#but there's satisfaction in letting them go to use and burn instead of just preserving them

[tleeaves]

Right now we have what I'll always remember from my childhood was called "witching weather", though I'm not sure why. I always feel best on these days. I completed a cleaning ritual this morning and lit some candles for meditation. It's thundering outside and the sky has been steadily growing darker. The winds move with purpose today. I can feel it in my bones - rain is coming.

[jiminrings]

LINCHBOX LOVERS FIRST KISS IM BEGGING

cold senior!y/n x stem major koo masterlist :D

jungkook’s never really had his first kiss and he might faint in nervousness

there’s something really important that jungkook’s nEVER said to you

he kinda thinks it’s a life or death scenario <3

the two of you are together now after all!! you know things about each other, that’s just how it is

you know that his oddly specific fear is having a spider crawl on him while he’s asleep and that he can’t read sheet music or a single note for the life of him!!! lol that’s why he’s in stem

jungkook knows that you like cracking your knuckles on your hand using the same hand, and that you’re actually SCARED if you even try to crack them with your opposite hand

one time jin caught you off-guard and cracked your knuckles all at the same time and you hate that too so you ended up crying to yoongi

the two of you will eventually know almost everything about each other in due time!!

but jungkook really really wants you to know right now

right now IS due time

yoongi’s out to pick up jin because he’s in another state that’s seven hours away!! it’s wholesome friendship but more or less begging with the promise of kim “mr. student affairs” seokjin

“i will coerce your physics teacher bc i’m buddies with him to give you an A+ this semester if you pick me up rn :-)”

.... hehe.......... along those lines.,.....,..,..

you tagged out when yoongi asked you to come with him because you wanted to spend some time with jungkook, and then yoongs flat-out pretended not to hear what you just said and then left

once again, tae does nOT know if he’s helping but!!! he tagged along with yoongi :D

atleast everyone now knows that yoongi’s safe because he definitely will not be sleepy with all of tae’s chattering

this is the first time you’ve invited jungkook over with absolutely no one else in the dorm

no seokjin who’s hovering and keeps teasing for the two of you to sit two rulers apart

no yoongi who insists on keeping all the lights turned on so there would be no funny business

in fact, there’s no funny business that’s happening

and that’s what jungkook wants to talk about!! that’s where he’s getting at!!

he knows you’re just respecting his space and his decisions!! that’s how considerate you are

even if jungkook hasn’t explicitly said anything about his experiences and lack thereof, jimin once told him that everything about him screams ahhckkk vIRGINNNNN!!!!!! so that’s perfectly embedded into his mind

after some thinking though, kook finally had the handle on himself to know that he’s ready — one first time at a time :-)

it’s the whole reason why jungkook didn’t think twice of coming over when you asked him to

and he’s using this time now to tell you what he hadn’t before

right now when the two of you are watching a movie and his head’s resting on the crook of your shoulder with your hand on his knee, to tell you that —

“i haven’t had my first kiss.”

jungkook blurts out and it’s not only him that’s a little taken-aback with the suddenness, feeling your head tilt to come look at him

“really?” your nose scrunches but there’s no judgement to your eyes to which jungkook is extremely thankful for, being extra observant of your reaction

he nods almost eagerly now that the weight’s gone from his chest, making you smile slightly

“that’s okay.”

you only hum in reply and guide jungkook’s head back to your shoulder, resuming on watching the movie with no worries in mind

there’s no worries but there are definitely a LOT of thoughts in ur mind,,,,

you’ve kinda expected it from the start but there’s nothing wrong about it!!!

the other entire reason you knew that jungkook’s never done anything was because jimin kept squawking ahckkckk VIRGINNNNNN!!!!

you can’t forget that time when jimin also needed to interview an athlete for his paper and he needed you specifically

the two of you were talking and jungkook’s approaching you with a skip in his step and your lunchbox and jimin just wanted to fuck with him a lil so he squawked it out loud

...... jungkook really insisted that it wasn’t true but he kNEW no one was buying it so that’s when he started plotting his revenge on jimin ://

just when he’s gonna get a little too deep into his thoughts on why you’re so nonchalant, you’re the one who catches him off-guard this time

“do you want to kiss me?”

he goes rigid and sits upright completely, head eagerly nodding

“o-of course.”

:-)

“oh. okay.”

..... what

........ he’s lost

jungkook’s a little confused because that’s it??? no additional remark?????

you’re just sitting on the couch like you have been for the past hour and that’s it!!! you’re back to watching your movie AS IF you haven’t asked him if he wants to kiss you!!!

what now

your eyes are just glued on the screen and he’s starting to think that love & other drugs is more interesting than him

jungkook visibly scowls and you can see him from your peripheral vision, resisting the urge to chuckle at his displeased face

“this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.”

his deadpanning is what breaks you, making your eyes tear away from the screen that’s rapidly losing your attention at this point

jungkook smiles meekly at your giggle, seeing you tilt your head to playfully taunt him

“oh so i’m kissing you? you’re not kissing me?”

hee-hee

“that’s my plan,” he says surely, putting his hand on top of yours before scooching much closer to you than he did before

“mhmm. sure.”

jungkook smiles in victory when you agree, drumming his fingers on your knee in anticipation

..... nothing’s happening

........ THERE YOU ARE AGAIN

your eyes are back on the tv but it’s obvious that you aren’t focused on the movie that’s playing, a playful glint more than evident

jungkook’s not annoyed but he’s definitely on his toes, jostling you by your arms to get your attention

“just kiss me! are you gonna make me beg at this point??” he frowns in waiting, quickly getting antsy with all your harmless teasing

“can you beg, jungkook?”

you ask dryly with the same playful air in your tone, the sudden return of the question to his court making him double-take

his eyes have considerably widened with what you just playfully and harmlessly asked him, cheeks pink with the teasing

“you’re so impatient. i was gonna kiss you anyway, y’know?”

jungkook shies away from your trained gaze on him but meets it intensely when he feels a weight on his lap

you’ve transferred seats from the couch to his lap, your bum placed on his thighs instead of his crotch so you would be able to give him some leeway with all of this being his first

if jungkook was flustered before then he’s probably burning now, eyes only focused on you that’s meant for him

he’s not quite sure what to do with his hands so he follows his split-second decision of putting them on your thighs since the rest of your legs are placed behind his back, seeing to it that he was already slouching on the couch in the first place

you smile in appreciation when he does, his once-awkward hands in your thighs now becoming natural with the reassurance

jungkook looks so gentle

he’s so delicate even when you’re all clothed in pajamas and you’re the one who’s sitting on his lap, so careful to the point that he doesn’t want to move to preserve the moment

you tangle your hand on his hair to card through it more smoothly, making him tense as he takes it as signal

“i-i close my eyes, right?”

he asks nervously to which you nod to understandingly, carding through his hair more to get him to relax a little bit

wait actually the mental image of jungkook being O_O when you kiss him almost makes you cackle out loud which is why you hide your face on his neck

oblivious to you trying to contain your laughter, jungkook’s gotten even mORE tense because your face is buried on his neck

-_-

^ that instead of of o_O !!! yeah much better

IT’S OKAY IT’S OKAY YOU’RE NOT LAUGHING NOW!!!

jungkook’s waiting for you to make the first move and he looks both flushed and pale at the same time, feeling apologetic for having made him that way

“let me kiss you first. you’ll have a feel for it once i do, okay?” you speak as soothingly as possible, making him nod in understanding so you’d know

“relax, baby. you just complement me,” your hands rub up and down his arms that are exposed since he’s wearing a shirt instead of a hoodie this time, trying to get him loose

“y-you’re really perfect and i love you.”

jungkook trips over his words but he means them nonetheless, mouth contorting both in confusion and amusement when you grin at him

god, jungkook’s so endearing :(((

“i meant complement the way i kiss and not compliment me, kook,” you chuckle and he sheepishly reddens at his misunderstanding, his mind being taken away from it when you kiss his cheek. “but that’s okay. i love you too.”

“it’s just me. relax.”

you scratch that special spot behind his ear that gets him to calm down and all pliable, having noticed it first when you hugged him for the first time and buried your head on his neck, rendering him mush in your arms right away

jungkook’s relaxed enough that he doesn’t feel like fainting when your face is this close to his, going a little cross-eyed with how lovestruck he is for you

and then you lean in.

jungkook almost pANICS but the way you hold him gets him to be soft instantly, the unnecessary worry in his mind melting away immediately

he practically croons in satisfaction when the taste of you hits his tongue and engulfs him fully, eyelids closing in pure ease with the delight he feels

you taste so sweet and perfect that jungkook finds himself chasing after your kiss, unconscious to the fact he’s really kissing you now

his head angles when you tilt yours and the taste of your lips hits him harder this time that he grunts before he moans inaudibly, melting even deeper when you tug his hair softly

jungkook’s looking for more that he scowlS (!!) when you pull away with an amused look on your face,

“you’re supposed to breathe, jungkook.”

“you’re kissing me and i don’t know how to breathe!!!! i literally don’t know if i can!!!”

he’s only noticing nOW that he wasn’t breathing before because of the way his chest rises and falls heavily, cheeks all hot and his neck flushing

“don’t they teach breathing and shit in stem?” you ask playfully that earns you a soft yet amused glare, a pout being sent your way. “try breathing, baby.”

you lean once more and this time it’s easier, taking it slow to get jungkook used to kissing AND breathing simultaneously

he’s easily overwhelmed with the taste of your lips and not to mention the fact that you’re seated on his lap!!!!!

the rhythmic caresses of your thumb on his cheek guides him to breathe, the fact that jungkook’s a quick learner now dawning on you

“good job, baby.”

jungkook’s grinning at the praise you give him, feeling as if those words aren’t the last that you’re gonna tell him

“now try kissing me.”

...

..... oh god there it is

jungkook looks nervous and calculating even, the overwhelment present in his gaze and he’s looking at your neck instead of your face

you’re just about to tell him it’s okay and climb off his lap when jungkook takes you off-guard and tugs you down, lips meeting yours wholly in eagerness that you lowly moan before you even know it

you’re tugging softly on his hair and it spurs him on to try and taste you even deeper, pulling on the front of your shirt to get you closer

this time, you feel like yOU’RE not breathing rip

“your lips are getting puffy.”

you point out to jungkook who has some sweat sticking to his forehead even if your dorm’s fully airconditioned

a frown goes in place of the same red and puffy lips that you’ve just pointed out, the sheer eagerness of jungkook shooting straight both to your ego and your heart

“they’re not puffy enough.”

jungkook looks blissfully fucked out and you’ve only kissed him now.

tonight’s only for his first time kissing and jungkook deems it insufficient that he’s only had the heart to kiss you tonight, soft and slow kisses on your jaw that render you surprised, kissing you by the line until you look at him fully

“kiss me more.”

.

.

.

.

it’s their first miscellaneous drabble!! as always, lmk what you think :D what do you want to see from the lunchbox lovers next? send them here <3

[shig-a-shig-ah]

Please I'm on my hands and knees begging for some kind of angst/comfort or whatever sequel to Solace what do I have to pay to see it at last

You know what, anon? Fuck it—ask and you shall receive. 

DISCOMFIT ━ PART 2 OF SOLACE

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader, previous shigaraki tomura x reader

» cw: noncon, free use (mostly implied/referenced), implied anal, mentions of cheating, little bit of comfort, whole lot of angst. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: This picks up exactly where Solace left off, and isn’t exactly canon-compliant because the war arc hadn’t ended when I first posted Solace. It’s also more angsty than smutty, but def still NSFW. As always, reblogs, replies, etc. are welcome <3

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

Like my work? Support me on Ko-fi or request a commission.

There's lead in Dabi's stomach as Shigaraki drags you towards the door, and he's already scrambling to tug on his sweats, staggering to his feet as though he could effectively intervene. He'd heard the threats hissed in your ear, the ones scattered among the taunts Dabi had tried so hard to counter with his own exaltations, but he hadn't been prepared for them to be genuine, had thought that in the end Shigaraki would view your shame as his own. That he wouldn't want to make this betrayal public, not really.

Apparently, Dabi was wrong.

When you're hauled across the threshold, he falters. The thought of your imminent defilement is enough to make him feel sick, bile rising at the back of his throat as his gut twists; he doesn't think he could bear to witness such a desecration. But in the end he also doesn't have a choice—Shigaraki pauses in the doorway, his vicious gaze fixing on Dabi as he gives the order. "You're coming too."

Dabi's throat tightens, because he knows there's no use trying to oppose Shigaraki's will, not with his newfound power. And there's no clemency in the man's burning red eyes, no hints that Tomura has doubts about his chosen retribution, nothing at all to give Dabi hope that perhaps the pale-haired man can be dissuaded from this corrective action.

So Dabi swallows back that bitter taste in his mouth, and he follows.

***

Your heart is in your throat as you're dragged into the hall for the second time, only vaguely aware of Dabi trailing behind, failing to interfere though you don't blame him for that, could never condemn him when this is so much more your fault than his. Had you ever really thought you could gladden yourself with Dabi's comfort and then return unscathed to Shigaraki's arms?

You're loud at first, and desperate. You rake at Tomura's forearm as you try to free yourself from his bruising grip, clawing until red droplets are blooming from the scratches on his skin and his flesh collects beneath your nails, but those marks knit themselves back together almost as quickly as you carve them in. Your feet scrabble ineffectually against the carpet too, trying to slow Tomura's movements, but all that accomplishes is friction burns when you stumble, collapsing to your knees even as Shigaraki continues his unyielding march, dragging you along without so much as a backwards glance.

You beg shamelessly again too, pleading with him to stop, to not, to simply let you go. You swear that you'll leave, that he'll never have to see you again, but he ignores those cries just as he does your pathetic attempts to grapple yourself free. It isn't until your implorations grow quieter, more disheartened, that he pauses—you're weeping, not even thinking about what you're saying, rash words falling from your lips. "Tomu, please, I'm sorry, it was a mistake. Please, if you ever cared about me, just let me go."

It's then that he freezes in place, every muscle in his body going rigid, the cords in his neck standing out as he whirls around to face you. His eyes are impossibly wide, his mouth twisted in disgust, and something dark flashes behind his expression, something that, but for a moment, makes him look wounded rather than filled with rage. It's gone almost as soon as it comes, replaced by an expression stonier than any he's fixed you with thus far. He spits his retort through gritted teeth, his tone so tight and glacial that it sends a shiver down your exposed spine.

"Who could ever care about a whore like you?"

***

Dabi can see you struggling, tears streaming down your reddened cheeks as you beg, but he hears none of those supplications, hears nothing but blood rushing in his ears and the wet glug of his throat every time he tries to swallow down the lump that has lodged itself there. Just moving forward consumes all his focus; this sprawling mansion may as well extend for miles for all the effort it takes him to continue putting one foot in front of the other as Shigaraki tows you down the hall.

Your grotesque procession ends in the cavernous ballroom on the ground floor. It's ornate even in its empty glory, sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows and glinting off the crystal of the chandelier that hangs unlit from the ceiling. Dozens of observers trail behind, every inquiring mind that had peered out to investigate the commotion now obeying Shigaraki's commands for them to follow. They're watching warily, whispering behind their hands as their eyes flick curiously from Dabi, shirtless and shaking, to Shigaraki and you.

Dabi comes back into himself when Shigaraki hurls you unceremoniously to the floor, the sharp crack of your head against the hardwood echoing loudly enough to breach the disassociated haze in which he's been trapped. The sight of your face, dazed by the blow, has him instinctually moving forward, but he's stopped at once when a chiseled arm casts itself across his chest, halting his movements. A low growl issues from the back of Shigaraki's throat. "Don't."

It was easier not to protest Shigaraki's rough treatment of you when the three of you were alone in Dabi's bedroom. He'd been able to convince himself then that Shigaraki had some claim on you, some right to do what he was doing, a sense that had been given all the more weight by your own equivocal response to those harsh touches. But the sight of you now, curled on the floor clutching your head, your legs tucked to your chest as though that could somehow preserve your modesty, is harder to abide. It has heat roiling under Dabi's skin, his insides near-roasting as he does his best to restrain himself, to keep emotions too tumultuous to define from bubbling up and setting him alight.

So Dabi looks away. He does his best to tamp down on that growing heat and to endure, to think about the importance of being there for you. After.

Even after Tomura extends his sadistic invitation to the assembled remnants of the Paranormal Liberation Front, Dabi is naive enough at first to hope that no one will take the bait, that even a crowd of villains won't be depraved enough to indulge in what Shigaraki is offering. Except, Dabi had, hadn't he? Had found his own satisfaction in the first part of Shigaraki's punishment, even as you'd wept. He tries to tell himself that was different—he'd already had you, more than once and voluntarily, and you'd asked for him, implored him so desperately that he couldn't have refused, especially not when it was something Shigaraki had been so intent on enacting.

A darker thought flits across the back of Dabi's mind when he remembers the way you'd writhed under Tomura's domineering touch: if Shigaraki insists on it, will you beg here too?

It's a question that goes unanswered. You spend less than a minute sniffling on the floor surrounded by that mob of villains, and then Dabi's glancing up against his better judgement to see Re-Destro stepping forward, dark eyes glinting with curiosity as he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie, the balding sycophant unabashedly eager to avail himself of Shigaraki's sloppy seconds.

All your struggling has ceased; you're not trying to leave or asking for help, or mercy. Dabi's not sure if you're still trying to please Shigaraki or are only clinging to some last shred of dignity, if he should be disgusted or proud. Still, you flinch when the redhead crouches to trace one large hand up the outside of your thigh, and that small sign of discomfort is enough to have Dabi moving without thinking, every fiber of his body screaming out to defend you from that unwanted touch. But he only manages one feeble step forward before Shigaraki's hand is curling in his hair, yanking him back so hard that Dabi's scalp throbs. Shigaraki maintains that tight hold, leaving Dabi immobilized and with no choice left but to keep staring forward.

"You're going to watch every second," Shigaraki hisses.

Dabi nods. Grinds his teeth. Watches.

***

He thinks nothing could be worse than the powerlessness he feels as Re-Destro takes you. It's a sense of impotence that settles in his bones, that unearths and amplifies every inadequacy he endured in his youth until his knees are weak and there's blood leaking from the corners of his eyes. Just like back then, he's too weak to do what is needed. He can only watch in dismay as someone slots themselves into a role that should be his.

He's wrong, of course, that nothing could be more horrible than witnessing that first act. It's worse when he starts to notice the familiar tensing in your body, and hears your high-keyed whines reverberating off of walls designed to carry just such a pitch. It's worse when he spies Skeptic with that camera trained on you, documenting your disgrace as he palms himself through his pants, and even worse when Spinner comes forward, casting a long, uncertain glance towards Shigaraki before burying himself in both your holes. It's worse when they stop taking orderly turns coupling with your pliant form and start to share instead, and it's worse still when Dabi realizes that somewhere along the way he's grown shamefully, achingly hard.

But the worst? The absolute worst?

That comes at the end.

You're nothing but a crumpled heap on the floor, one cheek squashed against the stained hardwood, your expression glassy and far away. People have stopped coming forward, all those who wanted a turn having taken one, or more. Their faces are uneasy now that they're spent, murmuring again and shooting furtive looks towards the door, obviously unsure if their continued presence is required but too wary of Shigaraki to ask. So it's Dabi who finally works up the nerve to speak, his voice tight through his clenched jaw.

"You did what you wanted. Now can we go?"

A sense of relief washes over him when Shigaraki releases him, but it's short-lived as the other man fixes that red-eyed stare on Dabi.

"Huh," he muses thickly, his expression unreadable as he cocks his head. "You still want her."

Dabi hesitates. Because he knows Shigaraki doesn't want that to be true, is intent on ripping apart whatever tenuous connection you and Dabi have forged over the past weeks, but Dabi's not sure that such a thing is possible. Right now he can't imagine the future any further than getting you both far, far away from here, but even after watching you submit to Shigaraki so readily, after seeing you clench and moan while being offered up like so much meat, Dabi doesn't think he could ever turn you away, not so long as you want him. So he nods.

Shigaraki's unreadable expression morphs, his lips splitting into a wide, depraved grin. "Fine." There's something in his tone that has Dabi's chest tightening with dread already, a sense that only intensifies when Shigaraki continues. "Finish her off, and you can have her. After all, what the fuck do I care if you want to keep the toy you damaged?"

Dabi swallows hard, looking around again. The crowd is watching intently, exchanging hushed whispers, and he knows they can hear every word, have no doubt anymore about just what has happened here, if they had any doubts before.

"Better get on with it," Tomura jeers, followed by a quiet, callous chuckle. "Take the last turn, and the two of you can go. Or don't, and I'll keep her here for days."

Fuck, Dabi can feel the weight of all those eyes on him, of dozens of gazes flicking between his torn expression and your used up form. He wants to say he can't, that he could never, but it's not the truth. The thought alone might have him fighting back a wave of nausea but that doesn't mean he isn't still erect, tenting his pants in a way that's painfully obvious to himself and to everyone else. Physically, at least, Dabi absolutely could.

He takes a step closer to you. Grimaces. He wants to reach out to you, to give you the reassurance of a soothing touch, but there's nowhere your skin isn't reddened or contused, the evidence of that damage exaggerated by the sheen of sweat and worse coating your skin. Your eyes roll up just enough to meet his hesitant stare, and Dabi gives you what he hopes is an apologetic look.

Dabi does what he has to do.

***

The moment it's over Dabi is scooping you up, hooking his arms around your shoulders and behind your bruised knees and lifting you gingerly from the floor, taking you in his arms as gently as he can manage. Your eyes drift to him again, the corners of your lips twitching and a tiny whimper issuing from the back of your throat, a sound so small and feeble that Dabi has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek to maintain some semblance of composure.

He avoids making eye contact with anyone as he leaves, not even sparing a glance towards Shigaraki to confirm this is really over; if the other man decides to change his mind, Dabi's sure it will be painfully obvious. But no one tries to stop him from taking you—he flees the scene of your discrediting successfully, with his heart pounding and his eyes fixed firmly on the floor ahead of him. Just as when he'd followed Shigaraki's march before, he puts one foot in front of the other and wills himself to think of nothing else.

It's difficult. Your skin is slick against his unclothed chest, and feels feverish. Every time he shifts you, he can feel wetness dribbling down your thighs as he tries to lie to himself it's nothing. Tries not to give it any attention at all.

Dabi's never been very good at deceiving himself, and it's all the harder now with the images of your defilement burned into his retinas—Shigaraki knew just what would make him suffer, Dabi has to admit that much.

When he reaches his room, he sets you gently to the floor, whispers that he'll be right back and then disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. He cranks on the bathtub—it will be necessary to clean you up since he's certain you couldn't stand if you tried. It also serves to drown out the sounds to come, because the moment the water starts pouring he's lunging for the toilet and heaving his guts into the bowl, coughing and sputtering as he retches.

By the time he's finished being sick, the tub is nearly full.

He checks the temperature of the water. Once, twice. Three times. It's hard for him to gauge it adequately when he runs so hot, and the last thing he wants is to scald your abused skin or any of those tender, overworked parts. When he's finally wrangling you into the tub, he dips your hand in first, one final test to ease his anxious mind.

"That feel all right, baby girl?" He's not sure if you really nod, or if you're simply shifting a little, but either way he takes it as a yes.

In the end, it doesn't matter so much. The water turns disgusting almost the moment you're submerged, an oily sheen rising to the surface that Dabi doesn't want to think too hard about it. He drains it and doesn't repeat that mistake, only fills it a few inches full the second time and then scoops water over your irritated skin to rinse away the worst of the mess, a painstakingly slow but necessary measure. He repeats it twice and only after that muck stops rising to the top does he let the water creep higher so that he can wash you properly.

He starts with your hair. It's another slow process, trying to keep from snagging your damp tresses on the staples that line his palms as he massages shampoo into your scalp, and moving carefully to avoid the lump that's formed at the back of your head, where it cracked against the hardwood floor. He does his best not to grimace visibly at that swelling, does the same as he's working sweat and sticky clumps out of your matted locks—your eyes are still bleary but he knows you're watching him, and he couldn't bear for you to see how much it affects him to witness you like this.

Conditioner is probably an unnecessary touch, but he works it in anyway once the last of the suds have been rinsed away, thinks it might help you to feel some sense of normalcy, if that's even still a possibility for you. He lets it soak in while he tends to the rest of your inflamed skin, trying best as he can to be gentle, though that doesn't stop you from wincing every time he brushes over some raw, tender spot. When he finally works the washcloth between your thighs, the last horribly necessary task left, you let out a choked sob, your face contorting in distress in a way that has his throat tightening again.

"Shh, baby girl," Dabi soothes, his voice raw even to his own ears as he lifts a hand to stroke at your hair. "It's okay. I've got you."

You can't help but wonder if that's entirely true as you bite back more complaints and let him tend to your ravaged sex. You can see the tightness in his face, the way he can't seem to look at you for long, and Shigaraki's words keep running through your mind, a grim mantra that sticks in your head even more than the memories of the past few hours.

You'll be ruined for him, just like you're ruined for me.

The thought is enough to have panic brewing in your chest, a near-hysteria clawing its way through you. Because what would you do without Dabi? Who else would ever want you now? It would be too much to lose them both.

You don't realize tears are streaming down your cheeks until hot thumbs are brushing them away, cerulean eyes fixed worriedly on your own. "It's okay," Dabi murmurs again. "You're okay."

But it's not, you're not, probably won't ever be again, and you need more than those thin reassurances. Your arm aches when you lift one hand to catch his wrist, your feeble grip a reminder of just how worn you really are. "Am I—" your voice is hoarse, your words interrupted by a painful cough as you struggle to speak through your wrecked throat "—am I ruined for you?"

The way his face falls at your question is reassurance enough, that tight expression going slack and defeated, the corners of his brows lifting in grief. Then Dabi's pulling you to his chest, water sloshing over the side of the tub and cool porcelain digging into your side as he wraps both arms around you, his face burying itself in your damp strands as he cradles you close.

"No. No, of course not, baby girl. Never."

***

When Dabi finally releases you, he leaves you soaking in the tub long enough to take a shower. He's loath to abandon you for even one second, but he needs that cleansing and, more than that, needs a moment to breath. Because you'd never clung to him so eagerly before, never needed him the same way he needed you, not when you had someone else to hold tightly to.

So just now, when you'd burrowed against his chest and made clear that he was the one you were counting on? Well, he'd be lying if he said it hadn't felt good.

Shigaraki might have succeeded in cracking the pedestal Dabi had placed you on, but all that's truly accomplished is to bring you down to Dabi's level, to a place where he can actually hope to make you his. And Dabi doesn't want to find that thought reassuring, doesn't want to dwell on the realization that this whole fucked up situation might be the only way he'll get the one thing he still wants in life. But he does.

He cranks the heat in the shower as high as it will go as he tries to wash away that guilt, but the scalding water isn't enough. It can't rinse out the shame of finding personal satisfaction in your suffering, just like it can't scour away the memories of obeying Shigaraki's final order, of burying his length in the slick sensation of a dozen other men's seed, of squeezing your thighs together in a desperate bid to create some sort of friction, or of sinking himself into your tighter hole when it seemed like the only way to end that agony.

The list of things that require Dabi's contrition is endless, it seems.

Perhaps it's some kind of fucked up penance, then, that once you're both clean Dabi finds himself offering to go collect your things from the room you'd shared with Shigaraki.

It's an offer born of necessity; you have nothing to wear and while Dabi would love to dress you in his clothes, would relish the sight of you parading around in some oversized shirt that belongs to him, the way you had with Shigaraki's clothes back in the old hideout, he has nothing to offer on that front. An extensive wardrobe isn't among his precious few possessions—the options are his filthy tee shirt and jeans, the ones that reek of booze and ash, or his sweats, amply stained from your walk of shame. None of that seems anywhere near adequate.

So Dabi grits his teeth yet again, tugs on those dirty clothes himself and leaves you tucked safely in his bed, bundled in his only towel. There's an anxious look in your eyes as he departs, one that has a strange thrill coursing through him as he murmurs a promise to return quickly.

He tells himself as he journeys down the hall—pointedly ignoring every person he passes—that Shigaraki won't be there. Dabi's seen the boss angry before, knows he's one to wander and destroy rather than to sulk, and if Dabi were a betting man he would wager that Shigaraki won't be setting foot in the room he'd shared with you any time soon.

Unfortunately, Dabi is wrong once again. There's no answer when he knocks, but when he slips inside it becomes painfully obvious that lack of response wasn't because the quarters were unoccupied. He pauses inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, and is almost immediately assaulted by the sounds issuing from around the corner, just out of sight: sheets rustling and heavy breathing, the faint slap of skin on skin, a quiet moan.

Fuck. Fuck no. This is the last thing that Dabi wants or needs to witness, even if the stab of incredulity and anger he feels about it is undeserved. It's how he himself would have coped, he knows, had Shigaraki's return to the Liberation Front and your return to him gone according plan, but the thought that he could avail himself of this ever after today's display has Dabi's stomach twisting.

He holds his breath as he immediately retreats, the carpet muffling his slow, quiet steps. Dabi will try something else, ask Toga to loan you some things, or rifle through the remnants of Jin's possessions if he has to. All he has do is get out of here without—

"What do you think you're doing?"

The sound of Shigaraki's low voice has Dabi freezing in place. He sounds different than when they last spoke, some faint trace of amusement there in place of that calculated callousness. Dabi keeps still, tries to convince himself that it's not him Shigaraki is addressing, but that hope proves unfounded.

"I can smell you, you know. You reek of smoke. So why don't you stop hiding and tell me why the fuck you're here?"

Dabi's first instinct is to simply turn and leave, to avoid this unpleasant encounter all together and pray Tomura will simply return his attentions to whoever had the poor judgement to leap into his bed. But in the end he steps forward, not willing to test the other man further than he has with his mere presence, not when there's still a sinister edge to his tone and the damage Dabi's wrought is already likely to haunt him to his dying day.

A light clicks on when Dabi steps into sight, the sudden assault on his pupils making him blink rapidly, and when the room finally swims back into focus, Dabi freezes. Tomura has some woman tucked neatly in his lap, her back nestled to his chest as he peers at Dabi from over her shoulder, the sheets barely covering where Dabi is positive they're joined together.

"I just came to get some of her shit—I didn't think you'd be here," Dabi says flatly, trying to not to let his eyes drift from Tomura's face as deadly hands grope at exposed breasts, dark bite marks and hickeys starkly visible even from the bottom of Dabi's field of vision. "I'll come back later. Or just find her new shit."

"Why bother when you're already here? Just get on with it." Dabi can sense something forced in that casual dismissal of his presence even as Shigaraki lets out a low laugh, and that impression is only strengthened when the woman—some MLA holdover Dabi recognizes but couldn't name—tugs at the edge of the blankets, obviously intent on providing herself with some sort of cover. Shigaraki growls immediately, pale fingers clamping around her wrist so tightly that she whimpers in protest. The first syllable of Tomura's name falls quietly from her lips, a paltry whine that's quashed as soon as it begins, Shigaraki's wide palm slapping harshly over her mouth. His eyes narrow in displeasure as scowling lips ghost over her ear.

"You're the one who wanted to fuck," Dabi hears Shigaraki hiss, "so don't you dare stop."

Dabi might have felt some sympathy for her in another life, some pang of unease at the way her eyes widen and she fidgets nervously before hesitantly rocking her hips, but in this moment he can muster no sympathy, not when her apparently voluntary presence far exceeds even Dabi's expectations for the shamelessness of these meta liberation freaks.

He does, however, feel a twinge of disquiet when he realizes, after a moment of staring, that she looks like you. Not exactly, of course—the nose is wrong, the hairstyle different—but enough. Her hair color, her eyes, her build: they're all reminiscent of your own.

Dabi tries not to think about what that means.

"Well, aren't you going to do what you came for?" Shigaraki taunts. That malicious glint is back in his eyes, the corner of his thin mouth curving up into a smirk that makes it clear he's enjoying Dabi's discomfort at the scene playing out before him. His hands start to wander again as though to emphasize it, pinching and tugging at puffy, exposed nipples while the woman continues to issue muffled mewls from behind his hand. "I'm busy, if you couldn't tell."

Dabi grits his teeth and looks away. "Where is it?"

Shigaraki only shrugs, that sneer widening, and Dabi turns stiffly towards the dresser, doing his best to tune out the soft cries as he rummages through the drawers. After a moment it's clear that nothing within belongs to you, and reluctantly Dabi steps further into the room to search the closet. He finds what he's looking for there, thank god; neatly folded stacks of pants and shirts line the shelves, blouses and those fancy nightgowns you're so fond of arranged neatly on hangars beside them. There's a duffel bag on the floor too, and Dabi quickly busies himself shoving as many of your belongings into it as he can, working with unceremonious haste and chewing at his cheek, still trying to ignore the way the sounds behind him are escalating, the moans and lewd wet smacks growing louder, more rapid.

He only stops when the duffel is overflowing, too stuffed full to even zip shut. It's certainly more than enough for now, but he wonders briefly about the rest of your possessions, if there's some other source of comfort he could and should bring you before Shigaraki decides to dispose of anything you've left behind. But Dabi has no way of knowing, has never been permitted to so much as step foot in this space before.

When the unmistakable sound of a slap emanates from behind him, followed by a throaty groan, Dabi decides it doesn't matter.

It takes him a moment to steel himself, to work up the nerve to turn back towards the room and the vulgar performance occurring mere feet away, but he once he does he strides purposefully towards the door without so much as a glance towards Shigaraki and his new—and very temporary, Dabi suspects—lover. He's almost out the door, seconds from feeling as though he can breath again, when that mocking voice is once again demanding his attention.

"Dabi," Shigaraki calls out liltingly, and Dabi pauses.

"What now?"

His obvious impatience draws a cold chuckle from Tomura. "Don't try to leave. Either of you," Shigaraki says. "The Violet Regiment still needs its lieutenant, and I need you motivated."

For a long moment, Dabi simply stands there, his hand still resting on the knob as he considers those instructions. Shigaraki isn't wrong to think he would consider it; Dabi's mostly accomplished what he hoped to with the League, and his more protective instincts have been screaming at him to get you out of here since the second it was clear Tomura intended to honor his threats. But he'd already had doubts that the jilted man would let that happen, not when the punishment he'd devised is most effective if you're both forced to stay, forced to face everyone who witnessed your downfalls and shared shame.

And also, well...Dabi's more protective instincts might tempt him to flee—he's disappeared before, after all, thinks he could do it again even if it would be harder to evade Shigaraki's reach—but his possessive instincts? Those have more self-serving thoughts brewing in the back of his mind. Because if the castigation you endured is most effective if you stay, it also means that Dabi has no advantage anywhere else. Would you cling to him so sweetly, so fiercely if you weren't surrounded by those who had seen you so thoroughly humbled? Or would such an escape only taint Dabi's presence in your mind, single him out as the last reminder of your humiliation and debasement?

It would, he thinks. So Dabi nods even though Shigaraki can't see him, noting the opportunity present in what was surely intended as a threat. The sadistic leader might be intent on dangling this over both your and Dabi's heads until at least one of you is dead, but Dabi's made the best of bad situations before, ones worse than this.

"Sure thing, boss," he says, working to keep his tone level and mild. He steps out into the hall, lets the door click closed behind him.

For the first time all day, Dabi smiles.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Could we have a fic of Jiāng Cheng naming a disciple as his heir, or if you think it wouldn’t work, would you mind just making a list of why, or of alternatives (because this is going with a aro/ace Jiāng Cheng)

Jiang Cheng was, in some ways, a terrible sect leader.

For once, it wasn’t just his insecurities talking; it was simply a fact of life.

He was skillful enough as a warrior to earn fame and fortune for his sect, a charismatic enough leader to gather cultivators beneath the Jiang sect banner for the war, a good enough general – or, well, maybe a lieutenant, since to his relief Nie Mingjue handled most of the overarching battle plans for all the sects, not merely his own – to keep most of them alive during the war. He was a miserable politician, but he was able to walk the tightrope between being too weak (and making his sect a target) and too arrogant (and making his sect a target), even if it cost him tears and blood and a brother.

His sect survived. More than survived, it thrived.

Jiang Cheng had not disappointed his ancestors, his parents. He had, for once, lived up to expectations.

But there was one thing he needed to do, but couldn’t bring himself to actually accomplish.

“Take it in steps,” Nie Mingjue advised him, when he forced himself to ask. The other man’s eyes were shadowed – empathetic rather than sympathetic, a sense of fellow feeling instead of pity – there was a reason he’d come to the Nie sect for this. “In my case, the line of inheritance was and is straightforward, if threatened by Huaisang’s weakness. In your case…”

Jiang Cheng swallowed.

That was the crux of it, really. That was the terrible thing that he needed to do, but couldn’t.

The Jiang sect needed an heir.

He didn’t want to give it to them.

“Start small,” Nie Mingjue said. His voice was not given to gentleness, but it was less harsh, perhaps, than it might have been. “Formally appoint your second-in-command.”

Jiang Cheng’s face burned. Even that small thing had not gone unnoticed, it seemed – it wasn’t that he didn’t have a second-in-command, if the role was defined in the sense of the person he leaned on for aid and advice, the person who he gave authority to when he was too busy, the person who he trusted to keep things running if he was asleep or unconscious…

It was just that – it was the wrong person.

(It should have been Wei Wuxian – but that had long ago become impossible, even before he’d died. It was only that it hurt him to remember it, to think of it, to put someone in his place –)

“Your staff is very competent,” Nie Mingjue said. “They will serve you well.”

The rush of pride helped ease the never-ending sting of Wei Wuxian’s absence.

“I’ll do that,” he promised, and Nie Mingjue nodded in satisfaction. “But there’s also – the long term.”

The Jin sect would like him not to appoint anyone, he knew. That would give Jin Ling a claim to the position, and his Jiang sect that he worked so hard to reestablish would be swallowed up in whole by Lanling Jin – impossible, unacceptable. He had cousins that he could name as heir, to pass the time until – until –

“You don’t have to marry,” Nie Mingjue told him, and Jiang Cheng started as if he’d been caught doing something wrong, suddenly naked beneath Nie Mingjue’s relentless gaze.

“What? I – no. I’ve gone to the matchmaker, it just hasn’t worked –”

“Jiang Wanyin. You don’t have to marry.”

“…now?”

“At all.”

Jiang Cheng had wanted to hear those words for so long that he was suspicious of hearing them now. “I don’t have an heir,” he pointed out. “I don’t – if I don’t have children, my parents’ bloodline will die with me. I don’t want –”

To disappoint them.

“Their inheritance to you is their sect, which you have preserved,” Nie Mingjue said. “If you had died in its defense, would they excoriate you? No.”

“But I’m not dead,” Jiang Cheng said. “And just because I find the idea of marriage to be – unattractive –”

He could say as much to Nie Mingjue, who was equally unmarried, equally resistant to the idea. It had been his father’s complaints about Nie Mingjue’s disinterest in men and women alike, a somewhat knotty political problem, that had first revealed to Jiang Cheng that such disinterest was even an option, that it wasn’t his own personal failing but a characteristic that other people shared with him.

“– doesn’t mean that I can’t do it. ‘Attempt the impossible’, remember?”

Nie Mingjue frowned at him. “Your sect’s motto does not overcome your duty as a cultivator or as a human being,” he said firmly. “Attempting the impossible does not mean that you should attempt to do evil, if evil is what is impossible.”

“Marriage isn’t evil.” Even if he sometimes thought of it as such.

“Not for others. But for you and I – it’s different for us. It’d be one thing if we could find someone to match us, someone who shared our disinterest or was willing to adapt to it...there are people like that out there, women and men alike, and if you want a partner with whom to share your life, I have no doubt that you can find one. But that’s not what’s being discussed.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. To marry someone blindly for the sake of marriage and children, to put politics over personal interest and wed someone who thought they would receive all the things that come with a marriage, all the things we do not wish to give? It would be an act of evil. An evil to whoever we wed, if we let them enter into marriage with us unknowing of what the future might hold – an evil to ourselves, if we tried to pretend, forcing ourselves into a life of bitterness, resentment, and misery. Worst of all, it would be an evil to our children, who would know.”

Jiang Cheng shuddered at that, revolted by the idea. It was true, too – he had always known that his parents’ marriage was unhappy, even back when he was younger and his mother still took pains to hide it from him, and then even more so later on. The bitterness of his mother’s unhappiness had eaten her alive, over time, and his father’s dissatisfaction had done the same for him…

Was that how he would be, if he forced himself to marry whatever girl agreed to take him, not telling her the truth? If he married just for the sake of the heirs they could have together, planning all the while to abandon her afterwards?

Yes.

After all, for better or worse, he was his parents’ son.

“Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes briefly as a great weight lifted from his shoulders. “You’re right.”

Nie Mingjue nodded in satisfaction. “Pick a nice cousin that you can bring to live with you, train them up early and make the reason clear,” he advised. “Establishing a line of succession early is the only way to avoid a giant clusterfuck.”

Jiang Cheng’s lips twitched. “Is that the technical term for it?”

“As far as I’m concerned it is.”

Jiang Cheng laughed.

[the-chick-of-the-air]

Hello my lovelies!

Wow ok I’m sorry I know it’s been a while- I kinda got into a writing slump that wouldn’t let me out, however I’m feeling like I’m getting back into things! Yay!

I want to thank all of you for your continued support in my writing adventures, I seriously can’t describe how much it means to me when I get feedback and love on my work, one of my favorite things to do is make people happy- or really just feel anything- with my writing and I love hearing about it so thank you thank you THANK YOU!!! 🥰❤️

So, now I’m back with a gift! A very long fic that took me way to long to get around to finishing but I wanna share! So here, have this!!

Sorry if the length is too, well, lengthy 😅 I do so hope you enjoy it!

Edit: have added a cut due to length, read below!🥰❤️

Some Wicked Type of Love

Cardan stared down at the vial he held carefully, the greenish liquid sparkled as it sloshed around with the subtle shakes he gave it. This. This would fix everything.

“So, he just has to drink that? Nothing else?” Rhyia asked, unnerved. That unnerved Cardan, his elder sister was hardly ever shaken, so seeing her nervous about something didn’t sit well.

The imp with golden skin smiled thinly. Despite her obvious skepticism, he was the one Rhyia had told Cardan about, the one that could fix his problem, rid him of his ailment.

“That is all.”

Rhyia’s eyes narrowed into slits, “And it won’t hurt him?” Despite how she, along with the rest of his siblings, chose to brush him off more often than not, she did care for him on a certain level. It was why Cardan had approached her in the first place. He trusted her alone to follow through with this task.

“The young Prince shall remain whole and hale. It is to my understanding that he is now indebted to me?”

Cardan was about to protest when Rhyia spoke first, “I will take on his debt to you. When you need a favor, come to me.”

The imp’s smile widened, “Oh it is not a favor I seek in return. Simply bring him back to me once the… effects of the cure have taken hold.”

Cardan didn’t like how ominous that sounded. Nonetheless he nodded to his sister and they moved to leave.

Once they had turned away, they missed how the Imp’s smile grew impossibly wider and a silent laugh fell from his lips.

~.~

“Are you sure about this?”

Her constant questioning was beginning to grate on Cardan’s nerves as they trekked back to Hallow Hall. “For the last time, yes. I am profoundly certain in my decision. Will you let it alone now?”

Rhyia hummed and stopped walking. When Cardan realized she was no longer beside him, he stopped as well and turned to face her. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t puzzle out.

“Having the love of a mortal is-”

Cardan turned away sharply and began walking again, “I do not have the love of a mortal! One simply plagues my thoughts, and this is the only way to cure it.”

Rhyia jogged to catch up with him. She linked her arm through his, “All I was going to say was that…being in love with, or having the love of a mortal, is no reason to feel shame. Many of us have loved them, dearly so. The General, our father. Even I have known the affections of one.”

Cardan stopped short. That couldn’t be right. Yes, there were some Folk who took mortals as consorts and lovers- they were good for cultivating many children. The General’s love, he knew, had ended in tragedy. One that produced the very person he so sorely wished to be rid of. His father had an affinity for many a thing unusual, and having Val Moren at his side was just that. Cardan had just always assumed it was out of need for a seneschal who had an undying loyalty to him. But Rhyia?

He glanced at her sideways and she held her chin up higher, “As I said. I am not ashamed of who I have come to adore. Many think them beneath us, I find that to be wholly untrue. They are born, they live vibrant, beautiful lives, and they die, just as we do.”

Cardan shook his head, “They are dirt. A fleeting thing made of dust and water, gone before they can live fully if they do not stay here. They are beneath us.” A practiced excuse, and his sister knew it.

“You feel the need to run from what you do not understand. Do not want to feel. The choice is yours but know this: You are a prince. You may love whoever you see fit to love. Mortals may be weaker than we are, but their ability to love is stronger even than our own. When they find someone fit to adore, they put their entire existence into loving them. They feel it deeply and should you find yourself the object of their affection, there will be nothing they will not do for you,” She looked at him pointedly, “It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.”

Cardan was silent for a moment as her words sank in. The vial in his pocket felt heavier, somehow.

An honor. Cardan had never been granted anything akin to honor before. And as thoughts of auburn hair and rounded ears flashed through his mind, he realized he never would be granted such a thing. He shook his head,

“Even if that were true, my issue does not stem from running from the affections of a mortal.”

Rhyia smiled carefully at her brother, “Of course not. Simply from the possibility that she will not love you as you love her.”

He balked and tugged his arm from her hold, stalking the rest of the way home on his own. He did not love a mortal. He just couldn’t get thoughts of her out of his mind. Her name played on an indestructible loop in his brain, carefully preserved memories of her every sneer and glare followed him into his dreams and emerged with him in his waking hours. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

The liquid in that vial would fix it. It would erase her very essence from each corner of his brain, every fold she inhabited, like a sprite infestation of the mind. He would be rid of every thought, every memory, every feeling he had ever had for her.

Without any further pondering, he lifted the vial from his pocket and uncorked it.

Before he even got inside Hallow Hall, he brought it to his lips.

He threw back the potion and blessedly forgot Jude Duarte.

~.~

Lessons had never been a source of joy for Cardan. In fact, he would go as far to say they were a bane of his existence. Knowledge and learning, taking precious time to become scholarly when he could have been lounging about instead.

An odd absence in his chest pulled at him. He felt as if there was something about lessons that should have- usually would have- brought him some level of entertainment, of satisfaction. Looking around, his comrades by his side as they set up their blankets and baskets on the great lawn for the day, there was nothing amiss.

And yet there was something…

“Here they come.” Locke muttered conspiratorially, looking at someone approaching over Cardan’s shoulder. Valerian leered and Nicasia glanced in that direction before scoffing and looking elsewhere.

Had they all met someone at a revel recently? Someone worthy of their torment? Surely, they would have told him had that been the case.

Either way, he wanted to be included, so he turned as well.

When he caught sight of her, he lost his right to breathe.

There were two mortal girls, they were linked at the arm and looked exactly alike. Twins, highly uncommon amongst the Folk, though it happened often enough for the term to be familiar.

Despite there being two of them, his eyes immediately caught on the one to the right.

She was gorgeous.

Her auburn hair was twisted into a knot at the top of her head, a golden net holding it in place along with a few decorative pins. She was wearing a simple tunic with a crest across her chest that he instantly recognized. The family crest of General Madoc. He had mortal charges?

She clutched her basket in one hand and clutched her sister’s arm even closer. She was whispering something to the other girl and when she glanced up, she locked gazes with him.

It felt as if time had frozen.

She stared at him for a moment, brown eyes boring into his. It was the most beautiful color he had ever had the privilege of seeing. What a shame she shared a face with the girl next to her, her beauty was so striking that it deserved to be all her own. Even so, she was- as far as he was concerned- far more breathtaking than her twin.

She was alarmingly attractive. Distressingly beautiful. The product of tortuous, glorifying nightmares. He needed to know her, needed to speak to her. What did her voice sound like? Was she bold or soft spoken? How long had she been in Elfahme and why had he never encountered her before?

This ethereal creature… he could feel his heart beating so quickly it was growing painful, he had to force himself to take a breath least he pass out from lack of oxygen.

“Who is that?” He knew his voice was little more than a strained whisper as he continued to stare at her.

As soon as his mouth moved, it seemed to shatter some hold that had settled over her. Her eyes narrowed and she gave him a glare so delightfully heated that he could feel it burning his very blood. She was a fiery one.

Her lips pulled into a sneer and he immediately wanted to know what she would taste like. Some strange, horrid concoction of bitter and sweet, no doubt. He had to know.

He could see Nicasia looking at him strangely from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from the mortal as she moved to an empty area on the grass with her twin in tow. He watched as they spread out their blankets and settled down.

“The Duarte twins? Madoc’s filthy mortal brats? Cardan, are you feeling well?” She asked, rare concern lacing her voice.

He would wager he’d never felt better in his life. He felt something in his chest- the previously empty and wounded area- light up as though something finally came to life in him, as though he were finally whole.

“What’s her name, the one on the right?” He ignored the strange looks his friends gave him, never looking away from the Duarte twin that had enraptured his attention, though she kept throwing disgusted sneers his way every time she looked up to find him still staring.

“Jude?” Locke inquired, glancing gleefully between the twins and the prince.

Something in his mind snapped into place, and he finally understood what had been missing, Jude.

Her name looped around his thoughts, over and over.

Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude…

He needed her. He felt it, he…

Cardan Greenbriar was in love.

~.~

Waiting for lessons to end was nearly unbearable, the only consolation Cardan got was from staring at the object of his affections throughout the day.

Each time she caught him staring, she would glare and turn away sharply, as though his gaze had branded her. Each time it sent a thrill through him, something he had never felt before, even with previous lovers. Even with Nicasia, who was sitting right next to him through the whole day.

It was perhaps hasty on his part, this whole bodied acceptance of his feelings, but Cardan was never one to curb his indulgences. After all, when the Folk fell in love, it was often that it happened deeply and all at once. This was nothing out of the ordinary, and the prince looked forward to trying to shower this lovely fiend in affections as soon as he could speak with her.

As soon as they were released for the day, he issued Locke to distract her twin, having seen how they stole glances at one another during their lessons. The fox like faerie was all too happy to oblige and Cardan found himself trailing his new love off the palace grounds and into the forest, glad she hadn’t bothered to wait for her twin.

It took about two minutes for her to stop, once they were out of sight of the palace behind them. She turned and her gaze locked onto him.

He continued forward until he was a mere foot away from her. He said nothing and simply stood there, watching, waiting for her to speak first.

“What do you want?” Oh, how delightfully sharp her voice was! Even drenched in irritation, it was soothing as a balm to his aching head after listening to Nicasia’s grating prattle all day. She looked momentarily surprised at herself, as though she were normally much milder. Though she quickly shook it off and continued to glare at him.

He decided to forego beating around the bush, she seemed like the type of person who enjoyed being direct, getting straight to the point. That spot in his chest she now occupied throbbed a bit, “You’ve captured my attention. You’re quite alluring, Jude. That is your name, correct?”

A completely logical question, but she looked at him as though he had two heads. Actually no- there was at least one two headed faerie out there- she looked at him as though he had just asked her to shoot him through with an arrow, like he was an idiot in need of mental help.

“Is this some kind of trick?” Her voice was dripping disgust and her hand twitched as though she wanted to reach for something but thought better of it at the last moment. Her eyes narrowed further and he found himself wishing she would look at him normally so he could see her eyes fully. They must be exquisite this close up.

He shook his head, shifting towards her, she took a step back, “No trick. I know I’m being forward, but I find you most enchanting, perhaps we can walk together?” he smirked at her. He knew how to be charming, had won a few hearts that way. However, she sneered at him as though she were completely immune to it- even better!

“’Perhaps we’… What are you doing, Cardan?” she nearly growled his name and he found he quite liked the way it sounded coming out of her mouth.

“Expressing my interest in you,” he stepped closer and grabbed one of her hands gently, tried not to laugh when she casually pulled it away and unsheathed a small dagger at her hip, “As I said, you have my attention.”

She looked confused a moment, even slightly concerned. It vanished quickly and she held the dagger a little higher. Outright threatening him. Yes, he was definitely in love!

“What has gotten into you? Some sort of sickness the Folk get? Have you been drinking already?”

Already. For some reason that stuck in his head. ‘Have you been..’ it sounded as though she knew of his habits. Granted it was no secret that he preferred various wines over most other beverages any day, but only those who paid attention to him knew that. He was under the distinct impression they had never met before.

That spot in his heart throbbed again, painfully.

“You…” He took a step towards her and she backed up several paces, her blade gleaming between them.

“If this is some new way of trying to get me to back down, you can drop it. It’s not going to work. You’ve managed to pit Taryn against me already, and as long as you leave her alone, we have an understanding but that’s it. I won’t hesitate to hurt you if you touch either one of us. Now leave me alone.”

Cardan didn’t understand half of what she was talking about. Who was Taryn? Her twin perhaps? He hadn’t bothered with her name. How did Jude figure he had pit them against one another? And how had he and Jude come to an agreement of sorts if he had never met her before?

As she backed away, dagger still held offensively as though she expected him to lunge for her, he realized he was going to need answers to his growing list of questions before he tried to pursue her further.

He held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, watching as she continued to move away before she was far enough to turn and hastily make her way from him. He gazed after her a moment, wishing that had gone differently, then turned and started to trek his way home, suddenly in a somber mood.

~.~

Jude huffed out a breath of frustration as she re-sheathed her dagger, trying to figure out what on earth had just passed between her and Cardan.

You have my attention. That was normally a bad thing, but the way he had been gazing at her…she could feel her blood heating and it wasn’t all due to hate.

So wrapped up in trying to figure out what had just happened with Cardan, Jude didn’t realize someone else was following her until it was too late.

She jumped an embarrassingly high distance into the air when Princess Rhyia appeared beside her.

“Oh! Uh, your highness.” Jude muttered, dropping into a low curtsy.

She tried to keep her wits about her when the princess gripped her arm and looped her own through it. She smiled warmly at Jude, something she found slightly disconcerting, and said, “Walk with me.”

Her tone was gentle, but Jude understood a command when she heard one, and Rhyia was all but physically dragging her by the arm, so she really had little choice in the matter.

“Tell me, young Jude. What do you think of my brother?”

Jude didn’t bother asking for clarification. If Rhyia had followed her all this way, it was likely she had just seen whatever it was that had transpired between Cardan and herself. She was about to blurt out “I hate him, as he does me” when she stopped herself. It probably wasn’t wise to badmouth him to his sibling. Not to mention it felt…odd, to say that all of a sudden.

The princess caught her hesitation and squeezed her arm gently, “Please, speak freely.”

Well then, “Um…we don’t…we don’t see eye to eye.” A huge understatement, though Rhyia simply nodded, keeping quiet as she waited for Jude to go on. “I take it you know why he was acting so strangely back there?”

For a startling moment, the princess looked upset. She schooled her features quickly, though. “Usually, I would feel it is not my place to meddle. But Cardan… it is no excuse, I know, but… he doesn’t always understand his own feelings.”

Jude bit the inside of her own cheek. She had quite a bit to say when it came to Cardan and feelings. She kept quiet as his sister went on.

“I shouldn’t be the one to reveal all the details, but I can tell you that he feels very strongly for you. So strongly in fact, that he went to extremes to stop feeling for you. It would appear his plan backfired.”

Strong feelings? Backfired? What? “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Cardan approached me yesterday, asking if I knew of a way to rid him of feelings he couldn’t stand to feel. I took him to an imp I know of, who gave him a potion, a…cure, he called it. It would erase the thing that ails one from their memory.”

Jude was putting the pieces together now. For an inexplicable reason, something tugged at her chest, dark and ugly. “He…wanted to forget me?” She asked carefully.

Rhyia smiled, obviously happy Jude was understanding, “You were haunting him. He couldn’t cease thinking of you and it was driving him quite mad. So, he sought a solution.”

“A solution?” Jude scoffed, the hurt in her chest growing, “So rather than…than talk to me, he decided to erase me from his memory?!” She couldn’t fathom why this truth hurt, why she even cared-

“Well, he tried. I’ve been watching him today. It seems that, if anything, his feelings for you are much clearer now.” She nodded to herself, as if this was a completely logical situation.

Jude felt like she couldn’t breathe. Cardan, he felt something for her? Something other than hate?

She thought back to a piece of paper, her name dashed out over and over and over, like he was trying to immortalize her, pen her down on paper so she should never be forgotten.

Suddenly, she was recounting every interaction they had ever had, every weighted look and spiteful word. Each trick and torment and barb thrown at one another. The way they relentlessly targeted one another, trading blows in every form one could think of. She recalled the way Taryn begged her to let it go, to quit this twisted game but she couldn’t. She would not forfeit. She didn’t want to stop.

And he was just as guilty. Each time they went toe to toe, he wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t leave her alone, almost as if he needed this game they played just as much as she did, just to feel... and each time, there was an air of something heavier behind it all, something unspoken and deadly and mutual.

Something like obsession. A twisted kind of heart-breaking. A tragic back and forth dance. Evil, heated, something intense, some…

Some wicked type of love.

She didn’t realize she had stopped moving until Rhyia pulled her arm from Jude’s. They were nearing Madoc’s estate, but Jude found she didn’t want to go home just yet.

“He…We, uh…” Great, at a loss for words in front of royalty. But Rhyia just smiled wider.

“I heard there is a way to bring back memory stolen by a potion, a kiss of true love or something of that nature. But you didn’t hear it from me.” The princess leaned in and placed a sisterly kiss on Jude’s cheek before she winked and walked away.

Jude stood there, stupidly staring at nothing just off the edge of Madoc’s estate for far longer than she would have liked to admit.

She… she loved him? She wanted to be wrong, but it felt like she had just discovered the answer to everything she never realized she was questioning. Her chest ached, she had to get to him. What had Rhyia said? ‘kiss of true love’? Like from a story book? Ridiculous. And exactly the kind of thing that would happen to her.

Jude squared her shoulders, resigning herself to her decision.

Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she turned on her heel and started to backtrack to Hallow Hall.

~.~

Cardan was only slightly surprised when Jude traipsed through his open balcony doors an hour later. He wasn’t sure what she had against using the front door like a normal person but epic declarations of love were often much more, well, epic when preceded by dramatic entrances.

He liked her flair.

“Somehow I knew you would show up.” He was genuinely glad to see her, though if she was here to tell him off again, he wasn’t sure how he would manage. He would find a way, though, for her.

“Shame on me for being predictable.” She muttered, moving further into the room. She regarded him coolly, “You really don’t remember me?”

Cardan held up a finger and moved to his desk. He picked up an empty vial that was sitting atop. He held it out to her.

“I assumed I was at a revel last night and that was why I couldn’t recall anything, however today’s events are making that hard to believe.”

Jude took the vial from him, careful not to touch him as she did so. She examined the glass, rolled it over in her hands a few times. She glanced back up at him and he was happy to find her eyes open wide. He was right, a gorgeous color.

“I assume you don’t know what this is.” She shook the vial.

He shook his head, “I figure it’s the cause of my lapse in memory. Now I wonder what was in it and why I needed it,” He looked her over carefully, head to toe and back up again, “And why it seems tied to you.”

She pocketed the vial, though he wasn’t sure why she would want it, “Have you spoken with Rhyia today?”

Rhyia? “What does my sister have to do with this?”

“She accompanied me home, don’t give me that look- she snuck up on me. She told me that yesterday you asked for her assistance in acquiring something. A cure, of sorts.”

Cardan ignored the jealousy he felt against his sister-how unfair that she got to walk Jude home- and mused over Jude’s words. A cure… “I don’t recall being ill before last night.” He crossed his arms, watching her. Even the way she just stood there was astounding. He could look at her forever and it still wouldn’t be long enough to give her the attention she deserved.

“Well, you weren’t sick, exactly. You…wanted someone erased from your memory.” Her voice went quiet. Odd, from what he knew of her thus far, that seemed extremely out of character for her.

“That would explain the memory loss.” Horrible attempt at a quip, though her mouth quirked up at the corner, he got her to smile! Despite her obvious upset, his chest warmed. He wanted to see her grinning, to hear her laugh. Perhaps he would, one day.

“Yeah, well, it definitely did its job.”

It hit him, then. He had wanted to forget someone, his comrades had displayed obvious distaste for the Duarte twins even though Cardan could not recall ever meeting them. Rhyia had gone to Jude after their…talk in the woods, and Cardan hardly believed it had been Jude’s twin he had wanted to forget.

“You.” He said quietly, watching her shift her weight from one foot to the other, “I wanted to forget you?” He hardly thought it possible, she was a delight! He had never known what the missing piece of his entire existence had been until he laid eyes on her for the first time- ok, not first time, rather the first time he remembers. All the same, looking upon her beautiful countenance now, he could quite confidently declare his past self absolutely mad for attempting to purge her from his thoughts.

Jude shrugged and stepped closer, “I guess I was haunting you. And you don’t like knowing there is something out there that you can’t have.”

His heart plummeted. He wished it to soar at the obvious fact that she seemed to know him so well, however her words crushed the fragile hope that had been budding within him since he left her alone in the woods, “And I can’t? Have you?”

Her gaze was intense and piercing when it landed on his own. Again, he marveled at the color. The rich hues of brown one found upon the forest floor, the cracked deck of a mighty ship, all the copper and wood and soil of the earth blending together to solidify themselves in the alluring shade of her eyes. He couldn’t breathe.

She forewent answering his question, “Your sister told me there is a way to restore your memory, if you would have it.”

“Yes.” He found himself breathing, already enticed at the prospect of remembering this wicked girl before him. Obviously, his past self had been an idiot for trying to forget her. He cleared his throat, “What is it?”

She took another step, then another, stopping only when they were so close he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes.

“I’m not sure it will work, but I know you’ll find it entertaining.”

Gently, he reached up to wrap a lock of her hair around his finger. She didn’t seem to mind as he asked again, “Is there a chance? That I could have you?” He’d never had anything solely his, never won affections simply because someone had cared for him. He knew if she could be that for him, he’d want for nothing more in his life ever again.

Slowly, she lifted a hand to his cheek. He found himself leaning into it readily as she pulled his face closer to hers.

She seemed to hesitate, considering something before she answered, “So long as I could have you.”

He would have answered, ‘Anything, you can have anything you want’ had she not closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.

~.~

The memories came rushing back all at once and they nearly knocked his breath out of his chest. But he only gave his history with his gorgeous villain a passing thought as more pressing matters settled themselves in the forefront of his mind.

Namely, the fact that Jude was kissing him. Jude. As everything he knew about her, about them fell into place he had to wonder if he was dreaming. But no. He’d imagined this very moment before and… It had all his hopes, his expectations paling in comparison to the actual sensation. She was warm and her mouth was soft even as she roughly slanted it against his own. Even when showing affection, she felt the need to be in control and he lent it to her willingly.

In the back of his mind, he recalled having always assumed that their first kiss would be intoxicating and drenched in delirium- why else would either of them fall into the other without a fight, if not for the moment being brought about by emotions stronger than they could contend with? And while it definitely lived up to that expectation, he had also always assumed it would be over rather quickly. That she would pull away abruptly, muttering about mistakes and small, ironic acts of vengeance.

That is where the likeness between imagination and reality broke away.

In reality, as soon as her mouth met his and she gave him a moment to feel the onslaught of memories, she stepped closer, forcing him to bend slightly to accommodate their height difference. The hand that had been resting on his face slid up, over the pointed tip of his ear and into his hair while her other arm fastened tightly around his shoulders, pulling him flush against her.

He fumbled for a moment- which was really something wasn’t it? Wasn’t he the more experienced of the two? How thoroughly she had undone him already!

Once his bearings were back intact, he slipped his arms around her waist, molding himself to her. He marveled at how seamlessly they seemed to fit together. A lock and- wait, no. No Locke. Two pieces of the same puzzle finally snapping into place.

His mind gave over to a blank sort of haze, melting along to the backdrop of her name looping around his thoughts, Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude and for a bare moment he understood again why he had forced her out of his mind, for she was the only thing in the universe that had the power to drive him into pure madness.

He would happily crash into insanity now, with her wrapped around him, teeth tugging at his bottom lip demandingly. He obliged to her wishes, would cater to her every twisted whim if she would have it. One of his hands snaked into her hair as he deepened their kiss, he felt her fingers dig into his back harshly in response. He felt that should he die now, he would leave this existence fulfilled and whole.

Once the need for oxygen became unrelenting, he pressed his mouth firmly against hers, once more, and pulled away.

Again, his imaginings of this moment ended here or before, with her pulling away, that beautiful scowl etched across her perfect face, muttering foul and soul wrenching words like mistake and useless.

And again, reality outshone even the darkest parts of his mind. As soon as he pulled back, she stayed near a moment, waiting to see if he would come back. When he didn’t, she sighed through her nose, the sound almost content and she peered up at him.

His eyes locked on hers as she let her hands explore the breadth of his shoulders, the column of his neck which she glanced at briefly before her gaze snapped back to his own, full of something like longing.

When he didn’t move, said nothing, she tilted her head to the side as she tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Well?” was all she said.

It took him a moment to register what her meaning was. She wanted to know if he remembered her, their history. He blinked, “I…remember.” He stated cautiously. He couldn’t lie of course, but he almost wanted to. So terrified was he of what that knowledge would mean for them, for what had just transpired between them. His imaginings never prepared him for this.

Or for what she did next.

A smirk, more of a small smile, really, bloomed across her features. That in itself was jarring but since this was Jude and ambition was what drove her out of bed in the morning, of course she took it further than simply jarring. She leaned in again, placing a kiss to his cheek, along his jaw, his nose even, before she finally claimed his lips again. It was past shocking. Had he known memory loss would lead to this he would have sought out his sister for help much sooner.

Though really, why was she even doing this? Just yesterday she had been scowling at him every time they glanced at each other, just an hour ago she had been threating his life, warning him to back off. What had changed?

This, while thrilling, wasn’t ideal. Insecurity was not something Cardan was overly familiar with these days, not when it came to her. This information is what had him puling away gently, looking at her in earnest.

“Why the sudden interest?” He debated throwing a quip or scathing remark of some sort her way, a sudden and desperate need to get back to their malicious bantering washing over him, though he shoved the thought away. He was genuinely curious as to what changed her mind.

She shook her head as she finally left his embrace, “I had just been thinking and realized that somewhere along the way, strong feelings of hate had shifted into strong feelings of…something else.”

She looked put out at the thought that she had developed any sort of emotion for him other than contempt, but he had to agree with her sentiment. He bristled to think that that potion hadn’t done its job right, but it had done something. Before, he had been content to half-lie to himself, to convince himself so profoundly that he was not enchanted, mind and body and soul by this girl before him.

What was it Rhyia had said? It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.

Cardan felt that maybe there was honor in loving one, too.

He bit the inside of his cheek before asking, “And you meant what you said, before?”

So long as I could have you.

“Yes.” She sounded so sure. He liked to believe she wasn’t lying. She rubbed at the missing tip of her finger as she watched him, “So, where does that leave us?”

Bring him back to me when the effects of the… cure have taken hold. He’d gotten more than he had bargained for. He held out his hand to Jude.

She reached for it instantly and he tried not to let it show how deeply that affected him, his head already wanting to go fuzzy with nothing but the thought of her.

“I owe a visit to a certain imp.”

Fin

And that is that! Please let me know your thoughts! And I am so excited to be sharing again and looking forward to what I plan to write in the future☺️ (jeez it is so long I’m so sorry for everyone who has to scroll all this way😬😅)

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[chicgeekgirl89]

Where Hope is Left So Incomplete

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Characters: Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Melissa McCall, Chris Argent, Noah Stilinski, McCall Pack

Rating: T

Summary: Derek has one hand on the wheel and with the other he’s calling the hospital, speaking fast, leaving out any details that might raise suspicion. A werewolf at the wheel is definitely faster than an ambulance, but it’s still taking far too long. Scott is literally holding his friend together, he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat growing weaker with every passing minute, and despite his best efforts there’s blood leaking everywhere. “Derek,” Scott says as they squeal around another curve, “Derek I think he’s dying.”

A/N: This fic takes place maybe a year or two after the events of "Wolves of War." It assumes Isaac returned at some point, Stiles never went back to the FBI, Derek stuck around, and the war against supernaturals continues. Title taken from "Running With the Wolves" by Aurora.

Read on AO3

It’s an ambush. Or an assassination, Scott’s not sure which. He lets out a roar, eyes blazing, fangs bared, as steel bites deeply into his flesh. Turning he catches a hunter directly in the chest with his claws and hurls him through the air. The gash stings, blood dripping down his arm, swirling through dirt and sweat and turning his skin into a macabre painting. At least the knife is free of wolfsbane, the familiar burn is missing from his wounds.

His head is throbbing, it feels like his brain is being squeezed by a vice and it’s messing with his ability to focus, to hear, to sense where everyone else is. They’ve got some kind of device, an upgrade of the ones the Argents used to use and damn is it working. 

He rips one of the devices from the ground and hurls it against a tree feeling some satisfaction when it smashes into a thousand pieces against the trunk. It gives him enough relief to take a beat and assess their situation; Derek is thrashing another guy nearby, and from the sound of things, he’s winning. What’s become suspiciously absent are Stiles’ yells. Scanning the woods he can’t make out his friend’s gangly form anywhere. Hopefully that means Stiles has done the smart thing and tucked himself away somewhere that the hunters can’t find him.

Monroe’s lackeys don’t care that Stiles is human, they’re just as happy to take him out as any of the rest of the McCall pack and they’ve made that perfectly clear on more than one occasion. Scott tries not to think about the fact that Chris needed surgery on his back last month for an injury he’d received at the hands of a hunter. Or that they tried to take Lydia six months ago and were only stopped by Derek’s quick thinking.

They’re not supposed to be here. The pack has a perimeter and they’ve been diligent about not letting anyone through. It’s been over a year since anyone tried to attack them on their own soil. This is their turf, they’ve staked their claim. It’s a safe space, a haven, a promise of home and family and respite. At least it was. Until tonight.

Scott tries not to think about what it means that this group has gotten bold enough to sneak into the preserve in the dead of night. Tries not to think what would have happened if it were some of his younger charges who’d been caught unaware on patrol. As it is he and Derek are having a hard time holding them off.

His moment to plan is over as he’s assaulted again by a rather beefy hunter, one who is holding a knife so large it may as well be a sword. Scott lets out another roar, claws slashing mercilessly.

It’s then he hears a familiar yell and realizes that Stiles has not gone into hiding as directed, but has instead attempted to get the drop on the hunters. And of course he is armed with absolutely nothing but his trusty baseball bat, although given that he has the element of surprise, it’s working surprisingly well.

He drops two hunters in one, fell swoop and then looks up at Scott with a triumphant grin. “I knew this would come in handy someday!” he yells, raising the bat high.

Scott sends him a grin back. It’s a mistake, a horribly foolish mistake he realizes later. If he hadn’t been so caught up in the moment, if he hadn’t been so damn cocky about their ability to hold the line, what happened next wouldn’t have come to pass.

There’s a terrible, high pitched whine that has him clapping his hands over his ears in pain, and then the world explodes. 

Scott feels his feet briefly leave the ground and then it comes rushing up to meet him again, knocking all the air from his lungs. He rolls onto his back, head spinning, as he tries to get a handle on himself. 

Air slowly leaks back into his chest and he heaves a breath, pushing himself up onto his elbow. He can see Derek doing the same, several feet from him, shaking his own head as if he can’t quite remember what’s going on.

“You okay?” Scott chokes out.

“Yeah,” Derek says, though his face is bloody and Scott can see some shrapnel has torn through his shirt. 

Scott is pretty sure he’s broken a few ribs himself, he can feel them grating in his chest as he continues to suck in air, but everything else seems to be intact. The hunters…not so much. There are several bodies parts lying around and considering his and Derek’s are still attached, it seems the hunters were felled by their own weapons. “What the hell was that?” he asks, attempting to get up.

“Some kind of bomb,” Derek says, getting to his own feet and scanning the area. “We need to get out of here.”

There’s a whimper, a pathetic, horrible, pained whimper and Scott comes fully back to himself because he knows, he knows without even looking who that agonized, awful sound is coming from. “Stiles!” he cries, spotting him sprawled and broken at the base of a large boulder.

He stumbles toward his friend, his own body perhaps more injured than he initially thought, and falls to his knees, eyes widening in shock and horror.

Stiles’ eyes are closed and his left leg lies at an awkward angle. Scott knows without even touching it that it’s broken, maybe in more than one place. But worse, so much worse, is the blood pouring out of Stiles’ abdomen. His shirt has gone dark with it and there’s already a puddle forming on the ground next to him. 

“Stiles,” Scott whispers placing his hands over the wound, pressing down, trying with all his might to keep Stiles’ life from flowing out of him. 

Stiles lets out a pained cry at the pressure and without even thinking Scott begins to pull, thick ropes of dark pain swirling under his skin.

“Scott,” Derek drops beside him, eyes still scanning the area for danger. “Scott we need to get him out of here.”

“We can’t move him,” Scott’s voice cracks in panic, but even in the midst of all this he still has a nurse for a mother and her words come tumbling out now. “He could have a spinal injury.”

“It’s not going to matter if he has a broken spine if we all die out here,” Derek says urgently.

He’s right, of course he’s right, but Scott is having a really hard time formulating any sort of plan right now. You think he’d be used to it, watching those he loves suffer for his choices, but he isn’t. It never gets any better, it just makes the hole inside his chest larger and larger until it feels like it will swallow him—

“Scott!”

Derek’s sharp tone brings Scott back to himself and he takes a shaky breath, trying to formulate a plan. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. We have to get him out of here.”

His whole body is screaming at him in pain but he manages to get Stiles into his arms. “You want me to take him?” Derek asks. 

His own face is pale and he’s limping, clearly in no better shape than Scott. “I’ve got him,” Scott says firmly, even though his vision is swimming a little bit and his ribs are burning inside his chest.

Stiles lets out another whimper and Scott shifts him until his fingers find the bare flesh of Stiles’ arm and he resumes sucking pain from him as fast as he can.

It’s an endless trek to the car for all of them. Derek appears to be struggling, he’s clearly more hurt than he’s let on, they have all just been blown to bits after all. And Scott…Scott’s only focus is on Stiles and making sure that he gets jostled as little as possible as they stumble across the forest floor. 

He hasn’t woken up or said anything, just letting out an occasional moan or gasp of pain and it’s beyond unnerving that the usually chatty Stiles has gone silent. Only his noisy breaths confirm that he’s still alive as they stumble along over the uneven ground.

By the time they reach the car Derek looks a little better, but Stiles has gone so pale it’s taking Scott back to the nogitsune days and it terrifies him. “How’s he doing?” Derek asks as he hits the gas.

“Drive fast,” is all Scott can say as he uses one hand to keep pressure on the wound and the other to sap pain from Stiles as fast as he can manage. 

Derek has one hand on the wheel and with the other he’s calling the hospital, speaking fast, leaving out any details that might raise suspicion. A werewolf at the wheel is definitely faster than an ambulance, but it’s still taking far too long. Scott is literally holding his friend together, he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat growing weaker with every passing minute, and despite his best efforts there’s blood leaking everywhere. “Derek,” Scott says as they squeal around another curve, “Derek I think he’s dying.”

The wounds in Stiles’ abdomen are so eerily similar to Allison’s and Scott feels panic rise up in him again. He cannot lose someone again. He literally can’t survive it. Not this time. Not Stiles.

Derek spares a half second to glance back and then presses the pedal all the way to the floor. “Just hold on.”

“Derek, I think…I don’t know…should I—“ Scott trips over his own words, panic making them lie heavy in his throat. “Derek I can’t lose him.”

“I know,” Derek says. “I know, just hang on.”

“I think I…should I give him the bite?” 

Even through the tears in his eyes he sees Derek stiffen in his seat. “Scott…”

It’s not something Stiles has ever wanted, something he’s flat out turned it down on more than one occasion. Stiles is not a supernatural. He’s just Stiles. He doesn’t need claws or fangs and he doesn’t want them. But Scott…Scott doesn’t want a world without Stiles in it.

“Derek,” Scott says urgently. He needs some guidance here. He needs Derek to tell him what to do.

“No.”

The weak, raspy response isn’t from Derek and Scott’s eyes drop downward to find Stiles staring up at him, eyes glazed with pain. “No I don’t—I don’t want it,” he rasps, sucking in a rattling breath.

“Stiles we may not have a choice,” Scott tells him, voice breaking.

“There’s alway….a choice.” Stiles’ eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a guttural moan. Blood bubbles from his lips.“Scott…Scott it hurts.”

“I know, I know it does,” Scott squeezes his arm more tightly and pulls harder, faster, drawing pain like a river through his own veins.

He can feel the wounds on his back and arms, the ones that had started to knit back together, begin to reopen, blood trickling across his skin, but he doesn’t stop, not even when he begins to gasp for air himself, breath coming in short pants as the pain goes all the way to his core. It’s like every nerve ending is on fire but he doesn’t stop, not for anything. Stiles doesn’t deserve to be in pain. 

“Scott.” 

His name is a terrified whimper and it brings tears to Scott’s eyes. “I’m right here Stiles. You’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Stiles’ eyes slide closed and his jaw goes slack. Scott hears his heartbeat stutter, then sluggishly let out another beat, as if it’s a candle trying to withstand a hurricane. “Derek!” Scott yells terror filling the car.

“We’re here!”

They screech into the parking lot and Derek is out of the car practically before he’s stopped it, ripping open the door so that it likely won’t ever close right again, and helping Scott pull Stiles from the car. If Scott had half a thought to spare he’d think about how many times they’ve lived through this exact moment, a mad dash to the hospital, an anxious wait for results, answers, hope.

But as it is he can hardly think anymore because all that matters is Stiles and drawing as much of his pain into himself as he possibly can.

“We need help!” Derek yells as they burst through the doors and within seconds Stiles is on a gurney and being pulled toward the ER. Scott runs alongside him, hand still glued to Stiles’ bloody, limp arm. 

“You need to stay here,” one of the nurses tells him. Her name’s Claire, Scott somehow remembers. She’s in his mom’s book club. “Let him go. We’ve got him Scott.”

But he can’t. He can’t let his best friend go through those doors. Because if he does…that might be the last time he ever sees him.

“Scott!” Derek is right in his face, grabbing onto his arm and wrenching it away from Stiles because apparently Derek has the presence of mind not to lose his shit right here in the hospital emergency room.

Scott pulls away from him and reels back a bit, leaning against the wall, panting, eyes glued to the doors they’ve just pushed Stiles through. “Scott?” Derek is back in his face, eyes worried. “Scott are you okay?”

Scott can’t answer, his body has gone oddly numb, his chest tight. Black spots dance in front of his eyes and he can’t move, can barely even breathe. “Scott how much of his pain did you take?” Dereks asks, worry increasing by the second.

Scott looks at him vacantly. “All of it.”

And then he’s falling, Derek’s arms catching him as he floats away into nothing.

When he wakes up he feels weak. He can’t even remember the last time he’s felt like this. It’s like every bit of strength has been sapped from his body. He can barely even lift his eyelids, let alone a limb. Everything aches and throbs as if he’s burning up with fever or been hit by a truck.

He lets out a half a grunt as he forces his eyes open. “Easy,” Derek says and after a moment Scott’s vision clears enough to make out the other wolf sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. He’s in a hospital room hooked up to several monitors, the cheap sheets scratching against his skin.

“Stiles?” Scott asks, his voice a broken whisper.

Derek shakes his head and Scott’s heart does an unpleasant lurch. “He’s in surgery. It’s…they’re still working on him,” Derek says heavily.

Scott looks up at the ceiling and tries to breathe, tries to stop the horrible sense of dread bubbling in his stomach. “What happened?” he finally manages.

“You almost killed yourself,” Derek says it mildly, in that annoyingly superior way he does when he thinks you’ve done something really stupid that he would never, ever stoop to do. But Scott can sense his restless fear under the surface, masked by sarcasm and biting comments. “You’re lucky you’re an alpha and Stiles is just a human. You know better than to take that much pain. You drained yourself dry. They had to restart your heart and give you stitches. You literally had to be sewn back together Scott.”

“I didn’t want him to be in pain,” Scott says, wincing as he tries to get into a more upright position. It’s futile, his limbs refuse to cooperate.

“Right because two dead pack members is so much better than one.” Derek glares at him. “It’s going to take you a week to recover from this. You couldn’t wolf out right now even if it was a lunar eclipse on a full moon.”

Scott sighs. He knows Derek is right, but it doesn’t change anything. “He shouldn’t even be a part of all this.”

“Yeah well, he may not be anymore.” Scott looks up and finds a glimmer of darkness passing over Derek’s face. For all his bravado and stoicism, Derek has a soft spot for Stiles. They all do. And losing him…it would be like losing the sun.

There’s a buzzing next to him and he turns his head enough to see his phone light up. “Oh yeah, Lydia called. About forty-five times,” Derek says.

Scott bites back a groan and through sheer force of will pulls himself upward, reaching for the phone. Derek under-exaggerated. He has over a hundred text messages from Lydia, Malia, Chris, Isaac, Liam…pretty much every single member of the pack. Plus his voicemail is full and there’s a backlog of missed calls. Most of those are also from Lydia.

“She’s on her way,” Derek says, holding up his own phone. “She calls for updates every ten minutes.”

Lydia’s at school. Safe. Away from all this. Or at least she was. 

“That’s Lydia,” Scott says, stifling a groan as he reaches for his pants.

“Whoa, hey, what are you doing?” Derek gets out of his chair, hand outstretched to stop him.

“I need to check on Stiles,” Scott says.

“Um, hell no,” Derek says firmly, pushing him back against the pillows. “You basically died. Again. You need to stay right here.”

His mom chooses that moment to enter and Scott feels immediate worry. “Mom, Stiles, is he—“

“Still in surgery,” she says, her face tight and drawn. “How are you feeling? And don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap. I swear if you were still a kid I would ground you forever for doing this to me again.”

But despite the sharpness of her words, her hands smooth his bedsheets, fussing with them and his IV line until she’s satisfied everything is in its place. “I’m sorry,” Scott says.

She sighs and squeezes his arm gently. “I know you are. I know you all are.”

Scott swings his eyes back to Derek. “The perimeter?”

“Isaac and Malia went to check it out. Chris is going to meet them,” Derek says. “He’ll make sure no one else gets hurt.”

For the first time all night Scott feels relief. If Chris is there, the rest of the pack is safe for now. He’ll prevent anyone else from from getting blown up or shot or stabbed. “I need to get back out there.”

“What you need,” Melissa corrects him, tucking the blankets a little tighter as if that will somehow keep him down, “is to rest. All of you,” she says, shooting a pointed look at Derek that says she is not, and has never been, fooled by his bravado. “Stiles is going to need you here when he wakes up.”

Scott does feel exhausted. It’s as if all the strength has disappeared and even his bones feel bruised.

“Where’s the Sheriff?” Scott asks, thinking guiltily of the continued agony they put that man through. 

“He’s in the waiting room,” Melissa says.

Derek stands immediately. “I’ll go sit with him.”

Scott nods his thanks. The sheriff is pack. You don’t let family sit alone through something like this. 

“I have to go,” Melissa tells him. “But you stay put all right? None of that disappearing from the hospital or anything. Let someone else handle it for a change.”

He equal parts wants to protest that he doesn’t do that…and do that very thing. But right now his body feels glued to the bed. “Mom, I’m sorry,” he says again, because he is. So sorry. For everything.

She runs a gentle hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault. Get some rest.”

He’s sure he won’t be able to sleep but it’s possible she’s slipped a sedative into his IV because when he opens his eyes again he can tell several hours have passed and now Liam is at the foot of his bed. “Hey man,” he says worriedly as Scott opens his eyes. “You okay?”

Better maybe, okay definitely not. His body feels less leaden and the itching in his wounds tells him they’re finally starting to knit back together. “I’m fine,” Scott says, this time managing to get himself into an upright position that somewhat resembles sitting, although it fucking hurts to do it. “Any word on Stiles?”

Liam shakes his head and Scott feels another spike of fear. It’s been too long, way too long. Scott grits his teeth and slides his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring his shaking limbs and throbbing head. “Oh, I—“ Liam blocks his path and looks at him sheepishly. “Derek says I’m not supposed to let you leave.”

“I’m your alpha,” Scott says, pulling a card he rarely does. He’s not here to order people around and make them do things they don’t want to. “You listen to me, not Derek.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liam says, not moving. “But uh, your mom also told me not to let you move and…” he leans close, his voice low, eyes darting to the door, “I’m way more scared of her than I am of you.”

He’s an alpha werewolf and a grown adult, but apparently his mother stills runs his life. Perfect. Normally he’d ignore Liam and leave anyway, but he’s pretty sure a stiff breeze could knock him over right now so if it comes to a fight, Liam is definitely going to win. 

The door to his room opens and Chris comes in looking battle weary. “Is everyone all right?” Scott asks immediately.

“Everyone’s fine. We’ve got guards all around the perimeter, human and supernatural. No one’s getting through the line again tonight,” Chris says. “We swept the whole area and didn’t find any more devices. I left Malia and Isaac out there. Theo was on his way too.”

Scott feels a modicum of relief. “Thank you,” he says, throat thick with grief and fear. 

Chris nods to Liam. “Give us a minute?”

Liam heads out the door looking relieved. It must not be super fun to be on babysitting duty. How are you?” Chris asks, stepping closer. “Heard you did a number on yourself.”

Scott finds he can’t speak, tears rising up to the surface. He’s tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of losing. Tired of always being one step behind Monroe and her minions. Tired of worrying day and night that if he makes one wrong move he’ll lose everyone he loves. Tired of being the one everyone turns to for answers, when he clearly doesn’t have any.

And now his best friend, a person who deserves more than anything to be safe and happy, is dying somewhere in this hospital and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

He folds, crumbling in on himself, hot tear stinging his eyes. Arms come around him, pulling him in for a tight hug, holding him like he’s a child again. “This is not your fault,” Chris says softly. “None of this is your fault.”

But it is. It all is. 

Scott finds himself clutching at Chris’ jacket, fingers clinging to the rough fabric, desperately needing something to hold onto. “I can’t lose him,” he manages to choke out.

Chris tightens his hold. “Stiles is a fighter. He may not be supernatural, but he’s overcome worse than this. You have to hold onto that.”

He wants to. God he wants to believe that everything is going to be all right. But things seem so bleak and hopeless. They’ve been fighting for so long and all they’ve got to show for it is battle weary fighters, some of them little more than kids, and a mountain of loss. 

Chris continues to speak, cutting through Scott’s strife and self pity. “You’re in the middle of a war. And I know how hopeless it seems. But you have right on your side. You have faith. You have love. All the other side has is fear. That’s a powerful motivator; but love, that’s a lot stronger. That’s an anchor. You know that. Allison knew that. Stiles knows that. So hold on. Hold on and rise up stronger to fight again.”

Scott takes a few shaky breaths and finally pulls away. Chris puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “You good?”

Scott nods and swipes at his face, wiping away the moisture there. The door opens and his mom walks in. “Oh, hey Chris,” she says in surprise. Her eyes find Scott. “Stiles is out of surgery.”

Scott sits up straighter. “Is he…?”

“Broken femur, three broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, internal organ damage, and a hell of a lot of blood loss,” she says frankly. “It would be easier to list things that weren’t damaged.”

“Is he…” Scott swallows, afraid of the answer, “Is he going to be all right?”

“They’ve got him in ICU. It’s touch and go right now.”

“Can I see him?”

Melissa’s eyes shift briefly to Chris and then back to Scott. “Honey they haven’t even let his dad go up yet. And you aren’t back to one hundred percent yet either.”

Waiting is agony. Scott’s only comfort over the next few days is that Derek frequently sneaks up to ICU and back out again giving them essentially the same report every time; “He looks like a ghost. He’s still breathing. His heart is still beating.”

People drift in and out of his hospital room, Lydia, Theo, Liam, Malia, Isaac, Corey, Mason, all of them stuck in some sort of zombie limbo, unable to find any light or joy in the situation.

Scott still hasn’t seen Noah. According to Derek he hasn’t left Stiles’ side, not a surprise to any of them. 

Scott feels himself improve physically day by day, but emotionally he’s a wreck. With every passing hour he feels the noose of guilt pull tighter around his neck. Even after his mom finally relents and gets him discharged, (at least this time they don’t have to explain his miraculous healing, there hasn’t been any) he stays at the hospital, wearing holes in the waiting room floor along with the rest of the pack. 

He’s beyond grateful to Chris who has completely taken charge of their refugees, controlling the border, checking in with other packs out of town, even calling the London pack and advising them that they might need backup. 

It’s three days later when Melissa comes briskly into the waiting room, a tentative smile on her face. “He’s awake,” she says and the room lets out a collective sigh. “He talked to Noah for a few minutes. They’re running some more tests now but things look good.” She takes in the bedraggled and traumatized group. “You all should go home.”

A few of them do, reluctantly and only at Scott’s insistence. Malia and Isaac have been splitting time between the hospital and patrolling and neither of them look like they’ve slept or had real food in days. But Derek still doesn’t go anywhere and Lydia is glued to the hospital as well. 

It’s another day before Stiles is finally moved out of ICU and they’re allowed to see him one at a time. Scott lets Lydia go first and she returns, eyes even redder than before. “You okay?” Scott asks.

She nods but he can tell she’s struggling. “He just looks so…” she can’t finish and it lodges a lump in his throat as he walks down the hall to his best friend’s room.

He knows what Lydia means immediately. Just looking at Stiles is painful. He leg is elevated and he’s so pale he practically blends into the sheets and pillows. 

Noah is sitting by his bedside looking completely exhausted and Scott feels a familiar jolt of guilt in his gut. “Sheriff,” he says softly by way of greeting.

“Hey Scott.” The sheriff’s voice is rough. “He just went back to sleep.”

“That’s okay,” Scott says, eyes trained on Stiles’ face. It’s enough to see him, to hear his heartbeat, slow but steady. 

“How are you?” Noah asks. “I heard you got pretty beat up too.”

“I’m fine,” Scott says. He’s definitely not telling the sheriff that the most he’s managed to do in the last couple days is pop his claws and even that was a huge effort that had him doubled over and panting afterward. “Sheriff Stilinski I—“

Noah shakes his head. “Don’t even go there,” he says. “We all know who’s to blame for this and it sure as hell isn’t you.”

Then why does it feel like his fault? “He should have gone back to D.C.,” Scott says softly. “He would have been safe.”

“He was going to work for the FBI Scott,” Noah says. “That’s not exactly a guarantee either. And he’s only ever wanted to be here with you.”

The words do little to soothe Scott’s anguished spirit, but his time is running out, other people want to come and visit. He reaches out a hand to touch Stiles’ arm, a single spot that isn’t covered in tubes or bandages. He pulls, gently. There’s not much pain, the morphine and other drugs are working, but he takes what little there is.

He immediately feels light headed and breathless, like someone punched him right in the gut. His knees go weak, but he locks them into place and doesn’t stop until Stiles’ face smoothes out completely and he relaxes into the pillows.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers out, voice choking on tears that are once again threatening to fall.

He turns to go but spots dance before his eyes and he reaches out, grabbing onto the IV pole for support. 

“Scott,” the sheriff is on his feet, hands reaching for him, his haggard face full of new concern.

“I’m okay,” Scott gasps, letting the IV pole go, trying to steady himself on his feet. “It’s fine.”

And then Derek is there, shoving an arm under his shoulder. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he asks in exasperation.

“How did you—“

“I heard your heartbeat,” Derek says. “I had a feeling you would do something like this. Come on, you need to sit down.”

“What happened?” Lydia asks as Derek dumps a practically boneless Scott in a waiting room chair.

“Someone decided to take Stiles’ pain. Again,” Derek says. It comes out as a growl. Derek is furious.

Scott’s head is spinning and his chest has gone tight again. “Scott what the hell is wrong with you?” Malia asks. 

“He doesn’t deserve to be in pain,” Scott groans.

“Well neither do you!” Liam says. “Scott if you can’t help protect the pack, that’s really bad!”

“Yeah, not to put any pressure on you, but Liam is kind of a crappy alpha,” Malia says, not nearly as quietly as she thinks.

“I’m right here!” Liam fires back indignantly.

“He’s moody,” Malia mouths, eyes wide as she points at him to convey her point.

“Scott you need to go home,” Derek cuts in. 

“I can’t leave,” Scott manages. “He needs me.”

“He has literally the entire rest of the pack here,” Malia says.

“Scott,” Lydia’s voice is soft and she puts a hand on his arm, large eyes worried. They seem to be in that state constantly lately. Just another thing to add to his list. “You can go. We’ve got this. We won’t let anything happen to him.”

They don’t leave him much choice, especially not when Derek and Liam haul him up and out to the car. He’s really going to have to work on instilling more loyalty in Liam, because one menacing glare from Derek and he’s following the former alpha’s bidding like a lapdog.

Scott’s asleep before they even leave the hospital and he doesn’t wake up until morning, still fully clothed in his bed, minus his sneakers. There’s a note from Derek threatening him with further bodily harm if he shows up at the hospital before noon and a sheepish text from Liam apologizing for his part in last night’s debacle. And for accidentally bashing Scott’s head into a doorframe as he carried him upstairs.

It’s actually a few days before he gets back to the hospital. He wants to check the borders himself, make sure they are well and truly safe for now. And that steamrolls into him checking in with the new pack members, the other refugees and scraps of packs that have made their way to the safe haven Beacon Hills has become. 

Lydia updates him practically hourly and he knows that Stiles is staying awake for longer periods, has managed to keep down solid food, is now able to feed himself, and hold a conversation. 

And still Scott doesn’t return. Somehow it was easier when Stiles was still unconscious. He didn’t have to look at his friend’s eyes, to see the pain and what was likely anger there. Because how could Stiles not secretly hate him? If it wasn’t for him, for the bite, they would have gone on living their lives none the wiser. Stiles would be an FBI Agent, he would be a vet, and they would have just…lived.

Now it feels like they’re cursed.

The reasons that kept him at the hospital are the same ones that now keep him away. It’s weird. Any one of their misguided guidance counselors would probably tell him he needs to talk about that and examine it, but there’s no time. There isn’t time for anything but making sure everyone is safe.

Until his phone buzzes with a message from Derek. He’s asking for you.

And he knows, he can’t put it off any longer.

He waits until night, until he gets confirmation that everyone has gone home. Everyone except Derek. Derek won’t leave Stiles unprotected.

Scott pauses outside the door, a pit in his stomach that feels like a rock. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. “Scottttiiiieeee.” Stiles is all smiles and Scott can smell the drugs in his blood that are keeping him like that.

“Hey buddy,” Scott says, trying to force a smile onto his own face. Maybe in his drugged up state Stiles won’t notice that it’s fake as hell.

Derek is standing broodily in the corner and Scott flashes him a grateful look. If he can’t be with Stiles, he’s glad someone is.

Stiles is apparently still with it enough to sense a conversation going on without him and he frowns. “Are you the reason I have a personal bodyguard?” he asks.

“Someone tried to blow you up Stiles,” Scott says.

“Us,” Stiles says, holding up a wobbly finger of correction. “They tried to blow us up. I was just the only one who didn’t magically heal.”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott says, the weariness in his soul pulling him further downward at this reminder of Stiles’ human fragility. 

Derek chooses that moment to slip out the door. 

Scott rubs his hands on his jeans, uncertainty running through him like a river. Stiles may be drugged, but he’s still Stiles. “You want to talk about it?” he asks.

Scott’s head snaps up and he meets his friend’s gaze, eyes sharp and knowing. “About what?” Scott asks, still trying to come off as fine.

“About why you haven’t come by in days so that I had to deal with Grumpy Cat’s rather intense presence at my bedside vigil. About why you’re standing there castigating yourself over something that isn’t your fault.”

“I’m not—“

“Scott.” Stiles gives him a look. 

He knows. Of course he knows.They’ve been best friends their whole lives, he knows Scott better than Scott knows himself. 

“This was…it was way too close this time Stiles,” Scott says on a rush of air. “I was holding you, feeling you die and there was nothing I could do. And all I could think about—“

He chokes on his own words, but fortunately Stiles never runs out of them. “You thought about Allison,” he says seriously.

“And Aidan, and Boyd, and Erica,” Scott continues. “Deucalion. Brett. Lori. Stiles…the list…it’s too long. And if you get added to it…”

“Then it will have been my choice,” Stiles says and it stops Scott cold. “Because I chose to stay and defend my friends and family. My choice Scott. Not yours.”

Oh. Oh. 

Stiles is still going. “You didn’t choose to get the bite. But you chose everything that came after. You chose to fight for the right things Scott. You chose not to be a monster. Not all monsters do monstrous things, right? Well I chose this. I chose Beacon Hills. I choose this pack. I choose you. I choose Lydia. I…” he pulls a face, “begrudgingly choose Derek. Because he’s big and menacing and good at keeping bad guys away.”

Scott cracks a real smile, a sliver of light stealing its way back into his soul. “He is good at that.”

“I do not choose Theo,” Stiles continues, on a roll now. “Ever. For any reason. I choose Jackson if and only if he stops being an asshole.”

“I got it Stiles,” Scott says, face begrudgingly pulling into a full on grin.

“You sure? Because I can keep going. Liam I can take or leave depending on the day and how annoying he’s being.”

“Stiles, I got it!” Scott says, a genuine chuckle sneaking out. 

“There he is,” Stiles says, a smile on his own face. “That’s the Scott McCall I know. No more Gloomy Gus around here all right?”

“Stiles you’re in a hospital bed. You broke practically every bone in your body and almost bled out. I have a reason to be a little upset.”

“But I’m fine.” He looks down at his bandage covered body and reconsiders. “Well I will be. And so will you. Not that you didn’t also try to kill yourself on my behalf.” Stiles raises his eyebrows and Scott winces. “Oh yeah. Derek filled me in. On everything.”

“I just…didn’t want you to be in pain.”

“Yeah, well, while I appreciate the ever present existence of pain drain, you really don’t need to sacrifice yourself on my behalf. Again.” Stiles looks down as his hands. “But thanks. If you guys hadn’t gotten me here so fast…”

“Yeah,” Scott says, his eyes burning again. He’s cried more in the last week than he has since Peter bit him.

“You don’t need to take all this on by yourself Scott,” Stiles says quietly. “And you can’t protect everyone from everything.”

It’s a bitter thing to hear and he swallows it down painfully. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been reminded of this, but he so badly wants to keep them all safe, to take them all back to a time before fangs and claws and glowing eyes ruled their lives. 

“Scott?” Stiles says, eyes searching him for a response.

“I just want you to be okay,” Scott says heavily. 

“I know,” Stiles says.

The two of them sit in the silence a moment, all the unsaid things, the weight of fighting a war they didn’t start hanging in the space between them. “I did take down two guys though,” Stiles finally says, breaking the tension.

“Yeah with your stupid bat,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. 

"Oh it’s definitely time for me to learn how to use a gun,” Stiles says. “A big one. Possibly also a flame thrower. Or a tank. Scott, I think we should get a tank.”

“I’m not letting you out again in anything less than full body armor,” Scott says, sinking down into a chair by his bed. 

“Oh! Yes. Body armor. We’ve got to have the budget for that somewhere right? Who knows that? Argent. He has to have some connections on that right? Legal ones?”

Scott sinks down into a chair beside Stiles’ bed and listens to him chatter on, feeling his own eyelids grow heavy. 

“Scott? Scottie?”

“Mhhmmm,” Scott murmurs, body relaxing as sleep pulls him downward. 

His best friend is alive. For now the border is safe. The pack is strong. And for the first time in a long time, soothed by the sound of Stiles’ voice, he falls into peaceful sleep.

[angelqueen04]

Hamliza Month, Day 26

@megpeggs @historysalt

Farm Offend Summary: Eliza and Liza have a talk after a difficult visitor. Note: A good deal of this is inspired by Stephanie Dray and Laura Kamoie’s version of events in their novel, My Dear Hamilton. I added some of my own thoughts and twists to it, but their version lays at its heart. All credit to them.

Eliza stood at the parlor window, her back straight as a board, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. This set of windows had a good view of the road leading away from the Grange, which provided her with an excellent view of the comings and goings of travelers as they sped by, on their way to Albany or New York, depending on their direction. The view it gave her at this particular moment was even more agreeable, however, as it allowed her to watch the gig[1] carrying James Monroe drive away from the house.

Good riddance, she thought with a measure of grim satisfaction. The Virginian had come here hoping that time had softened her, had made her amenable to accepting some well-turned little speech that he’d obviously planned out in his mind beforehand.[2] Well, he’d now learned otherwise.

“Mama?”

Eliza slowly turned from the window. Standing just inside the parlor door was her dear Liza, with good Mr. Holly and Eliza’s fifteen-year-old nephew, Alexander Malcolm. All three were staring at her, their eyes wide and full of shock, which was more than enough to tell her that they had all heard most, if not all, of her interview with the former President.

Eliza met their gazes head on, refusing to be cowed or chagrined by her behavior. Her words and actions toward Mr. Monroe might not have been within the bounds of societal convention – all right, they most certainly weren’t – but they were only the minimum of what he deserved from her. “Yes, dearest?” she asked her daughter.

Liza didn’t say anything else, clearly startled by her mother’s nonchalant attitude. Mr. Holly also seemed to have been astonished into silence. Young Alexander, however, managed to find his tongue.

“My goodness, Aunt!” he exclaimed, shocked enthusiasm filling his voice, “I did not expect to see or hear anything like this when I came to visit! You dressing down a former President of the United States like he was an errant schoolboy!” He glanced at his cousin and asked, “Does this sort of thing happen often, Cousin Liza? Perhaps I should come ‘round more often!”

Eliza saw her daughter and son-in-law exchange a meaningful look and, for a moment, a wave of sadness splashed over her. She had once had someone to exchange such glances with, but not for a long, long time now. She shook her head and held her chin high. Now was not the time for grief.

Off the look from his wife, Mr. Holly dropped a hand on young Alexander’s shoulder and said, “Come, cousin, let me show you the new fishing rods I purchased. I think you’ll enjoy them.” Without waiting for a response, he guided the boy out of the parlor and out the front door, leaving Eliza alone with her daughter.

Eliza turned from Liza’s gaze, intending to settle herself in a chair near the fireplace. Spring had come, but it was still quite chilly, and a fire was still necessary to keep the house warm. With a sigh, she sank into the seat, and waited for Liza to speak. Her daughter was by nature outspoken, a trait she came by honestly. How could she not be, with two such parents? Liza would have her say, no matter what.

She did not speak immediately, however. Instead, Liza crossed the room and took a seat in the other chair just across from the one Eliza had seated herself in. That chair had been Alexander’s once, Eliza thought wistfully. They’d sometimes sit together here in the parlor, late into the evening after the children had gone to bed, and just enjoy the silence and warmth of one another’s company.

She and Alexander had hoped to have many years to do such things, but that wretch, Burr, had had other plans. And so Eliza, more often than not, was left to sit by the fire in the Grange alone. Only rarely did any of her family or other visitors dare to sit in that chair.

“Was that wise, Mama?” Liza asked her, her tone soft. Her dark eyes, mirrors to Eliza’s own, were steady and thoughtful. “Mr. Monroe might no longer be President, but he likely still has influence. Given the positions some of your sons hold, surely it was ill-advised to offend him like that?”

A snort escaped Eliza before she could stop it. “He’ll do nothing to your brothers, you may rest easy on that score,” Eliza told her. “These Virginians pride themselves on their honor, and your brothers have nothing to do with why that man came here today. And besides,” she added in a colder tone, “he offended me first. Perhaps it is childish, but there it is.”

Liza stared at her. “He came here seeking a rapprochement with you, Mama. Is that so very bad?”

Eliza could feel the fire, the rage, rising in her, but she kept it contained. Liza did not deserve her fury. She shook her head. “He could claim he sought peace all he wanted, but what he really wanted was forgiveness. He wanted me to forgive him for making a mockery of my private pain, for humiliating me before all the world in his efforts to wage war on your father.”

Liza blinked, and confusion was soon writ all over her expression. Eliza sighed. “I suppose I never did tell you everything,” she admitted. Only once had she ever spoken to her daughter of that cursed pamphlet and of Alexander’s infidelity. It had not been a conversation that Eliza had relished, and so had kept it short and to the point. She suspected that her sons had likely told their sister more, but she did not know for certain. Even if they did, they did not know all of it.

“When government officials came to investigate your father for improper speculation, your father revealed the truth of the matter to them – that he was paying off the husband of his mistress.” Liza winced at the harsh phrasing, but didn’t interrupt. Eliza, long used to the tale, kept speaking without pause. “He exhorted them to keep quiet about this, as his private failings had no bearing on his public integrity. To this, they agreed, for they all knew that there was no improper conduct in the course of your father’s duties as President Washington’s Treasury Secretary.” That there was more than enough to say about his improper conduct as a private man went unsaid. “Your father also entrusted the proof of all of this to them, but he requested copies.”

Liza shook her head, a pained expression on her face. “Mama, what does this have to do with President Monroe?”

Eliza gave her a chiding look for her impatience. “Everything, dear. Mr. Monroe was the leader of that little delegation of investigators. It was to him that your father gave the papers – Maria Reynolds’ letters, James Reynolds’ blackmail, the record of the payments, all of it. When your father requested copies, he assumed that Mr. Monroe would make the copies himself, in keeping with his promise to keep the knowledge of it as contained as possible.” She could not help the sneer crossing her face. “But Mr. Monroe decided that this was not worth a hand cramp, and so entrusted the task to a clerk within the House of Representatives. Mr. Monroe later claimed that this clerk made copies for himself as well.” She shook her head. “In any case, Mr. Monroe decided that he would ‘entrust’ the papers to a ‘trusted friend in Virginia’, who would theoretically keep them under lock and key, particularly when Mr. Monroe was out of the country.”

Her daughter was not a fool. She stiffened, catching on very quickly. “President Jefferson.”

Eliza nodded, her fingers gripping the armrest in a vicelike grip. “’Tis like trusting a fox to behave himself in a henhouse. Later, when it proved most advantageous to them, the papers were given to a vile newspaperman, who did not hesitate to print them and use them against your father. Of course, the focus of that odious man’s accusations was, again, in leveling the charge of speculation. Your father’s response was to call upon the three men who had cleared him of that charge, asking them to reiterate that they had been satisfied in their investigation. Two of them agreed without hesitation, but the third…” she trailed off. The memory still hurt, even now.

“Mr. Monroe would not,” Liza finished for her, her voice soft.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Eliza confirmed, the bitterness settling in the back of her throat like bile, burning. “He declared that him getting involved would only cause more chaos than there already was.” She sniffed. “He was already involved, as he was the one who handed the papers off to the very man who saw to their release into the public consciousness. But the fact that he himself had not done so was enough for Mr. Monroe to split hairs and to claim and declare that he was not in any way responsible, and that your father should just leave it be.” Of course, Alexander could not leave anything be. That was not his way. He had to meet every accusation, every attack, head on.

“So Papa wrote that pamphlet.”

“Yes.” One terrible word, one terrible truth. “James Monroe knew your father very well, despite them being political opponents. He knew Alexander would react to preserve his political reputation, for the sake of the country’s existence. If the public believed that the founder of the country’s credit, its wealth and prestige, was corrupt, it would shake apart for good. He knew Alexander would fall on his sword, would admit his private sins for the sake of the public’s greater good – and that’s exactly what he and his friends wanted. Alexander Hamilton would preserve the nation from the crisis they had invoked, but at the cost of all his credibility. He would cease to be a threat to their ambitions.” And that was what had happened. Alexander’s reputation suffered for his confessions, and only once after that did he wield any real semblance of power – when he stood at the head of the army he had begun to build, and that had been ripped away when Mr. Adams made peace with France and declared that the United States needed no army. The fool.

“But in getting what he wanted, Mr. Monroe had sullied his honor,” Eliza continued resentfully. “He knew it. I knew it. And Virginians are very prickly about their honor. He had sworn to not reveal those documents to anyone, which Alexander asked him to do for my sake and that of our family. But he broke that promise, and opened the door for his own allies to attack me, someone he considered an innocent party.” Some of those infernal newspaper headlines still stung.

“That is what he wanted, Liza,” she said. “James Monroe wanted me to clear the mud off his honor. His health is in serious decline. His wife has passed, and he’s not long in following her, I think. He wants to die with his conscience clear, and that I will not give him. I will not forgive the man. Not because he humiliated me, mind you. But because he and his friends, most specifically that reptile now mouldering in his grave at Monticello, set out to destroy your father, a man they viewed as unworthy of anything he touched because he was not like them, not born here, not born to inherit some Godforsaken speck of land. Your father earned all he gained, and that they could not abide.”

Liza leaned back in the chair. “And I thought all men were created equal here,” she murmured.

Eliza snorted again. She seemed to be doing that quite often these days. Her mother would be appalled. “Oh no,” she said, “They talk prettily, but in the minds of many people, there is still a hierarchy, where people ought to ‘know their place.’” She paused, her eyes turning from Eliza to the fire. She stared into the flames, could feel its heat seeping under her dress to her feet. “Your papa was a good man, if a very flawed one. He believed in the promise that this country holds, and in those very words that Mr. Jefferson put to paper. Whatever his shortcomings, of which he would have been the first to admit that he had many, he did not deserve the slander they threw upon him.” She looked up again. “So no, I will most emphatically not pat James Monroe on the head and tell him all is well and forgiven. Not when he showed himself as having no remorse for his actions.

“Perhaps that makes me self-righteous,” Eliza admitted. “Perhaps the good Lord will frown upon my unkindness. But I am no saint, no angel. There are limits to what I can give, my dear, and we just found what those limits are. Justice shall be done to the memory of my dear Hamilton, and that justice will not come in coddling the men who sought to erase every trace of him.”[3]

Liza nodded, and they both fell into silence. They sat together for some time, until Mr. Holly and young Alexander finally returned.

[nsheetee]

fait avec amour

Pairing: Jaemin x Reader Genre: Suggestive/Smut Length: 2.3k Warning/Detail: swearing, alcohol use, mature content  Summary: A set of expensive lingerie. Jaemin’s camera. The city of Paris. What more could you ask for on your three year anniversary with your lover? a/n: minors, please beware: there is mature content in this writing.

fait avec amour... “made with love”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The Eiffel Tower glitters from outside your window, its light makes the fuchsia curtains and Turkish rugs in your hotel room sparkle in its presence. You don’t dare think about turning on the room lights, too mesmerized by the city lights outside and the reflections they give off of the crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling.

You arrived in Paris yesterday; the past two days have been filled with sight-seeing, getting lost in the small streets of the City of Love, and drinking champagne instead of coffee for breakfast. You’ve loved your little getaway so far, but tonight is a night you’ve particularly been waiting for.

You eye the pieces of dark red fabric that are laid out on the queen sized bed. Your teeth tug at your lip, somehow already aroused and excited for how the night will progress, especially after you read the note that’s paired with the pieces of lingerie.

“I’m going to pick up some champagne. Put these on before I get back, or you’re in trouble. - Your Jaemin”

A primitive instinct in your chest stirs at the note, your lover’s signature at the end like a dark red cherry on top of a sweet layer of icing. You didn’t think about much as you put on the lingerie, only of how Jaemin’s exquisite hands will hopefully be taking it off of you soon. The silk feels rich on your smooth skin and makes you feel comfortable, as opposed to other types of lingerie that makes you feel like you’re trapped in a mess of string.

When the door to your hotel room opens and shuts, goosebumps cover your arms and shoulders. You can practically feel the pleasure Jaemin is about to give you forming in the pit of your stomach before you can even see him; you can sense his presence so strongly that it almost hurts to not have him touching you already.

He walks through the bedroom door, a champagne bottle in one hand and two flute glasses in the other, a smile on his face when he sees the lingerie on your body. He stops at the door, letting the yellow light from the hallway bleed into the bedroom, taking a moment to look you up and down as you sit on the edge of the bed. Your legs are crossed over each other and you’re leaning back on the satin bed sheets to show yourself off.

You remembered the first time you ever made love with Jaemin; you were so innocent and inexperienced, and Jaemin was so patient with you. Your past self would never be this confident, but you feel so comfortable around Jaemin that you don’t need to be bashful or hide yourself anymore. You trust him.

“I knew you would look good. You look beautiful.” He finally speaks up, voice clogged with some sort of emotion. Love, lust, romance. He walks to the bedside table and sets down the flutes, promptly opening the champagne bottle, and pouring you both a glass.

“Cheers to three years, baby. And hopefully to many, many more.” You toast, your voice lighter in comparison to his. You truly love him, and you hope your toast will bring your wish into reality. You both down your whole glasses of champagne, and after setting your flute down on the bedside table, your fingers find Jaemin’s belt. You pull him closer, uncrossing your legs and spreading your knees so he can fit in between them, and your hands begin to work at the belt while Jaemin’s lips hungrily find yours. The raspberry tart he had earlier lingers on his lips and his tongue burns with the sharp taste of champagne. Before you can even get his belt off, he makes a noise in his throat and pulls away.

“What is it?” You try not to sound disappointed about him parting, but curiosity fills you as he nudges your legs off him and walks to his luggage.

“There’s something I was hoping we could do first?” He asks, rummaging through his suitcase before producing his camera bag. Your eyebrows arch slightly and your heartbeat increases at his next words.

“Let me take some pictures of you.”

The thought of Jaemin taking pictures of you in your current attire showers you with shyness. Sure, you trust him completely, but taking pictures almost makes it seem like a third person is watching, and that is new territory that you and Jaemin have not touched yet. Jaemin can sense your confidence dwindling every second that you don’t respond, and he quickly speaks up.

“I obviously won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, but… don’t think of it as me taking pictures of you.” You tilt your head at Jaemin’s words and he steps closer to you, the camera bag still in his hopeful hands.

“Think of it as me preserving this night through photos. From the way this lingerie looks on you, to the way the Eiffel Tower shines on you, to what it looks like when you’re all spread out for me like this…” His voice is low, patient as ever, and so, so sultry. When he’s close enough, he drops the camera bag onto the bed and fixes your hair behind your ears, his other hand cupping your jaw, “... And of course, they’ll only be for my eyes.”

You know if you asked him to stop right now, he would, and that is all the assurance you need to agree to his proposition. You’d do anything for Jaemin. Your lips meet again, softly and filled with more emotion than the last time. When you pull away, Jaemin’s eyes are shining for you.

“Okay.” You nod, “Take however many pictures you want. I’m yours.” You mumble the last part quieter than the rest of the sentence, but your faithfulness to Jaemin makes his heart race for you, his hand twitching on your skin from built up desire.

He nods and reaches for the bag, taking out his camera and turning it on. You’re not sure how the pictures will come out since the only light illuminating the room is the Eiffel Tower from outside and the hallway light from when Jaemin walked into the bedroom. A sudden flash brings your attention back to Jaemin, and you both laugh at the sudden disturbance of the mood in the room.

“Let’s leave the flash off.” Jaemin mumbles, pushing a few more buttons and finally turning all of his attention to you. Suddenly, your relaxed shoulders and mellow attitude are nowhere to be found, and you aren’t sure how to act in front of the camera lens.

“What… do I do…?” You're still sitting at the edge of the bed, Jaemin finds his spot between your knees again and runs the fingertips of his free hand up your naked thigh, over the silk that covers your hip bone, and drags a finger underneath your waistband.

“Let me do all the work. Just be yourself.” He mumbles, his voice back to the low, yet articulate mumble. You lean back on your hands once again, trusting Jaemin’s words as he continues to caress you. With his mouth opening in awe, his fingers continue to tease your waistband by dipping in and out of your lingerie.

Click. Snap.

You feel yourself loosen up after the first photo is taken, your hand clasping Jaemin’s strong forearm to beg for him to continue. He doesn’t give you the satisfaction you want as he moves his hand up the side of your waist next, chuckling lowly when you whine out his name. Your hand drops back down to grip the sheets beneath you; you’re sure your hands will be tired of wringing the sheets once he’s done with his little photoshoot.

His warm fingers travel over the wire of your bra, the material is so thin that you can feel him teasing the sensitive skin. His large hand slides over the bra and moves the flexible material, massaging and running his thumb over your hardening nipple.

Click. Snap.

He abandons his spot behind the camera to come down to your chest, kissing the edge of the lingerie. Your fingers now clutch at his shirt, your nails slightly digging into his side and sending small shocks of pleasure through him. He bites, licks, and bites again. You hiss at the sensitivity overload on the skin of your chest, and you feel the sensation go straight to your heat, becoming hot and wet from Jaemin’s actions. He leans back to look at the masterpiece he left all over your chest and collarbones, chuckling lowly when your eyes flutter open to look at him in your messy state.

Click. Snap.

Your throat feels raw at the amount of times his name has tumbled off of your tongue in the past ten minutes. You reach out for him again.

“Jaemin, please, do something.” You whine and he tsks in reply.

“You’ve been talking too much…” He swats your hands away playfully and you pout. His hand finds its spot on your jaw once again, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip and smudging your lipstick slightly.

“Open.” He commands, no room for argument or waiting. You drop your jaw and Jaemin’s thumb enters your mouth. On instinct, you close your lips and lightly suck on his digit, adding in a swirl of your tongue every now and then out of curiosity to see if he would like it. By the way his jaw drops, head lolls to the side, and his tongue flicks over his dry lips, you think he does. Getting bold, you reach out and palm over Jaemin’s bulge, your mouth still working on his thumb.

Click. Snap.

“Fuck…” Jaemin growls, his mind clouds over with memories of how your mouth feels around his dick and mixes them with the new feeling of you sucking on his thumb like your life depends on it. Despite the messy thoughts in his mind, he regains control of the situation and pulls his thumb out of your mouth, pushing your hand away from his bulge no matter how much it pains him to do so. He loves the way you smile at him when he does, your obvious confidence around him turning him on even more, and he shakes his head.

“Lay back. Pose for me, baby.” He uses both hands on the camera to capture you this time. Your hair mixes in with the satin sheets beneath you and the dark red silk of the lingerie glistens in the city lights reflecting off of the chandelier.

Click. Snap.

Your fingers wander behind you and undo the clasps of the bra. Jaemin’s breath becomes shallow, sweat starts to form at the back of his neck. The straps slide down your arms teasingly slow in Jaemin’s opinion and you throw the piece of fabric to a different corner of the bed, showing off your chest for Jaemin.

Click. Snap.

You fall back into the sheets again, one of your hands twirling one of your hardened nipples while the other travels to your clothed, wet core. The second your fingers reach the spot you've been dying for Jaemin to touch, your back arches off the bed and you let out a small moan echo throughout the room, finally receiving some release for your throbbing pussy.

Click. Snap.

“Oh, my god. You’re so fuckin’ wet.” Jaemin feels his pants grow tighter at the sight of the wet patch forming in the middle of your panties. It feels too hot in the room for him to have this many clothes on, and Jaemin sets the camera down for a moment to pull off his shirt and drop it to the ground, picking up his camera afterwards. Jaemin’s eyes refocus to your pussy and cloud with more lust at the sight of your wet heat from just his touches and his camera.

Click. Snap.

He moves your hand away, replacing your small fingers with his bigger ones. At his touch, you melt into the mattress immediately, more moans leaving your lips as Jaemin languidly works on your covered clit. Now, both of your hands are toying with your nipples, eyes trained on Jaemin and lights of the Eiffel Tower glistening off of his chest. You take the opportunity to roll your hips against his hand, wanting more friction.

“Just like that, baby. You’re so pretty, just for me.”

Click. Snap.

The tension in your hips from Jaemin teasing you earlier releases, and you feel pure bliss and pleasure at his touches. He surprises you when he takes a moment to flip the camera lens around to face him. He brings himself down to your hip level as his finger drags down your folds, the evidence of your wetness coating his digits even through the lingerie. His warm breath hits the inside of your thighs while he hooks the fabric and moves it to the side. You brace yourself with your hands in his hair and out of the corner of your eyes, you can see Jaemin take a picture of himself, selfie style.

Click. Snap.

You giggle, suddenly wondering if the picture would even turn out good since Jaemin wasn’t looking through the viewfinder to focus it, but your giggles soon turn into gasps when Jaemin’s hand pulls down your panties all the way and throws them somewhere on the other side of the room. His wet tongue meets your warm folds, licking up your juices and sweetly finishing by sucking on your clit for a teasing split second.

Click. Snap.

“Enough of that.” Jaemin mutters, dropping his camera into its bag a few feet away. His hands roughly grip around your hips and pull you closer to his face, landing your thighs on his sturdy shoulders. He peppers some butterfly kisses and kitten licks to the sensitive parts of your inner thighs before leaning back only far enough to speak, his breath hitting your heat and his shoulders vibrating your skin.

“Thanks for playing with me. Now, I’ll give you a treat.”

[secret-diary-of-an-fa]

Grisly, Grim and a Fucking Delight: Feedback Review

TRIGGER WARNING: Torture, rape, daytime radio DJs. Don’t blame me, that’s just what’s in the movie.

Wow. Wow and a half. Wow and a half between two slices of thick white whoa. What a fucking movie. I’d say something like ‘they don’t make ‘em like that any more’, but they clearly do, because Feedback only came out a few years ago. I am astonished that I didn’t hear about it until tonight. You see, I was looking for an epic, slow-burn thriller to watch with my girlfriend and glamorous assistant, and I came across this little British movie about a radio talk-show host getting trapped in his studio when a bunch of masked psychos invade the premises. “Neat!” I thought upon reading the synopsis and watching the advert. “It’s Diehard but without schlubby, sarcastic Brits instead of overblown yanks.” As it turns out, I was wrong. Feedback is not an enjoyable but ultimately inconsequential gas pocket of a movie: it’s actually one of the most tense, conceptually horrifying and incendiary pieces of cinema- nay, Cinema with a capital C- that I’ve ever had the good fortune to witness. The more I think about it, the more impressed and enamoured I become. Unfortunately, in order to explain why, I’m going to have to spoil the whole freaking thing. For those of you who actually watch movies based on my recommendations (which would be, maybe, like two of you?) I’ll give you a nice non-spoilery recommendation right now: the acting is on-point, the plot is serpentine but not in a pretentious way, every prop and narrative element is used to maximum effect, the atmosphere gets tenser and tenser without ever letting you catch your breath and it’s exactly as long as it needs to be: there’s nothing missing and not an ounce of spare meat on it. It’s a lean, nasty predator of a movie and, if you let it, it will pin you down and rip out your jugular. I’ve only ever described one other movie as ‘transcendent’- a little psychological horror called The Perfection. Well, Feedback gets that exact same sticker but for completely different reasons. If you’re going to watch it- and you should- stop reading this review right now and go do it. It’s amazing.

And now for the spoilers. Consider this more of an analysis than a review. You see, the film reveals early on that the masked psychos invading the studio aren’t just randos with a political or philosophical axe to grind. They have beef with the radio host (whose name is Jarvis, incidentally. You don’t see enough Jarvises, either in real life or in movies. It’s a fun name and grossly underused, but I digress). You see, they think Jarvis’s friend raped a woman, killed another woman and beat the shit out of her boyfriend… and they think Jarvis knows all about it and may even have been involved. They force Jarvis to extract a confession from his friend early on and then kill him live on air, meaning that the rest of the film is devoted to a battle of wills between them and Jarvis as they try to force him to admit complicity, again live on air. Along the way, it’s also revealed that they aren’t just crusaders: they’re survivors of the incident and relatives thereof. Now, from the moment all these pieces were in place, I watched with an expectation of being disappointed. You see, I thought I knew what I was watching: Jarvis is visually and linguistically coded as am older slightly privileged but spiky elitist, so in most movies made after 2010 he’d automatically have been the bad guy (fuck me but do ageing white movie directors love to pretend they’re ‘woke’), while the people attacking him are visually and linguistically coded as youngish (except in one case) and victims, meaning that, in most movies, they would automatically be the good guys (hey, everyone loves an underdog, right?). I assumed I was watching one of those films. You know the ones I mean. One of those oh-so-clever ones that gets you to connect with and root for a character then reveals that he’s a shit-bag and punishes him and- by extension- you the viewer for taking his side. That was clever once, but I’ve now seen it on at least eight separate occasions, and it’s become trite. It’s particularly irksome because the victim-coded characters always get a free pass for their own shenanigans: they can murder, torture, brutalise and dehumanise but it’s always okay because something bad once happened to them. Frankly, I thought that’s what I was in for. Luckily. I was super wrong. That’s like regular wrong, only sexier and with sharper graphics.

You see, Feedback is way too smart to go for a black-and-white good-victims-versus-evil-central-character narrative. Instead, it’s a film about dehumanisation… or is it? You’ll see what I mean. In order to force Jarvis to admit complicity, his assailants don’t just fuck with him and his friend: they straight-up murder an innocent bystander and threaten to murder someone close to the protagonist. They hurt and do terrible things to Jarvis and the people around him, using torture methods that would make fucking ISIS throw up its hands and go ‘steady on, bruv’. They have a version of events that they’re convinced of but have only one unreliable character’s word for and Jarvis has a version of events that they refuse, point-blank, to believe. Jarvis’s story does begin to alter, but it’s never really apparent if he’s actually done something or if he’s just saying he has in order to keep the people around him (and himself) alive. Meanwhile, the ringleader of the little troop trying to extract a confession from Jarvis might be victim, but it also becomes apparent that she’s an unhinged psychopath intent on spilling as much blood as possible for her own personal sense of satisfaction and has as much interest in justice as a black hole has in the history of the stars it swallows up. Hooray! Some fucking moral ambiguity in a movie! I thought the entire industry had just forgotten how to fucking do that!

Much to my delight, Feedback doesn’t stop there. Merely by forcing the audience to make up their own minds about what they think happened and who’s actions are most justified, Feedback is already introducing a level of sophistication alien to modern cinema. But then it goes one step further by also subverting narrative expectations. You see, in a bleak, introspective, what-monsters-are-we-all flick like this, you expect the antagonists’ plan to succeed: you expect the last shot to be of the protagonist broken by the moral blankness of his reality, sitting in the wreckage of his life, unsure of whether he deserves what has happened to him or not. And that would have been a perfectly acceptable way to end this movie. But it doesn’t end like that. Because Jarvis is that rarest of things: a competent and determined dude. He’s not a superhuman. He doesn’t have special training. The flick doesn’t turn into an action movie or anything ridiculous. Jarvis just refuses to accept the bullshit happening to him and systematically works through every possible strategy to extricate himself without caving and admitting culpability that he doesn’t feel. He tries reasoned negotiation. He tries subduing one of the assailants temporarily and using them as a bargaining chip (the minimum necessary force approach), he tries escape and, finally, when all else fails, he uses a combination of psychology, surprise and familiarity with his environment to fight back with lethal force. It’s a considered, intelligent approach and, because his assailants aren’t organised terrorists just ordinary people who may (or may not) have a legit grievance with him, it succeeds and- to cut a long story short- he kills all of them in incredibly satisfying ways. There’s a bit involving a smug, I-can-be-as-evil-as-I-like-because-I’m-a-victim character getting skewered with a pair of scissors that instantly outranks anything in the Saw or Friday the 13th franchises as one of my all-time favourite movie kills (outright all-time favourite still goes to that bit in John Wick 3 with the really creative use of a library book, but that’s off topic).

During the climatic scenes of the movie, Jarvis screams his confession, but- as I said- it might only be a tool to distract his attackers and gain the upper hand while preserving the lives of the people he cares about. Equally, though, it might not. There’s a coldness to the character at the end of the film that wasn’t there at the beginning. Has he just been changed by the trauma of recent events, or are we seeing the facade drop away to reveal the true face of ruthless monster? And here lies the film’s final genius: not only doesn’t it answer this question (ambiguity for the win!) it also seems to suggest that the answer might not matter. Jarvis didn’t prevail because he was innocent- though he might be. His attackers didn’t fail because they became as bad as the thing they sought to fight (though they did). Victory and defeat aren’t defined by moral superiority. The film doesn’t assign winners and loser based on ethical or philosophical standpoint. Jarvis wins because he knows what the fuck he’s doing and his attackers are a bunch of overemotional quarter-wits with a half-baked plan that they can’t even stick to because they get too worked up. Survival, Feedback reminds us, has everything to do with being good at things, and fuck all to do with just being good. At every turn, the film tries to convince us that it has a moral point to make. Characters talk endlessly about truth and lies, justice and injustice… but in the end, it’s all smoke and mirrors. The film doesn’t have a central moral thesis (or, if it does, it’s a profoundly nihilistic one). Its real subjects are survival and will. It’s a study of what happens when two packets of brutal, remorseless determination meet eachother coming in opposite directions. It’s a dissection of the self-preservation instinct and its only real moral is ‘don’t fuck with a smart, grimly determined guy on his home turf if all you have to bring to the table is a short fuse and a big hammer’. Maybe that shouldn’t be refreshing, but in a cinematic landscape where every movie is determined to plant its flag on one side or the other of the political or ethical spectrum, it really fucking is. The fact that it gets you to think about ethical issues and who you believe on route elevates it, but the core of the film- the thing that makes it solid- is that refreshing element of nihilism. Breathe it in, folks: we don’t get many movies like this very often.

[lucarioisinthevoid]

Hey, uh, do you take request for any epilogue stuff or just Henry suffering? Because if the former, well, we never got to see Old Sport apologizing to the lost souls, and since now that's his job... could we get that? Sorry to bother ^^' - (copied by me, original from AO3)

(Every kind of request is welcome! That is something I meant to write anyways, but I’m still really scared of it- it’s something very important, that HAS to sit just right. I doubt I will manage, but hey, at least it’s out of my mind after this one. OH AND I JUST REALIZED YOU’RE RIGHT ABOUT THE “we never saw”- FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE FINALE I knew I forgot SOMETHING, I thought I had it all written down, but I DIDN’T. Urgh, no point in crying over spilled milk I guess, but have my apologies, I know that you especially were looking forward to it ;n; Now I’m lowkey stuck between a rock and a hard place- either I make this into a proper epilogue thing, in which technically shouldn’t be able to apologize- or I go back and make this as a fix-it/rewrite scene from within the action. I think I’ll try to make it an epilogue and bullshit my way into Old Sport being able to apologize. Bear with me)

Forgiveness isn’t something you can work towards as a single person. It wasn’t like they hadn’t known that when they made their way to the first few restaurants, but it still always left a little crack behind in their optimism. Of course, there was nothing they could do about it. Freeing souls was actually a terribly ungrateful job, something that surprised Dave. Sure, Old Sport had warned him beforehand, but still. It stung. Not that Dave wasn’t on some level aware that he’s the one everyone’s anger was targeted at- for good reason, he had created this scenario in the first place- but a selfish part of him despised the kids for not playing along right away. Henry had told him back in the day that he needed to get a grip on his desire for instant satisfaction- and he was right. As much as Dave hated to think about it, he was right. There were things he easily lost patience with. Hell, he had pressured Old Sport far, far more than he should have. A sudden surge of stubbornness settled into his chest. It was FINE, it worked great with Old Sport. He didn’t do anything wrong. He DIDN’T. He’d do it again! … … that wasn’t the right attitude for a man on the road of redemption, but he couldn’t really help it yet. Deep down he hoped the attitude change would come with habit. There was no way he could get around to it on his own. Old Sport was… doing okay, all things considered. Being almost ripped out of your own body, because you resembled your worst enemy more than your former self was pretty- terrifying. So nowadays, he was… quiet. A little car chase always managed to rip him out of his thoughtful moments, returning the grin to the place it rightfully belonged, covering most of the Orange Guy’s face- but it was only moments, minutes, not long enough, not nearly long enough to satisfy him. Or at least calm him. Old Sport knew that too. When he glanced over at his friend- his partner, his lover, all these words that almost seemed to make no sense, they felt like weren’t supposed to be applied to HIM, him the soulless guy shambling from place to place- When he glanced at Dave, he saw the tension radiating off him like a swarm of bees. Even in his smile, it was clear, he wasn’t outright happy, he was- Like a bow, tightly strung, ready to escalate. There was nowhere left where he truly could let out his chaotic desires, as each Freddy’s they walked into was another mission that had to be done perfectly, like clockwork. Cheesy words, little theatrics, the same patterns over and over and over and over and over- It was what had driven Old Sport over the edge the first time. It wouldn’t happen again though. Maybe they should go to Vegas. However, he didn’t really want to let Dave loose anymore. Not now that their actions felt so… intertwined. Whatever Dave did, he felt responsible for, thus he tried to keep him in check. And now… … now he almost felt scared of Dave, from time to time. Now that he was trying to take the lead. It- wasn’t right. No, no. Fear, fear implied HE was the one afraid. This was different. Worry. He was worried for Dave and he worried for the world around him. But that was the price he paid for being moral and wanting things to work out for everyone. It felt a bit dirty, just picking up a morality, not due to experience and inner passion for these things, instead only because morals came as a set. Really, he still wasn’t a whole person. … at least he was working on it. “What’s wrong with ya, Sportsy?” Dave stretched his neck out towards him, drawing a smile out of the Orange Guy. Somehow seeing Dave becoming all- noodly- always brightened his day. “Nothing! Nothing. I was just thinking about the next place… apparently the Freddy’s burned down, but the animatronics are still in the area?” “Is that what the bear told ya?” “Yes. Which means setting up the party and getting them to stumble over it will be more dangerous than usually… we’ll have to lure them there. We miggt have to walk through the town while wearing the suit!” “Sounds like fun!” Slightly Old Sport smiled. This was something Dave still was great at. “… if you say so. You’re the only one who thinks of waltzing around in sweaty suits, while potentially being chased by dog as ‘fun’.” “Yeah, right- I’m just the only one of us who can admit it! That’s ‘cause ya can’t admit to your feelings, Sportsy! It took ya YEARS, DECADES to finally give into your BURNING DESIRE FOR ME-“ “Sh-shut up! Don’t be weird!” His cheeks were reddening as Dave laughed. This was the one way his constantly building up tension melted away. If he didn’t think for a few moments, the world seemed okay. “Welp, either way-“ The Purple Guy continued, pulling the car to the side. “- we’re at the destination. This is the burned down place. Wait- doesn’t burnin’ them usually free ‘em anyways? Ya know. If all stops have to come out?” “True. There are only two souls around, the one inside of Freddy and the one inside of Chica. The rest was freed by the fire.” “So, we’re dealin’ with two REALLY nasty bastard kids?” “You shouldn’t say that. That aside: yes, you’re right on the money.” “Urgh, those are the worst. Can’t we just break them and burn the pieces?” “No.” “I knew you’d say that Old Sport. Yet I’m STILL disappointed.” He sighed, as he parked to the side. Getting suited up as soon as they could, they looked around the forest area, the lights of the town far in the back, but still very much visible. No taking roads, yards were fine, forest first though. “… alright, this will take time.” Old Sport looked over the wrecks. “Good we have plenty of things to set up a little party anyways. Dave?” “Yessir?” “You go out and try to find them while I set up. We can’t really afford wasting too much time, especially if they might be genuinely vengeful.” “Splittin’ up? First mistake in the horror genre, tsk, tsk-“ “Sure, because either of us is at such a risk of ACTUALLY DYING. EVER.” He waved his hand at him. “At least stake the place out. So we know which places are easier to cross while seeking. And how much we roughly have to look over.” “Fiiiiiiine.” Clearly not pleased, but accepting of his role, Dave walked past him- Just to abruptly and grab Old Sport by the mask, pulling him close into a pretend-kiss, which was somehow even more flustering than an actual kiss. “DAVE!” “C’mon, somehow I gotta motivate myself, right?” Happy as can be, he nuzzled his snout against Old Sport’s, before letting go and skipping away. “Be back soon! Don’t cut any cake without me!” When he was gone, Old Sport slowly sighed. “He… won’t hurt anyone.” The suit echoed. ‘He won’t. As long as you won’t.’ Old Sport winced at the familiar voice- it was soft, caring, and so, so sad. “Fredbear-“ ‘The birthday, Old Sport. Birthday first.’ Nodding to himself, defeated, he pulled out the tools from within the car. Candles, banners, lights, plates and hats, a music player… … they were prepared to create a party out of nothing, out of a charred place of dirt, if they had to. Thankfully the walls were at least still mostly preserved. Ashes to ashes. Places like this reminded him of… “… I never apologized, Fredbear.” ‘That is true.’ “They were gone. I knew what Mike did, I just- couldn’t- I couldn’t face the Toys anymore. I didn’t even know their names. Mike knew their names, right?” ‘He did.’ “I can’t ask Mike. I can’t ask him for the names.” The words stumbled out of him. Fredbear tended to join him every time that they were setting up, not in his true form right away, but as a presence within the suit Old Sport had to wear. It was reassuring in some regard- But at the same time, the memories he brought Old Sport were suffocating. ‘You could.’ Old Sport wanted to scream, his busy hands still setting up, regardless of the conversation. “Yes. Yes I could. And I could kill Dave. And I could jump from a high building to try out to fly. And I could adopt twenty cats. And I could hijack a train. And I could- what is there I couldn’t do!? But I don’t want to, because I’m not dumb, I KNOW it’s wrong, I know it’s terrible, I know-“ Shortly he paused to take a breath. “There’s so much I could be, and nothing that I am, but I WANT to be something now. So I can’t.” For a moment it was silent, Fredbear not saying the many things he could have. Yet somehow, it felt as though he could still hear them. Spiteful whispers, stuck in the suit, banished from this place, but remaining as echoes. Nothing ever truly disappeared. He had stained the suit, and the suit had been stained by the one wearing it before him. Blood remained with any object, no matter how well you cleansed it. “… I need to apologize to them.” ‘So you can forget?’ His mind knew that Fredbear would never say something like this with spite, but it still cut him deep. “… so I can… know I did something right.” ‘We never can right our wrongs.’ “Since when did you become so cynical!?” ‘It is not cynical. There just are wrongs we cannot turn back the time on. Well- perhaps the dog could have, he never wanted to however. I have blood on my paws from making you, trusting a creature that never was a human… and I have damned a man to hell. And not even when I should have, only when it was too late.’ Finally, this managed to shut Old Sport up for good. Don’t look so hurt, other people have problems too. Except he didn’t have any problems. No, he was fine. It didn’t keep him awake at night. It didn’t bother him. Just the knowledge that there was something on his checklist to reach a goal he set himself, something that he would never be able to cross off, it irked him. Petty. A hint of sadness took ahold of him. “… how old are you, Fredbear? Or- were you, when you-“ ‘I lived many lives, those that joined me. Many more than I wanted to count. I feel so old, I cannot remember. And everyone I carry with me is so different too.’ “Alright then.” They were busy enough anyhow, trying to make the place look like new, like a place to feel happy at, to play and not to think about anything- Making it up. Celebrating the birthday they never had. Making a lie into a truth, a lure into a genuine gesture. Follow me. Old Sport did it once- now he played the part of Henry in the freeing missions. It was important to follow the old pattern, to overwrite it. Who would be doing the luring? Who would be cutting the cake? What games would they play? Fredbear kept quiet about it until they knew exactly where to go and all other preparations had been done. One thing at a time, he always said. “Fredbear?” Old Sport quietly asked. ‘Yes?’ “… can I- can I apologize to you? In their place I mean. Apologize to you like I would to them- just so- I have it out. And if you think it’s any good, then maybe you can tell them what I said.” ‘… it’s alright. We can do that.’ Understanding warmth- yet it didn’t feel like it was meant for him. He couldn’t accept it. At least this was something he was looking forward to- now he only had to figure out the right words to say. Lost in thought, he didn’t even realize how fast the time passed, until- “OLD SPORT!” Yelping the Orange Guy jumped, thankfully not triggering any springlocks. “DAVE! God- don’t- DO that!” Sheepishly the Purple Guy in the bunny suit tilted his head. “Sorry! Sorry Sportsy, really am, but I have- good news and bad news.” “Bad news?” “Ain’t nothing ya can do here.” Instantly turning more serious, Dave shook his head. “These are mine and mine alone. I guess I was really… passionate about the whole shutting down Freddy’s stuff. I lured them on my own. You can’t even be nearby.” His voice was so different. So much smoother, more clinical. It was nice and yet it wasn’t. Old Sport nodded. “… good news?” Perking up, back to his usual self, he pointed into the woods. “I know where they are! And I know how to lure ‘em, seein’ as they fuckin’ hate each other!” “… so two lost souls hate each other and you see that as a win?” “Yeah! It’ll be great! I can tell ‘em to meet here to fight and then- oh.” He scratched his fake ear. “… actually, now that ya say it, it might be a bit more of a hassle.” His expression turned pleading. “Spoooortsyyyyyy…? Ya always have such good ideas, so…?” “Depends on why they hate each other. Why are they fighting?” The pressure was on! “Uhm. How about you do actually send them here to fight, for one last time. Tell them that you’ll solve the fight once and for all. I think it will be the truth.” “Great!” “But Dave- remember- they might be fighting about who is at fault for their death. You… sure you want to get between that?” “Eh. It’s fine. If they’re upset about that, then it’ll be even easier to get them to calm down. Ain’t nobody’s fault they died but mine!” A hint of envy stung through Old Sport’s chest. “… you… really don’t mind, do you?” “Nah. It’s fine.” Curiously Dave looked at him. “They’ll give me a good beatin’, then they’ll be on their merry way. I dealt with worse pain before!” “That’s… not what I meant.” He said to much, and turning away didn’t help- Within a second, Dave’s hands were on him, as he pulled his orange lover closer, petting over the back of his head, a gesture he could feel even through the layer of metal and fur. “… did Fredbear bully you again? You should take the suit off.” “He never bullied me.” “He’s telling you stuff that upsets you! Over and over again!” Upset Dave scoffed. “Sounds like mistreatment to me! I’m telling you, if he gets too much, we’ll just get rid of him. We’ll figure the saving souls stuff out ourselves!” “I KNOW you would get rid of him.” That was exactly why he didn’t talk about it. “See? You know you can count on me!” For a moment Old Sport remained tense- then he slowly melted into the hug, trying to relax. “… I’m- Fredbear really didn’t do anything. I’m taking the suit off in a bit, when I’m sure he has nothing more to say- but it’s not the problem anyways.” He sighed, to himself. “You shrug it off so easily. I want to do it too. Or- I would want to, if I weren’t-“ It was hard to put it into words with Dave, who never really saw the world how he did. Once more he attempted. “If I’d do the thing I’d do, I would become worse for it. Worse and worse. I would do more bad things. So I’m- worried about messing up. I worry that if I start shrugging it off, I’ll never care in the first place.” It was obvious Dave frowned, even with the mask. “… I- don’t get it. Gotta be honest with you, Sportsy. Why do you think if you don’t make yourself feel a certain way, you’ll feel the exact opposite way? You’re yourself and do what you think feels right. Why would one bad thing lead to another? Unless you wanted to do all these bad things anyways? You don’t have to pretend with me.” “I… guess. But we made a deal. We’re freeing them. What happens after that…” Stumbling over his words Old Sport tried to gather himself. “I want to be someone. Someone better than who I am.” “… but if you want to be someone you deem good, it means you by yourself think that person is good. You, for yourself, have decided you like these traits. So if you want to be someone, then only because you can recognize what’s in them from something that’s within you.” “Dave, you’re scaring me when you’re this serious.” The big, moon-like eyes inside of the suit slimmed down to match a cheeky grin. “Ya can say that Old Sport, and I can dumb myself down for ya! Stop worryin’, dunce, leave all of that to me. I’ll be able to reel ya in if ya ever go off the rails!” Raising an eyebrow, the Orange Guy looked at him. “… you kill people for fun and profit.” “Yeah, but that ain’t a BIG deal, right? I can let ya stay home while I do it.” Playfully Dave responded, before turning away. “You need to have some more faith in me Old Sport… and for now, nothin’ of this matters! Let’s free some souls! Or rather, let ME free some souls, while ya have a nice evening. Watch some stars! Is everything ready for the party?” “All is set up!” “Fantastic, that’s why I love ya, Old Sport!” Instantly flustered, the Old Sport made a movement at him. “Quit saying that at EVERY opportunity!” “What?! Why?! I just say it when it’s true! Like when you laugh, when you make breakfast, when you burn breakfast, when you talk to me on the road, when you-“ “DAVE. EYES ON THE PRICE.” “You’re the only price I-“ “D A V E.” “Fine, fine, be the killjoy. That’s why I lov-“ “GET GOING. THE NIGHT ISN’T FOREVER.” “Sure, sure!” Waving at him and still laughing, Dave made his way down the hill, leaving the bear-suited guy inside of the ruin that was covered in glitter and lights. He had taken off the suit. Stargazing for now. Music came from the ruins of the old Freddy’s, music and light, glimpses of another world. It radiated outside in waves, catching up even the place where he and Fredbear sat. Soon enough he would change his form, leaving to join the two spirits. At least so far there wasn’t any screaming or crying, or fighting- it means whatever Dave had said to them or done with them worked out. Old Sport wished he could have joined them. Maybe he wouldn’t be caught up in all these thoughts still. “… Fredbear? Do you think what Dave said was right?” It was silent for a moment. Then the bear suit shifted a little, seeming more energized in presence of the party. ‘… no. But he is not entirely wrong either. Being good does not come naturally… and neither does being bad.’ Once more, quiet. The stars seemed a little bit closer than usually. “Fredbear. I want… I think I can say my apology now.” Wind breezed through the trees around them, sounding like whisper. Maybe mocking him? But all of a sudden, he felt a deep calm. Maybe mocking. Maybe expecting. No matter what, he would say what he needed to. ‘Go ahead.’ There was no soul to reach into, but his heart was still beating, still working, still doing its jobs. The heart could be wrong and harmful and petty. Perhaps even evil. It was better than nothing however, it was the one thing he had in contrast to Henry. “I… wanted to apologize.” He started. His voice quiet. “… and it won’t be a good apology, because what I want to apologize for isn’t something that… you CAN apologize for. I’ve been trying to find the right words for a while now, but there aren’t any. At least though, I can offer you a why. Why I did what I did. Something so wrong and cruel. I… did it, because it didn’t feel real. And that is abhorrent, I know exactly why, because now it is real, what I did was real, IS real, what I did to five real kids, who had their own lives, that I just TOOK away. It’s not fair, I shouldn’t have been able to do that. It’s insane to think that I could have done so, that the universe let me do it. God, I wish I could do something to make it up for you. That I somehow could replace everything I took. Yet, I can’t. I can’t even ask you what I could offer you. I’d let you borrow my body, wear me like a skinsuit, I’d bring you things that remind you of better times, more peaceful times, something that makes all the hurt go away for a few moments. This apology is one of the few things I can do for you, something I wanted to do for you for a while. I wanted to be there for the party. But I know I shouldn’t have, so I didn’t. … carried around these words and feelings with me for a while. I hope that wherever you are- knowing that I’m paying for what I did, every day a little. There’s justice in this world, even if it looks weird and doesn’t come around right away.” For a moment he paused, staring at the shining stars, that didn’t seem to care. “… I wish… I wish you all have forgotten me already. That would be right. Yes, I hope wherever you are, you don’t even remember the day. I hope you’re having fun and that you are free, that everything is just right, that I’m a nobody now and will stay that way forever- that you only remember those who were kind to you and made your life better. I hope you’re happy and I’m inconsequential. And I will keep paying and giving my best. So that you leave in your wake only good things.” His head hurt. This hasn’t been a good apology- but it was all out there now. He said what felt right to say. He said the things that he wished that they knew, deep down, even if he wasn’t the one saying it to them. Next to him, the real Fredbear stood up, shaking his golden fur, before putting one of his paws onto Old Sport’s shoulder. “THE PARTY NEEDS ME NOW. I WILL GET GOING.” “… yeah. Thank you Fredbear. Bring the kids somewhere nice, will you?” “I WILL.” With that the bear trotted off- Leaving Old Sport to gaze at the stars. At some point, someone sat down beside him. Then someone else. Then another one joined in. And a last. They didn’t forgive him. This was not something you could forgive. But they sat with him until the dawn broke, sun touching the grass, coloring it orange.

[myvikingsoul]

Lose Weight Without Starving Yourself

Many people believe that weight loss is a painful thing. To shift those stubborn pounds you must go hungry all the time. Many are afraid to even set a weight loss goal because they cant stand the thought of going hungry and the frustrations that it brings. For a lot of people it’s just better to be overweight than to suffer hunger pangs.

Well who can blame them?

If the only way to lose weight or stay slim was to go hungry all the time very few people would be at their ideal weight and the vast majority of the planet would be extremely overweight! It isnt necessary.

Our body is a marvellous device. It is truly amazing! Its natural rhythm and internal workings tell us when we are hungry. It has a self protection mechanism that lets you know when you need to stock up on fuel. A hunger signal is the body notifying you that you NEED to eat in order for you to sustain a healthy level of energy and have the reserves necessary for healing, repair and maintenance of your cells. Serious hungry pangs are a strong self-preservation signal from the body that it is in danger and needs food immediately to restore its balance. This signals should not be ignored!

Your body has no idea that food is in plentiful supply and that it is one of the cheapest commodities of the 21st Century. Your body is acting the same way your ancient ancestors bodies worked. The general design of the human body hasnt changed one bit since then. When your ancient ancestors where living in caves they relied on their ability to hunt for food to feed themselves. Sometimes they would go days or weeks without a kill and the body would send them warning signals that they were in serious danger. When they did eat the body immediately, being still in self-preservation mode, stored as much of the energy as it could in reserve as FAT! Your body works in exactly the same way today.

Starving yourself just doesnt work. It goes against nature to think that you can starve yourself and lose weight. Of course you can get the exception when people just dont take in anywhere near enough food to sustain themselves but we all the effects of this kind of dieting!

So, we know that starvation diets dont work and you dont want to spend 2 hours a day in the gym. How do we lose weight then? Well the good news is you do not have to go hungry to lose weight. Nor do you need excessive amounts of exercise. The truth is, eating regular nutritional meals and allowing your body to fill itself to satisfaction is the key to reaching and maintaining a healthy, slim body. By not allowing yourself to go hungry you will in fact avoid overeating – which is the very thing that usually happens when you break a starvation diet.

One method is to eat five or six, fairly small, healthy meals divided up throughout your day. Instead of eating three large meals at breakfast, lunch and dinner, divide the same quantity of food into 6 meals instead and eat an extra small meal between a small breakfast and lunch, one between lunch and dinner and if you are hungry later have another one. Try to avoid having the last meal close to bedtime, anytime up to 2 hours before bed is all right.

Dont wait when you feel hungry. Eat as soon as you can. If you wait for a long period of time before you eat your body will go into panic mode, think that you dont have enough resources to feed it and you will overeat! Therefore, eating frequent yet smaller meals will help to keep your body satisfied and you will be less likely to over-indulge.

Do not miss a meal in the hope that it will help burn some extra calories. You may believe that by skipping a meal you will save some calories or fat intake, but, as you have seen, the opposite tends to happen. In addition, if you go for a long period without a meal you are much more likely to over-indulge when you get fed-up and cant take the starvation any more.

Did you also realise that by skipping meals you are actually slowing down your metabolism? Because your body thinks there is a food shortage it not only stores extra fat but it also slows down the amount of fat it burns. The bodys natural survival instinct is triggered, you put on extra weight and burn fewer calories and fat. As the body burns fat to convert into energy you will find that you become lethargic and tired. Starving yourself just doesnt work!

In addition to eating smaller more frequent meals you should also teach yourself to eat slower. Place your knife and fork down between every bite and chew for a few seconds longer than normal. It can take us up to twenty 20 minutes to realize that the body is full and completely satisfied. When you eat at a fast pace stuffing food into you before you have time to recognise the full signal your body is sending your brain. When you eat at a slower pace you start to recognise these signals from your body and train yourself to identify them at an earlier stage.

Take an extra 15 minutes extra a day. To some of you this may sound like a lot. But all you have to do is split it up throughout the day. Leave for work with an extra 5 minutes to spare and walk to a bus stop further away from or park the car 5 minutes further away than you usually do. At lunch take a 5 minute stroll or take the stairs instead of the elevator. Walk to the local shop instead of driving. It is easy to complete 15, 30 or even an hours exercise everyday if you split it up like this. And remember dont starve yourself, it just doesnt work!

[scribblesofanaricat]

Crossed Out

(an older version has been posted here before, but I’ve finally gotten round to making a fully edited version with an altered ending (and hopefully a bit more of an explanation), so I hope you guys like)

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It’s not a crime to be curious.

That simple fact is what’s led him to end up stuffing his knapsack with an assortment of things that normally have no business being in there. Normally. A scarf that just so happens to be ideal for somebody who’d rather their face went unseen. A chunk of nut and raisin-infused bread snuck- borrowed from the loaf his mam keeps wrapped up in the kitchen (which he can never resist sampling at the best of times). And the battered old woodcutter’s axe he can barely raise any higher than his shoulder - just in case.

That bag’s been packed for days now, wedged out of sight in a corner of his clothes chest. He hasn’t been able to bring himself to do anything more than that. Until now, that is.

His teeth clench at every telltale creak of the floorboards under his bare feet, even though he isn’t really doing anything wrong…yet. He gives them a hard prod with his toes all the same. Traitors.

As he fervently hoped, the front room is clear of any mother-shaped obstacles when he slinks his way downstairs. Just the rough-hewn table and chairs sitting in their usual corner and the mismatched sideboards pushed up against their usual walls, although one of them now has what looks like fresh creamy milk waiting patiently atop it.

Right on cue, a distinctive voice swells from beneath the threadbare carpet.

“Arlo, that milk was just delivered this morning! Don’t you go drinking it straight from the bottle!”

“No, Mam,” he half-mutters, setting down the glass bottle he definitely hasn’t just been raising to his lips.

This is okay. Perfect, really. If she’s down in the cellar, that means she’s probably busy making preserves to sell at the market or something again. By the time she notices he’s neither in the house nor working in the garden, he’ll be well away. And then…then he’ll have some answers, whether she likes it or not. Satisfaction curls in his chest like a languid cat.

Arlo inches out of the door shoulder-first, lifting and lowering the latch as noiselessly as his fingers can manage - the same fingers that nearly drop the scarf twice when he knots the stained grey fabric over the lower half of his face, cursing the pit of his stomach for the uncomfy feeling spreading through it like so much spilled mead. What does he even have to feel guilty about? It’s not a crime.

Enough of that. Enough of it all.

He darts one glance over his shoulder, back at the rusty rooftop and their patch of garden, a weather-beaten face spotted with a mishmash of flowery freckles (except for the bit with his mother’s favourite lilies arranged on it, obviously. Those, she keeps spick and span and never lets him go anywhere near, though he has no idea what she thinks he’ll do to them). Then he starts to run. His legs set about their task in earnest, without taking directions from his mind. He already knows the kinds of places where he can find them…not that it’s any huge secret anyway. Or rather, it’s a secret to everybody; the type little kids hear all about as soon as they can toddle a few steps. Then they get their ears bruised with dire warnings to stay well away from it. Stupid. As if that won’t just put ideas into their tiny heads.

He’s not a kid anyway, Arlo reminds himself, puffing his chest out a little despite how short his bursts of breath are growing. This is no daft childish game. It’s something important. Something that goes hand in hand with the way he’s been jolting awake lately. Gagging around a yell jammed in his throat; a weird sort of dread tying his insides into hard knots. Or opening his eyes to find a stupid wetness spilling down his cheeks…or (he stifles a groan at the memory, heat rushing to his face) soaking his bedsheets.

He doesn’t know if he’s having nightmares...hallucinations, terrors, whatever. How can he? They float away like soap bubbles on washing day every time he tries to latch onto them. But it feels familiar to him, in all the places where it shouldn’t. One morning, he even woke up with the ghost of a name on his tongue and of blood suffocating him with its metallic tang. That’s all they were, though. Ghosts. And they vanished just like that, leaving nothing behind but a dragging weight in his chest.

Arlo just doesn’t know. Yet he’s sure- he’s sure he remembers, no matter how dimly.

To make matters weirder, talking to his mam hasn’t been any use whatsoever. No sooner do the words leave his lips than she butts in to set him some chore or another, or else shifts the topic in a way that curls his hands into fists. The last time Arlo tried to ask her about it, she had her own grilling ready for him – “Who have you been talking to? Who’s put all of this in your head?” – and something in her tone, something strange and strained, made him drop the subject like a hot coal.

He supposes some part of him wanted her to laugh at these dreams that he can’t even remember and at him for ever confusing them with real memories. That’d be better than having this brush-off tossed his way instead. Anything’s better than that.

So this is all her fault, if anything. All she has to do is be straight with him, just like she is with everything else…but no. Instead, he’s been left to flail in the dark. And driven to a straggle of shacks, several miles apart from any other dwelling.

At least, any human dwellings.

Arlo’s foot chooses just the wrong moment to catch on a particularly mean-spirited tussock. He stumbles as gracefully as a sledgehammer in a knife fight, the scrubland sailing up to greet his face. It’s not until after he clambers back up (along with a muttered spate of the words his mam indulges in when she thinks he’s out of earshot) that he gets back to reflecting on the rumours that’ve flown thick for as long as he can remember.

The Hexes. The…things that hushed voices regularly call witches, demigods, monsters, spirits, fae, devils and everything in between. And the only ones in this world who can shed any light on what’s happening to him.

As far as Arlo’s concerned, Hexes are the sort of stuff that everyone acts so certain about, like they know everything that is to know. Yet when they’re asked if they’ve ever even seen one for themselves, their faces flap like fish caught up in a net. And that’s the thing with all these rumours. His mam’s market customers insist they’ve spoken to others who’ve seen Hexes melding with slivers of moonlight and devouring the stars. Somebody has a relative whose neighbour knows someone who swears blind that the lot of them are descended from the legendary Ironflayer clan – that kind of thing.

None of them really know anything.

Before long, Arlo will.

*

Their shadow’s just slightly out of sync. Maybe it’s the gloom playing tricks, or maybe all those tales have made Arlo ridiculously paranoid. But he could swear that the very silhouette of the Hex is something a little too slow, a little too disjointed. Something that breathes.

Arlo tries to keep his head fearlessly raised, his eyes darting from corner to corner as the Hex breathes life into a candle wick, birthing yet more shadows, and shadows of shadows, from everything it casts its azure-tinged flame upon. The grip on his bag tightens all the same, clenching around the long bump of the axe’s handle.

He can’t make out their face. Not really. Every time he attempts to get a glimpse, it melts away somehow. In the end, he resigns himself to running his fingers in a weird erratic rhythm along the splintery surface of the table, not unlike his mam’s at home. He has to wrench his mind away from the thought of what her face would look like if she knew where he is right now.

Arlo doesn’t see the Hex placing the mixture down in front of him. One moment there’s nothing there but the elaborate symbols (probably occult-y hieroglyphs or something) carved into the tabletop; the next, kaleidoscopic light spills out over its surface from inside a vial. Specks of gold dance in its contents, rising and falling, swallowing the colours and spitting them back out.

His brow furrows, one hand coming up to rake through damp hair.

“You want…me to drink that?” The question rasps in his throat.

The shadow opens its eyes, two acid-green spots burning into Arlo’s face. But the Hex doesn’t so much as turn their head, let alone halt. ‘Not a crime, neophyte, I’m sure?’ they ask at length, words emerging as though they’ve drawn them out from some deep well. They echo off cold damp stone that isn’t there; they drip down his neck like icy, brackish water. ‘And neither are such answers as you seek. Drink.’

Arlo stares at the unknown mixture. Just like the Hex’s shadow, it stares back, pressing spectral hands against its crystal prison. Drink.

He shouldn’t.

He has to. Doesn’t he have every right?

His fingers obviously agree. Despite the stupid tremor running through them, they greedily close around the vial and prise out the cork, letting loose vapours that ghost over his skin.

The brew blazes its way down his throat and sets his stomach alight. Cough after cough rattles deep in his chest. He isn’t sure whether he’s been forced to his knees or not. Those gold spots have returned to swarm his vision, scratching out everything before him.

Arlo’s head rolls from side to side, trying to find where the Hex has disappeared to, trying to get some sign that this is what’s meant to happen. All that comes out is a mangled noise (has his tongue always been this heavy?) before it snakes into his head and swallows him whole. And the floor beneath his feet - or is it the entire world? - caves like a house of cards…

and tips him down, down, down into a slough of phantoms lurking,

living,

breathing,

waiting to snare him in its murky waters. A quicksilver voice sings him to his fall.

‘Memories don’t sleep, neophyte. They only like to pretend that they do.’

*

Cold. Cold biting at his skin like a million tiny pinpricks. Cold tendrils creeping around his heart, around the very flow of blood through his veins. And the kind of silence that comes when time itself is suspended.

Even so, the masses of limbs and soulless white eyes watch him.

He watches them right back, as empty of fear as they are of flesh and blood. How can they live here? What do they feed on?

Whatever your head offers us, is their answer, as they bare bloodied teeth in a gory grin.

As if in explanation, the golden scratches swimming at the edges of his vision fall away, only to be replaced with a face he feels like he knows. A face that cradles him in its familiarity yet crushes him beneath the expression etched deep in every line of it. He can’t place that expression. But the voice belonging to that face (didn’t that voice once call something to him about a milk bottle, a million years ago?) drips with it.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

Him. Him, him, him.

He stares at the place where that disembodied face hangs long after it’s flaked away like a butterfly drawn on a wall. Is he the reason for that shattered look in her eyes?

That’s when a twisted symphony – blurry and broken but somehow sharp enough to pierce him over and over again – awakens from the depths of some excruciating black hole spreading through his head.

Screams of a name. That name isn’t his own. It’s a name that once slept in a little bed next to his and proudly showed him the worms it had dug up with a stick behind the house. Once. It’s gone now. But also not gone at all.

It’s still there, out in the garden - only this time, it’s below the earth. He never saw that happen. A whisper in his heart knows it did, all the same, and knows exactly where (don’t ever touch the lily patch).

A wasted limb ending in long yellow claws stretching out from underneath his mattress…its grey splinter teeth, the smaller body leaping in front of him and trying to wrestle its grip from his ankle…the blood. So much blood, splattered so far. He remembers wondering how such a small person could hold that much.

He remembers.

And everyone kept it hidden from him, she kept it hidden from him, his mother- no, their mother, theirs-

That clawed arm, those teeth-

It’s coming back.

It’s coming to finish what it couldn’t before.

His cry seems to come from across an ocean. The pain explodes, taking every spectre with it, as his fingernails dig into his scalp like they can tear it away.

Gone is any idea of who he is, where he came from, what he was searching for in the first place. All of it is crossed out, scrubbed from existence, until only a blank wall remains. With one thing painted on it in burning black letters.

It’s coming.

*

It’s not a crime either, to want to be sure. To have to be sure, to know. The second the rough wooden lid is prised open with numb fingers, something cold and black grips his heart anyway - and he wouldn’t care if it struck him down where he stands.

The lid slips, joining the shovel on the lilies beneath his feet. Its fall could almost be called soft, if that wasn’t so wrong. But how could anything be more wrong than- than this?

He isn’t sure how long his gut chokes him, burning his throat, nostrils, eyes. When they finally give up, he drags a sleeve across his mouth. Huddles in the hole that seems to be opening into a bottomless chasm even as he clenches himself against its side, blurrily aware of the damp earth pressing into his forehead. Just like the nothingness seeping through his soul.

Little by little, one arm raises until barely two inches separates it from the arm in the box. One so alive. The other so grey, like the shadow they’ve become to him. And small. And folded with withered flowers over a sunken chest.

The gashes. So many. He wonders if it’ll do the same to him.

(It’s coming.)

Those phantoms laugh. Play in his head.

(It’s coming.)

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

New People

Danny personally felt that he was well within his rights to be a bit weirded out by what was going on.  He was on his way to school, getting interrupted by some half-formed spider ghost with threads all over the place that he had to dodge out of the way of before he could even get close to shooting it, Tucker was freaking out and Sam was doing her best to shoot away the webs that Danny actually got caught in.  It took quite a bit of time to squish much of the bug and then get it in the thermos.  During this time, Danny got hit by its pincers and bitten, and the wound was exposed and dripping ectoplasm and some thick purple goop that he assumed was venom.   Things were the standard amount of bad.

The unusual thing was when a ghost with blue skin, pink eyes, and rippling hair that shifted colors between red, yellow and orange flew up to him and gently grabbed his arm.  And then he pulled out a cotton ball from his pocket and started dabbing Danny’s wound.  “Yikes, this is a nasty bite.  You’re Danny Phantom, right?  The bridge spirit?”

“Uh,” Danny looked down at his friends, who shrugged, weapons trained on the newcomer.  “Yeah, I’m the halfa Danny Phantom.”  The guy snorted and Danny scowled.  “What’s so funny?”

“Halfa sounds like something my son would’ve called it when he was 7.”  Once the cotton ball was soaked through it was put in a ziplock that vanished off to somewhere and a water bottle was poured over it instead, followed by a cloth.  “I’m Dr. Jason Pace.  Nice to meet you.”

Danny stared at the man while he cleaned his cut with wide eyes.  “There are ghost doctors?”  It felt like a dumb question, doctors died as much as anyone else, but with all the violent ghosts that came through it was weird to see someone who specialized in helping people.

“Death is hardly enough to keep a medic from helping people who need attention,” Jason said with a chuckle.  “When I woke up in the Infinite Realms I met this big burly werewolf in a hoodie who said he was here to take me where I’m supposed to go but he got to me late, and I thought ‘wow, psychopomps are real and they can be behind schedule.’”

“Did.  Did this werewolf happen to speak Esperanto?”

“Yeah, said his name is Wulf.  I told him that wasn’t very original and he agreed.  Then I told him that I needed to see my husband and he cut open a hole back to the living realm about two weeks after my death, and after a very passionate and emotional night, I headed back into work and just sorta.  Kept doing what I do.”  He hummed, holding up the cloth and setting it on fire before tossing it behind him, where Danny watched it turn to ashes before it made it five feet above the ground. He swiped the purple goop with a q-tip, and then a bunch of vials of glowing liquid appeared from thin air, spinning around him in a lazy orbit.  “Poisonous and venomous ghost animals are horrors and ecto entomologists can kiss my ass if they wanna preach about preserving species.”

“What… are you doing?”

“Ah that’s what it is- you’re going to feel numb in a couple of seconds, which is perfectly normal, but then your core will start to go … well let’s just say I’m glad I got to you in time.”  One of the vials stopped, the swab burned up like the cloth, and a syringe was put into play.  “This is an antivenom.  Please don’t squirm, or this will hurt more.”  Jason pressed the needle over where a vein should’ve been, and Danny hissed at the sharp prick of pain.  Then a lollipop of all things was presented to him.  “Hope you like blueberry.”

“So, what I’m gathering is that you just wanna treat people and you came up to me cause I got bit by a spider.  I don’t remember my folks ranting about a doctor ghost tricking the people at the hospital into dastardly plans so I’m gonna guess you’re not from around here.”

“Oh, this isn’t why I came to your town of course, but yeah this is the thing I’m gonna be doing.”  The syringe needle, once removed, was disintegrated like the rest, and a bandage was stuck on Danny’s arm before his suit could reform around it.  “You should be good… and don’t worry, I don’t mess with people’s heads.  I just help people.  And yes, I know how to help bridge spirits like yourself.”  He held out a business card and gave a two-fingered salute.  “Give that a little charge if you need me.  Bye!”

They watched Jason fade from sight and Danny stared at where he’d been with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.  “What the f-”

“We need to get to school!”  Sam shouted, drawing his attention down to his best friends.  Danny dove down and scooped them both up, turning invisible and flying toward the school.  “Oh, wow, ok.”

“So that was weird, right?”

“That was really fuckin weird, yeah,” Tucker said.  “I guess it makes sense that there’d be ghost doctors, hospitals are the evilest places.”

“I’m glad he’s here,” Sam said.  “Maybe he’ll be able to help you keep up with your habit of crashing into things.”

“I don’t have a habit thank you. My enemies have a habit of yeeting me into things.  There’s a difference.”

“You can turn intangible and go through things instead of slamming into them so.”  After that fun and lovely argument, Danny almost forgot the weirdness of Dr. Pace.

 That is until Lancer introduced the class to a very tall boy with brown hair, tan, freckled skin, and pink eyes.  Pink eyes that were glowing ever so softly. “Hello class, this is Kyle Pace. He’s an exchange student from Pittsburg.”

“Hey there,” Kyle said with a wave, smiling wide enough that everyone could see his canines were much longer and too pointy to be human.  “My last school was Three Rivers so uh I’m kinda not used to this kinda school, so if I’m weird I’m sorry about that.”

“Not a problem, Kyle.”  Lancer patted the large boy on the back.  “Your classmates will be doing their best to help you adjust, I’m sure.”  No one missed the look Lancer gave them, and no one even really considered caring.  Danny, Sam and Tucker were all staring at Kyle with varying degrees of subtly. “There’s a seat between Danny Fenton and Dash Baxter over there, Mr. Pace.  I’ll make sure you get a study guide to catch you up on where we are.”

Kyle nodded and plopped down in his seat, bookbag set down next to him, and the class moved on as though this were normal.  Well, Wes was fuming at the back of the class but no one paid him any attention.  He looked like he was paying attention, and after a while, Danny decided he should do the same, but the glow in Kyle’s eyes and the way Danny’s ghost sense was stuck in his throat, almost alerting him to a ghost but not, messed up his focus even worse than a regular old attack.

When Lunch rolled around, they had a chance to actually talk about it.  “So uh, when Dr. Pace said he had a kid,” Tucker said, “Do you think he meant like after he died?”

“My ghost sense says yes, which is gross to think about, but also kind of an existential crisis going on.”  Danny pushed his food around on his platter, staring at it and through it.  “How the fuck does that even work?”

“Well if Box Lunch,” Sam said with a shudder, “Can exist then maybe… what did he call it?  Bridge Spirits?  Maybe they can happen, ya know, naturally?”

“This validates everyone who wants to fuck Phantom,” Tucker said with a mouth full of meatloaf from home.  Danny punched his arm without looking and took satisfaction in his yelp.  “I’m just sayin.”

“Swallow first, and then - novel idea - don’t say it.”

“I saw him leave algebra with Dash and Dash’s hair isn’t looking so perfectly combed right now,” Tucker said anyway, earning a kick in the shins from Sam.

Danny groaned.  “Can we talk about something else?”

The universe did not agree with their subject of discussion moving away from Kyle, however, as he strode over to their table and plopped down next to Danny.  He had a lunch box filled with clearly homemade food that looked like it was cooked by a chef compared to the lunch meat on Danny’s platter.  He tossed an arm around Danny’s shoulders and gave them all a cheerful, “Hey there!  How’re you guys doing?  I saw your spider backpack and I know appearances aren’t everything but,” he pointed at Sam with a lazy grin, “do you like snakes?”

“Uh, yes?”  Sam looked between Danny and Kyle, likely assessing how dangerous he might be.  “Just not your kind of snake.”

“Pardon?”

“People who hang out with Dash Baxter tend to be just like him.”  Sam folded her arms and scowled, and Tucker rolled his eyes.   Kyle just frowned and looked over at the A lister table, making eye contact with Dash for a moment.

“Only impression I got outta Dash was attractive when he’s not talking, what kinda guy is he?” Sam was all too eager to share that and so was Tucker.  Danny watched as Kyle’s expression grew darker while staring at Dash, eyes beginning to glow brighter until he turned back to the table and covered Tucker’s mouth.  “Aight, an asshole.  Got it. Y’all know that’s all like, illegal, right?  Someone can record him doing this shit and either call the police or threaten it.”

“I mean, we could but then the other A listers would be out for us,” Danny said.

“I dunno what the A list is supposed to be, but I’m betting it’s something really stupid, and I have ta say: can we talk about snakes now?”  Kyle stuffed food in his mouth, and then the conversation about which snakes were cuter, cooler and more dangerous began.  Danny zoned out, stretching his senses to confirm the current of ecto energy under Kyle’s skin and wondered how to bring that up.

Before Danny could ask Kyle if he was possessed or just Like That, Dash Baxter’s voice caught his ear.  “Hey, Kyle, why’re you hangin out with these losers?  You should-” that was as far as Dash got before a pink bubble appeared around him and Kyle turned around to shove the bubble.  It rolled along the floor until it bumped into the A lister table and then popped, leaving Dash to fumble into his seat.  Then Kyle turned back to the table.

“I really want a pet snake, or like even some fish, but Dad doesn’t trust me and Pop thinks that I should learn to be responsible first before I go asking for a pet.  Like, aren’t parents supposed to use pets as a test of responsibility?”

“Some parents think that,” Sam said, her salad finished and her protein shake almost done, “but it’s unfair to put all that on a kid.”

“So,” Tucker said slowly, “everyone is staring at us and I’m kinda wondering if we’re gonna talk about you putting Dash in gay baby jail.”

“Is that weird?”  Kyle raised a brow, and Danny snorted.  “I just really didn’t wanna talk to him if he’s an asshole like y’all said and the bubble popped pretty quick.”  Kyle looked around at the dead silent cafeteria, and his skin began to glow.  “Why are people starin?”

“Because you just blew your cover, ghost!”  Valerie snarled across the cafeteria, and it exploded into chatter.  Kyle flinched at the noise and a bubble appeared around the table that blocked out the noise.

“What the fuck?  What’s going on?”

“Uh, dude, they don’t know about half ghosts.”

“But you’re a bridge spirit too!”

“They don’t know that!  I’ve got a secret identity to keep!”

“I- wow, ok spider-man.  Alright.”  Kyle took a breath and dropped his shield, floating up above the crowd of teens.  “HEY!”  The crowd when slowly quiet as Kyle waved a glowing hand around to get everyone’s attention.  “MY DUDES!  Thanks. So uh, yeah, I’m not sure what y’all think I am, but I can explain pretty easy.”

“Oh I’m certain you can, ghost, but we’re not interested in your lies!”

“Excuse you, I don’t lie anymore than you do.  Anyway, when a living human and a ghost love each other very much-”

“Are you saying your mom or dad banged a ghost?!”  Dale was always so eloquent, it had Danny wondering how he had such bad grades.

“Yeah,” Kyle shrugged, hands stuffed in his pockets.  “I don’t have a Mom though, Dad and Pop just figured out that ghostly physiology is malleable and they wanted a kid.  I’m done talking about my conception now, cause that’s gross, but like, this is a basic thing to understand.”  Kyle floated back down to his seat and crossed his legs.  “I swear I heard at least five girls around here want to start a family with Phantom, and I just gotta wonder: y’all did know that’s possible right?”

Silence eerie as a horror movie washed over the cafeteria.  People processed what they’d been told and some of their minds tripped over themselves trying to do so.  Kyle turned back to Sam and started complaining about pets while chatter erupted around them all, and Danny slammed his head against the table.

[eirabach]

Risky Business [1/1]

Here’s the rest of yesterday’s six sentences. They grew. For @olliepig and @onereyofstarlight, with love.

Yes, I wrote fluff. I feel weird about it too.

AO3

He asks her after a rescue, adrenaline and relief making him brave -- far braver than he'd had to be to dive into a bottomless chasm, anyway. Though part of him wonders if it isn't pretty much the same thing.

It's not like he's going to casually date Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, is it?

It feels a bit all or nothing, this. A risky business. And yeah sure, so she’s kissed him. Twice, actually. Three times. He hasn’t actually lost count of the number of times she’s thrown her arms around his neck, obviously. It’s just he’s replayed them all so many times, so very many times, that maybe they’re kinda blurring into one long, beautiful moment and really -- really he’d like the chance to lose count, that’s all.

First he has to actually get the words out. It’s easier said than done. 

"So, what do you think? Would you -- would you like that? With me?"

She smiles across the holocomm, wide and genuine and yeah, all or nothing. All or nothing and he's betting it all on the curl of her lips.

"Dinner? Yes. Yes I rather think I would."

---

“You’re not serious?”

Scott prowls around him, dark brows pulled low over narrow eyes. Sweat prickles at the back of Gordon’s neck, some evolutionary response finely honed by twenty five years of little brotherhood. 

“Uh, yes?” he manages, any other words choked out by the way Scott steps forward and pulls on his collar.

“It’s orange.” 

“I like orange.”

From the couch Virgil makes a strange, whining sound. “It’s dayglo, Gords.”

“So I’m gonna be easy to spot, yeah?”

Above them John hovers, arms folded, judgement clear. “Are you taking her to Coachella?”

“Maybe.” He bats at Scott’s hands. “Will you -- geroff, Scott!”

“It’s no good,” Scott sighs, radiating disappointment, “he’s a hopeless case. Virgil?”

“I have to concur.” Gordon scowls at his supposed wingman, but Virgil just shakes his head, “No hope at all.”

“Maybe Lady Penelope’s like a dog though?” Alan pipes up. “Like, what if she can only see super bright things? She likes pink, right? Maybe that’s why!”

“Please,” John again, a floating Greek chorus to Gordon’s ever mounting misery, “don’t compare Lady P to a dog. You’ll give him ideas. And anyway the canine eye only has --”

“Enough already! Ugh! Fine!” In one swift movement he whips the offending shirt -- his best  shirt, as it happens -- over his head and tosses it to the floor. It lies there, a crumpled, accusatory heap, while Gordon crosses his arms over his bare chest and glares. 

“You win,” he snarls. “I’ll go like this, yeah?”

Scott shrugs. “Could work.”

“Not very subtle though,” Virgil says.

“Just about right then,” mutters John.

“Won’t you be cold?”

Gordon grits his teeth and blows out, hard. “I hate you all.”

“No you don’t,” Scott says mildly. “You love us. And --” He steps forward, squeezes Gordon’s bare shoulder with a grin. Against his will, Gordon half leans into it. There’s an unsteadiness to him, deep down and working its way out, and as much as he wants to slap his brothers sometimes -- sometimes he really doesn’t. “You can even borrow my shirt.”

---

Parker is practically vibrating as he hands over the keys to FAB 0. Well, sort of hands. Really Gordon has to practically unfurl the man’s death grip then snatch them away. Parker’s eye twitches, and it’s probably just as well that Gordon isn’t the supernaturally concerned type because if there was ever a man willing a curse on another he’s pretty sure he’d be screwed.

“You look h’after her,” Parker spits, and Gordon would toss him a salute, he would, but he thinks he might get punched. And Scott will kill him if he gets blood on his borrowed shirt.

“I got it,” he says, then, shooting for reassurance, “you taught me to drive, remember?”

Despite the deathglare, Parker visibly pales. “I remember.” Then, leaning in just a touch too far to be comfortable, “I weren’t talkin’ about the car.”

Penelope, already ensconced in the front passenger seat, leans out of the open window with a sigh. “Gentlemen, if you’re quite finished?”

Parker snaps back to attention, and Gordon fiddles with his shirtsleeves, abashed.

“Of course, your Ladyship.”

“Sorry, Pen.” 

He slips into the driver’s seat and tries very hard to ignore the flames he’s sure Parker is burning into his back. After a moment of confusion -- why are there so many keys on this thing? -- FAB 0 judders into life and makes somewhat lurching progress down the manor’s driveway. He brakes at the end, looking both ways as Parker had instructed, then almost jumps out of his skin as Penelope’s hand comes to rest on his thigh.

“Gordon?” He doesn’t look at her. There’s a dark mark in the distance. Could be another car. Could be Thunderbird One. Could be his heart which appears to have leapt straight out of his chest and made a run for it. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah, yeah -- fine, uh -- are we clear left?”

He hears the way she exhales, and his heart returns only to sink into his very shiny shoes. 

“Clear left.”

God, he hopes the rest of the night is smoother than his clutch control.

---

The restaurant is -- nice. It’s small, perhaps ten tables all topped with stems of roses and unlit candles, and cosily intimate even without the dimmed lighting that makes every plate a mystery. Nor is it a place that’s registered on her radar before, tucked as it is into a narrow backstreet of a nowhere sort of town. There are no paparazzi at the windows, here, FAB 0’s arrival greeted only by the twitching of blinds and the hushed exclamations of a gang of teenage boys who’d been lingering on the corner. 

There's something a little furtive about it, about the way the door is locked behind them, the way she feels more than hears Gordon's intake of breath as she removes her furs. It gives her a little thrill, the way she can still feel the imprint of his hand on her lower back as he pulls her chair out, and she smooths out her skirt as she sits, once, twice, three times. Wills herself steady.

The kitchen door is slightly askew, the single waitress polishing the same wine glass over and over, and it occurs to her that everybody seems to be waiting for something. Someone. Across the table Gordon concentrates on the candle with enough force to set it alight. 

Oh.

“This is rather lovely,” she says, loud enough for the waitress to relax her grip on the wine glass slightly, “however did you find it?”

“Oh!” Gordon looks up, as though he’s surprised to find her sat there. “Bit of a -- work thing. You know. Gas leaks and -- yeah. You know.”

Penelope doesn’t know, actually, but she hums in agreement anyway and picks up the leather-bound menu.

“It’s all right though, right? You like it?”

He’s fiddling with his shirt cuffs again. They’re perhaps half an inch too long and a little too loose, so that the cufflinks he wears clink against the tabletop. It’s a nervous, silvery sort of sound that has Penelope dropping the menu and reaching out to cover both his hands with her own. 

“Of course I like it.” She smiles. Squeezes. “Don’t you?”

He half snorts, an undignified little thing, but then he’s turning his palms up, fingers coming to rest perfectly in the space between her own. 

“You’re here aren’t you? What’s not to love.”

She smiles, lets the tip of her tongue peek from between her teeth, “Well, obviously.”

She expects to feel satisfaction as the high colour of his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears, down his throat, she doesn’t expect the thrill as his eyes darken, as he runs his thumb across the pulse point at her wrist.

“Hungry?”

Well then. Two can play at that game.

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

---

Gordon notices her inbetween mouthfuls of honeyed aubergine, blurred by the semi-frosted window glass, hopping from foot to foot before ducking away only to reappear half a moment later at another window. He tries to ignore her, concentrating instead on Penelope’s latest escapades with the World Council and offering, as best he can, ever more involved acts of vengeance she could turn to her advantage against the besuited middle aged idiots that fill most of the council seats. 

“There’s somebody behind me,” she says before taking a sip of her wine. “Isn’t there.”

The figure at the window shifts again. Gordon blinks.

“N-no?”

“Your eyes have been darting about as though they’re fit to leave your head for the last ten minutes, darling. Either there’s something behind me that has you concerned, or you are undergoing some form of medical emergency.”

Gordon groans. “My sister is insane. You know that, right?”

“Your sis- ?” Penelope twists round in her chair. The shadowy figure freezes on the spot, a rabbit caught in piercing blue headlights. “Tanusha,” she hisses, then, polite as can be, “Oh, pardon me?” She beckons to the waitress who scuttles over immediately. “There’s a young lady outside, and the weather is rather inclement. Would you mind inviting her in?”

The waitress looks at Gordon. Gordon shrugs the shrug of the damned. “Might as well. She’ll end up in the ceiling otherwise.”

Clearly perturbed by this oddest of statements, the waitress unlocks the door. Kayo sashays in as though she’s actually been invited.

Penelope’s smile turns wolfish. Gordon tops up his glass and wishes fervently that it contained something stronger than soda water.

Kayo, who is clearly a woman with no sense of self preservation whatsoever, drags a chair over from another table and, snagging an olive from Penelope’s plate, grins at the waitress. “Aren’t they cute? I think they’re super cute.”

The waitress makes a noise that Gordon translates as you’ve just lost me my tip, and returns to the relative safety of the bar at the end of the room.

“Who put you up to this? Was it Scott? Alan, I bet it was Alan. I’m going to leave anchovies in his boosters.”

“Try again.”

“Virgil?!”

“Nuh huh.” She reaches for another olive. Penelope snatches the plate away.

“John wouldn’t dare," she announces, and Kayo bows her head slightly in agreement.

"Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I let you see me didn't I?" She offers Gordon a sly sort of smirk. "Though your observation skills are appalling, Tracy."

"Maybe I had better things to be looking at."

Penelope giggles, and it's a dangerous sound, a dangerous sound that travels through every one of his nerves to settle at the base of his spine.

"You've been behind us since the last junction on the motorway, Thunderbird Shadow." This time when she smiles Penelope shows her teeth, and Gordon wonders exactly how much of a blood alcohol level it will take to get him grounded. "If you plan to spy on us at least do me the honour of doing so properly."

Kayo's expression sours.

"I wanted you to see me."

Gordon sighs. “Knew we shouldn’t have let you take a rotation on Five, they all lose it up there.”

"No -- I," Kayo pauses, almost flustered. "Would you believe I just wanted to make sure you things were ok? With you two?"

Gordon looks at Penelope. Penelope looks at Gordon. Kayo flicks at an olive stone with her nail.

"I meant it. You guys are super cute. I didn't want anyone messing it up."

"She's cracked." Gordon says, bemused. "Completely Space Crazy."

"Nonsense, darling." Penelope tuts. "We're adorable."

"Well I mean obviously I know that," he scoffs, "but Kayo?"

"Hey! I'm right here."

"Yes," says Penelope drolly, "so we can see." 

"Look, so I ship it, ok? You should be glad! Virgil only gave you a week max!"

"What are you shipp -- hey! A week?!"

Penelope shrugs apologetically in his direction. "I believe that's seven times longer than Parker would prefer."

"Um." The waitress hovers behind Kayo, tab in hand. "Will you be uh, eating too? Or would you like the bill?"

Gordon's suddenly, painfully aware of the silence from the kitchen, the air thick with held breath. Spectacle. The actual last thing he wanted, and here it is compliments of his own socially inept family.

"The bill, please."

Well. That’s that, then.

--

They make a rather awkward trifecta, gathered around the trunk of a bright pink Rolls and all trying quite hard not to look at the gawking, and now much larger, group of young men from earlier.

“All right,” Penelope says, “you’ve had your fun, how much did he pay you?”

Kayo attempts a look of innocence, but it’s the same one Gordon himself had taught Alan and it never, ever works. Especially not on people who’ve met them. Any of them. And especially especially not on Penny. She proves his point with a single arched eyebrow.

“He promised to take me out safe cracking,” Kayo mumbles, then, insistent, “we weren’t going to take anything.”

Penelope scoffs. “Have you met Parker?”

“Hang on.” Gordon steps in, irritation and not a small amount of hurt rising to the surface. “Parker sent you to spy on our -- on us. And you did it?”

“I’ve just been really bored since we got rid of the Hood,” Kayo wheedles. “It’s nothing personal.”

It is personal; it’s probably the most personal thing Gordon can think of, and he’s about to tell her so, loudly, if necessary, when the trunk of FAB 0 pops open with a click of Penelope’s fingers.

“If you wanted to go lockpicking, Kayo, you only had to ask.”

A twist and a shove and a -- slam, and Kayo lies like an upturned turtle in the mink lined trunk of the Rolls.

Against his better judgement Gordon lets out a low whistle of admiration. “Whoa -- sticky hand technique?”

Penelope hums, delighted. “The very same.” Kayo stares up at them, shock written in every sprawled limb. “Now, do have fun, won’t you?” Another click, and the trunk lid drops, muting Kayo’s protests behind a shield of steel. 

One of the onlookers gasps, and Penelope throws a becoming smile over her shoulder at them. “Keep an eye out, gentlemen, won’t you?”

“She’s going to kill me,” Gordon manages as an unpleasantly metallic clanging begins to emanate from the car. “She can’t kill you but she is absolutely going to kill me, Pen. She’s going to murder me.”

“She chose her side,” Penelope says, “and besides, there are air holes.”

“Why do you have air holes in your trunk?”

“Why do you ask such obvious questions?” She spins on her heel to face him, rubbing her hands over his biceps and briefly, very briefly, Gordon forgets that he’s going to die very, very soon. “Take me dancing?”

FAB 0 rocks, there’s the clatter of bicycles swiftly mounted from the other end of the street, and well, if he’s going to die anyway --

Penelope skips lightly from foot to foot, chilly even in her furs, and if he’s going to die anyway;

“Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

---

(She means to only leave Kayo for twenty minutes to stew. She truly does. She's contrite, later, when John tells her off and Parker is left to hammer dents from the antique steel. She even apologises to Kayo, despite the destruction wrought upon both car and date.

But the floors were sticky and the drinks were cheap, and she'd laughed as he'd swung her around and around, laughed until she could catch his mouth on the upswing. 

And kissed him until she lost count.)

[mistkissedmoon]

Blankets made of Trust

“You have one night to decide”.​​ ​​Jason felt the words thrum through the air on loop before slamming into him, nearly knocking him over as he clenched his teeth until the words in his mind became an indecipherable ringing in his ears. ​​You’ve got to be kidding me. One Night to decide whether I want to become a zombie or an attack dog?! He thought furiously. He wrenched his head up and caught the warning stare of the Bat through the bulletproof glass - Who called him again, Jason thought scathingly - who raised an eyebrow. Careful, he seemed to be saying. Don’t talk, or I’ll take away all your options. Options? That was a fucking joke. There was no other option! The Lazarus pit’s madness had been growing more overwhelming by the hour, and if he went without some kind of spell he would become a mad serial killer. At the same time, what they were proposing was out of the question. Jason scoffed and turned to stare out between the thin bars of his cell. It was a damn miracle the idiots hadn’t been broken into already, most of their walls being made of glass, he thought sourly. It’s not like they leave a guard behind when they fight. ​​

​​“Red Hood. Did you hear that?”​​

Jason snapped his head back and levelled his most threatening glare at Nightwing. The idiot puffed his chest out and gazed at him like he thought he was actually intimidating.

 ​​“Yes.” He gritted his teeth and forced out the next words; “thank you.”

​​Batman - you poor excuse for a father mentor, Jason thought bitterly - motioned for everyone to exit his cell and they left without a backwards glance. That self-righteous Bat, the lapdog golden boy and the rest of his fantastic five crew including his replacement left- how humiliating low, to be replaced and then judged, in every sense of the word, by both my brothers him, while he stood in a cell that only had a toilet, sink and bed - with that absolute bitch of a magician. When everybody had left, the door of the enclosed witness area clicked shut, the scrape of a lock echoing soon after. Jason’s head fell back against the wall as he let his breath out explosively.

 “Anyway,” Zatanna had said, glancing meaningfully at Batman, “I can definitely block the Lazarus madness, but seeing as he is a criminal I think we should add a few rules to the spell.”

 Of course, their pet magician would insist on a few more rules being thrown in; Jason would lose the ability to kill, there was a ‘code phrase’ to make him do whatever they say (paranoid old bat and his lousy replacement) and Jason would hold the spell up with his own energy stores, making him tired easily. Lap dog or Rabid beast. Jason grimaced, closing his eyes to stop the burning sensation just behind them. Doomed if I do, doomed if I don’t, he thought grimly.​​ ​​A flash of purple light had his eyes snapping open in shock as a figure with an armload of objects materialised in the shadows of his room. Jason tried not to stare as the residual smoke revealed the objects to be a shiny diadem, an old - and well preserved, he noted approvingly - tome as well as a few bottles of what seemed to be softly glowing…somethings.

 ​​“Hey there, lucky little ravenclaw. You coming out? What's up your ass?” He inquired tiredly.​​The figure - Raven, he remembered- looks like a literal shadow, clad in a deep blue cloak that seemed to suck at the very light around her until she was little more than a barely discernible silhouette against the dark walls. All the same, the way she carried herself made him think of a sorceress or queen of old from the books he used to read. Heck, maybe even a goddess, like she’s saying ‘I have made a decision, and nothing you say or do will stop me’. Like she wasn’t thinking about how much care that book deserved or whether she should consider giving it away.​​“I’ve made a decision,” She answered in a low, musical voice. “And nothing you say or do will stop me.” ​​Well. That was serendipitous.​​ ​​“I’ve thought about what Batman wants Zatanna to do to you, and…” Raven hesitated. “I don’t think that this is right.”

 ​​Dully, Jason wondered if she would ever gain the courage to do more than just voice her disapproval with Batman’s methods. If any of these ‘heroes’ would. Probably not; there must have been a reason she worked here, after all.

​​“I’m willing to offer you an alternative solution; I can cast a spell on you instead.” ​​Her words were delivered with complete certainty, taking an subtle breath and squaring her shoulders afterward. ​​Pure unadulterated rage sprang to life within his veins. Jason’s face rearranged itself into a truly ugly, fearsome expression, his muscles tensing in preparation for a fight.

​​“So, what? You’re just going to put your own spell on me before she does?” Jason spat bitterly. 

​​“No. I’m going to -”​​

“I’m not going to be your slave, or anyone else’s, for that matter. You can tell Zatanna that, too.”

​​“I don’t want you to be my slave. I want you to pick and choose the words of the spell that will seal the Lazarus away, so I can, with your consent, cast that specific spell on you.”​​

Jason’s eyebrows decided to try defying gravity to fly into his hair. After a startled second, he barked out a laugh. He crowded the female titan against the wall and glared down at her, clenching his hands. To his annoyance, she seemed apathetic to the point of boredom.

 “Give me a break, sunshine. In what universe would the golden boy -”

​​“Don’t call him that.”

​​“The Bat’s loyal bitch-”

​​“Language.”

 ​​“-ever send you to free me without stipulations?”​​

“As far as I know, none. Which is why I am here of my own volition, without his knowledge.”​​

Raven swept passed him and laid her belongings on the bed. Jason’s eyebrows held an unanimous meeting and promptly decided to retry their earlier flight. “What?”

​​Raven paused her idle flipping of her book to spare a dry glance at him.​​ “Are you hard of hearing, Jay-son?” she carefully enunciated.​​  Jason scowled. 

”Forgive my surprise, oh smart one. I’m just surprised you of all people would go against his back. You aren’t ruled by your emotions, and you always do what your leader says -”​​  Raven twirled around to face him suddenly, something flickering in her eyes, gone before he could decipher it.

​​“I don’t do what Nightwing tells me to do. I do what I think is right.” she corrected, a hint of soft rebuke in her tone. She resumed her flipping of the books pages until she reached her goal and moved on to sort the eerily glowing crystal bottles.​​ 

“And helping a convicted criminal is part of your moral obligation, is it?” ​​ Jason slouched against the wall, raising his hands incredulously.

​​“Helping anyone and everyone who truly needs it is a part of my moral obligation.” Raven declared proudly without hesitation. Was this girl serious? One look at her face and Jason knew she clearly was.​​ “I understand you heroes think all killers were beyond redemption.” He commented with wry amusement.​​“You shouldn’t stereotype.” She said coolly, “Or tell your assumptions to a hero, who happens to be a demon.” Jason paused, mulling that revelation over. It was common knowledge among those who fought in the same circles as him that Raven’s magic was uncommon. Several unscrupulous magic users he talked to had fearfully claimed that her energy was ‘demonic’. Jason silently apologised for rolling his eyes or dismissing these accounts as fanciful or exaggerations and resolved to buy any of them drinks if he happened to see them again. “Besides, it’s usually unwise to be so presumptuous of a person you desperately need help from.”​​ ​​“What makes you say that?” He parried defensively, scratching his chin. “For all you know, I could have broken out and found another gullible magician to give me a few potions or something.”​​

 “But you won’t. You’ve already tried, and none of them were powerful enough.” She supplied bluntly. “I..” She looked away, almost shamefaced, “I felt it.” 

​​ She… what? Ah. Right. Empath, he suddenly recalled, wincing. He was good at concealing his facial expressions, but nothing could have masked the sheer desperation he felt when he showed up at their door. Merde. He must have looked like such a fool for trying to seem like he didn’t need her help.

​​  “I’m not trying to control you, Jason. The book is a dictionary; you can pick and choose the words you want me in the spell and I’ll perform it.” Her soft, persuasive tone urged him to believe her. ​​

“Why should I believe you?” Jason snarled, lashing out with a feeling of vicious satisfaction upon seeing her take a step back. “What if this is one of Nightwing’s tricks to rummage around my head gathering intel?”

​​”I will not enter your mind - that’s not necessary at all in this circumstance - and if I do, you can easily overpower me while I am in a trance.”​​

“What use would that be? Then we’d both be in here, and I can add resisting arrest to my list of crimes.”

​​Raven looked like she was having difficulty stopping herself from rolling her eyes. She waved her hand, magically unlocking the cell door.  “Are you always this paranoid?”​​

“No. Just when I’m in the headquarters of sworn enemies and about to be magically lobotomized within twenty-four hours - not to be rude, but at least a third of your colleagues have tried to send me to Arkham asylum.” Jason reminded her flatly, crossing his arms.​​

“Exactly! What do you have to lose!?”

​​“My life. Also, I’m doing fine. I could easily break out of here if I wanted too.” Raven looked pointedly at her spell book, exaggeratedly feigning patience. Jason’s lips twitched, satisfied. Annoying her was fun. 

“Although I appreciate your sense of derring-do, I really must insist I block the madness trying to make you go on a killing spree before you leave.”

​​“While telling Nightwing all the extra little details you’ll happen to hear while we talk, huh?” Jason’s eyes bored into her, suddenly agate-hard. It really isn’t fair, he thought suddenly, that Raven could so easily try to deceive me like this. Life wasn’t fair. Jason knew this, and didn’t understand why he felt like crying right now. It must have been the stress. Or the Lazarus pit. It certainly couldn’t be anything else, since he’d been lied to so many times before and he’d generally been unbothered. In fact, he had started expecting certain people to lie about being on his side and had taken to wearing a doubly reinforced Kevlar suit. It had saved him from knives in the back - literally - more than a few times. The bruises still hurt like a motherfucker, though. Raven slowly took out her communicator - and slid it towards him.

 “There. Now I can’t contact him in any way. Is that all?” He bent down and slowly picked it up. Jason thought about it for some time. He disliked any kind of spell on him, especially spells that would be permanent and affected his mind, however positive the effect might be. All the same though, it was necessary and Raven was giving him as much freedom that he could want. Something akin to grudging respect; or gratitude welled within him.​​

​​“Fine.” he complied gruffly, resisting the stupid urge to thank her. “I just have to pick out words in this book, right?”

 He strode over to the tiny cot and picked it up, carefully not taking his eyes off her nor touching the freaky looking vials. “What’s the language - oh, right, English is this half of the page. Okay, this should be easy enou- no. Stay where you are. I don’t want you to move while I’m reading this book.”​​ She threw him an exasperated look and disregarded his command, sitting beside him and leaning against the headboard. 

​​ “Of course, Jason. Would you like me to hold your hand?” she asked sardonically. “That should be reassuring enough, shouldn’t it?”

 ​​ Jason ignored that, trying to concentrate on being irritated with her instead of the thought of his hands, warming and covering her tiny ones. He cleared his throat and tapped several words in quick succession to distract himself. “Would those words work?”​​

​​Raven, he learned, had a incredibly wide vocabulary and impressive command of tone. She could add inflections that added entire volumes of meaning of her words. On the whole, though, he would have preferred a less exhaustive running commentary of the kind of gruesome implications his miswording could cause. In retrospect, he realized that he should have chosen to ‘block’ the madness, instead of ‘concentrating’ it in his head, but Raven took great pleasure in describing the resulting explosion that would cause. Raven went on to describe - very unnecessarily in his opinion, the other various failings that would stop his heart, give him wings on the sides of his heads and cause his face to erupt in highly painful tentacles in glowing terms with apparent relish, never mind that any one of them was good enough reason to reword the spell. Raven tended to overdramatise certain things, he noticed. Especially things that would result in giving him a terminal injury, which, ha, he was sure wouldn’t be permanent this time over, either, especially if the Lazarus was still in his system. He said as such to Raven, who promptly whacked him over the head with her book - ow, it was heavier than she made it look - and told him to “focus, you leather-skulled domnoddy.”

​​“You aren’t afraid of me? I’m apparently a very unhinged serial killer, after all.” Jason grumbled half-curiously, rubbing his complaining skull.

​​“I could ask the same of you. I’ve never met someone who was so calm upon learning about my heritage. I’m practically a descendant of lucifer.”

​​That- That was something he had not considered. “If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization.” Jason quoted, shrugging.

​​“Well said.” Raven said after a pause.​​

“I’m afraid I can’t take credit - a quote by Robert Green Ingersole. I’m more than willing to share his belief when it comes to you, though.”

​​“That’s kind of you. Although, I think you give the serpent too much credit. I like to think we would have eaten the apple eventually anyway.”

 ‘We’ he mouthed. Not ‘you’. Interesting. ​​“I can’t tell if your view is cynical or optimistic, little birdie.”

​​“Optimistic. I like the thought that we’re curious enough to try to better ourselves, no matter how flawless we may be.”

​​“Hypothetically, could it be said that the humans were truly flawless before they ate the apple?”

​​“No. If they were flawless, their faith would have made them invulnerable to tempting. Besides, their children became the first murderer and victim of the world; seeing as how humans learn from their parents, they couldn’t have been close to flawless.” Raven countered.

​​“Fair enough. If neither of us can accept that eating the apple was evil, and that faith isn’t our greatest strength, what is?”

​​“Perception. Just because one person sees it differently doesn’t mean either is wrong. It’s what makes us human and helps us advance - If Eden’s humans were perfect, it must have been a pretty bland place.” Raven smiled shyly, - cute - like what she just said had a special meaning for her. “And if you define perception as a type of knowledge, then it was gained by eating the apple.” ​​Jason stared at her, a little in awe. His debating skills had been blunted by his lack of intelligent company since Alfred, but he had enough wits to recognise a superior orator. “You’re delightfully witty, little bird.” He complimented. There was a lull in conversation while she focused on reading the spell. Idly, he wondered if she was avoiding his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure if that meant he’d made her flustered (of course, he would want to make any girl flustered, Jason thought, consciously not questioning if that was true). “Thank you. This wording ought to do it.” ​​ ​​Raven withdrew a rod from within her cloak, upon which closer inspection revealed a point easily as sharp as a dagger. Jason felt the blood rush from his face and stumbled away from her, falling off the cot and sending one of the vials flying, shattering on impact with the wall next to the cot. Raven jumped and refocused her eyes on Jason, befuddled. After a awkward pause, in which Jason remained frozen with consternation half on and half off the bed, acutely aware of the foul-smelling concoction dripping onto the cot, Raven coughed, folding her sleeve over her nose and gingerly edging away from the liquid. 

​​“Jason.” She scolded nasally, “I need to draw some symbols on your skin before I can cast the spell on you.”

​​“No way.” He refused flatly, surreptitiously putting the cot between them. “The last person to approach me with a piece of metal that big killed me and I’m not letting you inscribe stuff into my skin.”

​​“First on all, if you want to recover from that trauma, I know a couple of therapists who won’t care about your alter ego. I can accompany you if you really want help.” ​​She spoke haltingly, turning away to dip her instrument in one of the vials while a curtain of hair shielded her expression.​​Jason’s snapped to hers in astonishment. That was not the response he was expecting. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was expecting, but it was most certainly not that. ​​“Secondly, I would never kill you, ever! If you can’t go with me, don’t you have someone else to accompany you to therapy?” Raven looked at him, fire sparking in her plum eyes. Jason sat back down on the cot and put his interlocked hands behind his head. ​​“You saw how Bruce looked at me, little birdie. I don’t trust my brothers one bit with this and the one person who might go with me is back at the old Batman HQ. I can’t exactly pop in and ask him to come to therapy with me; god, what would he think anyway?” Jason scoffed, too jaded for tears. ​​

“I believe you.” Raven admitted quietly. She sighed, her exhale sounding like branches rattling in the wind and Jason suddenly remembered Catherine, tired, Catherine, jaded, Catherine, with a sigh like branches rattling in the wind and a will like a dying ember. Jason frowned. That sound was far, far too tired to match one so courageous and lovely as her. If it was up to me, she’d never make that sound again. He thought firmly. 

​​“You don’t belong there anymore; I know what that’s like.” Raven looked even more tired then, not angry, just… sad. Her eyes looked old. Her lashes fluttered, as though just keeping them upright was causing her effort, and Jason had a strange impulse to wipe that look of her face. ​​“But.” Raven straightened, Jason mirroring her, and suddenly the formidable titan was back. “That doesn’t mean you have to cut off contact with that person. Dick’s told me about him - his name is Alfred, right? If what Dick has said about him was true, then you should write to him - he’s been worrying about you.” ​​Jason looked down, wishing he’d had the foresight to smuggle in a cigarette with him. 

​​“He wouldn’t welcome my letters, little bird.”

​​“Yes, he would! You’re so smart,” she protested. “How can someone as smart as you not see that!”​​

Jason felt the tips of his ears glow in an odd kind of embarrassed pride.​​“Alright. I’ll try.” He coughed, feeling foolish.​​ Raven looked oddly proud, her eyes more tender than Jason felt was appropriate.​

​“Try to write about something you love or admire. It’ll be easier that way,” she advised, placing her rod - which emanated an uncomfortable burning sensation - directly over his heart. Jason tried not to flinch unsuccessfully. “What is that?” 

​​“A toothpick of a giant.” Raven replied nonchalantly, focusing on her work.​​ Jason blinked. “How?” He was unable to articulate further than that, but Raven must have gleaned what he was asking through his gobsmacked expression. After quelling a fit of laughter with a snort, Raven explained, ”We were sucked into another dimensions on one of our missions. Nightwing, in his infinite wisdom, took one look at the sleeping 30ft giant and decided to punch it in the nose, and then got us both sucked in it’s left nostril when it snorted.” ​​Jason cackled wildly. Raven shook her head jokingly, smiling at him. “Honestly, if we hadn’t acquired such a valuable tool climbing out of it’s mouth -” Raven punctured her tale of woe with a horrified shudder, to Jason’s renewed cackles growing ever-louder. “I think I would have left him there when we managed to teleport back here.”​​

“So it was like a series of unfortunate events, huh?” Jason lilted flippantly. ​​Raven swatted at him mock irritably, but he could see the hint of a grin on her face before she composed herself. Why did she do that? Jason immediately began running through his repertoire of book references for something that might bring that beautiful smile back. Woah. Beautiful smile? He questioned himself, mentally shooing away from that thought. Bad thought. Go back to wherever you came from, because you certainly did not come from The Red Hood’s esteemed intellect. ​​Jason cleared his throat, his palms unreasonably sweaty for some reason and almost dropped the book he remembered he was still holding at the last minute. ​​“Aren’t you afraid of Nightwing catching you red handed?”

​​Raven’s eyes dropped to the whitewashed floor. “No,” she uttered softly. “He’s much too busy fighting with Starfire right now to worry about anything else”. Raven met his gaze with a pained smile, her eyes soft with sadness. Jason’s stomach twisted nauseatingly and he suddenly regretted his question. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he joked feebly, raising an eyebrow. He wanted to take back the words as soon as he said them. “Something like that.” Raven crossed her arms and blinked away any emotions that had been present in her gaze.​​ No, no, dammit! Look what you did, he snarled inwardly, you made her close up! 

​​ “Starfire’s people are traditionally polyamorous but Dick-Nightwing refuses to talk to her about any options or - well, anything outside of work, now.”

 ​​ Her words, although sudden, were unusually soft and tired compared to their earlier banter. Jason jolted up to look at Raven, who had apparently taken his silence for an inquiry.​​

“Uncommunicative as ever when it comes to love, those bats, I see. ah, lord, what fools these mortals be.” he blurted impulsively, wincing inwardly. Raven threw her head and her hood back - she has such lovely plump cherry lips!  - and laughed. Her laugh was deep, and husky, he noted absently, as it quieted to infectious chuckles, and quite possibly the warmest thing he had ever heard in his life. Somehow managing to be on the quiet side, yet filling the room with her vibrant presence until he felt like he could hardly breathe. “Nobody who loves is a complete fool, and if it indeed foolishness, then it is divine folly.” She teased playfully, the tiredness in her voice vanishing like mist on a hot day, the corners of her mouth still twitching. Jason let out the breath he had been holding, a chuckle of his own beginning to rumble in his throat as he leaned back on the small cot. ​

​​Jason reached for a flask among the glowing vials, to find Raven curling protectively over it, calling it her Assam; her favourite tea. He had to release a few more chuckles upon seeing her so passionate of her tea - she’d get along well with someone he knows. After that, however, the tension surrounding them eased into something easy and almost familiar, almost distracting him from the complicated patters Raven was twirling over his bare chest.

 “Do this often, little bird? Only artists like painters normally have this level of precision.” He commented.​​

“I don’t just do it for other spells.” She admitted reluctantly. “I make art of all kinds.” Jason tilted his head, curious. “I use paint to draw murals, I draw the stories I read about, and I draw the plants and animals I’ve seen from other, um, other-” She elaborated eagerly. Her eyes sparkled and she tossed her head, displaying a burst of passion Jason found himself unable to look away from. “Places?” He offered.​​

 “Planets.” She finished wryly. “And sometimes dimensions, too.” She frowned, studying him closely. “Hold still. I need to kiss this seal in order for the spell to activate.” ​​ Without waiting for his reply, Raven swooped down and planted a light, soft kiss on her glyphs, which began to glow with the same light her vials had. Jason started, lowering his hand from behind his back to touch the place she had kissed him - and whacked her soundly on the nose as she looked up.​​ “Ow!” Raven slid in his lap.

​ “Sorry! Sorry!” Jason yelped. “Are you okay, little birdie? Oh, god, I haven’t broken anything, have I? Deep breaths, Deep breaths. Should I call an ambulance - do you even have a doctor in this place?!” 

Jason’s arms fluttered uselessly around her as she pressed against the bridge of her nose gingerly.​​ 

“I’m good.” She winced. “I have healing powers.”​​

 Jason felt unbearably awkward. Would turning himself into the bat end the feeling of wanting to climb under the cot and never come out? Jason wasn’t sure, but he seriously considered it for a few, long silence filled minutes. Raven exhaled heavily, her breath touching his neck, and Jason suddenly became excruciatingly aware of their position. His heart kept banging against his chest like it was trying to reach her. Jason could have counted every single one of her eyelashes. Her brow creased. Oh, god. She could hear his heartbeats, couldn’t she? Geez, had they always been this loud? Ugh. Jason felt like he could die of embarrassment. Raven cleared her throat and gracefully stood up on the cot, moving around him to inspect the mess on the wall. Always so graceful. Jason stood up hurriedly and turned to face her back, rubbing his neck. 

“The spell is complete; the pit’s madness will never affect you again. If you want, you can leave; There isn’t anything very interesting to do now,” she murmured, almost apologetically, beginning to clean the stain away with magic.

​​“Why would I? As if you could ever be boring.” he said reproachfully.​​She blushed, which shot a thrill up his spine that manifested in what must have been a thoroughly dopey smile on his face. God. What was she doing to him? Jason wondered. Whatever it was, it made his chest feel confused and happy and tight and yearning at the same time, so he pushed the feeling down and forced himself to smirk.​​“What is that, by the way? You didn’t use it, did you? That looks nasty.” Jason cringed as another drop of the mystery liquid reached his bedding.

​​“No, I didn’t. You didn’t choose any of the words that required it. It’s human blood.” Raven explained absently, rolling his eyes, at his disgusted expression. 

“It was one of the men we were too late to save - he tried saving another man who had been framed who was imprisoned in his kingdom’s palace dungeons.”​​

“He was idealistic for trying to save someone in the government’s headquarters” Jason decreed firmly.​​ Raven gave him an amused look. Damn, she was way too perceptive for her own good.

​​“Or perhaps he was honourable to not condemn the prisoner to an unjust fate.” She lilted, almost playfully. Did she just flutter her eyelashes at me?

​​“You know what I‘m implying. If robin figures out you did this, he could kick you out, little bird. I’d be happy to host you as a selfless citizen, myself, though.” Jason brightened, not at all selflessly. 

​​“That’s a chance I’m willing to take. You should not have to suffer for his need to micromanage everything related to the Titans. Besides, he’s so emotionally stunted he’d never punish me in a way I can’t see him gloat over my misery.” Raven retorted pertly. ​​Jason tried to choke back a cackle, staring at her incredulously. He ended up making what he imagined to be the sound a dog toy made when it broke, which was why he tried to stop imagining and change the subject. Did she really just say that?​​ “And if he puts you in this cell?”

​​“I’ll tell him to stop sulking like a spoilt brat. He always looks like he needs to take a shit.”

 Jason struggled to control the tide of snickers pouring out of him. Okay, he decided, she wasn’t just witty, she was hilarious.

 ​​“He probably won’t try anything too painful, with you long gone and I being as valuable as I am - oh!” Raven slipped off the bed, into Jason’s instinctive embrace. Sudden, burning fury roared within him, the type that threatened to lash out if provoked.

 “And if he tries to hurt you like a spoilt child, I’ll cut off his cock and nail it to a sewer wall somewhere until he remembers his manners.” Jason growled fiercely. ​​ She stared at him from their close proximity, the laidback energy between them tightening and fraying with tension. Jason fidgeted, realising how protective that statement had sounded. What was she doing to him? 

“Since you’ve been so good to me, and all.” He added hastily.​​ 

“That’s gross, Jason.” She said, relaxing in his arms - too close, too fucking close, her back was curving against his arm - and he set her down carefully, supressing a shudder.​​ Jason’s eyes widened. 

“Here!” He thrust her communicator back at her. She glanced at it, surprised, as if she had forgotten about it too. When she reached to take it, Jason impulsively clasped her hands with his other fingers. 

“Would…” Jason licked his lips, steeling himself, noting how raven’s eyes traced where his tongue had been and drawing strength from it.

 “Would you like to come to dinner with me?” he waited, breathless.​​ 

“I’d like that…”

 She squeezed her eyes shut, and tensed her shoulders like she expected Jason to reprimand her or make her feel guilty.

 “What convinced you?” he asked, curiously. She looked up in surprise and blessed him with a gentle smile. Jason found it oddly adorable. 

“I hadn’t realized what a charmer you were.” she drawled.

 Jason blushed furiously and rubbed his neck, glancing at Raven, who seemed to be more amused by the second. 

“So, where should we meet? Your place? You don't exactly have a secret to keep, now.” She pointed out.​​ Jason guilty thought of the red x costume in his condo. 

“I do have a secret, actually.”​​

“I'm sure it must be simply dreadful.” Raven said placidly, reclining on the cot. ​​ Jason thought about the way she hadn’t hesitated to help him regardless of what her leader said. He thought about the look she’d given him when he had told her about not being able to go home. He thought about how she looked when he’d said he would write to Alfred. He swallowed and cradled her cheeks. If he was feeling particularly brave when remembering this later, he might have thought that she had nuzzled into the cradle of his hands. 

“It might be, honestly. I can’t tell how you’ll see it as. But if you come to my condo next week, I promise I’ll tell you everything.” he whispered hoarsely - apologetically - in her ear.

 “Everything?” Raven echoed. There was an unspoken question in her eyes, and Jason wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and rock away the doubt in her eyes until she felt secure again. He settled for wetting his lips. Later, he reminded himself. Later. “Yeah, Little Bird. Everything you want, okay?”​​ 

“Okay. Thank you. In our world, telling me your information means a lot.” She looked at him with growing respect and a touch of admiration in her eyes. “That must have taken a lot of courage.”​​Jason smiled at her. What a weird person. What a weird demon. She was simply wonderful, he decided. Absolutely wonderful. Jason stared into her amethyst shining with hope, and privately managed to gather enough thought to decide on writing to Alfred about her. He thinks that he’ll write that his lady (if it would not be presumptuous to call her that) is unapologetic when breaking rules, brutally honest, a real demon but that she paints for fun, is loyal to her ethics first and foremost, keeps her books in pristine condition, a true hero yet a gentle soul and would look terribly, terribly breathtaking if he can convince her to wear a flower crown and get her eyes to sparkle like they were again. ​​

​​Ripping his eyes away from her reluctantly, he backed out of the door and looked back - to see a flash of purple smoke. Of course! He felt like hitting his temple with the palm of his hand. She has magic; she could have left or alerted Nightwing at any time without his knowledge! For some odd, indecipherable reason, this revelation caused him to break out in bouts of uncontrollable snickers as he jumped out the closest window. ​​ ​​He decided to add Assam tea to his shopping list.  ​​

 ​​Epilogue.​​

“Little Bird.” Raven spared a questioning glance at her - their - bed’s other occupant, who winked at her and waved lazily. Raven pursed her lips and aimed her gaze back at the novel in her hands, stifling a yawn. “It’s time to sleep.”​​

“One more chapter.”​​

“Mon petit oiseau, you know I adore a good book as much as you do. But I adore our bedtime ritual even more, love. Haven’t you finished that tea yet anyway?”

​​“Almost.” She turned a page and cradled her mug with both hands, draining it.​​“Awesome.” Jason stole a languid kiss to distract her as he plucked her book out of her hands and set it down on his bedside table. 

“Mmm- Jason!” Raven protested weakly. He grinned at her and palmed her hips slowly. “What is it, darling? You know neither of us can sleep properly unless you do your ritual.” It had started about a year into their relationship, after a particularly bad nightmare. ​​She set down her cup down with a mellifluous rap and squirmed to straddle his lap. Jason quickly draped a blanket around her shoulders and held her in a warm embrace. He'd quickly learned that she would get cold very easily and took full advantage of this fact to shamelessly encourage her to press every inch of herself against him whenever she was cold. Privately, Jason thanked whoever was up there that she hadn't caught him turning their 'broken' heater off yet. Raven exhaled as her fingers slowly caressed his face. Starting with his jawline, pressing kisses to his temple, lingering below his ears - he had to focus on not keening when she suckled beneath his earlobe -then combing his explosion of hair back, her dainty fingers travelling lower to his temples. 

Three years onward and she still did this ritual every night, he thought fondly. “You have wrinkles”. she breathed abruptly. Wrinkles? On his gorgeous face? Jason thought. Oh, hell no. They were not wrinkles. They were the bags beneath his eyes. A few good nights sleep with his Raven and it’d clear right up. If not, the wrinkles had better pray for nothing more than skin lotion.​​ 

“Where?” Jason demanded indignantly. ​​Raven touched the corners of this eyes gently, her eyes glowing tenderly.

​​“Did you know”, she began conversationally, “that there is one smile that cannot be replicated unless you are happy? It’s the only smile that includes the eyes - that’s where the saying ‘smiling eyes’ comes from.”

 ​​Jason sat back, wondering where the hell she was going with this, but happy to let her talk for as long as she wanted. 

“If you smile that smile enough, well” she shrugged, tapping his wrinkles. “You must have been smiling a lot for some reason.”

 ​​“I wonder why,” Jason quipped, looking at her dimpling mouth hintingly. Raven let another of her low chuckles escape, curving her mouth invitingly - success! Jason rejoiced, part delightedly, part triumphantly -  and leaned forward and brushed her lips against his - alright, fine - wrinkles then teasingly nibbling his lips before withdrawing, smirking impishly and batting her eyelashes coyly. Jason growled as she licked her lips deliberately. “I’m glad you’ve been smiling more,” she whispered earnestly, the look in her eyes taking Jason's breath away. He softened and swooped to capture her lips in a kiss that made her head spin and forced a swoon out of her mouth. ​​

​​Jason wondered how she’d react to the information of her own acquired stunning wrinkles. Better not tell her, he decided lovingly, before Raven purred his name in his ear and he lost all coherent thought.​​

________________________________________________________________ ​​“A series of unfortunate Events” - references a series of rather unpleasant, old children’s books.​​“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” - A midsummer’s night dream (Puck)​​“Nobody who loves is a complete fool. And if it is, then it is divine foolishness.” The squire, his knight, and his lady by Gerald Morris (Ganscotter and King Arthur)​​If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization. - Robert Green Ingersole.​​ ​​________________________________________________________________ ​uhghhhhhhhh this was an absolute monster, @theplacewherebeautylies. “Let’s start writing! It’ll be easy! I can quit at any time” AND I CHOOSE TO MAKE A FREAKING 6341 word fic. IT’S 2AM. This is my first fic and I can already relate so much to those sleepless writer’s post. I hope you enjoy and thank you to @bluescove for beta-ing, I think it really helped!

[artificiallyimplantedmemories]

@videniye​ sent this meme: Send 🛡️ for your muse to take a bullet meant for mine. [x]

    Both of them have aggressively left behind a life of pain. Natalia doesn’t talk about her past, but the Red Room’s training sometimes still lurks in her mind. She covers it up with laughter and sass, and in Bucky and Steve, she’s found genuine friends. They care about her, make her feel like she has a place to belong, and the flirting (and eye candy, let’s be honest) is a definitely perk. As for Bucky, Nat has found out about his wartime experiences in bits and pieces, but still doesn’t have a holistic picture of everything that happened out there. Bucky is extremely reticent on this front (as people usually are with trauma), and Nat knows better than to push. It’s not like she’s any better, right?

    Still, as the months have gone on, they help heal each other. Sometimes, that comes under the guise of a new tattoo, sometimes it’s simply crashing on the floor together under a massive blanket to watch shitty movies. Steve is in the middle most of the time (because he gets cold most easily, and both Nat and Bucky know that he needs the most protecting), but the two of them also steal moments for themselves too.

    Steve pouts at them, but he knows he gets his own time with each of them too, so it’s fine. They deserve to be happy together.

    Nat has done a phenomenal job of covering her tracks. She and Ivan have purposely kept their operation local, off the radar from anyone who might be looking for them. They’re popular but niche, and don’t have so much as a website up in order to reduce their clientele. She respects Ivan immensely for that — after all, he neither had to take her in nor go on the run with her when things got bad. Besides all of that, his talents are enough to seriously make a name for himself if he wants, but he still settles for very nearly struggling by for the sake of his adopted daughter. It’s more than Natalia could have asked from anyone.

    Unfortunately, even the best laid plans are waylaid

    The Red Room comes back to claim their lost protégé, and Natasha is not prepared. It’s not that she can’t fight them off, as she does keep her training up secretly, but it’s the fact that she now has people to worry about, attachments that they can take advantage of.

    Sentiment is not worthwhile for an assassin, they tell her.           She should have left her heart on ice, and maybe she would not have failed.

    She refuses to believe that it’s true. She has felt more alive in the last few years than she has in the rest of her life combined. She’s been able to experience joys and sorrows the way that all people should. She’s had leaps of hope, brushes of gentleness, and even managed to destroy the fear that she had no soul left to spare. She has been whole here, and she would not trade it for the world.

    No. That is a lie.           She would trade it in a heartbeat for the safety of the people she loves.

    The first attack comes when she is alone. The Black Widow is easier to tackle without Ivan at her side. He is ex-military after all, and can put up a hell of a fight, has been proven to do so for the sake of his girl. If they can get in and kidnap or kill her first without him knowing, they’ll be better off. 

     It doesn’t go as they expect. She may have settled into a routine that doesn’t involve death on the daily, but she knows what signs to look for. Hyper-vigilance is an old friend, one she has yet to shake off. They not only fail to take her by surprise but also get three of their agents hurt in the process. That is a surprise to them. Natalia has aimed to maim and not to kill. Things have changed. Perhaps it’s complacency? Perhaps it’s a conscience? 

     Nat heads back using the most roundabout method she can, climbing up facades of buildings, ducking into abandoned homes, biding time in seedy bars and stealing a change of clothes. A beanie hides her bright hair, grime covers her face, and she looks like a homeless wanderer instead of the neat, clean, precise Natasha that people know here. She’s fired off a text to Ivan, letting him know that he needs to get away before people come to hunt him down too, but she doesn’t really have enough faith in his self-preservation where she’s involved. 

     He’ll probably be waiting for me with two shotguns and a hot-wired car, the madman, she thinks fondly. The KGB wouldn’t launch their attack on me without knowing my routine though. If they did, it would be highly unprofessional. So they’ll probably stay away from him as long as he keeps his head down and doesn’t do anything too terribly suspicious. 

     This is her hope as she ducks into the alley behind the shop. It’s closed today, and she goes through the hatch in it that leads up to the supply room, rather than having to use the front door. Quickly, she gathers long-disused supplies, a couple firearms, blades, a hat and coat with extra pockets. She’s glad that she stashed these here instead of at the apartment. Suddenly, there’s a lurch in her heart as she realizes that being on the run again means that she won’t get to say goodbye. Hell, fuck, and damn it all. At least Bucky and Steve deserve an explanation... 

     Survival comes first though, and she takes a moment to scrawl a note for them to leave in the shop. Inevitably, they’ll come around on Monday when she doesn’t show up for their lunch meeting, and they’ll find out at least a little about who she is, why she’s running. It’s an apology. An attempt at an explanation. An inadequate farewell. Natasha forces her hands not to shake as she rushes through the words, and it’s so very tempting to sign off with the three that she’s been wanting to say for the better part of a year. It’s not right though, to let them invest themselves when she’s only going to disappear, so she folds it and lays it on her desk with a sigh. Enough time has been wasted, she needs to go. 

     Scarf pulled up around her face, she rushes back to the apartment. There are raised voices inside, and her hackles go up so fast that they could have given her whiplash. One is the angry, low voice of Ivan, spitting his Russian in the way he does when he’s been backed into the corner about something. The other is a voice that sends chills down her back. She’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. The Headmistress herself has come to find her. 

     If she goes in, she may be dragged back to Russia and forced to resume a life of blood and bitterness. If she doesn’t go in, it’s entirely likely that Ivan will end up dead for arguing. She may still be able to ensure his safety, and so she takes a deep breath and opens the door. 

     The old woman sitting on Ivan’s chair (there’s a moment of colossally illogical rage at that) beckons Natalia in. They all know what her entering the apartment means. Almost immediately, Ivan sags in defeat. Once the redhead has made up her mind, there’s very little he can do to dissuade her. Still, his eyes plead for her to reconsider. She, in turn, carefully doesn’t meet his gaze. 

     “How kind of you to join us, little Spider,” the woman croaks, and the only sign of Nat’s displeasure is the hard set of her jaw. Her sidearm is within reach, but she’s not sure how many other assailants are currently hidden in nearby apartments, ready to blow them apart for making even the slightest wrong move. Ivan only got away with arguing for so long because it bought them time for her to arrive. “Your services are needed. I’m sure you understand.” 

     She does. The Black Widow was their top student, their little killing machine. If they want her back, it’s because there’s a high level assassination that needs to take place, and someone else has failed. 

     Her expression is one that cannot be classified. Perhaps there’s a hint of satisfaction, that she’s been able to outwit them for so long, perhaps resignation, pride and pain. There have been so many others after her, she knows, and none of them have lived up to her legacy. How they must be punished for that. She wishes she could save them. She wishes she wasn’t broken enough that she can’t scrounge up the appropriate amount of sympathy.

     “I take it that the Recluse has been punished?” 

     It’s an ultimatum given. You show me that you will torture your own daughter to gain my loyalty or I won’t go. It’s no less cruel to herself though. Anya was her friend once, so many years ago. 

     “I’ll let you personally oversee it,” comes the reply. How utterly horrible. 

     “Then you know what I will ask for in turn. Ivan and the others here go untouched, or I burn your entire operation to the ground, your own withered husk included.” 

     The Headmistress scoffs, but nods. She has expected as much. Natalia’s current life reeks of domesticity, but her senses are sharp. She has already proven that she is more valuable alive than dead, and her skills will be useful to the agency. They are the Dark Room now, even more deadly, with more experiments underway to create Natalia’s successor. So far, though, none have been quite so perfect. They need her back, even if they have to dispose of her later. 

     The redhead nods as well. “Leave. I have packing to do.” The Headmistress, accustomed to the Widow’s rudeness, rises. Just as the old woman gets to her feet, though, there is a knock at the door. Everyone freezes. 

     “Natasha, you in?” 

     Nat fights not to let her expression crumble. It’s Bucky, darling, sweet, wonderful Bucky who has seen too much and been through too much and does not need to know that his tattoo artist fling is about to vanish off the face of the planet in order to kill people. Her heart breaks a little, and if she hadn’t been in the presence of her most hated enemy, she would be shaking. 

     “Let him in,” the Headmistress whispers, and the redhead tenses further. 

     This can’t be happening. No, no, Bucky, run! Run away from here! She yells it in her mind, as if she can get him to listen, but there’s nothing doing. She hears him call her name again and has no choice. The Headmistress will kill him even if he walks away if Natalia does not prove that she’s willing to take orders. Slowly, she moves to the door, unlocks it, and opens it a fraction. 

     “Hey,” she murmurs, soft and sad and wishing she could do anything but this. “Sorry, this isn’t the best time.” 

     “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

     And gods, doesn’t that just make her eyes want to swim with tears. She closes them for a second, regaining control. There are others watching, even if the Headmistress is towards her back. She cannot afford to show weakness. “I’m fine, Bucky. It’s okay. Can I catch you back at your place in a little bit?” 

     “You may not,” the Headmistress interrupts, pulling the door wide. Her gnarled face sneers down at Bucky, then grabs Nat’s arm and drags her back in. “Why don’t you tell him why you’re leaving, hmm?” 

     “You’re leaving?” He sounds devastated, and the redhead wishes she could show any emotion at all here, that she could pretend that she didn’t have to be a weapon right now. Instead, she doesn’t even look at him anymore. 

     “You promised you wouldn’t touch them,” she says to the old woman instead. “He walks out of here and goes about his life without your interference. That’s part of the deal.” 

     “Oh he will, but I think he should know who you are first. I won’t hurt him, precious little Spider.” Her hands trail down Natalia’s jaw and she fights not to jerk away. The Headmistress’s touch has always been associated with painful stitches, whip marks, reminders of failure and that hasn’t faded even after all these years. When the woman pulls her hand back at last, it’s to motion to the weapons littering the apartment. “See these, Mr. Barnes?” (Oh god, she’s done her research she knows who they are, they’re not just casual acquaintances, I’m so screwed, Nat thinks.) “These are the tools of the trade for your precious friend here. Not a tattoo gun, but real ones. She’s made her life on taking the lives of others. Possibly even your own comrades — you were in the military too, weren’t you?” 

     Nat can see Bucky starting to shake a little. If she could just reach out her hand to take his, to reassure him that she got out as soon as she could, that she doesn’t hurt people anymore...! But she can’t because she’s just promised to go back into it, hasn’t she? For his good, even, but she is willing to kill again. She hates herself. The Headmistress keeps talking, and the buzz around her ears builds. She can practically feel the anxiety attack that he’s having manifesting within herself, and suddenly her self-control snaps. 

     “Enough.” She places herself in front of the old woman, glaring. “You would not say such things to someone you meant to have survive. Get out before I kill you myself.” 

     “Oh, Natalia,” comes the reply, hoarse and amused, “you would not survive killing me.” 

     She does leave though, at long last, and when it’s just the three of them in the room, the air whooshes out from Natasha’s throat, harsh and wet with emotion. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to Bucky, “I didn’t think she’d ever come back. I was naive, I’m sorry.” Bucky, for his part, remains silent, eyes glazed as he fights off the war in his head. Slowly, gently, Nat works her fingers into his tense ones, drags him close enough that he can feel her body heat, presses her forehead against his. “Please, Bucky, James, look at me darling. Breathe with me.” 

     It takes a long moment before his gaze shifts to hers almost mechanically, but her audible breaths seem to help. Ivan, blessed be, tucks all of the weapons out of sight. They’ll be bundled up into bags soon anyway, and gone with Natalia into the stark blankness of Russian winter. Nat tries to calculate how long she has like this, how she can maximize the good she can do for him before she has to disappear, and it just... doesn’t work. At any moment, KGB agents might break down her door and drag her out of here. Violence on their part will only cause Bucky more trauma. It’s time for her to ease him out of here. 

     “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I need you to go find Steve. He can help you, alright? But I can’t do that if you’re not somewhere safe. I need you safe, do you understand?” 

     This is not what she usually says. Normally, when his world is falling apart, she is the one telling him that he’s safe, that she’s there with him and not going anywhere, that everything will be fine as long as she’s there to protect him. It seems foolish to him that he has to take refuge in that, but he’s always believed it somehow, that she was capable of protecting him. He’d never questioned why. Now, with the image of guns laid out on her table and a knife strapped to her arm, he feels like it’s viscerally true. 

            It also feels like he’s letting her go to her death. He’s terrified. 

     “You have to come back,” he says at long last, and Natasha’s face twists in agony. Of course she wants to come back, she doesn’t even want to leave in the first place! She adores him, wants to keep him from harm, and here she is doing what she does best apparently — hurting the people around her. “Please promise me.” His voice is nearly a whisper. 

     Natalia cannot give false platitudes. She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, presses kisses to his face. “Go, Bucky. Be well. Take care of Stevie for me and he’ll take care of you.” She pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and then shoves him away. “Go. The Headmistress is not patient. She can still come back and kill you. Run, please!”

     Ivan grabs her shoulder and hands her the duffel bag. They, too, are running out of time. He will come with her, against her wishes, because someone has to stay by her side. Better him, he supposes, who knows the workings of that world inside and out, than someone who will shake apart at the seams, no matter how much the young man may love Natalia. She needs someone who will not blink in the face of destruction, who will kill ruthlessly and precisely, just like she does. Bucky remains standing in the doorway as they leave, and Natalia can only hope he’ll get home safely. 

     Downstairs, a car waits. The Headmistress glares at Ivan, and shoos him away. He will get his own vehicle, only Natalia is allowed to ride with her. “I’ll go with him,” the redhead says, “to make sure you honor your word.” Without her in his company, she’s fairly sure that a bunch of the goons will immediately try to kill him. She’s not chancing it.

     When she turns back for a last look at the building though, the vision of Bucky in the doorway chills her. She can see at least three people moving towards him, and all she knows is that he is not safe not safe not safe those words were meaningless he’s not — 

     “Bucky!” 

     She throws caution into the wind, races back to his side and it’s just barely in the nick of time because gunfire starts raining down on them. She grabs him and drags him into a neighboring building, knowing that this one has a hidden cellar where she can stash him until the firefight dies down, but he’s dragging her through it, into the back and out into the alley, his hold on her is too tight and if she weren’t in top shape she’d be dragged along and she wants to yell that Ivan is still back there but... 

     But Ivan is better at taking care of himself, and right now Bucky needs to be as far away from the action as possible. She throws a flashbang behind her to stun her pursuers (the best she can manage while fighting not to trip over her own feet), and pulls a knife loose from its strap across her chest. She’ll throw it when she gets the chance. 

     The world is a blur around her for a moment (because holy fuck Bucky is fast), and finally they gasp as they lean against the wall just inside the back door of a local restaurant. Bucky is shaking with the adrenaline, but seems present enough to talk to, and Natasha hugs him tight. “They’ll come after me again, but this was a good distraction for them. You keep running, I’ll pull them off the other way. I know you don’t want to use this again, but...” She presses one of her guns into his hands. If it’s kill or be killed, she’d rather he did the killing. 

     His breath hitches as his hand closes around the weapon. She’s really just — 

     His thoughts are cut off by a kiss, slow and gentle and oh so familiar. “I wish this could happen any other way. I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, and he finds himself nodding, unfathomably sad. She’s had this on her shoulders for so many years, unable to say a word. If he has to deal with his own PTSD for the sake of her survival, he’ll do it. He’ll suffer afterwards in silence, but he’ll do what he must for now. 

     Natalia presses another chaste kiss to his cheek, and then disappears out the back again. There are the sounds of gunshots in the distance, fading, and he heads outside. He should go home, he knows, he should find Steve, keep them safe however he can, make sure none of the agents that were after Nat come after them. He does none of those things. Instead, he discreetly follows the sounds of fighting. Long-buried instincts come to the forefront even as he fights the bile down, and the first man falls by his hand. A second is not far behind. Natalia is up on the rooftop, fighting someone hand to hand, Ivan is shooting at a retreating car, and he climbs the brick with shaking hands, hoping that everyone that matters is still safe. Carefully, he levers himself up onto the roof, injured arm practically vibrating in pain. Natasha appears to have some bruises and scrapes, but little else. 

     The relief does not last long. The man that Nat had been sparring dives off the roof, and instinctively Natasha goes to follow, setting her up precisely in line of a waiting sniper. Bucky spots the assassin half a moment before Nat does, and yells. 

     The moment seems to happen in slow motion. There’s not enough time for her to get out of the way, given her momentum, so he jumps, slamming himself into her instead. They take a rough tumble on the gravel, and Bucky hits his head. When his eyes reopen, bleary, he can see Natasha’s face set in fury like he’s never seen before. She shoots wildly until a bullet finally hits its mark and takes the sniper down, and then returns to his side, hurriedly propping him on his side and pressing down on his stomach. Her other hand fiddles with her phone, calling 911 and relaying the details before hanging up.

     Slowly, he looks down at her hand and... oh, that’s a lot of blood. 

     “You fool,” she whispers lovingly. “You absolute fool, why did you come back?”

     “Because you were here.” 

     She cries, ugly and beautiful and absolutely devastated. The bullet has gone deep. She can’t tell if he’ll survive, and she can’t bear the thought of him dying for her. She’d been willing to leave it all behind, to go on living without him as long as he was safe, but this... this is not something she can cope with. She can’t lose him, not like this. 

     “So help me god, if you don’t survive this, I will bring you back to life for the express purpose of murdering you myself. And you know Steve will do the same. Please... you’ve got to survive for me, okay? Please.” She hangs her head, hoping against hope, and there’s nothing she can do to fix this. There’s nothing she can say except... “I love you.”