#im gonna kill my management final tomorrow i feel it in my bones

[southislandwren]

some bitches (me) have fun by drafting up official paperwork for very fake things

[ardett]

all dead hearts to you

Description: George and Dream have never met in person. It isn’t a problem until Dream calls George to tell him he’s going to kill himself.

check this out on Ao3 if you wanna be cool!

Author’s Note: Not me crashing recklessly into another fandom (also this is assuming sapnap went home to Texas after living with dream idk let me live)

title from Dead Hearts by Stars

also I'm new here, anyone wanna give me a welcome to the boys?

warnings: suicide warning (obviously) but no actual suicide, general anxiety and panic attacks

It’s 3am when George gets Dream’s call. 

Late, but only really for him. It’s still before midnight in Florida, right around 10pm. He’d like to say that he’s so practiced with converting time zones that he doesn’t even have to think about it but he still has to count backwards on his fingers, thinking on the jump between late late nights and early mornings.

He’s still awake but the leds in his room have been turned to red, set to the dimmest mode. He was streaming with Quackity up until about half an hour ago and his room has settled back into quiet again.

He feels the thrum of anxiety as he hears the ringtone. Dream usually only calls him when George is about to sleep through something important or if he’s on the road. George wonders if he forgot something today or maybe he let something slip on his call with Quackity.

Now that it’s on his mind, he realizes that he hasn’t heard from Dream all day. Or yesterday?

They’ve both been busy, though George has been busy with the usual things and Dream said something about needing to put his affairs in order or whatever that meant. They usually text at least but even that has been quieter.

George grabs his phone off his desk and picks up the call.

“Dream. What’s up?” he asks. George runs a quick hand through his hair, checking his screen quickly. It’s a real phone call, not even a discord call. “Hey, I’m putting you on speaker. I’m gonna put on my pajamas.”

He’s about to set the phone on his dresser when Dream says, “Oh, I probably shouldn’t be on speaker.”

There’s something off in his tone. Something flat. It sets George’s nerves on edge. 

“Yeah? Okay.” George tucks the phone back by his ear, slumping back on his bed. “Did you have something you had to tell me?”

“Yeah. George, I’m going to kill myself.”

Everything in George stills.

And then starts to spin.

“What?”

“I’m going to—”

“You’re not serious.” George jerks upright, ignoring the lightheaded feeling sinking its fingers into his skull. “Dream, this isn’t funny.”

“I don’t think it is. It’s just going to happen.” 

There’s not even a tremor in Dream’s voice. George can’t feel anything past the bone deep shock in his system.

All he can think of is Dream, wrists bloody and split open. Dream, fingertips dusted white with the residue of unnamed pills. Dream, rope burns fracturing the long line of his neck. 

Dream, dead.

How is he even going to do it? Is he actually going to do it? George wants to ask but then he realizes he doesn’t want to know.

He imagines the first time he sees Dream in person is when he attends his funeral.

He imagines all the words he’s held in for so long, waiting and waiting for the moment he could say them to Dream face to face, finally being said to dead air.

But George can’t say that so all he manages is an obstinate, “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Stop disagreeing with me.”

“George,” Dream laughs. Laughs.

George feels dizzy with the disbelief swirling inside him. Surely this can’t be happening. What reason would Dream have to make this up though? Dream would never joke about something like this. Why is he laughing? 

How can Dream be so casual when George’s world is shattering? 

He doesn’t know what a future without Dream looks like.

They’ve always lived miles apart but Dream has never felt so far away. George has never felt like this. Like he couldn’t reach him.

“Dream.” Dream’s laugh cuts off as soon as he hears the plea in George’s voice. “Is something wrong? Are you— I can come there. I can be with you tomorrow. Sapnap can stay with you again. You don’t have to do this—”

“I know. But I want to. So I’m going to.” Any trace of mirth is gone. Dream sounds the same way he did when he decided he was going to break a world record or make YouTube work for him.

Determined. Steadfast. His voice has the steely confidence of knowing he won’t fail.

Usually it’s inspiring but now the familiarity of it just makes George sick. He’s never known Dream to be someone content with failure.

George's phone digs into his palm as his grip spasms. He tastes blood.

And he doesn’t even know why yet.

“What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix it.”

Dream sighs. “Nothing’s wrong, George.”

“There has to be something wrong. You can tell me,” George insists. Then he changes tactics and lies through his teeth. “I swear I won’t tell anyone else. We can work this out together, just the two of us. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I already told you nothing’s wrong,” Dream repeats.

“Then why would you… do that?” George trips over the word, rephrases it instead.

And then Dream rips that tiny defense to shreds.

“You can say it you know,” Dream says. “I’m going to kill myself. You should probably get used to it actually. People are going to ask you about it. I’m sorry about that,” he adds as an afterthought. 

The harsh, blunt words sting against George’s skin.

“Don’t apologize,” he strangles out. “Don’t apologize for that out of everything. Just don’t do it.”

“George,” Dream breathes, exasperated.

“I just don’t understand,” George begs. For the first time, his voice wavers.

Dream, cold gun in his cold hands. Dream, long limbs hanging over the railing of a bridge as he stares down. Dream, slumped over his table with a bottle of vodka nestled near his feet. 

Dream, dead.

Dead.

Dead.

“Don’t cry, okay?” Dream’s voice softens. George forgot how gentle Dream could be with him when he wanted. 

“I didn’t want to make you cry. Look, it’s just…” Dream trails off. Eventually, he continues even quieter. “This is it, you know? This is the top, this is the peak. It can’t go on like this forever, crazy numbers on videos and trending on twitter and all that shit. I’d rather go out like this than wait to hit the bottom. Doesn’t that make sense?” Dream persuades.

“No,” George insists, all the air leaving his lungs at once.

“Come on, George. Can you even picture yourself growing old? What happens when we’re 30, 40, and all of this is gone. Do you want that?”

The sick part of it all is that George has imagined the future. He imagines it lovingly, not viciously. Not like this.

He imagined a future with Sapnap and Bad and Karl and Quackity but most of all with Dream. He wants so badly to be with him. Sapnap talked about living together, how great parts of it had been, how he would have stayed if he hadn’t had to return home for family, and George so selfishly wants that for himself.

And he’s always known that’s not what Dream pictured. Dream doesn’t want what he wants. Dream doesn’t want to grow old with someone, much less George.

Can you even picture yourself growing old?

It hurts because George can and he always wanted it to be with Dream.

“What are you even saying? Do you want me to kill myself too?” George bites. He scrubs viciously at his eyes and stabs at the power button of his computer, teeth piercing into his lip as he waits for it to turn on.

“No, no, of course not. I would never— Come on, that’s obviously not what I’m saying.”

George fumbles with his keyboard, pulling up his discord messages with Sapnap.

He just needs someone else to help him, someone else to know. Someone who can do what he can’t. Someone who isn’t as fucking helpless as him, who doesn’t live an ocean away and who has never seen Dream in person and has never touched Dream, not once, has never known what the sun feels like in Florida.

Of course he was lying when he said this was going to stay between the two of them.

This isn’t the kind of thing he can do alone.

 George: Sapnap dream says hes going 

George: to kill himself

George: you have to get someone to him

George: call 999 

George: 911

 Sapnap: what

 George: please now sap Im on the phone with him

 Sapnap: are you joking

 George: no

George: do it

George: please fast now

 “Are you typing?” Dream questions, a note of warning in his tone.

George jerks. “No, I—”

He’s cut off by a beeping from his phone. 

His heart stops.

“What’s that sound?” Dream asks.

Sapnap is calling him.

George can picture him, knee jumping as he clutches his phone, hoping against hope that George is joking. He can practically hear the adrenaline trembling in Sapnap’s voice, can see the way Sapnap stands and paces.

He can’t answer though. He can’t leave Dream.

George declines the call, hand shaking.

“Who was that?” The question is flat.

“No one,” George says too quickly.

“No one?” Dream repeats. Only a second or two passes before George hears the same beep through his phone speaker, this time coming from Dream’s end. “Wow look who’s calling me. Sapnap. Wonder if he changed his name to No One,” Dream says without emotion.

 Sapnap: fck are you serious

 George bites his tongue, wincing.

“Dream—”

 George: y

 George can’t manage to type anything more before Dream snarls, “You’re such a fucking snitch, you know that? It’s fine though, I thought this might happen. I was gonna call him after you, for the record.” It almost sounds like Dream is smiling. George’s heart twists. Why is he smiling? “I know you have to try as a friend to save me, or whatever you want to call it, but you really don’t have to. I want to do this. I’m going to.

“It’s not like you could really stop me anyway,” Dream continues. “You don’t even know where I live. You barely know what I look like. What, are you going to ask the police to search the entire state of Florida?”

“Sapnap knows,” George whispers. 

He tries to shake off the savagery seeping into Dream’s voice. He tells himself Dream is defensive, Dream is nervous, Dream is scared. Dream isn’t thinking about what he’s really saying.

Though things have never mattered before, the fact George has never been to Florida, that George has never seen Dream in person. But now Dream is weaponizing them against him, forcing George to acknowledge that for everything their relationship is, it can never replace an in person friendship. And Dream has always been a better fighter than George.

“No, he doesn’t. Me and Sap rented a house, remember? We never went to my house. I never sent him my actual address, I checked.” And Dream sounds so smug. Like he won.

George’s gaze darts back to his computer. 

But he already knows Dream isn’t a liar.

 Sapnap: I dont know his address

Sapnap: fuck

Sapnap: Im calling bad

Sapnap: dont let him hang up

 “People are so dumb about it, you know? They tell all their friends and then they get caught before actually doing it,” Dream goes on, not paying attention to George’s disconsolate silence.

“But you’re telling me,” George mutters. Hopelessness strings through him.

Sapnap isn’t writing anything else. George can only hope Bad picked up.

“Yeah but you’re literally in another country. What are you going to do about it?” 

George can’t manage any words. He doesn’t even know if he remembers how to breathe. 

Dream is right, he always seems to be right. George just wishes it wasn’t about this. Anything but this. He has to believe that Sapnap and Bad will figure something out. He has to trust them.

“Just think about how many people are found before they actually do it,” Dream goes on in George’s quiet. “Because they can’t commit. Most people are cowards. It’s dumb honestly. Just do it or don’t.”

“Don’t then,” George whispers.

His eyes burn with unshed tears. His fingers spasm on his bedsheets.

He doesn’t know what Dream wants. Does he want George to beg? To get on his knees and plead with him to save his own life? Because he would in a heartbeat but he doubts it would make a difference. 

Dream sighs. “I feel like you’re not listening to me, George.”

“No, I am.” George’s voice rises with his wrath. Suddenly all his terror and frustration comes to a bursting point. “I’m listening. I’m listening to you talk about killing yourself. I just think you’re wrong. I think it would be a lot fucking braver to stay alive even if your views go down, even if you’re not fucking famous, Dream. What the fuck? You’re a fucking coward for trying to leave!” George’s breaths heave through the staticy phone microphone. His fear and anger wind him.

There’s a moment of emptiness.

Then, lip curling, Dream says, “Trying to leave you?”

George chokes.

“What?”

“Don’t try and pull this card, George. That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? I’m a coward for leaving everyone behind? For leaving you?” 

Dream’s voice drowns out George’s. George flinches, though Dream can’t see it. 

“Don’t be so fucking selfish. I hate that, you know that?” Dream growls. “Everyone thinks they’re enough to save someone all by themselves. Wow, the sheer force of your love just fucking yanked me back from the edge of a cliff, give me a fucking break,” Dream scoffs. George’s ribs feel tight. “You can’t just reverse psychology or guilt me out of this.”

“Jesus, Dream, is it so hard to believe that maybe I care about you and I don’t want you to fucking die?” George grits out. 

The room swims before him. He can’t remember how to uncurl his fingers.

“Well it’s not up to you, is it?” Dream practically smirks.

And that’s it, isn’t it? The winning phrase. Because Dream’s right. 

It’s not up to George. 

George can only listen helplessly as Dream considers his own grave. He’s a constant witness to the storm that is Dream. He was always grateful to be dragged along in Dream’s hurricane winds and now he dreads the day they calm.

“You’re being cruel,” George murmurs. His aggression leaves him as soon as it came.

“I’m being honest,” Dream contends.

George sinks his head into his hands. “Why did you even call me then? To— to gloat?”

Dream’s voice goes low and quiet, vulnerable. George’s insides twist and melt and contort. “No, no, I just… I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to you one more time.”

“Don’t say that,” George hisses. The words are half muffled into his palms.

“Don’t say what?” Dream asks defensively.

“Don’t say one more time. You can’t— you can’t—'' It all hits George at once. He’s going to lose him.

He’s going to lose Dream.

Before he knows it, he’s sobbing into the phone, loud ugly heaving sobs. “Don’t do it, Dream. I’m serious. Please— Just wait for one of us to get there. We can be with you. We can help.”

Dream’s voice hardens again. “You mean you can stop me.”

“Dream—” George starts to beg, trying to figure out how to lie without Dream catching him.

But Dream beats him to it. 

“I’m gonna hang up now—”

Panic rips through George. The shock of it physically hurts in his veins, in his heart.

“No!” he almost screams. “Dream, Dream, don’t hang up—”

“Oh my god, relax. I’m calling Sapnap. I’m not doing anything yet.” He can almost hear Dream rolling his eyes. It’s not comforting.

George sniffles. He knows it sounds pathetic. He’s not one for pity but if it gets Dream to keep talking with him, he’s willing to stoop to any low. He just doesn’t know if he can believe Dream.

“Can’t you just… stay on the phone with me?” 

“What, forever? Is that your plan? Just keep me on the line until someone inevitably finds me somehow?” Dream mocks.

Yes.

“No,” George says instead because he thinks it’s what Dream wants to hear.

Dream switches tactics. George recognizes the persuasion in his tone. 

“Don’t you want me to call Sapnap? Shouldn’t he also get the chance to talk with me?” Dream questions.

Guilts rests against George’s ribs. 

Of course he wants Sapnap to get the chance to talk to Dream. What if this is their last chance to talk? But George is too selfish to think about it much.

“That’s not what you’re asking me. Don’t try and pull that shit. You’re asking me to hang up. You’re asking for me to say goodbye and I’m…” George’s voice drops, almost inaudible. “I’m not ready.”

“George…” Dream’s voice trails off. His next words are nearly silent, something bitter and mournful about them. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” George mumbles.

“Are you gonna say it back to me?” Dream demands. George doesn’t know what holds him back now but something does.

“You know I do, Dream, why—”

The dial tone rings in George’s ears.

Dream hung up.

-

Not even 30 seconds pass, not nearly enough for the abrupt end of their call to sink in, when George’s phone is ringing again. He fumbles with his screen but manages to pick up.

“George?”

George’s heart sinks. It’s not the voice he wants to hear. That he needs to hear.

“Bad?”

“Yeah,” Bad affirms. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Am I—” George scoffs and it feels like it rips his throat. He feels like he wants to scream. Like he wants to punch a wall. Like he would give anything to be somewhere warmer right now. “No, I’m obviously not okay, Bad. He’s going to— to—”

“I know. Sapnap told me.” 

Bad’s voice is collected, even. It just makes George more frustrated. How can everyone be so fucking calm about this? 

“George, just try to take some deep breaths, okay?” George ignores the suggestion. “Sapnap is on the phone with Dream. He just hung up on me to talk to him. I’m driving there right now, okay?”

George pauses. Something cold washes over him. He doesn’t know yet if it’s relief.

“You’re— you’re driving to Dream?”

“Yes,” Bad affirms. “We just have to keep him talking to someone for the next hour—”

“Hour? Are you serious? That’s too long!” George knows he’s screaming now. He doesn’t care.

“George—”

“We have to call an ambulance, the police. There has to be someone we can call.” 

George squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of other ways they could possibly get there in time. He comes up blank. He can’t accept it. He can’t.

Dream, alone. Dream, bereft. Dream, dead.

“I know but I can’t— I was trying to tell you.” Bad’s words are muffled. It sounds like he’s biting the inside of his cheek. He confesses, “I don’t know his exact address. Sapnap is going to try and get it while he talks to him. I’m driving to Orlando and hopefully Sap knows it by the time I get there but we’re just—”

“No, no, no—”

George thinks of Bad arriving just in time to find Dream’s body still warm. He’s going to be sick. His chest hurts. His lungs burn.

“Try and take some deep breaths—” Bad placates as George speaks over him.

“I’m never going to talk to him again. He’s going to kill himself.” George is spiraling. He can’t stop himself.

“George, I’m going to get there in time.” But Bad doesn’t sound sure of himself. George zeros in on the weakness.

“You don’t know that,” George hisses.

“This is hard for all of us, George!” George startles at Bad’s yell. He’s heard Bad raise his voice before but never at him, never seriously. “I’m sorry,” Bad apologizes, words quieting again. George hears a sniffle through the phone. 

Bad’s crying. 

God, George is a terrible person. He didn’t even think to check in on Bad. Bad’s the one who might find Dream halfway there or already committed. He’s the only one who’s even close to being able to do something and maybe that’s the worst position to be in.

To be so close and lose a friend anyway.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I know it’s hard for all of us. I know you’re doing everything you can. You’re doing more than me.” George tries to laugh but it gets stuck in his throat. It’s not funny anyway.

“It’s going to be okay,” but it doesn’t even sound like Bad believes himself.

“I don’t think I can talk about this anymore,” George murmurs. He feels exhausted. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through him that it hurts. “Can we just talk about something else just… just for a little?” he begs. Like anything could distract him from this.

“Yeah George.” George can hear the sympathy in Bad’s voice. He’s too far gone for the pity to bother him. “Let me— Let me tell you about what I did this weekend on the SMP.”

George sucks in a sharp inhale. “Not— not the SMP. Can you talk about something else?” 

“Of course,” Bad agrees easily. “So last Friday I went to visit my family…”

George lets Bad talk in the background. Every once in a while, one of them will sniffle or sob or take a breath that’s too shaky to be normal. Neither of them mentions it.

George listens to people walk past his window, their voices carrying up into the stars.

The noises of the highway drone on through his phone.

Bad drives.

-

George thinks about what it would be like to go on without Dream.

He’ll never be the same, he already knows. It will haunt him for years. For the rest of his life. The thought of being so close to someone and then losing them.

Death is natural. He knows that. But it’s the intentionality of it that aches the most. The idea that Dream would leave behind everything for something so painful and unknown.

And George just knows… part of him will die with Dream and never come back. 

George doesn’t know who he’ll be with that part missing.

part 1/3, though the next update won’t really be an update but it will be soon

[lalosalamcnca]

The Originals 1x09-1x16 Review

So I watched TVD during quarantine last year, and even though I swore to never watch another Julie Plec show again, I’m giving TO a chance! I thought I’d share my thoughts, let people know whether Plec has disappointed me again or how much I love Rebekah Mikaelson. You can also find my 1x02-1x08 review on my blog. 

1x09

No one looks happy to be at Klaus’s dinner lmaoo 

I knew the waiters would be the food…I hate that it looks so cool 

Ooh so Marcel picked up the coin for a reason!! I should’ve known that it was part of a bigger plan

KLAUS IS GOING TO KILL ALL THE WEREWOLVES?! These people really get put through the ringer 

So who’s still in the coffins?? Why bother keeping them around if Kol and Finn are dead?? (Even if they do come back, I still don’t see the logic)

I admire Cami’s resourcefulness, she’s definitely good at working around Klaus’s compulsion

Klaus, don’t call Davina an artist…she can’t draw

Clearly I underestimated the humans!! That’s my bad lol

WOAH MARCEL IS DONE WITH DIPLOMACY, GOING IN FOR THE KILL

Davina is really not intimidating at all 

Not sure what Hayley’s plan is for her, Davina and Josh…maybe they want to play scrabble or bake beignets 

FATHER KIERAN, YOU’RE JUST GOING TO LEAVE CAMI WHEN SHE’S CLEARLY DISTRAUGHT?!

I hope that human general gets killed first 

Looks like my wish came true!

A co-leadership between Klaus and Marcel? I can’t see this ending well 

Klaus and Hayley’s relationship is definitely getting interesting, I like their dynamic

Clearly Josh is the only person who isn’t trying to use Davina 

And now Davina’s realized that she’s been played by Marcel…

Klamille is really drawing me in….still, I think she should leave

Oh yeah, Hayley definitely wants a kiss from Elijah  

So…I guess Tyler just dipped?

AWW KLAUS FORGAVE ELIJAH

1X10

REBEKAH IN TIME PERIOD CLOTHING…I LOVE

Ok, Rebekah’s French was at least better than Klaus’s counting

OF COURSE ELIJAH WOULD WALK IN WHEN HAYLEY’S BASICALLY WEARING A WEDDING DRESS 

Surely Marcel or Klaus could easily listen in on Rebekah and Hayley’s conversation?? 

My crackship partnering up together…I like it

FINALLY we’re checking back in on the witches, wtf have they been doing this whole time

DIGGING UP CELESTE’S GRAVE?! Very cruel and disrespectful

Tim’s back! He’s probably gonna suffer or maybe die

OH COME ON, SURELY THOSE VAMPIRES HEARD HAYLEY DIDN’T GO UPSTAIRS

NOW I’M DEFINITELY UP FOR A REBEKAH AND DAVINA TEAMUP, GIVE IT TO ME

This is a really smart move, showing Davina the garden and how Marcel can be cruel 

Yup, makes sense that Klaus had an insurance for whether Davina lives or dies 

Father Kieran, really?! Sean’s death is really not that complicated

Clearly Elijah and Marcel should be the ones running NOLA

Danielle Campbell is a pretty good actress, I definitely felt her pain when Tim died

Wow, those are supremely terrible drawings…you think that evil would look a lot nicer 

Ah yes, I’m sure the whole world will totally believe that vampires exist, Cami

Did not expect Rebekah to be talking to Thierry 

I’M TOTALLY UP FOR REBEKAH MANAGING AN EMPIRE

Wow, so Davina actually drew something somewhat good

1x11

Wow Davina went right in with attacking Marcel

“Poisoning [Davina’s] one true love” well this isn’t going to age well

ELIJAH LOOKS SO DISAPPOINTED ABOUT HAYLEY FINDING CELESTE’S GRAVE, I really can’t blame him

Hayley is really just being shunted off to the sidelines 

MARCEL, COME ON, IM SORRY BB BUT I THINK THE HARVEST RITUAL HAS TO BE FINISHED

Looks like we’re entering the water stage… 

I’m glad that Marcel is learning from his mistakes

ESTHER’S BONES ARE BEING CONSECRATED, GUESSED IT AS SOON AS ELIJAH SAID THERE’S ANOTHER WITCH 

I like that quote, “kill a demon today, meet the devil tomorrow”

Davina’s eyebrows look so nice

Poor Davina, quite a brutal death 

I feel for Sophie Deveraux too, all alone

CMD is giving a great performance!! I ACTUALLY TEARED UP A LITTLE

HAYLIJAH, JUST KISS…GREAT, THEY DIDN’T AND NOW IM ANNOYED 

Yeah, you definitely don’t give Rebekah enough credit, Klaus 

LOOKS LIKE WE GOT SOME NEW WITCHES BACK FROM THE DEAD

SABINE HAS BEEN CELESTE FOR A YEAR WHATT, WHY DIDN’T I SEE IT COMING

1x12

Whatever this witchy ritual is, it looks fun

Elijah in this 1920s suit…AND THE GELLED HAIR…JULIE IS REALLY KILLING ME HERE

Oh come on, Klaus, let Marcel grieve Davina

Ofc my girl Rebekah is being smart about the witches, this is why I love her 

Elijah, Klaus is doing THE BARE MINIMUM. I’m sorry but it’s true, it’s been 1000 years, it’s not a bad thing to be harder on him 

WHAT’S HAPPENING TO MY GIRL BEKAH

I literally forgot about Hayley…

THE REASON FOR HAYLEY AND ELIJAH NOT HANGING OUT SOUNDS SO CHILDISH LOLL 

Marcel’s right, Klaus is pretty indestructible, Cami won’t even make a dent 

REBEKAH IN A 1920s DRESS…LITERALLY SO GORGEOUS 

Marcel looks so cute with his clean-shaven, soldier look 

FINALLY Elijah found Rebekah 

Ngl, I like the father-son references about Klaus and Marcel…they’re kind of heartwarming

So what if you were to try to stomp on a candle that’s involved in a spell? Would it work or would you just bounce right off it?  

Klaus looks kinda jealous of Cami and Marcel….I like it

MARCEL BROUGHT TUNDE INTO TOWN FOR REBEKAH WHATTT

Oh Klaus…really, take a leadership course or something 

OH SHIT, TUNDE MADE IT TO THE GARDEN 

OOOH, I THOUGHT CELESTE WAS THE FINAL OFFERING BUT IT’S ACTUALLY TUNDE…VERY EXCITING

1x13

OMG, IS MONIQUE ALIVE?!

I love that both Marcel and Klaus were watching Cami

Marcel has great sass too, Marbekah is clearly a perfect match

Great, Father Kieran’s been hexed too…this man cannot catch a break

Surely Elijah suspects that Sabine is Celeste? He should know her characteristics and mannerisms 

The witches are putting A LOT of faith in Cami, what if she ends up handing over the blade?  

WOW, I LITERALLY PREDICTED IT…unless it’s a fake

I SEE JACKSON 

THE GUY WALKING IN NAKED ON REBEKAH IM LAUGHING

MONIQUE’S EYES ARE FREAKING ME OUT, MAYBE SHE’S BEING CREEPY ON PURPOSE

YAYY REBEKAH’S HAVING FUN DANCING AWW  

I’m happy that these werewolves get to have fun, they deserve it

The music coming in…they’re already setting up the Hayley x Jackson ship

The baby bump is so confusing, I feel like it’s been inconsistent

OH YES ELIJAH FIGURED IT OUT ABOUT CELESTE

Oh no, Elijah’s been hexed

I love that all this shit is going on and Klaus is just hanging out in a church with Cami and Father Kieran

Loved? I would not venture as far as to say that Elijah loves Hayley

SOPHIE STABBED KLAUS HOLY SHIT

Could the werewolves really have taken the vampires?? We’ve already established that vampires are stronger 

I’m sorry, this whole arranged marriage thing is not as romantic as they’re making it out to be 

WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED THAT REBEKAH HAS BEEN PLAYED YET AGAIN BY A MAN

There’s something fitting about an old plantation burning in a fire

I actually liked Sophie, she tried so hard to get Monique back and all so she could die… 

The witches are honestly horrible, Bonnie Bennett supremacy

1x14

My poor Rebekah going through all this hardship

Rebekah looks amazing as a nurse, she looks good in everything

Elijah unbuttoning his shirt, I approve 

Don’t be afraid to examine him too closely, Hayley…I know I would

1920s Marbekah are definitely cute 

I’m loving this recovering Klaus look  

I’m LIVING for this Elijah and Marcel team up!!! 

MY BABY BEKS IS GETTING BEAT DOWN, SOMEBODY SAVE HER

I’m guessing Clara was that friend of Genevieve’s, the other nurse 

I KNEW IT, I WAS RIGHT ABOUT CLARA 

I do feel bad for Klaus, a betrayal like that….even if Klaus has treated Rebekah badly, it’s clear that calling Mikael is next level

THE FAMOUS REBEKAH SCREAM 

I admit, Celeste’s plan is pretty smart in unravelling the Mikaelson family

Ok, that’s a pretty terrible way for Genevieve and “Clara” to die

Klaus has such nice cheekbones

YEAHH HAYLEY HELPING OUT HER FAMILY 

WHEN WILL REBEKAH BE HAPPY AGAIN CMONNN 

Damn this klebekah chemistry

Elijah once again proving why he’s my favourite Mikaelson man

1x15

YAY we’re back in a flashback 

These Mikaelson men look so hot in these 1920s outfits

Well, Elijah’s right about Cami being the best person to greet Klaus

HELL YEAH, FINALLY WE SEE HAYLEY AND THE WOLVES IN ACTION

Idk who plays Sabine/Celeste but she’s doing a great job

Oh Rebekah…by bringing Mikael to town, you basically ruined your own happiness… 

Mikael looks very classy in his 1920s outfit 

Not a great plan if Klaus has already sniffed out what Rebekah and Marcel plan to do

That grimoire page looked so ratty…the text barely looked legible, how can Monique read the instructions

I find it ironic that Mikael calls Klaus an abomination, even though the witches say the same about vampires

That is literally so awkward, Haylijah’s having their moment and Celeste is just hanging out beside them  

Why is Hayley walking away? Where’s she going? 

Celeste is VERY cunning, her plans are top notch 

Damn, Joe’s acting…Klaus’s face when Mikael came over, like he could sense him  

Wow, Mikael is PURE EVIL

Oh damn, Celeste is dead 

SHITT, MONIQUE AND ELIJAH OUTSMARTED CELESTE, DID NOT SEE THAT COMING, I FORGOT ABOUT MONIQUE 

The eyes are less creepy now that I know Monique’s motives 

DAVINA’S BACK!!! 

Klaus found Rebekah…looks like we’re about to get a showdown

1x16

Little Rebekah and Klaus are so adorable

Klaus’s amber eyes and black veins are so fkn cool 

Father Kieran is right, Klaus will be a lot less merciless to Marcel 

I love that Klaus is posing on a grave and doing a mock trial 

REBEKAH COMING IN WITH SOME VALID AND HURTFUL POINTS

ELIJAH HAS BOTH WEAPONS OH DAMN

Klaus can be mad, I get that, but he played a part in bringing Mikael to town. He’d constantly kill Rebekah’s suitors, mistreat her, judge her way too often, everyone reaches a breaking point 

Davina’s right, she’s back to being used and if anything she’s in more danger now than before

Klaus, don’t insult Elijah’s suits. They’re tasteful, and not everyone can pull it off

FANTASTIC. ELIJAH’S BEEN STABBED BY THE TUNDE BLADE. MY FAVES ARE SUFFERING

SO KLAUS BASICALLY PUSHES REBEKAH TO ADMIT SHE WANTED HIM DEAD, AND THEN HE’S SAD WHEN SHE DOES. WHAT DID U EXPECT 

THANK GOD Rebekah isn’t dead 

Oh klebekah…I can see the chemistry but I don’t want to  

CLAIRE AND JOE’S ACTING IS ON POINT

Where is Hayley?? I’ve forgotten about her

Rebekah and Elijah’s relationship is too precious  

I have a bad feeling about this Marcel and Klaus meeting

ELIJAH THROWING MARCEL AND EXILING HIM, DEFINITELY DIDN’T EXPECT THAT

Marcel seems to be complying…? I’m sure he won’t though

Klaus needs to go feel the baby kick or read some pregnancy books, de-stress or something 

GODDAMNIT, WHY CAN’T MARCEL JUST GO WITH REBEKAH…I get why he can’t leave, but still

MY CRACKSHIP SAYING GOODBYE, and finally we know where Hayley is 

Auntie Bex is such a cute name aww

You’d think that Klaus would be wondering about Hayley by now

Goodbye Rebekah, I’m gonna miss you

1x17-1x22 coming soon! Please, DO NOT POST SPOILERS OR HATE COMMENTS. I don’t expect people to agree with my opinions, but being rude is not going to get me to change mine. I haven’t seen the show before, my opinions are probably going to change over time as I keep watching. If you want longer notes on any of the episodes, please ask or message me, I’d be happy to share them. 

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part iv}

i have no excuse for the wait except that im an idiot who took this school year too lightly yeet

-- -- --

Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Genre: angst. because whats new

Word count: 8.7K

Notes: CW: graphic violence/blood, emotional manipulation - masterlist - {previous} -- {next }

-- -- --

if heaven's grief brings hell's rain

then i’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

~ Just One Yesterday, Fall Out Boy

-- -- --

You wake up from a deep, dreamless sleep, disoriented and shivering despite the multiple layers you have on and thick comforter stacked upon you. It takes a moment before the events of the previous night rush back into your mind and cloud your thoughts, and you throw an arm over your face, inhaling deeply.

A huge weight has fallen off your shoulders. Last night, you didn't realise as much, your tired 3 A.M. mind already struggling to focus with the fact that Keith--who had been deathly sick only hours before--was up and about and sitting at your kitchen table and eating chinese takeout. But now that you had the quiet of the early morning to yourself you could feel the knots in your shoulders loosen and the lead seep out of your limbs.

You slowly shift your legs out of bed, still slightly dazed. Sunlight peeks out through the cracks in the shutters covering your window, and you cast a look at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand. It's barely 7 A.M. And it's also a Saturday. While that doesn't matter much in terms of noise–a city is a city, after all, and this one certainly is never quiet–your neighbours' kids aren't allowed out of bed before nine on Saturdays, which gives you at least two small hours of peace and quiet.

You stagger to the bathroom and let the hot shower water beat down your stiff muscles, trying to draw out the permanent chill that seems to have settled deep into your bones. It works a little bit, but when you get out of the steamy little cell and wrap a towel around your torso you can feel it trickle back into the pit of your stomach, like an icy worm that's decided to make your body its home. It's more of a discomfort than a true pain, though, so you decide to ignore it.

Your hair is still damp when you pull an extra thick sweater over your head, stick your feet in warm socks and tiptoe your way over to the living room.

Keith is still asleep. You don't blame him–he's still recovering, even though he already looks so much better than the previous night. The colour is back in his cheeks. The dark circles and the hollowness under his eyes have started to fade away. He's still thin, and he doesn't smell too good, but you decide against waking him just yet.

In the kitchen, you put on the kettle and pull open the fridge in search of something to eat. The unfinished boxes of chinese sit in front, half-open from when you hastily stowed them away. You pull one out, sniff it, then shrug as you grab for a spoon.

The kitchen windowsill is probably not the spot a lot of people would pick to lounge on, an early Saturday morning. But you've always liked to watch the sun rise over the tall buildings, and the soft orange glow you're treated with today is worth waking up so early for. You rest your face on the knee you've pulled up beside you as you shovel another spoonful of rice into your mouth.

The orange slowly fades out into yellow, then into blue. It's soothing to watch, and you find yourself slow your breathing and close your eyes as the city wakes up beneath you. Noises of starting cars and motorbikes drift up to your window, and chattering fills the street. People exit their homes, throwing delightful glances up at the sunny sky; unexpected after the heavy rain of the previous night.

You finish your takeout, do some chores around the house. Change your bedsheets. Prepare a change of clothes for when Keith finally wakes up. Open the windows to let in some fresh air. Prepare a cup of tea and claim back your spot on the windowsill. It's a peaceful morning, and the air doesn't feel quite as heavy as usual.

And then there's a rustling in the room beside you, and a crash as–you assume–Keith tumbles off your sofa and hits the ground. A faint groan floats past the kitchen doorway and you try to hide your grin. A couple of seconds later a very dishevelled-looking Keith stumbles into the kitchen.

"Morning," you tell him, rolling your shoulders once so they won't go stiff against the windowsill. He nods at you, dark eyes bleary. "Feel better?"

He sniffs. "I don't feel like I just got struck by lightning and dragged behind a racecar over an especially rocky road. So I guess that's improvement."

You blow on the hot tea in your hands. "I'm glad. Would have hated to have gone through all that trouble for nothing. You're quite the guest, you know."

Keith winces at the words, despite your light tone. For some reason, his frown and pained expression tug at your stomach. "But I don't mind it," you add hurriedly. "I mean–it was my own choice to take you in. I very well could not have done that. But–but I did." Shut up, shut up, shut up, you shouted internally.

The corners of Keith's mouth lift ever so slightly. "Lucky for me."

"Lucky for you," you agree with a grin.

It's silent for a while, and in the sunlight, you can clearly see how thin Keith really is. His shirt hangs from his frame in a shapeless lump of cloth, his trousers sagging and almost slipping from his bony hips. While he does look better–the life has returned to his eyes–he still doesn't look good, and the sight of him makes your guts twist. You point to the fridge. "There's leftovers from yesterday. Grab whatever you want–but be careful not to eat too much. I don't want you puking all over my kitchen."

But Keith has already found the other chinese box, and you show him which drawers contain cutlery and in which cupboard are stashed the glasses. He scarfs down the rice in ten minutes flat, and you shake your head in silent judgement. "I'm going to find a way to make you pay back everything you'll cost me, food-wise. You're in debt, starting today."

He gives you a shy grin, but his attention is quickly taken up once more by the food in front of him. You quietly sip your tea, staring out of the window, occasionally glancing at the angel sitting at your kitchen table.

That's when it truly hits you how much of an idiot you're being.

Last night, it had been late. Five days of nothing on your mind but the thought of trying to keep him alive, and finally finding a way to do so, had left you shaky and dazed. Seeing him up and about after getting used to the sound of his ragged, unsteady breathing floating through your apartment had been a shock.

But now the full weight of what you'd done–and what you hadn't done–crashes into you, and you realise you have absolutely no idea how to feel. The air charges with tension, and the angel leans back in his seat. He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel. Your mind whirls with thoughts, all seeming to want something different–the part of you that's curious where this whole situation would lead and is whispering to you to let him stay; the part of you that's still a loyal soldier to the Below and is screaming at you to turn him in; the part of you that wants nothing to do with any of this and is growling to throw him back out on the street. You shake your head, downing the last of your tea and hopping off the counter.

"Take a shower when you're done with that," you mutter. "I have to get back to work soon. My co-workers are gonna ask questions and I need to be prepared."

Keith nods. Your phone is already in your hands and you fire off a quick text to the shelter's manager to inform him you'd be in this afternoon. You don't know Anthony that well–he mostly keeps to the side and handles potential adopters. You prefer to stay with the animals. Almost immediately you receive a reply: he says he's delighted that you've decided to return so soon after taking your unexpected leave. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the barely-veiled passive-aggressiveness.

"Oh, yeah." You turn and point at Keith with your phone. "You can stay for as long as you need to, like, get your bearings and feel somewhat okay again, but then I'm kicking you out. I don't know if you have any idea of how much of a risk I'm taking here, but–"

"I get it," he cuts you off, and you can tell he means it. He needs to work on concealing his emotions, you think off-handedly. He's an open book. It's distracting. "Thank you. Seriously."

The tension builds until it's almost tangible. You shake your head, trying to shake the dizziness away. "It's–yeah. My pleasure, or whatever. I'm locking the door behind me." He gives a brief incline of his head to show he understands. "All right then. Later, I guess. Make–make sure you've showered. You kind of smell," you say apologetically. "No offence."

"None taken," he laughs. "You're right, anyway."

You make a gesture that's in between a nod and a headshake, then make a blind grab for your coat and your scarf before pulling the door closed behind you and locking it.

The shelter's lights are on, and its illuminated windows stand out starkly in the dim grimness of the gloomy street. It doesn't rain, for once, but grey clouds hang overhead and block the sun, the little light that makes it past them flimsy and thin. You pull the door closed behind you. The little bell above the doorway rings once, softly, and barking immediately pipes up from the next room over. You smile.

"Hey, loves," you mutter to each animal as you pass their cages, stopping here and there and sticking your fingers through the bars to give a furry face a pat, or to scratch a scaly butt, or to stroke a feathered head. "I missed you guys."

"They missed you too, I think," comes a quiet voice from behind you. You crouch and open a cage, plucking out a small cat and scritching it behind the ears. "They've been rather unruly in the days you weren't here. Restless, you know."

"Hi, Tony."

"Y/N." He inclines his head. "Did you have a nice leave?" It's a question purely out of politeness, you know, because he's your employer and he's supposed to be polite. As far as employers go, Tony really isn't the worst of them. But you can't shake the feeling that he's fishing for something.

"I did. I've been busy," you say cautiously, not taking your eyes off of the kitten you're cradling. "Sorry for it being so unexpected."

"Oh, not at all," Tony replies smoothly, sailing over to where you sit and leaning on the wall behind you, "We've managed. It was your week off, anyway, and just because you've insisted on working in your free time before doesn't mean that you always will." But it doesn't take amazing detective skills to hear the suspicious edge to his voice.

"That's right," you say, maybe a little too sharply. You can almost smell Tony's raised eyebrow behind you. "Sorry. I've just–I've been a little on edge, lately. I'll–" You scramble up, depositing the kitten back in its cage and dusting fur off your t-shirt. "I'll be in the back." You have the weird urge to salute, but you manage to suppress it. He's already suspicious, you remind yourself. Don't make it worse by acting weird.

It is a shame you can't spend more time with the animals, but you're not the only one who decided to come in today–it's actually quite crowded for a Saturday–so you get storage room duty and instead spend your afternoon putting away boxes of food and medicine and cleaning products. Emmie, one of your co-workers, sticks her head around the corner of your door at the end of the day.

"Hey. We're gonna go get milkshakes, wanna come?"

Your back screams when you push off the chair, eager for an excuse to cut your day short. "You're a godsend." The expression is actually used exclusively as an insult in the Below, but you find you like the Middle Ground version better. "Let me just grab my shoes, I'll be right there."

Hopping on one foot as you finish tying your laces, you join Emmie, Nirina, Adam and Zach as they stride out the door, Emmie and Zach's arms linked. In the back of your mind you recognise that's strange: Emmie and Zach can't stand each other. A smile curls the corners of your lips. You did miss quite a lot this past week, didn't you?

"We're going to this new place a few blocks down," Emmie shouts over her shoulder. You try to chat with Nirina for a bit, but she's more silent than usual, barely saying a word, and eventually she retreats to walk next to Adam behind you. When you don't focus on it, a black, vaguely animal-shaped shadow seems to sit on her shoulder, but when you look directly at it nothing's there.

Something isn't right here.

The feeling creeps into your very bones, making the hairs on your neck stand on edge and your shoulder blades tingle. The sense that you're being watched, and more–as you realise that with Nirina and Adam behind you and Emmie and Zach in front of you, it almost feels like you're being escorted. Guarded.

"Hey, Em," you call. Your hand creeps towards your pocket, but with a start you remember you left your knife at home. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "What's the place we're going called?"

Emmie turns around and flashes you a fanged grin. Your blood turns to ice. "So Above, So Below." And then she pounces--and pushes you straight through the pavement. You don't even have time to scream.

You lose all sense of direction. Up is down and left is right as you fall, fall, fall through a black hole, Emmie's nails still digging into your shoulders, though you're sure if you actually opened your eyes you'd see they're claws. You try to tug yourself loose, but her grip immediately tightens. You hiss when you feel her talons draw blood.

"No getting away, Y/N dear," she giggles into your ear.

Well, at least you know what she–and the others too, by the sound of it–is. Only Bountyhunters can get to the Below or the Above without using one of the doors or passages, instead creating their own temporary ones. You've travelled by Bounty Tunnel before. It's not a memory you cherish. The only thing you can do is close your eyes and hope it'll be over soon.

When you finally make contact, all the air is knocked out of you and for a moment you see nothing but black spots dancing in front of your eyes. Then you suck in a scorching breath and blink, and the familiar stark white ceiling of the Offices comes into view. You groan, and when you try to sit up, your hands catch in ashy grey feathers: your wings have popped. You flush, already feeling Haggar's disapproving scowl digging into your back. How unprofessional, she'd mumble.

Haggar has always hated your guts–even back when you were still loyal to the Below.

Emmie–except she looks nothing like Emmie anymore–tosses her long dark ponytail over her shoulder and sighs. "That was almost too easy. We were told you'd be a challenge."

"I haven't been feeling well," you reply, voice icy as you stand up and shake out your wings. You don't miss the way Emmie's expression sours and suppress a smirk. Bounties don't have wings, and they'll never stop being salty about it. "Also, four against one? That seems a little unfair, even for Management." You pause. "I'm assuming you got hired by Management."

"Of course we got hired by Management, demon," Zach snarls. He runs his fingers through his hair and glares at you, his fangs growing by the second and soon touching his chin. And then his face begins to change, his jaw softening (though not by much), his eyes growing more cat-like, his lips plumping. You frown, because you know this face. You know her.

Zethrid grins, fangs shining in the white LED light. "Long time no see, Y/N." You give a sarcastic wave.

"Yes, Y/N," comes an icy voice from behind you. Your shoulders tense, and your feathers puff involuntarily. "Long time no see indeed."

Haggar glides out of her office doors, and you feel all the stony calm and resistance leave you in one fell swoop. Her yellow eyes bore into yours, and it takes every ounce of willpower inside you not to look away. She nods her head, once. "My office, Y/N. Now."

"You're so dead," mutters Zethrid as you pass her.

"When I get out of here, you're the first person whose throat I'll slit," you hiss in return.

Haggar slumps in her seat and plucks her looking glass from its stand, making it levitate over her hand and glaring like she has a personal vendetta against it. "If it were up to me, I would already have you burning and hanging from the Grand Hall ceiling," she says, vanishing the mirror in a cloud of smoke. You try to ignore the pang of fear stabbing into your chest. You're gonna be fine, you tell yourself. You're going to be okay. But you find it hard to believe the words.

"But–" the mirror reappears in her other hand– "a certain Prince insisted on keeping you alive." She whirls the looking glass around and it floats in front of your face. Prince Lotor of the Below looks at you with a scrutinising gaze, as if gauging how much you'd be worth on the night market.

"Y/N," he says in a clear voice. You nod, then quickly incline your head in a slight bow. Watch your tongue, Y/N. Watch. Your. Tongue. "No need for that." Lotor snaps his fingers, and you look up again, eyes fixed on the rim of the looking glass, determined not to meet Lotor's. You're afraid of what you might see.

It's silent for a moment, and you keep your mouth shut for as long as you can, but you eventually break. "Forgive me, Lord, but–"

"Shut up." It takes all of your willpower not to cock your head and narrow your eyes in indignation. Lotor leans forward, elbows perched on his desk and fingertips pressed together. His cold gaze is calculating and cruel, and your entire body reels with disgust and hatred. "I didn't keep you alive because I care about what happens to you. Because I don't," he clarifies with a raised eyebrow, and this time you can't keep the grimly sarcastic smile at bay. "I kept you alive because I need you to do a job."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think I'm the right person for any job." You try to keep your voice light and your fists unclenched, but it's a harder task than you want to admit.

"Told him so," Haggar mutters from behind the mirror. You can tell she thoroughly disagrees with being used as a TV-stand. "There are so much more competent candidates for this assignment who actually want to prove themselves and their loyalty to us." You have the feeling she's talking directly to Lotor now. "But no, you just had to get the one rogue who'll do everything in their power to get out from this–"

"Enough," Lotor says coolly, and Haggar clamps her jaw shut, though her eyes flash with murder. You don't know who she wants to kill more at the moment: you or Lotor. "Y/N will do the job, and they'll do it without complaining."

"You sound awfully sure." You've since given up on trying to be respectful. Lotor might be the Prince of the Below, but you had wriggled yourself out of more difficult situations than these before. You're already carefully plotting an escape.

Because the mistake most people make when they see you is that they underestimate you. They think they have you pinned down, and then they loosen their hold and up till now, that has always worked out in your favour–you know how to manipulate people and you know how to get out of the Below. You know every single of the dozens and dozens of passageways leading out onto Middle Ground, and from there on you know how to hide. You've done it before, and managed to keep off their radar for quite a while.

In fact, the only reason they caught you now was because you had been too preoccupied with a certain angel to keep your thoughts straight. A mistake, and one you won't be making again.

"I am sure," Lotor's clear voice cuts through your thoughts and pulls you back to the present. "There's a contract on the desk. Sign it, and we'll give you the details."

You can't stop the startled laugh that bursts past your lips. "A Blank Contract? You expect me to sign a Blank Contract?"

Lotor merely cocks his head and smiles that lazy smile of his.

And then the little looking glass shatters and you yelp, taking a step backwards in surprise, feeling your muscles tense. "I do," his voice says from behind you, and you whirl around just in time to see Lotor sail into Haggar's office.

Haggar gives a sharp sigh and brushes shattered glass off her uniform. "Do you always have to do that? Those mirrors are expensive, you know. I'm gonna have you pay for them if you insist on making a dramatic entrance every time."

Lotor ignores her, his gaze fixed on you. He waves his hand, and a piece of paper appears between his fingers. It's mostly blank, save for one thickly outlined black square with an inscription you can't read from where you stand, but you know what they say: Candidate's signature. "I'm not signing." But your voice has a tremor to it, and you suddenly feel a lot smaller as Lotor strides towards you. It was a lot easier to disrespect the Prince of the Below through a looking glass.

His eyes flash with irritation. "You will." Somehow, those two words hold more threat to them than all the insults the Bounties threw at you earlier.

But you set your jaw and clench your fists. "I'd rather die. I'm. Not. Signing." You had vowed to not ever help the Below in any way, shape or form again. It wasn't worth it.

"Told you so," Haggar sing-songs from behind her desk, a maniacal glint to her eye. "Just take one of the actually competent ones. Let me string them up."

Lotor gives a sharp sigh. "Touch them and I'll be stringing you up." Haggar pouts and crosses her arms. He turns to you, and the coolness in his eyes sends shivers up your spine. The realisation hits you like a freight train. He's done something. He knows something. He would never be this sure of himself if he didn't have an absolutely airtight plan.

Then Lotor waves his hand again, and another mirror you hadn't noticed before–a looking glass spanning from the floor to the ceiling, partially hidden by a black curtain–lights up, and the image you see has all the colour drain from your face and your heart skip a beat.

Allura is tied to a chair and breathing hard, her nurse's scrubs hanging crookedly, torn and dirty. A nasty cut spans from her cheekbone to her eyebrow, and blood runs down the side of her face. Tears mix with the grime and blood smearing her cheeks. Behind her stand Emmie and Zethrid the Bountyhunters, crazed smiles painted upon both their faces.

As soon as she sees you, Allura lets out a strangled cry that is muffled by the gag strung over her mouth. Her eyes widen, and you rush forward, stopping just short of the mirror's surface, afraid to break it. Your shaking fingertips hover just shy of the surface before you pull them back to your chest. Tears threaten to spill past your eyes, so you push them down and try to take a breath.

"Is this real?" You know how hallucinations work. You know how powerful illusions can be, and you know exactly how useful of a tool they can be in manipluation. It's a tool you've used yourself.

"Maybe. Maybe not," says Lotor's soft voice. His breath washes over the side of your face, and you can feel sick rise in your throat. All compusure is lost. It's all or nothing now. Thoughts muddle and get mixed up in your mind until all you can focus on is Allura, terrified and hurt, sitting in front of you yet separated by a thin sheet of glass and who knows how many miles.

A crazy thought of Maybe I can free her pops up, but you beat it down immediately again. You don't know where she is. You don't know if this is even real. Lotor would immediately order her killed if you attempted anything remotely similar to a breakout. Then kill Lotor, a ragged voice in your mind screams.

"Come, come, no rash decisions now," Lotor says as if he just read your thoughts. His hands ghost over your shoulders, sliding down until they reach your elbows. He gently forces them to your sides, and you don't even have the strength in you to resist. A fresh stream of tears runs down Allura's cheeks, and she weakly thrashes against her bonds, and in the end, that's what yanks you out of your stupor.

Your chin snaps up. "So you'll let her go if I sign the contract?"

Lotor rolls his eyes. "Look whose wits have returned to them." He lets go of your elbows and takes a step toward the mirror, hands clasped behind his back and his hungry gaze raking across Allura's form. She looks up at him with a mix of hatred and fear in her eyes. She's given up struggling against the ropes, but her jaw is set, and her eyes are steely; terrified, but determined. Her gaze flicks back to you and she gives the tiniest shake of her head.

Lotor reels back and laughs, the sound booming within the office walls. He shakes his head, still chuckling, his long silvery hair swishing behind him as he stalks back to the desk and swoops up the contract. "Feisty. I like that. Doesn't have the slightest clue of what's going on but still tells you to not do the thing you obviously don't want to do." He flashes you a fanged grin that makes your blood run cold. "I just might pay her a visit later myself."

"That's Middle Ground, my Prince," you manage through gritted teeth. "I'll find and kill you before you even have a chance to knock on her door."

"That's some confidence you've got right there, Y/N. Keep it for the job."

"I haven't signed your contract yet."

Lotor cocks his head and his grin widens. "Yet being the keyword here."

You turn back to the mirror, scanning Allura for any sign that she might not be real, looking for something that might hint that her image is off. Something. Anything. But your manic brain is running in circles, looking for loopholes that might not even be there, and you know you're not making sense, because the chance that she's just an illusion is there, but on the off-chance that she isn't, that she actually is in danger–

You would never forgive yourself if she were to get hurt and you could have put a stop to it.

"It's possible," you breathe, your hands curling to fists. "It's possible that none of this is real."

Lotor nods as if your words are perfectly reasonable. "True." There's a beat of silence, and his feverish eyes bore into yours. "But are you willing to take that risk?"

Anyone else–any proper demon–would have laughed in his face and torn the contract to shreds, watching gleefully as Allura got tortured in front of their eyes. But you had left behind your demon ways a good while ago, and you had always been a rotten pupil anyway. So you bite your tongue and snatch the contract and pen from Lotor's waiting fingers, scribbling your signature down hard enough that you pierce the paper.

"See, I knew you'd come around in the end!" He claps his hands in delight and throws a triumphant glance Haggar's way. "I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles, waving a hand as if to dismiss his words. She gives you a slightly disapppointed stare. "I was rooting for you, kiddo. Show some spine next time."

You fight the tears threatening to spill and slap the now-signed contract back onto the desk. "All right. Details, Lotor. What's the assignment?"

His eyes flash. Business; there's something he knows. "We received word that one of the Above's most prized angels has just gone rogue." He starts pacing, and your eyes keep finding Allura's behind him–but she looks at you with pity and something that's almost disappointment, and you have to look away before you break down completely. "It came out of nowhere, too: stellar record, followed orders without a second thought. A great soldier." You don't miss the punch behind the words.

"And you want me to do, what, kill him?" That wouldn't be too hard. At least, you think. Your mind is still a bit muddy, but something ugly and twisted inside you is still desperate for Management's approval. Still eager to prove yourself. I can be a good soldier too.

"Oh no, no," Lotor says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I just want you to find him and bring him in. It shouldn't be that hard to do–after all, who better to track a rogue than another rogue themselves?"

There's still something else. Something he isn't telling you. Sure, you're good at what you do–at what you used to do–but was it worth going through all the trouble just to get you to sign the stupid contract? As much as you loathed to do it, you silently had to agree with Haggar on this one. There were so many young demons scrambling for their chance to prove themselves and their worth–why not let them take this assignment?

"That–that's it?"

Lotor cocks a brow. "I mean, unless you wanted more work, I guess that's it.'

You give a cautious nod. "Okay. So what do we know about this guy?"

"Not much. My sources weren't able to provide very recent information–"

"Get better sources."

"–But what they do know is that this particular angel has been off the map for years. Quite like you," he adds as he raises his other eyebrow. You roll your eyes. "He's impossible to find, quite hard to track, and a very skilled fighter. Rumour has it he's scouring your city's streets at the moment."

You resist a frown. If this guy has been prowling your streets and you haven't noticed, something is definitely amiss. Might just be that you've been preoccupied with Keith and everything that happened around him, but if this has been going on for as long as Lotor is implying it has... this just might prove an actual challenge.

The old feeling of excitement and anticipation starts to run through your very bones again, and you hate the way it makes you feel–energised. As if you can handle anything thrown your way. Ready. It's a feeling you haven't known in years, and one you haven't missed, though now that it courses through your veins again there's no point in denying that you're enjoying it. The thrill of the chase.

But then Lotor speaks the name of the angel you're supposed to bring in, and everything falls into place, only to shatter into a million pieces a split second after.

You see his lips move. Hear the words spoken, though they take a moment to get processed, and when they do they leave behind an emptiness that has you stare at him, too dumbfounded and untrusting of yourself to speak.

It can't be. This must be the universe's idea of a cruel joke. The very guy you'd risked everything for–the very angel that had caused your distractedness and is the reason you were here in the first place–is the same rogue angel about whom you had just signed a contract.

The crushing weight of it settles on your shoulders. All five days of you struggling to keep him breathing, for nothing. The weird excursion to Coran's shop, for nothing. The goddamn chinese takeout you'd bought for him, for fucking nothing.

But somehow you manage to keep your face straight, and Lotor hadn't been watching you as he said it, instead gazing intently at something over your head, so you can only hope he hasn't noticed the lurch in your expression at the mention of Keith Kogane.

"All right." You're almost shocked at how steady your voice is. "Okay. I've agreed. You got what you want. Now, free Allura." Even though your voice is pretty steady, you curl your hands into fists to hide their shaking.

Lotor doesn't move for a moment, and you seriously begin to think he's having a seizure until he snaps his fingers and Emmie lunges forward.

In her hand is a knife, and she plunges it into Allura's chest without a second of hesitation.

You rush toward the mirror, a strangled "No!" ripped from your throat. Your fingers claw at the smooth glass surface and you watch her slump, blood gushing from the wound and staining her scrubs a dark crimson. Your knees buckle, and your eyes stay glued to her form as she convulses, coughs up blood twice, then goes limp. Her head falls back...

And snaps back up, and you lurch back with a startled cry. Allura's eyes have gone red and are shining with mania. Her skin turns the colour of wet ash, and her hair falls out of its updo and cascades down her shoulders, tendrils black and writhing as if they have a mind of their own...

Demon.

Shapeshifter.

Your breathing comes in short and shallow rasps as the full realisation of things settles in. Allura was never in danger. You were right all along. If only you had put your foot down. If only you hadn't let your feelings cloud your mind.

It doesn't matter now. You signed a contract–and there's no going back from that.

Lotor fingers through the file that bears your signature in black ink. Slowly, the words explaining just what you signed start to appear on the sheets, snaking their way along the curves of the paper as if written in by an invisible hand. A steel fist clenches around your heart, and you struggle to stand up, your muscles turned to jelly. The surface of the mirror has gone black again.

A shaking hand comes up to cover your mouth, and your teeth clench down on your lower lip so hard that they draw blood. Lotor flicks his wrist, and the contract disappears. The fingers of your free hand twitch as if they wanted to grab at the file. You level your gaze with Lotor's, and evidently your years of training finally paid off in the end, because in his eyes you can see how passive your expression is. You'd be a good poker player, your fleeting mind thinks randomly. The only thing giving away your current emotions is the hand mindlessly tugging at your bottom lip, and the fact that your breathing is still rather fast.

"Now," Lotor drawls in his honey-coated voice–sugary sweet, sticky, suffocating–and snakes an arm around your shoulders, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

And you know you should keep your mouth shut, because he is the Prince of the Below, and Haggar has already expressed her desire to string you up and set you on fire in the Grand Hall for every new recruit to see–but on the other hand, you just signed a contract, and that makes you technically untouchable until Lotor has reason to believe you won't be able to complete the task set out for you.

The very foundation of a plan starts coming together in your mind. You jut up your chin and break free from his grasp. "So do I get assignment-issue gear? A blade? A gun, maybe? If this angel is as good as you make him out to be, perhaps I should need some more useful weapons than your average kitchen knife."

Lotor scrutinises you for a moment, then waves his hand. A set of gleaming double blades appear on Haggar's desk, along with their sheaths and long black gloves. Haggar huffs with an indignant mutter of Sure, use my desk as your summoning surface. Don't mind at all. You ignore her and lift an eyebrow. "That's all you're going to give me?"

"If you're as good as you say, this is all you will need," Lotor replies in that smooth tone of his. His eyes glint; he's gotten what he wanted. He's already won.

But that's fine. Lotor may have won this battle, and you need to make him feel like he has, but in the end you'll do everything in your power to win the war. And Lotor just handed you the weapons that just might be able to get you there.

"Fine," you mutter, snatching up the knives, pointedly refusing to strap them to your back like is procedure, instead securing the harnesses to your thighs as a small act of defiance. Irritation flashes in his eyes. "I'll report to you how often?"

"No reports," Lotor says with a wave of his hand. "We don't want to make any potential spies of the Above suspicious. Just make sure you find him, and when you do..." He tosses you a little disk about the size of a large coin, and you startle at how heavy it is. It's pleasantly warm to the touch, and you have a creeping suspicion as to what it is that is only confirmed with Lotor's next words. "Portal pass. Use it wisely."

You turn the pass over and over in your hands, the familiar weight of the knives at your thighs comforting and seeming to pull you down to the ground at the same time. "Is that–will that be all?" Risky words, risky questions–you're going out on a limb and assume Lotor won't have you hanged for running your mouth: he did just pretend to torture your best friend to coerce a signature out of you, so you suppose he has to give you some slack.

He sails to a halt in front of you, face so close his nose almost touches yours, and you have to stop yourself from recoiling. His expression is cold, his gaze calculating–and the smile that creeps up his lips sends shivers up our spine. "Yes. I think that will be all." He raises a brow and throws a glance Haggar's way, which you find comical as he didn't seem to give a solid fuck about her opinions when he used her office as his personal torture chamber.

Haggar shrugs. "I still think we should string them up and burn them to a crisp."

"Yes, Haggar, I know. Why did I even bother." He gives you a lazy flick of his hand, but you've already turned and your hand is resting on the doorknob, when something occurs to you and you cast a look at him over your shoulder.

"My Prince?" The title feels like hot oil searing down your throat, but you expect the words you're about to say require this small bit of courtesy. He raises a brow and nods. "I'm going to kill the Bounties that brought me here." Your voice sounds oddly bored.

Lotor chuckles. "They're no demons. They don't have a place in the Below." It's like his gaze issues a challenge, and a fresh wave of loathing for this Prince washes over your being. "Go right ahead."

You flash a cold smile and slam the door shut.

– – –

You wipe your blades with some wet wipes and discard them in the trashcan beside you when they get too filthy with blood (the store clerk barely looked up when you came in and purchased a single packet of wet wipes and a duffel bag–apparently the average cashier sees weirder stuff than a maniac with bloodied hunting knives the size of their forearms slamming a pack of wet wipes on the counter on a daily basis). Emmie, Adam, Zethrid and Nirina's bodies have long since turned to dust, and you have to work to keep your breathing steady and to stop your eyes from glowing red as the phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder rings.

Allura picks up on the fourth ring. "'Sup?"

It was just a check. Just to make sure. But if Allura truly did just get tortured, you have a feeling she wouldn't pick up a phone call with a simple 'Sup?

"Hey. How was your day?" Your speech comes out slightly slurred, and Allura laughs on the other side of the line.

"Fine. Work, you know. Routine." You can almost hear the grin on her face as she says, "And you? Weren't you supposed to be at work too, today?"

Work. Work feels like such a long time ago--when it was in reality only a couple of hours back. You nod slowly, though it's more to convince yourself than anything else. "Yeah. I was. Some co-workers and I went to get smoothies afterwards. To welcome me back," you joke.

"Did they pay?"

"Yeah."

"Good for you. Free milkshake. I'm jealous."

You laugh, but it feels hollow in your chest. "Hey--I need to run now, but I'll call you later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Sweet of you to check in, Y/N."

You eye the gleaming blade, running a finger along its razor-sharp edge. "No problem."

After you hang up, you sit back against the wall digging into your back, forcing down the pumping feeling in your limbs.

It's something you've missed, and you can't deny it. The absolute exhilaration you feel when your blades make contact, the thrumming of adrenaline in your veins as you dodge to avoid the blows that four individual enemies are throwing at you. The fear in Zethrid's eyes when she realises she is the only one left standing, and the life seeping from her eyes as you slit her throat.

It doesn't make you feel good, exactly–especially now that the thrill of the moment has worn off and you just feel tired and there's an ache that has burrowed itself deep into your bones–but there's no replicating the rush of power that courses through your very being when you're the one in control.

When the blades of death are yours to wield.

The knives are now securely stored in your new black duffel, and you try and figure out how you're going to pull off bringing two huge knives home without rousing suspicion from Keith. You internally debate whether you shouldn't just find a safe space to stash the duffel until you need it. There are quite a few nooks and crannies you know no one in their right mind would look, but then again, this was a big city. There were plenty of creepier people prawling these streets than the occasional demon.

And then you pass a gym, and an idea sparks in your head.

After casually shoplifting a bunch of sportswear from the nearest Nike store, you return to the gym with the knives in your bag hidden by the copious amounts of t-shirts and trainers stacked on top of them. You get a locker and stuff the bag inside before making your way outside again, smiling at the desk guy as you leisurely stroll out of the gym. The guy narrows his eyes at you–your clothes are still slightly torn and dirty, and you're pretty sure you have a bruise forming on the right side of your cheek, but you don't pay him any mind. He works at a gym. He's seen stranger than you.

But the closer you get to your apartment, the heavier the portal pass starts to feel in your pocket, and the more insecure your steps become. The sun hangs low over the city skyline, but hasn't completely started to set yet, and soft golden light washes over the streets, making them look... wrong. Bleak. Colour in a place where colour shouldn't be. You had just killed in these streets, and nobody noticed.

The thought makes you feel kind of sorry for the Bounties. They would be missed by no one.

You're still lost in thought when you almost hit a door and you snap back to reality. Your feet had carried you all the way up to your apartment. You blinked hard, rubbed a hand over your face and fumbled for your keys.

"Hey. It's me. Did you burn the house down while I was gone?"

Keith looks up from where he sits on an armchair–your armchair, but you understand he wouldn't want to spend another minute on the couch he spent five days on, hallucinating out of his mind–and grins, and your heart does a leap. And then he frowns, and you freeze, and your immediate thought is Oh fuck, he's found me out, he knows everything, he's going to call the other angels and he's going to kill me–

But the words he speaks are soft with concern. "What happened to your face?" And it takes all of your willpower not to break down right then and there.

He puts down the book he was reading and walks over to you, eyebrows knotted with worry, and reaches out to touch your forehead. Only then does he seem to realise how close to you he's standing, and he quickly pulls his fingers back to his chest. They're red with blood. "Let's get that disinfected, yeah?"

Before you can answer, he's already started towards your kitchen. You blink, still stunned, before following him like you're in a daze. He looks over his shoulder and points to a kitchen chair. You plop down, and it's when the weight is taken off your legs that the exhaustion comes crashing into you at breakneck speed, and it takes all your strength not to plunk your head down on the kitchen table and just pass out.

"Where do you keep your first aid kit?"

You vaguely point to a cabinet below the sink, and moments later Keith plops the kit down beside you on the table and plucks out a wad of cotton and disinfecting spray. You don't even feel it sting when he gently dabs at the cut on your forehead and cheekbone. His eyes are firmly trained on the cotton, his dark brows furrowed–there's a little crease between them that your foggy self finds most endearing–and he's chewing absent-mindedly on his bottom lip.

With a shock, you realise this is the closest you've been to him. Ever. This is the first time you can properly study his face, and you can always blame your muddy mind later if he brings up how blatantly you were staring at him, so you let yourself drink in every feature of his face. You find yourself drawn to his eyes most; they're a stunning deep violet, the colour of the sky at twilight, when the sun has just set and the last rays of light streak the heavens with purple. Most of all, they're soft with concern and simultaneously fierce with a kind of fire you haven't seen on him before.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Keith's eyes briefly flicker to yours, and he gives an awkward shrug before going back to gently rubbing at your wounds. "It's none of my business. You haven't asked me about what I was doing on Middle Ground in the first place, and I won't stick my nose into what doesn't concern me." But the words sound like he's reciting them; like a lesson he learned at school. You can see in his eyes that he is in fact curious, but also that he isn't going to press further. How very angelic of him.

You purse your lips, fingering the portal pass in your jacket pocket.

Your mind is a jumble of thoughts, like someone took all your emotions and threw them in a blender. Every moment you spend with Keith in your kitchen–how is it you always end up in the kitchen?–you grow more sure that you can't turn him in. But the contract pulls at your insides, and you know that if you keep ignoring its contents it will keep gnawing at you until you can't take it anymore and snap.

The contract is the contract. Binding and eternal.

"Keith."

His hand freezes, and you carefully guide it to the table, gently forcing him to put down the cotton. "Thank you, really. But I'm okay. I promise."

He nods. Slowly. "Okay."

And oh, how you want to wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips against his, but that would make things a thousand times more complicated than they already are–

Your breath leaves you in one fell swoop. It's the exhaustion talking, you firmly tell yourself, before you yank your fingers back and stand. You're a bit wobbly, but you manage. Keith wisely doesn't attempt to help you, but you can feel his eyes boring into your back as you make your way to your bedroom.

You change. You brush your teeth. You splash some water in your face to clear your head. Everything happens in a haze, your mind too tired to think about anything at all.

But then your eye falls on a piece of paper resting on your pillow. You frown and pick it up, and your eyes widen when you recognise your own scraggly handwriting littering the little parchment card. A hand flies up to your mouth to muffle your startled scream, and you drop the card as if it just burned your fingertips, though your eyes stay glued to its surface.

The words I want Keith to be okay stare back up at you, and with every passing second your breathing gets quicker and more ragged. Your fingers tingle, and as you draw a tentative breath you sink down onto the mattress. Your fingers tingle, but they tingle with warmth, and the feeling is not unpleasant.

Where Keith's own skin brushed yours, the chill that had seeped into your very core and had burrowed there for days, leaving you in a constant state of stiff cold, dissipated. The feeling is so weirdly foreign after having only felt cold for days that you dumbly stare out into nothingness, trying to shake the heat out of your hand. It doesn't work. It feels good, and you want more of it.

For a moment, the contract leaves your mind, replaced by Keith's eyes, the way he'd looked up at you, all softness and worry; the gentleness of his fingers as they cleaned the shallow cuts on your face. You close your eyes and lean back, the little parchment card on the floor seeming to beg for your attention. You never knew paper could be this loud.

For just a moment, you allow yourself to think of Keith and not just see an angel–but something more.

[iphoenixrising]

Welp, it’s @commanderrice‘s birthday, and since babe sent a thing that almost killed me (this thing), we’re just going to have something short ;)

And it’s been–

A good fucking night.

Tim’s 21st birthday had been celebrated with a gala at Wayne Enterprises with posturing and posing, wining and dining the elite in Gotham when he really should have been playing beer pong somewhere with vomit on his shirt.

Still, afterwards, he gets to relax at the Manor, flop down on his favorite couch in the first floor entertainment room, tie pulled apart, and just be.

Dami had already come in to ruffle his hair and demand he get sleep, Drake. You aren’t getting any younger, and we are on tomorrow night.

Bring my cane, Baby Bat.

Tt. Bring it yourself. We shall play rooftop tag to warm up your old bones.

It was nice that his room upstairs was made up with some of his random tech scattered around on the desktop and bookshelves. The Minecraft sheets under the big comforter have been washed and probably smell like heaven.

He takes a minute to deliberate the gloriousness of clean sheets and pajamas the right kind of worn upstairs in the bottom right-hand drawer versus staying right in this couch, sunk in perfectly.

His wake-up call is B, Jay, and Dick finding him, carrying a bottle of something expensive and dark. 

For the next few hours, the three of them are in the kitchen with Alfred, sitting around the island on barstools until their asses go numb and standing to get circulation back gets harder and harder the more the bottle goes dry.

It’s really just a replay of some of his best (and worst) moments since he got the cape.

“And that,” Jay tries to wheeze out, “that daft asshole got hit by his own fucking trap. Timmer is just standing–standing there like. ‘Thought this was s’ppose ta be a fight er some shit? Like, this is how the Riddler rolls?”

Bruce legit snort laughs, and that just makes shit more hilarious.

At some point they’re all in old sweats and t-shirts, swapped around enough times that B’s Green Arrow symbol is completely cool while Tim’s got the one with the quote from Little Women. Jason apparently doesn’t notice how the Gotham Knights one is pulling at his shoulders while Dick has one for Lucky Charms with the autograph from Dr. Fate.

There’s absolutely no place else he’d rather be.

But Bruce and Alfred finally call it quits when there’s only the smallest bit left in the bottom, and Dick has to make sure the toilet in the downstairs bathroom is still wobbling because that? Could be a problem in the morning.

So it’s left to him and Jay, arms over each other’s shoulders to hold one another on the barstools as much as it is because Jay’s really a sap at heart.

And maybe Tim is too because he has to drain the bottom of his tumbler before telling (his) the second Robin how happy he is for them. They’re good for each other, and dammit, they both deserve the utter best.

Which turns in to a ramble on Dick’s absolutely amazing characteristics–

(It’s only a teensy bit bittersweet because he totally knows how amazing they both are)ˆ

“S’riously, Timmers, date a guy who says things like “Drive save” “text me when you’re home safe” “Choke me harder” “I can’t wait to see you” “I’m proud of you.” You know, that sort of sappy shit.”

He’s obviously hammered, but still, there’s something hitting him right in the brain pan. “Mmm, something in there doesn’t quite fit in with ‘sappy.’ What was that third one again?”

“I can’t wait to see you.” “Back-up.” “Drive safe?” “Nope, that’s not it.”

Jay is apparently a little drunk by the toothy smile and flailing hands that are probably some kind of, I tried gesture.

Dick manages to wander back in, and looks enough together that Tim is actually wondering if he imagined a half-full bottle that started out the night. “What are we talking about?” With a lean-down and drunk kiss on the face, something so fucking adorable.

Tim makes kissy noises at them, leaning an elbow on the island so he can hold himself up. “Oh nothing, I just found out that you’re a closeted freak between the sheets, Dick.”

It’s not humanly possible for someone not to get whiplash when they spin around that fast:

“JASON. I left you alone for ten minutes–”

But a move like that takes space and momentum. They’re vigilantes. They know all about it.

Which makes it even worse when he gets caught on Dick’s flailing hand, Jason loses his balance because of the fast move, and Dick completely overcompensated, and all three of them are on the ground.

He happens to land in the middle, ass in Jason’s fucking lap, and Dick sprawled all over him.

The second hand gives three ticks.

And the three of them are laughing so hard, Tim is really starting to get worried he might either piss himself or pull a fucking muscle because Jason fucking snorts this time and off they go again.

Dick might actually hyperventilate and Jay gives up on everything. The three of them flopping around Wayne Manor’s kitchen floor at ass o’clock. 

Hands down, this is living right here.

When they finally calm it the hell down and it looks very much like time for bed, Tim really doesn’t focus on how Dick is literally pinning him against the front of Jay’s body or how warm they both are. Nope, he’s going to live for this moment, drag his weary ass to bed, and probably make a promise to never drink again (which will probably be broken in Titan’s Tower at some undetermined future date).

When he’s about to start shoving himself free, Jay’s arm around his chest gets a little tight.

“I mean, whadda ya expect, Dickie? If Timmy’s interested, he’s gonna wanna know what he’s getting in bed, y’ feel me?”

Dick’s eyes are twinkling blue, his grin utterly unrepentant, “you’re honestly going to bring this up while we’re all sleep deprived and sloshed? I thought we’d wait to ask him out when all of us are sober.”

“Ain’t no time like the present,” Jay counters, craning his neck to look down. “Baby Bird might actually take us seriously if we ask ‘im now.”

“Ask him out?” 

He’s dreaming. He’s already passed out somewhere drooling on his pillow. This? This is like BEST BIRTHDAY FUCKING EVER kind of dream.

“Mmhm,” Dick leans up to sloppily nose against his face, “but not tonight. We’re going upstairs to pass the hell out. We’ll be miserable together with the hangover. Tomorrow, we’re going to ask you out, and you are going to say yes.”

“Can–can I just say yes right now?”

“Not ‘till ya hear this asshole sawing logs, Timmy.” Leave it to Jason to haul all of them on their feet and untangle him from Dick’s octopus hold.  “C’mon, gotta make you motherfuckers get up the stairs without breaking yer fool necks.”

It takes some fumbling and falling around, but for Tim Drake’s 21st Birthday, he gets the middle of the bed and two vigilantes wrapped around him.

But if he’s a very good vigilante, he might get the same thing again next year.

[vincess-princess]

i am in need of some hs!crüe just helping out Vince with his dyslexia and being really supportive and calming him down when he gets frustrated so if ya ever get the chance I’d love u forever 😊💓 thanks

jesus christ anon im so sorry everything went terribly wrong and i ended up with angst again and i don’t know why it happens i really tried to write fluff!! i guess im just not really in the state for the fluff now. i will post what i wrote here anyway because i spent three sleepless nights on this but it’s not what you asked for :(

Vince let out an exasperated sigh and threw the pencil onto the table. It bounced off it and rolled under the couch. Tommy bended down to pick it up, but it was out of his reach.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Vince announced, leaning back onto his chair and hiking his feet up on the table. “I’m fucking tired.”

“Tell Mick that when you’ll be making excuses for your test results.” Nikki looked up from the notebook where he was scribbling something for the past half an hour. He and Tommy had already finished their homework and were enjoying themselves, leaving Vince to fight with goddamned chemistry alone.

“He’ll understand.” Vince tried to sound confident and failed miserably. Tomorrow was Friday, and another meeting with Mick, and maybe getting to rehearse a couple of The Stones’ songs he showed them last week. Given, of course, that Vince scored more than 90% on his tomorrow chemistry test.

Which at the moment seemed pretty much impossible.

“Of course, he will.” Nikki nodded, a little too condescending to sound natural. “And, understanding everything, he won’t let you in until you bring him an A.”

“Thanks for keeping me updated, mate, I would never know that myself,” Vince couldn’t help but snap, irritation that had been building up in his chest jumping up from mild to high in a matter of seconds.

“I’d let you copy it if we weren’t always given different variants,” Tommy sighed, threw his drumstick in the air and promptly caught it. He’d been switching between running up- and downstairs to bring snacks to the room, spinning his drumsticks and trying to peek at Nikki’s lyrics for the last couple of hours, waiting for Vince to finish so they could go rehearse in the garage.

“No, thanks,” Vince snapped out, his tone maybe too harsh, but to hell with that. Tommy blinked in confusion, dropped his drumstick, plopped on his knees to get it from under the couch and stayed there for good five minutes.

“No need to get so bitchy, you know,” Nikki murmured. “He did you nothing wrong.”

Vince felt the blood rushing to his head.

“Maybe if you weren’t so bitchy yourself, I wouldn’t lash out on him!” his hands started shaking as he was actively suppressing the need to throw the goddamn textbook right at Nikki’s head.

“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking slow we would already have rehearsed everything and then some!”

“Nikki!” Tommy gasped somewhere in the background, but neither of them paid attention.

Slow, the word rang in Vince’s ears, and it was like a punch in the guts.

Nikki looked surprised when he realized Vince was not going to reply. Then he looked at Vince’s face, at Tommy’s shocked expression and became visibly uncomfortable.

“I hope you enjoy tomorrow meeting with Mick,” Vince said, his voice croaky. He grabbed his jacket and walked out of the room.

***

“Vinnie! Don’t go away!”

“Fuck off, T-bone,” Vince said tiredly, but slowed down, letting Tommy catch up with him. “Why don’t you go and rehearse with Nikki? I’m not slowing you two down anymore.” Yes, it was unfair to be so mean to Tommy. He didn’t seem to get upset over it, though.

“You know he didn’t mean it, right?” Tommy asked, still breathless from running. “He was just angry because he wanted to impress Mick tomorrow. You know how he gets about these meetings.”

“Apparently, they’re more important to him than me.”

“Bullshit.” Tommy grabbed him by the sleeve, forcing to stop. “You should’ve seen him after you left. Almost begged me to go bring you back.”

“Now this is definitely bullshit.” Vince stopped after all, still looking strictly forward, his chin unnaturally high. “If he wants me back so badly then why isn’t he here?”

“Too proud.” Tommy shrugged. “He’ll get over it and apologize… in a couple of days.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna wait here for so long. I’m going home.”

“No!” Tommy tugged on his jacket, let go when he saw Vince wasn’t going to stop and just walked by his side. He walked faster than Vince and had to make smaller steps to keep up with him. “Vinnie, please, let’s go back. I hate it when we argue.”

“Do you really wanna spend the night between two people who are actively hating on each other?”

“C’mon, you don’t hate each other. And we had arguments before, and everything turned out fine.”

“Well, Nikki didn’t call me stupid back then,” Vince reminded bitterly.

“He didn’t call you that!” Tommy resented. “He just meant it takes you a little longer…”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m slow, I remember.”

“Christ.” Tommy looked up to the sky with a frustrated expression. “Listen, I don’t wanna say I’m the only one here to actually want this goddamn relationship to work, but it seems like the two of you do your best to fuck everything up.”

It was so out of the blue that Vince almost tripped over in the middle of a perfectly even road. “The fuck you mean by that?”

“I mean exactly what I said.” Tommy stopped, and Vince unconsciously followed suit, baffled by the unexpected stern notes in his voice. “You and Nikki are so busy guarding your fragile egos you don’t care if everything goes sour in the process.” Tommy’s eyes found Vince’s, for the first time since they started talking, and Vince couldn’t look away. “And I do. Even more than I’d want to.”

Tommy bit his lip and looked away, and Vince’s heart sank, because his last phrase was anything but stern or accusatory. Guilty. He sounded guilty. For caring.

The silence lasted, and lasted, and lasted, and neither of them could make a sound, and thousands of words were running through Vince’s head.

“Fuck,” Tommy finally broke it a couple of excruciatingly awkward minutes later, laughing nervously and still not looking at Vince. “It really sounded better in my head. Sorry for the drama.”

“It’s alright.” Vince’s mouth was dry.

“I guess you’d really better go home,” Tommy said, voice thick. “Do you want me to walk with you for a bit? It’s getting dark.”

“Yeah, it really is.” Vince murmured, lingering for a second, and then turned in the opposite direction. “How about I walk you to your house instead?”

Tommy blinked in confusion, then looked up at Vince and beamed.

***

“Oh,” Nikki almost jumped up when they entered the room, then quickly pretended he was going to get up anyway. “Vince, I-”

“-am sorry?” Vince interrupted him, feeling a rush of bitterness from the sight of Nikki. “Save your breath. I came back because Tommy asked me to, not because of you.”

“Well, and I asked Tommy to ask you to come back.” Nikki forced on a smile, though it looked more like a grimace.

“Hey, don’t get me into it!” Tommy resented, not-so-gently pushing Vince towards the bed and standing in front of the door like a guardian. “I got him here, now make up!”

Vince turned to Tommy and ran the side of his palm across his neck in an ultimately understandable I’m gonna kill you. Tommy smiled sheepishly but didn’t move an inch.

Nikki cleared his throat, attracting Vince’s attention.

“Um, I…” his voice faltered. He was never good at apologizing. Too proud, damn it. “I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You definitely shouldn’t have,” Vince agreed, keeping his voice cold, though the icky, bristly lump in his chest loosened up a little. Watching Nikki so guilty and struggling with his own pride – a trait he rarely tried to suppress - was doing wonders to Vince’s self-esteem. “Anything else to say besides the generic “I’m sorry”?”

“Christ,” Nikki sighed and covered his face with his hands for a moment before looking up at Vince again. “No. Nothing except that I was a major asshole.”

“You sure were.” Vince really hoped Nikki wouldn’t recognize amusement in his voice. Tommy did, and now was doing his best to fight down a smile, lest they accidentally hurt Nikki’s precious feelings. Some part of Vince encouraged him to burst into laughter at Nikki’s pitiful attempts, but he managed to suppress this desire so far. He might be a bitch, but not an asshole.

Nikki looked up at him with clear desperation in his eyes. He was truly sorry. He wasn’t pretending. The icky lump – his bitterness, his disappointment, his feeling of betrayal, - slackened, the tension it caused in his whole body started fading away. The hurt didn’t disappear completely, rather crawled into a hole somewhere far in the back of Vince’s mind to haunt him during some of those terrible sleepless nights of his. But for now it was gone - out of Vince’s way.  

“Listen, I don’t know what else to say,” Nikki admitted, looking Vince pleadingly in the eyes. “What do you want me to do to make up for this?”

���Suck my dick,” Vince offered in a completely serious tone that took all the remains of his poor self-restraint to pull off. Nikki’s face went from confused to indignant to hopeful in a split second, and this was the last straw for Vince’s self-control. He started laughing, and Tommy joined him a second later.

Nikki’s face went to indignant again and remained like this for a solid couple of seconds before he surrendered to laughter as well.

“You were fucking with me! The whole time! Did you plan it?”

“No, but you looked so miserable I couldn’t help it. The suggestion stands, by the way.”

“Oh, sure,” Nikki scrambled to get up, only to fall on his knees in front of Vince a second later. Vince tilted his head back and gripped the sheets, letting out a satisfied moan.

If Nikki would be so eager to blow him after every fight, he might need to reconsider his attitude towards them.

[the-queen-unitato]

Benny snarled and spun in a circle, holding his macuahuitl in front of him defensively as the white light slowly faded around him. He’d been in the middle of chopping down a group of leviathan when the damn light surrounded him, turning the monsters to soot and whipping his hat from his head.

The wind had finally settled, and the light was fading, but anything that could ash something as powerful as a leviathan wasn’t going to get off that easy.

“Benny..?”

Benny froze, his grip going slack on the bone handle of his weapon. He knew that voice. “D-Dean..?” He squinted against the remains of the light, holding his hand up to shield his eyes as his friend slowly materialized through the mist. “The hell did you do brother?”

Dean grinned, dragging him into a hug and clapping his back. “Christ it’s good to see ya man. Shit hit the fan and… Fuck I needed to talk to you… I found a spell book at the bunker and Sam, Cas and I managed to scrounge up everything we needed for a rescue mission.”

Benny slowly relaxed, hugging him back. “You got your brother to help you get me back? Did he know what he was doin’?”

Dean nodded, slowly pulling back and handing Benny his cap. “Yeah… We talked about it, you’re coming back to stay at the bunker with us... I’m not lettin’ you down this time, I swear.”

Benny hesitated, for a moment, stepping back. “Prove you’re really Dean… And how’d this spell of yours only grab me?”

Dean rolled his eyes, pulling a silver dagger from a sheath on his belt, slicing his arm and splashing himself with holy water. “I uh… Kept your hat when I realized you weren’t comin’ back. Spell called for something belonging to the target.”

Benny frowned, looking down at the cap in his hands, his fingers unconsciously closing over the fabric. “Why the hell’d you keep my hat?”

Dean shrugged, blushing slightly as he lead the way out of the woods. “Just get in the car will ya? You need a fucking shower.”

Benny laughed, climbing in and settling into his seat. “So I’m finally gonna get to see this bunker, huh? Sure Sam ain’t gonna kill me in my sleep?”

“He won’t, really I shoulda made ‘im listen to me before but… Guess I’m just better at keepin’ my mouth shut,” he laughed bitterly, steering them down the mountain trail. “I’m… Sorry, ya know. I never should have hung you out to dry like I did… Guess I didn’t realize how shitty I was till Sam came back without you…”

Benny shrugged, looking out the window, “doesn’t matter. I don’ belong here Dean, wish you’d’a left me alone down there… I ain’t meant to be a part of the livin’.”

“Hey, you do alright?” Dean grumbled, lightly punching his arm. “You’re family, we don’t give up on family.”

Benny laughed softly, shaking his head. “I know ya don’t… Ya mind if I catch some shut eye?”

Dean sighed, nodding. “Course, I’ll wake ya when I find a place for the night.”

Benny didn’t bother responding, letting the bone deep exhaustion finally take over.

When Dean woke him up halfway to the bunker nearly twelve hours later he was still dead on his feet, leaning heavily on Dean as he walked into their motel room and collapsing onto the bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt safe enough to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.

By the time he woke up again, Dean was sprawled on the other bed, sound asleep. He sighed, sitting up and scrubbing his hands through his hair. It didn’t matter what Dean said, he’d always come second to Sam, and he didn’t want to go back to living how he had been but… He could also never abandon his friend when he so obviously needed him.

He sighed, dragging himself off the bed and into the shower, watching the water run black at his feet. It’d been years, but of course Dean would come get him when he needed something… and damned if he wasn’t going to do anything he could for the idiot.

He scrubbed himself clean, wrapping his wounds as best as he could by himself and throwing himself back onto the bed. He should leave now, spare himself the heartbreak when he finished helping Dean with whatever he needed, save himself from the months of trying to make it by himself again before he bit it but… He couldn’t. Could never do that to Dean.

He grumbled to himself at the familiar feeling of his fangs itching under his gums. Of course he’d need food, it’d be too easy if he could just go back to sleep. He scented the air, following his nose to the fridge and grinning when he found it stocked up with AB blood, so the human did pay attention sometimes.

He forced himself to take a breath, sipping the blood as he walked back to bed and curled up. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, at least he’d get to spend time with Dean again, and maybe he could win his brother over… As long as he wasn’t alone, it wasn’t too bad out in this world, and maybe he could do better this time. When the hunter inevitably left him alone, maybe he could get it right. Third time’s the charm… Maybe.

It’s months before anything of note really starts going down hill, much to Benny’s surprise. Sure, Sam started off still hating him, but that was to be expected. He’d even managed to grow on the kid a bit since he’d been there but… No, this was different. The brothers were taking more cases, leaving him behind. He’d be stuck in the bunker by himself for days, weeks, at a time…

Not that that’s the worst thing that could happen, they wanted to keep him safe, reduce the risk of a rogue hunter taking him down (not that they’d be able to), but still: being locked up by himself, no one to talk to, nothing to fight, nothing to keep his mind from turning on him...

Still, it wasn’t the boys’ fault, they were just trying to keep him safe… Right? But what if they were just tired of having him around? What if they needed a break, what if this was the calm before they kicked him back out into the world..? Could he make it this time?

No… No he couldn’t go through that again, it was too much, he couldn’t go back to living in fear, alone, miserable… At least in Purgatory no one lied, they all wanted to kill you just as much as the next person, here… Everything had ulterior motives, everyone was out to get you in one way or another, but you never knew how.

But what could he do, really? Could a vampire kill themselves? And what if Dean decided he needed him again once he was gone, he couldn’t risk him hurting himself…

“Benny, you here..?”

Benny snapped out of his thoughts, dragging himself off his cot and going to meet the boys in the war room. “Welcome back,” he forced himself to smile, looking passed the blood drenching their clothes.

“Hey Benny- dibs on the shower!” Sam hurried off down the hall, leaving Benny to flinch at the gust of air he created.

“You should’ve called- How about I make us all somethin’ to eat? We haven-”

“Not today, man,” Dean cut him off, patting his shoulder. “Hunt went sour, I need to sleep for a week…”

Benny looked down, letting his facade fall for a fraction of a second before catching himself. “Yeah, course chief, get yourself some rest, maybe tomorrow…”

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” Dean smiled, walking passed him and vanishing into his room.

Benny bit his lip, staring at the ground in front of him long past the time all other sounds in the bunker had died down, Sam and Dean both sound asleep in bed.

Finally he clenched his fists, nails biting into the cold skin of his palms, and went back to his room, alone… Always alone.

For once he didn’t pretend to be okay, he was tired of being okay, he was damn tired of everything, he wanted to feel warmth again, taste food, have someone- anyone- that would care about him enough to put him first… Just once in a while… Most of all he was fucking tired of pretending for the sake of the brothers when they wouldn’t give a damn even if they knew.

Instead he curled up, dragging a pillow to his chest and letting himself break down for the first time in over a hundred years.

He has no idea how much later, hours or minutes, it all felt the same lately, but then the bed is dipping under someone else’s weight, and he’s frantically wiping his tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it man..?” Dean’s sleep rough voice cuts into him deeper than any blade and he flinches away from the hand that’s laid on his shoulder. Dean shouldn’t see him like this, the kid had enough to worry about.

“Ain’t noth-”

“Don’t.”

Benny slowly rolls to face him, sitting up and staring at the bare bed under him - no point for blankets if you can never get warm. “I’m just tired‘s all… Go back to bed brotha.”

Dean shook his head, laying his hand back on his shoulder and making himself comfortable. “Not a chance in hell, man. You ain’t like Sam and me, you got nothin’ keepin’ you here, and I’m sure as fuck not losing you again. Talk.”

“God, I ain’t gonna off myself,” but hadn’t he been trying to think of how to do just that hours earlier? “Just ti-”

“Benny stop it. This ain’t really my thing but… I’m here man, you’re family, I’m not leaving you here like this.”

“I really am just tired,” Benny sighed, looking down. “Tired o’ all this… I’m not… Like you, you and Sam are happy with each other, but that ain’t me… I’m… Tired of always being cold, of not being able to taste… Feel… This ain’t the life I want...”

Dean sighed, pulling him into a tight hug and clapping his back. “Stop… I know you want the whole picket fence deal I… That ain’t this life, but we love you man, Sam, Cas and me… You’re family. Just as much as any of us. You can come to us… Hell these old men had some powerful shit stored here, maybe we can fix you… Just don’t… Don’t leave us… me…”

Benny took a breath, laying his hand over Dean’s. “‘M not goin’ anywhere chief, your dumbass would get yourself killed without me…”

Dean snorted, patting his shoulder, “been there, done that… You need to get some sleep big guy, I’ll see you in the-”

“Stay..?” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the word made it’s way out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“You… Yeah- yeah sure,” Dean hesitated for a moment before lying back, folding his arms awkwardly across his chest. It’s not like he hadn’t slept next to Benny every damn night in purgatory, but something was different when it was in an actual bed.

“You don’t have to,” Benny laid back down, curling himself around his pillow and no, that just wouldn’t do.

Dean gently untangled him, pulling him against his chest and holding him tight, trying to convince himself it was the exact same thing he used to do when Sam had nightmares. “Like hell, you’ve saved my ass how many times? The least I can do is hold your dumbass for a while.”

Benny smiled weakly, clinging onto him and slowly willing himself to relax, focusing on Dean’s heartbeat under him. “Guess you’re right, you were pretty useless.”

“Yeah yeah, shut up will you?” Dean chuckled fondly, slowly relaxing into him and rubbing his back. “Get to sleep, I’ll stay here for the night.”

Benny bit his lip, forcing himself to draw back and shake his head. “Nah- you should get back to your room and get some real sleep, don’t need me keepin’ you up.”

“Hey, Benny?”

Benny took a breath, forcing himself to look up and meet his eyes, “yeah chi-” he grunted in surprise as Dean’s lips slammed into his in what could hardly be considered a kiss.

It took a moment for them both to relax, Benny’s hands drifting to cup Dean’s cheeks and Dean’s dropping to hold his hips.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Benny whispered once they parted, keeping his eyes shut - just in case Dean was gone when he opened them.

“Oh please, that’s been a long time coming… Wasn’t gonna say anything, it ain’t the life... But you seemed like you could use something to hold onto. And you sure as hell weren’t listening to me, stubborn bastard.”

Benny smiled softly, resting his head on his shoulder. “Guess you’re right… but... why innit? I’m a lot tougher than I look, I can hold my own…”

“I’ve… Been worried you’d quit on me if I brought you somewhere you could,” Dean admitted sheepishly, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t lose you again man…”

Benny sighed, pressing closer. “Been thinking about it bu’... Couldn’t do that to ya.”

Dean smiled softly, kissing his head, “then maybe it can work… Guess I’ll have to start getting two rooms…” “Guess you will…”