#sometimes I cry over not having enough time to draw my idiot son

[neorukixart]

Drew some good bois for @digitalgate02​ birthday :3c

Happy late birthday Ni!! uwu

[onecanonlife]

Tommy’s getting tired of people thinking he’s not real. Tubbo, meanwhile, hopes that this hallucination of his best friend will stay a while longer.

They work it out.

(word count: 1,563)

............................

It only takes about another fifteen minutes for him to snap.

“What the fuck are you doing that for?” he demands, planting his feet and wheeling around and staring Tubbo dead in the face, because Tubbo’s been trailing along behind him like a fucking lost puppy or some shit since he got out, and he’s tired of it, tired of his best friend looking at him like that, with equal amounts of wonder and dread in his eyes, like he’s not fucking real at all.

Or should that be former best friend? He doesn’t fucking know. Apparently, it didn’t take all that long for Tubbo to replace him with Ranboo of all people. And get married. Apparently.

Tubbo blinks at him.

“I don’t think you’re real,” he says, and if Tommy’s anger hadn’t been boiling over before, it is now. He didn’t go to hell and back for people to tell him he’s not real. He didn’t stay in the same cell as Dream for a month for people to tell him he’s not real. He is so, so very real. The shock that shoots through his system, the bolt of all-consuming terror that overtakes his mind whenever anyone so much as bumps into him is proof enough of that. He is real, and who the fuck is anyone else to say that he’s not?

“Well guess what,” he says, “I fucking am, so deal with it or go away.”

He spent so long wishing to be by Tubbo’s side again. He didn’t think he’d get out to find this. Didn’t think he’d come out to be replaced. Didn’t think Tubbo would crouch along after him without saying anything at all, like he’s the one who died.

“You don’t need to be angry about it,” Tubbo replies, as if he’s the one being wronged here. “I’ve got it all figured out. See, I didn’t think you were dead at first, either. Sam told us and my brain went all weird and flat and in denial, because I knew it couldn’t be true, because you couldn’t be dead. But then it was a few days later and you still hadn’t come out, and it was true after all. So I can’t trust my brain, really, so this is probably my brain going into denial again. Wishful thinking.”

“You—” He cuts himself off, rage warring with confusion warring with he-doesn’t-fucking-know-what, because he’s been dead and locked in prison and he’s not even used to the sunlight yet, much less his own emotions. “I literally pinched you. I pinched you, and then you ran away and stood staring at me from that new—that new McDonald’s!”

“Tactile hallucinations aren’t impossible,” Tubbo informs him. “It’s probably because I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

That draws him up short, just a little bit. “You have?” he asks. “I thought you got married.”

“I did,” Tubbo agrees. “It was a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, really, so nobody got invited, but I was thinking about maybe having a bigger ceremony once you got out so you could be my best man, or something. I don’t really know how that works. ‘Cause it’s a platonic marriage, right, so I don’t know if you’re supposed to do it differently. But I wanted you to be there, and then it turned out that you wouldn’t ever, ever be.”

Well. Alright, so he wasn’t disregarded entirely, then. But still—

“And then,” Tubbo continues, “and then we adopted Michael, and I wanted you to be his godfather. You were supposed to be his godfather. Michael was going to love you. I thought you were gonna come back out and you were gonna meet Michael and everything was going to be alright. But then you didn’t.”

“Who the fuck is Michael,” he says flatly, even though his head is reeling because adopted—?

“He’s our son!” Tubbo says. “Mine and Ranboo’s! And you were gonna be the godfather. And it was going to be great, and we were gonna be a family, but then you died, and now Michael’s not even going to get to meet you. And you’re just, you’re just dead and I’m following you around because I don’t have anything better to do.”

There is—there is so much to unpack there, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Ranboo is—is the spouse, then, and he supposes he should have guessed that. The Michael issue isn’t too much clearer, since he doesn’t have a frame of reference for this—for this child? That Tubbo has adopted? What the hell? But it’s the last sentence that sends the anger flooding back, because what the fuck does he mean, he doesn’t have anything better to do?

“If that’s how you feel, then why don’t you—” he starts, but Tubbo cuts him off.

“I’m sort of pathetic, I guess,” he says. “‘Cause I’m following around a hallucination. I guess it’s because I know it’s the best I’m ever going to get. And you know, I’d rather have a you that’s not real than not have you at all, because this way, I get to see you and hear you. Even if you’re not here. So I need to enjoy it while I can, because I don’t know how long hallucinations last for, so I don’t know when you’ll go away again. And I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want you to be dead.”

All through this speech, Tubbo’s face remains distant, a little open, a little blank. But his eyes are welling up with tears, and as Tommy watches, they start spilling over his cheeks, uncommented upon.

And Tommy feels the rage drain out of him.

It was hell, where he was, in that terrible darkness, that void, being torn apart and shoved back together again. It was hell, coming back, everything too bright and too loud and too much, his body flinching and his heart racing at any movement, and a single touch is still enough to send him back there, to that moment, his vision fading and pain bursting like fireworks and Dream’s mask leaning over him, grinning.

It’s been hell, seeing how everything’s changed.

But Tubbo missed him. Really, really missed him. And maybe he’s replaced him a bit, and Tommy no longer has any idea how to feel about that, because it seems like Tubbo wasn’t trying to? That Tubbo still wanted him to be there, still intended him to be there? So he’s still a little pissed, maybe, and he still really, really wants people to stop being so weird, to stop reminding him at every juncture that he died, died and came back, but—

But Tubbo is crying.

“Tubbo,” he says, “I’m not a hallucination.”

“You are, though,” Tubbo says. “My mind’s playing tricks. You’re not—you’re not really—” He hiccups, and Tommy comes to a decision.

He extends a hand. It should be fine. It’s just Tubbo, and he’s choosing to do this. It should be fine. It’s going to be fine.

“C’mon, then,” he says. “Hold my hand, I’ll prove it. Maybe you could make up a pinch in your brain, but I bet you couldn’t make up this.”

Tubbo stares at his hand for a very, very long time.

“Don’t make this weird,” he says. “Tubbo, please, for the love of god, don’t make this weird. I really will go away, and you can just stay here and cry.”

Tubbo blinks, hard. And then, slowly, reaches out and takes his hand.

Tommy flinches, every nerve in his body lighting up, screaming at him to get away, and he can’t stop himself from gasping, from letting out a little whimper. But in the next moment, he’s fine, his heart rate already calming, and it’s just Tubbo’s hand in his, his grip loose and warm.

Tubbo’s eyebrows furrow. A minute passes before he speaks.

“This is a long time for a tactile hallucination to last,” he says.

Tommy rolls his eyes as hard as he possibly can, in order to express all of his exasperation.

“I’m not a fucking hallucination, alright?” he says. “Has married life made you an idiot or something?”

Tubbo looks up at him, then. He looks back, and tries to convey with his eyeballs his sheer displeasure at literally all of this.

“I’m holding your hand,” Tubbo says slowly. “You’re not disappearing, and I’m holding your hand.”

He tries to convey with his eyeballs that Tubbo should consider arriving at the point sometime soon.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “You’re real. Tommy, you’re real.”

“Damn fucking right I’m real,” he says. And something like relief washes over him. It’s nice to hear those words, from someone else. And Tubbo just stands there and holds his hand and keeps crying, harder, if that’s even possible, and Tommy thinks that this is a scene that he should possibly put a stop to.

But he doesn’t. He stands there and holds Tubbo’s hand and lets Tubbo cry. Because nothing is alright. Nothing at all is alright. Everything sucks and everything’s different and he needs to kill Dream and the world kept on turning without him. But Tubbo is glad to have him back. Tubbo missed him. Tubbo still wants him.

If his eyes are wet, it’s just the rain. He glances up, and blinks against the sun.

Just the rain.

[mattsvn]

Nostalgia.

Iwaizumi Hajime x fem!reader

Summary: A summer after graduation finds Iwaizumi Hajime halfway across the globe, sitting in a lecture hall and staring at a golden dome that reminds him of the world and his place in it. Or, the lack thereof.

Genre: Slight angst to fluff. Character introspection, self discovery!

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: none.

A/N: Guess who’s crying :smiley: Okay, so I got inspired by this tik tok, check it out, show the artist some love, and adding to another idea I had this came up, I hope you guys like it!  ALSO, that beautiful summary was suggested by @meliorist-midoriya​ !!!​ Repost from my old blog, this is on my favorite fics ever written hehe

There is something distinctive about the traces left by people in the places they inhabited. Whether intentional or not, to enter a house that was once occupied is to step into an unknown life, where all that remains are the lines drawn on the wall frames, with random dates, leaving a record of someone’s growth.

A part of the wall with a lighter color, where photographs once hung and the trace of old drawings on the wall could be seen even if you paid close attention. Seeing the home you had lived in for years empty, lifeless or without its distinctive smell caused an ache in your chest that you couldn’t describe, how was that atmosphere created again, with spotless walls, perfect floors and the lack of human warmth?

You weren’t afraid of living alone, you were afraid of having a lonely life.

It was frightening to think that the apartment you had just bought might feel like it was inhabited by a ghost, with no trace that anyone had ever been there. One way or another you wanted to make that space, with only two rooms and one bathroom, feel like your home, even if it was just you, even if you would only live there for a few months.

So, amidst the worry about establishing a home and hundreds of paperwork, came the first day of college, one more step to adapt to, the breaking of a routine you had just begun to create.

There was no better way to start that school year than by being on time, so, at least for the first week, you tried to be there early enough. It gave you time to get through the school buildings, and to finish your coffee just before the first class started.

Thursday arrived, with the first class being Medieval Art, not usually a subject that caught the attention of many, so it was common to see empty seats. Still, as usual, you were planning on choosing the seat right next to the window, where the sunlight illuminated your notes, but that day, it seemed that someone already occupied that place.

You sat next to him, there was no reason not to share the table, didn’t pay attention to him, it seemed that the boy was taking a nap a few minutes before class, probably he had a class before that one, or he was just tired. The teacher settled into her seat, and you glanced sideways, only to see that the boy was still asleep, not moving.

“One day, the architect, Frank Gehry said: architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness” she began, while behind her appeared the image of a building you had heard too much about. “I think one of the best representations of this is Hagia Sofia” she continued, showing the image of that beautiful golden dome behind her, she kept talking.

As the guy next to you opened his eyes, sleepily he took a deep breath, concentrating on the image in front of him, with some concern he took the supplies from his backpack to take notes for the class, he seemed lost, confused and, in general, tired, like he was there by mistake, or, against his will.

Iwaizumi was not usually like this. Before moving to the United States, he had never been late for a class, he was the type of person who kept everything in order, always punctual, with notes in order and an impeccable grade. A role model in every sense of the word, student, athlete and perfect son.

But as soon as he arrived from his flight, tired to the bone and affected by jet lag, he slept as much as he could, only to wake up in the early morning, stunned by the different time zone he could not fall asleep at the right time, he still couldn’t get used to the food offered there, and he was unable to find the ingredients he would commonly use in Miyagi to eat.

People drove on the left seat, and the road was on the right side, they used to eat on the street without any concern, or on the way to their jobs and schools, nor did there seem to be manners in public transportation, at least no the ones he knew. There were words that confused him, and the symbols on the streets made his head spin.

People did not have the same habits he knew, and he noticed that after only a couple of days after moving in. By the time school started, Iwaizum was still trying to sleep at the time he was used to and didn’t make it until two or three in the morning, so, it resulted in waking up late and sleeping in between classes, he still wasn’t used to having his notes in English, so his handwriting looked weird, the teachers spoke too fast for him to understand, therefore, his notes were all over the place

Not to mention how unpunctual they were, he found himself a couple of times arriving late to class, only to find out that the teacher wasn’t there, and that it would probably take them twenty minutes more to arrive, and sometimes, they would cancel the class when you were already there, just because.

Even in the classes he looked forward the most, he found himself tired, bored, easily distracted, and he expected the same from this one, a subject he had taken only to complete his units. But, when he opened his eyes, he swore he had never seen anything as beautiful as that. A gorgeous dome of gleaming gold, with light streaming in through the windows and the distinctive marks of history on its walls.

It took him a few seconds to listen to the professor properly, as he was still impressed with what he saw on the projector, there was nothing that did not interest him, from the columns to that painting of the Virgin Mary, an impeccable marble floor, and, the mixture of both religions on its walls was perhaps what left him most curious of all that he had seen.

There was nothing like that in Japan, or at least not that he remembered. Byzantine architecture had that distinctive feature in which it left you mesmerized for a moment, he was so enraptured by it that he didn’t notice that there was someone sitting next to him, taking notes of the things the teacher was saying, with a slightly frown, concentrating, and different pens scattered around the table. The teacher continued talking, still detailing how a building created almost fifteen hundred years ago remained one of the finest constructions in human history.

Hagia Sofia, she read from the blackboard. He wrote down the title in a slightly disorganized way, along with the rest of the words on the board.

Hagia Sofia, meaning: holy wisdom. Constantinople, now Istanbul.

“Long before what we now know, the Byzantine Empire took place in what is now Istanbul, the capital of this empire is perhaps one of the most important historical and architectural sites of the Medieval Era, this was the largest known church  for about a thousand years. It has been used as a church, a mosque and now serves as a museum.” She explained, showing the various images of the building. ”There were two later constructions after this, one destroyed in a fire and the second in the Niká riots, then, in the year 532 construction began on what we now know as Hagia Sofia.“

"Wow” Iwazumi sighed, absently sketching the shape of the building.

“I won’t tell you much about this building, at least not for now,” said the teacher, pausing for a moment to look at the picture. “I want an essay on this topic, and I would like you to gather in pairs for it.” she asked them. “I just want your opinions and analysis on the things that are most important to you about the place and what you think is meant to be represented by these, either imagery or architecture. Your partner will be the person who is closest to you, starting with the two of you, at the bottom.”

You looked at Iwaizumi out of the corner of your eye, having to work with people you didn’t know was always a problem, but, you hoped it wouldn’t be like that this time. He also looked at you, a little relieved thinking that you would surely know something about Medieval Architecture, not like him, who felt totally lost in that new subject. Even so, he returned his gaze to the front, memorizing every detail of that dome in his mind.

The class continued, with the teacher talking about historical processes in the fifth century and the topics that would be taken throughout the course, Hajime could not help but see the excitement that certain topics caused you, especially with the mention of some gothic buildings. And so, in the blink of an eye, the class was over, and before he realized it, you were already grabbing your things to leave.

“My next class is Historical Theory, what’s yours? We can organize on the way” you said, looking at him for a second while you closed your backpack. Iwaizumi tried to put his belongings away as quickly as possible, but failed a bit with his clumsy movements. “What’s your major?"

"Oh, Sports Science,” he replied. Your reaction was as expected: confusion, what was a sports science major doing in a medieval art class? “All the other classes were busy and I needed some extra units.”

“Oh, I see” you nodded, walking out of the classroom with him walking beside you.

“What’s your major?” he asked, feeling somewhat embarrassed that he hadn’t asked that before.

“Art History” you replied, with a smile. “By the way, my name is y/n” you said, extending your hand, he received it, still not used to the way people introduced themselves there, but little by little he was starting to adjust to it.

“Iwaizumi Hajime” he cleared his throat, here they speak by first names, not last names, you idiot, he said to himself in his mind. “Hajime.”

“So, Hajime, you didn’t organize your classes on time, you take naps before class, and you don’t know anything about Medieval Art” you jokingly commented. “We have quite a bit to learn, don’t you think?”

“Uh… y-yes” he nodded, stopping when you did, not even realizing how far he had walked. “I won’t let you do all the work, if that’s what you’re worried about” he assured, it seemed they were in front of the door to your next class the moment you stopped and looked at the door, Iwaizumi didn’t want to take up your time, but he had no idea what to say either.

“Well, how about we meet in the library later this week? You can give me your number so we can schedule the day” you hoped the professor wouldn’t come to the classroom while you were talking to  Iwaizumi, as he seemed like a very nice person, despite how nervous he was.

“Sure, I have the whole afternoon off tomorrow, is that okay?” you nodded, extending your phone to him so he could write down his number and name, to your luck, he returned it just in time.

“Sounds perfect to me, I’ll text you as soon as my class is over” you said, saying goodbye and entering just before the teacher, who closed the door behind himself.

Iwaizumi stared at the door for a few seconds, letting out a sigh,then, he walked to his next class. It felt awfully strange to walk around campus alone, with no one by his side. Maybe he had gotten too used to spending his free time with the rest of his friends in highschool, and, at times like these, where he was waiting for a message from a cute girl, he couldn’t help but think about how much he missed them.

He was alone, and that was terrifying.

Iwaizumi looked at his phone for the third time in an hour, the class, food chemistry, was just short of making him fall asleep, yet he couldn’t help but look at his phone and wonder at what point the cute girl in the Medieval Art class would send him a message.

She didn’t until almost four hours later, just as Iwaizumi had recently returned to his apartment and was working on a long assignment for the rest of the week. Ignoring the sound of a message at first, thinking it was probably Oikawa bugging him about some new thing he learned in Argentina, so, he didn’t look at his phone until a couple of minutes later, when a second message came through.

“Hi! Sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner, I’ve been a little busy, but this is my number!”

“My last class ends at 2:00 p.m., do you mind if I meet you at that time in the library?”

He answered almost immediately, regretting later for doing it so quickly, you look like a desperate idiot, he thought. To his luck, as soon as he locked the phone, the screen lit up again with the reply.

It seemed that after that things flowed perfectly, even though before he met her they would have seemed like inconveniences to him, now they looked as an opportunity. The professor for tomorrow’s class informed them that he was out of town, so his classes would start until the following week, which gave Iwaizumi a chance to continue with his homework calmly, and, to get ready to see the pretty girl the next day, maybe even sleep properly that night.

However, nothing went as he planned.

Again, he found himself staring at the ceiling at midnight, without any possibility of being able to fall asleep, no matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to work. That wasn’t his bed, nor his sheets or his favorite pillow, it wasn’t his wall or the window overlooking his backyard. As he stared at the empty, flat ceiling, he wondered why he couldn’t at least see a golden dome so he would have something to think about while he tried to sleep.

And so he woke up quite late, much later than he was used to. Maybe his body took the opportunity to recover all his lost energy, he had no idea. The only thing he knew was that he woke up thirty minutes before the agreed time with the pretty girl, and, it took fifteen minutes to get to the library from where he was.

He sent as many messages as he could while getting dressed and trying to look as presentable as possible. At least it wasn’t strange to see people running around campus, although it was in the first few weeks of school, where no one was really worried about anything.

“I told you I could wait a while” you mentioned, Iwaizumi was standing in front of her, trying to control his breathing, visibly agitated for having run all the way to the library. “Tell me you at least ate something” you murmured, in a way to accept his apology, then he sat on the free seat in front of you, trying to avoid that questioning.

“I can eat something later, sorry I was late” he apologized, again, he expected you to be upset, but you weren’t, instead, the first thing he saw was a reassuring smile, you hadn’t been more than ten minutes late, so, there was really no problem. “Again, I’m sorry, I was…”

“You don’t have to apologize, Iwaizumi. You were only ten minutes late, I’ve known people who take an hour to show up” the boy looked at the table for the first time, it was almost like the mess she had in yesterday’s class, only now it had several open books around it. “My class ended early so I went ahead to research an assignment I had, don’t you want to go get something to eat before we start?”

“I’d rather do this and then I can eat something, I wouldn’t want to waste your time even more” he replied, it was too obvious that he still didn’t quite master English, or maybe he did but he was quite embarrassed about how it was that he pronounced things. “I’ve never had this happen to me before, I’m sorry, I’m not usually like this.”

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s okay? Seriously, but why are you late? If you say it doesn’t usually happen to you” Iwaizumi looked towards the window with a frown, he felt like he would spend an embarrassment for that, because, sleeping late was not a good excuse, actually, nothing was a good excuse for his lateness, but still, he sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re coming in with a hangover?”

“No, no, not at all. It’s just… I’m still not used to the time change here and I’m used to sleeping at a totally different time” he said, though there was more to it.

The insomnia was only a collateral result of how he felt, and perhaps what kept him most irritable. Perhaps he had chosen that change too quickly, or the feeling was probably something that would fade with time. But he couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t quite connected to reality, like he was living a strange dream. The routine he had worked on for years that kept him safe was gone, and was now out of his reach.

He missed going out every Tuesday for lunch with Oikawa, Makki and Mattsun. He missed walking to school and greeting his neighbors, or the way Oikawa’s older sister squeezed his cheeks, even though he said how much he detested it, he missed the karaoke he went to once a month and his mother’s food, hell, he even missed Oikawa’s obnoxious nephew.

“So, where are you from? Moving is hard enough, I can’t imagine doing it from another country” he looked at her, realizing she was genuinely concerned and curious, she meant it. The sincerity brought him calm, enough to say what he felt.

“Japan, I just got here a couple of weeks ago, I still don’t understand much and my English isn’t the best so I’m not having the best time” he pointed out, as he picked up his notebook, watching as she jotted something down on the computer, adding a document to start the essay. “Not to be rude, but your culture is really weird.”

“You don’t have to tell me, it is. But you end up getting used to it, don’t you? I find people’s behavior patterns depending on their culture interesting” Iwaizumi hadn’t even noticed that there was already a book on Byzantine architecture on the table, which showed a picture of Hagia Sophia from the outside. “Besides, it’s normal to miss your hometown, don’t you think, what did you most like to do there?”

“Playing volleyball with my friends” he answered without hesitation, for it was true. He missed every detail of it, from the practices, to the coach yelling at his teammates to the games, even the ones he lost.

“Oh, were they on a team together?” she put the computer aside, devoting her full attention to him. Iwaizumi nodded, ready to talk about all the amazing things his team had. “Were you guys good?”

“Well, yes. At least within reason, we were. We never made it to nationals, but within our prefecture we were very good” he nodded, still feeling the bitter taste of defeat on the tip of his tongue as if it had happened yesterday, his last chance to go to nationals ended before it even started.

“And what position did you play?” he questioned, Iwaizumi picked up the book on the table solely to have something to distract himself with.

“Uh, wing spiker. I was the ‘ace’ of the school, but of course, I couldn’t be any of it without Oikawa."

"Oikawa?”

The conversation did not stop since then, between readings, corrections and stories about his high school, Iwaizumi did not even realize that almost three hours had passed, three hours in which he could not believe what he saw in images, despite all the fear he had, all the nostalgia that accumulated inside him, seeing that building in Constantinople brought him a peace that he could not manage to understand, no matter how much he wondered what was going on.

Although it didn’t compare to how the pretty girl explained things, he should probably stop referring to her as the pretty girl and start calling her by her name, as he ended up forgetting it, and every time she said his name, he blamed himself for not remembering hers. He learned everything he wanted to know in one afternoon, thanks to her, the semi domes, the atrium, every detail, structural and artistic there, he memorized it with her voice, melodious, calm, safe.

After making a couple of questions, he lost his fear of asking what he was seeing, because, as she told him, “no one knows everything, there will always be someone who knows something you don’t”. So, he ended up engaged in a conversation about the wonders of medieval architecture and no more than ten minutes later, the conversation drifted to the karaoke that his friends loved, or the park where he and Oikawa learned to play volleyball.

Life at the university became more bearable thanks to her, Iwaizumi heard the story of how she had just moved out of her parents’ house, how they also moved out of their house and the pain it caused her to leave the home she loved empty. She enjoyed knitting, watching movies and listening to new music all the time. In a couple of weeks, he discovered her favorite food, and the kind of clothes she liked best, the movies that made her cry and the ones that made her die laughing, and with each thing he learned, she asked him the same questions. Even though he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to answer, or what people used to say, it made him wonder if he seemed like a nice person or someone who would be interesting to spend time with.

Tuesdays of going out to eat became Tuesdays of organized movies in the dorms, once-a-month karaokes became visits to museums instead of his neighbors, now he was greeting his roommates every morning, now the cute girl in Medieval Art class was the one squeezing his cheeks, it seemed that, little by little, everything was starting to be as he knew it.

Or at least that’s what he thought

“But what do you like, Iwaizumi?” she asked him on a sunny afternoon where sunlight illuminated her room and there was a random movie on TV as the background noise, around her a lot of snacks and fried food, that’s what Saturdays were like, relaxed and sunny. “I almost feel like I know Oikawa like you do, but you don’t tell me much about yourself.”

“Huh?” he asked, doubtful, hadn’t he been talking about himself all that time, or had he only thought he was? “I don’t know what you want to know about me.”

“I want to know who you are, beyond all your friends and the people in your life.I know what Oikawa likes and how many fans he had or the perfect settings he did, but I want to know about you.” she told him.

She didn’t know if it was because the girl was an art enthusiast, or if she just hadn’t met someone who wanted to know more about him for her own pleasure, for what she felt was inexplicable.

“Well, well… with my team” he began, stopping the moment he saw the look on the girl’s face, who could only thus make him feel as if he were a scolded child. He sighed, running his hand through his hair, confused as to what it was he should say.

“Who are you, Iwaizumi, what do you like, what song do you like the most? I don’t want to know about other people, I want to know about you, about what makes you who you are.” She began, the moment only seemed more special with the way the sun was shining on her skin and her smile seemed to shine even brighter than it always did. “I know you’re a good teammate, a good son, a good friend, but who are you, what are the qualities that you have?”

He looked into her eyes, how many times hadn’t he stopped to look into those beautiful eyes that stole his breath, or those lips that said the cutest yet most painful things?“

"Iwaizumi. I want you to tell me the story that you have, like Hagia Sophia, do you remember all the marks that it has? the mix of everything that lies in you? There is so much history in who you are beyond your friends, I want to know if you are happy or if you like ice cream, how you react to things. I hope you understand me, it’s okay to like things that your friends do or showed you, but I don’t think it should be all that you are, so, who are you?”

Still not taking his eyes off her, he remembered every detail of the building he studied for weeks, the religious motifs and art on its walls, the history even in the broken parts of the floor, or those portions where the paint was completely gone. And, with tears in his eyes, he replied:

“I don’t know.” He murmured, his voice trembling.

And he really didn’t know, he had lived so long being a friend, son, teammate and neighbor that, little by little, without realizing it, he stopped prioritizing the things that to him and only to him made him happy.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do about it” she murmured in the same way, very close to him as if she were telling him a secret. “Find out who you are.”

And just like that, the first picture of the two of you decorated your wall, along with some paint smudges from a sunny afternoon, a canvas, and some brushes, and a volleyball mark at first. Two wrongs can make a right, your mother would say. You, in search of rebuilding your space, and he, in search of himself.

You couldn’t have picked a better time than that, or a better life than that.

taglist: @sugas-sweetheart @kirislut @hannahalanib1 @goopyartiste @yee-harr @ohno-grapes @peach-pops @meliorist-midoriya @milktyama @majestic-sea-flip-flop @starlessnyx @tanakasimpcorner @msbyslugg @ordinary-ace @boosyboo9206

[charliedawn]

Pennywise 1990 X Reader X Pennywise 2017 "The Joke's On You" part 1

Part 2: https://charliedawn.tumblr.com/post/648205835225415680/the-jokes-on-them-part-2

"Ssssooooo..Why clowns ?"

Both of them look at you with a frown of incomprehension on their faces..

" Because of the fear."

They answer at the same time. Funny, its the first time you see them act so..alike. You mean, of course, they are big scary child-eating monsters..But they never seemed to be agreeing on anything, so when you ask the question, their looks and answers are so similar that it makes you think of another question.

" Also..Are you like brothers or something ? Related ? Father and son, or that can't happen with your kind ? You just eat children and do not produce them ?"

Penny, the tall ginger clown only crouches like a frog while the other one only looks at him with disgust.

" Yeah..Right..As if I would ever be related to that one..Nah. We're just hunting together now..Normally, he would not wake up at the same time as me, so we wouldn't really meet. But the idiot messed up his schedule while overstaying in order to kill some dumb kids and he woke up the same time I did !"

He glares at Penny who doesn't seem concerned at all by the way the other one is describing the situation. Even though it's quite offensive..The older one continues and looks at me with a repulsive snare at the idea.

" We don't produce children. Although, we never tried. We are mostly made of pure fear materialized only by the decaying flesh of our victims..We're supposed to be impossible to kill and we don't even know when we were born nor where. But, I remember that the first time I saw a human, many centuries ago, people mostly called us "Wendigos".."

You open your eyes wide in surprise at the news.

"Wendigos ?! So, that means you were humans before ?!"

The young one snickers and his yellow eyes glare at me.

" Humans ?! Ah ! What a joke ! They cry, love, betray, they only crawl on an endless path until they become old, ugly and die. This is why we eat them..They are of no use..They are dancing on a ball of dirt that they squeezed so much that it has no more to give..And you know what is the most ironic ? Is that they prefer to blind themselves more than face the truth..There is no beauty or originality in humans..Doves fly, dogs bark, dears run and even dolphins are more intelligent than you..Now tell me, why would the world need you, when we have the exact same talents in every animal that comes with the letter D ? I didn't even have to go out of my favorite letter to find every good thing you've ever done in animals that are not destroying their own habitat. What makes you so special ? What makes you think that you deserve living when all you do is destroy and hide the truth ?!"

It is the most you have ever heard Penny speak and even Pennywise seems shocked by his sudden outburst. Penny is so close to you that you can see his anger reflecting in his eyes. You try to not let fear show but, it's hard. You gulp and look at the ground in shame. He was right..What did you bring that no other living being ever did ? Humans were parasites and he smirks before returning at his crouching position.

" That's what I thought."

He whispers and Pennywise smiles almost proudly before hitting him in the back a little too hard since Penny growls.

" Wow. Didn't know you had it in you ! In all honesty, I never even thought about why I eat humans..I mean, we both know that human and animal food taste the same..But, for some reason, I always hated humans..Never really knew why and never cared enough to ask !"

He answers with a grin.

You frown then gasp in horror which both of them seem to notice since they turn their heads towards you in frightening synchronization.

" Wait ! Does that mean..You chose to eat humans ?! That you can perfectly live without their meat and just eat like normal people?!"

Pennywise answers with a grin.

" Come on..You should have figured it out by now..We don't really care about what we're eating, as long as it has flesh and fear : which animals and humans both have in common. But, as he said before, why choose them over you ?"

He looks at you up and down before adding with a large grin.

" Now that I think about it, if it wasn't for your rare quality of blood, you would already be a past meal.."

You shiver and he bursts out laughing.

Yeah..You remember..The only thing that kept you alive was you blood type..O- was, from what you had understood, sweeter ? Like some kind of cake or candy..This is why they wanted to keep you alive.."Saving best for last" as they had said.

Ah ! How lucky am I ?! You think.

You sigh and turn the other way to face anything else but the two clowns. At that moment, your foot hits something. You look down at the ground and are surprised to see some pencils. You glance behind you, but the other two don't seem to care about you anymore..for now. You get the pencils and look around for a surface to try them on and when you've finally decided, you walk towards it. You stop and close your eyes to visualise what you want to draw..Then, inspiration hits you and it's like your hands are dancing on the hard surface. You're so concentrated that you don't even notice the two creatures stopping whatever they were doing to look at you with confusion written all over their faces. You continue and seconds, minutes, hours pass. The two clowns, curious of what you are doing, now stand next to you silently, as to not break your concentration. They just look at your drawing from each side of you, their eyes wide, surprised and unable to find words to describe it. You are breathless, exhausted, but don't want to stop. If it was the last thing you would do, then let it be beautiful..Even if the only living things that would ever see it would be two nightmarish clowns that didn't give two shits about art or expression of oneself. When you finish, you are surprised to find two gloved hands on you drawing..You look at each side of yourself and see the two clowns, weirdly still and their eyes glued to your work. For a moment, you almost laugh at their, surprisingly, childish faces. They look like your young Art and Crafts students that you teach, always awed by whatever you would do.

But, what makes you smile the most, is that the first reaction they had was to touch it with their hands, as if the drawing had called them in. You sometimes had students like that, that could only understand Art by touching it. This is why whenever you would bring one of your works, you told the kids to do the first thing that came to their mind with it (as long as it wasn't tearing it apart or painting on it of course) Everyone had different reactions. Some liked to look from a far, some liked a closer angle and, as you had witnessed, some preferred touching it..But, what surprises you next is your own reaction. You grab one of the pencils and trace the shadow of your own hand on your drawing, as a proof. Then, you gently take Penny's hand that looks almost frightened by your touch, but he lets you hold onto his hand and do the same thing that you just did with your own. He giggles slightly as the pencil lightly "tickles" him and, to your surprise, his claws get out. He wants to retract them, nearly in shame, but you make it clear that it doesn't bother you while tracing the contour of his claws as well. When you are finished with him, you turn towards the older one that had already taken his hand off with a snicker.

" If it is a trick to impress us, it will not work, your hocus-pocus will not stop us from eating you..Anyway, I'm sure you have a knife hidden somewhere and only wait for me to let my guard down to stab me in the back."

You only answer with a sad smile of silent resolve while reaching for his hand.

" No trick. No hocus-pocus. No knife. Only me, your hand and a way to make you remember that, for a minute, I managed to make you feel something else than anger, hate or hurt.."

He frowns, visibly hesitant, before finally giving in with a childish grumble.

You finally trace his fingers on your colorful drawing, mixing the color of the rainbow and the greyish color that composed the colors of their suits. And, at the middle, all those colors forming one gigantic tree, that tree being your own personal touch..A tree that, maybe, will learn Penny that, even though humans destroy, they also create and Pennywise that, even though he lost any hopes concerning humanity, the particularity of the humans, the thing that makes them truly special are their hope. Because, even if animals are better than you in every aspect, they do not hope..And they do not have the imagination to create any other outcomes than eat or be eaten. This is maybe why the two clowns seem much more appreciative of those creatures than the humans ? Because they are much easier to understand ? You smile proudly at your little discovery. Like this tree, humans are made of so many different colors that it is difficult to find a pattern..Both of them said that they hated Humanity, but if it is true then..

" I may have understood why you chose to be clowns.."

They turn towards you : Penny with a side smile and Pennywise with an arked eyebrow.

" Oh ? And why is that ? You're gonna tell us that it's because we liked making people laugh when we were "humans" ?!"

The older one says, putting humans between brackets mockingly while the other one is cackling behind him. You smile again and shake your head while they come down to a sitting position; one on his favorite worn out leather chair and the other one on the dirty floor. They both look up at you expectantly, as if they are expecting you to read them a bedtime story..

" Well..I don't think it is about the form in itself, it is more about the colors and the fact that it symbolizes things that you never had when you were "humans".."

You say between brackets as to imitate Pennywise that is looking at you with another one of his signature mocking smile.

" What are you talking about ?! I am funny ! The funniest in town if you ask me !"

He says proudly, while Penny only rolls his eyes at his comment.

You shake your head again with a smile and even answer with a little laugh.

" No. Not that. You feed only from fear..Correct ?"

They both nod in unison and then, you ask a question that they had never even asked themselves before.

" Why only fear ?"

They want to answer that it is obvious, that it is stupid to even ask. But they have to admit it at the end, they do not know themselves. After a while, you answer for them.

" You do not feed on fear. But on faith."

They frown and Pennywise asks, confused.

" What do you mean ?"

You try to find words to explain your thinking and finally sigh, as it is no easy task.

" You feed on the only thing that you do not have, and that humans are the only ones to possess..Our faith and beliefs. We believe that there are monsters under our beds, then you take their appearance. In fact, I don't even know if you can transform in anything else than scary things, can you ?"

They look at each other before looking back at you and Penny is the first one to answer you.

" We never tried..and what for even ?"

You smile and get up, dusting your knees.

" Humans are afraid, but what they fear the most is losing their most cherished things. Try with me. Try to guess my most cherished thing on Earth.."

The two clowns seem interested by the idea and you can feel them trying to find your most precious memories. They already know your biggest fear..And in all honesty, after having seen it so many times, you aren't that scared of insects anymore. Now, let's see if they are as powerful as they say they are..

Penny transforms into a puppy and you smile tenderly while extending your arms in order to take him in your arms. But then, another head appears, then another, then another..

He returns to his normal appearance, almost as out of breath as you were before.

" I..I can't..stay in this form very long."

You nod understandingly and then, turn towards the oldest that only shrugs at the odd reaction of the young one. Pennywise seems to look at you with a little bit more seriousness, his hand scratching his chin in silent observation. You know that he is trying to figure you out and is taking the dare to heart. And, suddenly, his smile widens and his eyes brighten as he has a sudden epiphany and you frown in worry. What did he see ? Suddenly, he gets up and slowly walks towards you with a weird crooked smile, looking more smug than usual.

" If I have learned something about your kind is that you have one thing that you always bring up.."

You frown in incomprehension, what does he mean ? Suddenly, Penny smiles creepily and you shiver, he must have understood some kind of hidden message because you sure as hell didn't get the memo ! You smile awkwardly, your pulse racing and cold sweat start to form on your skin. Whatever he has in mind..You sure as Hell didn't know what it is, and that scares you more than anything..Pennywise backs you up against the wall of your drawing and smirks.

" I..I think we played enough..I'm tired..We can maybe continue tomorrow..?"

You ask, your heartbeats quickening and both clowns looking at you with bright yellow eyes. However, suddenly, both of them shout at the same time.

" Money !"

" Food !"

You open your eyes wide at Pennywise that gets out some coins from his pocket and you then turn towards Penny that just shouted food like it was some kind of good answer at a test. Tears start building up at the corner of your eyes and you sigh in relief before biting your lips shut, trying to contain your laughter.

Penny frowns at your expression and says in a small, almost childish, voice.

" Wasn't the point of the game to say one of the things you cherish the most ? Don't you cherish food ? Why are you crying ? Did I win ?!"

Suddenly, you start laughing uncontrollably and Pennywise answers him in a really angry voice.

" No! You didn't, big dummy! The game was transform, not yelling the answer at the top of you lungs like an idiot!"

Penny frowns and crosses his arms while pouting. But you answer through each giggle.

" You're wrong! Both of you!"

They look at you with wide eyes before growling.

" Then, what is the answer ?! "

Pennywise yells, frustrated and you answer.

" Love ! We value love ! Family, friends.."

Penny frowns and scoffs.

" Well, you're funny ! How do you transform into something you don't even know ?!"

You gasp, this is why he couldn't stay in the form of a puppy ! He didn't know how they truly acted towards affection ! You could have almost felt sorry for them if it didn't mean alerting their fear senses for food..But, you could try to find a way to get them to learn more about the true meaning of love. 

Pennywise lets you go and sighs in defeat while turning towards Penny.

" Boy ! You don't have to transform into love ! You just had to take the appearance of something she wanted to love, dumbass ! Like I don't know, a human she know ?!"

You suddenly open your arms wide and they both look at you with widened eyes.

" What the heck are you doing ?"

Pennywise asks with a scowl and Penny only frowns, his eyes diverting on strange angles. You try not to think about the fact that you're going to try to hug two interdimensional demons and just wrap your arms around them. At first, you really thought one of them was going to shred you to pieces, but they become as still as statues.

" This is what humans call a hug. It's super effective and it is the first thing in affection."

Penny is still as a rock, and you even ask yourself if he is even breathing..Before remembering that he surely doesn't even have a heart. Pennywise is the first one to move and gets you off harshly. His eyes are of a wild red color and he looks in pain. He clutches his heart and growls animalistically at you. He then runs towards the exit and glances at you one last time.

" I am hungry. I'm going hunting..Penny, keep an eye on her ! If she even moves a muscle, eat her."

Penny seems to get back from his shock and only nods quietly.

When Pennywise is gone, your focus comes back on Penny that, you had noticed, had taken more distance between himself and you after your attempt at affection. As if he was..scared ? You try to approach him, talk or even apologize, but he only growls warningly at you and shows you his really sharp teethes..making you reconsider.

You tried to make them look at humanity from a different perspective, like at your drawing, but looks like nothing could be done..You'd die here. Anyway, the joke's on you since you were the one who thought you could change them..Silly you. Monsters will always remain monsters..Hope ? Who are you kidding ?! You lost that the moment you ended up in that damned sewer ! You start crying and, for some reason, your sobs catch the attention of Penny. He looks at you, then at his pile of toys, then back at you. He then begins climbing it and that makes you wonder what he is doing ? Is he leaving you ? Eat a rotten piece of child ? You have no time to wonder more as he quickly gets back on the ground and, with measured steps, approaches you with the same wariness as a wild animal. He then throws you something and gets back into his corner with a piece of a child's leg in his other hand.

He starts chomping on it and you look at what he threw at you..A music box ? You look at him quizzically and, after swallowing, he answers your silent question.

" Don't read anything into it. Your tears make me uncomfortable, so I got you something to keep you from doing that..If I eat you now, Pennywise would be angry at me for not sharing, and I have had enough of his loud voice for one day. Now, make this thing work. I want to listen to it, it has a nice sound and you have nothing else to do.."

You stay still for a moment before smiling softly at him.

" Sure..Thanks.."

You start playing the little music box and are surprised to see that it is the moonlight sonata of Beethoven..A beautiful music that invades the whole sewer with its melody echoing on the walls. You smile widely, at least something to remind you of the outside world.

Outside, Pennywise has his mind set on finding his next meal, but, suddenly stops in the forest and, weirdly enough, hears the song..Then, the pang in his chest that he felt before comes back and he can suddenly hear the words that an idiotic turtle called Maturin once told him before dying..

" Just because you bury something, that doesn’t mean it stops existing, Robert Gray. You can hide your heart, but someone will one day dig far enough to find it.."

Robert Gray..It had been such a long time that he had heard this name. At the time, he had only laughed mockingly at the old senile turtle..But now..Even Bob had felt it. No..Not Bob..Penny. They had chosen to never speak of those disgusting human names again. But then, she had showed up..They could eat her, never talk about it again, continue hunting children and living until the end of the world..She was human..They both knew that, she would grow old..tired..cumbersome and then die. But then, something else that the bothersome turtle had said comes back in his mind. One time, Pennywise had dared ask why the turtle loved humanity so much ? And he had answered something strange that Pennywise had not expected.

" Humanity has only scratched the surface of its real potential. Someday, you will understand why Humanity is so important, Robert.."

" My name is Pennywise ! The destroyer ! The eater of Worlds ! I have no sympathy for humans ! Whoever they are or whatever they do !"

He kept telling himself that, trying to convince himself but then..Why can't he believe his own words ? What was bothering him ?! Why did he feel this way after only talking for a few days to a simple human ?! Or..was it the tree ? The tree she had drawn ? Yes, there should have been some kind of trick behind it ?! She had tricked them as he had firstly assumed ! But then, why did he feel so out of control ? As if he was wrong ? Did the words of the turtle, for once, really made sense ? He closes his eyes and sighs before punching a tree and making it fall..No ! He wouldn't allow it ! He wouldn't allow the old turtle to make a fool out of him even after death ! He was going to kill her ! And that was a promise ! He was not going to let her question everything anymore ! He would shut her up ! No more idiotic questions: no more opportunities to manipulate his feelings ! Yes ! That would be it ! The idea of going hunting out of his head, he walks back to the sewer with a determined smirk. Yeah..We'll see who'll be the fool at the end..Maturin..

[ibijau]

Hey, you said prompts are still open? If so, can you write something where jin guangshan is giving lan xichen 'unwanted attention'? Hopefully xisang?

Oops, this isn’t really xisang, and in fact mostly focuses on jgy. I finished this a few weeks ago actually, but just... forgot to post it? somehow??

 warning for implied rape, especially against minors

It is bad enough when Jin Guangshan looks at women like that. Every time Jin Guangyao catches his father’s lecherous glances toward servants, entertainers, girls of good birth or, on a few repulsing occasions, his own daughter-in-law, he finds himself shivering with uncontrollable disgust. He shouldn’t mind, it’s just traces of the brothel clinging to him even now. A man like Jin Guangshan is allowed to look however he pleases at whoever he likes, and Jin Guangyao is acting like the whore’s son he is whenever he silently disapproves.

Jin Guangshan looking at women inside his house is nothing at all like patrons looking at the girls at the brothel. Jin Guangyao knows those servants aren’t going to be cheated, he knows they get compensated for submitting to their master’s desires, he knows that Jin Guangshan isn’t foolish enough to make advances to women he shouldn’t want, not when there are so many pretty girls he can buy. Jin Guangyao knows this, because it is part of his job to compensate his father’s flings. Jin Guangshan has decided he would know how to handle this.

Jin Guangyao hates that his father was right about that. He knows how to deal with crying girls, how much money to give them (more than he should, but no one has noticed yet), how to find them work elsewhere once Madam Jin has figured out what’s happening and they must be asked to leave. Jin Guangyao deals with all this easily.

What he can’t deal with is seeing his father start looking at Lan Xichen.

There are not many people Jin Guangyao cares about. His mother is dead. Nie Mingjue, whom he once admired, now terrifies him. He has some vague affection for Nie Huaisang, who is a little stupid but likeable, and for Jin Zixuan and his wife, who are both trying their best to be kind to him. He loves his father. He has to. He refuses to consider the alternative, however tempting it is sometimes, in the dark of night, after another incident where Jin Guangshan treated him worse than he treats some servants.

Jin Guangyao loves his father, like the dutiful son he is.

He also loves Lan Xichen, the only brother he truly wants in his life.

If it were anyone else that Jin Guangshan had newly set his eyes on, Jin Guangyao could ignore it. His father rarely bothers with men, but he does on occasion. Those boys usually have to be paid more than the girls. 

Jin Guangshan is not kind to the boys he takes to bed.

If it were anyone else pestering Lan Xichen, Jin Guangyao would find ways to deal with them, either on his own through veiled threats, or by carelessly mentioning it next to Nie Mingjue, who would have the power to make very open threats.

But it is Lan Xichen, it is Jin Guangshan, and Jin Guangyao is torn between loyalties.

So he does what he is best at, and maintains the status quo until he's forced to pick a side. 

Or at least, he tells himself that's all he's doing. If he prefers to meet his sworn brothers away from Lanling these days, it is only because Nie Mingjue is such an annoyance for Jin Guangshan. And certainly Lan Qiren is always invited alongside his nephew at conferences and official meetings lately, and then placed closer to Jin Guangshan than his nephew, but that is only because Jin Guangyao knows the Lan sect value seniority high above actual rank. And when his father does manage to strike a conversation with Lan Xichen, Jin Guangyao makes sure to stick around, suddenly deaf and blind to his father’s little signs that he wants time alone with whoever was unlucky enough to have caught his eye.

Afterward, his father always scolds him over some minuscule detail he thinks went wrong at that conference, but only because he dares not say out loud what truly bothered him.

Jin Guangshan is a man who openly lusts after any woman, but his taste for pretty boys and delicate men is where he draws the line for shame. Jin Guangyao finds him ridiculous for this, but in this case, it plays to his advantage and helps him protect Lan Xichen.

For weeks and weeks, Jin Guangyao continues that delicate balancing act, but the more time passes, the harder it is. There is just too much to think about lately, especially with Jiang Yanli approaching her term (the child will be born early apparently, and Jin Guangyao has suspicions… the idea must have come from Jiang Yanli, he thinks. Jin Zixuan is too awkward, too openly disgusted by his father’s behaviour, and more importantly too terrified of his mother). There’s also the continued headache of Wei Wuxian’s mysterious behaviour, the sect he may or may not have established in the Burial Mounds of Yiling. Jin Guangyao can’t get any information on that. The only cultivator to have been on the Burial Mounds since Wei Wuxian seceded from Yunmeng Jiang is Lan Wangji, who isn’t exactly the sort to gossip. And then, when he has a little time for himself, Jin Guangyao has allowed himself to chat here and there with the oh-so-lovely Qin Su who is always so happy to see him, and is so understanding when he has little time to devote to her. All this on top of his normal work of course.

There seems to be a lot more of that lately, too. Jin Guangyao would not ever accuse his father of punishing him for his interference regarding Lan Xichen, but it takes great effort to not think about it.

Jin Guangyao is starting to feel truly exhausted, but he just borrows medicine from the doctors to keep going, and prays that things will calm down when his father is given a grandson.

Two months before the planned date of birth (a little under a month before the actual, honest planned date), Jin Guangyao’s sworn brothers come visit him. They explain that they’ve been worried about him. Jin Zixuan, charming imbecile that he is, has written to them to say that his half-brother looks badly in need of a break, and surely Jin Guangshan won’t be able to deny him one if two sect leaders are here to demand his company, right?

Jin Guangyao, while very touched that his brother would care enough to do this, still wants to strangle him.

Without surprise, instead of Jin Guangyao being allowed to spend time with his sworn brothers, the two men are quickly swept away by Jin Guangshan to discuss new rumours coming from the Burial Mounds. Since Nie Mingjue is there, nothing should happen to Lan Xichen, but Jin Guangyao finds himself increasingly anxious. He’d thought his father was just on the verge of getting over his fancy for Lan Xichen after seeing so little of him recently, but this will just reignite that fire and ruin all his hard work.

Jin Guangyao is in his office, trying to get some work done, when Nie Huaisang drops by.

Worried as he was about seeing Lan Xichen near his father, Jin Guangyao hadn’t noticed that Nie Mingjue had brought his brother along. It’s unusual, really. Nie Huaisang doesn’t much like Carp Tower apparently, and always finds some excuse to be absent from events organised there. Jin Guangyao suspects that he just finds Jin tastes too tacky for his refined preferences.

“San-ge, here you are!” Nie Huaisang exclaims, closing the door behind him and running to Jin Guangyao’s desk. “You left so quickly earlier! And here I was so happy to see you again… it’s been too long, really too long!”

Jin Guangyao half smiles. “I’m very sorry. And sadly, since I didn’t know you were coming, I don’t have any present for you this time, so…”

Nie Huaisang gasps, one hand on his heart, then pouts in what he clearly must think is an adorable manner. “San-ge, I am offended! I don’t like you just for the trinkets you get me, you know! I just like when people are nice to me. And speaking of that…”

Taking on a conspiratorial expression, Nie Huaisang glances around as if fearful he might be heard, before leaning over Jin Guangyao’s desk until he’s all be sprawled over it.

“Jin zongzhu really is nice with Er-ge lately,” Nie Huaisang remarks, opening his fan and half hiding behind it. “Very nice indeed, isn’t he?”

It takes all of Jin Guangyao’s self control not to grimace. If even someone like Nie Huaisang has noticed… though at the same time, it might not be so surprising. Jin Guangyao has suspected for a while now that Nie Huaisang too looks a little too much at Lan Xichen, even if he hasn’t yet figured out the exact reason. Sexual desire is one option, but it could also be just admiration, or even envy: Nie Huaisang probably wishes he could have been born in Gusu Lan which better fits his interest.

Jin Guangyao has wondered, on occasion, why he can never seem to pinpoint Nie Huaisang’s motivation in doing certain things. If Nie Huaisang weren’t such a charming little idiot, it might worry him. Instead, he mostly ignores it. Nie Huaisang, in the grand scheme of things, is entirely irrelevant to Jin Guangyao’s life.

“Huaisang, are you perhaps jealous?” Jin Guangyao can’t help but tease.

Immediately Nie Huaisang makes a face, his expression far more disgusted than would have been expected.

“Jealous? Of not getting that old fart’s attentions?”

“That’s my father, Huaisang,” Jin Guangyao mildly objects, a little stunned. Nie Huaisang is rarely that open about liking or disliking anyone. His personality is too mild and easy going for any intense emotions.

“Some father he is,” Nie Huaisang retorts, lazily fanning himself, sending some of Jin Guangyao’s paperwork flying everywhere. “And don’t try to defend him, I know you hardly like him any more than I do. And I know you’re almost as unhappy as I am that he’s always looking at er-ge. I’m only mostly stupid, you know. I see what you’ve been doing, even if others don’t pay attention.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Jin Guangyao dryly retorts, pushing Nie Huaisang away from his desk so he can put some order back in his papers.

So he can put some order in his thoughts as well. To have been seen and understood by someone like Nie Huaisang is a discomforting experience. It means he really must have been transparent in his efforts. No wonder his father has been so unhappy with him lately… and that’s the only reason Jin Guangyao will consider, of course. It is all because of this situation with Lan Xichen, all because of his divided loyalty, or else Jin Guangshan would have mellowed before his efforts already.

Jin Guangyao should just give in and let Lan Xichen fend for himself. It is ridiculous to think of protecting a man like the great Zewu-Jun, anyway.

Jin Guangyao should just allow for events to follow their natural course.

He would, if he didn’t know his father’s tendencies.

“You know, it’s not the first time Jin zongzhu starts looking at someone high ranking that he shouldn’t be looking at,” Nie Huaisang casually says. “He likes to establish his dominance over others, if you haven’t noticed yet.”

Jin Guangyao freezes, and shoots Nie Huaisang a curious look. The young man shrugs and closes his fan with a sharp movement, before going to pick up some papers that flew further away from the desk.

“If there’s a sect that feels weak, he’ll try to take advantage,” Nie Huaisang says as he kneels down to grab the documents. “He can’t do it with Yunmeng Jiang, because if he touches a single hair of Jiang Cheng or worse, Jiang Yanli, Wei Wuxian is going to come down from the Burial Mounds and slaughter everyone. That’s the only reason he hasn’t touched her, and you know it.”

With a slight grimace, Jin Guangyao nods. The way his father looks as his own daughter-in-law sometimes is… well. It’s good for her that her brothers are so temperamental and powerful.

“He can’t go after the Nie sect, he’s tried before and that didn’t go well for him,” Nie Huaisang casually continues, turning his back to Jin Guangyao as he meticulously tries to organise the papers he’s gathered. “But the Lan sect… ah, they’re easy pickings at the moment, right?”

“I’m sure Lan Xichen can stand for himself,” Jin Guangyao politely replies. “Though your concern is very touching.”

“I know your father’s methods,” Nie Huaisang retorts, still keeping his back turned. “And I think you know them too, because I know who pays his victims for their silence. He still uses that same drug, eh? Well, if it works…”

Jin Guangyao shivers at the other man’s tone. Suddenly, Nie Huaisang doesn’t sound like his bubbly, hare-brained self, and more like a colder version of his brother.

It suddenly occurs to Jin Guangyao that Nie Huaisang really is too frequently absent from events taking place in Lanling, and that he often disappears quickly even when his brother drags him there.

It also occurs to him that with how often Nie Mingjue has complained against his brother’s reluctance, he cannot know what caused it. Nie Mingjue isn’t one to play pretend. He also isn’t one to let insults or attacks against his brother go unpunished. Nie Huaisang knows that as well. And with how powerful the Nie sect is at the moment, a danger even to Lanling Jin, it makes no sense for Nie Huaisang to have kept secrets if something happened to him recently. Not that anything could have happened without Jin Guangyao knowing anyway. Dealing with his father’s partners was one of the first duties he’s been given upon rejoining Lanling Jin after the war, he would have known.

Unless it happened before the war.

Nie Huaisang stayed an awful long time in Gusu for his studies, and while he can be charmingly stupid, he’s got a pretty decent memory and excellent manners, so studying in the Cloud Recesses should have been easy for him… unless he didn’t want to leave too early. Perhaps if he’d gotten in trouble with someone powerful, he thought that being stuck in Gusu would make it easy to avoid that person. But then, if something happened before that, Nie Huaisang would have been so young, only just…

Jin Guangyao shivers, and wishes he were more surprised. His father’s tastes aren’t unknown to him. He isn’t too picky with women, but he likes boys more than he likes men.

“Er-ge knows to be careful,” Nie Huaisang says lightly, standing up again, a cheerful smile on his lips. “I’ve told him about some of the things I’ve heard happened to pretty boys in Lanling. But he’s also the sort who doesn’t want to believe the worst of people, and anyway, sooner or later, his vigilance might slip. Besides, isn’t it awful, always having to be on your guard like that? Ah, it must be the worst. You would know, of course?”

“My father will soon have a grandchild,” Jin Guangyao replies dryly. “He’ll have better things to do than look at pretty faces. It’s just a matter of waiting.”

“Maybe he will, maybe he won’t,” Nie Huaisang snaps, dropping a pile of paper on Jin Guangyao’s desk. “I know what I’d bet on. And I know it’s not a risk I’m willing to take, anyway. I know what sort of a man your dear daddy is, A-Yao, and I don’t want certain things to happen to my er-ge. So if Jin zongzhu doesn’t keep his hands to himself…”

Jin Guangyao shivers again. A shichen ago, he’d have laughed if anyone had told him that Nie Huaisang would ever try to intimidate him. Now though, seeing that smile devoid of warmth that’s just a touch too sharp and the feverish glint in those delicate eyes, Jin Guangyao can’t help feeling some genuine worry.

“Huaisang, are you trying to threaten my father?” Jin Guangyao laughs.

“No. I’m threatening you, A-Yao,” Huaisang announces, dropping his smile. He really does look too much like Nie Mingjue when he’s serious. “Deal with your father, or I will. And we both know that I just have a few things to say to my brother to send him in a rampage. And if he’s that angry, do you think he’ll really care that you vaguely tried to help Lan Xichen?”

Jin Guangyao freezes at the thought. Nie Mingjue doesn’t like him even when he’s in a good mood, so there’s no doubt he wouldn’t feel a shred of hesitation before lumping Jin Guangyao together with his father. Depending on how Nie Huaisang frames the situation, Jin Guangyao really might look like an accomplice. Hasn’t he helped his father deal with his lovers in the past? He’s never been made to help get those boys and girls into Jin Guangshan’s bed, not yet, but being the one to keep them quiet after, isn’t it worse?

Nie Mingjue will surely think it’s worse, since it’s Jin Guangyao doing it.

“A-Yao, I’m really glad we had this little talk,” Nie Huaisang chirps, suddenly all smiles again, as if there had never been a single thought in that pretty little head of his. “We should chat more! But I know you are so, so busy, so I’ll let you be for now. Still, give this some thought, alright? And if you need help, don’t hesitate to ask. Maybe we didn’t make a big production of it like with da-ge and er-ge, but I’m your friend too!”

Happy and cheerful once more, Nie Huaisang leaves with a spring to his step.

Alone at his desk, Jin Guangyao presses a hand against his mouth to fight the nausea that an intense wave of terror is causing. That it was caused by Nie Huaisang, of all people, almost makes him break into hysterical laughter, or perhaps it makes him want to cry. The two are equally likely, and only the self control he’s learned in Wen Ruohan’s service prevent him from exploding in such a disgraceful manner.

And so, when he calms down at last, Jin Guangyao finds himself divided again.

Before, he had wondered who he was most loyal to, between his father and his one true friend.

Now, by contrast, he must decide who terrifies him most between Jin Guangshan and Nie Mingjue.

And he knows no matter the answer, blood must be spilled if he is to survive this.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

ALEXANDER ‘TIG’ TRAGER x READER ⨟ PROMPT

@lucillewinchester asked: Hi! My name is Carmen. I'm new to tumblr. I recently discovered your stories and I love it. I love sons of anarchy. Could you write an imagine about Chibs Telford or Tig Trager with numbers 87 and 42? Although the truth has been difficult for me to decide, almost all of them seemed very interesting to me. P.D: English is not my first language, sorry if there is an error :)

Prompts:

42. “I can’t watch you with another man/woman”.

87. “Put on my kutte”.

WARNINGS: NSFW, SMUT

Word Count: 1.6k

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford ✨

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. Gif isn't mine, credits to the author.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​@sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcrobae @jade770 @witchy-wish @rebel-without-cause-x @xx--day-dreamer--xx @spiced-reads @tita127 @ifoundmyhappythought @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @angelxshiba @destynelseclipsa @sheeshgivemeabreak @abbiesthings @knowles-morgan @lady-pswrld @minnicelli @marquelapage @ottosuricato @agirllovespasta ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

You have a goofy smile installed on your lips, crossing the crowded yard to the clubhouse. All that you can see are Sons of Anarchy everywhere, and even if you see them like your family, you're going right to the SOA meeting room where the boys must be to talk to them about your date night. It was really amazing. You met John at the hospital, when he came with an allergic reaction to peanuts, and after all he asked you for a dinner. The restaurant was on point, as your outfit and your companion. And you can't wait to tell it to Jax, Chibs and Tig.

But when you enter into the club, you didn't expect that scene. The inside is fully empty. There are broken stools all around, alcohol of all kinds spilled on the ground, as if a battle had happened there. Jax comes out from the hallway to the dorms, snorting with a cigar in his lips.

“Hey… Wha—”.

“You should go to talk with Tig. I beg you, (Y/N)”.

You don't say anything else, nodding just one time biting your lip ashamed for something you don't even understand. The president takes your jacket and your bag, before continuing your steps to the specific bedroom. Knocking it, you enter without waiting for an answer, finding Tig sitting in a corner with his knees curled against his chest and a bottle of whisky in his bloody left hand.

You don't doubt, running towards him and squatting to have the bottle and put it away, so damn worried that you can barely breathe. Pulling down your long hair behind your ears, you cup his cheeks in your hands.

“Hey, hey, Tig. Look at me… What happened?”

The man raises his face covered too by his own blood, mixed with the tears falling down of his eyes. He shakes his head, freeing himself from your grip, crying as a scared child.

“Tig, please… Talk to me…” Begging him and narrowing his knees, you try to call his attention too desperate.

“I… I just… Please, leave”.

“No, I'm not leaving, Alexander”. You say firmly, forcing him to look at you again. “What happened, my tiger?”

“I can't watch… you with another man”. He finally says, after some long second in holy silence.

You swallow hard, licking your lower lip, understanding why he has been so distant with you the last week, and why he's suffering like that.

“I love you… I didn' want to see it, but I really do”.

“Why you… Didn't want to?”

“'Cause I'm a fucking pariah. I can't offer you anything good. And that… fucking ‘Johnny boy’ can give you the world”.

Stretching his hand, he grabs back the bottle to have a long drink, until the whisky rips his throat making him cough. Drowning with his own cry, you sigh, taking it off again, getting up to step out of the room without any words pronounced. Chibs intercepts you as soon as you close the door, knowing that you probably would like to fix up that silly man.

“Call me if ya need halp'”.

“I don't want anyone jumping around here”.

“At your command, lass”. He replies back, offering you the medical kit, at the exact moment you hear a big glass colliding to the door at your back. Probably, the bottle. “Go'head, tiga' tamer”.

Rolling your eyes, you don't say anything because you know this is kinda your fault. Turning over your sneakers you come in again. Tig looks at you somewhat confused, getting up with some difficulties and having to support a hand on the wooden wall. You leave your eyes fall to your feet, lifting up one a little to find the glass pieces on the floor. Taking a deep breath, expelling it by your nose, you close the door pointing to the bed to make him know that you want him to sit on it. He does without complaining, resting his forearms on his lap.

Opening his legs, you place your body kneeling among them. You wet a piece of cotton in peroxide to clean the blood on his face, looking for the wounds. One under his left eye, on the cheek. And another cutting his upper lip by a side.

“I'm sorry… I didn' want to ruin your night, my sunshine”

“You didn't, Tig. And don't move”. You demand rolling your eyes, grabbing the stitches to cover the gaps.

“But…”

“No, Alexander”. You growl, supporting your arms on his leg to get up. “Who the fuck said I want the world? 'Cause no one asked me”.

The man bow his head because of the truth in your words. Yes, John looks like a good guy. But he? He's all that you really want. Maybe he's not a very sane man, but what he does, he does it with passion. Sometimes he looks like the typical rider that the only things he cares about is to fuck, and to drink. But, even if people around you don't see it, he has a golden heart.

“What if I just want a mechanic? What if I want a… pariah to break into our house at three in the morning, with a bag full of… guns or whatever? Did you ask me?”

“No”. He replies confused, raising his eyes. “Do you love me?”

“That… wasn't the question I was waiting for”. You say upping both eyebrows, picking up the medical stuff to leave it on the desk. “But, yes. I do”.

You can't even finish to turn yourself, when he takes two strides to reach you, colliding your mouth with his in an awkward kiss. And the time looks like it goes so fast that you get somewhat dizzy. He undresses himself, as you're doing it, so desperate to feel your nudity against the other, pushing him to the bed.

“Put on my kutte, I wanna see you wearing it”. He asks you grabbing it from the floor.

And you do. You wear it, before Tig lifts you up in his arms laying you down on the bed. As soon as he's on top of you with a simple move of his pelvis, Alexander digs his hard cock inside you, making you moan loud and clear his name. He sinks his face in your neck growling because of the pleasure of your pussy narrowing his erection.

“God… It feels better than I've been dreaming, my sunshine”. He mutters with a weak thread of voice. “So warm, so wet…”.

“Only for you, my tiger”. You sigh, curling a leg around his lower back, pushing him deeper, taking your time to enjoy your tightness. “I want you to fuck me hard, please… I need you, Tig… You don't know how much”.

“As much as I do”. He cries out, thrusting you again losing his control.

His waist moves faster than you can handle with, pounding you once and again, drinking his shaky breathing with his mouth pressing yours. A constant push that makes you feel plenty full. Complaining when he goes back, and whimpering when he hits you again. And probably you won't last long, but enough for him to mark his territory on your body.

His tongue explores your neck with curiosity, finding the perfect place to draw a pinky bruise on. His lips suck gently your skin, contrary to the furious lunges that fill your wetted pussy with no regrets. You look so good in his kutte, knowing that you're really the one for him, too anxious to show you that fact.

“Fuck, my sunshine…” He grunts with closed eyes, supporting his hands on the headboard, pounding you harder as you turn your moans into screams begging him for being more rough. “You got it… baby, you got it…”

And when you think it's impossible, he starts to hit your soul, so hard that it almost hurts you. But the pleasure is so intense that you don't want him to stop, only to turn you, leaving you on top of his body. And now, you're riding him. You ride him as fast as you can, sobbing too pleased when Tig slaps your ass, with rings included. He's going to leave his mark all around your body and that only excites you more. One of his hands gets nailed on your ass, while he uses the thumb of the other to rub your clit, running you out of air about to fall because of the orgasm shaking your body.

“Shit, Alexander!” You moan arching your back and spreading your legs for him, going somewhat deeper.

“Don't stop, my sunshine… Don't stop”. He begs you slapping again your ass, raising his hand to your throat making you lean on him. “Make me cum, baby…”

You nod biting his lower lip, with your pelvis crashing against his, until his breathing becomes inconstant and hectic. He fills you, flooding the room with a throaty snarl, feeling the heat that emanates from his cock spilling inside you for some long seconds that make you touch the sky. You fall exhausted on his chest, chuckling because you're just two idiots that have been wasting a valued time being able to spend it like this.

“Call ‘Johnny boy’ and tell him to fuck off”. He laughs holding you between his arms, infecting you so easy. “My sunshine… I don' wanna live without you”.

“Look at that… I didn' know you could be this romantic, Trager…”

“Really?” He raises both eyebrows, before rolling his eyes. “You will see, baby… You will see”.

[emachinescat]

The Day that Camelot Forgot

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump​ day 24 - memory loss

Summary: A vengeful Morgana casts a powerful curse on Camelot on the day Merlin is named Court Sorcerer, making everyone in the citadel forget that Merlin – and his impact on their lives – exists. She can only maintain the spell for one day, but twenty-four hours is more than enough time for the warlock to get himself into some serious trouble.

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, the knights, Gaius, Morgana is mentioned

Words: 6,444

TW: anxiety attacks, burning at the stake, main character near-death

Note: This story is a bit late, as it was meant to be published on day 24 of Febuwhump, but I got sick, and missed a few days.  I did post the first half of it on Tumblr on the 24th, but this is the finished product. I am seriously considering writing a sequel, because there are definitely a lot of ramifications that I gloss over here, a lot of angsty, whumpy stuff that I could (and most likely will) expand upon in another story. But I'll let you read the story for yourself, and see if you're interested in a sequel! 

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

Merlin woke up to a broom head hitting him in the face, which was not how he expected his first day as Court Sorcerer to start.

An indignant squawk escaped him as he rolled off of his bed in an effort to escape the assault. He already had an insult for Arthur on his lips when his bleary eyes cleared and he realized that it had not been the king at all who had woken him in such a manner. It was Gaius, and he was poised to strike again.

"Gaius!" Merlin stammered, scrambling to his feet and dodging another blow from the broom. "What the hell are you doing that for?"

Gaius didn't answer. Instead, looking as mean and ornery as Merlin had ever seen him, the old physician demanded, "How did you get in here?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, completely nonplussed. "I… live here? I remember turning Arthur's offer for new chambers down so I could stay and care for you – OW!"

Gaius had hit him again. "Who are you?" he all but growled.

Merlin blinked. "Gaius, you know me," he insisted, his heart hammering out his uncertainty at the pulse point in his neck. Something was wrong; Gaius might be cantankerous for his old age, and he might have enjoyed the odd joke at Merlin's expense, but never something like this.

Merlin tried again. "Gaius, it's me… Merlin." When Gaius only glared at him distrustfully from beneath two gnarled eyebrows, he added hopefully, "You know… Hunith's son?"

To his relief, recognition lit in his mentor's eyes at the mention of Merlin's mother, but distrust immediately replaced it. "I have known Hunith all of her life," Gaius said, voice low and measured, broom still held at the ready. "But she has no son."

Real fear exploded in Merlin's chest – fear for Gaius, not for himself. There was only so much Gaius could do with a broom, but if he was forgetting Merlin so suddenly and so completely…

"Ah, I'm sorry," Merlin said as calmly as possible, raising his hands in front of him to show he meant no harm. "My mistake. I'll … get out of your hair."

He darted out of his room, across the physician's main chamber, and out the door, leaving a confused and agitated Gaius in his wake. Merlin prayed that the old physician wouldn't get himself into too much trouble while he was gone, and then darted for Arthur's chambers.

***

He ran into Gwaine on the way – literally, he ran headfirst into the knight, so distracted by Gaius's sudden and dramatic loss of memory. At first he wasn't sure whose ridiculously muscular torso he'd bumped into, and despite his worry, he couldn't help but grin when he saw the bearded face glaring down at him in surprise.

Wait…

Glaring?

Merlin stumbled back.

"Watch where you're going, friend," Gwaine said in response. The way he spoke sent a wave of wrongness down Merlin's spine. He had called Merlin friend, but it was a vague, generalized term. When Gwaine normally called Merlin his friend, the word was saturated with warmth and shone with the light of a dozen charming grins. Now, it meant nothing. And when Merlin looked up into his friend's dark eyes, there was no recognition there. No smile that Merlin had come to understand as reserved especially for the knight's closest friends. Gwaine's eyes landed on him, flashed in brief annoyance, and then skirted off of him almost nearly as quickly.

"Gwaine?" Merlin asked, irritated at the uncertainty in his own voice.

Gwaine, who had already started sauntering away, turned back with a puzzled expression. For just a moment, Merlin was sure that kind, mischievous face was going to open up in an eyes-to-mouth smile like it always did upon seeing him, but then the brow furrowed, and Gwaine asked, "Do I know you?"

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He stood there, gaping like a fool, his whole body coiled as if ready to spring into action, limbs numb, fingers trembling, fear wrapping its constricting tendrils around his chest.

Gwaine gave Merlin an odd look, then shrugged. "Maybe we drank together once."

Merlin nodded weakly, remembering not just once, but many times he and the man before him had gone to the tavern together, often with the rest of the knights, sometimes even the king, in tow. He thought of laughter, and promises of friendship and loyalty, and tavern songs and Gwaine standing on top of a table doing a clumsy jig. He thought of the first time they'd gone to the tavern after learning of Merlin's magic, how Gwaine had asked him a million questions that had gotten more idiotic with every drink. ("No, Gwaine, I have never tried to transplant my nose into the center of a rose to see if flowers can smell themselves.")

By the time he had resurfaced from the barrage of memories that Gwaine had forgotten and that Merlin now clung to with a new ferocity, the knight had gone.

Feeling distinctly sick, Merlin resumed his trek to Arthur's chambers, noticing with fresh terror that every person he passed either didn't acknowledge him at all, or gave him a second, bewildered glance like they'd never seen him before, like he had no right being where he was – being in his home.

***

Arthur didn't remember him, either.

Merlin was so near panic when he got to the king and queen's chambers that he almost forgot to knock. Knocking was never something Merlin had been particularly adept at remembering to do, especially when it came to his duties to Arthur, but since the king had married Gwen, Merlin had made sure to amend his habits. There were some things that Merlin absolutely did not want to walk in on, and besides, he respected Gwen too much to risk barging in on her unannounced.

It was Arthur who answered the door, and Merlin was so flustered that he didn't wait for an invitation to enter (when did he ever, though?), and he squeezed his way into the room past the king. Gwen was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank the gods you're here, Arthur," Merlin huffed as he bustled in. "Something very weird is going on. Gaius and Gwaine are acting like they don't know me, like they've never seen me in their lives!"

He turned around to face his friend. To his surprise, Arthur's hand was on the hilt of his sword at his hip, and suspicion rolled off of him in waves. "Who the hell are you?" he asked flatly, blue eyes flashing with an intensity reserved for those who wished to do him, his kingdom, or his loved ones harm.

Merlin had been expecting a joke like this. Arthur was never one to pass up an opportunity to tease his former servant, soon-to-be Court Sorcerer. The dry retort, "Very funny, Sire," died before it could escape his mouth, though, because when he looked at his king, his best friend, he saw no glimmer of recognition. No familiarity. No kindness or warmth or irritated indulgence. Arthur's face was that of a man who had just had a complete stranger barge into his room and started talking to him like they were old acquaintances – which, Merlin was beginning to realize, was exactly what had happened from the king's point of view.

Merlin swallowed heavily and entreated, "Arthur … King Arthur. Please tell me that you know me." Desperation clawed at his throat and infected his next plea. "Please."

Arthur didn't speak, didn't relax his grip on his sword hilt, but he didn't draw the weapon either, which Merlin thought had to be a good sign. Finally, after several long, tense moments, Arthur responded in a slow, cautious tone, "I'm sorry. I have never seen you before in my life. What business do you have with me?"

Merlin's world, everything he knew and understood and loved, crumbled around him in that moment. He staggered back, managed to stay upright by pure strength of will alone. What the hell was going on? The familiar sting of tears pressed against the back of his eyes, and he only managed to keep himself from crying by sheer stubbornness. He took a deep, steadying breath, made a conscious effort to look as non-threatening as possible, and tried very hard not to panic.

"Okay," he said, and his voice shook, so he tried again. "Okay." This time, his voice was steadier. Arthur's glare pounded into him from across the room, and knew that the king's already thin patience was running out. "Something very wrong is happening in Camelot," the sorcerer began.

Arthur interrupted him. "I agree," he said pedantically. "There's a strange man in my chambers."

"I'm not – I am, or I was, your servant."

"My servant's name is George."

Merlin couldn't help it. He groaned. "George? The one who makes jokes about brass? He's your servant in this hellish version of Camelot?"

Arthur sent Merlin a look that was almost pitying. "You are obviously very confused," he said in a surprisingly gentle tone. "But I am king of Camelot, and you have no right to be in my personal chambers. Go now, and I will think nothing more of this intrusion. If you do not, then I will have to treat you as a threat, and call the guards."

Merlin shook his head, unwilling to let this go. In the span of a single morning, his entire reality, the world he and Arthur had worked so hard to build and the future that they were about to step into, his new position as Court Sorcerer, his friendship with Arthur, everything, had been ripped away from him. He had to figure out what could have caused this to happen. He didn't have to think long – who was out there with enough power to make what seemed like the entire citadel forget he existed? Who was angry and envious and vindictive enough to take away everyone he loved on the very day that the culmination of his and Arthur's dreams were finally taking shape?

Even as Arthur stepped forward, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it, Merlin blurted, "It has to be Morgana!"

All the color drained out of Arthur's face in an instant. He stood there, frozen, a horrible expression of pain manifesting in his eyes. "How dare you speak of my sister," the king growled, and Merlin actually backed up a few steps, bumping into the end table that he'd polished more times than he could count.

"I know she's a difficult subject to talk about," Merlin managed, striving to keep his voice steady as the grief in Arthur's eyes turned to fury. "But it's the only explanation. Morgana must have cast a curse on the citadel – you have to let me go find her, please, and I can stop this, and the world can go back to normal."

Arthur drew his sword now, and Merlin had no more room to retreat. He stood before his king, his closest friend, his muscles aching from the tension gripping his body, his heart pumping so fast and hard he could feel the flutter in his chest. "Arthur, please–"

"I am your king!" the man who had Arthur's face but spoke like his father spat. "You will address me as such! And how dare you insinuate that the Lady Morgana was a sorceress! What vile game are you playing?"

Merlin's head spun; he had no idea what was going on, how Arthur was currently seeing the world, but he did know for certain now that Morgana was behind it. The reverence and love with which the king said his half-sister's name could only come from a delusion the sorceress in question had placed there. Then something Arthur had said hit home. "What do you mean 'was'?"

The expression on the king's face was faintly nauseated, as if he were being forced to remember something that he had hidden away deep inside, or as if he were actively fighting the urge to cut Merlin down on the spot. Either scenario felt entirely wrong and filled Merlin with a sense of dread. "My sister is dead," Arthur said flatly. "She who would have been queen – should have been queen." Oh, yes, Morgana was definitely behind this, Merlin thought wryly. It was bad enough she had these sick delusions in the first place, but to force everyone in Camelot to play a part in them was equally terrifying and sad. "Struck down by a sorcerer in cold blood."

Merlin flinched at the way Arthur spat the word sorcerer. It had been years since he had heard the title said with such hatred and derision, and never had he heard this level of malevolence for magic-users come from Arthur's mouth. After everything they had been through together, after the joy of watching their prophesied destiny unfold before his very eyes, after hearing Arthur accept his magic and plan to officially declare him Court Sorcerer, hearing the title that Arthur had so often spoken of with pride slide out of that same mouth slicked with hatred hurt. But Merlin reminded himself of the truth – this wasn't Arthur, not really; somehow he was being fed false memories – and he squared his shoulders and looked his king right in the eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said solemnly. Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Merlin hoped it was a good sign. "But Arthur – your highness – I need you to listen to me, please. I can explain everything. I can try, at least. But your memories aren't what you think they are. Morgana is alive and… very well, considering the power of this enchantment."

"My sister was murdered by magic, and yet you still insist that she is the evil enchantress!" Arthur fumed, and Merlin felt like he was talking to a stone wall, or even more deaf and unyielding, Uther Pendragon. He very seriously considered knocking Arthur out with magic and tucking him away safely in a wardrobe somewhere while he himself went to deal with the sorceress who had caused all this trouble. But Merlin could sense Arthur, the real Arthur, somewhere beneath the surface of those familiar-but-foreign eyes, and he was sure he could break the spell without having to go to the source. Merlin was Arthur's dearest friend, the king had said this himself (and yes, it still counted even if Arthur had been incredibly drunk after a night in the tavern with Gwaine when he said it). And Merlin knew Arthur better than anyone else, save the queen.

I can reach him, he reassured himself. Arthur is still in there, somewhere. I just have to find him. And once he's back to himself, I can deal with Morgana.

"Please, sire," Merlin said, putting every bit of sincerity he could muster into his words. "Just… let me tell you my side of the story. Let me remind you of who I am, and who you truly are. I am your friend, Arthur, and you have said yourself that I am the most stupidly loyal man you have ever had the displeasure to meet." A desperate chuckle lilted his last few words.

"You have two minutes."

"Um, there's a lot to cover, actually," Merlin responded. "Can I have a bit longer, because I don't think–"

"One and half minutes."

"Okay, okay, I'll stick to the basics!" And so Merlin gave Arthur the quickest and most condensed version of their friendship and history he could cobble together in less time than it usually took to exchange greetings with his king in the morning.

He ended with, "And so you see, it makes sense that Morgana would want to sabotage this occasion, because it marks the beginning of a new era that she desperately wants to be a part of but is too bitter and proud to humble herself and change for. She wants to tear us apart, wants you to do something that you'll later regret. But I know you're stronger than this, Arthur. I know that you remember me, deep down. The life you're living isn't yours. Your memories aren't yours. They belong to Morgana, but your mind does not." A strange, almost trance-like mask had descended over Arthur's face while Merlin spoke, and hope started budding in the warlock's chest – he was so close to breaking through, he could feel it.

"So," Merlin prompted, when Arthur did not immediately respond. "Do you remember? Have you realized the truth, sire?"

Slowly, Arthur nodded, and the dazed quality to his eyes cleared up in an instant. "Yes," he murmured. Merlin allowed his eyes to close momentarily in relief; his body sagged against the table at his back. Thank the gods, the nightmare was over. Now all that was left was to find Morgana and make sure nothing like this ever happened again.

But Arthur wasn't finished speaking, and the hardness had steeled his gaze once more, his lips set in a straight line and his jaw clenched and held high. "I have realized that I was a fool to think that you were a harmless vagrant with delusions of grandeur who wandered into the wrong part of the castle. I should never have opened the door for you."

"Arthur–"

"I am your KING!" Merlin snapped his mouth shut, tears once again prickling at the corner of his eyes. The injustice of the situation weighed as heavily on him as his destiny once had. "You are a sorcerer, an enemy of Camelot, here in an attempt to take down Camelot from the inside. But your spells and tricks and poisoned words will not work on me."

"But–"

"Guards!"

"You don't understand, I–"

"Guards!"

***

Elyan and Percival were the knights who dragged Merlin to the dungeons and threw him roughly into a cell. Then Percival clasped his wrists in shackles, which were chained to the floor. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang.

"Percival – Elyan!" Merlin called out as the knights that had only a week ago pledged their acceptance and loyalty to him as the soon-to-be Court Sorcerer and chief advisor to the king. "Please, you know me!"

"You'll die for your treachery, sorcerer," Elyan spat.

The left, and Merlin sank to the cold, damp stone floor, chains clinking. He drew his knees up to his chest, rested his aching head on them, and did his best to remember how to breathe.

***

Merlin wasn't sure how long he had been in the dungeon, but it had to have been a couple of hours at least. He hadn't eaten breakfast because the old man who usually prepared it for him had instead attacked him with a broom. Now, he was certain he had missed lunch too. His stomach growled at him in protest, but the hunger pangs meant nothing to Merlin. Even if the guards dropped off a meal fit for a king, he wouldn't be able to eat a bite. Everything had gone so wrong.

And now Merlin was at a loss of what to do. He could escape the dungeons easily, he knew, and go searching for Morgana. But there were so many uncertainties, a litany of what ifs that railed against him whenever he thought about breaking out of his chains and sending the cell door crashing into the guards holding a silent but hostile vigil on the other side. If indeed he could find Morgana and discover a way to reverse the curse, then it would, of course, be an easy fix. Merlin's failure to connect with Arthur and break the spell himself had planted a seed of self-doubt deeply within the soil of his mind, however, and now what he had been so sure of before he'd tried to fix things himself – that he would be able to hunt down Morgana and stop this madness with magic – seemed like a distant, unrealistic goal.

And if he did fail? If he could not find Morgana, or if she had managed to employ a magic far more powerful or strange than he currently knew how to counter? If he was unable to break the curse? Then Arthur would go on believing Merlin was the enemy, and Merlin would have forfeited any chance of reaching his friend by flouting the king's edict, attacking the guards, and breaking out of the castle.

Merlin had only been able to get through to Arthur in his other life, his real life, by showing the king over a period of years that magic was not something to be inherently feared, not something evil in and of itself. He had had to show the king through his own life and actions the truth about magic, so that when Arthur had at last learned of his secret, it was from Merlin's own lips and with nearly a decade of loyalty and friendship to back up Merlin's assurances that he had only ever used his gifts to protect Arthur and Camelot. Sure, Arthur had been angry at first, and hurt that Merlin hadn't trusted him, but he had come to an acceptance of Merlin's magic much more quickly than the warlock had imagined. King and servant had grown even closer in the wake of the truth, and soon after, Arthur had started drafting plans for making magic legal and had proposed the idea of Melin's being officially named Court Sorcerer.

But if Merlin was forced to start from scratch, to rebuild his relationship with the king – a possibility that pained him deeply but that he was more than willing to do, if it was the only way to get Arthur back and get their destiny on track – then it would not be wise to start that relationship off with a jailbreak. Then again, he argued against himself, neither was blurting out his secret to an Arthur who had already shown great disdain for magic and who held no memory of or loyalty toward Merlin at all. At this rate, maybe it was better to just take the risk and escape, because how in the name of the Triple Goddess was he supposed to convince Arthur of his loyalty if the king most likely planned to execute him for treason?

He almost made his escape then, but something stopped him. At first, he couldn't identity exactly what it was, just a feeling, an uncomfortable squirming in his gut that could have been the voice of destiny, or instinct, or, quite possibly, hunger. But either way, it bothered him enough that he held off on his plans to break out and examined the feeling more closely. Eventually, he realized – if he left Arthur now, especially in the state he was in, alone and unprotected and with Morgana out there somewhere with her eyes feasting hungrily on the citadel she so earnestly believed should be hers, he could be putting the king in more danger. If Merlin wasn't able to find Morgana in time, and she used his absence to ease her way into the citadel and onto the throne, which Arthur would readily give up to her in his current state.. With him under her influence, she could do whatever she wanted to him – kill him, imprison him, break his mind forever… and Merlin wouldn't be there to stop her.

With this thought, he decided to wait it out, and to see how events would unfold. He would not use his magic to defy Arthur or make his escape unless absolutely necessary. After all, he tried to assure himself, there was the very real possibility that Morgana would not be able to hold this powerful of a spell for long. She might be a priestess of the Old Religion, but even she had her limits. Perhaps her plan was to lure Merlin out to find her and then to use his absence to take Camelot for herself, but it was entirely possible that she only had a limited window of time to achieve her goal and that she was counting on Merlin to act on his emotions and search her out immediately.

Or maybe her plan was just to simply wreak havoc in Merlin's life for as long as she could. Either way, Merlin reasoned, her hold over the entirety of Camelot could not last forever. Sooner or later, her grip would weaken and Arthur and the rest of the citadel would wrest their way out of her control.

Merlin just had to survive until then.

***

He was unsure of how much time had passed when they came for him again. No one had brought him food, or water, and no one had come to visit him during his imprisonment, either. Merlin thought it was highly likely that Arthur had ordered any curious parties to stay away; the king had made it abundantly clear that he considered Merlin a dangerous threat. The fact that he had not been given even a hunk of stale bread or a flagon of water sent warning bells off in Merlin's mind – if this strange Arthur was anything like Uther had been, then he knew that he would be executed swiftly and without trial, and there was no need to feed a dead man.

Gwaine and Leon came to collect him. Leon unlocked the shackles and shoved him at Gwaine, who spat at his feet. "And to think I was kind to you this morning," he growled, and Merlin fought the urge to remind him that he hadn't exactly been kind, more indifferent. Gwaine roughly spun Merlin around, wrenched his hands behind his back so hard that pain sliced through his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his hands being bound tightly, expertly behind his back with course, thick rope. He reached into himself and felt his magic, alive, pulsing, ready to rise to his defense, and he took solace in it, but kept it at bay.

Not yet, he told himself.

But he was getting scared, and he was running out of options.

***

They shoved him to his knees before Arthur, who sat unyielding and terrible on his throne, a mirror image of his father. Merlin realized with a start that there was only one throne.

"Where's Gwen?" he asked. Now that he thought about it, the servant-turned-queen hadn't come up when Merlin had told his story to Arthur earlier, and the king had made no mention of his wife. In fact, he recalled with a start, none of Gwen's more domestic touches had been in Arthur's chamber.

Arthur stood, striding forward and looming over his prisoner. "You should have gagged him," he groused. "He doesn't know how to shut up." For a split second, Merlin thought that maybe the real Arthur was beginning to resurface – that was exactly something that he would say! Then he crossed his arms over his chest and asked irritably, "Who is Gwen? Your accomplice?"

"No, no," Merlin quickly assured him, not wanting to cause any trouble for Gwen, wherever she was. It was odd, he thought: Most elements of Camelot had stayed the same in Morgana's living nightmare, like the knights – even the non-noble ones, even Elyan, Gwen's brother, had remained as they were. But Arthur, in this version of reality, had never married Gwen. It made sense if he thought about it, though. Gwen had occupied the role that Morgana had believed was hers, had, in the witch's eyes, betrayed her trust and left her for the man that represented everything Morgana hated. Of course, Gwen wouldn't have her happy ending, her marriage to Arthur, with Morgana in charge. She was being punished as well. Merlin wondered if Gwen had been left with her memories of the real world like he had been, or if she was somewhere in Camelot, living and thinking as a maid when she really was a queen.

To Merlin's relief, Arthur didn't pursue the line of questioning any further. "I have talked this matter over with my council and advisors," he said in a measured voice. A burst of bitterness howled inside of Merlin – he had been named Arthur's chief advisor! He had been a part of the original council, the Knights of the Round Table, when Arthur had first brought them together! And now this illusion of Morgana's had stolen that away from him, too.

Not yet, he reminded his magic, as it raged and boiled and frothed inside of him. Be patient.

He might have been able to control his magic, but he could not keep his sarcasm completely in check: "And I am sure that in your discussion with the council, you all came to a completely fair and totally unbiased decision based on facts and not the unfounded prejudices of your father's rule."

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly was not Arthur's face flushing an angry red, nor the back of his hand smashing full-force into Merlin's cheek, snapping his head to the side violently. He felt one of the king's rings split the skin on his cheekbone, and thought for a breathless moment that the entire left side of his face had caved in.

He couldn't keep back the lone tear that crawled from the corner of his eye. It didn't come from pain or even shock – but a sense of gut-wrenching betrayal that he could not reason his way out of, even knowing that Arthur was not himself. Even in the state that Arthur was in, even knowing that the king would make plans to execute him, Merlin never anticipated Arthur himself becoming physically violent with him. Somehow, Arthur's hitting him was so much more of a betrayal than a death sentence.

Just. Wait. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep his magic from rising to his defense.

"You will learn your place, sorcerer," Arthur hissed. "When you burn. Take him; we light the pyre at first dawn."

***

Fear screamed through Merlin's body like a whirlwind, and coherent thought fled in the wake of his worst nightmares manifesting before him. He had been sure that Arthur would have chosen hanging or even the chopping block, but a pyre –

Merlin had grown up terrified of fires, horrified at the possibility of dying a brutal, torturous death, swallowed and ravaged by flames, all because he was born with magic. Because of who he was.

No one had been burnt at the stake in years in Camelot. Certainly not after Arthur became king. It was a barbaric practice, and even the worst war criminals and traitors were given a swift, merciful death. He had assumed that Arthur would continue that tradition.

But no, when he was dragged out into the courtyard – the sky was dark, but the air chilly and damp, heralding the approaching dawn – a great pyre had been constructed, and the rest of the knights – his friends – had gathered around, their faces lit eerily by the flickering flames of the torches they held at the ready. At least Gaius wasn't there.

You're not actually going to die, Merlin tried to remind himself, dragging desperately for air through his nose, his mouth blocked by his neckerchief that they'd dragged over his mouth in a bid to keep him from talking, or screaming, or just out of pure spite, Merlin didn't know. You can escape. You will escape, and find Morgana, and stop this. You can't delay any longer.

He drew himself up as tall as he could between Leon and Gwaine, calling his magic to his aid and –

He wasn't sure what happened, or how his friends-turned-enemies had guessed that he was about to try something – maybe he had given himself away somehow, maybe they had noticed the change in his stance or a shift in his energy, or maybe Morgana was interfering even now, ensuring that he would not escape his fate so easily. Whatever the reason, just as Merlin drew upon his magic, something blunt – a sword hilt? – crashed into the back of his skull, and everything was pain.

Agony ripped through his head, his neck, and crackled down his spine. Any grip Merlin had on his magic slipped through his fingers, and he fell forward, held semi-upright only by the knights escorting him to his death. He didn't lose consciousness, but he did lose all sense of control over his body and his magic, and the only thing that existed was pain. His stomach churned in time with the throbbing of his head, and his eyes were driven shut instinctively by the light of the torches before him.

The next few minutes passed in a state of distanced terror and pain. Merlin was acutely aware of the heaviness and agony of his head and the nausea in his gut. He also felt every spike of fear, every bit of helplessness, every scream that wanted to rise up from the most primal part of his being. And yet, at the same time, it was as if it was happening to someone else, and he could do nothing about it. Everything hurt and he was going to die and Arthur was going to burn him alive, his friends were going to light the pyre, and he would die in agony, and not even his magic could stop it, because he couldn't feel it, couldn't find it – he was magic itself, and yet it eluded his grasp, all that existed was pain and confusion and his head swam –

He felt, as if from a great distance, himself be hoisted onto the pyre. He felt the rough wood of the stake rub blisters into his tied hands as he was shoved against it, head lolling uselessly as if it belonged to someone else. He felt rope wrap around his torso, his legs, securing him to the pyre, and he tried to lift his head, which rested on his chest, tried to find his magic, but all he uncovered was fear and despair and pain.

He vaguely heard Arthur speaking from somewhere close by – or maybe it was from miles away. He did not understand the words but knew them to be a list of the supposed crimes Merlin had committed – being born with magic the chief of those. And then, far too soon, Arthur stopped talking, and Merlin sensed through his partially closed eyes the knights approaching with their torches, and he felt the warmth of the fire as those torches were lowered to the wood.

Merlin forced his eyes open, thrust his head up and looked at his friends, then beyond them, at Arthur. He maintained eye contact with his king, his brother, his best friend, even as the knights lit the pyre and he felt the heat begin to spread. Merlin didn't know if Arthur could hear him from this distance, if his words would be loud enough, strong enough, or if they would be caught up and consumed in the rising flames. It took every ounce of strength and concentration to push past the pain and call out, as loudly as he could, "I forgive you, Arthur."

And then, as the flames began licking at his feet, his boots, his clothes, something popped. I was as if the world itself had been out of joint, like a dislocated shoulder, and in that moment, the painful but satisfying second of release, it had snapped back into place. The air shifted, the world stopped spinning for the briefest of moments, and then, it clicked back into its rightful place.

The spell had been broken; Merlin could feel it in every fiber of his being – his magic cried out in relief, and it was only then that he realized that it hadn't been his head injury that had prevented him from fighting back, from escaping – it had been a last, desperate attempt by Morgana to get her revenge, to hide his magic away from him just long enough for him to die.

But she had failed. Her power, her hold and control, had finally given out on her, and Merlin felt his magic bubble back to the surface, and despite the pain and the fear, he summoned rain from a cloudless sky as the sun continued its golden ascent and put out the flames.

Around him, he heard yells, and cries, and his name was shouted from all directions, from the mouths of those he loved and trusted and who had very nearly killed him. But his head pounded, and he was so weak, and the fire was out. He slumped in his bonds, eyes fluttering shut, head dropping to his chest.

He didn't even feel the hands untie him. He didn't feel the knights gently lift his too-warm body from the pyre, didn't feel himself being carried into the castle and placed on a bed, didn't feel Arthur's tears of mingled guilt and relief splash onto his face.

He did, however, somehow, amidst the quiet and dark of unconsciousness, hear Arthur's voice cut through the silence, strong and familiar and real. "Gods, I – I'm so sorry, Merlin. My dearest friend, I–"

When he woke, Merlin would embrace his king, reassure him that no lasting harm had been done. He would smile at his friends, clasp hands with the knights and hug Gaius, find Gwen and make sure she hadn't suffered the same disorienting day that he had. He would answer all questions asked of him, and he would assure Arthur and the knights as many times as it took that he did not blame them, would explain Morgana's dark role in everything. He would find Morgana, and make sure that nothing like this would happen again.

When he woke, the world would be right. It wouldn't be normal – after everything that had been done to him, after all the betrayals, even though he didn't blame his friends, it would take a while for normal to come back around. But Merlin would persist, and he would have his friends – his real friends, with their real memories – to help him through it. As he would help them through the ramifications of their own pain, guilt, and regret.

And when he woke, he would be named the official Court Sorcerer of Camelot. He would be given a robe fine enough for a king, but he wouldn't care about that. All that would matter would be him, at Arthur's side, protecting him and fulfilling their destiny. That was how it had always been, and Merlin, when he woke, would look forward to a bright future of peace and hope.

But for now, he gratefully, peacefully slept, knowing that when he next opened his eyes, Camelot would remember.

[imonthinice]

are you taking requests? if so can you pls use the line "is there a problem here, gentlemen?" in a story?

BONUS STORY! 2ND UPLOAD OF THE DAY?? CRAZY. (if there is a second upload it’ll be at 6pm EST)

Author's Note: You fucking bet your bottom dollar that I'm going to do that.

Y/N - Your name

Batfam + batsis story. Y/N is the newest daughter of Bruce Wayne and is following in everyone’s footsteps as the youngest, in years of service, vigilante of the crew. They hold a gala with villains.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: LMAo Angst whoops, no spoilers but injury and description of injury, Swearing, no beta bitch we die like Jason Todd amen

One-Shot. Not in the Criminal Psychology Majors Continuity.

Y/N packed up her knives into her thigh holsters, apparently, Bruce thought it was a good idea to hold a gala with the known villains of the world. And the kids had to handle it if it got out of hand, Why the fuck are we doing this, She thought, This is a stupid idea.

"Kids, I know you all think this is stupid-" Bruce tried to say before he was cut off.

"You could fucking say that again." Jason snapped at him.

"Kids, I know you all think this is stupid." Y/N mocked Bruce.

"Okay, okay, I get it. It’s a dumb idea.”

“Again, no fucking shit, Sherlock Holmes,” Tim said.

“You guys really don’t need to gang up on me like this,” Bruce tried to say.

“Gang up on you?! You’re the one all like ‘Hey kids! We’re going to do a gala with villains hehe! I hope u don’t mind xoxo.’ Shut the fuck up, Bruce,” Y/N snapped.

“Do you even want to go with that attitude?”

“No! I think that’s pretty fucking obvious!” she snapped again as she went to go grab one of her guns, but Bruce grabbed her arms.

“No. Guns,” he said, trying to be stern with her.

“No. Villains. In. The. House. Oh wait. You’re an idiot, I forgot, silly me,” she mocked before struggling out of his grasp and grabbed her guns and holstered them, one on each side, ambidextrous shooter because she had learned from Jason, quick with knifes and throwing them as well.

“Y/N, there’s no need to be so violent with me,” Bruce tried to say to get her to calm down.

“You just better hope none of those villains make a fucking move, Bruce.”

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

At the party, she wore combat boots and a cat suit under her dress, just so she could slip it off and go into action just as quickly. Her vigilante name was Syndicate, because when she named herself she thought she had the same values as Bruce and his kids. After time progressed, she realized that she was a lot more like Jason than she cared to admit.

They both carried guns into that party like no one was watching and telling them not to. They didn’t trust the villains in their house in any capacity, and that was obvious from both of their outbursts earlier in the day. They were the outliers in the batfam. The ones who did agree with some of what they were shown, but guns and death were necessary sometimes. She and Jason were the true Syndicate.

It was a masquerade ball, so everyone’s faces were hidden, but Jason had his white hair streak, so she knew where to go to talk about the gala and what they would do if the villains attacked the rest of them, and she did so.

Walking over to Jason, she could feel the eyes of many men around her, not everyone recognized her as the newest daughter of Bruce Wayne, so eyes were hungry and they wanted to dance the night away with the temptress. She thought that dating was idiotic, though. And especially if it was a villain trying to sweep her off of her feet.

“May I have this dance, milady?” Jason asked.

“Yes,” she said while accepting his outstretched hand and they went to twirl around the dance floor when she leaned into his ear, “I don’t trust these fucks, Jason,” she whispered.

“Who the fuck does trust it,” he whispered back.

“We need to be on our toes.”

“You’re already on your toes, dancing with me,” he joked.

“You’re the worst, Jason. I mean it.”

“When do you not. But I’m your favourite brother and you know it,” he said as he dipped her.

“While that may be true,” she stopped when she caught some of the people leaving to the backdoor, “We have an issue,” she whispered and pointed towards the people leaving.

“Son of a bitch.” 

And they were off as fast as they could without drawing suspicion.

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

“Is there a problem here, Gentlemen?” Jason asked when they met up with the people trying to snoop, they assumed.

“Yes, there is,” one of the mystery men said as he pulled a gun and pointed it at Jason, “And it’s you, son.”

“Cute! He even brought his little girlfriend with him!” one of the other men exclaimed as he snooped closer towards Y/N and pulled a gun on her too.

“Festive, truly, you three are,” she said, staring down the barrel of the gun.

“Shut it, girl,” the second man commanded.

“No thanks,” she said as she grabbed the barrel of the gun and struggled it out of her face, it misfired and hit a few different areas of the wall behind her, at the same time, Jason had managed to get the gun out of his attacker’s hands and was pointing it back at him.

She continued to one-hand hold the gun while she tried to find the handle of one of her knives. She managed to grab it and fling it into the shoulder of the third, not speaking, man’s shirt and pin him to the wall. The struggle for the gun was still on though, but she was able to get her other hand onto the gun when it fired off.

 Jason was busy attacking the other two men to notice that Y/N had been shot in the shoulder, and too busy to realize that the party had been evacuated and Bruce was up his ass in texts asking where he and Y/N were.

Y/N slumped to the ground, clutching her wound when the man turned his gun on Jason, she used her boots to her advantage and kicked the man to the floor as hard as she could. Jason ended up being able to tie the three men to each other within 10 minutes, while Y/N was bleeding out on the floor, he didn’t notice she was shot till she was clutching on for her life.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he whispered as he tried to lug her off the ground and run to the front entrance, where he could hear the ambulances going off. When she whispered to him, “I’m...” she breathed, “Sorry...” she breathed again, “Jay,” she didn’t breathe again.

He sat there in shock,, clutching his dead sister’s body in his arms and making no noise when the paramedics rushed in and saw the damage. The called in for the coroner, and went to get Jason off of her.

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

In the police station, they told Jason that they just needed him to explain his story, even though they had the footage. Bruce was pressing charges against the men, later to be Harvey Dent and two of his accomplices, for the death of his daughter.

Bruce had not seen his son since the incident, but things were moving quickly and he would get to see him again when the police finished their interviews. But Jason was struggling to get his words out, so they let Bruce go see his son and try to comfort him.

“Jay?” Bruce asked, trying to see if Jason would even look at him, he didn’t, so Bruce went and just hugged his son while he cried into his dad’s shoulder, “I know, son. You did your best.”

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

The funeral for Y/N involved a lot of crying from every batfam member. Even Damien, who struggled to show Y/N a lot of love, cried like no one was watching at his big sister’s grave. He actually laid beside her grave once she was buried for a while as everyone was telling stories about her. Dick found him and picked him up to take him inside. 

No one held resentment for Jason and him not noticing, they all saw the tapes, she didn’t make a damn noise until she was dying in his arms. Stubborn bitch, Jason had joked and everyone had laughed. They could at least remember Y/N for who she was before she died.

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

The trial was long and winded. Harvey, thank god, confessed in his interigation so he pled guilty to being an accessory to murder. However, both of his accomplices, even the man who shot her, pled not guilty to all charges. So the trial was hard.

Jason testified in court about how he thought she’d be okay, she could carry her own, but the gun shots were so loud and he very easily shot her. Then his lawyer started saying it was self defense.

The rest of the trial started to blur for all of them. But all of them were found guilty for the murder.

The victim’s statement to determined the death penalty was said by Bruce.

“Your Honor, these men took away my daughter. And I honestly don’t want them to get the death penalty. I want them to rot away in a prison. The poor girl was only 19, I want them to spend at least 20 years behind bars, sitting there, knowing they killed my baby girl,” he paused to wipe a tear, “I wish we weren’t here and she got to grow up and have kids. She’ll never know her nieces and nephews, the people her siblings marry, or even get married,” he paused again.

“I want my daughter back, but we’ll never get that. So, Your Honor, I ask for you to not give mercy for these men, Your Honor. Thank you.”

The men got life in prison without the possibility of parole.

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

Damien actually took his partner to meet his big sister first, before explaining the story to them. He still finds it hard to talk about how she died.

Tim goes to her grave a lot and tells her stories about his life and how he’s doing without her. He always leaves telling her that he loves her.

Barbara visits often as well. Just to talk to her. She says a lot about the missions they go on without her and how the team isn’t complete anymore, and how she worries Jason will never recover from this event.

Cassie doesn’t go often, the memories of Y/N are enough for her most of the time, but she goes every holiday and on Y/N’s birthday just to greet her and say that she loves her.

Steph seems to still have trouble accepting the fact that Y/N is gone. Maybe it's because they fought the night before and it would have been resolved so easily had she not died. It hurts everyone to see Steph talk about it.

Dick will sit at her grave for hours, he’s the one to clean her grave when it gets dirty. He doesn’t always talk to her, but when he does he asks her if she’s met his parents and if they’re proud of him. He’ll probably never know the answer to it, but he likes to think the wind that hits him after that is Y/N saying that she loves him and that his parents ar proud of him.

Jason doesn’t go to her grave on the day she died. He refuses to admit that she died in his arms, so he doesn’t go on the anniversary of her death. He bottles himself up in his room and cries. He has nightmares about her death.

Bruce wishes he could have done more, but when the trial ended he went to her grave and told her about it. He actually laid her to rest by his parents so that she could be near her grandparents. 

Alfred misses her but knows that he couldn’t have done anything, but he leaves nothing in front of the doors and windows so she can enter if ghosts are real.

[shiteatinggrin]

Hi, so this is my contribution to my first jilytober, I wrote some canon fic, it is kinda sad so I guess you could call this angst? I don’t know, I’m not that good at categorizing fic. Anyways, here is a love letter to James Potter from Lily Evans because he just died under her eyes. Wrote this fast, so I can’t vouch for the quality of this. This is almost 3k of Lily being a sap, so enjoy! Find it here on Ao3.

Bastard with a shit eating grin

Do you remember our first kiss? I can still feel the cold air of winter seeping through the walls of Greenhouse Number Three and you and I laughing together. It was not an unusual thing anymore, but some people could have been surprised, because we had had some big feuds over the years, the Dormitories Dashing and Destroying Disagreement, the Inflating Inner Ear Incident, the Flying Fiona Fight and the Severus Snape Saga consisting of the big highlights. However frustrating it was, we always had fun together, didn’t we?

Now we were falling in love dutifully without realising we had always been meant for each other in some way. I was all colors: glorious red hair, pink cheeks, pale green eyes and horrendously yellow socks. You were all teeth: shining smiles, arrogant smirking, belly-laughing in a silent room or grinding them in concentration for the task you were committing to (hyper-focusing on) at the moment.

‘Oi, Evans, can I copy your homework?’ You would say that practically every day.

‘How about a please, Potter? Might do you some good.’ You watched me smear some soil on my neck when I scratched it and said nothing. I discovered it in Transfiguration two hours later. Crazy how we can only remember the smallest details years later and the big things just go right over our heads. I could only ever remember the small details with you, because whatever we said to each other was never important, only the talking to you part was.

‘Oh Lily, dearest flower to my heart that I worship beyond any rainbow, might I please please please see your diligently done homework so that I can rewrite it because, being the idiot that I am, I was off gallivanting with Sirius yesterday instead of being a good student.’ You added pouts and made doe eyes for good measure as if I wouldn’t already have grabbed the moon from the sky’s grubby hands every night if you had asked it.

I would stifle a smile and put some piece of parchment in your extended hand without even looking, sometimes it was the homework if I was feeling generous, if I were more in a creative mood I might give you a stupid doodle or some kind of letter that would say something like: ‘Dear Prongs, you are an asshat. Looking forward to our rounds tonight so I can kick your ass in Gobstones. Now listen to Sprout, will you? Lily’ with a stupid heart over the i that basically meant PS: I love you. Finally, I’d say something like:

‘I would have laughed, but your head might inflate so much you’d have neck pain for a week.’

You let yourself smile then and continued to jest me, hoping to wrench a smile out of the beast (you always did it literally two minutes later, it is funny how easy it is to win when you give yourself such small tasks).

But that day, amazingly, we broke out of our routine.

At night we would always hang out together in the common room with our friends and slowly the people would fizzle out, having gone up to their dormitories and I would stay on the couch with the urge to kiss you with some dumb excuse not to leave on the tip of my tongue. I painted my nails or read some book or talked to you extensively about something I’d learned recently and you would listen with concentrated eyes and a much too easy smile.

Then you would start talking and when you started some story it would never finish, even now you can’t even recall something as simple as Harry’s first smile without going on for five full minutes without stopping. In these nights I would try to look like I wasn’t paying too much attention to you, like I was detached from everything pertaining to your person, but being young and in love doesn’t exactly give you the best skills in subtlety and so you would ask me if I was paying attention and I would blush and you would make some quip about redheads and their skins and everything would go back to normal.

And out of the blue, when I was talking about getting some sugar quills next time we were in Hogsmeade and how difficult the Ancient Runes paper was, you kissed me. Your hands flew to my hair and mine to cup your face and you pressed your body hard against mine. I’d never seen you so hungry for anything before, it seemed like you had been starving for a thousand years before our lips found each other. I had kissed three boys before you, and none of them could compare to the feeling of ecstasy of your mouth against mine. No one will ever compare to James Potter, right? That’s what you used to say in fourth year when you made a particular lucky goal in Quidditch or when you caught the Snitch in mid-air even though you were a Chaser and we were in Potions classf. Is it weird that I miss that?

I don’t think there ever was a time when I didn’t love you, all electric hair and much too quick brain and hundred stupid nicknames that didn’t mean anything unless you explained them in excruciating detail and you would smile too much and talk too loud and walk too fast and I wouldn’t feel so out of place with you because I did the exact same things. Petunia was always prim and proper and I always tried to be like her and please everyone but you taught me how to be myself and how to blossom into my personality without even knowing it. With you I’ve never been too much, I was always just enough.

Everything always came so easy to you, and I’ve always hated you for it. Now I think that I can’t appreciate enough how you could always share that with everyone around you, that incredible luck that could get you out of the worst of predicaments. I guess it all caught up to us today, but I don’t mind now. I’ll love you forever, come what may.

My heart is full of wanted posters of you: dead or alive.

I can’t remember the first time I’ve really noticed you, because you were always in the periphery, doing stupid things and getting in trouble and beaming for no reason at all and the memory of your presence was impossible to shake, but I still remember the first time we really became friends. We were fifteen by the lake and my best friend betrayed me under the glistening sun, the following day I had the worst grade in Transfiguration I’d ever gotten. You found me crying by a window on the fifth floor and apologized a hundred times (which I couldn’t have cared less at the moment), but you still went and talked to McGonagall and she agreed to let me retake the test in the afternoon and offered me a biscuit.

In seventh year, a girl told me that she was so jealous of the fact that I was the only one that could make James Potter change and mature. As if your life revolved around me. I thought of your sick father and the fact that Sirius had appeared on your front door one day and never left your house and with a twinge in my heart thought of the war coming and I couldn’t believe my ears. With all this going on, and she still thought you’d only change for a girl?

I’m not proud of this, but I might have shouted at her and maybe, perhaps I was the one that sent a silencing charm her way, but who could really tell? Not her, because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth.

I wonder if I ever told you that. Probably, because you know everything interesting there is to know about me. You even know the most boring facts about me, because they amuse you just the same. You know I like peonies the best in spite of my name and that my first kiss was with Snape when I was eight, you know that I wiped my mouth right after and didn’t know yet what love was. You know that my favourite band is Hate Potion and that my guilty pleasure is Celestina Warbeck. You know that I wanted to name our son Harry because of a muggle TV show I used to watch with Petunia when I was seven on Saturday mornings and that when I fight my favorite charm is Expelliarmus. You were at my side when I killed my first (and last) Death Eater and that I cried for a week afterward. You comforted me for five hours when Marlene and her entire family were massacred in their own home, the same one where I had spent a good chunk of my summers to avoid Petunia. You know that I only ever paint my toenails blue and that my favorite flavour of ice cream is mint chocolate chip. You know all about my relationship with my sister and how she used to be my best friend and that we used to dance in bathing suits around the sprinkler and fake being witches to make potions out of mud and flowers and how she never forgave when this dream became true for me but not for her. You know all about my failed relationships, with Tuney, Sev and my ex-boyfriend who left me because he didn’t want to be associated with a muggleborn. You know I’m absolute shite at drawing and that I can’t dance to save my life and you laugh at me when I’m drunk and try to follow Peter’s choreography to some dumb song I don’t know. Last year, you helped paint flowers all over my bookcase because I wanted it to be unique and just mine.

When Harry was born, you refused to sleep for two days because he was so cute when he slept against your chest, but you finally fell asleep while cutting onions for dinner and I had to intervene.

One of my favourite things about you is that I have never seen anyone so full of life. You smile like nothing has ever gone wrong in your entire life and you are more loyal than any Hufflepuff I’ve ever seen, you would die for any of us in a heartbeat and we would do the same for you anytime. My love for you is so big I wonder how it even fits in our little house in Godric’s Hollow. You painted our walls burnt orange because you said it reminded you of my hair and I wonder if it is weird to fall in love with you even more over some colour choices. You complete me because as much as you are a complete idiot, you still recommend the best books and are smart enough to plan the best pranks, but too smug to make anyone else take the blame. You had always been my favourite person in the whole universe until Harry arrived, but he is so much like you that it is like meeting you at a much earlier age. He has the same laugh as you, you know?

I cannot believe how brave you are, because traditional courage requires you to go into battle and protect everyone you love like a lioness does her cubs, but you have found the energy to keep going even trapped in this house with an infant without being able to help your friends outside. You go everyday against your most basic instincts and you manage to have so much fun with us, but I see the tired bags under your eyes and the fact that you lose your train of thoughts sometimes and I know that you’re thinking about the war and the security of the boys, I know they are your family and it would kill you if one of them ever fell into battle, yet you never complain, yet you never lose hope. I love you so much my feeble heart can’t contain it all. My love for you is as inevitable as the blue of the sky, as the oxygen in our lungs, as the passage of time, I love you so much that when I see you it is like coming home, your wild hair and round glasses and mischievous eyes and soft voice and much too long limbs and wide chest and calloused hands and smile like an answer to all my problems.

No one has ever made me feel as secure as you and now I know I have to be strong for you, because you are the one that’s fallen, like a marionnette whose strings were cut. The coffee stain on the right arm of your shirt is the last thing I will see of you, or maybe it is a bit of your wild inky hair. I will never be able to look at the night sky the same.

I can hear him in the stairs, and all I can think about is you and Harry this morning, my two favourite people in the world, sat on the carpet and puffs of colour coming out of your wand, your laugh coming out of his mouth, one single tooth poking out, little chubby legs shaking from laughter, the wand you stupidly left on the carpet (the wand you didn’t care wasn’t in your hands because you didn’t care if you died, you just wanted us to live). Your last gift to me was the most precious of all: you gave me the time to say goodbye to Harry.

‘Mama loves you. Dada loves you, Harry.’ That is the only thing I find to say, because it is true and my heart is breaking, I can hear it thundering, collapsing like a dying star, you are dead, I will die, Harry has to live. I cannot withstand the thought.

I have never loved anyone better than the two of you. Apparently I never will, but at least I have known real love, the one that comes from daily life, that never dies because it is kept alive by stupid little things that make us who we are. Crazy how we only remember the little things and the big ones just go right over our heads.

I will remember the smallest things about you, like the little scar in your left eyebrow, the weird placement of your thumb on your wand, the feel of your skin against mine and the way it tanned in the summer while mine just became redder and redder, the sound of your laugh when Sirius said something funny and the way you always pushed your glasses up your nose with your middle finger, the way you sit in any chair like it’s a throne, the way you answered questions in class without raising your hand, the way you held a book open when you were reading it, your last day where you wanted to make pasta and I wanted steak, the way you would mess with your hair not because you thought it would make you look like you just stepped off your broom, but because you were nervous or restless. On your good days it would stand flatter on your head and I had to pass my hand through it because otherwise it just didn’t feel like you. You laughed too much when Sirius decided to read Crime and Punishment to Harry as a bedtime story and your son wouldn’t go to sleep. You would tell him stories of your childhood disguised as muggle magical adventures and I became a knight, Sirius a prince and Snape a dragon. You would call my cat Fiona the ginger cat, as if Fiona wasn’t enough and she needed an extra title. I guess she was royalty after all. You always tried to make me believe that she loved you more than me, even though I’d had her since I was eleven and you once made her fly across the common room just to annoy me.

Do you remember this morning? The last time you ever kissed me? You made me eggs and tea for breakfast and sang some Beatle song for me in the most off-key voice. You stole the bacon from my plate, laughing from across the dinner table. I was so happy because you were in a good mood today, you didn’t seem to feel so trapped and it was Halloween and you were trying to convince me to dress Harry up as a muggle magician, which I thought was the worst joke you’d ever made. You kissed me on the mouth and we settled on a pumpkin costume. Your lips tasted of stolen bacon and orange juice (you’ve never been much of a morning tea person).

I have never loved anyone better, and apparently I never will.

The house is so silent now that you are gone. All I can hear are my own ragged breaths. Harry seems to think this is some kind of game. He is all that we have left now. All that will ever be left of us. To love is to create, right? We have created the most beautiful person in the world, it should be the only thing that counts.

I love you. I could try to make this poetic, the love thing, but I think the most poetic way it can be is on its own. I don’t know any words more powerful than I love you. I love you and you are dead. I love you and I will die soon. I love our son and he will live. Life is as simple as that. I love you and soon we’ll be together again. Miss you already.

[daemour]

You’re Still My Universe Pt. 2

Title: You’re Still My Universe

Pairing: Jinyoung x ???? to be determined GOT7 Member

Genre: Fluff, hint of angst, parent au

Warnings: None

Word count: 2071

Summary: Jinyoung’s life is devoted to his son. But the first time he’s been separated, so many other people barge into his life and start taking up what little free time he has left.

Ever since that day at the park, Yugyeom kept asking about that nice man at the park, and Jinyoung didn’t know how to break it to his son that sometimes you meet people once and never again. It was very cute but would cause Yugyeom a heartache if he found out, so Jinyoung always sugar-coated it for him. “Oh, Jackson-nim is busy. Oh, he’s away for work.”

He’s too soft on his son, but Jinyoung couldn’t help it. Yugyeom would look up at him with puppy eyes and pout and Jinyoung would, quite literally, die. His son was his favourite person in the whole world (sorry, mom) and he would give up everything for his son.

“Daddy!” Yugyeom barrels out of the kitchen and into Jinyoung’s knees. “Ow.”

Jinyoung holds back a laugh, leaning down to check on his son. “You okay, buddy?” Yugyeom nods once, sneezes, and then nods again.

“Yeah! I made a rocket! Come see!” Jinyoung smiles, always willing to indulge his son, and follows Yugyeom back to the kitchen. His son has used up all the empty Mac & Cheese boxes Jinyoung keeps for this occasion and just drew rockets on all of them. It was...really fucking cute.

Jinyoung can feel his heart melt for the five-hundredth time since he looked at Yugyeom for the first time. “It’s amazing, baby,” Jinyoung praises his son, who smiles so brightly it looks like his teeth would pop out. “You’re so good at drawing.”

“Thanks, Daddy!” Yugyeom beams up at his father, pulling at his pant leg to be picked up. Jinyoung really doesn’t want to, it’s tiring, but he’s soft for his son and soon bends down to take Yugyeom into his arms. “Daddy, will you draw with me? I want you to play.” Yugyeom’s lips form a pout and Jinyoung curses that his son picked up his pouting ability.

“I have a lot of work, baby.” Yugyeom’s face scrunches up, a little wrinkle appearing on his forehead. Jinyoung knows that look, where Yugyeom is going to cry but not because he wants to, because he’s too young to not cry and whine for his father. Jinyoung can feel his heart hurt. “I’ll sit in the kitchen with you, is that all right?”

Yugyeom just sighs and nods, trying to wriggle out of his father’s arms and Jinyoung’s heart shatters. Yugyeom pays no mind, returning to his cardboard boxes, and Jinyoung silently just goes to bring in his laptop and sit at the kitchen table. He can’t help but steal glances at his son, quietly scribbling in the corner.

Jinyoung really feels bad being thrown into work like that; for as long as he had Yugyeom, he had always paid utmost attention to his son and then suddenly yanking it all away? His resolve finally crumbles, saving his document and sliding over on the bench to sit next to the sun to his Earth. “Yugyeomie, what are you drawing?”

Yugyeom glances up at his father, squirming slightly in excitement though he tries his best not to be too loud. “I’m drawing Daddy and me,” he answers after a moment of thought.

“Can I draw too?” Yugyeom finally beams his usual blinding smile, shoving a cardboard box toward Jinyoung.

“Yeah! These are my favourite crayons! You can use them too, Daddy. Look, they have Pororo!” Jinyoung’s lips tug up against his own wishes and he coos at his son.

“They’re very, very, pretty. Just like you.” Yugyeom squeals in delight, scrambling into his father’s lap to give him kisses.

“Love you, Daddy!” Jinyoung smiles and gives Yugyeom a kiss right back on his son’s plump and soft cheek.

“I love you too, baby.” He can’t help himself but to lean his head on his son’s shoulder and just sit there and watch his son do Yugyeom things. Yugyeom gives him a look that only a four–year–old could manage, but Jinyoung just smiles and Yugyeom goes back to colouring the picture.

Jinyoung is probably going to have to go and buy more magnets; the entire kitchen is filled with Yugyeom’s scribbles. But he loves every single one of them so much. And when Yugyeom is finished with this one, Jinyoung will love it just as much.

If you told him two years ago that he would gain custody of his son and soon fall in love with the hellspawn, Jinyoung would’ve laughed in your face and sent you to a psychiatrist. But now, Jinyoung couldn’t imagine himself elsewhere. He loves Yugyeom, and that is all that matters. Yugyeom finishes his drawing, and in the middle of Jinyoung thinking about how much he loves his son, he shoves it under his father’s nose.

“Daddy, look!” Yugyeom is insanely proud of himself and Jinyoung’s ready to just kiss Yugyeom to death. Maybe not death; he couldn’t live without his son. But you get what he means. He gets what he means. He was meant to draw with Yugyeom but ended up just simmering in his love for his son. If Jinyoung was dim sum then Yugyeom was the soup.

“Daddy, you’re being weird again,” Yugyeom giggles, pushing at Jinyoung’s face to get the wet kisses away from his cheek. Jinyoung just tries harder and Yugyeom giggles even more. “Daddy,” he whines.

Jinyoung sighs, leaning onto the table dramatically. “My heart is broken, my own son doesn’t love me. What has this world come to?” Yugyeom pauses for a moment before he breaks out into a grin knowing what game to play now.

“Daddy, no,” he draws out the last vowel, “I love you!” Jinyoung keeps his eyes shut, but spares a peek at his son.

“My heart hurts, only a big hug and kiss can save me,” he groans petulantly and dramatically, and Yugyeom giggles again, falling over his own feet to sit in his father’s lap. He manages to wriggle under Jinyoung’s arms and throw his little hands around his dad’s neck.

“Love you daddy!” Yugyeom squeals, planting a slobbery kiss on Jinyoung’s cheek. Jinyoung laughs at that, picking Yugyeom up with a grunt and swinging him around in a circle. Yugyeom squeals in delight so loud that they don’t hear the front door creak open.

“Aw, what a sweet family scene,” a familiar voice interrupts the family and Yugyeom takes one look at the visitor and beams, squirming to be set down.

As soon as Jinyoung puts his son down, Yugyeom barrels towards the other man. “Hi, Uncle Jaebeom!” Before he could go knocking into Jaebeom’s knees, Jaebeom scoops up the child and kisses the top of his head.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Jaebeom drawls out and then looks at Jinyoung up and down appraisingly. “Oh, it’s you.”

Jinyoung raises an eyebrow. “Ew, it’s you.” A pause, and then the two adults break out into laughter over their idiotic joke as Yugyeom watches on in confusion. “How are you, Jaebeom hyung? I see you’re putting my spare key to good use.”

Jaebeom shrugs at that question, shifting Yugyeom to another arm. “Same old, same old. Youngjae is keeping us busy with house renovations. You should come over sometime. Seul misses you and Yugyeom.” Jaebeom thinks for a moment, looking at Jinyoung with a shit-eating grin. “Actually, he just misses Yugyeom.”

Jinyoung rolls his eyes and Yugyeom giggles at the joke he didn’t fully understand. “Daddy, can we visit Uncle Jaebeom and Uncle Youngjae? Please?” Yugyeom begs his father and Jinyoung, though he wasn’t going to say no, can’t even entertain the thought of refusing. He misses his favourite married couple (next to his parents).

“Sure, Yugyeomie,” Jinyoung says, and as soon as the words register, Yugyeom screeches in happiness and Jaebeom can feel his eardrum die. “Yugyeomie, no screeching in anyone’s ear, remember?” Yugyeom nods apologetically but still beams.

Jaebeom puts the kid down when he starts wriggling, and Yugyeom tugs on his father’s childhood friend’s hand. “Uncle Jaebeommie, come see my rocket!” Jaebeom lets himself be taken hostage by Jinyoung’s son as Jinyoung watches, amused.

He’s thankful Jaebeom showed up, he really did have to get work done but he was getting distracted by his son again. Yugyeom would be entertained by Jaebeom enough, but when he left, Jinyoung would face the brunt of his sunshine of a child. He would always have time for his son, but that was the problem.

He didn’t have time for his own life. It would probably get easier as Yugyeom grew older and became more independent, but for now, Jinyoung was ready to do anything for his son. But his work was getting impatient. They were accommodating at first and let him work from home, but soon were starting to pressure Jinyoung into leaving his son at daycare which Jinyoung definitely didn’t want to do. One standoffish coworker had told him to just find a wife to watch over the kid as they should and Jinyoung didn’t really take kindly to that comment. Who were they to meddle in his affairs?

“Daddy, Uncle Jaebeom made me a rocket, come see!” Jinyoung, summoned, looks over the top of his laptop to see a kind of a makeshift rocket made out of the spare cardboard. Yugyeom was positively enchanted with it, that even when Jaebeom had to go he only gave Jaebeom a quick kiss and went back to playing with the rocket.

Jinyoung walks Jaebeom to the front door and pauses. “Hyung…” Jaebeom turns to look at his younger friend with a hint of concern in his eyes.

“What’s up, Jinyoungie?” Jinyoung pauses, not sure, but then he can’t help himself.

“Hyung, do I dote too much on Yugyeom?” Jaebeom gives a bark of short, surprised laughter, eyebrows furrowing.

“I mean, Jinyoungie, he’s your son. Of course you dote on him.” A pause. “Why the sudden question? You never really cared about how much you loved him.”

Jinyoung fiddles with his hands, pulling at the dry skin until Jaebeom reaches out and stops him. “I- it’s just work, they’ve been on my ass”—Jinyoung clears his throat—”on my butt about coming back to work. But I don’t want to leave Yugyeomie at a daycare.”

Jaebeom sighs. “Jinyoungie, to be honest, that job is no good for you. Even before Yugyeomie, you hated it. Lord knows why you stay at it, especially when both Youngjae and I had offered you opportunities you wanted.” There is a little bitterness in Jaebeom’s voice. Jinyoung looks away from Jaebeom, avoiding his eyes, and the older sighs. “I understand why now you wouldn’t take them, especially with Yugyeom, but what’s stopping you from finding another job?”

Jinyoung shrugs, eyes misting over. “It’s stable, Jaebeomie hyung. It’s stable and I know I wouldn’t have to worry about money if I stay there. It’s what got us this nice apartment even if I’m the only one working. But it’s killing me, hyung.”

Jaebeom clicks his tongue, long arms reaching out and wrapping Jinyoung in a hug. “Jinyoungie, you’re so young. You shouldn’t worry so much, you’ll get grey hairs.” Jinyoung snorts out a laugh, but his eyes still burn and he really doesn’t want to cry. “Tell you what, next week, drop Yugyeomie off at ours, all right? He can stay for a while and you can work on finding a new job. Or at least try to do something you like. You have been burning yourself out.”

Jinyoung can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Without Yugyeom? Hyung-” Jaebeom hushes him.

“Jinyoungie, when was the last time you had more than three hours of sleep consecutively?” Jinyoung purses his lips, and Jaebeom raises a single eyebrow. “Jinyoung.”

Jinyoung didn’t respond for a moment but then sighs in defeat. “I’ll bring it up with Yugyeom and let you know tomorrow.” Jaebeom nods once, relieved, and took his leave.

Jinyoung stares at the closed door for a while. Would it really be a good idea? What if Yugyeom didn’t like it, what if Yugyeom missed him? Okay, now he’s kidding himself. Yugyeom is four. He would forget about Jinyoung the moment he saw Youngjae’s cute cats.

God, Jaebeom has a point. Or rather, Jinyoung himself has a point that Jaebeom just solidified. Jinyoung sighs, pulling at the hem of his shirt when Yugyeom calls for him to come help him decorate the rocket. It would be a good time to introduce his son to the idea Jaebeom offered.

[tanoraqui]

[previous]

so there’s fog, you know, soft and empty fog, except that sometimes there are people in it. There are songs, soft and sweet, except the song about the woman named Janet isn’t allowed at all - the song- the song his...the song for which He beats him, when he sings, beats him and beats him until he can’t taste anything but blood, and he swallows it and sings louder for spite - and feels terrible immediately, for disrespecting Him so terribly. 

Acacia comes for him, dresses him and scares off his attendants, and he remember...Wei Wuxian remembers a little...

“Your daughter’s dead,” he says abruptly, as they pretend to have every right to walk the corridors. “Your lost Rhodia - but she had a son.”

“What?” says Acacia, hungry.

“He’s a bit of a brat,” Wei Wuxian says, in the contemplative way of someone still partly asleep. “But only because he’s loved and well-cared for, and knows it. Also because he’s a brat. He sent me here.”

Acacia pulls him along a little faster

But they don’t make it. Blind Michael’s more clever, more cruel lieutenants interrupt them, and Blind Michael himself, and Wei Wuxian is dressed for a Ride and a wedding, and Blind Michael becomes a god in his eyes, through his eyes - and they Ride

oh, how they Ride.

With a thousand eyes and none his own, Wei Wuxian sees it: through the cold-capped mountains they Ride, horse-hides steaming in the clouds. Through the sea-wide lakes they Ride, over and under. Through the stony hills they Ride, and all the beasts scatter in their wake. Through the golden streets they Ride, and human and faerie alike cower.

until the Hunt reaches a lightly flooded crossroads, and with a thousand eyes and none, Wei Wuxian watches a woman form from the water. She’s dressed like a pirate and stands like a queen; her skin is darkly scaled and her teeth are as sharp as a shark’s. 

“With the holy water in her hand,” she shouts with a captain’s voice, “she cast the compass round. At twelve o'clock the fairy court, came riding o'er the mound.” And, “Michael, this is ending.”

[NB: our lyrics for this evening are “Tam Lin” by Steeleye Span, my favorite version of the song/poem]

Hands pull Wei Wuxian down from his horse in the confusion, drag him forward and pin him in a vicious headlock just above water just deep enough to drown. He struggles to return to his lord and he goes limp and hopes the familiar arms will flip him over, into the water facefirst

He can’t quite see who’s holding him; the Huntfold gaze he’s part of is still focused on Blind Michael and his half-sister

“Get out of my way, daughter of Titania,” he sneers, and probably several other things. “You have no right to be here, tonight.”

“Oh, am I the one being a selfish, manipulative egomaniac?” Amphitrite calls back. “But fine.” She stamps her foot as a child in temper, a woman drawing a line in the sand, and the air reeks of ocean and fresh kills, deep currents ripple in the flooded intersection. She points toward the held figure near her feet. “That’s my descendent you’ve got there, by birth if not by blood, and I want him back. He was under my protection when you took him, and he owes me a debt.”

several other Riders have been pulled down, too, now struggling and limp in the hands of unseen strangers

“You have no right!” Blind Michael snarls again (only a child in temper)

“Friends and family and companions of blood always have a right.” Amphitrite warns one last time, “You can still walk away, Michael. I don’t really want you to - I’m not Annie. But I’ll let you.”

“Who would come for him?” Blind Michael demands.

“Lan Wangji, heir to the Duchy of Cloud Recesses,” a voice says from above him, as cool as though it was rude of Blind Michael to ask. “My claim precedes yours.”

“Wen Qing.” “Wen Ning.” They speak almost at the same time, Wen Qing somehow sounding exasperated through her steely determination, and Wen Ning only, rarely, confident in his. “He’s our idiot.” “He’s our friend.”

“Luo Qingyang, formerly of the Court of Golden Sun,” says the one holding down his legs, and for the first time, Wei Wuxian scrambles completely organically to remember. Wait, that’s not- Mianmian? “Wei Wuxian saved my life, and those of many I love, and I don’t see why that debt should go unpaid.”

“Jiang Yanli,” declares the one with a firm arm around his neck, “Princess-consort of the Kingdom of Golden Sun and heir to the Duchy of Lotus Lakes. I’m bringing my didi home.” 

She speaks with such furious intent that he almost expects to see Madam Yu when he looks up, a thousand eyes fading to just his own. But it’s his shijie who smiles down at him, and tightens her headlock (Madam Yu would approve)

Blind Michael raises his hand and change hurts (change always hurts) but Wei Wuxian was made for it. He is sleek and long and made of nothing but muscle - and fang and poison, and desperation to escape the grip that suddenly slips on his neck. He is nothing but neck. He slides and twists and swipes his tail, and the grip tightens around his middle with a startled gasp. He twists and rears and lunges and bites, sinks venom into blood and the grip goes slack - 

- and the best Daoine Sidhe blood-healer in a generation, in several generations, slaps Jiang Yanli’s back and grimaces, and Jiang Yanli grits her teeth and tightens her hold and above and before them, Amphitrite chants, “They've shaped him in her arms, into an roaring snake. She's held him fast and feared him not, to be her lovely mate.”

Another change. Wei Wuxian is a beast of dark fur and gnashing teeth, slashing claws and sharp as a sword and twice as savage. He is the wildness of the Hunt itself. He swipes at his captor - he cannot be contained, he will not be contained - and strikes her across the cheek; he writhes and snarls and - 

- a pale hand shoves a sachet into his face; a glimpse of ice-blue eyes and a strong hand shoves his head down into it, his nose, and orders, “Calm.” He inhales to snarl and strike again and breathes in pure, alchemically enhanced catnip and...it’s kind of like being hit with a truck, if the truck was dreamy serenity but also raw LSD. He wants to escape the arms now locking more firmly around his neck, but he also wants to nuzzle up into Lan Zhan’s hand now scratching his head, and also never take his head out of this really amazing-smelling bag...

“They've shaped him in her arms, to a wood black beast so wild. She's held him fast and feared him not, the father of her child!“

A third. Wei Wuxian is heat, is pain, is light, screaming, ecstasy, agony, destruction, life, fire. (“They've shaped him in her arms again, fire burning bold!”) He isn’t sure he even wants to go back to Blind Michael, but he can’t stop burning. (“She's held him fast and feared him not, till he was iron cold!”) Jiang Yanli cries out and Wen Ning grabs her arms to keep them steady, gasping in pain himself, and Luo Qingyang drags all three of them down into the water, which does very little but -  

“ - They've shaped him in her arms at last, into a naked man,” Amphitrite calls at the last. “She's wrapped him in the green mantle, and knew that she had him won.” And at last it is true: Wei Wuxian sags, exhausted and bruised and not a little blood, his own and his sister’s and his friends’.

He licks his lips absentmindedly, and realizes he’s naked when Lan Wangji looks away with a stiff expression. Luo Qingyang rolls her eyes and pulls a spare robe out of somewhere and throws it over him, and it catches Jiang Yanli as well, because she does wait to hold him closer and cry-laugh against his shoulder. “A-Xian! Are you okay? We were so worried! You’re not to do that again, do you hear me?”

“Ah, shijie,” Wei Wuxian gives a laughs right back, only a little fake. “I’m always okay! And you - ” He’s about to say something about how magnificent she was, but a dash of his memory catches up and he actually does pull away from her a little just enough to look in her face with horror. “Wait, Princess-consort - no! Shijie, you didn’t marry the peacock?!”

(while around them other families reunite, and a few weep - not all held tight enough. while Blind Michael shouts and whines his protest and Amphitrite invites him to fight or fuck off)

Jiang Yanli smiles tearfully. “I wanted to wait for you, we all did, but...” Her shrug encompasses everything from true love to royal politics. But her smile both widens and softens as her hand runs over her stomach. “I’m even pregnant already.”

Wei Wuxian almost smiles, before he sits up with a horrified start. “No - Janet’s first baby didn’t - Wen Qing! Wen Qing, is the baby okay?!”

His panic is infectious; Jiang Yanli’s eyes widen and Wen Qing drops to her knees and presses her hands to Jiang Yanli’s side, swipes a drop of blood from her cheek and tastes it, and all stop until she says, “The baby’s fine. You should rest, though. Both of you. All of us.”

Blind Michael and his Hunt turn away in shame, ride away in defeat...all but one. Acacia lingers, golden.

Two figures wade carefully through Amphitrite’s flooded crossroads to greet her, one head black and the other dark, dark red. 

“Grandmother,” says Nie Huaisang, part curiosity and part awe. 

Acadia reaches out without a thought. Her hand stops in the air above Amphitrite’s lapping waves (which wouldn’t last for much longer, not on land, but for now still fought back the touch of Blind Michael’s realm). 

She smiles sadly as her hand drops. “You do look like her. I don’t suppose you’d like to come home with me?”

Nie Huaisang bites his lip with the longing of a faerie meeting (one of) his Firstborn for the first time. But he says decisively, “No thank you. It seems kind of terrible.” He hesitates. “Would you...like to come home with me?”

Acacia doesn’t laugh, though her smile twists like she might have, once. “Would you pull me through into my sisters waters yourself, child? Would you hold me tight and fear me not, and set me free?”

“If Huaisang cannot, I’d be happy to, Lady,” says Nie Mingjue, every maiden’s picture of a strapping young knight and duke. “My brother’s family is mine, by definition, and Lady Rhodia is much-loved by all of Butcher’s Hill, whether or not she still dances with us.”

“I’m glad,” she tells him, after a pause the length of a flower petal’s breadth, and turns her gaze back to Nie Huaisang. “But, no. Live well, grandson. If you ever take your bloody hero’s Choice - ” her gaze flicks over his shoulder to Wei Wuxian, and back - “I hope you choose your mother. You have her wits as well as her face.” 

And she turns and rides away without another word.

And for a brief while, it’s over.

TBC

[gingerwritess]

In response to your pre-dating idiots call!!!! PLEASE expand on what Loki said in "so there's this girl" about pretending to hate reader!!! I'm in a very angsty mood!!! Also good luck with ur studying

here’s a long ol fic for some predating idiots developments! lots of foreshadowing and implications, oooo…

part 14, masterlist (Loki’s happy ending) in bio :)

―   ―   ―   ―

There’s really nothing left to like about Loki.

He’s mean, he’s cold, he’s vindictive, manipulative, calculating, blackmailing you for your generousity.

Luckily, he’s leaving you alone.

Sometimes you’ll wonder if Loki thinks he has your memories of him, that he successfully ripped himself out of your mind—you find yourself checking, every once in a while.

Eyes closed, you’ll lean back. Focus.

Jagged cuts, barely scabbed lashings, pale skin stained red…Loki flinching away from your touch with such a wince of pain you may as well have sliced him open again.

The memory is definitely still yours. 

It’s stayed on through the weeks, in your new office and devoid of any fake-boyfriends and blackmail threats—which makes for a fairly quiet work life.

Since the discovery of Loki’s double, security in Stark towers has tripled. Now you can’t go anywhere without an escort, you’ve been gifted a new taser, and you can call yourself personally aquatinted with the Avengers—though that might be your least favourite parts of the day.

They’re nice, you guess, but trying to keep up your story when Tony Stark and the Black Widow are grilling you with questions only gets harder by the minute.

To make matters worse, they’ve been asking about your little faux-boyfriend, too. You had to settle on a backstory, how you met, what he did before Stark Industries (which you vaguely remember him mentioning shield), all without speaking a word to the god in question for the past three weeks.

As far as you’re concerned, you fake-broke up. But like, for real.

You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to talk about Laing, or Loki, or anything that’s ever happened between the two of you, but they bring up the day you met and almost killed him, they ask you if he threatened revenge, if he hinted a second attack, and you say no.

Over and over, you say no.

At this point, though, you are pretty certain that revenge isn’t Loki’s motive. You’re not quite sure what could be taking its place, but bloodlust or pure “evilness” aren’t options anymore. If they were, he wouldn’t still be treating his patients as Dr. Laing, and he certainly wouldn’t have just stopped and knelt next to the thin woman sitting in front of the Tower, hugging a small boy to her chest.

Yourself on your way to work, too, you immediately duck back around the building on the corner, not wanting him to know you’re watching. Whatever he’s doing, this is all Loki…well, Laing. Not trying to keep up another cover or impress anybody, right?

He speaks too quietly for you to hear from your distance, but the mother, you guess, has tears in her eyes as she cradles the coughing boy and pleads with Dr. Laing.

Loki stands, and your heart twists. Of course he’s leaving her there, her and her child all alone. You curse yourself for being surprised.

You’re about to march out there yourself and demand that Loki take them in, threaten to rat him out if he doesn’t, but before you can, Loki’s back by her side, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

Your jaw drops.

Loki—Laing, or whoever the hell possessed him—carefully takes the little boy from her arms, laying a hand over his forehead and saying something to the mother with a soft smile.

A smile you’ve never seen on either of his faces.

Still quietly talking to the mother, he takes them to the elevator, casting a wary eye around the fairly empty lobby as you hurry to keep up with them. With a split second to make your decision, you run through the doors after them.

Loki gives you a tired, incredulous look. 

“What floor?”

“Same as you,” you reply with an all-too-cheery smile.

He doesn’t seem too happy to have gained your company.

The elevator ride goes by in an uncomfortable silence, the wanted criminal holding a sick child and offering his mother a few strained smiles while you watch on, trying to comprehend what the hell is going on. 

Luckily it’s over soon, and you quickly turn the opposite way from the strange little trio, pretending to go the other way before turning around and sneaking after them to Laing’s office. 

If you’re not careful, your assigned guards are going to come looking for you. Technically they were supposed to meet up with you the moment you arrived on premise, but today, you’d rather see what Loki’s up to on your own.

The strange little trio is already in the room, the little boy laying on the examination table while Laing looks over him. That’s strange, but the strangest part is the fact that he’s still smiling—at the mother.

She’s slowly breaking down, you can tell. 

You can’t look away, peeking through the window to the exam room as Loki sits the boy up, trying to console the mother as she drops her head to her hands, shoulders shaking.

Loki steps away from her and looks right at you.

“Come in here.”

Startled, you jump away from the window and hurry to the door. “Need any help, uh, Doctor?”

He just grabs you around the arm and drags you outside.

“Let go of me—”

 “I need you to distract her,” he whispers, and surprisingly lets go. “The boy is sick, I can’t help him without a bit of my own help, but she can’t see.”

“O-okay.” You blink at him in shock. “That’s it? No scheming, you’re just helping them?”

Loki sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “They can’t pay. I’m not going to let her child die when all it would take it a wave of the hand. Will you help me?”

You try not to let the shock—and blatant disbelief—show on your face. 

“Sure…”

“Just comfort her,” he tells you, ushering you back to the room. “Keep her distracted and please, please stop her crying.”

The woman looks up when you enter the room, her eyes bloodshot and tear-brimmed. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, and Loki quickly returns to the boy’s bedside.

You plaster on a friendly smile and sit down next to her, drawing her attention towards yourself. 

“Is this your son? Lo-Laing will help him, don’t worry.” 

She nods, and you see Loki moving out of the corner of your eye to cover what he’s doing. “He’s been getting worse and worse, and no one will see us,” she explains quietly. “Dr. Laing is the first person to help us, y-you’re very lucky to be with him.”

“Oh, no, no,” you laugh, wishing Loki would hurry up. “No, we’re not together, I just work with him.”

“Still.” She smiles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I can’t thank you enough.”

You’re quite sure what to say to that. Of course, she has no clue who she’s really dealing with, and for a split second, you nearly forget, too.

No murderous sociopath would be handing a freshly-healed little kid a lollipop, right?

He certainly looks the part, smiling and ruffling a hand through the kid’s hair, standing there in his lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck, lifting the little boy off the table to run back to his mother.

“Get him something to eat,” he tells her with a smile, a fake, phony little smile, and you can’t help but stare when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of bills. “Here. He needs food and rest, as do you, and if anything else seems off, you know where to find me.”

By the time Loki has escorted them back down to the lobby, you’re left alone in the exam room, trying to make sense of what just happened and trying to decide what on earth to do with this information.

That was…helpful.

That was unlike Loki, that’s for sure.

When he eventually returns to the room, you’re still sitting there, waiting.

“Did you want a candy, too?”

You don’t respond, staring as he trudges around the room, prepping it for the next patient. 

“I assume you haven’t forgiven me.” He casts a quick glance over to you, getting nothing in return. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t forgive something that went into my mind to play games, either.”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” you remind him stiffly. “I still remember everything I saw. Someone hurt you, you have scars to prove it, and I still know that.”

“You compromised my cover.”

Shaking your head, you can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t compromise you, you blew your own cover. You’re weak, aren’t you?”

“What does that matter to you?”

“I’m trying to understand what’s going on, because as far as I can tell, you’re not who you’re pretending to be. Can’t you just explain what happened to Thor? He’s your brother, I’m sure he—”

“I am not hiding from your little heroes,” Loki snaps, slamming the cabinet he was rifling through shut. “They are the least of my concerns, and I’d much appreciate if you would leave them out of our interactions completely.”

You give a small huff of annoyance, crossing your arms with a pointed glare. “I don’t believe it, sorry. If you were really some crazy serial killer, you wouldn’t have just helped that lady and her kid.”

“Maybe,” Loki/Laing sneers, “I was luring them into my trap. Maybe that’s what I’m doing to you, hm? You certainly can’t seem to get enough of me.”

“No, I think you’re scared of something.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Laing smiles back, holding the door open with a sweep of his arm.

“You’re running from something, you’re hiding from something,” you continue, a small smile of your own playing at your lips. “Aren’t you?”

Backed into the hallway but trying to stay one step ahead of him, you stare at him expectantly as he furrows his brow, no doubt annoyed beyond belief that you keep pressing the subject.

Maybe he was about to answer you, but now you’ll never know—one of your guards comes running to your side.

“You’re supposed to tell us when you’re coming in early,” he huffs, hastily pushing back the visor on his helmet. “I can’t read your mind, okay? You’ve gotta work with me here.”

Loki straightens up, an unamused glaze passing over his visage.

“Sorry,” you tell your guard, eyes never leaving Laing’s. “I sure wish I didn’t have to be escorted everywhere, thanks to some emotionally constipated god.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Maybe he should go to therapy,” you reply smoothly. “Let someone help him for once, tell someone the truth.”

“Maybe you should stay away from him,” Laing growls—your guard, Marcus, steps a little closer as Laing advances towards you, voice dropping. “Maybe he’s unstable, and maybe he has a target on his back that could level your planet, and maybe he’s nothing more than a monster that needs to be disposed of before anything worse happens.”

You blink.

That came out of nowhere.

Laing sighs, slipping back into his office. “Stay with your, ah, guards. Don’t ask anymore questions.”

“You can’t tell me—mmf!”

Laing just smiles, and you catch a glimpse of Loki in his sad eyes as you involuntarily spin on your heel and hurry away, leaving Marcus scrambling to catch up.

This isn’t the first time that he’s had to watch you walk away; it’s a sight all too familiar to him.

Even from the distance now between the two of you, he catches a glimpse of the taser hanging from your belt, the gun strapped to your guards back, the one in his hands, and when you reach the elevator, unable to stop walking, two more guards join the group.

Good, he reminds himself, good, good.

You glare back at him in the doorway, mouth stopped and feet moving by Loki’s hand, and a wave of relief crashes over him.

You look annoyed.

Disgusted with him.

Angry.

―   ―   ―   ―

“Tell me a bit about your father.”

“Which one?”

Loki rolls over on the crisp, white bed, a grin on his gaunt face. 

“Whichever you feel more connected to,” the therapist replies. 

A pen clicks and clicks again, and Loki sighs.

“He’s a horrid man. He hates me, I hate him. It’s simple enough, doctor, he never loved me.”

Thor points at the screen. “I believed that.”

I might, too, you decide.

“Do you blame your father for some things that have gone wrong in your life?”

“Yes.”

It’s a quick, short answer that needed no thought.

“Can you elaborate?”

Loki crosses his ankles, stretching to lay his hands behind his head with a content little hum. “Well, if he had paid more attention to me, I wouldn’t have attacked this poor town, that’s for certain.”

The therapist seems stunned by the sudden confession.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Loki continues, eyes fluttering closed. “I did this for him. I want him to see that I am the worthy son, I can conquer worlds and be a greater king than he, and he will hold nothing in his heart but respect for who I am.”

“I believed that one, too,” Thor says again. “That one made sense, but only if I assumed the worst.”

“Do you think anything from these sessions is true? Anything that his clone said?” Mind spinning, you stop the video player and remove the hard drive, unsure if watching Loki’s therapy tapes had helped in any way or not.

Currently, the scales are tipping towards not.

“It is unlikely,” Thor sighs. “My brother is a skilled liar, he twists your words and manipulates the truth to bend to his will…most of the time, you never know if you are even truly speaking to him, or just another illusion. Just as this now shows us”

“Do you believe any of that?” 

“I want to,” he answers truthfully. “It is simple. It makes it easier to take him back to the Allfather for punishment, if we could only find the serpent.”

“I don’t,” you mumble under your breath, then stop, unsure if you should really let those words actually leave your mouth. 

Thor gives you a sideways glance and you curse yourself for saying anything.

“Do you find him attractive?”

You drop the hard drive to the floor with a loud clatter. 

“What?! No! No,” you laugh, quickly stooping to pick it back up. “Of course not, why would you say that?”

“You seem to have faith in him,” Thor carefully replies, still eyeing you suspiciously. “Or at least an acute interest. Why do you want to help him?”

“I’m…” you pause, needing to think for a moment.

To an extent, you suppose he’s right - you want to have faith in him. You made a judgement call when you first met him and tried to kill him, only to accidentally find yourself tangled further in his webbed plan than you’d care to be. 

Some days, Loki makes you think you made the wrong judgement, that maybe it wasn’t him, that maybe he’s suffering in a different way than most assume, that maybe he’s more than he lets on.

That maybe he’s been forced into playing the villain in his brother’s story. 

“Curious,” you finally answer. “I’m curious. He’s weird, a-and gods are still kinda new to our world, so…I’m curious if he’s really who he lets on to be.”

Thor nods, brow furrowed and deep in thought. 

“Though it’s pretty tough to find anything out about him when he’s missing,” you quickly add, remembering that you really shouldn’t have as much access to the god as you do.

“I understand.” Thor gives you a small smile, a mild comfort. “Be wary of him, won’t you? I fear he uses people to his advantage, mistakes their kindness for strategy.”  

A flood of memories to support that cloud your mind, and the rest of your walk back to your office finishes in silence.

You are curious. There’s something off about this Loki character. Just from the small bits of him you’ve seen, the way he pushes you away, the clear evidence he keeps hiding, something about him screams out to anyone who will listen.

Screaming for help, you’re nearly certain.

“He is dangerous,” Thor says once you’ve reached your office again. “He is powerful. And I fear we’ve hurt him past the point of repair.”

“I doubt it,” you smile, giving the god a reassuring squeeze on the arm. “He’ll come back. He’s your family, right?”

Thor just smiles, wishes you a good day, and walks away.

―   ―   ―   ―

fuel the writer?

feel free to send me ideas!!

~ masterlist link in my bio ~

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424 @paradisaicsam @fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug  @catticas @the-republic-and-face-of-texas @doralupin01 @whitewitchdown @atomiccharmer @falconfeather23435 @babygirlicecream @avengrcs @vethrvolnir2 @bookgirlunicorn @wabisabigrl @myhealingstar @khaleesi-marvel @ei77777 @spacecrumbs @scarlettghost13 @rocks-are-pretty-odd @confessionsofastrugglingteen @easilydistractedwriter @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fluffyllamaswearinghats @milktearose @lcyouinhell @h0tshotholland @dontmesswithmemundane @southsidesarcasticwriter @helnik-s @lilith-akemi @fire-in-her-veinz @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mischievousbellerina @kcd15 @mellowgirl01 @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @allthingzhiddleston @scorpionchild81 @lokixme @blue-automne @galaxycharmed @devilbat @kangaroobunny @end-up-well @planetariumx @sarcsep @mrfandomtastic @amaru163 @im-way-too-many-fandoms @caswinchester2000 @kybaeza @wester-than-west @vintagesunshinebitch @adefectivedetective @poetic-nikolai @moonduhsted @kerri-masson @iamverity @innaminitus @spnbarnes @narcissxblack @woohoney @anxiousamandapanda @padmeisgay @authordreaming13 @lokisironthrone @theunknowinglys @highfuncti0ningfangirl @epicfallenismine @stubby-toe-589331 @fandomnerdsarecool @retrofantasyland @arch-venus25 @forever-trapped-in-my-dreams @littleredstarfish @marshyrebelcloud @okie–loki @atterodominatus @stfxlou @pandacookieowo @tonakings @shinisenko @tinchentitri @nildespirandum @thefallenbibliophilequote @vodka-and-some-sass @highfunctioningfangirl19 @sadwaywardkid @lokioneshot @brooksaza @wild-honey-piy @ellaenchanted91 @lwwy19 

[whatawriterwields]

Am I Wrong?

The bookshop’s window looks out onto the street. Aziraphale stands there, feet planted firmly on the dusty wood of the floor, shoulders back, head erect. Hands clasped behind his back. A soldier at attention, though he can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, hard as he tries. He stares out at the cars and the pedestrians passing, one after the other, back and forth, back and forth. He watches the pattern repeat until he can hardly stand it, until he wants to scream. His eyes burn, but it’s not enough to produce real tears.

He’s used to this feeling, this twisting, swirling sensation in his gut. He’s been known to stand this way for hours, days even, before finally breaking down and crying, and then trying to forget about it. As his hands tremble now, and he fights to keep them still, he hopes this one will pass more quickly.

But this time he’s interrupted. Though he’s turned his bookshop’s sign to CLOSED - though he’s had the wild thought, as he always does in these episodes, that he should close the damn thing down and leave London for good - the door swings open around noon, and a familiar voice calls out to him above the bell.

“Angel?”

His heart leaps, faintly, at the sight of Crowley’s red hair making its way toward him through the shelves. For a moment he thinks about moving away from the window, opening a bottle of wine with the demon, and whiling away the afternoon and the evening with pleasant conversation. Laughing about customers and hearing horror stories about Crowley’s plants. But then the thought crumples. Aziraphale deflates, and turns back toward the window, eyes burning a little stronger. That’s just like him, to think of distracting himself with pleasure. How stupid of him. How selfish. 

Read on Ao3

Crowley appears by his side. “What are you doing here? I fancied a lunch date.” 

Aziraphale forces a little smile. “That sounds fine, dear.”

“Fine?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

His lips twist into a half-grimace, and he focuses his eyes on the people passing by on their side of the sidewalk. It’s not many people - the day is overcast, and it’s a weekday, and most people are at home or at work - but it’s enough. Enough to remind Aziraphale why he should be at work too.

“Something’s bothering you,” says Crowley. “Tell me.”

Oh, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To confide in Crowley, to heave all his inner turmoil on the demon’s shoulders, to let him carry the weight Aziraphale was made for. That would be convenient enough. Aziraphale swallows, tasting salt on his tongue, and stares away. “It’s nothing.” 

“Don’t be daft. I’ve never heard you that unenthusiastic about food.” 

And that comment, though it’s said in a lighthearted tone, a gentle tone, even - though Aziraphale knows Crowley is only teasing, and that Crowley loves him, and that Crowley doesn’t mind going out to restaurants and watching Aziraphale eat everything on the menu - because of those things, in fact, that comment makes Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, and he covers his face with his hands as they begin to shake.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is taken aback. “Hey, hey -” he puts an arm around Aziraphale, using the other hand to draw Aziraphale’s damp fingers from his eyes, to brush the brimming tears away - “what did I say?” 

“N-nothing.” Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s arms. He doesn’t deserve comfort. “I’m…”

“What? You’re what?”

“I’m all wrong.” He gestures helplessly out the window, too overwhelmed to try disguising the catch in his voice. “Do you see the people out there? The people who walk by my bookshop every day, and have for hundreds of years, and did before I came here and started this ridiculous business?” He locks his eyes on a man with his head bowed against the wind, and points. “That man just lost his job. He’s trying to care for his son, but he’s barely making ends meet, and he’s been praying every night for a miracle to change his fate.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Oh, Crowley doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale has never told him what the world is like for a principality. That’s one secret he’s never confided. “I know them all, Crowley. I can know every human’s suffering if I want to.” 

“What?” 

“See that woman?” He motions, somewhat wildly, to an elderly woman several paces behind the man. “She hasn’t talked to any of her family members since her brother died. She tries to work up the courage every day, but she just can’t stop thinking about which one of them is next, and maybe it’s her but even worse, maybe it isn’t, and she’s terrified of letting herself cry about this first loss when she’s got to keep herself strong for so many more.” Aziraphale dashes more tears from his eyes. 

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open. He seems utterly lost for words, but that’s just fine - Aziraphale isn’t done, he isn’t close to done. 

“I’ve been in this shop since the eighteenth century,” he says, “and I’ve seen every kind of suffering under the sun. I’ve seen people break down and cry in the middle of the street. I’ve seen arguments end decades-old relationships. I’ve seen people dying, out there in the cold during the worst winters, and no one caring enough to help them.” He clutches his head, running his fingers through his hair, his breaths shaky, uneven. “But most often I just see the pain in their minds. And it doesn’t show up on their faces. And I can read exactly what’s happening to them - I can see how badly they need the world to just stop being so unfair, and for some great cosmic order to right their lives, and for things to start making sense.” 

Aziraphale lets his arms fall. “All while I’m here, in my bookshop, wealthy as can be, able to go out to lunch whenever I like, never needing to worry about money or dying or how I’ll keep warm when winter comes.” He wants to let his legs give out under him. He wants to fall apart. “All while I’m reading books and eating crepes.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Aziraphale doesn’t look up at Crowley; instead, he turns and leans his forehead against the window. He can still see people passing. He sees the ones in their cars, too, and it takes him no time at all to pick out the ones hurting. To see their stories unfurling out from behind them like so much shredded ribbon. 

“You...” says Crowley at last, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a bad angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m saying I was supposed to be a warrior against the forces of evil and injustice, and I don’t know how. I’m no good at fighting. I’m saying -” his hands are still clenching and unclenching, feeling, Aziraphale knows, for the flaming sword he still senses like a phantom limb - “I’m saying that I’m frivolous, and shallow, and selfish.” 

“Oh, come on.” Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale again, hands going to his shoulders, comforting - and once more Aziraphale sidesteps them. Why is being kind so easy for Crowley? Why does comforting come so natural to a demon? Why can’t Aziraphale reach out to the person driving that car out there, who’s fallen off the wagon for the third time, and give him some of that healing warmth that flows from Crowley without a thought? 

“I care so much about books,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I read them over and over, and I collect them, and sometimes I just sit in the middle of them and stare at them and feel so happy I can’t even explain it. And I want to care that much about all these people. I want to - really, I do. But it’s so exhausting.” He can feel another sob building in the back of his throat. “It never ends, their pain. And when they come in here I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless.” He has that wild thought again, that reckless, wits’-end thought, that maybe it’d have been better if his bookshop stayed burned. “All I can think about are these stupid books.” 

And he sobs again, and again, and leans against the window like it’s a lifeboat keeping him above a flood. Like it’s another little raft that keeps him from harm when the humans around him are drowning. 

“I don’t know how to help,” he sobs. “I’ve been here six thousand years and I don’t know how to help them.” 

And he feels so weak, so pale and fragile here in this place that’s supposed to bring him joy, that he barely notices when Crowley touches him once more. When Crowley’s fingers press to his cheek again, turning his face, slowly, tenderly toward him. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, quiet. “Look at me.” 

Reluctantly Aziraphale raises his eyes. Crowley’s sunglasses are off. His golden serpent’s eyes are on full display, spread without whites around them. They’re filled with something Aziraphale can’t quite name. 

“You’re not a bad angel,” Crowley says. “No one should be forced to carry the whole world’s suffering. That’s too heavy a weight for anyone.”

“I could be doing it better,” Aziraphale mutters. “I could be - I don’t know - I could be rescuing people from war zones. I could be going out distributing food to the hungry. I could be miracling jobs for every underemployed family. I could be out shouting down bigoted preachers - in fact I could have been doing that for hundreds of years, as they don’t seem to be getting any less bigoted as time goes by. I could have used some divine miracle to stop the Inquisition, if I’d caught it in time, if I’d been more vigilant. I could have stopped the Terror.” 

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for every terrible thing humans have done to each other.”

“What else can I think? They commend you. They ought to have punished me.”

“Come on.” Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up. “We both knew they were idiots for thinking I started the Terror and the Inquisition. We both knew it wasn’t possible for a single demon to do that much damage. How can anyone have expected a single angel to stop it?” 

“So many people died.”

“People die, Aziraphale. It’s what they do.” Crowley moves his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, still gentle. “It’s not your fault.” 

Tears are running more freely, now, from Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s my mission -”

“Was your mission.” Crowley’s thumb runs over Aziraphale’s damp cheek. “It was a terrible mission, given to you by angels who didn’t care about you. It was a mission that just set you up to be a disappointment. But you’re free now.” 

“And what am I supposed to do?” Aziraphale wants to pull away, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs Crowley’s hands. He needs his breath. He needs his comfort, pathetic creature that he is. “I want to help. I want to be good. I don’t want to spend another six thousand years here not making a difference to anyone.”

And Crowley smiles, a smile so slow and so easy and so tender it’s like watching the dawn break in the sky. 

“Angel,” he says. “You’re an idiot.” 

Aziraphale blinks. 

“You know I’m a demon, right?” Crowley nods down at himself. “You know not a single person in six thousand years has ever been kind to me, except for you?” 

Aziraphale glances away, cheeks going red. Crowley’s exaggerating. Though his earnest expression, the way he ducks his head to make eye contact again, belies any sort of teasing intent. 

“You gave me hope in goodness again,” Crowley said. “When you gave away your sword. That’s not nothing, is it?”

“I…”

“You think you haven’t mattered? Angel, you’ve mattered to me for all six thousand years you’ve been on this planet. You’ve mattered more than the sun. You’ve mattered so much you convinced me to stop Armageddon, and it’s not because you were some grand warrior out fighting injustice. I met enough of those types in Heaven.” Crowley jerks his head, as if to dismiss the legions of God’s army in a single gesture. “It was because you loved.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Loved, not the way they talked about in Heaven - not the way they meant it when they said God’s made of love.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in both hands and holds it steady. “Listen to me. You loved because things brought you joy. Because you were happy, in this world, and that was incredible to me.” 

Aziraphale hiccups. It’s hard for him to keep his mind on the gaping chasm in his gut when Crowley is looking at him like that. When Crowley is holding him so near, and still smiling that close, loving smile. 

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re so good, angel, and you’re a light in this world without even trying to be one. You have no idea how much happiness you can bring just by loving books. It’s not wrong to be the way you are.” 

“Oh, Crowley -”

“Shh.” Crowley draws Aziraphale in, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his head against the crook of his neck. “Hey. It’s all right to cry. Get it out.” 

And Aziraphale cries; he stops trying to maintain his soldier’s stance and leans fully into Crowley, letting Crowley support him. Crowley pets his hair. The feeling is so nice, so wonderfully soothing; he shouldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley when he’s supposed to be thinking about the world, but somehow he can’t help it. 

Maybe Crowley’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

“The world needs people like you,” says Crowley. “So you aren’t a warrior. Who needs another force for violence anyway? Humanity’s better off with you watching over them than anyone else.” 

“You really think so?”

Crowley pulls back, and his lips meet Aziraphale’s, softly, so softly. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms in his mouth at Crowley’s touch. 

“I know so,” he says. 

For a long moment they stand in silence, Aziraphale taking slow, steadying breaths, Crowley with his arms still around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. For a long moment Aziraphale works to let go of the shame he let overcome him.

Then the bookshop’s doors jingle again, and the two of them break apart.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Someone else has entered the shop, someone he doesn’t recognize - a young girl, a teenager, with short dyed hair and large earrings. She looks a little small for her clothes, like she’s shrinking into herself, like she’s lost. It takes her a moment to turn her head in their direction.

When she does, her gaze drops immediately to their joined hands, before she looks up at their faces. Aziraphale catches the trace of a smile in hers.

“Hello,” he says, voice still wobbling slightly. “My apologies. I was just - ah - well, I’d been having a hard morning, and my -” 

He looks over at Crowley, who gives him an encouraging look.

His eyes move back to the girl, and he reads the lost look in her shoulders with hardly any need for a miracle - came out to her parents, they’re not pleased, she left the house to clear her head, but she doesn’t know what’ll be waiting for her when she comes home. 

“My partner,” he says, voice a little stronger, “was giving me some good advice.”

The girl’s smile widens into something more substantial. “Uh. No problem.” 

“Would you like to - er - look at a book?”

“He doesn’t like it when you buy them,” Crowley stage-whispers to her. “Just look and put them back, though, and you’ll be fine. And don’t get any smudges on the covers.”

The girl lets out a tentative laugh. “That’d be great. I’m just… looking for some light reading, you know.” 

Suddenly the spark of an idea enters Aziraphale’s head. With a little bounce in his step, suddenly, he disentangles himself from Crowley and moves toward a particular shelf, beckoning the girl to follow him.

“How do you feel about classical poetry?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about it.” 

“Well, there’s a delightful poet from ancient Greece I think you might like. I’ve got a book of her work around here somewhere…” 

Crowley watches from the window as Aziraphale rummages happily through the volumes. The girl is starting to relax, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he’s looking for. Aziraphale can feel the bright grin growing on his cheeks, but he can’t stop it. And he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to talk about Sappho. 

Tonight, when the shop closes again, Aziraphale resolves, he’s going to take Crowley out for dinner. 

[sabinemorans]

Mission Impossible: Nanny

Quinn McKenna x female reader

Words: 2,679

Warnings: none!

A/N: This was co-written with @nothing-but-a-comedy the title credit goes to @sailorsquadgoals

Quinn was finally starting to get the hang of caring for Rory, but there were some days he wished he had some help. Shared custody with his wife was already a bit of a struggle, and Quinn knew that Rory could use an extra caregiver or two. It eased his mind that Rory was actually the one to suggest this idea since his mother had hired a nanny recently. Of course he said it in his way– very blunt and matter-of-fact– but Quinn enjoyed it actually.

Even though everything had changed after the Predators had come, this was a good thing to come of it. He felt closer to Rory now than ever and it would take a special person to be good enough to watch him, and a very special ad to draw them in. It was a normal ad detailing the basics up until it mentioned protection for his son, including the lines “people with ex-military or security background preferred.”

It took a little longer than Quinn had hoped, even if it was a unique ad, but he finally found the perfect candidate hit. She was educated, well reviewed, and passed a background check on the nanny site with flying colors.

That would have been enough for anyone else, but Quinn knew with his line of work, he’d have to do a deep search just to be on the safe side. He sent her name to Nebraska, knowing he could trust him to find out about any red flags. Surely she would understand, and if she didn’t, then Quinn would know she wasn’t right for the job.                                 

The best part was her suggestion for a secondary nanny as the request had mentioned this was protection for the child as well. The second one, a man, also passed with flying colors and was sent to Nebraska. When there were no red flags to be found after Nebraska had essentially done a deep dive-Quinn emailed them. Cause if Nebraska couldn’t find anything, then there was nothing to find. 

It looked like a solid deal, and Quinn was a little excited to be getting some extra help and a chance to make Rory happy. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was how attached he would become to her. To you. 

~~~

You’d partially given up on finding a new nanny job when finally good news was in your email. Quinn McKenna wanted to interview you! Grinning, you immediately called your backup and very best friend Din, telling him the news. 

“If he wants to see me, he probably wants to see you too, considering,” you said, moving from your kitchen counter to your stove where pasta was boiling. You had your headphones on so there was less chance of you dropping your phone into boiling water which had only happened once but Din acted as if it had happened a dozen times. Honestly, it couldn't have happened after he had left your apartment?

“Good, his was the only interesting job on there. I wonder if he’d be ok with me bringing the baby along at times. Maybe if the kid takes a liking to us, it might be good for him to socialize with a baby.” Din had adopted a baby at the beginning of the year. He’d gone with a mutual friend of yours to an adoption agency and just fallen in love. It had taken forever but as he put it, he’d just known as soon as those big dark eyes had found his that they were meant to be. 

“We’d definitely need to build some trust first. I know my little one doesn’t cry much, but to a child on the spectrum, it can be very hard to handle. That would be the best case scenario though since there’s two of us. Though this McKenna guy mentioned protection, so maybe he’s a political person or something. We don’t wanna bring that dark eyed angel into any danger.” You strained your pasta and dumped it a bowl, pouring sauce on top and beginning to mix.  

“Fair enough. Guess we’ll see, sweet girl, huh?” 

You smiled and shook your head at the affectionate nickname. “Don’t call me that Din, you know better. I always think you want something from me when you call me that.” 

“What me? Never,” came the reply where he was so obviously grinning like an idiot. God you hated him sometimes, it was so hard to love someone so ridiculous but you managed it even with knowing him as long as you did. You could ask for better company than him sometimes but you couldn’t ask for a better best friend. Bastard knew it too. The two of you were bonded for life, for better or worse.

“Smartass. I’ll call you with the details when he emails me back, love you Din.”

“Love you back, sweet girl.” You heard a laugh before he hung up and you pulled your headphones off. 

“Silly man,” you muttered as you began to eat your pasta and homemade sauce on the way to your couch. Turning your TV on, you settled with a comfort show so your brain could wander as you ate. Quinn McKenna...what an interesting name.

~~~

Mr. McKenna had been busy with work over the weekend, so it took a few days for the interview to happen. You arrived with Din by your side, as Mr. McKenna had proposed you had applied more or less as a team and would be interviewed as such. He told you that he liked your forethought to mention a second you already trusted, and that compliment made you smile. Thinking ahead had always been a strength of yours. 

“Should you knock or should I knock?” Din looked at you and you shrugged back with an indifferent look on your face. 

“Do you think it matters?”

“I guess not.”

“...you want to knock don’t you?”

The door to the cozy two story house had an old school knocker on it and Din’s grin gave you all the information you needed. 

“Go on then,” you chuckled, waving your hand at it. 

He knocked three times and sighed, satisfied with that stupid grin on his face. You shook your head. Ridiculous man. 

The man who answered the door looked anything but ridiculous. He was absolutely not what you’d been expecting at what-six foot two? Filled out well too with bright blue eyes you could get lost in, blonde hair shorter on the sides a little bit flopping at the top and a smile that screamed “good ol’ boy” more than anything you had ever seen.

And you were fucking hooked.

But you were a professional and despite the sudden mental images of jumping on him and pressing your body to his (likely muscular and strong and maybe even a bit pudgy) body you simply smiled brightly and hoped that Din would keep his professional manner even though Quinn McKenna was definitely one of your types. 

“Mornin’, thank you both for comin’,” McKenna said before waving the two of you in. 

Din let you lead and he followed both you and McKenna to the dining room table where your possible employer sat in front of both of you. He was prepared, both your resumes sat before him and he had them side by side with what looked like prepared questions written down. Din and you shared a glance that spoke volumes. He was very serious wasn’t he? Maybe he was political, maybe he was a part of the mob or maybe he was some kind of paranoid kook. It was a nice house and it actually reminded you of David Lieberman’s house in ‘The Punisher’ and then a fourth option to what Mr. McKenna did crossed your mind quickly followed by a fifth. 

Either he was a government spook, or he was the Punisher. Either way you weren’t that mad about it.

“Take a seat,” Quinn gestured to the chairs in front of him with a face that didn’t betray much emotion.

You noticed that he glanced at you a few times too many, but he made it hard to read what was going on in his head. He must have noticed the confused looks on your faces, because he gave you a reassuring smile as you sat down before clearing his throat. “You must be wondering why I needed two nannies with your type of background,” he chuckled.

You exchanged a look with Din for a split second before Mr. McKenna broke the semi-awkward silence. “I’m in the military too and I wanted people I could trust with my kid’s safety,” he explained. His answer was still a little vague for you, but you figured you’d ask him more about it later. It was nice to know he would understand the two of you though, you’d worked security for a little while and were amazed at how much people pushed back when asked what you thought was safest. With Mr. McKenna you might fight over strategies but at least he’d understand them.

You found yourself wondering what branch he was in, what his rank was when Din spoke, pulling you back to the present. 

“Well, in that case, you found the right people for the job,” Din said in a professional manner. “We both served in the Marines. I was a Corporal and she was a Sergeant as I’m sure you saw by our records.” Din explained, and you took a moment to admire how well he always pitched the two of you as valuable assets. He went on to detail (as much as he was allowed to) how you’d worked together for years. You did chime in here and there with details Din couldn’t remember and explained your individual special skills. 

Din was a master of stealth, infiltration and quiet extraction were his specialties. You on the other hand were a sniper. Your furthest confirmed kill was clocked at 1110 yards– a near record. The pair of you were well trained in hand-to-hand combat and familiar with most guns that could be thrown at you though with the choice between a gun or a knife, you favored the K-Bar while Din favored his Sig Sauer.

Mr. McKenna  crossed his arms in front of his chest, giving Din an impressed look as he heard his pitch. His eyes had lit up when you said you were a sniper and you smiled back, recognizing the look of a fellow sniper in him. The fact that you had something so specific in common was mind blowing really!  While you both derailed for a moment to talk about things you saw Din smirking a little. Ass. He knew exactly what it meant when you grinned like that. Trying to stay professional (and not give Din the satisfaction of knowing your thoughts too well) you locked down the thoughts of the two of you on a date, seeing who could  hit the farthest target even if it would probably be you. 

“Both of your resumes are impressive, but I’m wonderin’ why you guys left after spending so much time climbing the ranks.” Mr. McKenna quirked an eyebrow at you, so you chose to answer this question instead of leaving it to Din.

“It was just time for us to get out. With all the jobs I’ve had in the world I’ve listened to my gut about when it was time to seek out something else. Din trusted me enough that when I said the Marines wasn’t the right career for us anymore that he put in to leave when I did. A few months after we left we got word that a lot of our unit had been badly injured in an ambush masquerading as a rescue mission.” You shifted your hair from one side to the other and kept eye contact with Mr. McKenna, who let out a sigh through his nose and nodded. Nothing else needed to be said about that.

After that it lightened up. You felt at ease answering his questions; he didn’t seem as intimidating as you initially thought him to be, and the interview eventually flowed more like a friendly conversation than a job interview. You all even laughed about things! Maybe it was the fact that the three of you could bond over your military backgrounds (Quinn as he insisted on being called after the third time he was referred to as Mr. McKenna, was a Ranger Captain), or maybe it was because of the way that Quinn looked at you differently than he’d look at Din. You didn’t have time to put your finger on what kind of look it was exactly before a young boy came walking out of a nearby hallway but it certainly warmed you all over. It was nice to talk so freely with another man besides Din too, someone else who understood.

Din’s face lit up as he saw him, and you couldn’t help but smile as he exclaimed, “Oh hey, little man! Is that Rory?” He asked as he turned to Quinn with a bright smile.

“Yup,” Quinn responded, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gestured for Rory to sit beside him. He ruffled Rory’s hair and pointed in yours and Din’s direction to introduce you to him. “These might be your new nannies, whaddya think of that, bud?”

Din held his fist out for Rory to bump and you shook the little guy’s hand in a greeting, smiling widely at how cute he was. You glanced up at Quinn as Din and Rory exchanged a few words, already acting like they were the best of friends. Quinn was obviously very protective of his son, happily watching the exchange, but you could tell he was watching closely to see how Din would get along with him. Din was being his usual self around children, boisterous but at a respectful volume, which was so different from how he was around most new people. You laughed at a stupid joke Din made which made Rory smile before running your hands through your hair again. Your eyes were pulled towards Quinn in soft glances and you noticed when he glanced at you as well, carefully timed to when you were listening to Rory talk about what he liked to do and how he liked things to be.

Before your eyes could meet Quinn’s and you could really analyze those glances, you heard Rory mention something about a fight. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart what did you say?”  Quinn looked at Rory, stunned and then at the two of you. 

“Now hang on buddy I don’t-“ His father started but Rory kept going anyway. He was definitely determined and had been waiting to say this. 

“I wanna see you guys fight, you know, see who’s better. And the winner can fight my dad! If you can beat my Dad or just hold your own you’re definitely good enough to be my nanny.” The sweet faced little boy was so succinct about his needs that you laughed a little incredulously but with no small amount of humor.

“You know what you want sweetheart I’ll give you that,” you said with a grin and shrug to Quinn and Din. “I’m game, but we probably shouldn’t swing to really hurt each other. Do you have boxing gloves maybe or we could do more Jiu Jitsu and grapple rather than throw punches.”

“Yeah no, no real hits. But if the little man wants to see a fight he’s gonna get a fight.” Din was already standing, making to take off his nice jacket and you were following suit when Quinn stood and waved his hands. Jesus-his hands were huge. How had you not noticed that yet?

“Hang on hang on,” he said looking at the pair of you, both paused with your jackets pooled at your elbows.

“But Daaaaad,” Rory whined, looking up at him.

Quinn raised a brow at his son before smirking and letting out a small chuckle. “You guys shouldn’t fight…” He grinned at Rory before adding, “...in the house.”

[tisfan]

Witch Hunter

for @livewire28

Title: Witch Hunter Collaborator(s) @tisfan Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152004 Square Filled Y3: Identity Porn Ship/Main Pairing Wanda/Bucky Rating Teen Major Tags/Triggers/Warnings: Witches, Church, Heresy Summary  It’s the same old story, every time. Witch appears, idiots try to kill witch. Shit happens. God, Bucky’s tired of it. Word Count 1,724

for @buckybarnesbingo

Same old story, every time.

Bucky sometimes hoped something new would happen, but no.

Same old story.

A witch comes into power and either tried to hide it (in which case, when she inevitable slips up, the village would accuse her of witchcraft and sentence her to death) or she tried to help the villagers, her friends and family. And eventually, when something went wrong (as it would-- someone would die, or someone would ask for something the witch wouldn’t, or couldn’t, do) the villagers would accuse her of witchcraft and sentence her to death. 

People were stupid, Bucky decided.

Trying to put a witch to death was a dangerous proposition most of the time. More often than not, ended with dead villagers and burning houses than a dead witch. Didn’t seem to keep them from trying.

Bucky's job was a witch hunter -- those witches who had been accused, tried, found guilty, and who managed to get away… or who had been just one step ahead of the village elders.

Those were his prey.

The lost souls who were wandering, afraid and angry. 

He needed to catch them before they decided vengeance was the path to trod. An angry witch was even more dangerous than a woman scorned.

“Hell hath fury,” Bucky muttered. 

The village elder looked up at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said. “Tell me the whole sequence of events, from when the village started to suspect there was witchcraft at play.”

The story was the same old story; the girl came of age, and things were naturally just better for her for a while. Unexplained streaks of good luck, fortuitous rains on dry crops, good hauls fishing, bushes loaded with berries. Lucky in love, or unexpected money.

Never too much, never really more than anyone needed.

But it was enough to stir petty jealousy. To give someone who already looked at the witch without favor ammunition. A lot of times, Bucky thought, it came to nothing except tragedy. The girl wasn’t really a witch, and she’d either scorned the wrong suitor or pissed off the wrong bitch. The whole thing ended with a farce of a trial, and a dead woman who’d never done anything except exist.

It was always a woman.

“Did she hurt anyone?”

Yes, of course she had. Sickness came to the village. A farmer’s cow had died. Eggs that wouldn’t hatch.

“Did you save any of these unhatched eggs?” Okay, well, that was new. And Bucky didn’t believe the girl was responsible for the cow, or the sickness. They usually weren’t. Tragedy happened, illnesses happened. No witch needed to be involved. But eggs that didn’t hatch. That was something new.

The elder took him to the coop. All the chickens had been removed, but the place still smelled of dusty feathers and chicken shit. 

Three nests of eggs, neatly stacked in piles. Fully large enough to hatch.

Dead chicks, that was one thing, but this was different. Bucky counted. Nine eggs in each nest.

Three. Times three. Times three again.

That was… unusual.

“Do you mind?” Bucky picked one of the eggs up. It was heavier than a chicken egg should be, and somehow still warm, even though no chicken had been sitting on it in a while. He knocked the egg sharply against the wooden ledge, cracking the shell.

What dropped out of the egg wasn’t a yolk and white.

It wasn’t a chicken, either.

Or it might have been, at one point. But now it was some monstrous, unborn thing with three heads and scales instead of feathers.

“Woah, yikes, that’s--” Bucky crushed it under the heel of his boot. “If you can spare a messenger, I’d like to send these eggs to the Witch Hunter General. Pack them each separately in a leather bag, with a wafer from the sacrament inside with it. Seal the ties with lead. And for God’s sake, don’t break them on the way.”

“You think the girl is, in fact, a witch?”

That was also new. Usually, by the time Bucky was involved, everyone was beyond sure.

“She’s something, all right,” Bucky said. “I’m going to repeat my question from earlier. Did anyone -- any human? Die?” Bucky wasn’t sure what the demon chicks meant, but he also wasn’t sure they had died. That was a question for the philosophers, what came first the demon chickens or the eggs?

“No, thank God,” and Bucky made the sign of the cross as well. Thank God. 

There were some lines too dangerous to cross.

“What will happen to her, when you find her?”

“We’ll take care of the problem,” Bucky promised.

“Thank God.” 

The village elder handed over the tithe, all the Church and the village could afford. Probably most of it was the result of the worldly goods that belonged to the girl before these fools tried to arrest her. Seemed appropriate somehow.

“Does she have any living relatives, someone I could speak with?”

“No,” the elder said. “Her parents died about eight years ago in a fire, and the twin brother--”

“What happened?”

“He was shot in the attempt to apprehend the witch. He died almost instantly, poor deluded fool.”

Oh, Christ.

“You idiots killed a witch’s twin brother?” He was half a mind to leave them to their fate. “Never mind.”

“God go with you, my son.”

“Yeah, God stay here and watch over you,” Bucky said. Idiots.

*

Wanda practically threw herself on the ground. She was exhausted, filthy. Hungry. And she was going to be hungrier, she thought, not having had time before dark to do anything like hunt or fish, or even gather berries, although there had been a bush that burst into fruit right beside her around lunch and she’d stuffed her mouth greedily, before she heard the baying of hounds.

The church’s men, she thought, and bolted off.

Now, it was dark and she was cold.

Fire. She could at least make a fire. Probably.

A fire would keep animals away. And no one, not even the Church, would hunt a witch at night. Wanda’s hands were shaking as she moved her fingers, summoning pieces of dried wood, bits of moss for tinder, gathering them out of the woods with a thought.

She gestured, stacked them neatly in the center of the small clearing. Another twist of her fingers and the ground was scraped clear around the fire. That was enough for responsible fire-tending. Even if she wanted to see the village burn, she didn’t want to set fire to the forest. The animals had done nothing to her. The children had done nothing to her.

God, the children.

She released one last burst of power, lighting the flame.

Pietro, her brother, had died, an arrow right between his eyes. 

Everything had been a madhouse; villagers that she’d known her whole life screaming her name, their faces distorted by rage and fear.

Calling for her death, calling her witch and whore of Satan.

Saying she’d brought disease, that she’d cursed the land and the crops and the cattle.

She hadn’t done any of those things. 

But she just might.

“Nice fire,” someone said. A shadow separated themselves from the darkness of the wood. “Pretty much tells anyone human in the area that there’s another human around.”

Wanda tensed, drawing strength from the earth and the trees--

“Eh, you don’t want to do that,” the man said. “Once you cross that line, you can’t come back. You hungry? I have a couple of pheasants, and you have this nice fire. We could share.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name’s Bucky, nice to meet you,” he said. “And what I want… is to cook these pheasants.”

“And after that?”

“Well, we’re probably eat them,” Bucky said, sitting down uninvited in her clearing and setting up a spit over the fire. “I might offer you some wine. You might tell me if you have any plans. And then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do instead.”

“Who are you?”

“Bucky Barnes. Witch Hunter, point of fact--” he held up one hand. “Ah, don’t do that. I’m still faster than you are, and I really, really don’t want to kill you.”

“I thought that’s what Witch Hunters did.”

“Only if we have to,” Bucky said. He spitted the birds, stuffed their cavities with a mix of herbs and grains. “Only if you kill someone first. You’re a witch. Simple fact. Another simple fact -- humans don’t much like witches. Because they can’t control them. It’s as simple as it is. They will grind you underfoot if you try. You don’t belong with them.”

Wanda didn’t quite sneer. “Let me guess,” she said. “I belong with you. You’ll protect me?”

Bucky laughed. “Lady, anything that’s an actual danger to you would make stew meat you of me. I’m here to help you. To get you home. And to make sure you don’t kill anyone.”

“Why?”

“Because once you kill someone with your powers, I can’t help you anymore,” Bucky said. “So if someone needs to die, you step back and let me do it. You can’t risk your soul by becoming a murderer.”

“But you can?”

“That’s the interesting bit,” Bucky said, and he took off his glove, showing off a silver, shiny hand. “I don’t have one anymore. I already sold it. So I suppose the only question left -- Are you going to have dinner with me, or are you going to go back there and burn that place to the ground?”

“They took everything from me,” Wanda burst.

“No, not yet,” Bucky said. “So don’t give it to them. Make the better choice, Wanda. Come with me.”

She wasn’t quite sure when she’d reached out her hand, or if she’d meant to take his, or to strangle him.

But she started to cry, and he gathered her into his arms, even the strange silver one felt warm and comforting around her back. “I know,” Bucky said. “There’s always a cost-- and you shouldn’t have to pay it. I’m sorry. Killing them won’t bring him back. It will only hurt you, and then there will be no one who remembers him.”

“You’re going to take me somewhere safe?”

“I promise,” Bucky said.

“Okay.”

“Dinner first? I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

“Dinner first.”

[gustafsnightangel]

Shattered Lived Ch 13 Pt 1

It was cliche but she loved watching him sleep. That massive frame relaxed and at peace, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the long arm that was always secured around her keeping her to him like she was his tether to the real world.

He rolled, gently pinned her beneath him, smothering her he kissed her sleepily. Her chuckle made him smile.

“You’re thinking is very loud love.” Her heart melted at his deep toned groggy mumble. He rested his head on her pillow and those eyes of heartbreaking blue opened and focused on her.

“Sorry.” She whispered and kissed him on the brow.

“What were you thinking?” He asked and lazily stroked a hand over her body, sending pleasurable shivers across her skin.

“Nothing really just admiring the view.” She murmured and let her fingers caress the scruff at his cheek and jaw, her eyes roaming his face.

“What is it love?” He asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“Sometimes this doesn’t feel real, like you’ll disappear. I know it silly but....” He kissed her tenderly cutting off her sentence and train of thought.

“I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere you can’t come with me.” He said softly and kissed her, his hand slowly disappearing into her hair as he deepened it. He knew where her mind was heading, that constant fear that one day she’d get the call and he’d be gone too.

The feel of her under him and those lips against hers was enough to have him harden. Those curves, that touch, it drove him fucking crazy. He really didn’t have any control over what she made him feel, or how deeply she made him feel it.

“It’s not silly.” He murmured. “But it’s very real love.” His eyes locked onto hers, finger trailed along her jaw, down her neck. “You’re beautiful.” He whispered.

“Only to you.” She sighed as his fingers dragged down her side and took the sheets with it.

His hand hooked her behind the knee and resting it over his hip he gently slipped inside her. Her soft sigh only making him harder. He kept his thrust slow, the gentle pull and push torturous for both of them.

“I’ve missed the feel of you around me.” He breathed kissing her. “Under me.”

He made love to her. The gentle touch, the softness of his kiss. The arousal he inflicted on her, bringing her to the edge. He watched her go over, that soft cry of his name, the way her eyes glazed over before fluttering shut as her body gave itself over to pleasure. Gave herself to him.

She loved the feel of him thrusting slowly, sensually. As her pussy continued to grip him she felt his body tense, those toned muscles rippling under her hands. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him so his mind blanked.

“Give yourself to me.” She whispered and felt him thrust harder before he came, a soft groan into her mouth as he let the pleasure coarse through him.

He chuckled as he buried his face in her neck breathing her in.

“I’ve missed this.” He whispered. “Us.”

Her smile always undid him. He was about to kiss her again as Lily stirred. “Me too.”

“I’ll get her.” He murmured and kissed her gently.

“Good morning Lily bear.” He said softly as that little face popped up over the edge of the crib and smiled through the tears that had started to fall.

He kissed Sildie as Lily chattered to him with the occasional dad dad. Getting up, he slipped his sweats on and changed Lily, bringing her back to bed with him.

“Someone’s feeling better.” He cooed. “No fever.” He said kissing her brow, back to normal he thought.

“Thank god.” Sildie breathed out. Last thing she needed was a sick kid on top of everything else.

“What are your plans for today?” He asked Sildie as he snuggled his two best girls to him.

“I’ll get the boys to school and hopefully this one will go to daycare today without the need for throwing up everything and everywhere, then I can spend the day with you.” She smiled at Lily as she hugged Gustaf. “What about you?”

“I have my birthday lunch with my family today. Two of my brothers and Mum are at work tomorrow so we’re all getting together today.” He kissed Lily on her neck and cheek which caused her to giggle and laugh.

“You should come with me. Meet everyone.” He said quickly without really thinking and then mentally kicked himself at seeing her face fall. You fucking idiot, that wasn’t smart, not this week.

“I, I’m..” She was speechless.

“I can’t.” She choked and saw the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I want to meet them but just not this week.” She let her hand brush his cheek. “I can’t, I can’t answer those questions today. I’m sorry and I’ve let you down.”

He saw the grief, the stress, he hadn’t thought it through. There would be questions she wasn’t ready to be asked and he should have thought about that before asking her. His family knew he was dating her but they didn’t know the situation.

“It’s fine love, I shouldn’t have put that on your plate, especially this week. They just really want to meet you, meet the woman that’s made me so happy.” He kissed her tenderly and swore at himself. He should have just left it alone. “You haven’t let me down, I just didn’t think before I opened my big ass mouth.” His chuckle brought a slight smile to her lips.

“Have you told them?” She asked hesitantly. “About us, all of this?”

“About Quinn and Dana?” He asked and she nodded. “No. It’s not my place.” His fingers brushed her jaw. “I can if that’ll make it easier for you later on, but only if you want me to Sildie, it’s up to you.” He wouldn’t take the control from her even though he’d wanted to spill his guts to his family, he wouldn’t betray her like that. “All they know is I’m dating this really hot red head with four pretty awesome kids.”

“Can I think about it?” She asked smiling at his last comment. “I don’t know how I’ll handle that yet. Handling us and the kids and this week is enough.” She felt like shit for turning him down after everything he’d done for them, but she couldn’t handle anymore. She couldn’t handle the questions, the inevitable judgement. “I’m sorry.”

He hooked her under the chin with a long finger and waited for her to look at him. Then and only then did he kiss her.

“Don’t do that love, don’t.” He said sternly as he could see her already beating herself up over it. “It’s ok to tell me no.” He kissed her with that tenderness that floored her. “It’s ok to tell me you’re not ready.”

“I’m not saying no, just, no for right now. I just can’t.” He could hear the tears threatening, her own will in her voice for them not to fall. “It’s too much.”

“I understand love.” She wasn’t ready, none of them were yet not really. He’d jumped the gun, too much too soon. “We can talk about it later. Whatever you need.”

“I want to meet them, I really do. I just. I can’t go falling to pieces in front of them when they ask me stuff about the kids.” She wondered if Ana had said no to meeting his family and that possibility made her feel like shit too. “I do that enough with you.”

“Let’s talk some more after this week is done ok? It’s ok to shelve things.” It was a moment where he wished he could stuff those words back in his mouth and rethink before he opened it again.

“Mum Mum Mum dad dad. Sooch.” Lily said and Sildie giggled at the look on Gustaf’s face.

“Did she just say what I think...” Gustaf was in awe of the tiny child he was holding.

“Yep, pucker up love, sooch time.” She laughed but Gustaf beat her to it. He kissed her longingly, deeply, like needed it to draw his next breath.

“You need to get up and get the boys ready.” He said as her alarm went. “Tea?”

“Yeah please.” Sildie said as he let her go so she could climb out of bed.

“Dad dad sooch.” Lily squealed and with a chuckle he kissed the kid until she was laughing.

With the boys showered and dressed they sat down to breakfast. They were stoked to have Gustaf here and he was spoiling them with pancakes, regular ones. The morning was a little disjointed but it would take time for them to find a smooth routine.

The kids and Sildie stood at the door before they were about to leave, double checking they had everything.

“I’ll be here when you get back.” He murmured and slipped a hand under her sweater to find bare skin. “That’s not playing fair love.” His low tone as seductive as his hand.

“Gotta get you back somehow.” She grinned. “I’m a little sore after last night.” She whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He asked and she saw the concern in his eyes.

“Because it’a a good sore, legs and arms mainly.” Her wink settled him.

Brendan gave him a huge hug before putting his bag on his shoulder. No words were uttered but Gustaf didn’t need them, the hug said it all. The twins hugged a thigh each and they were off to the elevator.

She heard the low growl as she bit her bottom lip as the elevator doors closed. That would get him ramped up for some alone time when she got back.

The kids departed easily considering the last few hours with Gustaf, they knew he’d be there tonight so the separation wasn’t as bad, even Lily went without fuss today which was a first.

“Please don’t let our shit get in the way.” She murmured to herself. She’d already done that though hadn’t she. “Already done that though have I with the whole meeting his family thing.” She blew a breath out. Damn that was going to be a stressful meeting. He had a large family and she knew there’d be questions about the kids, her life, their life. Would she ever be able to answer those?

“Fuck!” She slapped her hand on the steering wheel. “Don’t let that fuck things up.” She pleaded to the universe as she drove home. “I do want to meet them, I want them to be in the kids lives but I can’t deal with that today.” She sighed out. “Who am I kidding I can’t deal with ANY of this shit today, this week, any of it every fucking day.”

She thought about how his family would react to their brother, their son, dating a woman with four kids that weren’t hers. They must think she’s some whore or gold digger.

“And that’s not fair.’ She berated herself and shook her head. “That’s not fair on them or me, I don’t even know them and Gustaf’s not like that.” But she had to be ready to defend herself, the kids, the situation, their relationship. Then what if Gustaf saw the light and decided he was better off without her? “What if they fucking hate me? What then? Fuck Quinn what the hell am I doing?” She sighed. “Why did you have to fucking leave me here on my own?” Her choked sob ripped from her throat before she could stop it.

She walked through the door a while later to slow jazz playing, the curtains closed, and the smell of a fresh pot of tea. She kicked off her shoes, hung up her coat and leaned on the door just taking it all in. The soft blue glow from the sun through the curtains, it was bright but soothing. The two cups nestled together with the pot to keep them warm. Her favorite jazz playlist, the man knew how to set the mood. Could he be anymore perfect she wondered.

He came out of the bedroom in sweats and no shirt, that bare chest open for her to touch. Apparently he could, she thought. That smile said it all, I’m here for you, I love you, even though the words were far away from those lips right now. Neither of them ready to utter them for the fear of rejection, the fear of hurting the other.

“You’ve been crying.” He said gently as his arm scooped her around the waist, his hand took hers in his, and he started to slow dance with her, tucked in cheek to cheek.

“I’ll be fine. Just my usual morning conversation with Quinn in the car.” She laughed it off but he heard the grief under it. She was trying so hard to shelve it, to keep it out of their day. She wouldn’t tell him she’d sat in the garage and sobbed for twenty minutes just to get it out and compose herself.

“And what do you two talk about?” He asked kissing her temple softly.

“You mainly.” She muttered as her hand at his back caressed his skin, soothing herself more than him.

“So that’s why my ears have this burning sensation every weekday morning.” He looked at her and saw the smile, it was slight but it was there.

She rested her head against his chest and shoulder, letting his arms curl around her holding her close. It was soothing to dance with him, arousing too with that killer body next to hers. Her hand wandered over his skin, feeling, remembering.

“I’m sorry about today.” She murmured. “I just can’t answer those questions.” She still felt awful for turning him down. She knew how close he was to his family’s what they meant to him.

“Enough now love. We’ll make it work.” His tone was low and soft as he held her and swayed. “There’ll be other days.”

But what if there’s not she thought, what if their days are cut short like Quinn and Dana’s. She’d never get a chance to meet them and they mattered to him, she mattered to him or he wouldn’t have asked her to meet them. And now you’re being stupid she said to herself. Just ridiculous.

“Stop it.” He said sternly. “I can hear the internal argument you’re having with yourself. Stop it now, let it go. It’s ok.”

He had a knack of reading her emotions a little too well she thought irritably. She’d relax soon enough he thought. Once she let her mind unwind. Dancing and music would take care of that, so would their closeness, touch healed in its own way.

This was what she needed, what he needed, the closeness, the connection. She was grieving but he knew there was something more about today that she hadn’t told him, he hoped she would.

He felt the tears as they fell onto his bare chest and held her closer. He gave her the silence to just be with him, cry, let it flow out. She would talk to him when she was ready, if she was ready. For now he’d just be the calm in her storm as promised.

He’d kept the music purposefully slow so he could soothe her. “This was one of Quinn’s favorites.” She mumbled into his chest, the tears still falling. “He played this for Dana when he proposed to her.”

“That’s a sweet memory.” He said drawing her closer if that was at all possible.

He kissed her head and breathed in her scent, that scent which soothed him more than he’d ever admit to anyone.

“Don’t shut me out love.” He said softly into her hair.

“I’m not.” She sniffed and let his hand go to wipe the tears away. “I just don’t know where to start with any of it.”

“Start where ever and with whatever. There’s no right or wrong way.”

He let her have the quiet and had almost given up for the moment when it just started to tumble out of her.

“I was in England when their housekeeper called me. The kids were at school and she’d had the police at the door. Their car had been hit head on by an out of control truck. I dropped everything and jumped on a plane, mid trial, mid opening arguments, mid everything. The boys would come home from school to an empty house, with a housekeeper in tears. It was only when I walked through the door ten hours or so later that Brendan knew something was really, really wrong.” She stopped dancing and just held onto him, she felt so lost, her ship adrift in the stormy sea.

He kissed her, held her, and listened. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out she continued.

“It was after I’d been to the hospital, saw them both as they fought to live that I made my way to their house. I had to tell the kids what had happened, to break it to them that their parents would never be coming home.” Her voice was a choked sob. “I had to break their hearts.” The sobs tore out of her now, those soul destroying cries that sliced him deeply. “I destroyed them, their lives, everything.”

It was times like this he hated feeling things so much but in the same breath was thankful he could. He could never understand her pain but he felt it all the same. He didn’t realize until now that she’d had to tell the boys, that she’d taken on so much in those first few hours. No one to comfort her, help her, support her. She’d been completely alone, but not this time around he thought.

“Let it out love. Hold on to me, I’ve got you.” He murmured gently as he held her while she crumbled. Curled into his arms those endless sobs clawed their way out of her.

“I’ll never forget their faces, it broke them. That look of disbelief as their world crashed down around them.” She said as the sobs subsided to silent tears. “I’ll never forget their faces, their cries.” She took a shuddered breath before it flowed out of her again.

“We all went to the hospital that afternoon, the twins sat waiting for news on Dana, I sat waiting for news on Quinn, Brendan went back and forth between the two. He wasn’t sure what to do, whether to take care of his brothers or fall apart himself. Eventually I got him to sit and wait for news from Quinn.” Calmer he let her out of his grip long enough to grab tissues and then pulled her close. “He had to grow up so fast.” She sniffed as his hand rubbed her back in slow even strokes.

“The boys were asleep in the waiting room when they came to tell me about Lily. What they’d have to do to save her. The news that neither Quinn or Dana were responding to treatment, and that the machines were the only thing keeping them alive was the final blow. The kids were a mess, I wasn’t much better. The doctor explained what it meant so I didn’t have to. The hope that we’d held onto that they would be ok was lost, snatched away.” He stroked his fingers through her hair and kissed her tenderly.

“I’m sorry this is all really depressing.” She laughed, it was a tight grief filled laugh.

“Don’t do that, don’t close it off now.” He whispered gently and kissed her again. “Come sit down and have tea, it’s steeped enough.” He murmured and danced her slowly over to the table. “Tell it all to me love.”

He kissed her, letting the love and tenderness pour from his heart into hers with the unmistakable message of heal her. His knuckles brushed her cheek as the other hand gently removed the clip from her hair.

“Tell me what you need love.” He said not quite ready to let her go.

“You.” She rested her head against him. “Just you. This.” Her voice was more relaxed now but he held her a little longer to steady himself. It was tearing him apart too.

He sat and pulled her into his lap. She half sat, half fell into him, the energy to keep herself upright suddenly gone. She was content to have him decide how she should sit. She kissed his lips with such sweetness his heart almost stopped, the silent thank you before she went on.

“The boys and I sat with them, the twins slept with Dana that night, cuddled against her. Brendan was in with Quinn. I was up pacing and talking with lawyers and doctors and everyone else that needed my attention.” She poured the tea even though her hands were shaky.

She didn’t care if he saw it, and he understood the need to keep busy. “Keeping busy kept me together. I guess that’s why I have a difficult time relaxing now. If I kept busy I didn’t have to think about it. Didn’t have to deal with it.” She sipped her tea and he saw her relax as his hands stroked long calming strokes along her spine. “All I could think of was I’d never see him smile again, never look into his eyes and have that twin conversation. He was my brother, my best friend, and the only family I had left.”

He toyed with her hair giving her time.

“I felt like part of me was missing even before he died. It was like our connection had brutally been severed and there was only silence. So quiet it screamed at me.”

“The twin thing?” He asked gently and she nodded.

“It’s like having a phone to someone open all the time I guess. It’s difficult to explain.” She stared into space.

“You felt it happen didn’t you?” He brushed his fingers through her hair and saw the slight nod. “You felt him leave.” He’d heard the stories of twins feeling each other’s emotions, their pain.

“I felt a sharp pain in my heart and then nothing. I thought it was just stress and maybe a prelude to a heart attack but nothing happened after it so I brushed it off. The case was a doozy so stress was the obvious cause, at least that’s what I initially put it down to. It was only after the housekeeper called that I noticed our twin link was silent, eerily so. But not just silent it was gone.” Her voice was so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear her.

“I’m sorry love.” He murmured as the eerily silent tears streaked her cheeks. He couldn’t imagine the grief from losing a sibling as he still had his, let alone a sibling you shared a womb with.

“We had to talk about turning the machines off.” She choked out quickly as if the words were clawing at her throat on the way out clearly not wanting to be voiced. “Fuck I never want to have to do that again, decide when someone dies.” She put her tea down with a trembling hand and leaned her head on his chest, the sobs came hard and fast this time, bubbling up and consuming her completely. “I never want to make those decisions again.”

He held her tight, it was all he could do while she purged it. This had been bottled up for a year and had eaten away at her.

“I told them I wanted Lily’s birthday to be separate from their deaths, it was the least I could do for her future if she lived.” She sniffed. “She was so tiny.” Her voice was fragile now and it pulled at his heart seeing her so distraught. “The boys watched her from the NICU window and it hit them hard too. I think they realized then it was actually happening and not just some crazy prank or dream they’d wake up from.”

“Once they got Dana stable enough again I had the staff put her in the same room as Quinn. I knew what had to happen next and I wasn’t going to have them die alone in separate rooms. The doctor was really good, he understood. He actually fought with the hospital about it.” She sipped her tea and stared into nothing. “I never did get to thank him for that.” She said wistfully.

His kiss brought her back to the present. “You just went there in your mind didn’t you?” He asked softly, the first words he’d spoken in close to an hour.

She nodded as the tears that had stopped briefly streaked her cheeks again. “The boys curled up with them and I let them have their final night with their parents, while I stood watch outside the room.” Her stare was vacant as she spoke, the grief too painful to even acknowledge she was speaking. She just wanted to get it out. Once it was out it would be done. “I was trying to find the courage to let them go, to turn off the only thing keeping them here. I almost chickened out. I had enduring power of attorney and could have kept them alive. I could have gone against their wishes written into their living will.”

“No you couldn’t.” He kissed her tenderly. “It’s not in you to disrespect someone like that even if it’s your twin brother.”

“But I wanted to, I knew what was being asked of me and I wanted to be selfish and stop time so I didn’t have to be the one to let them go.” She reached for another tissue and blew her nose.

Her eyes were red, face blotchy, but he was relieved she was finally comfortable enough to let this out. Healing would come later, this was at least a start.

“Dana was fading faster than Quinn after they delivered Lily. I think she realized she didn’t have to stay here any longer to keep Lily alive. At least that’s what the doctor had said. So at 4am I had to wake the kids to say goodbye.” She paused and stared into nothing. “Brendan interlocked Quinn’s hand with Dana’s...” She breathed and blinked. “Why did I not remember that until now? He’d interlocked their fingers so they were holding hands. Brendan held onto them both while Liam curled up with Quinn, Finn with Dana.”

“And where were you?” He asked gently knowing full well where she was and what she’d had to do.

“I had to turn off the machines.” She sobbed. “I had to let them go, but I didn’t want to.” He held her like a wounded child now. “I didn’t want to.”

“I know love. I know.” He also knew that this was what killed her on the inside. The decision that only she could make, the one to end their lives to give them peace.

“I killed them.” She choked, that keening sob tearing out of her and slicing him to pieces.

“No, you gave them peace love. You give their kids love and a good stable home. They could go knowing you’d take care of their children.” He said softly.

“But I killed them.” Her whisper tore chunks out of him.

He firmly took her head in his large hands and gently forced her to look at him. Those eyes found his eventually, complete misery looked back, she was hurting and so lost.

“You gave them peace love.” His kiss tender. “You gave them peace. You did all you could for them, and now you give their children peace, with a home, and love. Logically you know it was the only thing to do, the grief and the guilt tell you otherwise.” He kissed her again and then touched his lips to her forehead.

“You didn’t kill them love, they were already gone.” He bundled her close and held her while the new wave of sobs consumed her. “You gave them peace.” He’d keep telling her that until his last breath. This wound was deeper than the others and would take more than a day of purging to heal.

He held her as the guilt and shame tore from her in sobs that destroyed him. They shredded his soul. This was what love did to you he thought. It chewed you up and spat you out.

“I’m sorry.” She said after a while. “I sort of wrecked your morning.”

The tears had slowed as she started to surface. He only hoped that this had soothed part of her soul and not damaged it further. She’d be a wreck for the rest of the day but it would start the healing process for her.

“Never be sorry for feeling comfortable enough to talk to me love.” He murmured as she turned in his lap to straddle him.

He grabbed the tissue box and held it for her as she cleaned herself up, the mountain of spent two ply tissues on the table. She looked at those pools of ocean blue and found calm looking back. How in the world was he able to do that she wondered. Be so calm when she was literally falling apart in his arms.

She kissed him sweetly. Fuck she was wrecked and probably didn’t look much better.

“And you didn’t fuck up my morning.” He smiled. “You’re here, I’m here, we’ve got good jazz, good tea, and I get to kiss you.” He kissed her tenderly, that deep love seeping it’s way into her, calming the ragged edges on her grief. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded and drank the remainder of her tea even though it was stone cold.

“Who named Lily?” His fingers toyed with her unbound hair as he watched her closely.

“The boys.” She shrugged and his eyebrow shot up, he hadn’t expected that as an answer.

“I asked them what we should name her, they thought about it and came up with Lily. It was Dana’s favorite flower, she loved them.” He smiled at her words. “So we named her Lily Dana O’Rourke.”

“You’re incredible.” He breathed and kissed her with that tenderness and love he only had for her. “And sweet.” He kissed her again and saw the puzzled look on her face.

“You could have named her, taken that role on yourself, but you didn’t. You gave that to the boys which only made their bond with their sister, and you, stronger. They love you Sildie, sure it’s been a little rocky, they’re adjusting, you’re adjusting, but they love you. Don’t forget that. And don’t ever stop being the incredible person you are.” His soft words tugged at her heart, warmed her. Maybe she had done the right thing she wondered. If that were true why did it hurt so fucking much?