just meant as set up. 

What was the death toll in Sokovia? What’s the estimated damage? What do you think recovery is going to look like? How long?

It took hours to get through. Hours to finally make it to the point of all this. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” 

Hours to get to the point where you and your team got accused of everything. You settled your hands together atop the table. Ever the picture of poise. “Can you elaborate, Senator?” 

“Your people defected. Went rogue. Crossed sovereign borders with no orders to do so. The results of which are some of the biggest devastation this world has ever seen. Why are we being asked to pick up the tab for idealized justice? Why are we being asked to grant refuge to the people a small group are responsible for?” 

You kept very still. “I take great exception to this idea that the Avengers were not acting in the United States’ best interest, Senator Wenham. President Ellis was well aware of our operation.” A shock ran through the room, and murmurs began. “Maybe not as aware as you, but I’ll take an apology whenever you’re ready to give it.” 

This was a very dangerous game you were being forced to play. It was no surprise that the senate had told Ellis, maybe even gotten his permission, that they were going to subpoena you on behalf of the Avengers. It was also no surprise to you that Ellis had forgotten to mention that he in fact did know what the Avengers had been up to. You’d forced his hand on that one. And were forcing it again now. He had told you in no uncertain terms that he had wanted nothing to do with the Sokovians. And you’d basically had to blackmail him to do the right thing. 

They were going to look into this. Wenham especially, turning red up there behind his mic. 

You were making a fool of him. And Ellis. At the same time. 

“Order!” The moderator called the room to silence once again. Wenham sat up straighter. “Be that as it may- I ask you- why with a financier as grand as Stark Industries pooling money for the Avengers should the United States government have to clean up after their mistakes?” 

“Saving Sokovia was not a mistake, Senator. And were it not for the Avengers, we wouldn’t even have a world in which you’d be here questioning me about the merits of right and wrong.” People were talking all around you again. You tuned them out. “Which, by the way, if you need some tips- saving lives is always right. We can agree to disagree on the definition of justice, but by no means does it have any room for interpretation in the way of saving people or letting them die.” 

He put a hand down hard on his table. “The Avengers are responsible for Ultron! For the very thing that caused this massacre!” 

“And this government has paid its fair dues I’m sure for all the atrocities it has caused throughout history, usually with very real intent of harm.” 

“We’re not questioning intent, ma’am, we’re questioning responsibility!” 

“ORDER!” 

The room was breaking out in an uncharacteristic fever pitch. These hearings were usually so droll. But not with the state of democracy on the line. Not with the zoo in tow. Not with an Avenger on the stand. Not one so combative, at that. “The Avengers took responsibility. By stopping Ultron. Just like how Tony Stark stopped a nuke a security council tried to drop on New York City- because they had no way of stopping an alien invasion. You want to talk about responsibility, let’s start talking about how this government handles crisis management. How the world handles crisis management.

Ultron was a mistake. We don’t deny that. But the Avengers did what they had to do to save lives. This world cannot exist in its current form without a team looking out for its best interests. Looking out for people that their governments care very little about. What was this government going to do about Ultron? Or the aliens in New York? You’d have sooner abandoned your own city- so I hold out no hope whatsoever that you or any of those people up there judging us would act in the name of justice to save anyone.

The Sokovians deserved better than what happened to them. And they deserve better than waiting for the world to get its shit together so that they can get help. Do the right thing. That’s all we’re asking. That’s all they’re asking. Because next time it could be us. Next time it could be anyone. We have to pull together. I don’t know how that didn’t become apparent when aliens came to this planet- forget New York City- this planet. We need each other. We need the Avengers. We don’t have time any longer to squabble.” 

Senators were talking amongst themselves. People in the back of the room were speaking over each other. Cameras were going off. You stood. Wenham put his hand down hard on the table a second time. “We are not finished here! You do not leave that bench until you are excused! If you leave you will be held in contempt of congress!” 

“You’re going to put me in jail for the night as proof that you’re on the right side of this debate? Really think about that for a second.” You’d make bail the second you stepped foot inside a jailhouse. It didn’t scare you to be threatened that way. It wasn’t even really much of a threat. 

He pointed his finger at you. “This is not over.” 

“No. It isn’t.” 

This was a mess. And it was only just beginning. 

                                                                   ---

Tony had his arm around your waist as the two of you walked down from the courthouse steps. You put your hand up to stem the flow of incessant questions. You had nothing to say after that. Not to reporters. Happy was doing his best to mitigate the crowd. You weren’t expecting to see Steve and Nat waiting in front of the car. 

Steve put his hands on his hips. “Well. That was a mess.” 

A little incensed that you’d been forced into that and yelled at, alone, for the better part of four hours, Tony predictably snapped at the insinuation that you’d blown that in any way. Just a little. “We’re just lucky they didn’t call you. Can’t imagine the soundbites you’d have given them.” 

“And why didn’t they?” Steve seemed to take a little offense to this. “Why was she up there all alone? We might not have known but you were here.”

 “Subpoena only had one name on it. Maybe you’re not really that familiar with government circuses, but I wasn’t called. And neither were you. Nothing to be done about it. Simple as that.”

You and Nat were both stuck doing clean-up, and you got there first. “Let’s not do this right here.” 

Nat waved her arm around. “You know. In front of all the cameras?” 

So you didn’t. Corralling them into the car wasn’t hard. Finding a restaurant far enough out that the media wasn’t lurking around for more opportunity was just a touch trickier. But not impossible. And eventually you got a secluded back table at a restaurant. 

Natasha was the first one to try and break the ice. “So. I thought last we spoke you wanted out?” 

You just shook your head. “Like I wanna be testifying in front of congress. Like it’s my dream.” Your nerves were a little frayed. She didn’t deserve that. So, quickly, “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m tired.” 

“No apology necessary.” Her smile was easy, and you knew she understood. Thank god for small miracles. 

Steve crossed his arms. “Why not call all of us? We were all there.” 

“Because it’s not about who was there.” Tony let out a bitter sigh. He was just as tired it seemed. “It’s about bullying one person on the team in front of cameras. It’s about demanding accountability and hoping they get pushback. This wasn’t about Sokovia.” 

Tilting his head, Steve seemed a little confused. But his tone was still brisk while he was addressing Tony. It was pinging some serious red flags in your gut. “Then what was it about?” 

You felt a chill creep up your spine at almost the exact time a little life left you. “Superheroes. And the mess they leave behind.” 

Steve seemed itching for a fight. It was strange. “There’d be an even bigger mess without us.” You wondered for a moment if something bad was going on at the Facility. 

Nat shook her head. “They don’t really care about that. This isn’t so much bigger picture as it is what’s right in front of them. Sokovia disappeared in seconds. Doesn’t matter that the other flip of that coin was world destruction. You always need someone to blame.” 

“Property damage. Lives lost. It falls on someone. That someone is us.” You felt entirely dejected. But it was the truth. ...and also the exact thing you’d warned Tony about a long time ago. 

Tony didn’t want to fall back in, though. “Well. Not us. We’re out. Still out. This was a momentary setback.” 

Words started falling out of you. “Damage Control… the Stark Relief Fund… they can only do so much. People are getting tired of it. Of wondering when the next big thing is gonna hit. All that fear is gonna fall on us-”

“The team.” Tony was very quick with his correction. The two of you had just left. How was it that not even two months later you were back in? “We handled this one because we didn’t have a choice. But we trust you guys to keep fighting the good fight. Just. Make sure it’s a clean fight. That’s all we’re saying.” 

Nat flexed an ok symbol with her fingers. “Got it, boss.” 

“I’m not your boss.” 

“You’re lecturing like one.” 

They were smiling at each other. That was nice. But you were suddenly very empty on niceness. Steve was staring at you. In fact… he’d been staring at you the entire time. Frown heavy-set. He didn’t like any of this, that was obvious. But who did, really? He was upset. And as soon as he got caught looking at you like that, he voiced some of it. “Where’s this road end? Just waitin’ for the other shoe to drop, here.” 

You shook your head. “Let’s not find out, shall we?” 

                                                                   ---

“They had a lot of nerve, showing up like that.” Despite the amicable ending to the meeting, on the short jet ride home, Tony was still a little ruffled. 

“We didn’t call them. Maybe we should have.” You sat on the couch, easing forward, hand to your forehead. “It was probably a shock, finding out I was testifying on their behalf. They had every right to go there.” You took no issue with them being a little miffed. ...Steve more than anyone. In fact… “Did Steve seem weird to you?” Looking over at him as you asked. 

“Who knows what goes on in the mind of Steve Rogers. He’s all over the map. Weren’t you just taking his side, anyway?” Tony sat down after fixing himself a drink, putting one leg up over the other. 

“His temper has been out of control.” Was that it? Apparently that’s the judgment call you were making. 

“Just realizing that now? He’s always been like that. If he doesn’t get his way, suddenly everyone is against him.” 

“He hasn’t always been like that.” Shaking your head now, sitting back. Your thoughts were murky. “Sure- he’s set in his ways- but so are you. And you’re pretty consistent about it. Something’s changed.” 

Tony’s lips pursed to the side, arching a brow. “Well. There’s a therapist in the Facility. Sounds like a job for them. And not so much for the opinions of others.” He took a long sip, attitude fading as he looked over at you. “...why are you so worried about it now?” 

What a great question. 

One that had you thinking. Why now indeed? You took a deep breath in and then let it go as a sigh. Your thoughts weren’t collecting nearly as well as you wanted them to. So, safe with Tony as always, you just started talking. “He’s in charge of that team. Before it was kind of a group effort, but he’s a dominating personality. He’s in charge. We’re out. Right? What if they get into a mess and everyone starts arguing with him? I don’t think he’s gonna blow everyone up, but that’s a mess we can’t afford right now. I mean- he attacked you at the Facility, over JARVIS. What if I hadn’t been standing there?” 

“Honey- he was making a point-” 

“That’s not-” You found yourself bugging out just a little, brows squinching as your head reeled back. “Are you defending him?” 

“Not remotely. But I think you’re going down a strange path here.” 

“He threw his shield at you. At you.” 

“And you fired a shot off at him. What’s the difference? Everyone was having a tough day.” 

This was a difficult discussion to have. You realized Tony wasn’t defending Steve so much as he wasn’t defending himself. “What if he’d thrown his shield at me? To get me to stop?” 

Realization caught in Tony’s gaze. But he still wouldn’t budge. “He wouldn’t do that.” 

This was going nowhere. “I’m just… something happened. Something between New York and Sokovia.” Why were you just realizing it now? You wanted to excuse yourself. So much going on, but… “And he needs to be neat and clean right now. We can’t afford something terrible. A mission going awry or- god forbid a team discussion out in the middle of heavy fire.” 

Reaching over, Tony laid his hand on your shoulder, massaging there in a light squeeze. “They’ll be alright. We promised ourselves they could handle this. Isn’t that why they’re there, and we’re here?” 

“Something happened.” You found yourself saying this again, softer. Thinking. Really thinking now. Three of you had been responsible for Ultron. You. Tony. Bruce. But Steve’s aggression had been centered on you and Tony- ...maybe mostly on Tony. Hadn’t they argued in Clint’s yard, too? Something so terrible it had really upset Tony that day. It had been easy to forget in the face of alien shapeshifters, but now… “You and Steve have always had modest respect but… I don’t know- we were fine and then suddenly he painted a target on you.” 

“I think you’re overthinking things. And. Not that I don’t enjoy it- but being a little overprotective of me.” 

Was that it? Was that really it? 

You just weren’t sure anymore. Maybe you should have had a bigger discussion with him, before you’d left. Maybe. You were always living in the mire of maybes. “His new World War Two exhibit is opening next week- at the Met. I’m sure he’ll go. I think I need to talk to him.” 

Tony saddened very suddenly. “Are you sure about this? Look- maybe you’re right. Maybe Rogers has had a strange attitude adjustment. The world’s not what he envisioned. But just. Sleep on it, okay? If it still doesn’t feel right… then go.” 

All too late you realized why this was pinging a strange sense of hurt for him. He didn’t think he was worth all this trouble. That couldn’t have been further from the truth. “You’re important to me, you know?” Turning, you reached your hand up, settling it over his heart. “I think we rushed. And I missed my chance to tell him- maybe it doesn’t matter because we’re not there anymore- but I take great exception to the way he treated you.” Seemed like you were doing a lot of that lately. “And whatever’s going on with him- probably doesn’t have anything to do with you- but he needs to figure it out. Because if he doesn’t, we’re gonna be on the other end of whatever that ends up looking like.” 

Cleaning up whatever mess that made. Steve was still young- technically speaking. Tony may have been on to something. Steve might have been coming to a bitter realization that things were not the way he thought they would be. It was affecting him. Maybe Tony was just an easy target. Loud, brash, outwardly egotistical, and easily settling into the famed lifestyle of a hero. And maybe Steve had settled into a life that was too much. It was why you’d asked him many times to try and find some avenues outside being a hero.

Or maybe it was something else entirely. 

But whatever it was Steve needed a talking to, for Tony’s sake, if nothing else. But also because if he seriously didn’t figure it out, he could be the reason somebody else on that team got too heated. Being on the end of Steve’s staredowns was not easy. They didn’t need to become a concoction ready to explode. They needed to be okay. And you needed to make sure they were. Maybe you hadn’t done your due diligence after all. Always and forever- Maybe. 

Tony’s lips twitched a brief smile. “I love you. I’m not gonna stand in your way of giving anybody a verbal beatdown. I’ll be sorry to miss it.” He didn’t think he was worth defending, but all the same, it filled his heart to have somebody that would go to bat for him. Every time. Because you would. ...even if it was a little late. “Just. Sleep on it, okay?” 

You gave a small nod. “Okay. I will.” You would. But… 

Your mind was already made up. 

[cocoisbestgirl]

Fanfic I can’t think of a name for pt 4

Felicity couldn’t help but smirk at seeing Lynna look away defeated. Something about her failure always made Felicity feel just a bit better. Something about it made her happy. That girl tortured Felicity her whole life, now it was finally a...slight revenge. She felt her brain pressuring her to play up Magda’s injuries if only to make Lynna’s day a touch worse.

“Miss Felicity, I have some gifts for Magda. I hope she can forgive the Jorcastles.” Tilla suddenly began to walk away back to her carriage. Felicity saw a slight argument. It all ended with Lynna in tears and Tilla walking back to Felicity with some sort of box. Tilla’s servants were carrying the box. It looked heavy like something used to carry tools.

It took a few seconds before she realized what was shining. It was gems and jewels... expensive looking ones at that.  It looked like something Maggie would buy just to show off. It may have been flashy even for Maggie though. It looked like some type of wood and it was decorated by gems that seemed to be almost stuck on whenever one part wasn’t gem-y enough. It was not a pretty sight, and Felicity’s standards weren’t exactly sky-high.

If Tilla hadn’t handed Felicity a key to the box, Fel would’ve honestly thought it was just junk. She knew better. She knew the duchess was not the type of woman to give away well...anything really, but more importantly she wouldn’t just give away something useless. She had an image to protect, after all. Felicity made a very unladylike, ‘Huh!’ when the box was released into her hands by the servants. Felicity could almost hear Eliza’s lessons on being a lady. She pushed those back into her head before looking up at Tilla. Whatever the heck was in that box was either: A: some huge dress that had already fallen way out of fashion by now or B: A dead body. Felicity couldn’t decide which one she would prefer.

“I cannot wait to see Miss Magda wearing them at the next ball!” Tilla said before bidding farewell and leaving the Ellenstein property. 

Felicity walked into the house with the massive box in hands. She used the back of her foot to close the door with a loud bang before purposefully dropping the box onto a nearby table. The box clunked a bit.

“M-miss what’s in there?” A maid said as she carried a basket full of full perfume bottles through the house. The maid stopped when she saw Felicity struggle to carry the box.

“Dead body,” Felicity said while wiping the sweat off of her face.

“W-what!? I-I won’t tell anybody I swear!”

“Nah, not really don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t be that surprised though.”

“W-what!?”

“Some of the stuff I have heard that woman say, a dead body wouldn’t be that hard to believe.”

“What does she s-say?”

“A weird amount about murder and assassination. Like a really, really weird amount. Probably has a hit on Lynna,” That last part Felicity was originally going to make it a joke. She soon realized it may not actually be…

“A-Anyway,” Felicity took the key in her hand, and opened the box.

No wonder the box was THAT heavy. It was nearly filled to the brim with all sorts of jewelry. At the top was a golden tiara with sapphires decorating the top of it and onyx dotting the bottom of it. Felicity saw quite a few smaller boxes buried underneath of other jewelry. The maid watched in sheer awe as Felicity opened one of the smallest boxes. Some of the most gorgeous, and probably most expensive, rings either of them had ever seen were stored away there. Ruby, emerald, diamond, whatever gem or material was there. 

‘Tilla just gave these away like they were nothing!’ Felicity thought, ‘Just how rich is she!?’

The maid looked around nervously and whispered in Felicity’s ear.

“M-may I have just one of those rings or a necklace? Even a bracelet?”

As much as Felicity desperately wanted to give the poor girl something. She felt unable to. This wasn’t hers. It was all Magda’s. Stealing from an injured woman was...

“I’m sure Magda will give you something. This, uh, isn’t really mine.”

The maid’s shoulder’s dropped a bit. Just as she began to pick her basket back up. Felicity held out one of the less glamorous rings to the maid. Felicity put one finger in front of her lips and winked at the maid who happily took the ring from Felicity’s hand. The maid nearly skipped up the stairs. Felicity felt good inside for a few seconds before she heard footsteps down the stairs. She already knew who it was. Goddess help her…

“Felicity? Who was at the door?”

“Ah! Mom. It was Til- Duchess Jorcastle,” Felicity quickly shut the box, almost crushing a pearl bracelet in the process. 

“Felicity? What’s behind you?”

“A gift. For Magda!”

Eliza’s face shifted a bit in shock. Then into fear in under a second.

“The duchess knows of Magda then…”

“It’s not a bad thing! I don’t think…”

“Daughter, I tried to raise you to be obedient...I really tried.” Eliza closed her eyes

Felicity had heard those words many times, but never in a sad tone... and definitely not with that face

“M-mom, If I knew this is what would’ve happened I would have never done it. I would’ve  told everybody she’s my maid. I didn’t mean for her to get hurt..”

“I wish you would have. Dressing her up and portraying her as a noble…. When in reality she was just a maid.. She could be killed.”

“W-what!?”

It was a convincing lie on Eliza’s part. Felicity knew none of Finsel’s laws, and she knew Felicity would never look into it further. 

“If anybody finds out...they could have a bounty set on her..”

Most, all, of this was a big lie. A woman so desperate she was willing to risk everything just to climb even a step higher in status, she was willing to make such elaborate lies that if they were ever uncovered….

“T-that can’t be true!”

“Please, Felicity go to your room…”

Felicity didn’t bother staying downstairs for the argument and ran upstairs to her room. 

Eliza smiled. Her plan didn’t go exactly as expected. It went better. She looked down at the box. Not only had Magda become the talk of the nobles, but she became a sympathy machine at the same time. 

“Perfect,” Eliza said to herself.

Magda made her way home in a carriage much better than the Ellenstein’s one. She had met the man who had made sure she was alright. Barris Sakan. Magda squirmed a bit at actually meeting him.  She had no issue with him, but she really wasn’t used to being near nobility. Her eyes stayed on the windows as they rode to the Ellenstein Residence.

“So, Miss Ellenstein,”

“Hm?” Magda looked over at Barris

“What is your relation to Felicity?”

“Um...I-”

“I apologize. That was a rude question..”

“N-nonono! You’re completely fine!” 

Magda then realized that now she had to explain how she was related to Felicity. Which she obviously wasn’t. Her and Felicity looked nothing alike. He wouldn’t believe they were related in any sort of way. Maybe, just maybe he’d believe she was a cousin...

“Our relationship is....complicated,” Magda said. She was so nervous she didn’t even have to fake her answer. It was technically not a lie.

“How so?”

“Well,” Magda started as she began to look out the window again, “I really only see her as somebody above me, yet she treats me like I’m on the same level as her. I see her as a friend at best..”

“Sibling relationships are difficult. I would know.”

“S-siblings?”

“I know this whole situation must be very confusing for you.”

‘What situation?’ Magda thought to herself. Magda was an only child as far as she remembered,so did Barris really think her and Felicity were…

Before she could finish her thought Barris interrupted.

“We’re here. Would you like me to walk you to the door? Just in case”

“No, thank you though. Magda picked up her dress slightly as she got out of the carriage and walked towards the residence. Her head was still foggy, but she was able to walk by herself to the door.

She looked down to the ground as she gave a tiny first knock. Only to be happily greeted by another maid before she even thought to knock twice.

“Hello, Magda!” She near shouted as she grabbed Magda by the arm and dragged her into the living room. The ring on the maid's finger gleamed in the light.

Magda’s head spun around and she felt nauseous again. Luckily the maid stopped before Magda had to hurl out whatever she had eaten that day. 

“S-sorry. I was told to get you straight to bed.” 

Before Magda could even think of a response she was being neared shoved up the flight of stairs leading to the second story. Before she even knew it she was in her bedroom.  Well, her new bedroom anyway. It was huge compared to her old room. It had a big closet and a balcony that she could see the stars out of. There was an empty vase in the middle of a vanity that decorated part of her room. On the door was a full body mirror...

The moonlight dimly lit up her bed. Magda forgot that this was her new room, and just thought about sleep. Magda undid the buttons on the front of her dress and let it drop uselessly to the floor. It was scrap now, anyway. She curled up on top of her blanket, too exhausted to even move under the covers. 

The whole day almost felt like a big blur. She remembered getting knocked over, and, nearly, dancing with a noble. The rest was all a big void in her mind. She kicked her shoes and stockings off, before finally shutting her eyes to rest.

The morning sun beamed into Magda’s eyes and startled her awake. The second she sat up her head throbbed with seemingly every heartbeat, and her eyes instinctively shut. Her hands went to grab her head, but she was startled by her door suddenly opening, which made her hands retreat back to her sides.

“Magda, me and-” It was definitely Eliza. Magda tried to hide her pain, but Eliza was smarter than that. 

She walked from the door to the windows and pulled the blinds shut. The pain in Magda’s head was still aching, but the darkness made her able to at least function.

“I’m,” Eliza paused, “I didn’t realize how bad it actually was.” 

Eliza’s eyes softened a bit, “Please come down when you are well. I will have the cook make you something.”

“T-thank you, Miss Eliza,” Magda managed to croak out, “You really are too kind.”

“Please Magda, for your own sake. Call me Mother.”

[autistic-stare]

Project Driscoll: Chapter three-598

Chapter three, again from a different point of view. This is also a little further back in the timeline. The majority of this chapter was written by Raeven Gray.

Content warning: Death (murder), CHILD ABUSE, TORTURE, blood, needles, medical equipment, creepy whumper introduced here, dystopian society, tranquilizers

“Mom? Mom! 526!” I’m shouting. I’m confused. All I know is that blood is coming out of my mother at an alarming rate, showering me in the red liquid. With every drop, I can feel my mother’s body getting colder.

It was an accident, it really was. I had a pair of scissors that I was using for a class assignment, but I tripped when my brother, 352, ran in front of me unexpectedly. The scissors flew out of my hand, arcing through the air in a menacing rainbow of steel. No. Next thing I know, Mom is lying on the floor, her life draining from her veins.  

Run. Wait, what? I can’t run. I have to tell them, I have to tell them that this was all an accident. Run, the voice whispers. Is that coming from inside me? I’m only seven, maybe they’ll understand. Run. Run now. Confused, I decide to give in. I run.

I find an abandoned civilian storage crate in the alley behind my house, they kind they use to drop supplies at our doorstep. I’m crouching, quivering in fear. I hear a voice, rough and unfamiliar.

“A little girl—did that? I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty shocking. They told us it was a freak accident, but I don’t buy it. 723 is going to have a lot of fun with this one,” a second voice says, this one smoother, but slightly deeper.

“That’s cruel and you know it. Maybe we should leave her alone.”

“Is your head unscrewed, 438? You absolute fool! Do you know what 723 would do to us?”

“Better me than her, 762. Better me than her. She’s too young, she has too much potential.”

“Shut up. Talking about it won’t make it any more pleasant.”

They move in closer, and I squeak in fear. They hear me, and I jump, banging my head on the metal ceiling of the storage crate.

“There she is!” the first voice exclaims. “We’ve got her cornered.”

“Hello, little girlie. I’m 438, who are you?” he attempts. He’s trying to make me feel better, to lure me out from inside the crate. It won’t work.

“Oh, come on, 438, just get her. No common courtesies are going to lure this little monster out,” 762 interjects, his voice sinking lower and deeper. “Get your tranq out.” I hear a submissive sigh, probably from 438, and then the clicking of a dart being loaded. I hear the gun cock.

The door of the crate flips open, creating an explosion of light in this dark, cramped space. The sound of a dart firing. I should have picked a better hiding spot. I feel a sharp prick in my neck, and everything goes dark.

---

Where am I? Everything is so bright, so cold. Wh-what’s going on? I can’t move. I feel a sharp projection into my back, just off-center, and an icy cold trickles down my back. An IV. The needle retracts after it’s finished depositing whatever fluids. I shiver.

I look down. I’ve been cuffed to a wall, about two feet off the ground. The backs of my wrists and ankles are practically glued to the wall, a firm, unmoving pressure. I can’t move anything but my head.  

I look to my right. There are eight empty spots, just like the one I now occupy, waiting with an ominous silence, like predator waiting for prey. On my left, there is a boy. He looks to be about fourteen, maybe fifteen. His eyes are scared, and he’s clearly been here longer than me, but how long, I cannot tell.

A man comes through a door. He wears no shackles, but the blue Government uniform under a white doctor’s coat. His presence scares me. He is ruthless. He has no empathy. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he carries himself.

“Ah, fresh blood,” he says. This must be 723. “I am 723. Quite nice to meet you. You’re the youngest DOP I’ve ever met. Seven,” he chuckles. “And you’re only Second! You'll have plenty of time to grow up here. We generally do take a while to . . . fill up.” He sneers, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Two sets of numbers flicker across an old-fashioned, Hi-def plasma screen computer across the room, on the opposite wall. They really should update that, a holoscreen would be far more efficient. I almost laugh at my own inner cynicism, but reality comes crashing back with the weight of panic building in the pit of my stomach.  

1 -- 374

2 -- 598

The boy next to me groans.

“That’s right, 374, it’s time for another round of Testing. You, 598, Testing is to make sure that you did commit the crime that you’ve been arrested for, among other things. You’ll go second,” 723 says. He crosses over to the monitor and types a series of commands. 374 drops to the ground. I look at him, yearning to get off this wall but, at the same time, terrified of what would happen when I do.

723 yanks 374 across the room by the ear, disappearing through the door he originally came through.

Fifteen minutes pass. I try to ignore the thoughts of what is going on behind that door, try to ignore the horrible feeling of infinite terrifying possibilities.

Finally, 723 returns. 374 looks pale and shaken as he climbs back into his spot. I hear the electromagnets engage.

After another series of commands, I, too, fall to the floor. I don’t anticipate how far I fall, and I feel a jarring pain in my legs, but I ignore it. 723 won’t have to pull my ear.

After the door is another room, a thick layer of white paint on the concrete walls and floor. A cold steel chair sits waiting in the center.

723 puts a warm, rough hand on my back and shoves me into it. I sit obediently, submissive with terror, shivering as I remember a saying from before the Republic formed. Warm hands, cold heart. This man has to have the coldest heart of all.

“Shall we begin?” He doesn’t wait for my response.

He moves around busily, first sticking me with a needle, then fiddling around with small pieces of plastic and wires. He keeps touching my head. Electrodes. He’s going to send artificial signals to my brain, probably to make me tell the truth. He finishes sticking them to my head, then slides a syringe into my neck, injecting me with some unknown substance. My body quickly goes limp, all sensation fading. I try to slow my panicked breathing as best I can, but it doesn’t help at all. The anticipation is scarier than anything this could possibly do.

“What happened last week?” 723 asks.

“Last week?” I gasp. “Nothing happened last week.” This I know is true.

Looking at a computer screen, 723 shakes his head, another sneer spreading across his face. “Wrong answer.”

Everything explodes. Pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before screams through my body, reaching places I didn’t know could hurt. No it hurts it hurtsithurtsithurtsithurts oh my gosh make it stop FUCK make it stop please make it STOP—

It stops. I gasp for air. “Oh, I’m sorry,” 723 says, grinning. “You don’t know how long you’d been out. Yeah . . . a week. Let’s just call that question . . . a trial run.” I’m crying too hard to say anything.

723 laughs a little, leaning close to my face. “Do you want to try a different question?”

I can’t answer. I don’t know what the right answer is.

“I think you do. What do you do when you get upset?”

I gulp, trying to speak between sobs. What kind of question is that? “Um. I . . . I . . .”

A flash of pain. I let out a pained yelp. “Is that your answer?”

I give a stifled groan. “I’m trying I'm trying I’m trying!” 723 raises his eyebrows. I look away quickly. I take a few deep breaths, trying to stay as calm as I can. Don’twannahurt don’twannahurt. “I . . . I normally go to my room or something?”

723 nods. “Interesting. Would you like to elaborate?”

I whimper. “I want to go home.”

More pain. My vision starts to go fuzzy at the edges. Nononono make it stop make it stop— 723 grins. “Another wrong answer. Try again?”

My breath is coming in ragged gasps. I can tell I’m on the verge of unconsciousness. My voice is small. “Okay. I . . .” I glance at 723, terrified, and answer the rest of the question in a panic. “I dunno I just try to be alone and calm down its not like anyone wanted to talk to me or anything and I spent all my time in my room anyway so.”

723 smiles. “That’s more like it.” A quick flash of pain.  

I whimper again. “Please stop I answered the question stop hurting me!”

“Oops! My bad. Technical difficulties.”

No. You're just having fun.

The rest of the session passes in the same fashion. He asks his questions, and I answer. If he doesn’t like what I say, the pain returns.

I assume it only lasts fifteen minutes, just like 374’s, but there is no way of knowing. I black out twice, or maybe it’s three times. I have no way of knowing. The whole thing just feels like one long, painful blur.  

Finally, 723 releases the restraints. I can barely walk now; my nerves are too busy screaming with pain, but I do so anyway. I am escorted back into the holding room, where 374 eyes me with pity. Once 723 leaves the room, he speaks to me.

“Longest fifteen m-minutes of your, of your life, huh?” he says. His voice is kind, understanding. “I w-wonder what on, what on earth a sev-ven-year-old could do to, do to get here.”

I hesitate for a moment, then I speak, my voice cracking. “I accidentally killed someone.”

“Aww, well then,” 723 says, bursting back into the room. “Isn’t this nice?” 374 and I exchange frightful looks. “No, no, it’s alright. 374, if you think what she did was an accident, you’ve been lied to,” he grins, pleasure streaking across his face. “I’m sure you want to know what 374 did, isn’t that right, 598? He stole from the Government. And once we fill up—” he glances at the other eight spots, “—you’ll all receive your punishment.”

723 leaves. "D-dammit, I stole a p-pencil! It’s n-not like, like I stole, um, a b-bomb or anything," 374 shouts, straining against the wall.  

Slowly, warily, I start thinking. Was it on purpose? No, I don’t think so. I love my mother. I wouldn’t do anything like that, would I? Maybe I would . . . no. I shake myself mentally. This 723, this psychopath, is making me doubt myself. I didn’t do it on purpose. I know I didn’t do it on purpose.

The lights never dim. My innate sense of time almost slips from my grasp, only saved by the marking of six hours, represented by the cold nutrient fluid running through the IV in my back. Every third time, sedatives are added to the fluid. We sleep for six hours, then we are woken up by another rush of liquid food. I’m almost grateful for the sedatives, and whatever keeps us sleeping deep enough that six hours easily replaces twelve. The lights are bright enough that I know I could never sleep on my own. Time almost becomes meaningless in this blank, white room.

And day after day, the Testing sessions go on.

[sirinthebird]

Well uh that took me a while but anyways, to the prompt challenge

1. “That’s starting to get annoying”

“Well, that’s starting to get annoying” Kirishima thinks at precisely 2:37 in the morning while his cardboard dorm room wall still vibrates from being punched from the other side. Kirishima knows that his friend has trouble sleeping, he knows how Bakugou is when he is having nightmares, tossing and turning on the bed, sticky from his own sweat. And he sure does know that Bakugou is not doing this on purpose. They talked about this, for god’s sake, and apparently the topic of nightmares is something that Bakugou is still particularly sensitive about. Kirishima knows. He knows about Bakugous pride, and his upbringing, and the image of strength that he built in his head over the years. But it’s almost 3 in the morning, Kirishima is tired and annoyed and worried and guilty for not doing anything, and for being about to do something he was asked not to, and for being annoyed altogether.

He gets out of bed as fast as possible, and when he feels the pang of anxiety stab him in the chest and wash over his body in a sizzling-hot-yet-ice-cold wave he is already at the door, turning the doorknob all the while tricking his brain into thinking that if he is already up then he has to do something before he can lay back down. It’s a 3 second walk to Bakugous door and then he stands there, waiting for his mind to put itself back in some sort of order. He can’t just go comfort someone in the middle of the night when it feels like his heartbeat is echoing through the entire hallway. Kirishima is not scared, he is not scared of Bakugou, obviously. He knows that after this long, after how much Bakugou has grown, he will not get hurt, at least intentionally. He is scared to take this responsibility. It is never like this in his daily life and in his hero work, but its always like this with Bakugou. The blond is rough, decisive and almost uncompromising when it gets to his personal space. No matter what their relationship is, no matter how good they fit together, Kirishima can’t help but feel like he is walking in thin ice and even a tiny crack is enough for the freezing waters to burst through and drag him within their empty depths. This is why he is still standing there, feeling freezing cold and burning hot simultaneously. Because tonight Bakugou is going to either accept him or drown him for good. That much is decided. That’s why Kirishima is here.

He opens the door slowly and immediately wrinkles his nose at the high-pitched creak of poorly lubricated door hinges which fill his head through the rush of blood in his ears and the crazy beating of his heart. The door finally yields and allows Kirishima to sneak into the room and shut it without more noise. The room is dimly lit by the pale moonlight sifting through mesh blinds, and Bakugou is laying in bed completely still with his eyes covered by his forearm. Kirishima just stands there trying to figure out whether Bakugou has fallen back asleep. Maybe it’s fine for tonight, maybe he’s overreacting, maybe he should just leave and give Bakugou some space.

“What’s with the face?” Bakugous raspy whisper is deafening in completely still air and Kirishima almost jumps out of his own skin. “You look like you stepped in a cage with a wild animal.”

“I’m sorry” Kirishima shuffles awkwardly on his feet and then moves, decisive, to the edge of Bakugous bed in three big rapid strides and slips under the blanket without a word.

“What’s wrong, Eijirou?” Bakugou rolls on his side to face Kirishima, and the redhead looks conflicted, annoyed and worried simultaneously.

“That was supposed to be my question!” Kirishima says a little too firmly and deflates immediately. “You are having nightmares again. I don’t want to push you into telling me about it, but I-” Kirishima pulls at his own fringe, starting to get frantic. “Shit. Fucking hell.” He rarely ever swears but now it is just as much as he can muster.

“Hey, hey, y-you’r fine,” Bakugou almost stammers. “You are allowed to ask me about it. It’s not like I’ll bite your head off. You are my partner, after all.” He adds, much quieter, still insisting that the word ‘boyfriend’ is tacky and refusing to adopt in into his lexicon.

“I’m not scared of you, Bakugou” Kirishima retorts and forces himself to lower his voice and not sound too defensive. “I’m not scared ofyou” he emphasises, shuffling closer to Bakugou, pressing his face into the crook of the blond’s sweaty neck, letting his hands fold over Bakugou’s chest, feeling the familiar warmth of Bakugou’s hands wrapping around his waist. Its good, its amazing, actually, but he has a point to make. “I just don’t want to intrude into your personal space and…uh well…I don’t want to be annoying, but I’m not as good at understanding you as you might think I am. I’m a bit lost.” Kirishima exhales into Bakugou’s skin, almost on the verge of tears, too tired and anxious to be embarrassed about the fact.

“You don’t have to…fuck. You don’t have to think about any of that. I’m not…uh” Bakugou goes silent for a long minute, absentmindedly rubbing his cheek and forehead on Kirishima’s hair. “All I want to say is that…our relationship is not that fragile. I know how I can be, and I’m working on it. But you…you don’t have to expect me to fuck you over or get pissed at you. Because I’m not planning to, ever. It’s never my intention. But yeah…we are stronger than you think. What’s between us.” Bakugou takes a deep breath, his voice low and raspy, and Kirishima suspects that maybe he is not the only one on the verge of tears right now. He doesn’t have the energy to full on reminisce about how Bakugou used to be, and much he changed, and how their relationship evolved, but the kaleidoscope of frames, colourful, happy and not so much, but full of life nonetheless keeps spinning in the back of Kirishimas head, in the corners of his vision.

“Fucking funny how we both showed out weaknesses now, with this stupid situation” Bakugou snorts, obviously nervous, and tilts his head down so that Kirishima cannot look him in the eye. Kirishima digs his fingers into Bakugou’s thick hair and remains silent, trying not to show how desperately he want his partner to elaborate.

It’s been so long since Bakugou said something that Kirishima thought he had fallen asleep when he finally spoke. “Can you sleep with me? Like…for a few days? With you around...” Bakugou clings to Kirishima a bit harder “It’s always better with you around. But you don’t have to.” Bakugou goes completely still, holds his breath even, because he is facing the cold deadly depths of his own and he can almost feel the freezing waters licking dangerously at his toes.

“Sure” is all Kirishima says to that but Bakugou feel like he has miraculously emerged from the massive waive threatening to swallow and crash him, sweaty palms, blurry vision and all, and Kirishima feels the staccato of Bakugou’s heartbeat as he circles him in a loose embrace and gets ready to fall asleep just like that. They don’t talk, but their soft touches speak for a long while until the horny crescent of the moon hides behind the roof of the dorm building.  

Please consider giving it a reblog if you can because tumblr doesn’t want to show my works under any tagsヾ（＾ヮ＾)ﾉ

next>>

[the-ash0]

chapter 25 chill

Saiyan physiology, I have been assured by many doctors and questionable scientists, is the best there is. The way we bounce back from near-fatal injury is unique and I won't say it has not always been a source of pride and consolation.

And yet here I am, lamenting the fact that two weeks after waking up from my GR accident —with the most questionable scientist yet at my side— I am all but healed. Why? Well, first of all, sitting still is a lot easier when it hurts to move. Because apparently, that’s part of what relaxing is. Not moving.

We’re in a new room again. Capsule Corp is full of them. I think this one is specifically meant for this thing I’ve promised to try: a relaxing room. Or something. Recreation? Whatever.

There are two couches, another low table between us, and one of those big viewing slates fixed to the wall surrounded by pieces of canvas she calls art. The woman has taken one couch, stretched her legs out to the side and is leaning on her elbow as she flips through a remote’s menu. I concede to sitting down on the vacant couch. It’s a little low so I’m stuck with my feet planted apart as I stare at her with my arms crossed.

The second reason my recovery irks me: I can’t blame this lapse of judgement on an addled brain. What in fuck’s name made me to agree to this? Maybe I have suffered permanent brain-damage. I mean, that happens. Look at Nappa. It's kind of a nice thought. I could just, you know, go about and do whatever I want. ‘Oh, don't mind him. He got knocked in the head too much.’ Conduct unbefitting a prince? Can I eat that? No more responsibility for my actions… but then I’d just be a second Kakarot. And that’s just sad…

She looks up at me from her side of the low table and sighs, the lowers the remote. “Sit back, will you? Relax.”

I have to repress a snarl, because she was going to show me how. Because apparently I don't, so... I mean what the fuck? Also, what the fuck, brain? I know I’m naturally distrustful. It’s served me well in the past, but ever since I’ve decided I can trust the woman... I’m going into hyper alert every time I’m around her. It’s so stupid, but it only appears to be getting worse.

“I am relaxed,” I grind, and instinctively dig my nails into my biceps before shoving my back into the backrest. It’s not helping; now I have to tilt my head to my chest to keep looking at her. And I’m not about to look away from her, because that thing in the back of my head is screaming: danger, danger. Space-reality continuum anomaly.

Oh yes; it is very hard to argue with that voice. This whole stay on Earth has been a trip to lala-land. And she’s right at the center of it all. That doesn't mean she forms, in any way, a danger to me. She’s weak; she’s harmless. Worry about the anomalies that are a danger, will you brain? Kakarot. The half-breed mystery-brat from the future. Cramps induced by late-night snack splurges. You know, real and actual dangers.

“Ok,” she gives me a weird look, “so when I need to relax, I hang loose and go out with my friends.” She drops the control on the table between us and stands to stretch. “But I'm not sure you’re that comfortable with yours yet, so…”

Ok, let’s try and make things clear to the woman. “I don't have any friends.”

She smiles and saunters off to a corner, leaving with that throbbing tinge from behind as I follow her with my eyes. Why does she sway her hips like that? She’s not wearing those ridiculous high shoes this time. Maybe it's the dress. “And I’m not really sure they’re up for it either right now. You did beat the snot out of them, and they’re all out training hard.”

It is half-way relieving she was not talking about herself, but still,  “what friends are we talking about exactly?”

She is bent down over what turns out to be a mini-fridge, and I have to look away or I’m stuck scowling at her ass. The dress is not short by her definition, but definitely too short for these kinds of antics. She stands, then tosses me a can, which I catch on intuition, and I turn back to give her my best death glare. She seems set on disturbing me further, because I just get a smile. “Anyway, I’ve got some basics right here. Dim the lights, light some incense, play  some relaxing music.”

“Music?”

“Like, relaxing sounds?” She shrugs, opens her own can and, right on cue, we are surrounded by ambient sound. “Here, and try a beer.”

Damnit. Now she thinks I don't know what music is... Though how it’s supposed to relax anyone is beyond me. Beer is what I tried at the bar, though it was not put in a can like this.  When I open the lid, foam surprises me, and I sit up in an attempt to minimize the damage, cursing under my breath.

The woman flutters around me, placing an assortment of cans and bottles and packages on the table, closing the blinds. As she plays around with her controller, the music swells, some flute in tones so low and slow I doubt the musician himself will be awake at the end of the song.

As I look through the assortment on the table for something serviceable as a towel to get the sticky beer off my hands she dives behind me, takes the opportunity to grab and fluff a pillow and places it against the side-rest. Then she motions me to lean into it. The alarm bells in my head are still ringing, and it takes me a while to figure out what she is doing, because her acts are so alien to me. It finally clicks when I think of the blond ditz she is related to. Oh, this will not do. “Stop mothering me. Saiyans don't do family. I told you this.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things. I’m not convinced ofn most of them.” She walks to my side, picks up a bag, offering me “chips?”, and smiles that sickly smile at me. I can't help but think that’s unfair of her to say, because I have been nothing but honest with the woman from the start. I tell her soas such.

She laughs at me outright. “You misunderstand. I don't think you’re lying. I just don't think any of it is true.” Then she plops down next to me, and I find I do want to lean on that side-rest, just to get some distance. Rethinking the no-threat-to-me thing, seriously.

“How are you feeling now?”

That’s it. I am not cut out for this. I should give it a fair chance, true. I do want to be a Super Saiyan. Yes, that badly. But I think a time-limit is in order. Ten minutes. And if I’m not convinced, I am never, ever trying this again. All and everything we’re doing right now is going on my shit-list forever. Including the beer, just because of association. I blink at her. “Seriously freaked out.”

“Ahh.” At least she shifts away from me, rummaging through her wares. “Want to try a cigarette?”

It is probably the single most disgusting habit these earthlings have displayed to me yet. Both her father and she indulge in it, and I cannot imagine why. The trail of smoke, the ash and odor clinging to them all day. I curl my upper lip at her, and she gets the message. A weak laugh as she leans to the side. “Mind if I do?”

I should, but I can't be arsed to tell her. Nine minutes… nine more left. She lights up, then lowers herself down with a content sigh, crossing her legs and leaning on the back rest. “How d’you like the music?”

She seems to think me a liar, but I hardly ever do, unless I need to: “Sounds like a pair of geriatrics trying to fuck on top of a broken flute.”

She barks a laugh. “Not your tastes.” She picks up her remote and taps away on it. “How’s this?”

The beat changes, picks up, and instruments are now accompanied by the screeching of a young female. “Now it sounds like the flute itself is fucking some bitch.”

She laughs, sits up with me as I discard the now-empty can to the side of the table. Goes about sorting her bottles with her cigarette perched on her lips. “How about wine. Do you know wine?”

“Oh yes.” If I was uncomfortable before, now I’m fuming. “I know. Pinon blue, Merlot’s pink. Frieza loved the stuff, went through three bottles in one sitting.” Then pretended to be completely smashed. Bastard. “They say the Cold Empire originally started because the Ice Planet only sustained the grapes for it around the equator and they needed more planting space. Oh, you can also cook with it.”

She gives me a perplexed look, so I elaborate. “Drown a fowl in it, then cook it? Of course, that takes away the alcohol, so you need to replace that before serving. Oh, and there’s wine veggies, wine pudding, wine ice cream.”

Her expression turns cynical. “Seriously, wine ice -cream?”

I cannot help my delight. “What? You humans don't have wine ice cream? Haute cuisine on Frieza’s ship.” And eating it felt as good as waterboarding. “Brain-freeze and killing your taste-buds in one go. Two for the price of one.”

She gives me another one of those sick smiles. “Wine’s off the list then. And I guess no smokables? Can I at least burn some incense? Or maybe inject you with some mild sedatives?”

“Never letting you close enough for that again.” Eight minutes left and counting.

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to do this naturally. Might even be better. Hey, you into movies?” She takes the stinking stick from her mouth, gives it a long look and puts it out. Looks up expectantly, like I should be happy about it. Like it matters now. The whole room reeks of the stuff.

On the plus side, now I can at least cut her off before she decides I don't know what movies are. I’ve seen both instructional and promotional material. I’m not sure why they would relax anyone either. “Only when I want to get inspired to kill the creators.”

“Right, putting them on the back burner for now. So... you are into reading?”

She hands me a tablet slate with an expression like she’s being really clever. Doubt resurfaces, suggesting I do have something to worry about, but I quench it. Take the slate from her, and give it a look over.

“I have books on here. Fiction, history, science. There’s an internet browser. I have several interesting sites linked...” She tries to scoot closer and look at the slate with me, but I pull it close and turn it so only I can see. This is gold, and its setup is similar to a scouter. Easy enough to master. There is a lot more info here than accessible on the basic scourter database, though. I’m scrolling and searching and I find real and useful intel right away.

This internet is a truly beautiful thing. But, truly human as well. Information sharing? Nothing like the way the PTO hoarded its iInformation, accessible only from different databases close to Frieza himself. Needed data for your mission or task? Gather it up from the twelve different libraries and log rooms across the ship, and manually type in any data you need to take on the voyage.

I grunt, lost in the appliance while the woman loses interest and starts messing with her mobile phone. Suits me well enough. Oh, the stuff up for grabs in this place! Knowledge is power, don't the earthlings know this? And besides, why give anything away when you can charge for it or dole it out as if a favour? She’s managed a look at my screen though, and takes in a breath. “What are you doing?”

“Research. Getting to know people? Piccolo is the devil,” I deadpan, showing her the article. It seems a bit of an overstatement, but humans do like their dramas. Still useful. Piccolo: father, deceased. Strong points: can grow limbs back. Weaknesses: strong attacks take time and leave him stationary. But, even better: the brat. One of the articles suggest him training out in the desert with a child, and that could only be one. Though the article suggests it’s actually a mythical spirit-being. The sources on the article are shabby, flagged as nonsense sites. But I know better. This is such a good handle on him… I quickly move onto Kakarot next. There’s less on him for some reason, though. Perhaps spotting a flying monkey doesn't stand out here as much as a green lizard-thing in a turban.

Bulma sighs, laying down her phone and stretching her back as she sits up. “That is not what I meant aboutwith getting to know people.” Then she sits back, breathing out long. “I know. Tell me a story,” and then she puts her hand right on my leg.

I freeze, because the prickling is back, and perhaps I misunderstood my brain’s anomaly warning. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” She has the audacity to pat my leg, then finally pulls her hand away to lean it against the backrest.

“This is stupid,” I realise, and besides I’ve already spent over my allotted ten minutes, right? I can leave now. But it’s worse; far worse. Because the smoke has cleared and I can smell her, and she’s so close it’s disgusting.

“Stupidest thing you’ve ever done?” She turns to me with a wicked twinkle in her eye. That near-black dress hugs the curves of her chest as she twists.

“No.” Although it’s close. Because she’s right here, and she’s an alien. A disgusting, inferior monster I should have purged a long time ago. Would have purged, if not for the daily meals and the perks of a warm place to sleep and training equipment.

She leans her head on her hand, the one on the backrest. Pulls up a leg, focuses on me intently, still with that mischievoues tone. “What was the stupidest then?”

I bail, get up; move straight for the door. “Coming to this fucking planet.” And it’s true, because it gets worse every day. Worse in every way. There’s an alien bitch I just let within three feet of me. And I’m not disgusted with her.  

I’m not disgusted.

read the rest on https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338988/chapters/35590152 or ff.net

[bluepenguinstories]

Happiness Overload Chapter Twenty-One

The book was closed shut. Left to sit for months until someone eventually picked it back up. Oh, there was more to the story, but there were other stories to cover.

“What was that chapter even about?” They asked, coming down from a warm high.

With a shrug, the one who opened the short and out of place memory replied, and offered a tangible explanation.

“The Hall of Memories may not always show relevant memories, but we relied on its knowledge whenever we could.”

We nodded in unison. More of us walked down the stairs and greeted each other.

“Wassup?” Each of us took turns snarling the sacred word to each other and with added enthusiasm each time it would be uttered. There would be a crescendo and we would resume our speech. This was our routine.

“Ah, now that that was out of the way, how was our pupil?” One of us asked.

“Did you mean the one we showed the Hall of Memories to?”

We all nodded. We already knew who. Some of us were just too high to admit it.

“Killed. By someone named Gumby.”

“That was tragic. Did we make a mistake?”

“Oh, no need to worry. They lived. But they were killed in this past. There were other pasts, not yet explored.”

Tim rushed in. Or as some of us like to say 'The Named One'.

“YOU FOOLS!” Tim shouted, but in a slow, relaxed shout. As if things were smooth sailing.

“Was there a problem?” We asked The Named One.

“'Was...' Can't you just use present tense? Just once?”

We sighed, letting out a cough as our breaths increased our highs. “Like, 'is' there a problem, my dude?” We accommodated The Named One.

“OF COURSE THERE IS!” They huffed and huffed. We did the same. “CONRAD TOLD ME HE KNEW ABOUT MARCO!”

Those of us not named Tim looked at each other.

“Who?”

“Don't play dumb with me.”

Such hostility. One of us offered a joint. The Named One refused.

“Say, didn't we read about a Marco in The Hall of Memories?”

Tim was ablaze. Not a good feeling when sober.

“Cannot recall. Speaking of, what of our problem child?”

“You mean the one currently going by 'Marco'?”

“Indeed.”

“Still causing trouble.”

We shook our heads.

“Seems that child may never learn.”

One spoke up.

“That is a trouble with others, as I have read,” they explained.

We asked them to elaborate.

“There are those who seek knowledge by looking to the future. Those who want to change the present, when the present is intangible. Yet only through the past may we learn.”

“Amen, broski.”

“True knowledge can be found from rolling a blunt,” another added. We all agreed to that.

We pondered what to do as we looked around the ever expanding room.

“Shall we proceed to the next phase?” Was the next question uttered. It may have even been uttered by the one self-identified as Tim.

We all nodded.

I'M SO HAPPY. I'M SO HAPPY. I'M SO HAPPY.

I'M SO...

Those were my thoughts. But they ceased. I knew they would return. To be granted this, I knew there was a catch. Said catch came in the form of something before me. Out from the corner of my eye.

She had seven sets of wings, seven eyes, and seven mouths. She spoke with only one of them. I could not see which one. I was trembling. With excitement. With happiness.

AFTER ALL, I'M SO HAPPY.

I had a feeling she was my thoughts. Personified.

“Oh dear,” she leaned over and whispered into my ear with a sultry voice. Her hands, seven fingers on each, pressed to my face. “You say you're happy, but you're filled with tears.”

I tried to speak. I found myself unable.

“You are happy. So much happiness all at once can be overwhelming. But do not worry.”

“What are you?” I managed to ask it.

“To some, a succubus. To others, a guardian angel. Even at times, a fairy. Tell me, do you know what any of those are?”

“I've seen enough hentai...”

“GOOD! I'M PROUD OF YOU!”

“But what are you?” I felt as if my question wasn't answered.

“Perhaps I am what others need to see to make them happier.”

There was a chill. I knew I would not last. For all the joy upon me, I was still uneasy, deep down.

“You are happy, but you are hesitant. You are frightened. You feel betrayed, by both Conrad and Marco. You were told that you were not important. But that is not true,” She fluttered her feathers about the dark room. I wasn't sure if what was running down my face were really tears or the blood I smeared on my face. “It is said that otherworldly creatures can only be seen by those on the verge of death.”

“Am I?”

“It is not true about those being on the verge of death. However, you are on the verge of something. This whole world is. You are the most important one of all.”

I was kissed by it. By her. By whatever was presented to me. Upon being kissed, my flesh, bone, organs, and muscle all dissolved until I was blood. Then, I scattered into the air as vapor, allowing my happiness to spread to others. Finally, I would be of use.

I walked out of the building and was greeted by two officers. They yelled “freeze!” and I was transported to a time in Antarctica when I would catch fish. I would have remarked what a beautiful day it was, a great time to watch a game of baseball. However, what I said instead was:

“Gentlemen,”

Their guns were pointed at me, but only for a second.

“Someone was shot,” I pointed out. “I think you should investigate.”

The two clicked their guns, but instead of shooting me, turned their aim to each other.

“I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO SHOOT A FELLOW OFFICER!” One of them cheered in an octave higher than humans should be able to reach.

“I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE SHOT BY A FELLOW OFFICER!”

“I'M SO HAPPY!” They both proclaimed before pulling the trigger and ending each others' lives.

I laughed, but it was a most unenthusiastic laugh.

“Oh, I wish I could say I felt the same happiness you felt. All the same, this should provide me a nice source of entertainment.”

Passing by was another human, who witnessed the shooting.

“IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY TO SEE AN OFFICER SHOOT ANOTHER OFFICER!” He declared and proceeded to bash his head into a wall until there were gashes upon his forehead, brain matter spilling out. “THIS IS ALL I EVER WANTED! TO FEEL A PROFOUND HAPPINESS!”

I laughed with more vigor and made my grand exit.

“So it begins,” I muttered. Soon, I would meet up with Gumby and we would discuss our progress. For now, I hummed a sweet tune.

Further into the darkness I took my strides. There was a secret panel along the wall where I knew I would not be detected. I opened the panel with my second arm, as my third was preoccupied holding the arm of another.

As I thought of the arm I was holding, how I yearned to meet the happiness the owner knew of, I was greeted by another arm. This time on my shoulder. Even among the darkness, I could see the shadows that covered the arm.

“How goes, brother Gumby?” The voice was a deep, yet sneering one.

I pointed to the arm I was holding as well as pointing to the third arm I had gained. One of my arms pointed to two other arms.

“Such a beautiful afternoon, huh?” Another question Marco asked of me.

“I cannot tell. It's dark in here.”

He gave a hearty laugh, although I could sense some emptiness in him.

“Nice new arm, by the way,” he added.

“Thank you. Shall I cut it off?”

“No need. I think it looks good on you. Speaking of, how is my sister and Mr. Periwinkle?”

“I haven't received word from either. They may not have made it, I'm afraid.”

He let out a sigh, unbecoming of the scientist. “I do love my dear sister, but these things happen.”

“And how were things on your end?” I deflected. I knew he didn't like to stay on the same topic. His mind didn't operate that way, for one. Or, if it did, not for very long.

“I know my sister will pull through. She is persistent. Despite being a frog, she is akin to a cockroach in the most dire of times.”

I paused. He would get back to me. I learned to be patient over the years.

“It went as I knew it would. Rather disappointing, really. Kelly Roger did what I needed to happen and Conrad is dead.”

“Shame about Conrad,” I sympathized. “I knew you were fond of him, however antagonistic he was.”

He shook the head he was using. “I hate when I am in the right timeline.”

There was a sadness to that statement, but none expressed in his voice.

“He was going to die, anyway,” Marco continued. “His heart of darkness could only get him so far. He was his own folly. The way I see it, I gave him mercy. If I didn't have him killed, any number of things would have done him in before long.”

I could sense an intrusion of clarity and I wanted to take advantage of it.

“Shame about Kelly Roger, too. Just leaving the kid there.”

“Ah, but Kelly Roger had a role to play. May not be the role Kelly Roger wanted, but it was a role all the same. Soon a new era of happiness will be upon us, an era that was also coming for some time, and I just needed to give it a little push. Kelly Roger was that push.”

“Speaking of happiness, the arm I'm holding belongs to the one you said was close to Euphoria. The angel who could grant happiness to anyone.”

His eyes lit up in the darkness. I could see moons reflected in his eyes, lost civilizations. If I were to dissect them, what would I find? Oh, I would wonder, but something also told me that would never come to fruition.

“Hand the arm to me,” he commanded. I was disappointed I held on to it for so long and did nothing with it, but I knew what was about to happen. I knew I could not stomach to commit the act, myself.

I obeyed and watched the act with awe; his mouth expanded until it was his head and face resembled a giant worm. His cheeks tore back, his teeth were both crooked and smooth, like a jagged stone, preserved over time. His tongue itself, I caught a brief glimpse of – resembling a limb unto itself, as if it were an eel. I could spot fins or something close to that on his tongue, yet there was also suction cups between each fin, suggesting a similarity to an octopus' tentacle.

He held the arm up into the air and dropped it into his marvelous mouth. He closed his mouth and I watched as his head contracted back, his face reforming and his neck at a length closer to that of a human's, once again. He took one gulp, one swallow. His palm formed a fist as he covered his mouth to cough. There were a few coughs after.

“Well? Do you feel any happier?”

He shook his head.

“Feel like you could grant our wish?”

Marco opened his mouth. “I'm afraid not. It just tastes like arm. Could have done without the bones, too, I may add.”

“T'is a shame. I was hoping we could hasten our goal of making an amphibian population the next step in human evolution.”

We were walking now. He knew where we were going. It was nice to have a companion on a journey, as we could compare notes, brainstorm ideas, and reach a conclusion on our next phase of operations.

He let out a sigh, or a yawn.

“I'm afraid I may not share the same goal as you. For now, I do. But I may soon abandon it if it starts to bore me.”

“I am well aware. If the situation arises, I shall take your place and continue in your stead.”

Our paces matched each other. I wasn't certain if he intended it that way or if it was coincidence.

“Say, remember when we were originally posing as Flashbulb members?” I asked, seizing the moment. His structure changed to that of a pruned plum. I couldn't tell if I struck a nerve, for I could not tell if Marco had nerves to begin with.

“It's not that I disagree with the goal, or that I dislike gay frogs. I love humans and I love frogs. But I find a meaninglessness to it all. Any moment, I shall walk away when I find the feeling start to wane. No goal is entertaining enough to be eternal.”

“Is that so? Not even a noble goal as advancing to a higher plane of knowledge?”

“Ah, yes! You were Dr. Gumby and I was Dr. Magellan. I don't know why you were Gumby even then but maybe you went by a different name, too. I'm just thinking maybe I'm in the universe I'm in now.”

I couldn't smell any flies, yet I craved. Oh, if I could meet Euphoria and devour even just a little...

“I was Dr. Francis Drake, if I recall,” I corrected.

“My one consistent goal is to find a consistent goal. If your goal is to seek a higher knowledge, to advance the human race, then I am afraid you still think like a Flashbulb member and not the gay frog that you are,” Marco's words reflected a sublime mixture of kindness and irritation. “The problem with The Flashbulb is that they think of themselves as gods, yet are nothing more than blind idiots.”

“How can that be? The Flashbulb are comprised of the top minds in the world.”

I could feel the glow, both in his smile and his eyes. He must have become aware of this too and took advantage of it.

“Knowledge means nothing without foresight.”

“What of you, then?”

“Foresight is all I have. I am aware of the past and the future but never in the order I would like to see them. Do I know anything?” He placed his palm on his face. “It's more like a cheat sheet in my mind that I have little control over. So my best option is to bide my time until I can decide what I want.”

We continued to wander. It seemed the darkness was all we had, and yet the mass that one would consider his body pervaded all darkness with shadows all its own, somehow producing light all the same.

As soon as we arrive at our destination, the first thing I'm going to do is grab a pen and some paper and make notes about this.

“Say,” Marco began once more. That creature seemed unable to bear silence for more than a few seconds. “I'm feeling a smidgen of clarity.”

“What of it?”

“Oh, don't you have any better use of your mouth? Aren't there any flies around?”

There went the clarity. Gone already.

“All I'm getting at is that we still have miles to go down these corridors. While we may evade any presence, it can get quite lonely, wouldn't you say? There are no risks, everything is silent, save for us.”

“What more is there to talk about?”

“Have I ever told you how I once met a man named Howard Phillips?”

I wondered if there was any significance to such a name, but when nothing came to mind, all I could do was shake my head.

“Oh, it was before your time, but kind of a funny story.”

“How 'before my time' are we talking?”

Marco had to ponder.

“I believe it happened in the '30s? I don't recall, actually. Could have been 20s, but definitely not 40s.”

“I see. And how old were you again?”

“I really don't see how that's relevant,” Marco chirped.

I was about to rebut, but Marco wasn't having it. He spoke over me.

“Anyway, I was strolling through a New England town and happened upon this bar and decided to go in for a drink. I take my seat and the bartender's all 'what'll it be?' now I don't know, but I say 'I'll take a Shirley Temple.' Bartender doesn't know what I'm talking about for some reason. So I say 'I'll just have a glass of water.' This gets me laughed out, but not from the bartender. No, some pompous prick drinking absinthe. I look over and say 'hey, what's your name?' and he goes 'Howard Phillips. If you don't know who I am, then you're lower than trash! The lowest scum to ever walk the earth!'”

“Oh wow. And how did you respond?”

“I laughed too! Guy was so shitfaced he didn't even look at me. He just heard what I ordered and decided I was some horrid creature. But I humored him. I was all, 'yeah, I know you.' He was silent after that. I had my water, he had his drink. He struck me as some fine wine guy. Real cask of Amontillado fellow. I had my water and listened in to the conversations he would have with himself. Talk of how certain races were trying to overthrow his heritage. Bitter bloke if I ever saw one.”

“So you just ran into a bigot at the bar? That's not uncommon.”

“No, this isn't an extraordinary tale by any means. I just like to reminisce. I recall watching as he stumbled his way out, back to the streets which called his name. Perhaps in his drunken stupor he was thinking of a time when he owned it, but I don't think he ever really did. The empire in his mind was a well that dried up long ago. Even still, he would shout to high heaven how he was on top of the world and everyone was below. All the while, I would follow behind, being slow and silent. My movements almost a crawl.”

“Why were you following him exactly?”

“Why else? If you see a rabbit late for a very important date, aren't you the least bit curious where said rabbit may be going?”

“Fair enough.”

“Suppose he lived in a castle, maybe it was an old, worn down castle. Maybe in spite of all his riches, he was felt himself an outsider and craved social interaction. Maybe he dreamed of living in a castle like he believed his ancestors once did, but really he lived in some rundown shack grumbling away on days gone by. Maybe he couldn't even scrape together a dime and when he stumbled upon coin, he drank himself away, stumbling in the streets like I watched him do.”

“Okay, I get your point. Then what?”

“So after a while, he turned around, and as drunk as he was, he must've seen me. He fell over, frozen in fear and yelled at me, saying 'stay back! Away from me, you crawling chaos!' I was dumbfounded, if we're being quite honest. I shot back, 'I would hardly call it crawling! I'm just walking slow, is all! Name's Abdul, by the way!'”

“'You wretched creature of darkness!' He went off, and my response?”

Marco waited for me to say “what?” But I new all it would take would be a second.

“'Racist, much?' I fired back. He didn't like that much. He said I looked like a creature from one of his nightmares. I grew tired of his bigotry; I walked away, let him run off to wherever it was that he resided. That was the last I ever saw of him.”

I knew Marco enough to know he wouldn't end a story at that. Even if he wasn't satisfied with a story's outcome, he had a way to embellish and insert himself just far enough to make his presence known. I turned to him and sure enough, saw his grin.

“Well?” He egged.

“Sorry, I don't see a point to this story. I'm more focused on what's to come.”

“As am I!”

I croaked. It wasn't a sigh, but it expressed the same emotion.

“I am also focused on what came before and what's currently going on. More importantly, I'm not focused at all!”

I knew all that already. Arguing would have gotten me nowhere.

“By all means, continue.”

“You know we could be friends if you shaved off your mustache.”

I had no mustache. Marco knew this.

“Let's see this through to the end.”

Marco rose his hands and made gripping gestures as if squeezing some great tit in the air.

“It was all a lie!” He declared. “I saw more of him. Again, and again. I frequented the same bar. Each time, wearing a different name, a going by a different face. All in the effort to learn more about this aggravating pampered prick. Even with my wardrobe changes, however, he seemed to always look my way, wary. When he would leave the bar he would look both ways, hoping he wasn't followed.”

“What made him so important to you?”

“I thought I recall you having a mustache. Must have been before we met.”

“My face was always this clammy.”

He shook his head. “Important? What makes anything important? I was just giving myself something to do. If anything, he was the one who saw himself as important. What I aimed to achieve for myself was a brief frolic into mania. What I aimed to achieve for old Howie was the realization upon him of how little importance he really held. I wonder if my actions proved successful or if he thought himself even higher than before as a result...”

Finally, something that piqued my interest.

“Do tell,” I found myself utter.

“My eyes are sunsets...”

“Once more with clarity,” I reminded.

“This is clarity. I thought I made myself pretty damn clear, but little Howie here may have taken my words and propped himself higher. I just now realized that it could have gone either way and my eyes, they are sunsets.”

“How did you make yourself clear, though?”

“He never bothered to change routine. I knew where he lived. I knew where he slept. I knew where he dreampt. For all his paranoia, it did him no good. I would enter his dreams and --”

I stopped him.

“You entered his dreams? Can you even do that?”

“I entered where he slept. Is that better? I knew he was dreaming and that was enough. I would enter every night, muttering things. For all his security, no one ever saw and he would awake and ramble on about some strange shadow man. I know, 'sleep paralysis', but rest assured, I knew his eyes weren't open. He couldn't fool me.”

“Weren't you the strange shadow man?”

“It's not like he could have seen me, so it's a bit of a moot point. What's more of a moot point, he thought he was so great, so fantastic, that some strange being not only visited him each night, but he lived to tell the tale. He said 'I must document these horrors' and that he must have been chosen and it was his 'greatness' that caused him to keep living through these terrors. So I knew I had to kick it up a bit.”

“What did you do?”

“Was I at a bar? Now that I think of it, wasn't prohibition going on?”

“Come on, focus!”

“No, this is a serious question. Maybe I'm remembering a time when prohibition didn't happen?”

“Okay, but what did you do?”

“I asked the bartender for a tequila.”

“No, I meant what did you do with Howard Phillips?”

“Oh, I just kidnapped him and kept him tied to a chair in a cellar. I can't remember which one. There are many cellars in a New England town. You'd be surprised.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“In my defense, he was an anti-semite.”

“Even so...” No. I stopped myself. I knew I had no room to talk.

“When he awoke, he tried to struggle. He cursed me out. He screamed. He said the nastiest things about me, about others. I let him cry it out, the baby. When he stopped, he was seething, but I took this opportunity to lean in close and grin. I whispered, my tongue close to his ear. My warm breath prickling his skin. 'Do you know how long you have been here?' I asked him. He did not say a word in response. Or, he said many words. He said how I was an accursed being of darkness. All I could do was laugh.”

This time it was Marco, or whatever name he wanted to use, rambling.

“I told him he wasn't quite wrong. He was like, 'you have invaded my dreams. I will tell the world all about you, about your kind! Then they will know! Know you for what you really are!' That made me laugh some more, and I was like, 'oh, and what will they know? That you have a way with words?' I'll tell you what they'll think: They'll think you an eccentric. Some weaver of fiction. That's all.”

“'Lies! Lies from the denizen of chaos!' He shouted and squirmed some more. Maybe he thought all the noise would reach someone. Maybe on another night, under other circumstances, and if it were someone else who had taken him captive, he would have been right. 'Enough with the chaos talk,' I scolded. 'I'm very methodical', I informed him, and to prove my point, I walked back and forth before leaning in close once more and digging my fingers into his skin, waiting until my nails, or claws, whatever they may have been, drew blood, dug further until I reached bone, and only then, let go. I heard his screams, but I was the only one. Once I released my fingers from his skin, I placed my palm on his forehead, and felt both a coldness and a burning at the same time. I wasn't sure what to call this feeling, but I hoped he could feel what I felt.”

“Did...did you really?”

“Did I really what? Have you never known me to physically harm someone? It's okay. He got better. I didn't harm him to harm him, so it's okay.”

“But you did?”

“Maybe I didn't. I'm not sure which time this story takes place in. All I can say is how I remember it.”

“Very well,” I croaked, and I noticed that our environment had not much changed. We were on a railroad with a specific path. Not so much a railroad, though with my traveling companion around, I wouldn't have been surprised if a train were to hit us.

“I recall,” he began again. “He was starting to drift off. I had splintered wood available for such a situation, as I wished him to remain awake. This was, after all, a lecture, and being the scholar that I was, I found it rude for someone to be falling asleep during my lecture. I thought to myself of using stitches, or plucking out his eyelids, but I was merciful enough to allow him to blink. I wasn't aiming for pain, just a little respect.”

“He would ask me 'how long do you intend to keep me?' and I would ask right back 'how long do you think we have been here?' Neither of us gave an answer to that. It didn't really matter. There would be little time passing before I grew restless, and once again moved close to him, my lips inches from his own. However, I was not there to kiss, but tell him the truth. Have a little heart to heart. To drive it home, I placed my hand on his heart so I could feel his heartbeat, then I nodded. 'Good,' I told him.”

“'You believe yourself to be at the top of the food chain. Superior to all.' I felt a spike in his heartbeat. That was also good. 'But there exist those in this world who are far above you who to people like you, are nothing but ants. There are those who you have never met who find you insignificant and would just as easily step on you without ever knowing that they had done so.'

“'Are you one of those?' He asked me. I didn't know how to reply at first. It wasn't that it was an invalid question, but I had to think about it. 'I am insignificant as well', was all I knew to say. It wasn't a 'yes' nor a 'no', but it was as close to the truth as I could give him. After giving him my answer, I added. 'I also know what will become of you. Not because I am some prophet or fortune teller, but because I know what happens to those like you. You see yourself as a king, on top of the world. But that castle will crumble and you will be left begging for the days when you once ruled. But another wicked truth that you may never learn is that you never ruled and you were just placed on a makeshift throne that held no weight.'”

“I pushed his chair down, but caught it before he could fall to the ground. I wanted to feel the fluctuations in his heartbeat. I wanted to make sure he was still with me. 'When all is said and done, when you record all the horrors you see as beneath you, then, what of your legacy? I will tell you: you will go forgotten, save for the monsters others will believe you to have created. Your name will be synonymous with them, but you? You will cease to be. Uncared for, ridiculed, seen as the pathetic man you are. Your monsters will be loved to the same degree in which you hate them, and you will receive none of that love.'”

I had nothing to say in response. I could see Marco was on a self-indulgent streak, though. Would be selfish of me to interject now, especially when we still had miles to go.

“I took out the splinters. I allowed him to close his eyes, to scream. For as loud as his screams were, I laughed. As much as he tried to shut it all out, the more I was there. Then...I grew bored, and returned him home.”

“And that's that?”

“That's that.”

“No 'in conclusion...' or anything like that?”

“Well, I remember listening in through the window of his home the next morning and telling someone what had transpired, but she told him he had been sick with pneumonia and had been in bed for the past few days. Said it must have been a wild fever dream. That put a smile on my face. It would have been much easier to believe it was a nightmare.”

“Was it?”

“Maybe in one of the pasts.”

I shook my head.

“So, Marco,” I grunted. “You told me all this only to conclude with 'and it was all just a dream'? Isn't that lazy storytelling?”

“Now,” he gave me a pat on the back. “I never said I was a good storyteller.”

“Did any of this actually happen?”

“I think once or twice. Maybe it played out a little differently. I'm not sure if I was there for it, but I remember it happening, so it must have happened, right?”

My gills made a wheezing sound. I folded all three of my arms.

“What was the point of all of that?”

“Nothing, really. Just a way to pass the time until we reach the end.”

“Ah, I cannot wait for the end.”

“I have seen the end,” his words soothed, ever alluring. “What happens may disappoint you. But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy it until then.”

With each passing word, little by little, I could feel his presence fading, and the area around becoming just a little more clear.