#i really need people to start drawing duck and yellow guy smaller

[cubecast80]

scribble scribble

[miss-tc-nova]

Dense as a Brick Wall - Terra x Fem!Reader

First off YEEEESSSSSSS! I NEED MORE DARK ROAD ASAP! Second, Terra is actually one of my favorite characters of the series so I was excited for this request! I admit I struggled a bit but I hope you like it and I’m sorry it took me so long. 

~~~~~

               I can officially say today has started off wild, but I mean my version of wild—these keyblade wielders apparently find travelling to different worlds pretty normal. First thing in the morning, the trio of Aqua, Ven, and Terra all show up on my doorstep and insist I hang out with them for the day. When I finally relent, that’s when they break the news that we’re going off-world.

               So one insane trip later, we end up in this bright, sunshine world of Destiny Islands. It’s gorgeous with its tropical atmosphere and sparkling beach and it’s a shame I didn’t bring my bathing suit. The trio then takes me to the larger island where I meet way more people than I was prepared for. They all seem friendly enough and accept me pretty quickly; also we’re apparently not the only group to travel from another world.

               That’s when the inhabitants—Riku, Sora, Kairi, and Namine—announce an activity they’d come up with for the visitors: a photo scavenger hunt. The groups pair up quickly, leaving the four of us from the Land of Departure.

               “So how do you guys wanna split up?” Terra asks.

               “Oh, I know,” Aqua hums, wandering towards Namine. Once she returns, she presents four pieces of paper in her grasp. “Whoever draws the two with colored ends are partners. You first,” she says, offering the handful to me.

               Tugging on a strip, I find it colored red on the bottom. “Oh. Cool.”

               She turns to the man beside me. “Alright. Terra.”

               He picks a strip and my insides run with ice; they expect me to go on a scavenger hunt, alone, with the only person I’ve ever fallen so hard for.

               I don’t even know where to begin with Terra. He’s the biggest sweetheart and I’d have to be wearing fire-retardant pants if I said I never admired those muscles. I know he gets a lot of flak, but the guy can actually be pretty smart when it comes to strategy and situational awareness, though his social skills could use a little work. So, while I can say this about his physical build, it also unfortunately applies to his empathic understanding: he’s as dense as a brick wall.

               I’ve done everything just short of saying, “hey, you know what? I have an enormous crush on you.” Well, that and kiss him. I once even held his hand when we were wandering through town, but I think he mistook it for me trying not to get lost in the crowds. For the love of all that is good in existence, I cannot get him to take a hint! That and my dumb ass is too nervous to straight up confess.

               “Hey, are you okay with that?”

               Snapping back to the present, I look up at those beautiful blue eyes. Blood rushes into my ears, but I smile anyway. “Yeah. This’ll be a piece of cake.”

               He smiles back and I feel my self-awareness melt just a little, until I realize I might get lost staring if I don’t look away.

               We’re given a list of things to photograph and a deadline to meet back up on the small island and the teams start to go their separate ways. Only a few steps into our adventure, I look back at Aqua and Ven and my heart stops. A smirk sits upon her lips and pinched between her fingers are the remaining two strips of paper: they were all colored on the end. My brain begins screaming bloody murder.

               “Woah, hey!” A large hand beneath my arm pulls me to the side just in time to miss walking into one of those mail collection boxes. Face burning, I glance up at my concerned sort-of-hero. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you’re not feeling well, we can go home.”

               For the love of the gods, I cannot tell him what Aqua did, but she’s absolutely going to get it later—regardless of whether or not she can destroy me in a heartbeat. “No no! I’m fine. I just got distracted.”

               Dark brows furrow, still concerned. “Would rather be partners with someone else?”

               “NO!” Okay, I probably didn’t need to respond quite that quickly…or yell. A laugh escapes me in an attempt to regain my composure. “No, it’s okay. I promise. This is going to be fun.”

               A big grin crosses his lips and we set off, ignoring the fact this is a set up—or maybe not; who knows.

               There are two lists on the paper Kairi had given me: one of object and one of activities. Things such as the beach, something red, and a statue are on the list of objects, but on the other are things such as walking barefoot in the sand, going down the slide in the park, and shaking a stranger’s hand. The thing about the second list is that there has to be photo evidence of each person to get the points. Trailing through the sand and asking a random guy to shake hands with each of us is easy enough and we’ve been having a lot of fun, but poor Terra kind of got stuck in the slide and we lost a couple hours—but I got the evidence at least.

               “You sure you’re okay?” I ask for like the tenth time, stupidly fluttering eyelashes at him.

               My partner laughs sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He’s such a good sport but oblivious as always. “I’m just relieved we didn’t break it.”

               “Yeah…I was kinda worried we were gonna have to call the fire department or something—or worse, our friends.”

               “I really don’t need another story Aqua’s not gonna let me live down,” he sighs. “What else is on the list?”

               Pulling the paper from my pocket, I scan over what’s not marked. “Well, there’s not much more we can do before time’s up…so I guess we head back and hope we see a dog, a sign that starts with the letter V, and a rubber duck—where the hell did they think we were gonna see a rubber duck?”

               “Does that count?” Out points his finger to the ocean where a giant, inflatable duck peacefully floats along.

               “I don’t think it’s made of rubber, but I’m gonna say yes,” I say, using Terra’s GummiPhone to snap a picture of the ridiculous sight.

               So off we go towards the smaller island on one of the rental row boats. For a while, we chat and amble about the beach—and I drop more ridiculous hints—until Terra asks, “Hey, wasn’t there something on the list about food?”

               “Um. Try a food neither of us has eaten.”

               “I don’t know about you, but I have no idea what that is.” From a crooked tree hangs a bright, yellow fruit.

               I laugh, following him towards the stairs leading up to the islet. “You wanna just start eating random fruit?”

               “Why not?”

               The young man scales along the curved tree until he successfully gets his hand on the star-shaped fruit and returns to sit next to me on the tree. The fruit is broken into two and I get a piece. It’s sweet, almost like a candy and super watery.

               “I may be regretting my choice,” Terra murmurs around a mouthful.

               “What? This is amazing.” I almost drool in my protest.

               “Too sweet.”

               “Ah, I forget you don’t like sweets.”

               Eyeing up his questionable prize, he ventures another bite.

               “You two are here ear—” Looking back reveals the Islanders. Both girls gasp and the guys just gape.

               “Hey guys,” I greet. “What’s up?” I take another bite.

               Riku is the first to break. “You two have no idea what that is, do you?” A glance is shared with no answer. “That’s a paopu.”

               When the only response is staring, Kairi hastily explains, “If two people share one, their destinies become intertwined!”

               “So says the legend,” adds Namine.

               Terra’s mouthful comes flying back out while I opt to choke on mine. While I’m busy hacking away, the rest of our friends arrive.

               “What’s going on here?” Aqua asks as Sora is patting my back.

               “According to these two, trying new foods means sharing destinies,” Riku explains, gesturing to the dropped leftovers.

               Ven is very poorly containing his laugh. “You guys ate a paopu fruit?”

               “We didn’t know what it was,” Terra retorts. It makes me feel somewhat better that his face is probably just as red as mine.

               “I told you about those,” Aqua retorts. “Remember? I based our wayfinders off them.”

               I eventually breathe fine again and everyone hangs out to share their pictures and just hang out. Xion and Roxas got the most points and win the game while Terra and I get the most teasing for the paopu and the slide. Still, the symbolic meaning of the fruit plagues my thoughts—it’s a nice thought to have Terra as part of my destiny. I’d probably squeal if it weren’t for my new friends sitting around. In my revelations, I can’t help beaming down at the pictures of my partner.

               It’s just as we’re all getting ready to head home that Aqua sighs, “It’s a shame that, even after I went through all the trouble to make sure they were partners and neither of them confessed they liked each other.”

               A second passes, and then another, but finally, Terra’s eyes widen as he realizes what I’ve known from the beginning. “You rigged the teams?!”

               Ven snarks, “She wasn’t exactly subtle.”

               My brain carefully scrutinizes the frantic behavior of the young man. “Wh—Bu—How—Why would you do that?!”

               “Didn’t you hear me? So you could tell her how you feel,” she states bluntly.

               Arms flail and, had anyone been within close proximity, who knows what kind of damage he’d deal. “How could you do that?! I’ve been dying all day trying to figure out how to tell her!”

               The analyzing brain blips. Wait…

               “It wasn’t really that much of a secret,” his blonde friend mutters, the flustered not hearing him.

               “All so you could get a few laughs picking on me?! And I still don’t even know how to tell her how much I like her!”

               A jolt ripples through me and my jaw falls open.

               “First of all,” Aqua starts. “I didn’t do it to pick on you. Second, it was Ven’s idea.”

               The accused adds, “He’s been driving me nuts over it.”

               “And third, I’m pretty sure you just confessed.” A finger points to me.

               His olive skin goes visibly pale, outrage dropping to instant horror. Those shocked eyes lock onto me; clearly he’d forgotten in his outburst that I was even here to begin with.

               With a strange sense of outward confidence, I close the gap between us. My heart is beating deafeningly in my ears as I approach but he doesn’t move even a little, watching me in stunned silence. Fists take hold of his shirt, pulling him down to my level as I stand on tiptoe.

               Raging in my gut are the butterflies that have been teasing me all day. I may be on fire right now, but there’s an ocean just over there—it’s fine. And sure, my partner is in a stupor but that doesn’t make my elation any less real. There are no words for how much I needed this.

               Leaning back, there’s a lingering taste of that paopu we’d split earlier. I can’t help the resulting smile though Terra looks absolutely bewildered.

               “I’ve been dying to do that for months,” I tell him.

               “Perhaps my efforts weren’t in vain after all,” giggles Aqua. She gets a raspberry from me.  

               Terra, with an incredibly ludicrous question, grabs my attention again. “Did you just kiss me?”

               My eyes widen before I start laughing. “You really are as dense as a brick wall.”

               The shock leaves his face, replaced with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

               “She’s been flirting with you hardcore for as long as I can remember,” Ven tells him. “Everyone but you picked up on that.”

               “R-Really?” This time, he goes a little red.

               Slipping a hand into his, I reply, “Really.”

               The free hand meets his face. “Ugh, geeze I’m so dumb.”

               “That’s okay. You’re still cute.”

               “You’re not supposed to agree with me, you know.”

               “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

               Then Aqua gets in another jab. “I think that’s a little unfair, Ven. It’s not like she picked up on his flirting either.”

               “Wait, what?!” Eye shoot up to Terra who gives me a smile that I’d die for.

               “Guess it’s not just me, huh.”

[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Fourteen

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

His hair is a deep chestnut shade of brown. It looks fluffy, soft. His light skin looks smooth, even from my distance. His jaw is sharp, his cheeks strong. A playful smile lies on his pink lips. Everything about his features- no, about him- is soft. That’s the best word I can think of to describe him.

But I can feel the strength falling off of him. It peels off of his robes. They’re like a normal Jedi’s, but tighter at the sleeves, covered by a poncho, and darker in color. He feels different from all the Jedi I previously killed. He’s strong. Soft, but strong.

Tiredly, I shift my feet to show where my attention lies, eyes narrowing to begin my assessment of this visitor. Male, stocky build. Taller than me by a lot, but average for a man. My age. Slightly older? Slightly relaxed form. He watches me just as closely as I watch him. So he’s observant.

His eyes scan over the lightsabers at my sides, eyes lingering longer on the one with the red blade.

“Nowhere,” I say, almost hoarsely. My right hand is starting to go numb again, and I can feel a big, thick drop of blood fall from my half a finger. “Don’t worry, I won’t go too far,” I tell the stranger, even though I’m really not in the mood for a sarcasm contest right now.

“Oh, that’s good,” the stranger bends his knees and angles his violet light defensively. “I would so hate it if you missed this dance.”

Oh, man. He’s kind of quip-y. Killing him won’t be as satisfying as it would’ve been if he was all serious. “We can be honest with each other, right?” He shrugs. “Can we please reschedule this for tomorrow?”

  He smiles. It makes his eyes squint and twinkle. It looks nice on him. “Tired from killing the other two, are we?”

Has someone been watching me? Following me, even? No, I would’ve known. I would’ve sensed it. Perhaps he witnessed the fight between Aegus and Yutaro- it was possible I didn’t notice because my focus was elsewhere. Who is this guy?

“What would your mother say?”

I don’t know what it was about his statement that set me off. I just know that it did.  

I throw my hand out, letting my hate and exhaustion fuel the lightning that falls out. It wipes the smile right off his face as it cages him, throwing him backwards and out of my vision for an instant.

Then, I remove the red saber off my belt. I twist it between my palm to get a feel of it again, and run forward. It’s not as fast as it could be, but I am tired. My finger needs medical attention.  

I thrust the red lightsaber into the boy’s shoulder. It nicks him, but he offers little more than a wince in response. He blocks my next strike. I put more pressure on it, forcing our lightsabers closer to his face. He doesn’t back down, however. He is determined to show me that my rageful exhaustion is no match for his physical strength. We’ll see about that.

Right as I’m about to kill him, something grabs my attention to the left. Not the sun-but a light! No, two of them! Two bright, beautiful balls of crystal clear light.

A shot blows me back. My lightsaber comes to a close as I tumble in the dirt for about the third time today. The cold mud and twigs make the cuts on my hands and temple sting even more- not a good sign. My right ear hears a long, drawn out scratching noise like a saw. Then it fades off like a hum and is replaced with a high-pitched ringing, followed by complete silence. My left ear continues to throb lowly with the beat of my heart, which changes between too fast and too slow. When my body finally stops rolling and stills itself, I can feel a droplet of either sweat or blood run down the right side of my neck. My eyes burn from the dirt that’s undoubtedly in them.

I lie still for a moment, wiped out and exhausted. I’m not dying, the galaxy would never be so kind. What happens next is just like falling asleep. Slowly becoming darker and darker, my vision goes black, and I feel warm.

When I was thirteen, I made an attempt to draw my father from memory. I had only drawn a few times prior to this, mostly out of sheer boredom. I want to say that they came out well, but I don’t have anything to compare my works to. Being on the run your whole life doesn’t lend much time for art museums.

I had no memories of my father whatsoever. I looked into a glass shard from a mirror and attempted to make my own features look more masculine. I don’t know how long it took me to sketch him, but finally I was finished.

In my version of my father, he has dark hair. He looks young, with eyes slanted upwards. I imagine they have hazel flecks, lined with gold and just the slightest hint of deep green. His eyes are framed by thick, dark eyebrows- straight and clean. Under his orbs are dark circles like smudged makeup, similar to my own. His nose is narrower than mine, but splashed with tope freckles all the same. We have the same olive skin and similar chins. His jaw is sharper than mine. His lips are chapped, but curled up at the ends like a smirk. Still, he frowns. I can not make him smile.

My father was very handsome. His name is Kaito Vagor, which in another galaxy translates to “the flight over the sea” and “I wander”, which I think is beautiful. In my mind, he is quiet. He thinks things through, just like me. He knows how to take initiative, believes in facts over feelings but never ignores his gut. Although I’d never met him, I loved the picture of my father, which ended up being completely accurate. I loved him so much, I begged him to be dead. I begged him to be dead so I’d feel like there was a reason I’d grown up without him. But cruelly, no matter how much I prayed and wished, Kaito was alive. I wouldn’t know it in my lifetime, but he was alive.

I couldn’t bring myself to draw my mother. I was too busy trying not to wail at the loss of my father, who I loved dearly despite the rage I’d obtained over the years. After that day, I had no idea where the drawing went. I might’ve destroyed it in my sleep, or lost it on purpose without even realizing.

Now, as I sleep, I think of the image of my father again. I think of nothing else. I see him smiling down at me calmly- on birthdays, cooking me meals in a small hut, training me how to better use a spear. In that life, I am happy. I am content with just Kaito, and I know how to trust people. There is no Clone with the yellow stripe. No Haxion Brood. No Imperial Inquisitors. And, most importantly, there are ten fingers.

I bolt upright at this realization.

I’m alive. My breathing feels thin, but not impossible. My chest is not nearly as sore as I expected, so I decide to count it as a good thing. Still, it rises and falls rapidly as I struggle not to cough on my own breath. My head thrums will a slow, dull pain that makes me wish I had just stayed still. Once I regain my sense of thought, I look around, eyes wide as my heart hammers.  

The floor below me is the same stark white color, matching the bed and the walls. It looks like the inside of a ship, I think. I don’t sense danger, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my entire sense of survival were thrown off. I’m atop a cushioned bench, with a firm, small pillow where my head was. The only pop of color in the room is a slim bunch of yellow flowers, sitting in a pale gray vase.

Breathe, Keres. Softly.

My boots are missing from my feet. Instead, light colored gauze wraps around my ankles and stops before it reaches my toes. I wiggle them playfully, watching each duck and weave up and down on my command. It makes me feel childish, but secure that I at least have one part of my body still working for me. Unlike my fingers, there are ten of them. My hands and forearms are wrapped in a matching gauze, contrasting the normal gray gauze that works as my undergarments for my dark, sleek, armor. Replacing said armor is a beige kind of altered Jedi’s robes like the one with the purple lightsaber wore. The normal weight from a lightsaber doesn’t hang on my hips, and when I move my hand to the area I find nothing but air. I’m too tired and groggy to feel frustrated about it.

Brushing hair out of my face, I notice my hair is still in it’s braid, however messy it may be. The palm of my hands are flecked with pink scars, and a few bright red cuts from all my forest fumbles. Some are better healed than others, but none of them sting like they did. My right hand is just as I’d left it, confirming my worst fear. The fear that it was all real.

My right ring finger is gone. There is nothing from my knuckle up, and instead it is only a stump with more gauze wrapped tight around it. I stare at it. My eyes water quickly. I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, but this it to no avail.

I deserved it. I deserved to lose my finger.

I push myself off the bed angrily. My feet feel cold on the floor, but I don’t register it. When I stand up completely, something in my rib pops. This makes me stop for a second before carrying on in haste.

Clothes. I need my clothes. Where the kriff are my clothes?

Somewhere to the right of me, the familiar hiss of a door opening rings out. I snap my head up.  

 A Togruta with wet looking red skin appears in front of me. White diamonds surround her eyes, and smaller diamond markings appears across her cheekbones. Her lips are full but not too full, and her pale green eyes are framed by long, soft eyelashes. Her horns aren’t stubby, but neither tall nor sky high. It gives away her age- teens, possibly nearing twenties. She is dressed in a loose brown tunic, covered by a white, stained medical smock. Everything about her appearance is regal, elegant, and objectively beautiful.

“Oh!” she squeaks, one hand covering her chest as she gathers her breath. “You’re up!”

I remain quiet as I meet her eyes. The Togruta shifts a clipboard in her arms and puts it on a shelf behind her. “I’ll be right back with some medicine. Stay right here!” She hurries off and out the door again.

I immediately disobey what she’s asked of me. Fuck her. I take a single step forward and stumble for a moment. My feet adjust to the freezing floor after a second, and in short, quick steps I make my way out of the room. The next area I stumble into is circular, and bustling with at least ten people- I can’t count them all. My eyes squint to adjust to the new light, but my right ear remains unadapting and silent. A few feet ahead of me, I can see the back of what I believe to be the Jedi.

He overlooks a round holo-table displaying a blue hologram I can’t completely make out. Two other people in helmets observe the table with him, nodding and occasionally opening their mouths. After a simultaneous nod from them, they head off to their right, down a hallway. The Jedi meets my eyes from across the way. Then he stands still.  

I hate him. This is his fault. It’s always the Jedi’s fault.

A few people in the room pause to glance at me, creating a look of disgust on my face I don’t even try to hide. I am angry at them. I want them to know how angry I am. No one dares to  chuckle before conversations start again. The Jedi crosses his arms and looks at me as if he’s bested me at something, or proved himself. Jokes on him though, because he’s vastly overestimated how much I care or am willing to care. 

“Oh, you’re… up again!” The Togruta appears with her arms full of cloth. Is that my boot? On top of them are several small bottles and a single syringe. “I just went to bring you your clothes and some medicine. I didn’t think you would be ready to walk so soon.”

I eye the scene suspiciously. I’m definitely on a ship of some sort, most likely no longer on Endor. There are a lot of people on this ship, but for what purpose? And why is a Jedi involved? Don’t speak, Keres. The way he’s looking at me, he’ll just pull a ‘Keres’ and ironically evade whatever you ask him.

I hold out my hands for my clothes, to which the Togruta pours them into my arms while trying to maintain a polite smile.  

There is silence between the two of us as I pretend to be very interested in my black and gray outfit and boots. “So,” the Togruta sighs with another smile. “What should we call you?”

I quickly bend over slightly to slip one of my boots on. These people don’t get to know my name.

  “I’m Aheka. Aheka Shyn. And you’ve already met Adamus…”

I crane my head up to look at the Jedi. His hair is just as brown and soft looking as before, though his jaw is flexing and tightening as he peers at me from across the room. I can feel eyes continue to watch me as I stuff my other foot into the other shoe. He sure knows how to spark my annoyance, I’ll give him that. He’s sparked it so much, I can feel myself tensing up in a new and intense way.  

“He’s not so bad,” Aheka continues. “I know you guys didn’t really get off on the right foot, but-”

“Adamus is responsible for the kriffing ringing in my ear then,” I snap. “So he is that bad.”

Aheka swallows, eyes widening. “I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend…”

“Aheka. That’s enough,” another voice commands. I drop my gaze back to my boots, chewing on my bottom lip as I hear footsteps come closer. “I’ll take care of this,” the male voice says.

I watch Aheka’s shoes step away briskly and disappear behind another door and hallway. The ship must be awfully large to have so many of them. The only thing I have to think about then is which of those hallways will take me to escape pods. 

“A bit rude, wouldn’t you say?” he starts. “Exploding over such a valid question?”

I dare not speak for fear the poison that comes from it will make a hole in the floor.

“Did you hear what she asked?”

“I heard it,” I hiss, attempting to keep my cool. “I just choose not to answer it.”

Adamus looks me up and down. Not in a flirtatious way, but a way that gives him a good observation. Is he analyzing me? He must be, somewhat. I don’t like it. He might find some flaw in my stance or my balance. I stand up straight, forcing myself to meet his eyes in a way that signifies a challenge.

“So, why Endor?”

Well, that’s a funny story. See, you know the Haxion Brood criminal syndicate? Oh, you don’t? Don’t worry- they’re just some of the most hardened and cutthroat criminals in the galaxy! Well, they captured me outside of Kijime. After straight up murdering people of your kind, they were so frightened of me they just chose a distant planet to drop me off at! Funny story, right?      

“The will of the Force,” I quip. A satisfying snap runs through my stomach as I watch his left eye twitch. It’s perfect. I want to shatter his expression like that again.

I watch a yellow Twi’lek shake hands with one of the soldiers in a helmet. I’m reminded of Talik for a moment, and I miss her- but I push her from my mind. Mur, Kip, Talik- they’re a part of my past now. Talik can’t chase me anymore.

“Somewhere you need to go?” Adamus continues.  

“Nowhere you can take me,” I promise him quickly.

Adamus curls his pink lips into a sly smile. His eyes twinkle immediately with a spark of charisma. “Listen, no offense, but you don’t look like someone who has somewhere they need to be.”

“Makes sense to me, because you don’t seem like the type of person who would know what that looks like.”

Adamus narrows his pale eyes. I wait for his smile to twitch again, but it doesn’t happen. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. Like I’ve just told him something clever. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and begins sauntering backwards. “It was nice talking to you, stranger.”

I take that as him dismissing me. “Fuck you,” I whisper at him as I watch him turn around. The I start back to the room I was unconscious in. With minimal pain on my part, I begin to swap out my clothes with my dark colored outfit that highlights my agility. A small mirror on one of the walls allows me to look at my face.

My eyes are a little red, and there’s a scarlet gash on my forehead, above my right eyebrow. I still look like myself, at least. Same hazel-green eyes, same chapped lips, same brown hair. I’m me. Just roughed up, I guess.

I see and hear Aheka wisp around being me, on the left side. I don’t turn to see her, but I can imagine her pretty face, clear as day. There’s a certain layer of guilt that sweeps around the pit of my stomach. I shouldn’t have been so rude to her earlier. She hasn’t do anything to me. In fact, she’s probably the one who healed me up best she could. She saved my worthless life.

“Hey, Aheka,” I mumble so quietly I expect her not to hear.

“Hm?” She hums sweetly in response.

My mouth suddenly feels dry. I can’t bring myself to turn around and look at her as I say the words, and I realize I’m just as big of a coward as Aegus. “Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I start to wonder if she even heard me. “I said-”

“I heard you,” Aheka replies. I can hear her soft smile through her tone. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Are you the medic?”

“It’s just me and another so far. We’re trying to train more, but it’s difficult with our numbers.”

I swallow. “Did you patch me up?”

“Yes.” Aheka says bashfully, as if embarrassed by her work.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I tell her as I turn around to finally face her. I had meant to put her at ease, but I only feel her tense up further at my phrasing. “Can you tell me about my injuries?”

The beautiful Togruta walks to the other side of the room to grab the clipboard she placed there earlier. “A broken rib on your left side, two on your right. Several cuts on your back, calves, and hands. A single cut to your forehead. Your right ankle was dislocated. The right finger on your right hand was already like that when we found you. I’m sorry, but we couldn’t find it.”

“What about my ear?”

“Your ear?” she sets down the clipboard again and begins to walk over to me with a concerned expression. “Is something the matter with it?”

“Yes, my right one.” Her red hand reaches out to touch me, and I flinch away before stilling myself enough for her to hold my jaw gently. “I can’t hear anything out of it.”

“Since when?”

“Since back on Endor. A ship- this one, I think- fired at me and Adamus.”

"They fired at you?!” Aheka furrows her eyebrows in anger. “So that’s why Adamus looked so peeved at Circe. I’m sorry they did that. We’re not usually like that, I promise.”

The tips of her fingers are cold, then warm as they edge closer to my ear. “I knew I noticed you bleeding when I took you in. I should’ve examined you more closely.” Then she snuffs out some hot air. “Perhaps you should start hurting yourself on your left side too, to balance yourself out.”

A weak attempt at humor. I have heard better. Still, I try not to look like I’m so uncomfortable and grimacing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I clear my throat. “So, who exactly is ‘we’?”

“Oh… Adamus didn’t tell you?” I shake my head no. “I’d tell you we’re nobodies, but that’s not really true,” she whispers, as if we were speaking in a forbidden language. “We’re part of the Rebellion. New, and not really valid, but we’re a part of it. Too small to be the whole thing but well… all rebellions have to start somewhere.”

Oh man. The Rebellion? This is exactly the type of thing I was trying to stay away from. I might’ve well have just ended up in the hands of some Sith activist group. I don’t want to be allied with anyone’s side but my own. I don’t want the Light path or the Dark path- I want my own path.

“And what’s the deal with Adamus?” I venture to ask.

Aheka removes her fingers from my skin gently. She crosses to the other side of the room, and pulls out a long, thick stick with a little puff at the end. “That’s a story I would just butcher telling you. Here, tilt your head this way…”

I tilt my head to the side as she places the stick in my ear. With minimal discomfort, she pulls it out after a moment. The puffy side is stained red and slightly gold. She lifts her hand to my ear and snaps, but I hear nothing. “You didn’t hear that? I see…Well, the good news is I know what to do. I don’t have the materials for it right now, but I’m sure I can find something somewhere.” Aheka gives me a soft smile. “But until then, maybe you should get some rest. I-I know you’ve had nothing but that for the past day and a half, but…”

Is she… looking out for me? No, nobody is that good. She’s being nice for a reason. She wants something from me. I watch her for a minute before walking past her silently. “Wait- ah, where are you going?”

I don’t answer her. It’s not like telling her would make a difference anyway. I pass the room with the holo-table, not seeing my target anywhere. Adamus.

I let my instincts lead the way. I walk through one of the hallways on the right side, then take a left. A few soldiers walking past give me weird looks, but I pay no mind. They’re lucky I didn’t just kill them right then and there.

The Force leads me to another door. Yes- this is where I’ll find him. I can practically smell Adamus’s disgusting stench from here. It opens without me pressing a button.

“Our first assault should’ve been on Endor. We could’ve taken it if it weren’t for Oden’s ridiculous vote.”

“No, don’t be foolish! We should focus on a defense more than anything. We…”

Adamus notices me and turns to face me. His arms unfold themselves as he starts over to me silently, careful not to disturb the others with the movement of his stocky body. The other men in the room, all sharing a similar uniform, continue discussing what I assume to be their rebellious little plans that I intend to be no part of. Adamus reaches out to hold my left arm as if I were a child that needed to be held still.

“Lovely to see you,” he begins. I see that he has to crane his neck to meet my eyeline, and I imagine punching him square in the jaw. “What can I do for you?”

He’s closer than he’s been before. He doesn’t smell as bad as I previously said, actually. It’s not nearly as… stench-y. It reminds me of something I can’t really place. Some type of wood, maybe? I can see a scar across his lips that pauses before his jaw, then resumes on his neck and under his robes. There’s another one right under his right eye. His eyelashes look so soft and dark brown. Something in my stomach pulls me to look in his eyes. 

“Am I interrupting your sausage party?” I say, watching his lips twitch in annoyance for the third time today.

“That’s disgusting,” he counters calmly, struggling to keep his cool.

“But… accurate.”

Adamus squints his eyes in a brief wave of annoyance. “What did you come here for?”

My eyes flicker around the room with paranoia, making sure no one is watching our conversation. Luckily, all the men in uniform seem be clenching their fists as one of them makes some big, dramatic speech while waving his arms around. “Where can you take me?”

Adamus stiffens his body, and I watch the charismatic twinkle return to his irises as my stomach drops. “Ilum, perhaps?”

Ilum would be perfect. It would be… it would be home. “Why would I want to go there?”

“You were talking about it in your sleep.”

Fuck. Adamus.

His grip on my arm intensifies slightly. “I can take you there if you tell me your name.”

I stare up into his piercing orbs. A small shrug graces my shoulders. “Why am I so important to you?” I hiss. “First you stalk me, then you shoot at me, and now you’re demanding my identity. How do I know you’re no better than the Empire?”

Adamus narrows his pale eyes at me. “We’re the rebellion,” he says as if it were obvious.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I counter sharply. “Because you’re not part of the oppressive government, you can’t be oppressive yourselves? Fuck off.”

I hold his stare then. I am not one to back down from challenging authority, or messing with anyone who thinks they’re in control of something. That always tends to include men.

Adamus keeps squaring his jaw in frustration, much to my delight. Then he returns to the table, and a hush falls over the uniformed men. “I have a proposal,” he speaks.

“Does it include her?” One of the men with gray hair and frown stapled to his lips jabs a finger at me.

“It does,” Adamus replies. “I propose we set a course to Ilum. The planet is sacred to the Jedi and could prove useful to me and the uh… new associate here.”

“Didn’t she attack you on sight?” one of the men counters- a Chiss with blue skin and deep red eyes.

“She had every reason to attack. But now she’s going to help us. Right, my new associate?��

Oh no. No, Adamus! Please don’t put the spotlight on me. Before I can respond, Adamus answers for me, probably sensing my discomfort. “Right. Everyone in favor of heading to Ilum, raise your hands.”

Adamus raises both his hands as if surrendering. Nervously, five men follow suit. Adamus turns to me, eyebrows raised. Immediately, I throw up my left hand as a vote.

“Oh, yay! A unanimous vote. That sure makes things easy. Well, off to Ilum then!”

“Ah- General Adamus!”

“Can’t hear you Rass I’m already out the door!” He grabs my arm again as he leaves the room and shuts the door behind us. Separating me from the pit of political vipers he calls his council.

[thiswasinevitableid]

The Wicked House

Prompt for the 31st was: Wicked. Thanks to @thats-amnesty-babe and Morgan E Ashton for the help brainstorming.

Duck whacks his hands together, clearing the dust from them, before raising a hand in friendly farewell to the movers. He picks his way through the boxes, up the stairs, and to his bedroom. Opening the door sends a bolt of dark, fluffed-up fur into the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry fuzzball, but I couldn’t have you bein underfoot or runnin out the door.” He scratches the cat behind her ears, and her affronted glare gives way to forgiving purrs. 

He unpacks for awhile, finds a good luck note from Juno tucked in the winter coat she gave him (“I mean it, Duck, winter up there’s a hell of a lot colder than here in West Virginia”). Orders pizza, gets the kitchen table set up in time to eat it. Flips through his to-do list for the next few days as he does. 

ka-BOOM

Winnie yowls and runs from the room as Duck nearly falls out of his chair. 

“What the fuck?” He dashes outside, expecting to find an exploded car or downed powerline.

He finds nothing of the sort. None of his neighbors are even poking their heads out. There’s a smaller boom, from the house next to his (his is on the corner, so only has one neighbor). 

“Well, Woodbridge finally managed to offload one of these places, huh?”

He turns to find a rather prim looking woman walking a furious looking Pomeranian. 

“Beg pardon?”

“You’re the first person to buy any of the houses near that wicked place in years.”

Duck looks around again. Every house on the block, save for his own darkly painted victiorian and the brightly painted one next to it, has a sun-worn for sale sign in the yard. 

“What the fuck?”

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

“Oh, so you’re the guy who bought the house next to Indrid Colds place?” The man at the grocery store asks as he rings him up. Duck  was overjoyed to find a real mom and pop place near his house and Leo, the owner, has been chatting with him.

“So it seems.”

“Don’t let folks make you too jittery about it. Indrid’s an odd guy, but he don’t mean no harm.”

“What the hell does he do? All kinds of weird lights and noises and shit coming from that place.”

“Not a clue. Seems like you’re in a better position to find out than most of us.” He tilts his head towards the beer Duck is loading into a bag.

“Dunno, kinda like havin all my limbs. Not sure I’ll keep ‘em all if I go in there.”

Leo shrugs, “suit yourself.”

As Duck walks home with his groceries, he mulls over the suggestion; sure, the loud noises aren’t great, but they no worse and no more frequent than a loud party or a neighbor with barky dogs. 

He sets the bags down on his front step, fumbling to find which pocket he put his keys in. 

“Don’t move!”

He freezes, finds a tall man with silvery hair moving purposefully up his drive. He’s in a long, silk bathrobe and bunny slippers, bright red glasses perched on his nose. When he places his hands on Ducks shoulders and starts moving him back off the porch, Duck tenses, tries to pull away.

He can’t. The man is surprisingly strong for such a beanpole.

“Hey, pal, look-”

“No, you look.” He points a finger, and Duck squints for a beat before seeing it; a black widow, dangling on a thread as she lowers down from his door frame. 

“Shit, almost walked right into her.”

“Yes, you did. I thought you might prefer not to.”

Duck takes another look at the stranger, including the spot where his hand is still resting on Ducks arm. The other man follows the gaze, pulls his hand back apologetically. 

“Gonna go out on a limb here and say you’re Indrid Cold.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me!”  Indrid smiles brightly, only to have the expression falter, “oh, ah, you’ve heard of me. I can’t say I blame people for trying to warn you away from me, given my reputation.” The last few words come out so soft and resigned, the kind of vulnerability that’s either a trap or the truth of someone who has gone a little too long without the benefit of the doubt.

“Reputation don’t matter half as much as your actions. Far as I’m concerned, the only thing I know you done for sure is save me from a nasty spider bite.” He smiles kindly, holds out his hand, “I’m-”

“-Duck Newton.” Indrid takes it, shaking it with an oddly wide smile. 

“Uh, right. Well, I’m gonna get rid of that widow, but if you wanted to come in for a beer or coffee or somethin I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“That sounds wonderful but, oh, oh dear, um, excuse me something’s just come up. Hope to see you again.” He dashes back down the path, down the sidewalk, and up the steps to his bright yellow door. 

“Huh.” Duck watches the door for a moment, then goes to get a broom. 

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

The diner smells like eggs, bacon, and butter when Duck steps in from the chill of the early September air. 

It’s quiet, but he settles on a spot at the counter all the same, in case they need the booths for bigger groups. 

“Good morning,” a cheerful, somewhat crunchy-granola looking blonde woman greets him, pad in hand “any coffee or tea this morning?” 

“Coffee, please.”

“You got it.” She spins, grabs the pot, and pours him a mug. Several of the flatops are where Duck can see them, being worked expertly by a man who must be well over six feet tall. Whatever he’s moving about on them smells incredible.

“Ready to order.”

“Whatever he’s cookin right there.”

“Hash it is.” She smiles again.

The cook nods, and as he sets to work he asks, “you just passing through?”

“Naw, moved here a few weeks ago, got a job in the national forest.”

“Right on.”

“Oh yeah.” A voice behind him says, and he finds two older men sizing him up, “you’re the fella who got duped into buying next to Cold’s place.”

“He’s a man, Clarence, not fucking black mold.” The cook grumbles.

“How’s living next to the wicked witch treating you?” The second man, in a red ball-cap, asks.

“Warlock.” Says a clipped voice. It takes Duck a moment to see it belongs to the man going over receipts at the register, slick dark hair flecked with grey and face movie-star handsome, “if Indrid did have those abilities you all seem convinced he does, he’d be a warlock, not a witch.”

“How would you know?” Red cap retorts.

“Ey, shut up Jim, you know the boy was in the CIA. Better not disrespect him.”

“FBI, not CIA

“All I’m saying is that wherever Cold goes, disaster follows. Not to mention the man’s a known f-”

“One more syllable and you’ve got a lifetime ban.” Barclay points the spatula towards the men.

In the midst of the standoff, the bell dings. 

And Indrid Cold walks into the diner.

 He’s bundled up like it’s snowing, walks up to the counter and pauses when he sees Duck. 

Duck pats the stool next to him, “Nice to see you again, neighbor.”

“Likewise.” Indrid gives that odd smile again and sits down, “Good morning Barclay, Joseph.” He nods first to the cook, then the man at the register, “Oh, and hello Dani. The usual, please.”

Dani grins, turns to one of the drink machines and comes back moments later with a cup of cocoa.

“I can’t handle how bitter coffee is, even with sugar.” Indrid says, two seconds before Duck is going to ask him why that drink.

“You’re braver than I am, that much sugar this early’d have me on the ceilin.”

Indrid smiles softly, “Lightweight.”

Duck barks out a laugh, making Indrid snicker as well. 

“Any plans for this weekend, Duck?” 

“Got some new model ships to work on, might go for a hike, nothin too excitin.”

“You don’t get enough hiking at work?” Indrid cocks his head.

“I mean, not really? It’s different when I’m on my own; I don’t got an agenda or shit I’m supposed to be takin care of. I can just go at my own pace.”

Indrid makes a noise of understanding right as Barclay sets two plates down. Indrids’ is piled with pancakes and strawberries. 

Barclay points a can of whipped cream down at the plate, “say when.”

The tower of cream is almost a foot high before Indrid goes, “when.”

As they eat, they chat about this and that, though mostly Indrid asks Duck about his move, and how he’s liking the town. Then he muses, “I’d like to go hiking sometime. I really ought to get out a bit more.”

“You can come with me sometime, if you want.”

“Really?”

“Sure, long as you don’t mind me talkin about trees.”

“Not in the slightest.”

Duck raises his glass in cheers, “well, if you decide you want to, you know where to find me.”

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

Duck balances the plate of cornbread (his fathers no-fail recipe)  in one hand as he lifts the other to knock on the door.

“Come in!” Indrid calls a half-second before his hands meets the wood. 

The inside of Indrid’s house is laid out much the same as Ducks own. This is where the similarities end. There are drawings scattered everywhere, pinned to walls and strewn across tables. Art and posters and letters cover the walls, each of which is painted a different color.

As he makes his way into the kitchen he notices chalk and bottles of salt, piles of old books, and many, many, many sweaters. 

Indrid is at the sink, filling a kettle with water. 

“You’re right on time, I was just making myself some tea. Though I can make something stronger if you prefer.”

“Tea’s fine.” Duck sets the plate down, “figured I oughta make a proper, neighborly introduction.”

He leaves out the part where, in the two days since they spoke at the diner, he’s thought about Indrid quite a bit. And that whenever an explosion or other odd occurrence came from next door, Ducks’ first response is no longer annoyance; it’s worry. What if something bad happened and Indrid had no one checking on him?

“I’ve been thinking” Indrid sets a mug down in front of him, sits across from him at the rickety table, “there’s a little get-together at the Lodge, that hotel on the edge of town, this weekend. If you were interested, we could hike out that way and then stop by after.”

“You know the folks there?”

“I do. Barclay and Joseph live in one of the cottages, Dani lives in the lodge proper, and they were kind enough to invite me to movie night once. I suppose I found my people, so to speak, there even if I still am a bit solitary.”

“Be happy to come, like to get to know more folks in town myself.” Duck glances back from examining some nearby drawings, and immediately knows he gave the right answer. Indrid is looking at him like he hung every star in the sky. 

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

Ducks’ gotten used to the occasional smoke detector cry from next door.

But this one isn’t stopping. 

He grabs the fire extinguisher from under his sink and bolts out one front door and into another. 

Smoke drifts down the stairs and Indrid is nowhere in sight. So up the stairs he goes, turning into the room where the smoke is the worst. Mercifully, there is no actual fire, just clear signs of one being hastily and messily put out. He opens the windows, and after a few minutes of cross-breeze the alarm shuts off. 

It’s only then that he hears a tap running and someone muttering. 

He crosses the hall, finds Indrid glaring into the mirror over the bathroom sink, trying to sooth a nasty looking burn on his arm. 

“Shit, what happened?” 

Indrid stares at the water, “just an accident. I was careless. I’ll be alright.”

“Here, lemme look at your arm-yeah, okay, I’m gonna go grab my first aid kit from my place.”  

He’s out and back as fast as he can manage, returns to find Indrid sitting on the toilet lid, sulking. 

Duck holds out his hand and Indrid flops his wrist into it. As gently as he can, Duck tends to the burn. It’s not bad enough to need a hospital, but it’s still a nasty looking mark.

“What were you tryin to do?” He asks softly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me?”

“I have certain...abilities. Magic. Most of it related to seeing the future. But some of it is more general, or is in other fields of the discipline, and I was trying to use one field to influence a future and it backfired.”

Duck considers him a moment, then gently squeezes his hand, “hey, it’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me. Don’t gotta make a story up on my behalf.”

“I’m not MAKING IT UP!” Indrid shouts, yanking his hand away and standing up.

“Indrid, you don’t expect me to believe-”

“ What? That I’m stuck seeing futures I can’t stop, stuck with powers I still can’t fully control, that I’ve made myself an outcast time and again all because of these blasted things.” He rips off his glasses and chucks them down the hall. Crumples to the floor, head in his hands.

Cautiously, Duck scooches across the hardwood. He wants to reach out, to soothe the tensed lines of Indrids’ body. But he’s not sure that’s what Indrid wants. Not sure if he’s royally fucked everything up.

“Okay, I’m listenin.” His voice, gentle as it is, may as well be coming through a megaphone for how Indrid flinches. Then he looks at his newly bandaged arm. 

“Ten years ago, I bought those glasses from a little curio shop. I thought they were stylish. I put them on when I got home and everything changed. Long story short, the glasses are a conduit to a demonish creature. When I put them on, he became my patron. I gained his ability to see the future, as well as some other powers. I panicked, tried to take the glasses back, but the store was simply gone. Turns out if I try to forsake his gift, it will go very badly for me, so I have to wear them all the time, save for sleep and things like that.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve been trying to use my powers to stop the disasters I see coming but so often it doesn’t work, and then I have to watch it play out in real time after seeing it again and again in my head.” He stands, slowly, and walks to retrieve the glasses, “or when I try to do enchantments, sometimes things go haywire. Did you happen to see the little succulent garden in the living room?”

“You mean the one that’s as big as your coffee table?”

“Yes. That was originally two succulents. I bought them as a housewarming gift for you then decided maybe four was better. So I tried to magic up two more. And got a garden instead.” He’s still as he speaks, glasses held in his palm, “It isn’t all bad. I have been able to stop some things, and I’ve gotten much better at magic. But the failures so often dwarf that.”

“Indrid?” Duck stands in the bathroom doorway, waits for his friend to turn around before continuing, “thank you for tellin me all that. And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Indrid’s smile is weak, but genuine.

“Are there, uh, things that help when this happens? You seem real upset and if I can help you feel better, I’d like to.”

“T.V, the mindless kind.”

Duck holds out his hand, “C’mon, let’s go downstairs.”

Indrid settles on the violet couch, wrapping himself in a thick blanket as Duck flips channels. 

“You’re from West Virgina, right?”

“Yep.”

“Then you may be familiar with my patron. I don’t know his true name, but everyone just calls him mothman.”

Duck drops the remote.

“Mothman? As in Silver Bridge, Point Pleasant, TNT plant, and all that shit?”

“Yes.” Indrid says mildly. 

“Holy shit.” He fishes the remote from under the couch.

“That’s a remarkably succinct reaction.”

“Hush you, you know I ain’t a man of many words.”

“Duck, two days ago you talked for half an hour about Kudzu.” Indrid shoots him a teasing smile, and Duck elbows him lightly. 

“Oooh, a Halloween cooking championship! Let’s watch that.”

Duck sets the remote down, joins Indrid under the blanket when the taller man opens it for him.

“You doin anythin for Halloween?”

“No” Indrid sighs, “I love it, but after the ‘living pumpkin incident,’ parents stopped letting their children trick or treat here.”

“Hmmmmm” Duck rests his hand just beside Indrids’, strokes it absentmindedly with his pinkie “y’know, Indrid, I think I got a way to fix that…..”

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

Duck waves goodbye to the group of trick or treaters as they scurry back down the walkway. He has to hand it to Indrid: the man really has an eye for decoration.

The yard is strung with glowing cobwebs and purple lights, bats made of purple shadow and glitter flitting through the air.  The multitude of Jack’O Lanterns flicker in a rainbow of colors, thanks to Indrid doing an enchantment on the flames. 

Ducks house is equally festive, Indrid choosing orange lights and one (magically) large pumpkin to contrast with the dark wood of the building. Currently Aubrey (Dani’s wife) and her giant rabbit (Dr Harris Bonkers, PhD) are seated on Duck’s front step on candy duty. Duck had asked for his new friends help after realizing just how nervous Indrid was that something would go haywire, and decided it was best if he was there to keep him company.

It’s been a successful Halloween so far; no explosions, no disasters, no decorations accidentally coming to life. He and Indrid chat between visitors, The Creature from the Black Lagoon plays in the background, and both of them have eaten more candy than two grown men probably should. Not a single kid who’s come to the door seems afraid of Indrid. Some are curious, and some have parents that definitely watch them closely. But most are just happy to get candy.

Best of all, whenever they’re seated on the couch, or waiting to open the door, Indrid holds Ducks hand, or sighs happily when Duck rests his arm around his shoulder.

The groups are becoming less and less frequent, and stars peek out from behind the clouds, when Indrid turns to him.

“Thank you, Duck.”

“Hey, wasn’t gonna miss an excuse to hang out with you and poach your candy.”

Indrid chuckles, “Not just for that. For everything, for being kind, for getting to know me and not writing me off as wicked. I-” He falters, turns away suddenly.

Duck may not have foresight, but he’s perceptive all the same.

“Want me to finish that sentence for you?”

Indrid looks at him wide-eyed as the ranger steps into his space, “Please.”

“I wanna get to know you better.” Duck grins, moves to pull Indrid to him.

Indrid beats him to it, grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss. Ducks back hits the door, Indrids fingers digging into his hair. He holds him tight, and as demanding as his kisses are the taller man’s whole body is shaking like the last leaf on a tree.

When they pull apart, Indrid rests their foreheads together.

“Yes, Duck, I would very much like to get to know you better.”

Duck kisses him again, keeps him close as he whispers, “well, happy fuckin halloween to me.”

Indrid kisses his cheek, “Indeed.”

[missweber]

Here’s the final part of this story for Day 7 (Free Day) of @lardo-week! Please excuse any typos, but I am falling asleep as I type. AO3 version goes up tomorrow. I had good intentions, but Benadryl.

(Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6)

Read the entire thing on AO3

Chapter 7 - to arrive where we started

"We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time"

–T.S. Eliot

A year after Lardo graduated, her bà ngoại moved into a retirement community. It wasn't quite assisted living, but assistance was available. 

At first, Lardo's mom looked at it as a failure on her own part. As a dutiful daughter, she should be the one to look after her mother in her old age just as her mother had looked after her during infancy.

Lardo knew all too well what it was like to struggle with the idea that what you thought you should do wasn't always the right thing to do. 

Bà ngoại had laughed aside the idea as she patted mom's hand. "We would murder each other, my precious girl. Besides, I'm going because I want go and before I have to go. And all of my friends are there. I'll be able to play cards every day, if I like."

Oh, yes. Cards. Lardo had seen bà ngoại at the card table. Bà ngoại at the card table was like Lardo at the pong table. 

It didn't take much imagination to see a younger bà ngoại kicking everyone's asses at flip cup. 

Scratch that. It didn't take much imagination to see bà ngoại kicking everyone asses now.

"What are you smiling at, child?" Bà ngoại asked with an innocence that fooled absolutely no one.

"The way you're going to totally dominate the canasta table. So, do you need any help moving? I know some big strong guys who owe me a favor or five."

And so it was that all four foot ten of bà ngoại led a procession of current and former hockey players down the halls of the Fern Hill Retirement Community. Lardo wasn't sure what grapevine had been called into play, but all of her bà ngoại's friends had found some reason to pass through that part of the building. 

Later, Lardo would swear she saw one woman fan herself like she was Blanche from the Golden Girls.

If the smugness radiating off of bà ngoại could be converted into energy, all of Boston would be shining like the sun.

Bà ngoại had few enough things that none of the guys had to make more than two trips. Ransom and Holster took their leave as soon as they were done, as did Snowy, but from the look of things, Tater had gotten himself adopted by a couple of elderly Russian widows, while Bitty had locked in on the community's most avid bakers as if he were a butter-seeking missile. She wasn't sure where Jack and Shitty had gone off to, but they could look after themselves.

The larger pieces of furniture had been set where they needed to be with little fuss (except for one carved wooden table which had to be set just so), and all the boxes were placed in the appropriate spots as decreed by Lardo's clipboard.

"Do you need any help unpacking, bà ngoại?"

Bà ngoại waved her off even as she dug into the one box that she had carried herself. "No... actually yes. I would love it if you got my bed made up. I have a few things I need to do before I can call this place home, and then I think I will take a nap."

It didn't take long to find the sheets and make the bad, thanks the clearly labeled boxes. When she returned to the living room, she smiled to see the old photo of her ông ngoại already set up on the carved wood table, right where it belonged, surrounded by the familiar vases, bowls, and incense burner. 

But bà ngoại wasn't done with whatever it was she needed to make this place a home. She held a large framed picture to her chest and was clearly deciding between two possible walls. 

"There, I think," bà ngoại said, pointing to the wall next to the kitchenette. "Can you help me hang this?"

This was a framed picture of a blobby, spiky animal—supposedly a triceratops—in faded pinks, yellows and oranges. It was an unskilled drawing, but Lardo could see the beginnings of a sense of color, of form, of light.

"Yeah," she said, voice thick. "Let's do this."

There was measuring, and marking, and squabbling, and a couple of bent nails, but eventually the picture was up.

"There. Now this is home," bà ngoại declared. Her late husband's photo and her granddaughter's drawing were both where they should be, and apparently that was all it took.

Lardo hugged her gently, remembering when bà ngoại had been the taller one and she was the smaller one. 

Lardo had been Larissa back then, a little girl who had loved dinosaurs almost as much as she loved her bà ngoại.

"Do you remember how you always said you wanted to be a paleontologist when you grew up?"

Lardo sort of remembered that, but what she actually remembered was—

"You always used to get so mad when your parents told people how you used to pronounce it!" bà ngoại said gleefully.

"Arrrgh!" Lardo cringed in embarrassment and tugged at her hair. "They said it was cute! I hate being called cute!" 

The way bà ngoại smiled said that she knew damned well just how much Lardo hated it—and found it cute.

"I remember how much you loved making up stories with your toy dinosaurs. Do you still have that big plush one?"

"Mr. Steggy?" She scoffed. "Heck yeah I still have him!"

"Good. I thought it was a little sad when you stopped being so interested in dinosaurs."

"Mr. Steggy is forever. And now I'm into ducks, which are, like, stealth dinosaurs."

She still remembered the little thrill when she learned that dinosaurs were still around in the form of birds. 

They hadn't gone extinct.

They just weren't what you expected them to turn out to be. But they were still there.

She hugged her bà ngoại goodbye and went to collect her boys.

The others assumed that her thoughtful mood on the way home was due to the idea of moving her grandmother into a retirement community, but that was only part of it.

She thought about all the times her family asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. 

At first, she had wanted to be a paleontologist the way other kids wanted to be astronauts, back when it wasn't the reality of the job you wanted but the cool factor of ACTUAL MONSTERS or SPACESHIPS.

Then, there was the dream of being an artist.

And fuck it, she was an artist. She just also happened to be an equipment manager for a professional hockey team, a job that wasn't in any way, shape, or form on her list of dream jobs at any point ever.

But, via a 'happy accident,' George had mentioned something to Thirdy about needing to train up a replacement for Stu, and Thirdy had said something to Marty, and...

And because a previous 'happy accident' had led her to Jack and a job that got her away from that miserable deep-fryer, here she was.

She had taken to the job like a duck-billed dinosaur to water. It hadn't taken long for the team to take to her. Of course it helped that Jack already loved her, Tater already adored her, Snowy already admired her, and Poots already (rightfully) feared her.

She was jolted out of her musings when Jack pulled up in front of Haus 2.0.

"Later, gator?" Shitty asked. Lardo didn't say anything, but gave him a lingering kiss. 

With training camp starting up soon, it made more sense to crash with Jack and Bitty during the week. In another year, she and Shitty would probably be ready to find a place of their own, so it didn't make sense to move into our out of either place completely.

Jack and Bitty had to go on a grocery run, which Lardo suspected was an excuse to give her some alone time.

Jack was a good bro, really he was.

Lardo let herself into the condo. The picture hanging next to the kitchen pass-through was familiar enough that she didn't usually notice it anymore, but now she stopped to look at it.

Bitty had declared that Still Life With a Fuckton of Jam was one of his favorite graduation presents, and the fact that he hung it by his beloved kitchen said more than a 'thank you' ever could.

She passed by her Junior Show sky-scape as she cut through the living room. She loved that it was owned by someone who saw it being made and who wanted to hang on to the memory of the making of it.

No, this wasn't what she pictured when she thought about being an artist when she grew up, but that dream was still very much alive. Just not in the way she had expected it to be.

It was better. She would never say this out loud, because it would completely nuke her cred, but it was all tangled up in love. 

Even when she was doing work for hire, it was still about the people. She still went to the Macey's used bookstore where the steps she had painted enticed young readers up to a nook furnished with cushions and hidey-holes. And every time, Macey still gushed about how she had wanted a staircase like that in her bookstore ever since she saw one as a child, and now she had the store of her dreams, and wasn't it wonderful?

She was halfway through another commission, this one for a friend of Snowy's who needed a re-do on his mask after getting traded to the Aeros. Jukes was super-psyched about the retro-futurist space-themed design she was doing in the Aeros' silver and red, so psyched Lardo half-suspected that kid-Jukes would have said he wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up (possibly a hockey-playing astronaut—he was Canadian, after all).

Snowy had taken one look at the design and had declared that by the end of the season, Lardo would have a three year waiting list, and that if he weren't so superstitious about his current mask, he'd be next in line after Jukes.

Having another job (one that she loved) gave her the freedom to pick and choose the art she wanted to do the way she wanted to do it and for the people she wanted to do it for. One day, she might be able to do it full time and she really hoped she would get there.

The important thing was, she was an artist. It was an essential part of who she was and who she would be, just like Bitty didn't need to own a bakery to be a baker.

She flopped down on the bed in Jack's guest room (which was already halfway to being 'her' room). She was exhausted enough to want to nap, but too keyed up to do so.

So, she picked up her bedside sketch pad, flipped to a mostly empty page, and began doodling.

She started with a triceratops.

[psychosistr]

Friendly Four Concepts

Had a bit of a rough day a little while ago and, to make myself feel better, I started looking through the various designs that people have come up with for the Negaverse versions of Quackerjack, Megavolt, Liquidator, and Bushroot- AKA, the Friendly Four. My favorite versions are the ones by @thefriendlyfour, @kaguyamadoka, and @sandyferal - seriously go check them out, they’re all amazingly talented and creative people!

Unfortunately, I can’t draw like they can, but I like designing outfits and creating characters and writing, so I made some outfits and bios for my own versions of the Friendly Four that I’ll be writing stories for soon. Bios are below the cut, I hope you guys like them.

Megavolt

Appearance: Being inspired by superheroes in comic books, Megavolt decided he wanted to look like the classic hero that anyone could look up to. The lightning bolts and spark-stars on his outfit are reflective, so they catch the light when he uses his powers. The belt around his waist is actually a cable connected to the large battery in the middle that channels power up through a secret port on his back hidden by his cape (The pockets on the back actually hold his back-up batteries for when his main one needs to recharge). He also wears elbow-length gloves that are the same color as his cape with little metal lightning bolt emblems on the back, wrap-around safety glasses to both protect his eyes from the light he constantly puts off during his attacks as well as to serve as a mask, and blue boots that match the trim of his sleeves with metal plates along the bottoms and the toes. He doesn’t wear any hats or anything, but his powers still make his hair frizzy, so he keeps it cut fairly short so it’s more manageable.

History & Personality: Elmo Sputterspark was very intelligent and always loved inventing things, especially machines that would help the world solve energy and fuel cost-related problems. Similar to the regular universe, a bullying accident with one of his machines gave him amazing electricity-based powers. He spent the day testing out his powers to learn what he could do, when, late at night, he heard screaming coming from the area of the school their prom was being held in. He rushed over and found Negaduck there, terrorizing and attacking their classmates. Elmo fought back to protect them, making sure everyone got away safely. From that moment on, he decided that he wanted to be a hero and fight injustice- especially when it came to tyrants and bullies like Negaduck.

He’s very kind and selfless, often putting the comfort and safety of others far above his own, and enjoys talking about his hobbies and studies for long periods of time with people who are willing to listen. He’s also very cautious with how he uses his powers, both because he doesn’t want to risk draining himself too much and because he is always nervous about hurting someone irreparably (happened early in his hero career and scarred him mentally- does not EVER want to do that again). He does still have memory problems, but he tries to compartmentalize everything in his life into “must remember” “should remember” and “okay not to remember” so that he won’t lose the people and things that are most important to him- namely his three partners.

Inspiration: As a kid, I loved playing with plasma balls. I always thought they were a fun way to learn about electricity and loved the colors. So, I thought it’d be cool to give Megavolt an outfit with plasma-inspired colors and lightning bolt accents.

Quackerjack

Appearance: While his costume isn’t as puffy as his regular-world counterpart’s, he makes up for it by being even more colorful! Still following a sort of clown-theme, Quackerjack’s shoes and cowl are the same style, but the shoes are pink like his belt (almost making them look like ballet slippers but darker) with a big golden bell on the top of each shoe and his cowl is yellow on his right side and blue on his left (going opposite the colors of the fabric around his waist) and still has one large bell on the end of each side. The metal baseball bat he carries is his signature weapon (though that blue pouch on his belt also holds an impressive arsenal of toys and gadgets that seems almost bottomless sometimes and he hides things like jump ropes and larger weapons under the fabric around his hips), and is painted in a diamond tessellation of his outfit’s colors all the way around. The heart-shaped piece of metal on the bat’s hilt at first looks like a magnet meant to hold the red tail-ribbon in place, but, when pressed, it activates propulsion-rockets hidden within the bat that give him extra speed and force when swinging it. Also, Quackerjack enjoys sewing and added the toy-patches on the back of his shirt himself to cover up the holes in his costume from a fight, and gladly adds patches to his teammates’ outfits when they need a repair job done.

History & Personality: Jackson Bell, CEO and founder of Quackerjack Toys, was a well-respected businessman and beloved figure to many for years- he was a community activist, ran many notable charities, and even helped establish several orphanages and children’s hospitals using the proceeds from his company. Unfortunately, when Negaduck’s rule began, he was one of the prominent figureheads in the city that openly spoke out against him. To get him out of the way, Negaduck struck a deal with one the toy company’s biggest competitors and the two managed to frame the CEO for a crime he didn’t commit, locking him away for years and dissolving his company. Jack went a bit crazy in prison, constantly trying to find the brighter side of things, even when one wasn’t really there. At one point he entered a prison-penpal program and met a girl he became very close to- they even started living together when Jack was released from prison. His then-girlfriend helped Jack get his life back in order and helped him find his confidence and sanity again, inspiring him to go out and help others like she helped him. Unfortunately, some rather dark facts about his girlfriend came to light and the two broke up, but Jack still holds out hope that one day they can work things out and she can find a way to be a part of his life again alongside his three new partners.

There are two sides to the toy-loving ex-businessman. When he wears his cowl and hero outfit, Quackerjack is a bright and bubbly individual that loves making puns and laughing about all sorts of things. Outside of the costume, though, Jack is a surprisingly mellow guy with an almost monotone speech pattern- he’ll still crack jokes, but they’ll be said with more sarcasm and dead-pan humor that’ll often make people do a double-take to make sure they heard him right. Despite the glaring differences in his personality, at his core Quackerjack is a very compassionate person that wants to help anyone that seems frightened, lonely, sad, or lost (in any sense of the word). He’s very open and vocal about his feelings, often wearing his heart on his sleeve to varying degrees depending on what state of mind he’s in at the moment.

Inspiration: I went to an art school from 6th-12th grade where I was a theater and musical theater major. During that time, I studied Commedia dell'arte, an early form of Italian theater, and learned about the Harlequin clown character. I decided to base Quackerjack’s outfit off of the classical theater clown’s bright color scheme and more stream-lined clothing style.

Bushroot

Appearance: Similar to how his regular-world counterpart fused with a plant, Dr.Reginald Bushroot in this world infused himself with a  Solanum carolinense. The viney nature of the plant gave him a slightly different appearance with thorn-covered vine-arms, three slightly-pointed oblong leaves for each hand (two longer ones and one shorter one to act as a thumb), an upper body covered in fine hairs that make his green torso a bit fuzzier, legs made of woven vine-roots that he can disassemble and reassemble at will to help him climb objects, and a purple flower on his head like the plant he fused with (one large petal curls downward and covers half of his face like a long set of bangs, the back two petals stick up parallel to the top of his head, and the middle two are halfway between the two levels of elevation, along with a few smaller yellow petals that stick straight up to cover the top of his head in the middle of the larger petals). The jacket he wears was actually a gift hand-sewn by Quackerjack- the sleeves have extra-thick padding so Bushroot doesn’t accidentally stab anyone with his arms and the flower-patch sewn into the back was meant to be a parody of the flower on his head. Bushroot won’t say it out loud, but he really loves that jacket and refuses to take it off unless absolutely necessary, so he often wears it completely unbuttoned to stay cool unless he’s trying to blend in with a crowd.

History & Personality: Dr.Reginald Bushroot was a brilliant botanist at the local university, always striving to make the next big discovery that would improve the lives of those around him. Living in a town run by Negaduck, however, made conducting his research even harder legally, and he was forced to quit his job at the institute to avoid getting his coworkers fired as well. With nothing else to lose, Bushroot experimented on himself in a fit of self-destructive behavior and ended up as a plant-duck mutant. He excitedly showed the results of his research to his former coworkers, only for them to sell him out to Negaduck to save their own jobs (and lives). Barely escaping Negaduck’s clutches, Bushroot grew bitter towards humanity and decided to live away from everyone in the solitary safe-haven of his greenhouse on the outskirts of town where he could be hidden away in the woods.

At first glance, Bushroot seems like a cynical nihilist that hates being around people in any capacity. After opening up to Quackerjack and Megavolt, though, it turns out that he’s really just lonely and tired of being emotionally trampled on by society just for trying to be a good person. With their encouragement, he decides to try helping humanity again as part of their team, though he still maintains that he doesn’t really care what happens to the world. He’s actually a pretty big tsundere and has trouble admitting that he likes (or loves) anyone/anything in his life, but his actions always speak louder than his words and he shows he cares for his partners in little ways like making flowers grow around their rooms and bugging them to take care of themselves when they’re working too hard.

Influence: I actually live in the Carolina’s, where solanum carolinense (otherwise known as Carolina Horsenettle) grows and thought it would be a cool plant for Bushroot to fuse with. Those weeds are nightmares to deal with: The thorns hurt like heck to grab, even with gloves, but you NEED the gloves because the toxins in the thorns make the wounds hurt worse and can even get them infected if you’re not careful. They’re also very tough to pull out because of their strong roots and, worst of all, they grow fruit that looks JUST LIKE tomatoes. That last part may not sound so bad, but, down here, wild tomatoes can occasionally sprout up and kids and pets love them as snacks, and Carolina Horesenettles are actually members of the DEADLY NIGHTSHADE family, so their fruit can be LETHAL. It’s a pretty but deadly plant and really quite fascinating to study.

Liquidator

Appearance: Bud Flood in the negaverse is quite a bit shyer than his regular-world version, so he actually changes the water around his body to look like he’s wearing clothes to feel more confidant. The outfit is similar to what he wore before his mutation, except back then it was black and white with a long-sleeved white shirt beneath the button-up vest and he had shoes instead of a big puddle at the ends of his legs. He can change the hue of his “clothes” by messing with their chemical composition (like how he can turn water hard or move pollutants around in it). The metal accents such as his buttons and belt buckle are actually small bits of ice that he allows to float in place along his body, but he can quickly melt and dissolve them at a moments notice when his body needs to change and reform them instantly when his body returns to its normal state. Also, the bow around his neck is actually a ruffled cravat tied into a bow and the water ripples along it to make little waves at the ends of the bow’s ties.

History & Personality: Along with Jackson Bell, Buddy Flood was one of the other influential figureheads that opposed Negaduck, though he was far less vocal about it. Still, Buddy cared about peoples’ health and well-being and used proceeds from his company to open non-profit free clinics and hospitals as well as soup kitchens for the poor so people could always have access to fresh water and food when they needed it because, sadly, most of the town’s water sources had become polluted, meaning that many people had trouble finding sustenance that wasn’t pre-packaged/bottled. Negaduck grew irritated at Buddy’s continued meddling in his plans to ruin the city so, to get him out of the way, he called in a fake warning that someone was going to poison his company’s water supply. Buddy went with a few guards and officers to investigate, but, when they saw who it was poisoning the water, they all ran away and left Buddy alone. Negaduck caught him and threw him into the contaminated water in hopes of killing him- he even tied weights to his legs to make sure he’d sink. While he didn’t die and instead became a water-based mutant, the incident left Buddy quite scared to face people directly for a while.

Although he is extremely shy and anxious when dealing with other people, Liquidator swallows down his nerves for the sake of helping others in need. As a sort of coping mechanism, Liquidator goes into “salesman mode” when talking to people he doesn’t know or just when he feels nervous in general- by pretending everything he says is for the sake of pitching a sale to someone, Liquidator feels less nervous and is able to get through a sentence without the stuttering that would normally accompany his words. In a way, his manner of speaking serves as a great indicator for how he feels about other people: If he can talk to you like a normal person then he feels comfortable around you, but if he can talk to you like that AND not stutter at all then you’re probably one of his three partners and he loves you with all his heart.

Influence: I honestly just liked the idea of having Liquidator create his own clothes out of water since he seems to know so much about changing its properties and chemical make-up. I feel like in this world, the flow of his water would go upwards from the base of water at his feet rather than the other way around, which is why his pants are darker than his vest- giving him a reverse waterfall effect.

[ends-of-the-wayward-storm]

KH OC Week 2019--Day 2: New World

A Digital Frontier--Part 2

[All right I know I did Tron last time but this is basically my motivation to do the next part. But anyway, this is my first time digitally coloring a drawing of mine so don't be rude (also ignore the hands). I have been thinking about coloring it digitally so I just thought "might as well do it for KH OC Week." And here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this! @khoc-week​.]

(Part 1) (AO3 version)

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

She had to have been here for about a couple hours. Maybe a little more. And in that time there was no sign of Heartless and no sign of that man in white. But there was still those black guards roaming around.

A pair of the robot-like ones was coming her way, and she quickly slipped into a crowd that had just crossed the street. She stole a glance over her shoulder as the group began to shrink, and the guards stopped as they looked in her direction.

Stifling a gasp, she faced forward and strained to listen over the voices for any sign of them approaching her.

A few seconds of silence.

Then a couple more.

And still they remained silent.

Don’t spot me don’t spot me. . . .

“Keep searching,” one of the guards ultimately said before continuing down the sidewalk.

Phew.

She waited a couple seconds before politely making her way to the front of the group. Briskly, she began to put distance between herself and the group. A quick glance over her shoulder told her the guards still hadn’t noticed her.

So far so good.

Facing forward, she replayed her encounter with the guy in white.

What was his name again? It started with a “T. . . .”

Oh right. Tron.

She remembered he had said he was protecting the city from CLU’s guard. So that meant CLU was probably this world’s darkness.

Which meant he might have control over Heartless.

Which meant Tron might need her help.

Okay, so I just need to find him and help him stop CLU.

But where do I even start looking?

Something caught her eye, and she looked up at a digital version of a poster.

A wanted poster.

And apparently she was on it.

“That’s not good.”

A Program walking by also spotted the poster showing Erica from all angles. A few others murmured amongst themselves upon seeing it as well, and the Program glanced to Erica.

“Hey isn’t that. . . .”

“Hmm?” Erica faced him.

“That is you.”

Another one of the robotic guards spotted Erica, and he looked between her and the poster.

Uh oh, Erica thought.

“Halt, Program!”

Instantly Erica darted off.

“ ‘Scuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” she said.

People instantly moved out of the guard’s way as he pursued Erica, and she was quick to disappear after a sharp left.

He just called me a program again. But, why?

“Halt by order of CLU!” he shouted.

A scream from up ahead caused multiple exclamations to flare up. People were beginning to flee as creatures with yellow eyes appeared in the streets, and they set their sights on the Programs.

“Oh no.” Erica immediately summoned Starlight. “Incoming!”

Her Keyblade glowed an icy blue before she hurled it at a few Shadows, destroying them instantly and startling a few Programs in the process.

“Thank you,” a female with a boyish hair style quavered. “But, how did you do that?”

Erica positioned herself between her and the Heartless. “I can’t explain right now. Go get somewhere safe! I can handle them!”

The Program looked between Erica and the Heartless.

“Halt, by order of CLU!” an incoming guard ordered, who was now accompanied by backup.

“I-I’ll get help!” the Program stammered before rushing off along with everyone else.

Erica reaffirmed her stance as the guards closed in on her. A neon yellow-ish green Heartless swatted at her, and she parried the blow before whacking it into its own. She summoned a barrier as a large neon purple Heartless fired at her. The guards split their attention between her and the Heartless, but they pulled back just as flares of light burst forth from the barrier.

An orange diamond-shaped Heartless fired at her several times, and Erica narrowly avoided the shots. She blocked an incoming staff and kicked the guard back before darting away from another staff, and she felt her hair stand on end.

“Wind!”

The guards and the smaller Heartless were thrown back, the latter releasing hearts upon being destroyed. Taking aim at the guards, the purple Heartless fired multiple times, and they were quick to flee. A green cannon aimed for Erica, and she coated her Keyblade with lightning before throwing it, sending its cannonball hurtling right for the purple Heartless.

Something sliced her shoulder, pulling a yelp out of her. She locked onto a guard catching his disc, but before she could retaliate, the purple Heartless began to swing its arms madly at her. Erica barely raised a barrier in time, wincing with every hit it sustained as the green cannon joined in on the barrage. But nonetheless, the light flares warded the Heartless back.

“Thunder!”

Powerful bolts of lightning destroyed all the remaining Heartless, and one cut it close to one of the guards. Erica ducked away from an incoming disc before blocking a staff. Blows were blocked and exchanged, and slowly, Programs began to peer into the scene.

“Hey those things are gone.”

“She’s gonna get derezzed!”

“Where’s the Renegade when you need him?”

Derezzed? And who’s the Renegade? Erica wondered.

Footsteps came running from behind her, and she darted out of the way just in time to see one of the guards electrocute and knock out his own. But before he could begin to process what had happened, Erica smacked the guard’s head with her Keyblade, rendering him unconscious.

Hearing something whiz toward her, she raised her Keyblade to block an orange disc. But moments later a guard rammed his electrified staff into her chest.

Programs gasped as she was knocked onto her back, and an air of silence shrouded over the area as Erica remained still.

But she wasn’t down for long.

Erica struggled to push herself up, and she barely managed to cast Reflect in time to block an orange disc again.

A guard charged forward, and with a loud grunt Erica shot to her feet and locked weapons with him. She grimaced as he pushed against her, and he gradually began to overpower her. And the slight lightheadedness wasn’t helping, either.

Thinking fast, Erica slammed her heel onto the guard’s foot before darting behind him, just barely avoiding an incoming kick meant for her. With one whack the guard was out, and she whirled around to face the last guard.

He threw his disc at her that she deflected, leading the duo to ultimately switch places. Erica readjusted her grip on Starlight as she assumed her stance.

Silence hung thick in the air as everyone held their breath.

The guard intensely watched her, and Erica narrowed her eyes.

Abruptly the two charged for each other as the guard whipped out a baton of sorts. At the last second a blade of light emitted from it, and Keyblade and sword clanged against each other. The guard easily began to overpower her, and Erica found her knees beginning to bend.

Come on! You can do this!

She tapped into any strength she could muster to push back, but the shock from before still lingered. She couldn’t fight back no matter how much she willed herself to.

Smack!

The guard suddenly froze, and Erica stepped back with a breath as he dropped to the ground. Standing over him with her own baton was the Program that had gone to get help.

“Thank you,” Erica said, relieved. She casted a quick cure spell over herself before dismissing her Keyblade. Some of her energy was restored, but she could still feel the tiniest bit of the shock in her muscles. And her chest was sore. “Is everyone okay?”

“You just took down CLU’s guard!” a Program said. “And those things!”

“What were they?” another asked.

“They’re called Heartless,” Erica replied.

“Are they a virus?” the armed female asked.

“Not exactly, but they’re still dangerous.”

The armed Program looked to the fallen guards. “You should run before they wake up.”

“Oh, right. Everyone be careful, okay?”

“That’s gonna be impossible with CLU in the city,” a Program remarked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll try to help stop CLU in any way I can.”

“Wait. Y-you’re with Tron?”

“Um, kind of? I’m actually trying to—”

A few of the guards began to stir, making the Programs step back in fear.

“Hurry before they wake up!” the armed female urged.

“Right. You guys should run, too,” Erica said.

All of the Programs were quick to flee, but the one that had knocked out the last guard lingered.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Erica replied.

Erica and the Program went their separate ways, and she risked a glance over her shoulder before hiding behind a corner.

I really need to find Tron before the Heartless start multiplying.

~ ~ ~

Somewhere far from Argon in a hidden area of the Grid, someone was watching over everything.

He had witnessed a “Program” come to his successor’s aid with no hesitation. He had also just witnessed her actions of defending the people and stopping the so-called viruses. He wondered if they were remnants from that hooded virus that had appeared once. It was doubtful, but he couldn’t be sure just yet.

For now, however, he would continue to observe.

[Yeah this one was getting long, too, so I split it into a third part that will eventually lead to more parts. I'll probably get around to them at some point.]

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

(Part 1) (AO3 version)

[spectrumscribe]

i got u dude. mikey picking fights when he knows he wont win or mikey feeling like he isn't really contributing to the group (hope you feel better btw)

rottmntverse human au because that makes this even more fun :3c

((trigger warning for a brief homophobic slur, avoidable if you look for the paragraph becoming italics.))

In Mikey’s opinion, it doesn’t make sense. He reasons thatpeople should want to avoid startingfights with the biggest guy in the room, not actively try and do just that.

Raph isn’t the one who ever starts it. Donnie sometimesstarts things, mostly by just being his lovable prickly self, and occasionallyLeo blunders through a conversation badly enough someone has steam coming outof their ears about whatever dumb thing he’s said this time. Raph, though?

Raph doesn’t pick fights. Fights pick him.

It sucks, because Mikey knows that even though Raph is big,and a little awkward, and kind of intimidating if you don’t know him- Mikey’s oldest sibling would rather just get along with everyone. Wants to, even.

It’s probably because none of them fit the mold, the four ofthem. The only other person they hang out with is April. Mikey is fairlycertain half the reason people get pissed off at them is because they just.Don’t need anyone else.

Or maybe they’re just assholes, jostling and elbowing Raph inthe subway station they all have to share. Leo ditched school halfway throughthe day to go see Donnie at hisschool, which is the university halfway across the city. It’s just Mikey andRaph here today, waiting for the train, trying to wait out the snide remarks andcomments and rude as hell insinuations. No one is even noticing Mikey, sinceRaph made himself a barrier between Mikey and everyone else.

Mikey doesn’t even know what it is today. Why this ishappening at all. It’s Friday, theyall definitely have better stuff to do.

He’d had his earbuds in before this started, swaying to his private concert while he waited next to Raph, but he took them out the second he noticed shit starting to happen. Mikey is listening, and growingfrustrated, and hating every new minute they spend standing here. Raph says toignore them, they’ll lose interest eventually. (They never do.) They don’t haveto stoop to their level, says Donnie, like the hypocrite he is. (Donnie would fistfight older students in uni over scientific theory if he could.) They don’t wantto draw any more attention to themselves than they already do, says Leo, whenhe’s sobered from his bravado of keeping an air of lazily not caring. (Leo and his barest hints of mascara and meticulous eyeliner, Raph and his little sewing crafts in his backpack, Mikey and hisglittery binders he couldn’t resist getting and now regret having done so, for the eyes that stare and stare and stare at them all.)

Someone shoves Raph hard enough he stumbles backwards,knocking into Mikey and nearly toppling them both. Their train still isn’there. None of the adults waiting for it look like they’re going to step in. Everything about this sucks.

Mikey has to jump away to avoid Raph’s wrong footed retreat; his brother,though he’s at least a head taller than everyone here, keeping his clenched fistsat his sides as some jerk Mikey doesn’t know tries to physically push Raph intolashing out.

And Raph won’t,because he can’t, it wouldn’t matterthat he’d been goaded into it, everyone would blame him and wouldn’t ever lethim forget that he’d hit back. Onceit’s done, it won’t ever go away, and no one knows that better than Raph himself.

So his fists stay by his sides, and the split second they’reraised it��s to block a punch aimed at his chest. Raph’s expression is tight andangry, trapped like he is as the crowd of boys press closer, taking turnsshoving him, calling out names, laughing at his lack of reaction. You scared? Are you scared? You even got anythingdown there, or did ya get ‘em chopped off like your fag brother-?

The biggest kid, next to Raph, winds up to throw anotherpunch, and Mikey can already tell that it’s going to make contact with hisbrother’s face.

Raph doesn’t pick fights.

Sometimes, when he has to, though… Mikey does.

He’s half the size of everyone else, maybe smaller, but hisknuckles still impact against the asshole’s jaw and sends him reeling. Mikey shriekswordlessly and throws himself at the crowd of bullies, knowing he’s got theedge of surprise and nothing else. For a few seconds, he manages to hold hisown.

Then, someone with a lot more muscle mass than him socks himacross the face, then the stomach, and Mikey chokes on his own spit.

He breathlessly tries to keep going, but he’s thirteen andeveryone here is fifteen and older. Not to mention outnumber him almost a dozento one.

It’s a blur of pain for a minute there, fireworks of lightflashing behind his eyelids every time someone punches him. Fists and feet hittingwhatever they can of his skinny body. Then, something grabs him by the collar,and pulls him out of the fray with strength far greater than anyone else’s.

The guy who started it all swims in Mikey’s vision, rightbefore a big shape obscures it and picks him up with ease.

Mikey coughs on the blood of his swelling nose, and staresalong with everyone else as Raph holds their leader almost a foot off theground.

“Gonna say this once,”Raph growls out. “Piss off, or I throw you on the tracks.”

He drops the other kid, tossing him away a few extra feetfor good measure. The asshole lands poorly and has to be dragged to his feet byhis friends, wide eyes staring at Raph as he folds his arms and glares.

Their train finally arrives, coming up to the platform withthe usual shrill sound of its braking. What few other people that’d beenwitness to the whole fight stow their phones and get into the train cars,sensibly getting away.

Mikey and Raph reach for each other at the same time, andboard the train, too.

Raph’s bullies don’t follow.

“You gotta stop doin’ that, Mike,” Raph scolds anxiously,pressing another band-aid over a cut Mikey hadn’t noticed himself getting in thefight. “You don’t have to get caught up in that shit. I can take it. You’re gonna break yourhand one’a these days and then where’re you gonna be? You can’t do art if youcan’t use your hands.”

“Eh, I’d be fine. It’ll be a good time to try feet art,” Mikey says, sitting on their bathroom counter while Raph half-kneels, not even wincingas his banged up knee is taken care of. He’d almost ended up on the floorduring the fight, which could’ve had the whole thing go way worse for him. He’s lucky he got out of that with just a fewdark bruises and bloody scrapes, even if they’re turning nasty purple and redcolors against his dark skin.

Raph glares at him, mouth in a terse frown. Mikey pretendsnot to notice, and puts a cheerily colored band-aid on his brother’s cheek. It’sgot a fading bruise from a different fight still, now mottled with yellow, and Mikeyfeels a little lonely, being the only one in the room with bright littlepatches all over himself.

Raph doesn’t even try to move away from the band-aid as it’sapplied to his face. He just sighs long-sufferingly, like all of Mikey’s olderbrothers do sometimes, whenever he’s done something like this.

“You can’t keep pickin’ fights you won’t win,” Raph says,staring hard at Mikey’s bruised face. He looks so sad it makes Mikey sad, too. Whichwon’t do at all.

Mikey gently slaps his hands on either side of Raph’s face,and grins. “I only pick ‘em ‘cause I’m with you guys, and if I’m with you guys I’llalways win. Four against whatever, plus one when we got April. Sostop being a sadsack already and feel loved ‘cause I’m willing to punch stupidpeople in the face for you.”

Mikey’s smile is opening the split lip he’s got all overagain, but it’s worth it to see a hint of an echoing smile twitch on Raph’s face.

“Stupid,” Raph mumbles as he ducks away from Mikey’s hands,and Mikey doesn’t comment on the gloss his brother’s eyes have before he rubsat them. Mikey just hums and leans on Raph’s head with his elbows, idlythinking about changing the slivers of red wraps around his brother’s longdreads again. Maybe using a brighter red this time instead of a subdued maroon.

It might be something akin to waving a red flagin front a bull, but Mikey doesn’t mind playing bullfighter if it’s for hisbrothers.

if you’d spare some change to a writer who’s trying to build up finances after not getting paid for nearly three months, spec’s kofi tip jar would appreciate it,,

[filmfanatic82]

AO3 Link (HERE)

Chapter 5: ...Sometimes I Wish She Was You

“Where the hell have you been?”

Trini cringes as Tommi’s voice booms across the semi-crowded bar, causing a few of the patrons to turn around and stare. She zig-zags her way through the pockets of people and then plops herself down in the free stool at the bar in front of Tommi.

Trini goes to open her mouth, but before she even utters a single word, Tommi reaches across the bar and grabs hold of her mangled hand. “And what the fuck happened to your hand?!”

“It’s nothing,” Trini mumbles pulling her hand back from Tommi and tucking it against her chest.

“That’s not nothing.” Tommi ducks down beneath the bar and a moment later surfaces with an ice pack. She wraps a towel around it and slides it across to Trini. “I know what that is. You promised me, Small Fry.”

Shit.

Of course. Tommi would go there. It’s Tommi. She doesn’t believe in sugar coating nor holding back… Especially when it comes to anything involving Trini and self-inflicted injuries.

Tommi’s middle name should be “tough love”.

And that’s the real crux of the reason why Trini has dragged herself to the bar tonight instead of just heading back to Mamji and Bapu’s house… Or skipping town altogether.

She needs a dose of Tommi.

Trini begrudgingly accepts the ice pack, letting out a sigh as she does. “I know… I… I just had a moment. That’s all. I swear.”

Tommi studies Trini’s face for a moment or two searching for any telltale indications that she needs to dig deeper, then--

“You were missed tonight.”

“Doubt it.”

“Fine. Don't believe me,” Tommi replies with her signature, nonchalant draw. She sets up two shot glasses, pulls out a bottle of Titos, and pours some very generous sized shots. “But it’s the truth.”  

Oh… It’s gonna be one of those kinds of conversations. The Titos fueled, knock back shots until every feeling within their body is entirely and utterly numbed, kind.

Trini downs the shot in one go, only giving the slightest of winces as the alcohol burns its way through her body. “How was it?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

Tommi lines up another round of shots for them both and then lets out a weighted sigh. “A total shitshow.”

“Seriously?”

Tommi nods, knocking back the next shot like a seasoned pro. “Well, it was going fine until Zack decided to go and be an idiot.”

“What’d he do?”

“Mentioned you.”

Trini raises an eyebrow at this response. “Me?”

“Kim’s kid was bouncing off the walls, asking about where you were and why you weren’t at dinner. And everyone was skirting around the topic, like one big ass elephant in the room. But then, of course, my genius of a boyfriend decides to mention that you weren’t there because of Kim.”

“Oh shit,” Trini quietly responds passing back her shot glass to Tommi.

“Oh, shit is right. That freakin’ kid started with the rapid-fire questions, which only caused the whole damn dinner to get even more awkward. Then, to add fuel to the fire, Kim’s d-bag finance decided to go and make a shitty ass biphobic comment which set off Jason and Bapu. He’s such a fuckin’ tool. The guy didn’t even offer to--”

“What’s he say?” Trini asks cutting Tommi off mid-sentence.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Tommi…”

Tommi refills the shot glasses yet again, this time pouring a little extra in each one. “He referred to yours and Kim’s relationship as just a phase and that Kim isn’t really bi because--”

“Cause she’s with a man,” Trini mumbles in no more than a whisper of a voice. Her eyes roam down towards her shot glass as silence settles between the two of them.

Phase.

Just a temporary stopover in the land of queers before headin’ back to hetero-ville.

Is that all she really is to Kim? Some awkward moment in her history of past relationships that is only brought up after a few too many drinks?

Is that why Kim decided to up and--

“Stop that.”

Trini snaps out of her thoughts at the sound of Tommi’s voice. “What?”

“You know what.” Tommi runs her hands through her unruly mop of curls as a look of pseudo sisterly concern crosses her face. “The guy’s a douche. End of story.”

“A douche that Kim’s gonna marry.” Trini swallows hard as her words linger in the air.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Tommi reaches over across the bar and gently places her fingertips under Trini’s chin, lifting the smaller girl’s head until their eyes meet. “Hey. Look at me. It… Doesn't… Matter… Got it?”

Trini gives the smallest of nods as a hint of a smile crawls across her face. “Got it.”

“How’s the hand,” Tommi asks while downing her last shot.

Trini gingerly removes the ice pack and flexes her swollen fingers. “Okay. I guess.”

“Good.” Tommi grabs a nearby bar rag and tosses it at Trini. “Now get your ass behind this bar and give me a hand.”

“Why me?”

“Cause I need a barback and my idiot of a boyfriend isn’t going to turn up any time soon.”

“Post-dinner Mario Kart marathon?”

“What else would they be doing? It’s--”

“Tradition.” Trini exhales as she picks up the rag, tossing it over over her shoulder in a way that screams that this isn’t her first barbacking stint. “Fine. But this time I’m keeping my tips.”

“Deal,” Tommi replies with a flash of a welcoming smile and then lifts the bar divider up to let the smaller Latina in.  

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Two hours later and Trini can more than feel the tequila coursing through her veins. She’s currently residing in the narrow sweet spot between slightly buzzed and full on hammered and has no intentions of leaving it anytime soon. It’s one of the very few places where her nagging array of conflicting emotions can’t seem to penetrate.

“Any chance can I get a Fireball on the rocks?”

Trini doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge the voice, before reaching for the bottle of whiskey and pouring a generously sized glass. She’s too much in the drink-slinging groove. Order. Mix. Pour. Serve and repeat.

“That’ll be…” Trini trails off as she turns around, drink in hand, and comes face to face with a mysterious, green-eyed woman smiling back at her.

Fuuuck.

It’s her type.

Not that Trini really has a type. At least not when sober.

But after downing a few rounds of Titos or Grey Goose, Trini always seems to find her type. The type that has wavy raven hair and a strong liking for leather jackets.

The type that as Zack has lovely dubbing throughout the last few years as the “pink clones”.

“Here you go,” Trini replies with a hint of a smirk as she slides the tumbler across the bar towards the woman.

“Thanks.” The woman takes a seductively long sip, never once taking her eyes off of Trini. “You new here?”

“Nah. Just helping out for the night. I’m friends with the owners.”

“Only the night?”

Trini nods unable to pull her attention away from the woman. “Yup. I’m a one night only sorta deal.”

“Good to know,” the woman hums in response and takes another long draw of her whiskey. “And where will you be tomorrow?”

“Hopefully as far away from here as humanly possible.”

“Not a fan of Angel Grove?”

“One too many bad memories.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of them as the woman continues to sip on her drink, eyes wandering over every inch of Trini as she does.

That look.

Trini knows that look.

That look is nothing but “wake up with a raging hangover and wonder what the hell happened last night” kinda trouble.

...And truthfully, it’s the kind of trouble that Trini is so desperately craving right about now.

“Well, I think we should change that.” The woman polishes off what’s left in her glass and then ever so slowly rises to her feet, allowing for Trini to get a full view of her as she does. This isn’t her first rodeo. She knows exactly what she’s doing. “Want to go make a good memory?”

Trini gives a quick glance over at Tommi, who’s wrapped up serving a more hoard of semi-drunk patrons at the other end of the bar, and then back at the woman as a devilish smirk slides across her lips. “What’d you have in mind?”

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shiiit.

Trini’s gonna regret this in the morning. She always does. Never fails.

But as for right now…

Now, it feels good. No. Scratch that. It feels fuckin’ fantastic.

Trini haphazardly navigates their bodies through the shadowy back alleyway as a set of lips lay claim to every inch of available skin she has to offer, leaving their mark with each and every nip. She backs herself up against a nearby brick wall for support and then closes her eyes, freely allowing the older woman to have at her as she sees fit.

Trini’s eyes are always closed. Regardless of who it is and what they are doing.

Not because she wants it that way… No. It’s just easier. Easier to ignore the obvious. That the woman in front of her is merely a “close enough” substitute for the one person, she can no longer have.

“Is… This… Okay?” The woman asks as she ravishes Trini’s body, leaving a trail of markings in her wake.

Trini gives a quick nod in response, shutting her eyes even tighter than before. “More than okay.”

“Good.”

Trini rests her head against the wall as a wave of conflicting pleasure mixed with emotional pain washes over her. She entwines her fingers into the woman’s messy raven locks, guiding her downwards along her body with one, crystal clear intention in mind.

As the sound of Trini’s zipper being undone slowly fills the alleyway, a single wish pops into her mind, temporarily blocking out all other invading thoughts and feelings.

There’s nothing more in the world that she wants than for Kimberly to feel just an ounce of the constant pain and heartache that she’s had to suffer through day in and day out for the last five years.

A brief, but noticeable white hot twinge of pain lights up against Trini’s hip, right where the bunched up front of her jeans connect with her body. It only lasts a second. Not even long enough to force Trini to open her eyes.

And then, it’s gone. Immediately replaced by the all too familiar sensation of Trini’s core combusting into flames.

All that’s left behind is a tiny, faint yellow glow, radiating out from the corner of Trini’s front jean pocket.

[baepsaetan]

Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11 -> read on Ao3

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Swearing, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, eventual smut, main character death. 

Length: 9.8k

A/N: Sorry it took so long to post, everyone! The next couple of chapters will come more quickly, I promise. This is where the angst tag really starts coming into play, just as an fyi, but this may be one of my fave chapters so far. As ever, thanks for reading!

Grey and uncertain, the sky reflects Hoseok’s mood perfectly. He’s grateful it isn’t anywhere near as cold as it was last week, but the muted lighting makes it hard to keep alive the hope and positivity he’s keeping in his thoughts. Given that he’s made up his mind to listen to Yoongi, to try and understand where he’s coming from without the heavy weight of fear, he needs to keep himself optimistic. Bad enough that nervousness is fizzing in his stomach, making every step a challenge; he doesn’t want to deal with doubts about this whole meeting on top of that.

There are a lot of people on the street, far, far more than usual – in fact, Skymont has been closed to traffic, and pedestrians spill onto the road. Jimin had told him to expect it, and it does makes sense; the festival officially opened an hour or so ago, so of course Skymont is flooded with the curious. A multitude of lights have been strung up, unnoticed during his last daylight visit, flung with hap hazardous glee over trees, street lights and buildings. They mostly lean towards soft blues and whites – the colour scheme of the festival – but the occasional splash of Christmas red and green makes for some blaring dashes among the softer shades. Everywhere he looks, there are signs for various activities, some taking place outside and some indoors. A bake sale, an ice sculpting contest, fireworks at twelve, warm drinks here and a costume contest there. It’s overwhelming, but in a way that makes him grin.

He deliberately – of course – arrived really early, so he takes a few minutes to record some of the antics of the various people lining the road. Nothing fancy, just on his phone, but he likes catching a few seconds of an older man bringing a tray of hot coffees to his friends, kids hurtling snowballs at each other, a couple admiring the snowflake decorations of one of the stores. It’s not until that same couple lean in to kiss that Hoseok stops, nearly dropping his phone in his haste to keep from getting the intimate moment in the shot.

His hot blush is fueled by embarrassment, but the spots of colour speak of something more uncomfortable, too, and he decides that’s probably enough filming for the moment. It’s close to the time to meet, anyways, and impatience is warring so fiercely with trepidation that he’s almost afraid he’ll blink and find himself late by ten minutes or more. Unable to bear that particular scenario, Hoseok decides to thread through the crowds of people towards the Born Tiger.

He ends up being fifteen minutes early, but as it happens, that doesn’t matter. A small form – with a thicker beanie and gloves, though in the same jean jacket – is lounging against the glass, the tiger art hovering over him. Someone’s given the fierce striped beast a Santa Clause hat, complete with a little bell, and Hoseok can’t tell if the addition is a decal or something else. He’s a bit preoccupied, anyways, his previously urgent steps dragging into near stillness as he observes Yoongi.

The other man has his arms folded across his chest, is staring unmoving at the sidewalk. Hoseok doesn’t know why he feels so certain that there’s something strained and wild fighting in Yoongi – his quiet body gives no signs of turbulence – but the certainty is gut deep and it makes him wary. Wary and sad and worried. He just wishes he could figure out what’s tearing the artist apart, so he could help him hold together.

Before he’s anywhere near Yoongi’s line of sight, the man’s head jerks up, his gaze unerringly snapping to where Hoseok’s abruptly halted. Hoseok searches his expression, tries to focus on his pale, welcoming smile – but he can’t see anything beyond the two dark, sickly yellow splotches on his face. One, almost perfectly in the center of his forehead, is the size of a palm. The other, smaller but darker, a mottled collection of green and yellow, clings to his gaunt cheekbone and just skirts the edge of his eye. The bruises aren’t anywhere near as bad as they must have been at first, but they still don’t look great. And overall, Yoongi – he doesn’t look like he’s eaten or slept much in the last week.

Hoseok finds his feet moving again, heart wrenching, and he practically stumbles over himself getting closer. “What happened to you?” he demands, his politely scripted greeting thrown out the window. He’s seen bruises on Yoongi – the artist almost always has some collection of ghastly purple or faded yellow marks on his arms or legs – but never on his face before. It makes his sunken cheeks and wan skin stand out even more.

“You should see the other guy,” Yoongi says, and when Hoseok starts scowling, raises his hands. “No, I’m kidding. I was in the dark a few nights ago, and tripped. Just hit my face on the side of a counter and then on the floor on my way down. It looks worse than it is.”

Given the colour of the bruises, Hoseok can’t help but doubt that it happened a few nights ago. He believes that Yoongi could have fallen, but something tells him it was a week ago, last Friday night. Which would explain why Yoongi’s lying. His heart is beating too fast, too lightly, and the surge of concern has nearly wiped out his awkwardness – but not his anxiety. “You’re okay though?” he asks tightly, skipping over the lie in favour of making sure of that.

The artist shrugs. “No,” he replies, which makes Hoseok’s heart seize up altogether. Swallowing, Yoongi licks his lips before he meets Hoseok’s gaze. It’s painful how hard he obviously has to work to manage it. “My face is fine. It’s just – uh, I’ve just missed you, Hobi. And I’ve been thinking about what I said, and how I – I really was an asshole. And how I should apologize for that. So this week has just been, uh… rough.”

Judging by his wretched condition, that seems like an understatement, but it summons such a wave of guilt and compassion that Hoseok is struck speechless – and the outright honesty doesn’t help him summon any words, either. Yoongi ducks his head, his hand finding his neck. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It’s not – you don’t need to feel bad or anything. It’s not your fault. I just… I didn’t want to lie about it. It’s kind of obvious, right?” He laughs hollowly. “Even some of my regulars commented, so I figured it’d be dumb to try to hide.”

“Why… why would you hide it anyways?” Finally he manages to get his paralyzed tongue to move, and he even succeeds in making his voice soft despite wanting to shout the question.

Yoongi shifts his weight, mumbles something under his breath before his eyes pull back up. “Because,” he says more clearly, “it’s kind of pathetic that I can’t get my shit together, and I just thought it’d freak you out. So yeah, I’m not really stoked to have to tell you.”

“It’s not pathetic, Yoongi.” His fierce rejection surprises even him, but Hoseok pushes on. “Having a rough week doesn’t make you pathetic, at all. And yeah, I don’t like hearing that you’re not doing great, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk to me! I’m glad you told me, I want you to tell me about it. That’s – seriously Yoongi, that’s all I want. I want to hear about your problems and I want to help you fix them and I want you to stop shutting me down every time I try.” The words spill out of him in quick agitation, pulled by Yoongi’s bruises, by his mere presence.

By Hoseok’s realization that he’s so, so glad to be near Yoongi again, and that he doesn’t want to have to leave.

“Wow.” They’re standing close together, the space of moments before forgotten, and Yoongi breathes a shaky laugh. “I had a plan for getting to this part of the conversation, you know. It was supposed to be in like an hour, after we talked about your exams and I made fun of Tae’s pet cactus.”

They’ve completely hurtled off the script, the wild rush of emotion boiling over, but Hoseok doesn’t care. Even his anxiety is drained, leaving only a hot determination to – as Namjoon said – shake some sense into the artist. “I was at least supposed to say hey before I started giving you hell, right? But, uh – I dunno where to fit in my own apology now.”

That puts a furrow between Yoongi’s eyebrows. “Your apology?”

“Yeah. You’re definitely not the only one. I’m sorry for calling you an, uh, asshole, and I’m sorry for caring more about the feelings of some person I’ve never met than yours. I – I’ve been thinking about this, and I guess I shouldn’t care so much if I have a soulmate or not. You were right. I… I wanted something that’s easy. That I can have without anything complicated being involved. But…” He trails off, fumbling futilely for the right thing to say.

Yoongi tilts his head, his eyes a swirl of dark ink drawing light. “Sometimes,” he proposes softly, “if shit is too easy, it’s not really worth having.”

“Yeah…” Hoseok takes a deep breath. “Something like that. I’m not – I can’t lie and say I’m totally cool with this thing.” His hand presses to his chest, indicating the currently obscured marking. “I mean, it’s been looking weird and wilting and dropping petals all week and I’m kind of scared of what that means for whoever’s on the other side.”

The inhalation from the other man is so sharp it makes him jump a little, and Yoongi’s blanched face does even more to set his heart jolting. “What?” he asks hurriedly, his concerns about his soulmate forgotten in a sudden spike of panic. “Are you okay? You look–”

“I’m fine,” Yoongi cuts in, and indeed colour is rapidly flooding back into his skin in the form of a flush. “I… actually got a new tattoo this week, and I put too much pressure on it. That’s all.”

“Wah, really?” His empathy isn’t quite buying that Yoongi isn’t in pain – there’s something distinctly unsettled about the artist – but he thinks it’s probably just a face-saving show. “What’d you get? Where?”

Yoongi clasps the inside of his forearm, right below his elbow. “It’s just – a sun. Y’know… round. A sun.”

That is so distinctly undescriptive that Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Did it go well? Do you like it? Can I see it?”

“Not right now,” Yoongi snaps, and then visibly forces himself to relax. “Sorry. It’s just healing right now, with the scabs and – you know, damn ugly. Probably better if you see it later. I do think it went well, though.” He pauses, his gaze turning reflective. “I… guess I like it, too. At least, I think it was something I needed.” Another pause, and then he exhales. “Do you wanna walk? There’s this side street that’s hosting an art galley kind of thing that might be cool to look at. I did promise to show you the best parts of the festival, you know.”

“I remember,” Hoseok says, and he can’t help but smile, just a little. “With the video and the apology and the invitation.”

Gloved hand covering his face, Yoongi groans. “Fuck, that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I just –”

“It wasn’t stupid. It was actually kind of cute. Clever, too. I mean, the lighting was terrible, and I don’t know what the director was thinking with that camera angle, but the script made it pretty good. Plus, the actor wasn’t hard on the eyes.” He laughs at Yoongi’s growl, and barely feels it when the other punches him on the shoulder.

There it is again. The vertigo of falling, without the terror of the eventual crash. All tingling weightlessness and heart-in-throat exhilaration. Like dancing but with less tangible effort. He hasn’t even really discussed either of their issues, they haven’t come to any kind of resolution, but every particle in Hoseok’s body is okay with that. It was easy to agonize over their differences and misunderstandings when he was away from Yoongi – it’s far, far easier to forget about them like this.

And then forget that this is falling, and not flying.

He sets his teeth, reins in his laughter. “We do still need to talk, Yoongi.”

His friend – surprisingly – doesn’t stop smiling, though the gummy grin does dim a little. “You’re right. But let’s walk and talk, okay? And first, you should fill me in on how your exams went. We can grab some hot chocolate or something and take a look at all the shit that Namjoon’s worked so hard to pull together.”

Though he faintly suspects Yoongi is stalling, they’ve got at least a couple more hours together. Plenty of time to get through the hard stuff, and frankly, Hoseok isn’t exactly enthusiastic about beginning that, anyways. He agrees to the suggestion, and shortly finds himself being pulled through the packed streets, Yoongi clinging to his hand to “make sure he doesn’t get lost in all the useless people.” His grip doesn’t loosen even in areas where the crowds thin, but Hoseok finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

The first stop is a food vendor – there are at least twenty of them spread out on Skymont – that Yoongi claims is his favourite, and it shortly becomes clear why. The man behind the stand makes an assortment of simple, hot drinks, and about half of the menu happens to be alcoholic. Yoongi gets a spiced Irish coffee, and Hoseok tries out hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua. It’s pleasingly sweet, and as their pace slows down a little to enjoy the drinks, Hoseok talks meanderingly about the last week. He’s careful to avoid speaking about how he’d plunged into studying to avoid the bleakness saturating everything he looked at. He doesn’t mention the way his mood had plummeted so badly it was like everything turned grey.

He keeps to lighter topics, but somehow, in the way Yoongi’s gaze lingers on him, he thinks the other man knows. It’s a relief to push through that area of discussion and start talking about other things as they come to the art show.            

The makeshift gallery is outside, set up on one of the smaller streets branching from Skymont. The sidewalk’s been studiously swept clean of snow and other debris, and pale cloth drapes across the buildings, forming a roof that shelters the little avenue. Lights are evident here, too, some of them the blue and white of the festival but mostly brighter lamps that cast warm illumination over all of the art pieces. Yoongi explains it was a toss up whether they’d have it outside or not, but with the weather report showing no signs of snow or rain, it was decided that outside would be better. Hoseok agrees. There’s something breathtaking about stepping into the sheltered but open street, about being removed from the frantic hustle of the rest of the festival.

There aren’t as many people here, and Skymont employees keep the peace, asking everyone not to run but otherwise giving people free rein. As they approach the nearest stand, a couple of erected walls hung with paintings, Hoseok asks, “Don’t you have any examples of your tattoos set up here, Yoongi?”

“Actually, yeah,” his companion says with a grimace. “They’re further on. Jin hyung made me put the collection together – even paid for someone to stand around, since I wasn’t going to. I guess it’s good for advertising or something. It’s just the usual, though, nothing special.”

“For someone incredibly talented, you sure say “just” a lot,” Hoseok observes idly, his eyes on the gallery. This first installation is themed on natural destruction, most of the paintings incorporating rockslides, tornadoes, waves and the like.

Yoongi seems drawn to a painting of a wildfire, the brilliant tongues of red and orange so vivid Hoseok can practically feel the heat devouring the trees. His companion stares at it for awhile before he says, “Do I really use it that much?”

“Mmhm. All the time. Usually to make it seem like whatever you’re saying isn’t important.” They’re at a strangely calm point, almost but not quite detached from each other, and it makes it easier to point out something that’s been bothering him for as long as he’s known Yoongi. The other man wields “just” like an ax, and it’s always himself that he’s cutting down. “A lot of your stuff really isn’t just the usual, y’know.”

Glancing at Hoseok sidelong, Yoongi snorts, “Says the expert who’s never had a tattoo before.”

“Yah, I thought about it when I was younger, seriously! Do you know how much it would have pissed off my parents? I looked at a ton of them back then. Besides, I have a good eye for that stuff.”

“Sure, sure. Anyways, my tattoos are okay, I guess, but they’re not the best. I just–”

“There, see?”

“…I just don’t think they’re a big deal,” Yoongi finishes pointedly, and they begin to wander from the first stand. It’s not only paintings or drawings on display; there are sculptures, glasswork, jewelry and other more exotic exhibitions, and Yoongi chooses one of the craftwork examples to look at next.

While considering a little flower made by folding and crumpling tissue paper, Yoongi looks over at him. “Is this one of those talking points we’re both looking forward to?”

It takes Hoseok a moment to realize what he means; when he does, he shrugs. “I dunno. I guess… can I ask why you don’t like saying any of your stuff is good?”

His long fingers are strikingly delicate as they pick up the flower, and Yoongi hardly seems aware of the man hovering on the other side of the table. Still gentle, the artist turns the flower so that light shines through the thin tissue paper, changing the colour just a little. “I don’t really know. I mean… look at my life, Hobi. Especially up until recently, I was some poor fuck who didn’t even graduate. At least half of my friends had seen the inside of a jail cell, and so had I. I hated my parents and pretty much everyone else, too. What good could possibly come from that? Yeah, I got really lucky with Malsoon and Jihong, but the tattooing? That’s their work, not mine. They were better teachers than any of the assholes in my old school, but that’s them, not me.”

He falls silent, puts the flower carefully back on the table before looking at a small scene, also created from tissue paper. It’s set in a shoe-box sized display and depicts the sun rising over a blue ribbon of water, with painstakingly detailed fields of green spreading out on either side. “You don’t talk about them – Malsoon and Jihong – very often,” Hoseok observes quietly, sensing that now isn’t the time to disagree with Yoongi’s critical evaluation of his life.

“No, I don’t,” Yoongi says. “Malsoon would like this thing. She always bought stuff with nature and she liked rivers a lot. She – I guess I could buy it for her. Send it her way. It’d be a stupid gift but maybe she’d like it.”

“So, they’re still alive?” He hadn’t even known that much. The few times Yoongi’s mentioned the people who essentially adopted him, he’s always referred to them in past tense, and they’ve never come around the store they used to own. To be honest, he’d assumed they were dead, but the way Yoongi’s face tightens makes it obvious it’s not a happy story even if they’re alive.

“Malsoon is. Jihong… is not. About two and a half years ago he had a heart attack.” The small man swallows before continuing. “It took a long time, for it to... happen. Used up most of their money on medical bills before he died. Malsoon… she lost it. Not – she didn’t go crazy. I mean – she just stopped enjoying anything. She stopped drawing, stopped doing tattoos… And a few months later she decided to move. Said that she couldn’t bear to be where he used to be, feeling his ghost all the time.” His shoulders hunch. “They weren’t soulmates, but… they kind of were. They used to joke about giving each other bonded tattoos all the time, just through the sheer power of will… and maybe with the help of an irons – a tattoo machine, I mean. That was the joke, right?” The smile on his face is achingly sad, and it fades quickly. “Not soulmates, and his death still ripped something out of her. So she left the parlour to me... and then she was gone.”

He feels like he’s walking on the thin ice of Yoongi’s grief, but he’s not going to leave his friend stranded in a frozen field. “I’m sorry, Yoongi. So sorry. Do you two still talk?”

“Sometimes. A few times a year. Neither of us can really afford to fly out to visit each other, though, so it’s just shitty phone calls.” He hesitates, his eyes still on the wispy river. Eventually he admits, “I miss her. Both of them. Losing them, and then with all the other shit right after… It was a lot. After – after I did something stupid, the doctor said I needed to get out. Join the community. He knew Jin hyung, introduced us, and it kind of snowballed from there. Suddenly I was on a committee, I had shit to do, and feeling bad for myself wasn’t as easy.”

Yoongi doesn’t expand on what the other shit he mentioned is, or what stupid thing he tried to do, but it sends cold tendrils cascading across Hoseok’s skin, raising violent goosebumps. He can imagine well enough, and the thought makes a desperate, panicked breathlessness seize his throat. On impulse he reaches out, catches Yoongi’s hand in his own. “You got through it, though,” he says fervently, and even through the gloves it’s almost like he can feel his companion’s warm wave of gratitude. “You’re still here! And that’s – man Yoongi, that’s so cool. That’s not “just” anything; it takes strength to be where you are now. To keep tattooing and doing the thing you love for so many people.”

When Yoongi ducks his head, the motion is almost shy. “I couldn’t give it up,” he mumbles. “Jihong… he liked it so much. Malsoon too. Not just making shit, but the people, too, y’know? All their regulars, and hell, even the tenderfoots getting their first one. They liked getting it right, and they taught me that on top of everything else.”

He’s not sure what to say. “They sound like really awesome people.”

“They were,” Yoongi agrees simply. “Better than my parents ever were, too.” He doesn’t let go of Hoseok but runs his free hand through his hair. “You wanna keep walking?”

“Yeah. You gonna buy Malsoon that?” he asks with a nod at the fragile paper scene.

Yoongi is already turning away. “Nah,” he says, and the blatant effort to shrug off his emotions is heart rending. “It was a stupid idea, anyways.” Hoseok finds himself pulled away before he can protest, but he glances over his shoulder one last time before they’re on to the next stand.

Metal sculptures of twirling shapes, wood carvings of fiercely realistic animals, blown glass and copper etchings, oil paintings and shadow art, they blur by in an extended flash of breathless wonder and the more grounded reality of hesitantly traded thoughts and history. Threaded throughout their slow roaming, Hoseok pulls out confessions from Yoongi, things that make him wonder if it’s really possible to hurt so much for another person. Things about his parents and alcohol and raised fists and voices, things too bleak to look at head on. He can only point out everything Yoongi’s done since then, all of the incredible progress he’s made, and hope it’s enough.

In turn, in diffident spurts, he finds himself talking about his sister, who’s always been better than him in his parents’ eyes (and his own, too), about his parents themselves, growing further and further away. He talks about having money and never feeling like he actually wants what he buys, and how far that feeling set him apart from his family. Somehow, even as insignificant as they are to Yoongi’s troubles, the other man doesn’t make him feel shallow or weak for being hurt by them. The artist talks about how, out of all the emptiness Hoseok felt, he still managed to fill other peoples’ lives. About how much strength and kindness that would take. Somehow, Hoseok almost finds himself believing it.

They talk about lighter things, too. First crushes and last crushes and all the awkward dates in between. They laugh at stupid mistakes and great successes equally, and swap stories with an abandon that only grows as the night goes on. And somewhere between the lines Hoseok finds the answers he’s been looking for.

Yoongi doesn’t want to hope. He’s afraid to lose more than he already has. Hoseok’s never really had much of anything to be worth losing – until he met his friends – but he thinks he understands the tired man who trails along with him like a shadow. It’s part of the reason he’s always recorded things. It’s a lot easier to capture a moment, to make sure you don’t lose it on film, than to try and feel all the emotions in the moment itself. Easier to keep the distance of a lens between yourself, to admire instead of risk the chance of being hurt.

Hoseok’s learned something from all those videos, though, something he thinks he needs to help Yoongi learn. Nothing – not the most expensive camera in the world, not the best director in the business – can wholly capture some of the deeper emotions that permeate all of the greatest moments. That’s the challenge, the joy of filmmaking; striving for perfection in a world without it. But at the end of the day, removing yourself from those moments, from the emotion, it doesn’t make your own life better. It just takes all of the colour from it, until you’re standing there and the moment is gone and the only memories you have are grey.

Better to have a life of all the colours – even the painfully sharp ones – than to live in dull shading.

It’s hardly a lesson to put on a blackboard; it’s hardly a lesson that Hoseok’s even grasped or tried to live himself. It stays at the back of his mind, though, an unpolished resolution that someway, somehow, over the course of months or years, Hoseok’s going to give Yoongi that thing he’s so dearly missing.

He’s going to give him hope, and it’s not going to disappear.

By the time they get to Yoongi’s own display at the end of the street – and it takes them a good two hours, they’re moving so slowly – a deep weariness has curled up in Hoseok’s chest, the outpouring of emotion wearing him thin. Their conversation has slowly sloped off, into a quiet contemplation of every thought they each offer, though Hoseok still finds himself talking the most out of the two of them. The sight of the tattooist’s collection strikes him to a momentary enthusiasm, however, and he rallies his energies. There are a couple of people observing the tacked-up photos and sketches, and he and Yoongi wind around them.

The girl minding the station recognizes Yoongi right away and beckons him to join her. With a wry grimace, he relinquishes Hoseok’s hand and goes to see what she wants, while Hoseok takes a look at some of the examples of Yoongi’s work. As his companion predicted, he’s seen most of the pieces already, though here and there a dazzling new example jumps from its page. The bold lines are just as catching now, the hundredth time around, as they were the first time he was exposed to them, and he’s still vaguely appalled the artist doesn’t think his work is worthwhile.

One piece in particular catches his eye, and Hoseok wanders over to it. It’s strangely familiar, although he’s certain he’s never seen it before. A circular shape punctuated by outward flames, he supposes “round” isn’t an inaccurate description, but the gorgeous sun surely deserves more than that. It’s a glowing white at the center, though the colour is so thickly wrapped with oranges and reds and yellows that they blend together. As the sun erupts outwards, a halo of jagged light surrounding it, the tones don’t lose their bright intensity. The brilliance of the sketch is somewhat discomfiting to look at, and Hoseok finds himself fidgeting, transfixed in place until Yoongi comes back.

“This is your new tattoo?” Hoseok asks as soon as the artist appears.

Yoongi barely glances at it. “Yeah. One and the same. I’m afraid the guy who did it might have fucked up a bit though; I don’t know if the colours are going to be that bright.”

“It’ll be cool, won’t it? If they turn out that crazy intense?”

Shifting, looking like he wants to be elsewhere, Yoongi shrugs. “I guess. Takes a shit ton of work to get colours like that, though. Not everyone can manage to bring them out right.”

Hoseok shakes his head, blinking, trying to dislodge the melancholic feeling from his throat. There’s something depressing about the thought of the real thing being some pale imitation of this sun, never quite reaching its brilliant potential, and he’s not in the mood to be depressed. “I bet it turns out just like that,” Hoseok says firmly. “Better, even! It’s not like you chose some hack to do your tattoo, right?”

“Let’s see how it turns out,” Yoongi says, his lips twisting. “Then I’ll decide if they were a hack or not.”

The gallery area closes at ten, darkness pressing hard against the sheltered area of light, and they end up grabbing another round of hot drinks and sitting at one of the tables sporadically dotting Skymont. The crowds have thinned significantly, but neither of them wants to strike out into the open spaces. Hoseok’s not positive, but he thinks he sees Jimin at one point, walking in the distance with his hands full of bags. He’s even less sure, but he thinks Jimin sees him and Yoongi, too, and then precedes to flee as fast as his feet can take him in the opposite direction. His oldest friend had been thrilled when he’d heard Hoseok was going to meet with Yoongi, and had promised to kill anyone who tried to interrupt.

His pointed glower at Taehyung and Jungkook had been a little underwhelming, but Hoseok appreciated the sentiment all the same.

He and Yoongi don’t sit for very long before his companion shifts, gaze going to the sliver of moon shining through the patchwork of dark clouds. “Were you going to drive home?” he asks suddenly.

“That was the plan, yeah,” Hoseok says. “Although I had to park so far away with all of the people, it’s gonna take me like half a year to get to my car.” The complaint is good-natured – it’s not so cold out, and he doesn’t mind walking – but Yoongi’s lips thin, and he rubs at his ear, a telltale sign that he wants to say something.

The student lets him go about it in his own time, and, just as abruptly as the first time, he says, “Haven’t you drank too much? You could just stay at my place instead.”

Eyebrows jumping up, Hoseok’s eyes go uncertainly from his incredibly light drink – his second of the night, over the span of about three hours – and back to Yoongi. Who scowls. “You could just play along,” he grumbles, puffing out his cheeks. “Okay, fine. Do you wanna stay at my place?”

His petulance makes Hoseok grin, but he’s inordinately pleased with the offer, and doesn’t take the opportunity to tease. “Sure, that’d be good. Although I don’t have any clothes or whatever.”

Yoongi stands up. “S’fine. You can borrow some of my shit.” The logistical soundness of that plan notwithstanding – they’re not exactly on the same level, (literally) height-wise – Hoseok gets to his feet too, glad enough to go along with it. He’s too drained to feel particularly anxious or excited, but his contented gratitude hovers close to the surface, and a thought suddenly occurs to him.

“Do you wanna go on ahead? I just remembered I saw something my sis might like, and I wanna go buy it.”

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?” Yoongi asks quizzically.

“It’s not like we’re gonna be waking up early. What if it’s gone when we come back?” He’s not exactly a first-class liar, especially not about blatant stuff like this, and his smile feels more than a little forced.

Yoongi only stares at him for a moment longer before jerking his shoulders, so maybe he’s better than he thought. “Okay. I’ll leave the door open, so just come in.”

He turns to go and Hoseok calls loudly, “See you in a bit!” Maybe a bit too loudly – a few people nearby turn to look at the sound – and Yoongi flushes. The other man doesn’t quite manage to turn his grin into a scowl, though, and he actually waves after a brief hesitation. Then he’s walking away, and Hoseok waits until he’s a decent distance away before dashing off in the opposite direction.

Most of the gallery’s lights have been turned off, but some sellers are still around, packing up their art, and Hoseok is thrilled to see the man he needs is still there. They have a quick conversation, the man unpacks the piece Hoseok requests, and then Hoseok is reverently tucking it close to his body.  He pays for it, says goodbye and is off, long strides eating up the pavement. His excitement is sailing through his nerves, eager with the prospect of seeing the look on Yoongi’s face, and it makes the walk down Skymont a short one.

Constantly moving, unable to contain the energy, he pushes into the Born Tiger, where lights are shining from the upstairs. Locking the door behind him, Hoseok bounds up the stairs and spills into the connecting hallways between the two spaces on this floor. The kitchen is empty, and he finds Yoongi laying out blankets and pillows on the couch in the living room. Caught by a brief fist of indecision, he halts just outside the room. Somewhat to his surprise, the familiar nervousness is stripped away almost as soon as it appears, just as soon as he reminds himself that Yoongi will appreciate this.

With that thought, he’s back in motion, his hand behind his back, and anyways, Yoongi notices him and straightens, head tilting. Eyes on Hoseok’s face, he asks, “What’re you grinning about?” and Hoseok realizes he is smiling, the unconscious gesture a dead giveaway that he has no control over. He doesn’t care, because without waiting for an answer Yoongi starts smiling too, and the look is too big to leave any room for discomfort.

He didn’t have any time to plan out a big speech, so Hoseok thrusts the boxed scene in front of him. It feels like his grin is going to break his jaw, and Yoongi’s reaction only makes his cheeks hurt more. The pale man freezes, mouth falling open, his face abruptly suffusing with colour, the stunned disbelief making Hoseok itch for a camera – although it’d be a shame to miss the immediacy of something as priceless as Yoongi’s expression. Even better, his smile doesn’t fade. It grows, wider and wider and more and more disbelieving, and it takes several moments before the artist accepts what Hoseok’s offering.

“Are you kidding me?” he mumbles, and though the question is largely rhetorical, Hoseok answers anyways.

“Nope! You’re gonna be able to give it to your Malsoon and she’ll probably fly over here just to thank you.”

Yoongi’s hands turn the little diorama around, and he can’t seem to rip his gaze from the gift. Nonetheless, there’s a rapid thrumming in Hoseok’s heart, and in turn he can’t look away from the stunned joy on the other man’s face. It feels like that same joy is flowing through his own blood, closing little hurts and straightening bent expectations, and it makes him want to be, specifically and exclusively, the reason the emotion continues. When Yoongi’s eyes begin to shine with unshed tears, only then does Hoseok turn away, letting his companion have that moment to himself.

The emotions don’t embarrass him – in fact, he’d rather embrace them – but he knows how Yoongi views tears. Instead he stares out the expansive windows, taking in the dark street and buildings that seem so far away right now. It doesn’t take the tattooist long to recover – he touches Hoseok’s elbow only half a minute later – and as Hoseok twists around he sees the tissue river set with perfect precision in the center of the coffee table. That doesn’t hold his attention.

Yoongi’s eyes are wet, but the light catches in them and softens their hard darkness into something muted and yielding. He licks his lips, licks them again, leaving a sheen, and Hoseok has to forcefully pull his gaze up. Yoongi doesn’t seem nervous, exactly, but he lingers over each word like he’s afraid of where they’ll lead. “…Thank you, Hobi. It’s such a cool gift. I – I don’t know how to pay you back.”

“You don’t owe me for it, Yoongi. You said you’d show me some great stuff tonight, and – well, you did. So we’re even.” His words are automatic, but they leave him unsatisfied, shifting, and he can’t quite figure out what it is he wants to say. He’s become used to the wire-thin tension between them, always and ever present, but it seems heavier now, like it’s pulling on him instead of just existing. Yoongi’s happiness was just too much, overflowing a glass that was filled to the brim already.

In a similar state, Yoongi drags his fingers over his neck in a constant, thoughtless motion. “Yeah. I just want…” The sentiment dies out, leaving them in frozen silence, and Hoseok has a sudden vision of them being stuck in this state forever, a candid photograph taken a few seconds too soon, capturing only the strain of consideration and never the release of choice. He could turn away right now, leaving the look in Yoongi’s eyes untouched, leaving them exactly as they are. A photograph, and nothing more than that.

Or he could do something else. Something like moving forward.

His thoughts have heated to a haze, but it doesn’t affect his coordination when he reaches out, gently slides his hand under Yoongi’s to rest against his neck, stilling the uncertain, delicate fingers. Beneath his light touch Yoongi’s skin is hot, and the temperature sinks into his palm and then travels up, searing his nerves along the way. The artist holds himself still, perfectly still, too still, and Hoseok finds himself leaning over to break up that apathy. He pauses – just for a second, just to give Yoongi the chance to pull away, dazedly certain it won’t happen –

And Yoongi closes the distance between them, and then they’re kissing.

If he makes a noise at all, it’s drowned by his heart, throbbing in his ears. If he breathes at all, it’s captured by Yoongi’s warm mouth, pressed hard against his own, and he cares less for oxygen than for eradicating the space between them. Yoongi’s arms encircle his back, pulling him nearer, and Hoseok cups Yoongi’s neck with one hand, his thumb steady on his jaw. His other hand tangles in the artist’s hair, pulling too roughly, but he has to get closer. The frantic need boils under every piece of skin that isn’t touching the other man.

Yoongi’s hands move with equal fervor as they curl into his back, and then they’re falling down to clutch Hoseok’s waist in a grip so tight it might have hurt if Hoseok remembered what pain felt like. They cling to each other and it still isn’t enough. As Yoongi’s tongue parts his lips, their breath mingles hot and wet and heaving, and Hoseok’s vision is tilting, slanting, spinning into a blur of colour that doesn’t disappear when his eyes close. His lungs are straining but he doesn’t remember air, he only remembers Yoongi, only remembers fitting against him like they were sculpted to be together, and it still isn’t enough.

His grip on Yoongi’s jaw becomes harsher, their lips pressing together so hard their teeth are cutting into each other’s skin, and he doesn’t know if he’s tasting his blood or Yoongi’s, if he’s breathing his own air or not, if it’s his heart shuddering in his chest or if he’s somehow stolen the tattooist’s. It all blends, sights and sounds, taste and touch, and over it all is the rush of their blood, thick and getting thicker. Under his closed eyelids, blazing streaks of light form and dart away, as quick as emotion, like thought, like he’s thinking – but it’s not just him, it’s Yoongi, too, and he can’t tell where his blistering desire begins and Yoongi’s fierce relief ends, and it’s finally, finally almost enough –

And Yoongi breaks away from him, suddenly and violently, and the duality is shattered like a dream, like a fantasy, like hope with no happy ending.

Hoseok lurches as his eyes snap open, his vision scattered with swirling spots, and he has a sickening impression that he’s – that he’s looking at himself, looking out from Yoongi’s eyes, but then he blinks and the impression is gone, leaving him bewildered. The artist has staggered a few steps away, is leaning against the couch, and their harsh panting can’t quite cover up the hollow sound of the space between them. He doesn’t feel – he’s not upset. Nothing even remotely like it. But it feels like his emotions have been heated to such a high point they’ve melted together, all the colours turning into a muddied brown. There are no sharp points to hold onto and so it all eddies together and slips away from him; even the burn in his groin flickers lower.

Exhaustion is an abrupt weight, personalized for each of his muscles, and Hoseok sags, runs his hand through his damp hair. They’re both regaining control of their gasping, and slowly Yoongi straightens, his skin glistening with sweat. Hoseok wearily prepares himself to be shut out, to have a wall put up in his face by word or look or gesture, but the artist doesn’t make any move to increase the distance between them. He doesn’t try to decrease it, either, but it’s still an improvement.

Eventually Yoongi speaks, his voice husky with the breath he hasn’t quite managed to catch yet. “We should have done that last Friday,” he says, startling a laugh out of Hoseok.

“It would have been better,” the student agrees. “Although…” Yoongi tilts his head inquisitively, and Hoseok grins. “We might have been kicked out after that.” He has no idea how long it lasted – time turned liquid within their kiss – but he has a feeling it was long enough to have attracted attention on the dance floor.

Yoongi smiles wanly. “Good thing I know most of the bouncers.”

Slowly his emotions are stretching out, finding themselves again, and an overwhelming sense of rightness is at the forefront. It’s like a pain he’s never noticed before, scarred into the tissue of his lungs, is gone, and now that it’s disappeared Hoseok can breathe like he’s supposed to. A lingering ache in his bones has replaced that pain – faint, a phantom sensation – but it’s nothing compared to the restless itch he could never scratch, the relentless pressure he could never escape.

He has no idea what the hell just happened. It’s not like he’s never kissed someone before, not by a long shot, but that was – what the hell was that? “Have you ever–” Hoseok begins, changes tack at the last second. “Did you feel that?” The answer is plain in their violent upheaval, in the sweat darkening Yoongi’s hair, but Hoseok needs to hear it from the man opposite him, a confirmation he’s not going crazy.

For a moment he thinks Yoongi is going to deny it, but then the artist raises a shaking hand, brushes it over his lips in a way that makes the fizzling fire deep in his core flicker stronger before fading again. “I felt it,” Yoongi says, drawing his fingers back and examining them like he expects them to be stained with something. There’s nothing there, and his gaze drifts over to Hoseok, an eyebrow tiredly arched. “What did I tell you, Hobi? Don’t need to be soulmates for there to be – whatever the fuck that was.”

Even as he laughs, the comment doesn’t sit quite right with Hoseok. He’s too tired to examine it carefully, though, and besides, the draining hasn’t stopped, pulling his memories of the kiss into an uncertain vortex. All that distinctly remains is the heat and the satisfaction, and he doesn’t want to question that too closely.

“So,” Yoongi says suddenly. “You think your soulmate’s out there somewhere, jealous as all hell?”

Hoseok meets his eyes – his tired, hopeful eyes – and shrugs. “I don’t think so. But if they are…” Each breath he takes is freer than the last, and Hoseok finds himself smiling faintly. “If they are, I don’t care.”

---

Hoseok is just as restless in sleep as he is awake. He twists and turns on the couch, so much so that Yoongi’s a little concerned he’s going to fall off, and his hands track across his body in brief, agitated swipes. He looks ridiculous in the oversized pants Yoongi had found at the bottom of his drawer, won from a contest years ago, though it’s not in a bad way. His mouth moves but nothing comes out – or at least nothing Yoongi can hear, a good few feet away, arms crossed and leaning against one of the room’s walls. He wants to move, to go do something – not sleep, sleep hasn’t come to him before one or two in the morning in years – but he stays where he is.

His lips are tingling, and it feels achingly good. He can’t say he hasn’t kissed someone recently, but that had left the taste of stale cigarettes and booze in his mouth; now something deeper lingers heavily on his tongue, sweetness and the rust of blood combined, a faded echo of their kiss. When he wipes his hand across his lips, it doesn’t do anything to dispel the sensation, and he wonders if it’s going to be there for however long he has left. He’s not sure if it’s a pleasant thought or not.

Yoongi would lie if someone confronted him, but he’s been thinking about doing that for as long as he’s known Hoseok. Hell, even before noticing the tattoo, the thought had darted through his head, there and gone because it wasn’t a desire worth holding on to. The kiss wasn’t a disappointment, and that’s an understatement Yoongi doesn’t know how to fix; his breath keeps catching and his heart has been spinning out of control for the last hour. He’d known it was going to be intense, but he’s been dealing with the bond for months now. He thought it couldn’t knock him off balance anymore.

Wrong.

If Hoseok is at all like him, the other man’s distinct memories of the moment are dwindling and mixing together into a flurry of pleasure and relief with nothing certain in between. It’ll be better that way. Yoongi’s not sure how he could explain that grain of sand, falling at last to the bottom of the hourglass, when they’d been more than together, more than two – when they’d been one and the same. He can barely even explain it to himself. He’s heard it doesn’t happen to every bonded couple – or even most of them – and the only thing he can guess is that the constant denial, the repression of the bond had led to that explosion of need that blurred the lines between them.

He hopes that’s it. He’s definitely not gonna be able to keep it together if it happens every time they kiss. Against the secret Yoongi has to keep, and against the pain knifing below his skin, the thought of kissing Hoseok again makes him smile.  

It’s hot in the room, but then again, he also hasn’t taken his jacket off since getting here. With Hoseok safely asleep, he shrugs out of it, throws it over one of the sturdier, taller plants Seokjin gifted him. It sags – hyung would have a fit if he saw – but it’s not one of Yoongi’s concerns right now. His first is the sun on his arm, a sun which is still largely grey, but has been steadily gaining in colour since Hoseok saw his video yesterday. The center in particular is reverting back to the white-hot tones it’s supposed to have.

At least now, with his lie planted, he can stop hiding it so much. That’s been a pain in the ass this last while, constantly keeping his arm turned down, or covered up with clothes. Plus, Hoseok’s probably not knowledgeable enough to know there’s no way it could look so clear less than a week after being done; give it a few more days, and even if Hobi comments on it, he’ll claim he’s a fast healer. There’s a part of him that feels bad about the lie, but it’s nothing in the face of the collection of others, and he shrugs off his guilt exactly like he took off his jacket. Easily.

This night, though… He’s surprised how good it had felt to talk about his parents. About Jihong and Malsoon. These days lying comes as naturally to him as breathing, and telling the truth is the equivalent of forcing himself off a cliff with pointy rocks at the end of the fall. With Hoseok… the little truths, the ones he keeps jealously close to himself, those had rushed off his tongue like they were glad to leave. He’d planned on revealing some of his backstory, on giving a bit of honesty – he was pretty sure that was the only way to mend the break – but it hadn’t turned out like he’d planned. He’d given away almost everything. Almost too much.

Fuck, there’d been a point, when Hoseok had smiled for the hundredth time – encouraging and bright and blinding and just as sincere as the first – that he’d almost blurted out the truth. The big one, the one that would probably destroy the both of them.

That was dangerous. At first, Yoongi had kept it to himself simply because he wasn’t about to let some random stranger come swinging into his life to save the day, and he didn’t even know if Hoseok would, anyways. Now, though… God, he can’t even think about how hurt Hoseok would be if he found out. Besides, he almost has enough money. One more month should be enough. Who cares what they say, about urgency and “too little too late”? When have “experts” ever been right about any of that shit? They just want his money faster.

He’s good at lying to himself, too, but it doesn’t do much for the disquiet in his chest. Instead, Yoongi focuses on the little scene Hoseok bought for him. It’s peaceful, in a way that doesn’t really touch Yoongi, but he thinks Malsoon will like it. He hopes she will. It’s embarrassing how much he’d collapsed when his soulmate had proudly presented it. Call it a really rough night. Even worse, he’s pretty sure Hobi noticed. Actually, he’s positive he did. But Hoseok has that effect on him, assaults him with emotions he’d long ago buried, and grateful joy isn’t the least of them. His soulmate has a truly vexing ability to make him embrace all the things he shouldn’t, and as he watches Hoseok toss, he can’t even be annoyed about it.

Asleep, Hoseok is fucking beautiful. Oh, he is awake, too, but awake there’s always this little tension, this undercurrent of anxiety that all the fidgeting in the world can’t dismiss. When he sleeps, the energy remains, but it’s cleaner, more relaxed. Yoongi briefly entertains the notion of waking him up, of kissing him until he looks as secure awake as he does asleep. It’s an idle fantasy but a pleasant one, and he lulls himself with the lie that he could be that for Hoseok, that he could be the person who finally makes Hoseok feel right with himself.

Like Hoseok keeps trying to be for him.

“I’m not drunk,” he observes quietly, eyes watchful for any sign of Hoseok stirring. The other man doesn’t react to his voice, and he continues after a moment. “I guess that’s breaking a promise, but I don’t think it’s a big deal. This is pretty much cheating, anyways.” His breath starts seizing, like the very air in his lungs is reluctant to leave, but Yoongi keeps talking. “I said I’d tell you my secret, right? That was supposed to be a lie, but I just – I wanna say it, you know? I want you to know and I – fuck, you can’t. You can’t. But I wanna say it so fucking bad.”

The pressure on his eyes is threatening with tears; his voice is getting hoarse with the weight of them. God, he’s just been so – so by himself. So alone. He could never dream of imposing on Seokjin and Namjoon’s happiness, whining like a spineless fuck to them, and even now, even with his soulmate right in front of him, he’s still alone. In this quiet, pathetic moment, he wants to wake up the wiry man on the couch. He wants to share the weight, because he’s just that much of a selfish son of a bitch.

Except he’ll regret it right away. He’ll regret it as soon as Hoseok’s sleepy smile disintegrates. He’ll hate himself as grief and anger replaces all of the happiness they could have had. Isn’t it better this way? He’d rather enjoy whatever time there is between them and try to get Hobi used to a life where he supports himself just as much as he supports everyone around him. That’ll be Yoongi’s goal for the next few months, to have the sun in his life so bright he’s even bright enough for himself. That’s a good goal. Fuck, even his parents couldn’t spit on him for it.

The sun is down right now, though, the moon his only witness, and there are too many words in Yoongi’s chest to contain them all. He edges closer, careful steps and broken thoughts, and kneels next to the couch. “Hoseok?” he asks, even more softly than before, and this time Hobi twitches in his sleep, twitches but doesn’t quite escape. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you this for real. I hope you can forgive me, and – fuck. It’s – it kind of sucks, you know? Because I feel so stupid, but I think I actually love you and – how do you even say something like this? I don’t know. I just –”

His throat closes, and his eyes do, too, and Yoongi has to drag out each syllable, jagged, painful, blunt. “I have cancer. Surprise, right? Can’t afford any of the treatment or – I almost can, now, thanks to you. But – I dunno. I had an appointment this week, and – fuck, they use so many fucking terms, I can’t remember it now. They – the doctor said it’s changed. Not for the better, that doesn’t happen, right? It’s gotten worse. She said it might even be too late or – or something. That’s probably bullshit, but – fuck, I hope it is. It’s just… I’ve felt so shitty lately. I was supposed to have time, but the doctor said – well, should I even fucking care what she said? She was so wrong that I–”

Hoseok twists restlessly, the sound loud enough to make Yoongi’s eyes open, darting to the troubled face of the still-sleeping man. There’s no relief in his heart – he’s selfish enough that he almost wishes he’d dragged his soulmate out of his peaceful rest – but the crease on Hoseok’s brow makes him quiet himself. His hand reaches out, hovers for a moment before gently, carefully brushing back the fringe of hair from his soulmate’s forehead. His fingers skim across Hoseok’s skin, and slowly the worried lines smooth away, until there’s nothing but relaxation left.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, and the pressure is too much, it’s driving out the tears in silent rivulets down his face. It only gets worse, a horrible weight on his lungs, and he can barely breathe. “After we fought, I decided that we – that I couldn’t take it anymore, that I’d… But – but –” Yoongi chokes, can’t get the words out until several heaving moments have passed and the grip on his throat loosens faintly. “Now I can’t. Not if I can’t get – if I’m not gonna get better. I’m sorry, Hoseok. So fucking sorry.”    

He can’t wrestle with the suffocating grief anymore and Yoongi breaks off, hunched over, his hands braced against his thighs. He lets the tears fall, takes deep, shuddering breaths to keep himself from shattering into sobs. It’s a skill he’s had since he was a kid. It takes time, but eventually the splintered pieces quit stabbing him so hard, leaving the usual dull ache. Yoongi teeters to his feet, hands clenched into fists, and looks down at Hoseok for a minute or a moment or a meaningless eternity. At least his soulmate is okay. At least Hoseok can only get better from here.

That’s the only thought keeping him together, and the artist repeats it over and over as he puts his jacket on and quietly leaves the studio. He’s not going to be able sleep, and he doesn’t want to risk waking Hoseok up. The solitary night isn’t a friend, but it is an old companion, and it surrounds him as he walks out into the darkness. He’s running away, but not for long.

He’ll be back when the sun rises.  

[princeofmisfortune]

Is That A Challenge?

Summary: A high school AU. Prinxiety and Logicality. Logan's petty and won't back down from a challenge, even if it means doing something absolutely ridiculous to show up his husband. Or, in a more badly explained description: Ducks infiltrated the school and won a hundred dollars.

Warnings: Like, one swear word.

AN: I wrote it super early in the morning and it's actually terrible and messy and I had the idea at like 5am so don't blame me when you read this and go, "What the absolute duck did I just read?"

Words: 1744

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It was the week of Halloween. People were excited, others were annoyed, but most importantly, it meant that the costume contest was coming up. A contest in which the school votes for who's costume is the best of all. The winner could be a group or an individual. If you won, you got to take home $100 and a large bag of various candies. It was a pretty important event at this school, and everyone was competing against eachother for the prize.

Logan though, not so much.

Logan was a teacher, considered to be the one of the most serious teachers around. Surely he'd never participate in such a silly event. It simply didn't appeal to him, a serious, no funny business kind of guy.

Well, the day of the event was only two days away when Patton approached Logan in the living room. Patton was cooking teacher in the same school where Logan taught English. Two very different personalities, people often wondered why they were married.

"Lo?" Patton called, stepping off the last step. Logan glanced up from his book from his spot in the couch. Virgil, their son, was sat on the floor with his boyfriend Roman, bickering off and on about which Disney movie was the best. "I have something to ask you."

"What is it?" Logan questioned, placing his book down on the coffe table.

"You know the Halloween contest they're having at the school?" Logan nodded wearily. "Well," Patton paused, searching for the right wording. "Why don't you try it out?"

Logan gave his husband a blank stare. "Why would I do that? You know that's not my thing." He said, glancing over to the boys on the floor as they laughed about something unknown to him. "Besides, isn't that event for the students?"

"Yeah, but you could team up with Virgil and Roman! It'd be fun!" Patton explained with an excited smile. "And it would give the students a chance to see that you're not just a scary teacher."

Logan quirked an eyebrow, "Are you implying the students are afraid of me?"

"Well, I mean, kinda." Patton shrunk in on himself, picking and choosing his wording ever so carefully. "They don't know you like we do, Lo, and you're always so serious at work."

"I am a serious person, Patton," Logan stated, pausing for a moment before turning to the boys on the floor. Students? Afraid of him? As if, like Logan ever wished to hirt anyone. If they were really afraid of him, Logan would notice. Right? "Roman," He called, gaining the attention of the red haired boy. "The students are not afraid of me, right?" He questioned, the thought circling his mind.

Roman chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "Well-" "-I mean, yeah? I kinda was, too, before I started dating Virge," Roman confessed, "Uh, but I'm not anymore!" He rushed out the last part, vigorously shaking his head from side to side.

Logan glanced back to Patton with a small, sassy pout. "I do not see how dressing up in a silly costume would convince the students to like me, anyhow."

"Are you saying you're too afraid to do it?" Patton smirked, cocking his head to the side.

The room fell silent as Logan took a moment to stare vacantly at his husband, blinking a few times before taking in a breath. "Are you challenging me, Patton?"

The man in question held a cheeky grin, "Maybe."

Logan glared at the floor. "Fine. Virgil, Roman, were leaving." Logan ordered as he stood from his seat, already on his way to the door.

The two boys shrugged and followed the teacher outside after slipping on their shoes, not knowing exactly where they were leaving to, but not questioning it. Logan took challenges seriously, they knew, so maybe it was best to let him do whatever he had in mind.

It wasn't long before the trio was preparing for the big day. Patton had already drove to the school to let them get ready, so he hadn't a chance to see what Logan picked up for their costumes the other day.

"Why did I agree to this?" Virgil questioned himself, looking in the mirror to see the horror that was his costume. A duckling costume to be exact. He looked like one gigantic ball of fluff. Covered in yellow feathers from head to toe, complemented with eyeliner and mascara to make himself seem more fake and cutesy, with a load of blush spread on his cheeks. A duck's beak was painted at his mouth area.

Roman wore the exact same costume, and to say the two looked adorable was an understatement. They looked like innocent baby creatures that needed a protector. Who was the protector of these small ducklings, you may ask? Well, that was none other than the mother duck, Logan!

Logan waddled down the stairs to the living room, duck slippers quacking with every step. He wore neatly placed winged eyeliner and the smallest bit of mascara. His costume consisted of greenish blue duck wings that hung from his arms, a medium sized duck tale at the back and a painted on beak where his mouth was. Logan was the most beautiful duck you have ever seen, but at the same time-

"You look ridiculous," Virgil stated.

Logan waited until he was finished stepping down the stairs, as the constant quacking of the slippers would make it harder for him to speak at the same time. "To be clear of the plan, you two are my ducklings and will follow me around where ever I go, got it?" He smirked, throwing two pairs of duck slippers to the boys. "Put those on and lets go."

"You're actually kidding me," Virgil muttered whilist Roman giggled, smoothing down his feathers.

"No, I am not," The teacher stated. "I said if we were doing this, we were going to go all out. Quacking duck slippers and everything. Now put them on, we're going to be late."

"You're insane."

"Maybe, but I will not loose this challenge." Logan took his car keys off of the wall hook and set out the door, his ducklings following him out.

*Three pairs of duck slippers quacking in the distance.*

****

The main doors to the school opened, drawing the attention from students who were roaming the hallway. Whispers and mutters could be heard as Logan made his way inside, the ducklings following silently behind. Well, as silently as they can with those quacking duck slippers.

The trio waddled down the halls to Logan's classroom. The students who had homeroom with him stared on in question as he sat in his desk. Roman and Virgil took their seats beside eachother as well, all their slippers quieting as they each sat.

Now the wait.

The event had started at 2:30pm. Students and teachers entered the gymnasium in a not so orderly fashion. This was the time of the Halloween dance when students got to vote on the costumes for the people who signed up for the contest. Naturally, Logan and his ducklings had sighned up.

They chose a place on the gymnasium floor to sit tight for a while as people observed the competitors. Patton had volunteered to help plan and organize the event, so he wouldn't be able to see Logan and the ducklings until it was over, that is, if they didn't win.

Time passed, people voted, and the announcer, which just happened to be Patton, stood up on the stage with an envelope in his hand. "The end of the day is here and it's time to announce the winner of the Halloween costume contest!" He exclaimed, gaining cheers from all over the gymnasium. Everyone was fairly excited. Who would be the one to win? "Alright, as you know, the winner or winners will have to come up stage for their prize once announced." People cheered some more as Patton undid the envelope, picking out a thick piece of paper. His eyes glanced over the name of the group before he called them out.

"The Duck Trio?" Patton called out, and the croud cheered again.

The three paused in surprise, simultaneously uttering the words, "Holy shit."

"Roman you should have picked a better group name." Virgil complained.

"It's not my fault. I didn't know we were actually going to win, and you both agreed on it, don't blame me," Roman retorted as Patton called out their group name again, searching around the gymnasium.

Logan got up from his spot on the ground after the second call, recovering from his shock and helping his ducklings up, too. Three pairs of slippers quacked all the way up to the stage.

Patton hadn't recognized them at first glance, which made him do a double take. It was hard not to squeal in delight as he saw his family waddling up the steps. Virgil and Roman looked like itty bitty babies! They were absolutely adorable! And for Logan, well, that was the prettiest looking bird Patton had ever seen! The eyeliner made him look like a goddess of the ducks!

Ohhh! Look at his lil babies!

Patton couldn't hold a squeal back any longer as his family approached and he'd heard the quacking of the duck slippers. His fingers tapped on his face as his eyes lit up. "I thought you were kidding!" He laughed, "I didn't think you'd actually go through with it, Lo!"

The teacher and his duckling's stopped in the middle of the stage, gaining a round of applause from the audience. "I do not kid around, Patton. I'm serious," He claimed, "and serious people wear neckties," Came Logan's defence with a smug little smirk. As if on queue, well, it was on queue, Logan pulled a duck patterned tie out from under his costume for it to sit on his chest, his ducklings doing the same, only with much smaller ties for smaller ducks.

"I. Win."

Patton chuckled lightheartedly, "I guess you do," He confirmed, passing over a hundred dollar bill and a gigantic bag of candy.

"Man, I hope to be as petty as him one day," Virgil muttered to Roman, who nodded in agreement as he watched the teacher's smug smirk never leave his face.

Logan snapped his fingers after taking the prize from his husband, "Ducklings, retreat!" He ordered, turning to walk off the stage as the crowd's cheering started up again.

..

*Queue quacking in the distance.*

[sevanshq]

cafe encounter | solo

LOCATION: nerds and java, coffee & comic shop downtown

DATE & TIME: 6/16, early morning

NOTES:  coffee, with an extra shot of awkward. WC: 1394

Considering his late night, Sam wasn’t entirely sure how he was up and moving around so early. Well, slightly later than his normal seven AM time, but sleeping in had proved to be necessary after the unexpected encounter with Dani.

Which, he wasn’t really intending to mull over the ‘why’ of that whole situation. He wasn’t above being somebody’s late night booty call, and figured he’d chalk it up to luck of her phone’s draw and call it a day.

There were far more pressing matters to attend to, like the quest for a pineapple fanny pack. What started out as a ramble to distract Mia from whatever bothered her at the late hour seemed like a genuinely good idea once he was awake.

So naturally he found himself searching online, which led him to a small shop no more than twenty minutes away in a Lyft that thankfully kept early hours.

With his newly acquired fashion statement tucked safely in a bag and his stomach growling, Sam found himself another Lyft ride later at one of his favorite spots in the city. The comic book shop also served dual purpose as a coffeehouse, allowing people the chance to browse and sip and linger as long as they liked. Though on a Saturday morning, and the morning of Pride, lingering seemed to be the name of the game.

Still, he managed to find an empty spot, squeezing in at the small table near a large window. He’d finished his breakfast sandwich and was more than halfway through the new Spiderman when a voice above him asked, “sorry, but is anyone sitting here?”

Sam glanced up from the antics of Peter Parker to meet dark eyes peering almost nervously at him, in the polite way someone could when tasked with having to put aside the instinctual awkwardness of invading a stranger’s personal space.

“Oh. Yeah sure, let me just clear some of this stuff…” he pushed his glasses up further on his nose and shifted the empty plate from his sandwich closer towards him along with the bag filled with comics he’d already purchased to make room for the young woman, who flashed him a grateful smile as they sat.

She wore a cheery yellow sundress, the color complimenting her bronze skin and dark curls, and a kind smile that only carried a hint of polite apology once she settled at the table, balancing a huge cup of coffee and some kind of cranberry muffin fit for a family of five.

“Thank you, I really wasn’t expecting this place to be so crowded it's still kinda early.”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah I guess we all had the idea of gettin’ in early before the Pride rush started.” He nodded towards the group of patrons who’d commandeered one of the larger tables, noting their rainbow attire right down to the large rainbow top hat one was wearing and he flashed his new breakfast companion a grin that he was glad to see returned.

“Seems like they’ve already got the spirit. Sorry, I’m Sunny.” She extended a hand and Sam shook it, lips tugging into a grin.

“Nice to meet you, Sunny. I’m Sam.”

“Sunny and Sam. We could’ve had a killer variety show back in the day.”

That made the blond laugh. “I guess it does have that show business ring to it.”

He watched as slender fingers tore the tops off two sugar packets and added the contents to the large cup of coffee in front of her, only looking up at the sound of sheepish laughter.

“I feel like I gotta apologize for this ginormous cup, but I promise I'm not one of those ‘coffee is life’ people. Just needed the caffeine boost.”

Sam held up both palms. “Hey now, this is a judgment free table. You wanna have a coffee the size of a small toddler that's between you and your future caffeine rush."

The pair shared a laugh and Sam ducked his head, grin still firmly in place when long fingers reached for his own (smaller) coffee.

There was something good about  meeting somebody at random. The energy of it all, a different kind of charge he hadn’t felt since moving to Los Angeles and moving into NDHQ. While he enjoyed getting to know his coworkers and developing good relationships with them, on and off camera, it was nice to not have that pressure of needing to impress, to meet someone and not have to ask how long they’d ‘been in the business’ or talk about kinks like stats from last night’s game.

This kind of charm felt familiar, like slipping into a worn leather jacket, a comfortable and seamless fit, the second nature rapport, and the banter, just run of the mill friendly.

No need for Samson or the constant shift between who he was or what he needed to be in the moment. Just two strangers chatting it up in a coffee shop.

He learned that she was studying for her masters in psychology at UCLA and wanted to work with at-risk youth, primarily children of color. He simply stated he was from Texas and an artist. The half-truths he figured would be difficult to form came easy, and Sam supposed it’s because they were rooted in reality. He did move here for work and to be closer to his brother, he was looking to find something in his career field, and he was a comic book fan.

It seemed like enough information for polite conversation with beautiful girls wearing yellow sundresses in a crowded coffee shop. And he wasn’t surprised when, after his coffee was long gone and she’d cleared away both the massive muffin and giant java with surprising swiftness that they discussed exchanging numbers.

He walked out with her, bag of comics and Fanny pack in hand, grin in place, and a new number in his phone. The goodbye out on the sun-filled sidewalk was pleasant enough and Sam turned to leave, a promise to call her on his lips when she spoke again.

“So I have a little confession.” His brow furrowed at her smile, reminiscent of the nervous one she’d first displayed when she’d initially approached his table and he was suddenly curious.

“What’s up?”

“I know who you are. I wasn’t sure at first since you’re wearing glasses and there’s probably hundreds of long haired blond guys in this city because duh, California. But your voice sounded familiar and then you said your name was Sam and I’m like...Sam...Samson. No too much of a stretch.” The smile was a little less nervous and a little more strained, and Sam’s own lips tugged into a frown because…

Of course.

And Sunny continued, reassuring him she wasn’t a stalker but mostly curious and Sam could feel the tips of his ears growing hot when she mentioned that she’d watched all of his videos.

“I’m sorry if this is weird, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything but...I just, yeah. It is you, right? Samson?”

“It’s uh, Sam" he replied, clearing his throat with low cough. Long fingers raked through his hair and his gaze caught hers, olive eyes unreadable as he offered a slight shrug. “But yeah. That’s me. Sorry, but I gotta get back--"

“Sure! Oh sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a busy day. I really do apologize for making this weird. And because I keep saying it’s weird. You...um, it was nice to meet you, Sam. Take care.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make what had just happened, knowing he’d have to process it all at a time when he wasn’t running on just a few hours sleep and approaching a busy day.

But something settled in the pit of his stomach, something heavy that felt like disappointment and lingered like the tightness in his chest and he wondered if his job-related encounters would ever stop throwing him for a fucking loop.

Nevertheless, he offered Sunny a ghost of a smile and nodded, even as he made a silent reminder to delete her number later because the last thing he needed was an added layer of ‘fucking with fans’ weirdness with his job.

“Yeah. You too. Take care.”

[redvsvblue]

god fucking dammit i hate mobile. anyways. Demon AU -- Jeremy summons Ryan just so he'll help him spookify his house/help hand out candy on Halloween. Jeremy dresses up as an angel to spite Ryan, and Ryan just.. un-glamours parts of himself (horns, tail, etc) instead of dressing up. I love the porn but like.... maybe just some good ol' bonding? or lowkey porn with feelings. maybe they kiss. let them KISS TJ - ya boy Trevor

First of all, Trev, slightly disappointed you didn’t come in with hey there, demon AU, it’s me, ya boy Trevor, but prompt accepted anyway. 

Second of all, GREAT PROMPT. STELLAR. THANK YOU. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,”Jeremy says, standing casually at the edge of his summoning circle.Ryan rakes his eyes suggestively down Jeremy’s body and raises aneyebrow.

“Needsomething?” He asks, smirking. Jeremy shrugs and looks around athis undecorated living room, at the collection of tiny pumpkins inthe window sill with Sharpie faces.

“It’salmost Halloween,” Jeremy says. Ryan hums.

“Tomorrow,”he agrees, teleporting to Jeremy’s desk to perch on it.

“AndI kind of need decorations,” Jeremy says. “The neighbourhood hasa contest for spookiest house and I didn’t have time to pickanything up today.”

Ryanarches an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

“Anythingelse?”

Jeremydithers for a moment, awkwardly shifting his weight and lookinganywhere but Ryan.

Ryanthe demon.

Thedemon Jeremy’s definitely not trying to befriend. Or be-whatever.

“…alot of kids come by,” he says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.“Could use someone to help me hand out candy.” 

Nope, totally not an excuse to see Ryan. Shut up.

Heglances up nervously at the demon – Ryan’s smug grin melts into asofter smile, almost…well, almost gentle.

Jeremybreaks the eye contact.

“Don’thave to,” he mutters, shifting from foot to foot. “I just thought– I don’t know.”

“What?”Ryan asks.

“Thoughtmaybe – I don’t know, you’re a demon, thought maybe you’dlike the holiday.”

Ryantilts his head and Jeremy flushes under the scrutiny, looking away tohis pumpkins again.

“I’d,y’know, I’d trade you,” he says, boldly stepping forward, butRyan shakes his head.

“Don’tworry about it,” he says, still with that same soft smile thatmakes Jeremy’s insides tangle up.

“Thoughtyou couldn’t just give out favours,” Jeremy teases, probablyterribly covering his nerves but the relief rising in him is a littletoo strong to deal with right now. Ryan laughs and his eyes driftover to the bags of candy sitting by Jeremy’s front door.

“Hm,well, you’re right,” Ryan says, a distinct twinkle in his eyewhen he grins. “Need to keep a reputation somehow.”

Jeremyraises an eyebrow and Ryan jerks his thumb to the kitchen.

“Tradeya for one of those cupcakes you’re making?” He says, aninnocent, hopeful lilt to his words, and Jeremy laughs and nods.

“It’sa deal,” he says, and Ryan teleports to the kitchen.

– 

Ryanhelps Jeremy hang up the lights outside his house, stapling themneatly to the wood and wrapping them around one of the pillars tohide the battery pack behind the railing, and although the lights area tacky alternate of purple and orange, Jeremy can’t help admiringthe reflection of them in Ryan’s eyes. Ryan catches his gaze and –smiles at him and Jeremy’s chest feels suddenly tight.

Gleefulshrieking from the next house over breaks the moment, and Ryan moveson to arranging the fake skeletons while Jeremy lines up tinypumpkins on the railing, drawing in angry eyebrows and fearsome jawsto make them scarier. It doesn’t really work because they’resmaller than Jeremy’s hand, but he likes them nonetheless. Theyglue bats to the overhang, stick ghost decals to the front window andall the while Jeremy can’t stop sneaking glances at Ryan, listeningout for his easy laughter when something goes wonky or when Jeremybends a skeleton hand into a flipped bird.

Ryan’sactually – fun to work with, a lot more fun than Jeremyexpected, teasing Jeremy about not being able to reach the bats andswearing in a mix of languages when he fucks up a decal, peeling itoff with a frown and reaching for a new one.

Andthen Ryan magicks up his decorations, enchanting glitteringblack spiderwebs in the corners of the porch and conjuring purpleflames to dance in the main porch lamp. A mysterious white foggathers around the skeletons and pours through the gaps in therailing – above Jeremy’s head, the bats’ wings start flappingin mid-air.

“No,”Jeremy says when he sees Ryan affixing a bloody head to the door –Ryan and the head look at him, and Jeremy almost fuckingpisses himself.

“No?”Ryan asks innocently.  

“Toogruesome,” Jeremy says, glancing down at the unnerving yellow eyesof the decapitated head. “I don’t wanna actually scar thechildren.”

“Okay,”Ryan says with a shrug, cradling the head in his hands. “Bye,Reggie.”

Thehead disappears in a puff of smoke and Ryan enchants up a tackyHalloween wreath instead, glancing at Jeremy for approval beforehanging it and magicking up a smouldering green glow inside it.

“Well,”Ryan declares, dusting his hands off and glancing around the porch.“I think you’re done.”

“Yeah?”Jeremy asks. “You think it’s good?”

“Realspooky,” Ryan says, sharing a grin with Jeremy. A moment later itfalters.

“GuessI should go,” he says. Jeremy doesn’t reply – doesn’t…reallywant Ryan to leave but he supposes he can’t really ask him to stay.

“Yeah,I’ll – I’ll summon you tomorrow. If I remember,” he jokes.

“Well,wouldn’t have to remember if you traded somethin’,” Ryan sayswith a knowing smile, the insinuation heavy in his voice. “I couldjust pop in.”

“Whatif you forget?” Jeremy teases, ignoring the way his pulse jumpsinto doubletime at the implications of Ryan’s words. And the way hehasn’t…exactly declined the offer outright.

“Iwouldn’t,” Ryan replies, something oddly serious in his tone.Jeremy looks away and Ryan reaches out to poke the wreath, sending itswinging on its hook.

“I’llsee you tomorrow,” Ryan says, flashing him a smile before abruptlydisappearing – Jeremy blinks at the sudden empty space andcuriously pushes open the door to look inside – the circle’salready empty, smoke dissipating in mid-air.

– 

Jeremylaughs at himself in the mirror and adjusts the halo on his head,snaps the elastic band of the wings and shakes his shoulders to watchthe feathers flutter. He smooths his shirt over his chest, pattingover the faded LA Angels logo and grinning at the reflection.

Whenhe summons Ryan a few minutes later, the demon takes one look at himand erupts into laughter, teleporting over to tug playfully at theangel wings and flick the wobbly halo.

“Hey,careful!” Jeremy exclaims, ducking away from Ryan’s touch andbatting at his wandering hands. Ryan looks down at the jeans andshirt and snorts, his eyes flitting over Jeremy without any heat orintent – just pure, simple amusement.

“So,who are you meant to be?” He asks, gently brushing his fingers overa wing.

“I’man angel,” Jeremy says proudly, spreading his arm to show off thecostume.

“Yeah,well, there’s lots of angels,” Ryan says, lifting a hand to countoff his fingers. “There’s Gabriel, there’s Balthazar, there’sMichael, there’s Uriel - “

“Okay,okay, you fuckin’ nerd, I’m just a general angel.”

“– there’sLucifer if you want to get really technical –”

“Allright, fine, where’s your costume, then, smart guy?”

Ryangrins and looks him over again – his glamour wobbles and fades awayto reveal his horns, his tail, the blazing eyes, and now there’spurple fire licking at the tip of the tail, wisps of smoke trailingharmlessly into Jeremy’s living room. Dramatic fuck.

“Ifyou’re an angel, then I have to be a devil, right?” Ryan teases,leaning back against Jeremy’s desk.

“ThoughtI wasn’t an angel,” Jeremy replies. “Thought you didn’tlike my general costume.”

Ryancocks his head.

“AngelJeremy,” he says, a slow smile lifting up the corners of his mouth.

“AngelJeremy?” Jeremy deadpans.

“Idon’t think there’s one of those yet.”

“Yet?”

“Youcould be the first,” Ryan says. “If you get up there.”

“Yeah,right, I don’t exactly think I’m going to heaven,” Jeremyjokes, rolling his eyes. “Y’know, summoning demons and all that?”

Ryan’ssmile turns soft again and butterflies erupt somewhere inJeremy’s ribs.

“Wouldn’tbe able to see you anyway,” Ryan says. “Not exactly a freemembership club up there.”

Jeremylaughs and Ryan pokes his halo again, grinning at its bounce.

“So,Angel Jeremy, what first?”

– 

Ryan,it turns out, is an absolute menace.

Ademonic, handsome, sweet tooth menace who’s always pluckingcandy out of the bowls and seems to be perpetually chewing on onething or another, from the batch of cupcakes Jeremy’s trying tosave for the older teenagers to the half-melted lollipops buried inthe middle of the bowl.

He’sterrible. Jeremy’s having a great time.

AndRyan’s surprisingly – nice towards the kids, crouchingdown to their level and asking about their outfits as they pick outcandy – the parents smile at Jeremy standing behind him and take aproffered cupcake or two.

“Really,I think he’s the more angelic one here,” one woman says, lookingfondly down at her two children, who are explaining their Star Warsoutfits to an interested Ryan. “You should swap costumes.”

Jeremylaughs heartily and glances down at Ryan, at the horns literallysprouting from his head and the New Jersey Devils shirt stretchedover his shoulders.

“Didn’texpect him to be so good with kids,” Jeremy says. “Usually I’mdown there talkin’ to ‘em.”

“Hm,well, people can be surprising,” she says, gently nudging her sonaway from the edge of the step.

“Yeah,”Jeremy agrees, with a fond sigh he’ll deny for the rest of hislife.

Ryanstands back up and the children bound away to another lady walking upto the drive – she greets them with hugs and enthusiasticexclamations over their hauls of candy and the woman at their doorwaves back at her.

“That’smy wife,” she says, taking some chocolate bars from the bowl Ryanoffers her and tucking them into her pocket. “I should probably gobefore they tackle her.”

“Yeah,I’ll see you around – wait, will I see you around?” Jeremyasks.

“Oh,yeah, we just moved into the neighbourhood! I’m Lucy,” she says,holding out a hand to shake. “That’s Jackie back there.”

“Jeremy.”He shakes her hand firmly and gestures to Ryan. “This is Ryan.”Ryan smiles pleasantly and curls an arm around Jeremy’s waist –Jeremy’s heart flips over in his chest and Ryan squeezes him,handing the bowl over so he can also shake Lucy’s hand.

“You’llhave to come over sometime,” Jeremy says. “I got a grill thatisn’t used enough.”

“MaybeI’ll take you up on that,” Lucy says with a wink. She glancesback at Jackie and starts to back away, waving cheerfully to them.

“Number34!” She shouts, gesturing down the road, and Jeremy nods and givesher a thumbs-up.

“Well,she was nice,” Ryan says when they close the door, picking out aSnickers and tearing it open to pop it into his mouth.

“You’rehelping me grill,” Jeremy says automatically, and Ryan laughs.

“Youbuy the burgers, I’ll cook ‘em,” he says, holding something outto Jeremy. “Lollipop?”

Jeremytakes the lollipop and tears the wrapper open, the plastic crinklingloudly in his fingers before he slides the candy into his mouth,sticky sweet cherry flooding his tastebuds. He pulls a face andimmediately takes it out, swallowing to dispel the digsustinglysweet flavour.

“Ugh,what the fuck, these are awful, how the hell have youbeen eating these all night?!”

Ryanshrugs and finds a pack of Nerds, setting down the bowl to dump theminto his hand. He downs half of the box in one go and Jeremy staresat him in abject horror as the second half disappears a few secondslater.

“What.The. Fuck. Ryan. Ryan.”

Ryansteals his lollipop and clicks it against his teeth, grinning aroundit as he stirs up the bowl with a finger.

“What?”He asks innocently. “It’s Halloween.”

“Yeah,and the kids are supposed to be raiding the candy, not - “Jeremy tugs the bowl out of Ryan’s reach and narrows his eyes athim “ - not fucking – hundred year old demons.”

“Isuppose we’re supposed to be raising hell?”

“Somethin’like that.”

Ryanpouts. It’s dangerously endearing.

“Don’tyou have work to do or something? Tricking some poor soul out of –their soul or whatever?” Jeremy asks, more to stop himself staringat Ryan than actually asking.

“Nah,”Ryan says with a shrug, crunching his lollipop in two and discardingthe stick in the bin by his feet.

“Youdon’t?”

“Well.It’s my night off.”

Jeremyraises an eyebrow and Ryan grins, bopping him on the nose with hisfinger before suddenly disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

Jeremyhears him reappear, moments later, in the kitchen, and immediatelybolts to save his cupcakes from Ryan’s apparently garbage disposalappetite.

– 

Theneighbourhood quiets down gradually, the trick-or-treaters all herdedhome and the only horrors on the street the college studentsgathering for the house party at the end of the road. Music pumps outloud enough Jeremy can hear it from inside his house, but no onebothers to tell them to turn it down. It’s a Friday Halloween,after all.

Jeremylets Ryan have the rest of the cupcakes and collapses on his sofawith a bag of candy, picking out the Paydays and dropping them in apile beside him. Ryan comes by a few minutes later, plopping down onthe other side of the bag and sinking into the cushions.

“Youknow,” he says after a couple minutes of watching Jeremy digthrough the bag, “I could just get them out for you.”

“Thisis the fun part, though,” Jeremy says, flashing Ryan a smile. “It’slike a treasure hunt.”

Ryanshrugs and rests his head against the cushions, his tail whippingidly at the bag. Jeremy sorts through more chocolate and finally setsthe bag down on the floor by his feet to start on the pile by hiship. The wings crunch when he leans back.

“Thanksfor the help,” Jeremy says a few chocolates later. Ryan snorts.

“Yeah,handing out candy is a real hardship,” he drawls, scooting over sohe can nudge Jeremy’s side.

“Shutup,” Jeremy mutters. “It was – ” Fun. Nice. Better withanother person. With Ryan.

It’snot like he needed the help at all.

He’sprobably a little pathetic. More than.

“Itwas fun,” he admits, carefully avoiding Ryan’s eyes.

Silentmoments pass between them, only broken by the gentle thump of Ryan’stail against his leg, the rustle of candy wrappers in Jeremy’s lap.

“CanI tell you something?” Jeremy asks. Ryan inclines his head.  

“I,uh – I’m glad you were the replacement,” Jeremy confesses, eyesglued to the coffee table. “For – Azazel.”

Ryanhums and tips his head back on the sofa, crossing his arms. Jeremyfidgets nervously. Their shoulders brush when Jeremy breathes.

“CanI tell you something?” Ryan parrots, looking up at the ceiling.Jeremy glances over at him.

“It’snot my night off,” Ryan says.

Hisburning eyes flick to Jeremy – Jeremy freezes under his gaze,caught off-guard by the piercing intensity of the inhuman glow, bythe odd contrast of that with his lopsided smile.

“Supposedto be raising hell?” Jeremy asks.

“Somethinglike that.” He smiles and Jeremy can’t help matching it,playfully knocking Ryan’s elbow with his own.

“Guessthe cupcakes were good enough to stay?”

Ryanchuckles quietly.

“Somethingwas,” he says.

–  

“Ilike your costume,” Ryan says from the middle of the summoningcircle, his hands tucked into his pockets. His horns and tail fadeaway, the purple lick of flame wisping into nothing as it disappears.Jeremy snorts out a laugh and Ryan smiles and says something indemonspeak – Jeremy’s head whips up at the guttural, familiarstretch of syllables.

“Whatdid you just say?” He asks.

“AngelJeremy,” Ryan says, frowning a little. “Why?”

“What– How do you say my name?”

Ryanrepeats part of the syllables, slower so Jeremy can hear it, andJeremy’s struck again by how familiar he finds it.

“Whydo I recognise that?” He asks. Ryan coughs and brings a hand up torub the back of his neck.

“Oh.Uh. It’s – I…use it a lot,” he says. Something almost like aflush touches his cheeks, faint enough that Jeremy doubts it. “Whenwe’re – y’know.” He gestures between them and then Jeremy’scheeks heat as he realises what Ryan’s talking about.

“Oh,”he mumbles stupidly. “Oh.”

“Badhabit,” Ryan mutters. “Sorry.”

Jeremyblinks and then frantically shakes his head, hesitantly steppingforward but not entering the circle.

“No,don’t – don’t be,” he blurts out. “It’s – no, I likeit.”

Ryanshoots him a sheepish little glance and an equally shy smile, hisshoulders relaxing slightly in relief.

It’sweird, seeing him without the cocky confidence, without the flirtycockteasing. Not that Jeremy doesn’t love that, but. Ryan’squite nice just as himself. Or, well, as himself as he probably is –Jeremy doesn’t know a whole lot about demons’ origins except thatthey used to be human, but they don’t seem to change too much.

Ryanclears his throat – it breaks Jeremy out of his short reverie andhe shakes himself to dispel the lingering thoughts. The air betweenthem seems heavy with something, with some sort of tension that tugsat Jeremy, makes his palms itch with some hidden urge.

Itonly takes a moment before Jeremy’s striding confidently into thecircle, well aware that being in here means Ryan could whisk himaway, and stopping in front of Ryan, barely inches away, swallowingnervously before he leans in to press a quick kiss to Ryan’s cheek.

“Thanks,”he whispers – Ryan’s hands come up to grip his arms and Ryan’sshoulders slump with a sigh as he rests their cheeks together. Jeremylets him have the contact, touches his lips to Ryan’s hot skinagain.

Whenhe reluctantly steps back, Jeremy rubs a hand over his mouth andlingers for a handful of seconds before stepping out of the circle,his skin tingling from Ryan’s touch. He twists his fingers togetherand deliberately clears his throat to try and break the strangemoment, but when he looks up Ryan’s still wearing that soft smile,his eyes crinkled in the corners.

“HappyHalloween,” Jeremy says awkwardly, offering up a grin. Ryan laughsand slides a hand into his pocket again, lifting his other hand toready his fingers.

“HappyHalloween,” he replies, and hesitates. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Andthen he snaps his fingers and vanishes in a column of hazy smoke.