#sorry for not adding spiral static

[smokehalos]

Hi again…. My bad I haven’t posted art in a while.

Here’s some muse art cuz I finally switched gears from being a casual listener to being a fully engulfed fan lol

[newwritergirl]

Starting over | Part 14

Masterlist

Summary: After y/n hears her two boyfriends talking about leaving her she spirals into memory lane. Fortunatley the two pilots can catch her before she falls deeper.

Trigger Warnings: 18+! Minors DNI!, past abusive relationship, some memories of previous abuse, migraine, blood, injury, au and ooc, poly relationship

A/N: I needed a bit angst and hurt in this chapter, sorry for that. Please let me know what you think and reblog if you want other readers to enjoy the story.

Word Count: 2.8k +

A loud shattering is stopping Jake and Bradley's conversation. Both men turn around in the direction of the sudden noise.

"Y/n!" Rooster shouts clearly shocked. The man's loud shout and the noise from breaking the glass vaults her right back to a time she so dearly hoped to be over and long forgotten. The sound of glass breaking was always a surety of an upcoming beating. Especially when she broke something. But on not so rare occasions her ex destroyed breakable pieces, in that case she always was quick to clean up the mess he made to avoid or better say lessen the inevitable pain whether from his fists or his words. Absolutely terrified she looks down to her feet, million pieces of broken glass surrounding her figurative for her broken heart. Will she ever be enough for another human being? Will there be a time when she isn't acting like a complete failure? Probably not.

"I- I…" Y/n's head is racing, she needs to clean up the mess otherwise it's going to be bad. She looks like a deer in the headlights, her gaze jumping from the broken glass on the floor to the two men at the kitchen island. "I- clean it…" The young woman stumbles over her words, the tremble of her hands slowly flowing into her whole body.

"No, no sweetheart, don't move. You gonna hurt…" Jake tries to gain y/n's attention but sprints into her direction at the same time.

She just hears static, the voice of the blonde aviator doesn't reach her subconsciousness so she takes a step forwards to bend down and clean up as her ex taught her, as fast as possible, as clean as possible, no complaining. Her legs are shaking so badly she nearly falls face first into the mess of shards when she feels two strong arms lifting her up. She squeals out of surprise and fear. The strong arms are hoisting her up, supporting her whole weight and entangle themselves under her bum, forcing her legs to wrap around the warm body that is carrying her away. She shuts her eyes tightly afraid to see the pure rage in the man's eyes. What had she done? Why is she screwing up so badly?

"Fuck, princess… Jake, she's bleeding, sit her down on the counter." Rooster speaks in a gentle yet panicked tone when he sees the blood dripping down onto the floor.

She feels her calves hitting something hard before Jake sets her on the kitchen counter but makes no move to release his gentle grasp he has on her. She shudders when her bare legs make contact with the cold stone of the countertop. In a protective manner and to keep some of her warmth she wraps her arm around herself, hugs them to her trembling body.

"Baby, look at me. Please open those beautiful eyes." Jake is so close to her she can smell his minty toothpaste and the faint odor of his shower gel but she can't open her eyes, too afraid of what might wait for her when she looks into his face. His hands wander from her waist to her face softly cupping her pale cheeks. A jolt runs through his body when she flinches and tries to hide her face from him.

"Babygirl, we're not gonna hurt you and we're not breaking up with you. Please look at me." The blonde aviator pleads, he needs to explain everything to her. He and Bradley need to explain it to her. His heart is breaking for the young woman in front of him. He knows of her past, knows that she was in an abusive relationship, but with every reaction she shows during a stressful or new situation another piece of the puzzle is adding up, creating a crueler picture of what she survived at the hands of her evil ex.

A warm hand touching her shoulder, she knows this touch. It's Rooster's hand. She always wonders how he can be so gentle with these big hands, hands that only ever brought her love, tenderness and passion.

"Princess, Jakey is right. Please look at us and let me see this foot of yours, you're bleeding. Please let us help you. We've never hurt you and sure as hell never going to in the future. We love you, princess." Bradley's voice cracks at the end a lump forming in his throat, tears threatened to spill out of his brown eyes. If he ever gets the chance to meet this monster that dared to lay a hand on the wonderful woman in front of him, he's going to kill him. With a deep breath he tries to calm himself and once more hide the pure rage he's feeling.

A sob is echoing through the open kitchen and finally the small woman opens her eyes to look at the two aviators who are towering over her. Jake doesn't waste any more time and cradles y/n's head into his broad chest, whispering words of endearment into her ear. Her breathing is increasing and already way too fast.

"Shh, baby. You're safe with us, always. We love you y/n, we love you so much." Slowly rocking her body back and forth, stroking her back and feeling her calm down a bit. The last thing they need right now is her spiraling further down ending in a full blown panic attack.

"I'm so sorry." She breathes out fisting Jake's shirt into her hands to ground herself. "I didn't want to eavesdrop or making a mess. I'm sorry…"

As if on cue Bradley takes a step to his lovers, stroking the smaller woman's back gently.

"Please, princess. Don't apologize. This is not on you. Please let us explain, we're not going to break up. Can I- can I have a look at your foot, it's bleeding really heavy." The brunette pilot explains in a worried voice. He knew that they have to calm her down at first before he can patch her up or even have a closer look on her injury. But when he sees that there's a steady flow of blood dripping from her foot onto the floor he knows he has to stop the bleeding and that fast.

Y/n nods her head and drops her gaze to her injured foot. A whimper tumbles out of her mouth, color immediately draining form her face when she sees the amount of blood on the floor. Her vision becomes fuzzy and wave of dizziness is hitting her. It’s not that she is overly sensitive when she sees blood but the whole situation hits too close to home. The blood drops steadily dripping on the floor, the small puddle that has already been formed, the broken glass, the fear, it all remembers her of the night her ex decided to use a knife against her.

"It's okay. Roo-y is going to help you." Jake tucks her face back into his chest kissing her head softly. He can see her rapid pulse on her carotid and feels her body swaying in his arms.

"Okay, there's no shard in the cut, but I need to bandage it. It's rather deep, but hopefully it will not need stitches. I pack a gauze on it and then Jake will carry you to the couch, so you can lay down when I look for smaller shards and stop the bleeding. Alright my love?" Bradley suggests. He too saw her pale complexion after she had a look at the amount of blood on the kitchen floor and he doesn’t feel any better seeing his love bleeding.

When Maverick requested Rooster to take a young woman in and let her live with him and Jake in their house, he was more than suspicious. Who just lets a complete stranger into their house? And why is Mav so anxious to give that unfamiliar woman a safe place to stay at the base? So after a long conversation Pete finally came out with it and showed Bradley the file the Navy had about her. Of course they had to check her background thoroughly even with Mitchell bailing for the young woman, after all she would work with highly classified data as an IT-specialist. Rooster saw the police report of the fateful night her ex nearly killed her. He saw the pictures the big puddle of blood she laid in. The bloody handprints on the kitchen table where she tried to keep her body upright after the attack. He saw the amount of destruction her ex did on the whole interior of their apartment. He stopped reading in the middle of the police report when they explained her multiple injuries and how she had several old injuries from previous beatings. Nearly every rib in her body has been broken at some point of her life, old and new bruises littered her body. From that day Bradley swore he will do everything in his power to protect this young and beautiful woman.

---

Finally laying on the couch with her head in Jake's lap and her legs on Bradley's thighs, slightly elevated to reduce the bleeding further and to gain back some color in her face. The shock of hearing that her two lovers talk about leaving her, the flashback of past memories and the blood loss now fully taking in leaving her drained and slightly nauseous. She fights to keep her eyes open but with Jake massaging her head and Bradley slowly stroking her calves makes it hard for her to stay awake. Before y/n can fully slip into a deep slumber she suddenly startles up with a loud gasp, her heart thundering painfully in her ribcage.

"Work…we have to go, we will be late." In a panic she untangles her leg out of Bradley's soft grip and sits up in a rush.

"Hey easy, Babygirl." Jake brushes his hand over her back gripping her shoulders slightly to prevent her from standing up. All color has left her face once more with her sudden action and her heart beating way too fast from the initial shock.

The brunette pilot cautiously changed his position and sits down on the hardwood coffee table to be directly in front of the panting woman afraid she would fall face first into the table. "We don't have to work today, princess. We called the base that you are not coming in today. With your migraine yesterday Mav even insisted you staying at home today and tomorrow. We all care for you." He tells her while holding both her hands in his stroking softly with his thumbs over her knuckles. His warm brown eyes looking directly into hers.

"But what about you… And- I-…you leaving?" The young woman asks confused in nothing more than a whisper.

Jake places a soft kiss on her temple to let her know that there is nothing to be afraid of. He wants her to be calm and feel safe when they explain to her why they have to leave in two days. Bradley locks eyes with his partner silently agreeing that he will break the news to their girlfriend.

"Princess, Jake and I are going on a mission. We have to teach and train the crew of an aircraft carrier. So, no real war mission, just us playing bad instructor, good instructor." He explained in a light tone winking at Jake who sits beside y/n stroking her thigh which is touching his upper leg.

"You don't break up with me? I'm so stupid… I'm sorry." The young woman looks down in embarrassment. She can't believe how stupid she is. She listened to a conversation and assumed all wrong, destroyed a glass, cut her foot and nearly had a full blown panic attack.

Jake says her name to get her attention, with cautious movements he puts his finger under chin tilting her head. Deeply looking into the eyes he had fallen for a long time ago, he softly kisses her plumps lips. The blonde aviator may look like a cocky bitch to outsiders, like a guy with too much self-consciousness who can't seem to shut up even if his life depends of it, but deep down he's an affectionate lover who wants to show all his love he feels for y/n and Bradley with his actions. He wants her to feel all his love before he uses his words to explain everything further.

"I- I'm sorry for eavesdropping and breaking the glass. I didn't want to make a mess…" She shudders at the thought of the breaking glass. "Ehm, in the past…breaking something always meant that - that he got mad at me. One time, he shoved me into the shards of a broken mug, sliced my entire hand. I bled so heavily that - I must've passed out and when I woke up there was a big puddle of blood… he beat me into a pulp before bringing me into the ER. Telling the doctors and nurses that I fell down the stairs with a mug in my hand." With a wavering voice y/n tells her boyfriends one of her many bad memories. Jake puts his right arm over her shoulders supporting her body with his broad frame. He can feel her trembling and when he takes a look at Bradley he sees the brunette pinching his eyes shut as he wants to get rid of the pictures y/n created with her story.

"The stupid clumsy girlfriend…that what he called me."

Rooster takes her left into his own inspecting the scar from where she had sliced her hand in the past. He places soft kisses in the palm like wants to kiss away her pain. All pain she's ever endured.

"Sweetheart, you're not stupid. You're the most intelligent, beautiful, sweet and sexy woman we've ever laid our eyes on. Of course we're not breaking up with you. We're just out on a small and uncomplicated mission. Like Roo-y said, a bit training here a bit teaching there."

Y/n let's out a sigh they're not really leaving her, even with her baggage they're still loving her. How does she deserve these two?

"When do you have to leave?" She asks while turning her head to look at Rooster.

"We're flying out in two days. Mav said we will be away for roughly two weeks. I'm sorry, princess. We really don't want to leave you here on your own. We will miss you. Jake really wanted to strangle the Admiral."

"I'm going to be okay. Just please come back in one piece, both of you. I- I love you!" She says, breathing the last three words, the most important words of the day. "Can we cuddle, before you have to leave?" The young woman suggests as she batts her eyelashes. Everything is going to be okay and two weeks will be over before she knows.

---

With y/n still recovering from her migraine attack the two pilots let her sleep on the couch after she fell asleep cuddled in between her boyfriends. So they make use of the time by preparing their departure. Even if they most likely don't need much if any civvies they have to pack and organize some things.

Small hands sneaking around Rooster's muscular body, bringing him out of his concentration. He turns around and envelopes y/n in a tight and lovely hug.

"I thought Jake and I made ourselves clear when we said that you're absolutely not allowed to wander around in the house with your injured foot." He mumbles against her head while placing soft kisses in her silky hair.

"I missed my boys. I needed a hug. You just sneaked out on me and left me alone on the couch na-" Y/n squeals when the brunette hoists her up with a firm grip on her bum.

"You, my dear woman, will be the death of us." Bradley jokes before he captures her lips in a passionate kiss, nibbling at her plump upper lip, eliciting a breathy moan out the young woman's mouth when he grinds his groin into hers.

Another set of hands sneaks around both of them kissing Bradley and Y/n on their cheeks.

"What did I miss?" The blonde aviator asks in a flirtatious tone.

"Well Lieutenant Commander Seresin, Miss y/ln went against direct orders." Bradley teases in a playful but dangerous tone.

Jake clicks his tongue, bringing his chest flush to the back of the smaller woman who is still clinging to the other pilot. "Miss y/ln, is that the truth? What do we do with such a tease, Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw?" His teeth softly grazing and nibbling y/n's sensitive neck, making her squirm in the other pilots hold.

"Well, Seresin. I guess we should think about an appropriate punishment." Bradley whispers seductively when he turns around and lets the woman gently out of his arms and onto the bed, soon following her and laying beside their girlfriend. She protests, missing already the touch of both her men. Jake lets himself plop on the other side of the squirming girl immediately stealing a heated kiss from her already kiss-swollen lips.

@djs8891

@darksparklesficrecs

[rftvs-au]

“It starts with sorry”

Summary: Vox slips up, he finally finds himself confessing after all these years of rivalry.. But, It starts with sorry, doesn't it?

Notes: this is an au made by @llserenell and @culssi ! We run this blog together for our au. Hope you enjoy!

Writing by @llserenell art by @culssi

Chapter 1: Love me dead

“I gave you SO MUCH!!" Vox shouted in the other man's direction, an uncontrollable amount of rage coursing within him as he balled his fist and lunged at him, only just missing as Alastor dodged his attack with a well timed sidestep.

Why was he feeling this anger, this rage? What was the reason behind all these emotions? He felt so enraged, so betrayed. Even after all these years, these feelings refused to leave him.

"You gave me nothing." Alastor bit back with a cold expression, eyes narrowing as he sent a tendril towards Vox, only for the TV demon to teleport out of the way. "Nothing?" Vox practically chuckled out, "NOTHING?!?" He repeated, his tone turning twisted and violent, "I gave up everything for you! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!!" He shouted, his voice glitching and full of emotion as he brought his hands to his chest. "I..did everything i could for you, Alastor.." Vox said, his voice threatening to break, "But that…" he chuckled, "that was never enough for you, was it??" Vox asked, looking up to meet the other man's gaze, his expression slightly crazed.

Nothing. Alastor said nothing, standing there with an unreadable expression; his smile remained plastered on his face, his eyes were staring coldly into Vox's, his hands were balled into fists. It was like he wanted to say something, but was holding himself back.

"It wasn't, was it?!" Vox snapped, grabbing hold of Alastor's jacket, "WAS IT!?" He exclaimed angrily in hopes to get a response, but still, there was no reply.

One it’s own

For a brief moment, there was silence. Though for the few seconds it lasted, it felt like minutes, hours even! It was ample time to collect himself, to think over things, yet he didn't. He couldn't. All he could feel was this anger, this burning rage as he looked into the eyes of a man he once loved, once cared for. For a split second, Vox's gaze almost softened, his eyes wide as they searched Alastor's face.

“You..." Vox peered into Alastor's eyes, hoping to find a trace of regret, dreading to be heartbroken once more, but there was only a chilling, disdainful glare. "You never really cared for me," he realized, his voice betraying confusion, almost transforming the assertion into a plea for affirmation. "Did you?" he added, a bitter chuckle escaping him as he noticed Alastor's gaze soften slightly.

Electricity sparked from his hands, nails digging into his palms enough to draw blood. "After everything I did for you..." his voice was low, spoken through gritted teeth. "You NEVER CARED!!!" Vox glitched out, a hot pink substance leaking down his screen, eye spiraling as he lunged for Alastor, pinning him to the floor.

Looking down at Alastor, seeing him in such a frustrated state, pinned down like this, it filled Vox with pride, an overwhelming heat rushing down to his groin.

“Fuck, you little bitch…” Vox breathed out, chuckling as he wrapped his hands around Alastor’s neck, slowly digging his claws in.

“You never meant anything to me,” Alastor growled, struggling to get him off, eyebrows knitting together with annoyance. “You ARE nothing.”

Static emitted from his screen, glitching and buffering, his face growing cold as he bared his teeth, raising his fist in a blind fit of rage. "YOU FU-FU-FŲCK-CKING PRICK!!!" Vox shouted, delivering hard blows to Alastor’s face repeatedly, immediately feeling a rush of satisfaction wash over him.

He loved the sadistic pleasure he derived from it, yet at the same time, he hated how much he enjoyed it—inflicting pain on someone he once cared for, someone he still cares for. But this rage, this hatred, still coursed through him.

“YOU MEANT THE WORLD TO ME!" His voice was filled with raw emotion, his anger escalating with each word.

Hands grabbed hold of Alastor’s jacket, hoisting him up to meet Vox’s enraged gaze, “YOU MEANT E-ÊVERY-EVERYTHING TO ME!” Vox screamed in Alastor’s face, bringing him to his feet and slamming him into a nearby wall. The only thing keeping him up were Vox’s hands, which digged painfully deep into his arms.

His vision looked blurred, and he could feel the blood trickling down his face. His eyes widened and filled with panic as he was met with bright monitors staring down at him, giant claws digging through his sleeves and into his skin. “I LOVED YOU, ALASTOR!!” Vox shouted, “Vox-“ Alastor spoke with a shaky voice, a cough following shortly after, “I LOVE YOU!!” Vox interrupted, breathing heavily, slowly shifting out of his demon form, his grip on Alastor’s arms loosening as he came to a realisation..

He messed up..

Next chapter———>

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[anulithots]

So that could've been a mini-spiral, here's a thing that helped.

Uhmm... I'm going to tag @holdmyteaplease and @dancinginsepia, you all may like this <3

Context is that the others are in the "news watching phase" and I don't like my existence being political. (But sarcasm is great, that was the moral of the story.)

ANYWHO-

Specifically make a playlist to songs you've had the "nirvana lots of stimming" thing for. The ones that you've played over and over again for days and hummed along and danced to in the closet. Just those ones. Not any of the "good vibes ones" or even the "ooh character daydreams ones" just the ones you've actively felt the uber-happy-serotonin to. (Although in mine I added a few more melancholy ones that still give me happy chemicals, just make sure the most jammie jam ones are first.)

Mine's here because why not:

Okie dokie, that's part one.

The second part is the assigning a thought process the role of "caretaker". I story-fied this so that there are pixies that take residence in Anuli's head because of mycorrhizal symbiosis and only Naegi (the language processing, presentable one) can speak, so fae tells Anuli to use faer thoughts to give Squioo (the caretaker) a voice, and I really really want to include snippets of on-the-spot prose but maybe at the end.

Anywho, this "caretaker" thought process is there to soothe you whenever you need them. Mine calls me "bean" and says a lot of "I know, it's okay" and any help I need with doing the next task and not holding onto the spiral thoughts.

In fact! Thoughts become most damaging when they are OUR thoughts. They aren't! Most of the time, they are offered from that collection of subconscious childhood sponge stuff. You collected that, yes, but not by choice, so none of that is yours, they are only meant to help you when you need it.

And there was this one podcast my parents listened to in the car (long drives <3) and it talked about the four parts of the brain (Theoretically, they are nice guides, not foolproof, but nice. It makes me feel less alone - that was cheesy - in my head). They go like this:

The presentable one. Think "masking". This is your presentably and plan-making part of your brain that likes to analyze things (for the sake of future things, I think hyperfixations are more of a "three" part of the brain... more on that later.) Very future focused and will try to keep you out of trouble in society. You can call upon this one for any logic things for the future.

The Danger one. The one that probably got you in that spiral. They are that scared child that needs to hide and protect themselves and get away from the danger. They are only a scared little one, so it's best to call upon the Caretaker at that point to calm them down.

The inner child. Hyperfixations and the present moment has all these wonderful things and let's have some fun and oooh squirrel and this one lives off dopamine and having fun and stimulation every second of the day. Can get in trouble though. And this one will probably use jokes to make you feel better. Also a little one.

Then there's the caretaker.

I sttttoorrryyyfiiiieeeddd them! (They used to be one being and before they split and Floa got in trouble and now they are banished and Naegi is working on a plan to get unbanished and I don't even know if they will be cannon yet but like... I love them and they are the roles that I use.)

----

SNIPPETS

TW for the idea that certain minorities/other groups can be "parasites" and harm the majority. (Sorry, don't know what the term for this would be.)

"I don't want to think about that fallen fairy nonsense. In fact, say another word about them and I'll find one... I'll rip it;s eyes out so it can see what horror its bringing to all of my innocent dryads. "

Maidoe nodded. Nodded. Not a single shift in faer behavior. Did fae- was Maidoe like that too?

Does fae think that of me?

The container shattered. Static latched along my neck, tightening. My breath caught in the fibers. Perhaps my heart burst, it's sticky web spun around my head. Blood trickled from my ears. It exposed me to everyone, my eyes would fall into the puddles, warm and sticky and my sight fell beneath the pools of blood sinking beneath all the horrors I've ever-

"You okay? You went..." Maidoe tilted faer head, "Well, you're staring at your feet like they've wronged you."

I'm a fallen fairy. I'm a fallen fairy. I'm a fallen fairy. I'm a fallen fairy I'm drowning I'm drowning

dying.

dying.

dying.

"F-fine" I breathed.

"You sure?"

Just that word was an arc, a million stories, all that I had left, any more and I would burst at the seams.

I nodded.

Maidoe smiled and turned back to the Mother Fairy, the one who- and fae was -

How could fae be two things? That's not moral ambiguity, that's a juxtaposition and a dichotomy and tonal dissonance and it didn't add anything it didn't make narrative sense-

'You're spiraling.'

I growled. I know that Naegi, I know, I'm sorry, I know, and it's not-

'Squioo could help. Fae's done so before, and we can have us fumbling in front of important figures, just think of what that would do to our reputation-'

Fibers wormed around my spine, snaked around my neck, pulled until it bled, swelled-

Squioo could fix it?

What do I do? How do I do it? Is it difficult because I can't, I'm sorry, it's not- but I'll try to- I can't promise-

My scalp throbbed. I would've pressed my hands to my head and tugged at roots and yet my fingertips remained by my sides.

'Just give faer access to your thoughts so fae can speak to you, since you think in... word-ish pictures?'

Stories. I'm sorry. Did I mess it up already? Predestined fate of the villain and I will burst and that will mess everything up and this is nothing I haven't heard before and it was so small what do I do what do I do-

'Just imagine one of those... how would you phrase it? Mentor figures? Except more of the subtle sort. A caretaker. Someone who will soothe you from this spiral, imagine a few words and Squioo will gain access from there.'

I stiffened. The whispers of a forgotten lullaby ringing in my ears, of broken windchimes and fae was hurt and angry and does Kamari think like that now-

'Try a sentence to start with.'

You're okay, little on- oh I- what if it doesn't work? Am I doing it right? What if it's- I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

'Continue.'

You'll be okay, Anuli, I promise. We'll have a happy ending where we sing to the stars that we are free. It will be wonderous. Are you cold? Does that feel better?

If you wanted to stay you wouldn't have broken-

'Hello love. We'll take this one note at a time, okay?'

I bit the inside of my mouth, the sobs scratching at the confines. Okay

'Can you focus on the insides of your nose for me? And when you're ready, take a deep breath, whenever you're ready. Okay?'

I'll burst.

'That's okay. Do you want to try your palms instead? Can you watch those?'

My fingers twitched at my sides. Like this?

'Yes, very good love. Do your palms feel cold, hot?'

Hot and twitchy.

'That's alright love. Just watch it for now, any sensations?'

Yes.

'Can you tell me about them?'

I breathed out, hitched and shaky. They have... sparkles? Waves of almost wind but thicker, soft and... bouncy... like moss? But clouds?

'Cloudy moss must be very soft.'

A spurt of laughter mixed with swollen sobs. It's floaty.

'That's wonderous love. We'll watch it together, okay?'

Okay.

The fibers and blood fell though my fingertips, leaving me a washed-out cloth, left in the rain for moons, and oh how hollow and wonderous the sunlight was.

Squioo?

'Yes?'

... You're wonderous. Thank you.

'Aw. Thank you love.'

[im-gonna-squeet]

Gerry and Michael get a cat

ao3

Gerry was currently sitting on his bed with his laptop (leitner hunting, of course) and waiting for his boyfriend to get home from... whatever he was doing -- he preferred not to ask.

Well.

boyfriend maybe wasnt the best word to describe their relationship.

Partially because of Michael's indifference to gender, and partially because, well, 'boyfriend' seemed like an insignificant title to be placed on a relationship between the 'throat of delusion incarnate' and The (almost) Archivist's ex- business partner.

Just as he was contemplating this, he felt the familiar static of It Is Not What It Is and couldn't help the warm smile spreading across his face.

"Hello, my bookburner." The Distortion greeted as it's door shut and Gerry felt two far too long, thin arms curl around him in ways arms should not be able to, like a snake constricting its prey.

It should scare him, he supposed, but like everything about Michael, it just seemed to make him grow even fonder.

"Hi, love." Gerry replied, leaning up to give it a kiss on what he thought was probably it's cheek, which was gratefully returned by a (quite literally) dizzying kiss.

"Have you found your book?" Gerry sighed, shaking his head, and leaned back into his statiky boyfriend, who happily started playing with his hair.

"Leitners are getting more and more difficult to find, which I guess is a good thing, but..." he trailed off, letting himself get lost in its maddening eyes, and knowing that Michael knew the end of that sentence.

It was something they talked about often, along with the other supernatural parts of their lives.

The truth is, without leitners to hunt and burn, Gerry didn't know what to do with his life, from the day he was born, he was surrounded by them and the things they were attached to.

When he'd left his mother, he was working with Gertrude, and has been all over the planet hunting them ever since. And with the recovery time for his surgeries, he was bored all the time.

Maybe he could get a normal job? A librarian perhaps, or a tattoo artist. Yeah, he liked the sound of that.

Just as he was coming to this conclusion, The Spiral's familiar static lowered pitch. "stop thinking, it's annoying." It moved its hand to gently tilt his head upwards, earning it a kiss.

"sorry, just thinking about... life, and leitners." Michael nodded, satisfied with this explination.

"Anyways, I need to eat, I was thinking we could try one of those recipes Jon sent us?"

The recipe (that Jon assured them would be simple) was proving quite difficult.

It probably didnt help that Gerry had never had to cook a proper meal before in his life (which is why Jon sent the recipes in the first place, along with Gerry trying to find a hobby to alleviate his boredom) and Michael was rather fascinated with the process.

"Oi, hands off!" Gerry swatted his boyfriend away from the sauce pot as he added more pepper and moved the spoon to his mouth to taste, recoiling as it burnt his tongue, then blowing on it and trying it again.

He added the pasta before looking around at their kitchen.

Yikes.

He'd need to clean up later. Its not that he didnt trust Michael, he just didn't trust it to clean up.

When he turned around, Michael had already gotten out their bowls, a plate, cutlery, and drinks. Gerry beckoned it down to give it a greatful kiss on the lips and plated up their pasta and garlic bread – not homemade but it seemed they were nowhere near ready for that.

And they carried their meals to the living room, sending a picture of their food and sending it to Jon – who replied with the cat heart eyes emoji – before turning the tv on to some shitty rom-com to eat to.

Michael, of course, didnt need to eat, but enjoyed partaking in pony rituals every so often.

When the film was finished, Gerry sighed and got up to clean.

Cleaning took longer than expected (who knew that things were easier to clean before they dry?).

Once he was finally finished, he climbed into bed and opened his laptop back up. Too tired to continue leitner hunting, he started aimlessly scrolling through social media.

Shortly afterwards, he felt Michael (who was far less humanoid now) get into bed behind him, wrapping its limbs around him in a lazy approximation of a hug.

Since his brain surgery, he'd noticed it was a lot easier to be around it, which was amazing. He still got Michael–headaches but those were a lot more bearable than his tumor headaches, and he'd even started to grow rather fond of them, as he had with everything Michael related.

"Can we get a cat?," Hearing the change in Michael's static, Gerry clarified "I mean, with me having to stay home most days, and you going off doing Spiral things, I get bored, so I think it'd be cool to have a cat."

Michael's static changed a few times, too quick to decipher, before landing on the high tone he knew showed excitement.

He turned around to see a too big, too many teethed smile pointed at him.

"that would be fun."

Gerry could see it scheming.

"We should do it!" Michael confirmed, nodding its head vigorously, half of its smile slipping off of its face.

So the next day, they did just that.

First, they went to the pet shop and got everything they needed.

"Oooh I like this one!" a significantly more human–looking michael pointed to a garish tie-dye cat bed.

Gerry winced.

Since Michael moved in with him, his exclusively black and red flat had acquired more colour than he ever thought he'd own.

But he couldn't resist Michael, no matter how stubborn he usually is, so in the trolly it went.

Gerry saw a food and water bowl set, black with fish bones painted on, and immediately put them next to the bed.

They were perfect.

They picked up a few more bits and bobs (food, toys, a cat tree, litter box, and treats) before heading home to set it all up.

Of course, with Michael's doors, getting around was very easy, so they went home, set up the flat, and were quickly at the shelter.

"Hi, I'm Nicole, is there anything I can help you with?" the worker asked with a friendly smile.

"Um, yes actually, we're looking to get a cat," Gerry looked up to Michael, its hand a comforting weight in the one not on his cane, he'd never been very good at socializing, and it made him quite anxious, "could you point us towards them please?"

At this, the woman – Nicole, she'd said – asked them to follow her and started walking.

After about twenty seconds of walking, they came to a room with rows of cages, each one with a cat inside and a label on it.

They were far too small for a cat, Gerry thought.

"Who has been here the longest?" Michael asked suddenly, startling Gerry out of his thoughts.

They were pointed towards a cage with a raggedy looking cat in it.

The sign read 'Biscuit, 6 years old, likes: laying in the sun, napping, eating. dislikes: ponies.'

She was a thin black cat with ginger markings, she was missing an eye, and part of her ear.

Miraculously, she didn't seem to be even a little unnerved at Michael's presence.

Gerry fell in love instantly.

"We want her." he decided aloud, feeling Michael's excited static next to him.

Nicole looked hesitant, but whether it was Gerry's style, the determination in his voice, or Michael's generally unnerving presence, she obliged without argument, and soon enough they were heading home with their cat, Biscuit.

Once they got home, they let her out of her carry case and put her food and water down, letting her get used to the flat.

For the first two weeks or so, they hardly see her around, but as she starts to get more comfortable, she spends more time with them, and within a couple months, she was sitting with Gerry all day everyday, and thoroughly enjoying his presence.

It took her longer to get used to Michael, of course, but she eventually grew fond of it and she occasionally took trips in it's corridors.

Jon, being the cat lover he is, stopped by much more frequently after they got her, and was their go-to cat sitter when they were out. Biscuit seemed to like him, which was great.

And Gerry finally got the happy (though unconventional) family he never thought he'd be able to have.

reblogs > likes

[ineffablesnakegender]

A little bit of autistic Janus for your soul <3

Hurt/comfort fic in which Janus has a meltdown because his of his hair (based off of true events in my life) and is comforted by the rest of the squad

Familial dlampr

Characters: main character Janus, Remus, Logan, Roman, Patton, Virgil, Thomas mention

First time writing in a while so please be easy on me also sorry if formatting is weird

If there was one thing Janus hated it was his hair. His hair that would constantly fall on his forehead and become a disgusting distraction. His hair that tickled his ears and sent him into a frustrated flurry. His hair that was now all over the bathroom floor. He hadn’t meant to do it, really he hadn’t, but he had become increasingly frustrated with his hair through the month. You see this whole thing started when Janus decided it was time to finally do that big stack of paper work from the lies he had told at an obnoxiously loud and irritatingly bright party that Thomas promised to go to for his friend.

Janus was sitting there at his desk and was hunched over his work, and with one last wriggle of annoyance, he had finally finished with the large stack of papers, now with every box checked I dotted and t crossed, Janus looked up from his desk and the first thing he noticed before he had gotten the chance to straighten his back was, of course, the wretched mess of itchy, bothersome hair that was now doubled in length sense the last time he checked. Janus grimaced and mumbled some colorful words directed at the ever so unaware strands that sat atop his skin, stretching his back and standing Janus noted to himself the mess he had made on his desk and promptly added cleaning it to his to do list choosing instead to be rid himself of the scratching at his neck, ears, and forehead.

It had been about a week since Janus cut his hair but the phantom itching persisted causing Janus to, on more than one occasion, consider asking Remus to simply cut his head off to make the insufferable feeling go away.

Another week passed and the itch was still not gone and Janus just couldn’t stop focusing on his hair, the way it fell into his ears and forehead and ran up his neck, it was as close to torture you could get without any actual torture involved, and Janus had just about had enough of it, and to make matters worse whenever he would tug at or scratch his hair even a little to much Remus would always be right there with a “Dee you are bleeding!” Or “Janus you’re pulling your hair out!” Didn’t he see that was the goal? Well the blood was just a side effect but it resided the pain of the ants crawling on Janus’ head.

Another week and Janus was ready to snap, NO, he had snapped! Janus would refuse to be without a hat on and even that was irritating to his skin, only small bits better that the hair on its own. He made the decision he had just cut it to long and so, in the middle of the night, Janus crept his way into the bathroom trying to be as quiet as possible and picked up the scissors. He had only intended to cut a little bit but it wasn’t enough and so he cut more hair off and some more and just a bit more just one more chop and soon he found him self reaches for the clippers and completely shaving his hair down to a thin layer of spikes. By now he was crying, his increasingly manic race to rid himself of the painful feeling forcing him to spiral into a frenzy of cursing, shaking, and stimming frustratedly, he had abandoned being quiet somewhere between the crying and the clippers and as he turned the clippers off their quiet but oh so loud buzz stopped abruptly and Janus could finally hear a very concerned Remus on the other side of the locked door, when had he locked the door? He reached up to unlock the door, when had he sat down? Remus flung the door open.

“Janus are you alright?!? What happened?!!” Remus spun his head around until he found Janus on the floor, who was suddenly not crying at all?

“Janus-“ Remus cut himself off with a sigh “what are you doing in here?”

“Why were you yelling kiddo?” A very anxious Patton said from beside Remus, when had the others got here?

“I was?” Janus finally said after what felt like forever. Patton let out a very concerned noise that Janus failed to catch his head spun in captivating circles of emotion.

“Yes Janus the whole house could hear you” “and then some” Patton said cut off by Roman who’s head appeared out from underneath his velvet sheets, Janus shivered at the thought of it, velvet? Seriously Roman velvet? Do you enjoy pain?

“Sorry guess I wasn’t paying attention.” Janus said far to nonchalantly for Patton’s taste. A long silence rung out from everyone as they all seemed to get what had happened and collectively waited for Janus to come back from his spiral, Virgil and Roman backed off from the situation, Logan and Patton went to prepare things to possibly help the situation such as water, Janus’ favorite gloves, and a heating lamp that Janus liked a lot. Remus just stood in the doorway and kept watch over Janus as his brain cleared of the fog and static that prevented Janus from being able to process what had happened.

“I’m bleeding.” Janus said so quiet it was almost a thought.

“Where? Do you want help?” Remus said equally as quiet

Janus nodded and pointed to the back of his ear and sure enough a small River had formed down his neck and seeped into his shirt.

Remus healed the wound without touching Janus as much as possible and after a while the two of them walked to the living room where Patton and Logan where setting up Janus’ favorite fidget toys and sensory gadgets. Janus immediately snatched up the black and white chew necklace that was in the shape of a crystal. He flopped down on the couch tired from the emotional outburst.

It was already the afternoon by the time anyone spoke next, everyone trying to give Janus the necessary time to cool down. It was Janus who spoke first.

Everyone was in the living area reading or listening to music through headphones or doing some arts and crafts, something quiet to let Janus rest, and Janus himself was simply sitting on the couch and watching everything around him.

“….thank you..” he whispered out “for helping me..” he looked entirely too unbothered but anyone who knew him could tell he was everything but.

“No reason to thank us Janus it’s not like you choose to have a meltdown.” Remus responded distracted by the bloody picture he was drawing.

“Yes but still… it means a lot to me.” Janus smiled the smile not reaching his eyes but still genuine.

They all silently agreed that it was ok to be noisy again and life went on as normal, but Janus would never forget the incident. Sure he had had meltdowns before but it was just him and Remus then and while Remus always did a great job and tried his best he didn’t always know what to do. Janus felt lucky and loved more than ever when he was with everyone and he knew deep down that no longer would there be days where Remus was left to scramble to help him because they weren’t alone anymore and he knew it would always stay that way forever.

[keravnous]

- agent 14/agent haines; the heart wants what it wants

Somewhere sirens are going off, howling with the steady, racing heartbeat of the city. They sweep to Steve's ears but they do not manage to reach his brain - currently oddly occupied with keeping his eyes locked on a figure a few meters away.

The man sits alone, smoking his third cigarette in under seven and a half minutes. Dark circles under his eyes, framing his face delightfully, only adding to his typical Los Santos appearance: stressed face, five o'clock shadow, chain smoking and the shakes of visible caffeine abuse.

Steve had never seen him before.

"Boss?"

"Yeah?", he just can't bring himself to look away. The man takes his phone out, seemingly picking up a call, his face immediately crunching up in annoyance.

"We're heading back in, are you coming with us?"

He lits another cigarette. Steve wants to lick the smoke from his lips, wants to know if he tastes like it too, wants to taste the fire of his lighter, to bury his hands in his dark locks and never let go of him again -

"Yeah, fuck. Sure."

Steve gets up, chair screeching loudly over the concrete, getting his hopes up that the stranger would look up at the noise, react to it in any way. But the loud screeeech is like any other noise in this goddamn city really, one that citizens get used to over time and eventually grow to ignore it completely. Thus he doesn't look up at all, continues to hiss into his phone and Steve retreats, like a beaten dog, back into his office.

_

It takes him thirty minutes to realize - a government offical and a highly decorated one, too - that his office's windows head towards the terrace. But when he peeks through the blinds the plaza's already deserted.

-

It takes a whole week full of nerve-wrecking lunch breaks and one or two bombings somewhere in Europe, before he sees him again. He doesn't wear a suit this time and Steve is convinced that he has to be a banker, taking his break here instead of his office's cantine.

He feels like he's struck by lightning. He wants to walk over there and introduce himself, but he also just wants to sit, admire from afar, to never move again. The man lights a cigarette and that also ignites a fluttering feeling in Steve's stomach and his chest, sending tingles straight to his fingers. The small butterflies leave a burning sensation and he wants to tear his chest apart, grab them by their wings and riiiip them out, until blood spills everywhere. Dave and Sanchez are arguing, but he can't hear them anymore, the pounding of his heart too loud, a static noise filling his ears. His body is releasing all the build-up tension worth the week's wait, and his hands grab the armrests of his chair.

This is crazy. He's crazy. This man is a complete stranger and here he is, highly decorated Special Agent Steve Haines, national hero and model employee of the FIB, and its his own body that's suddendly betraying him.

The man looks up and Steve's world stops. The noises fade, maybe his heart even stops pounding - he really can't be sure.

The man has pretty eyes, all blue and green like the atlantic ocean far out on the sea, in the shimmering sunlight. He's pretty. Very much so. He's maybe around his own age, maybe a little younger, high cheekbones that probably (Steve's uncannily sure about that) deliver quite a show once the man laughs. He looks good in his clothes. A little too good.

Steve wants to get up and leave. Steve wants to sit and continue to stare. Steve wants to rip his clothes of his body - wants to disappear, because he can't stand the other man's eyes on him. Checking him out. Judging him.

It's quite the stare, really. One that could send him to his knees or make his blood boil.

Steve's phone rings on the table, the take-away cups vibrate with it and he nearly jumps in his chair. He picks his phone up hastily and the stranger throws him an arrogant smile, one brow cocked up and looks down at his laptop again. Steve gets up and leaves the table.

_

It's Friday and it's been a week since he felt like his body was completely failing him. Since then the stranger had spent every lunch break at the plaza and Steve had locked eyes with him multiple times, had bathed in the soaring tingles of his body.

Today, he's finally alone, with Norton on a trip to Liberty City and Sanchez having called in sick yesterday. He takes the elevator down to the ground floor and checks his hair in its mirror one last time, until the doors swing open with a loud diiing. He steps out, passing through the entry hall like a conqueror and then he's outside, the air all warm and mushy around him. His gaze falls upon the terrace.

The man is not there. His table is empty and so is his chair. Steve's shoulders slump.

He sits down and chugs down a cup of coffee and then another one and suddendly someone behind him clear's their throat.

"Got some fire?"

He turns around and his heart skips a beat. It's him.

_

He does taste like smoke. And a little sweet, a little spicy. It makes his lips tingle and burn, his groin growing hot.

He breaks their lips apart, as he presses the smaller man against the tiles of the bathroom.

"What's your name, huh?"

"Warren", his cheeks are red. He's so hot, his hands are hot against Steve's scalp and he presses himself against the other man, rolls his name around with his tongue.

"Warren. I'm Steve." The answer is another heated kiss and a hand that rushes to the fly of his trousers.

_

He doesn't see him again after this, not during his lunch break nor anywhere else in the city. The weeks turn into months and sometime inbetween Steve stops to care.

_

He's at a bar with some guys he still knows from college. They bore him but one of them pays for the drinks so he decides he could survive a few more hours. They talk and talk and talk and Steve can't bring himself to care and then he sees it.

A familiar leather jacket and suddendly their gazes lock. Warren smiles and Steve can't stop himself from smiling back.

_

They are in a bathroom again, hungrier this time. "I am sorry", Warren breaks the kiss, only for Steve to dive back in, "I had to leave. Work-related."

"Where'you working?", Steve's lips nibble at his throat, taking in is taste and his scent. He feels high with it.

"Maze Bank. I-I'm a banker", bingo.

"Looked the part", Steve grabs his hips and they stumble backwards against the stall's door and Warren presses himself between Steve's opened legs.

" 'n you?", he's slurring as Steve's hands wander underneath his shirt, up up up his back. He doesn't feel like lying, trying to would be uselss anyway. Steve knows what he and his colleagues look like.

"Government." Warren looks at him, a second too long, and Steve isn't quite sure what to make of it. But then their lips lock again and he choses not to think about it too much.

_

A week and three hook-ups later and Steve's locked in in his office. He feels horrible, but some things about Warren just don't add up and his paranoia is slowly kicking in. And so is his curiosity. He types the name into the blinking field, letter by letter. Slowly, so he won't make a mistake.

No data found.

Steve runs another program. And another.

He does not exist. Warren simply doesn't exist.

Steve leans back and rubs his eyes. He's so fucked.

_

Steve doesn't remember how he ended up on the living room of Warren's appartment, button-down torn and nose bleeding heavily. The cut above Warren's eyebrow bleeds as well, warm blood tickling down his cheeks and onto Steves neck.

Warren's hard and pressing against him as he raises his fist for another blow. Steve can't stop himself and laughter bubbles out of him, his ribs aching and hurt shooting, spiraling through his body. Warren, one ocean eye blue and lilac and a nasty scratch on his forearm, looks at him baffled.

"What is it, Haines?"

"The fuck", he's gasping for air, Warren's hard dick still poking his hip, "Do I know."

They look at each other while Steve's laugh is slowly ebbing away and Warren clenches his teeth. "I hate you, you fucking FIB-maggot."

"No, you don't", Steve rolls his hips up and Warrens eyelids flutter, "Not as much as I hate you, you fucking spy."

Warren rolls his hips against Steve's and his body falls forward, one hand lazily holding his weight, right next to Steve's head. He tilts his chin towards it and places soft kisses on the warm, thin skin that's between his teeth and Warren's veins. They both moan. He should kill him on the spot, getting rid of a potential threat and the competition all in one, but he can't bring himself to stop.

"Fuck me like you mean it", Warrens lips are pressed against his ear and his fingers claw hungrily at his chest, as he sighs needily into Steve's ear. He's ready to oblige.

_

The next time he sees Warren the sun's up again and the air is crisp and cold. He's wearing his leather jacket again and Steve wants to get up, head over to his table and tear it from his shoulders. Sanchez lights a cigarette and Dave says something stupid again, but Steve can't bring himself to care.

He looks at Warren, Fourteen, and his white shirt. The opened collar exposes his neck and the dark-red bitemarks. He inhales the smoke of his cigarette and as his lips wrap around it again he locks his gaze with Steve. His stomach tingles and 14 raises a brow. Cocky, arrogant, inviting and challenging. Steve feels one corner of his mouth tilting upwards as he leans back into his chair, legs spread wide.

Oh, this would be one fine game.

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia CH 15

////TW Deceptions of canon typical violence and a home invasion near the end////

“Yea so the pizza is not only aesthetically pleasing but pretty fuckin' good too.”you finish your rant on why the two of you should drive out to Point Pleasant some time.

“Not gonna lie it seems more like you want to,” he pops his knuckles, “drag me miles away to sacrifice me to some old god.” the popping gets worse.

Shit, Toby's getting nervous. You probably look pretty sketchy right now considering the fact that you've been suggesting the two of you go out to Point Pleasant for the past thirty-ish minutes. Toby had pulled off to the shoulder lane once Connor's barking started up. Alerting the two of you to his incoming tics. It seemed to be a long episode so you offered to drive off the interstate and on to the side of the road instead. Hoping that maybe the absence of the additional outside stimulants coming from cars driving past you two would calm Toby's tics.

Unfortunately you'd gotten caught up talking about your late night escapades having been taken by the fact that Toby didn't seem to mind. He'd actually understood that restlessness you went on about. And when he asked what was the furthest town you've driven to in one night. You kind of let loose and spilled your guts about the Mothman capital.

For half an hour, on an offshoot of the interstate in the middle of nowhere, he was trapped with no where to run. Of course the poor guy was probably scared of you at this point. He was just indulging you out of fear not out of any genuine interest.

Why couldn't you just read signals properly?

“No!” from his jump you've probably said that way too loudly, “I mean sorry I get carried away – Mothman's cool – the town is a nice tourist trap and I thought you'd think it was cool – but then I just probably just seemed weird to you and now I just....ughr none of that made sense did it?”

“Weeell” he drags out as thought he's thinking on it “nope none.”

Looking at his face you can see his red stained scarred lips pull into a sort of smirk and there's a glint in his eyes. He's being sarcastic, he's making fun of you. He isn't weirded out by you just being yourself and ranting about nothing in particular or running around in circles with a train of thought only  to get confused or baffled by the workings of your own brain.

The smug dick. Letting you spiral while he watched on in amusement. This reeks of Brian, has his fuck boy energy written all over it. You'll just have to spend more time with Toby to make sure the sweet man next to you doesn't turn into a menace to society. Or at least not a menace to you.

“Meanie.” you blow a raspberry in his direction, he returns the gesture albeit a lot messier than he intended. Spit seeps from the gash in his cheek and dribbles down the scarred edge of his lips.

Toby lets out a grunt and looks down at his spit in disgust. Whether that's in himself or just his spit you can't tell. Leaning over the console you pop open the glove box to hand him some emergency napkins you had in there.

“Fuckin' Mary Poppins.” you hear him mutter over you.

Choosing to ignore his teasing and take the high road in this you hand him the napkins and relax back into your seat. Watching him run the napkin up and down his arms trying to get any spit that may have backfired onto him, which was definitely most of it.

“You good?” you ask.

“Uh yea 's just spit no big deal.” it's such a simple statement but you can't help the smile that it brings to your face.

You meant if he'd be good to drive yet since you two had been out here for the better part of an hour now. It was nearly two in the afternoon. Neither of you anticipated the quick slushy run turning into an all day event. And while you wouldn't mind driving around for two more hours or so – you're quickly coming to the end of your battery.

“Meant to drive, dork.”

“Hmm...Yea should be now,” Toby says wadding up the napkins before spinning in the passenger seat towards you and gently flinging the wad of napkins in your face, “and 'm not a dork. You are.”

Returning his spit used napkin to him, tossing it just a tad harsher than he originally had, “You're right you're a brat!”

You exit the car before he can throw it at you again. Though it really doesn't matter when he just pelts you with it from over the hood when you switch seats anyway. Picking the napkin up off the ground you hold on to it and place it in one of the empty slushy containers sitting in your console.

The mature course of action. However, you do poke your tongue out at Toby as you do it. He only rolls his eyes as he huffs out a laugh at you.

Toby hovers over the gear shift waiting for either an alert or one of his tics to rear its head. When neither happens he put the car in drive and you two begin your hour and half drive back to Kepler.

Or would've, had it not been for the traffic you seemed to get stuck in not even five minutes after getting back on the interstate.

“You're fucking kidding me.” Toby says incredulously.

After ten minutes of going nowhere, all the while his leg bouncing was shaking the car, Toby abruptly get out of the car and marches to the passenger door flinging it open.

“You're driving.” is all he says.

You don't think there's any talking him out of it. You're good to drive so that isn't the issue, his abruptness about the situation is what stuns you. Wordlessly you get out of the car and take the wheel. Getting buckled in you see from the corner of your eye Toby grabbing you phone and typing away.

He seems to find what he's looking for as static flows through your stereo. The sponsored ads for the white noise “podcast” start playing before fading back into the never ending static. Your phone is placed back under the radio and Toby reclines his seat all the way.

It's tense for a moment as you wait for something else to happen. Whether it's an outburst or an explanation you aren't sure, the anticipation for anything to happen hangs thick in the car. You keep your focus on the road and traffic in front of you figuring Toby will let you know what's up in his own time.

The sound of shuffling comes from behind you as Connor scoots over to his handler to be of assistance. Only for him to be gently waved off. And he goes back to his spot laying down and honing in on you. Since you are currently driving...even though scooting the car up a few inches in the past twenty minutes shouldn't really qualify as driving. Nevertheless the pup remains vigilant in his work.

It's probably an hour or so before Toby finally speaks, breaking the semi silence he put the car in.

“Traffic jams make me anxious.” he doesn't move from his reclined position, just stares up at the ceiling of your car.

A noncommittal hum comes from the back of your throat. You'd assumed it was something to that nature but didn't want to pry. It must be bad if it was something that made him willingly pass the torch of driving, something that also made him wildly uncomfortable.

“Wanna talk – or do you just need silence.”

The answer came in the form of the silence that followed. It was another long hour and a half before the traffic finally cleared. You weren't even aware so many people could be on the interstate going through West Virginia on a Monday afternoon. Since you were at the tail end of the traffic by the time you got to where you assume it started, by the left over debris in the road and fresh skid marks heading into the median, you really couldn't put together what had gone on.

Your eyes didn't focus in on the leftovers of the accident nor did you slow down like many other vehicles. It's not like you enjoy seeing the wreckage of cars or people being lifted into ambulances but you understand most people give in to that base human curiosity. You just hoped everyone involved was safe and okay.

From your peripheral you catch Toby turning his head to face you every few minutes or so. Disregarding it as a tic you continue on driving. While this accident had cleared you don't doubt the power of stupidity to not influence another reckless driver, who might now be late from traffic, to start weaving in between lanes.

“Are we past it?” comes the quietest voice you've ever heard from Toby.

So stunned by the volume it takes you a minute to register what he'd asked.

“Uh...oh yea. We passed it like fourteen minutes ago?” assuming 'it' had been the crash site, though you hadn't been keeping track of time honestly.

No point when the two of you would be getting back to Kepler after dark anyway. You'd ask Toby if he'd want to grab food before you drop him off at the lodge but his continued silence as he fixes his seat up right clues you in that he might not be up for anything other than turning in for the night. Honestly you're at the point yourself, so you don't really mind the silence driving back.

Just like you thought the two of you got into Kepler a little after eight o'clock. Having been stopped by another accident, this one not lasting nearly as long to get situated, had really taken a toll on Toby's mood though. You could practically feel something eating at him as anxiety radiated off his form.

He didn't offer any clarification for his reactions and you didn't pry. Most times when you get a similar way you find it's easier to just let it run it's course than to try and calm yourself. So you're a little surprised when you reach the lodge and  Toby practically volts out of your car, when he gently taps on your window after he's retrieved Connor from behind you.

“Get home safe.”

Those words hit your ears with a bit more weight than they normally do. Maybe because the day's been full of accidents on the road. Or maybe because of the lack of interaction the two of you have had for the past four hours. Whatever the reason it doesn't change how Toby lingers at your side even after your reply. He finally steps away, once again falling silent, and you're able to drive home after a final farewell to him.

The way Toby reacted today never leaves your mind. While theories and ideas toss around in your head you can feel the bubbling weight in your stomach build as cold sweats break out all over your body. Combating the weight in your stomach is its emptiness. Having only eaten the bowl of cereal today and nothing else has left you on empty since you'd gotten into traffic. However, being so preoccupied with Toby's change in behavior you'd forgone food in favor of getting your friend home as soon as possible.

Pausing when you come to the fork in the road making you choose between going straight home and fighting with cooking a meal or running to the mini mart and grabbing something quick and unhealthy. You normally take a bit to decide, but today it seems your gut is telling you to forgo the food and get home. You can't quite place a finger on what you're feeling – not quite fear or anxiety or even paranoia. All of which would be valid considering how weird your afternoon had been. Instead it feels like a little voice is ever so quietly telling you that you should get home immediately.

The voice pipes up again as soon as you gently shut your car door. It seems to warn you that there is danger near by.

'Fuck' is all you can think about as memories of the evidence of your stalker come into play.

It had been so busy lately that you'd honestly forgotten all about the stalker. Hell your bat was still in your room, so you were fucked if your intuition was right about this. You were at least going to be smart about this and pull up the Cowell's home phone contact on your cell before even getting near the front door. If anything happened you'd call and either leave a message or have a concerned Big Jo over instantly.

The house is silent as you open and shut the front door. Not anything new to you but with the tension in the air you're more than certain someone is here with you. Making your way through the house you peer into the kitchen and living room. The coast is clear on those fronts which leaves the hall closet, your bedroom, and the bathroom right across from your room.

Quickly ruling out the closet because of the limited space for a grown adult to hide in. The only options are your bedroom and the bathroom. The bathroom that has the door open at all times and would make a great place to hide and ambush you while you went into you room. Or a good place to lock yourself in to call Jo in case they were in your room, you'd just have to be ready to sprint out faster than they could register seeing you. Then there's your room, multiple hiding spots and the baseball bat you'd left in there. Even if they came empty handed they were the one with the weapon right now, you had to be careful.

As you make your way slowly and soundlessly down the hall way you hear a small beep come from your bedroom just as you stand in the doorway of the bathroom. You don't own anything that beeps. This thought causes you to freeze in place all but your thumb which hits the dial button.

Just in time too, because in your stupor a large figure in a black ski mask opens the door to your bedroom. You barely have time to react to the sudden appearance before they come barreling into you. A sharp pain bursts in the back of your head as it collides with the wall that you are tackled into. Phone forgotten, instinctively you bring both hands to your attacker's face.

They may be wearing a ski mask but it will do little to protect their eyes against your nails. Thankfully they have a stupid red frowny face decorating the mask, giving you the perfect target for their eyes. Not expecting your quick reflexes the attacker pulls away slightly trying to get out of your reach, and get your hands off of their mask. They must be worried you'll find out their identity, and while that would be nice you'd enjoy surviving this encounter a lot more. So you continue your assault on your would be assaulter.

A large hand comes down and swoops both of yours in a crushing grip. Harshly yanking them away from their face. Unfortunately for them they'd gotten one of your knees pressed against your chest when they tackled you. With the new distance between your bodies you're able to lift your leg up higher and kick at them.

“Get OFF of me..you piece of SHIT.” more force exerted on certain words while you kicked them solidly in the chest.

Their grip actually gets tighter on your hands as you knock the air out of their lungs. Aside from that and their pained grunts they weren't giving much of a reaction. You'd be certain you weren't kicking hard enough if it wasn't for a cough that ripped through them on a particularly powerful kick to the stomach.

There's a distant warble that you can't make out, it's high pitched and annoying. Good, that irritating sound will only succeed in pissing you off more and enabling you to unleash your rage on the fucker holding you down right now.

Before you can give another blow pain erupts through your chest as it constricts. You can't breathe and you see black dots forming in your vision as you're slammed into the tile floor of your bathroom. There's a foggy feeling in your head, and that distant warble gets more frantic and higher in pitch. But you can't focus on that you can't focus on anything that isn't the merciless thudding in your chest, the pounding of your head, and the god awful static that is starting to burn your ears like a white hot fire.

With the first heavy and heaving breath you're able to take as your assailant presses you into the ground, you feel the rush of adrenaline surge through you. Without any leverage you can do little more  than squirm and thrash under the heavier figure. A brief feeling of vindication showers you as one of your arms is tugged free in your flailing. Your attacker isn't quick enough to restrain you this time and you reach your hand up to their face, this time intent on clawing it up from under the mask. That way some one would know based on the nail marks who did this, and maybe the DNA left under your skin would be enough identify them and save a future would be victim.

God you didn't want to be a victim.

Just before you can hook your fingers into their flesh they are thrown off of you. All adrenaline you had before turns into ice as you stare at their companion. The white mask with painted black features. It hadn't been a hallucination.

They hadn't been a hallucination.

They'd been in your home before. While you were there and blissfully unaware. They'd been so still, so quiet that you'd never even thought they were anything more than a messed up part of your psyche. There isn't enough time to dwell on this feeling of pure terror that spikes through you. But you still freeze in the face of the mask, only to be rewarded with an iron grip locked into your hair pulling you up by the scalp. Then you're bashed against the floor twice.

You honestly hadn't meant to play dead. In your shock it was the only thing you could do to just go limp. That once high pitched warble is now a drawn out moan almost, the static is playing at the edges of your mind as you barely make out the sound of retreating footsteps.

You want to roll onto your back but as nausea hits you at just the thought you stay on your side. Eyes fluttering against your will, this time not a tic but in an attempt to heal your body on it's limited energy reserves. You doubt you'd be able to turn over again if you needed to vomit. Hell you'd be lucky to stay conscious till someone came looking for you.

Would that be in the morning when you don't show up for work? Would it be days from now? Wait did you manage to call the Cowells?

The pounding in your head gets worse with each passing second. You officially can't keep your eyes open anymore. There's no reaction from you when you hear your front door burst open and yelling echo through the empty house. You don't stir from your sleep as someone taps you, not shaking you but just gentle taps careful to not exacerbate your injuries.

When Big Jo got to your home he slammed open your door and had his gun at the ready for your attackers. The house didn't look messed with and nothing was out of place, at least to him he'd only ever been out this far to drop little Jo off once or twice. It was quiet in your home except for a murmuring coming down the hall. So he made his way down slowly, vigilant for any sudden movement if there was anyone other than you here. He'd called your name several times since entering and hadn't received a reply.

As he got closer to the bathroom the murmuring became louder, peering in his heart stopped for a beat. The weathered man has seen a lot of shit in his time but he always hated to see a kid in your condition. Beaten with bruises littering your face and wrists all while being unresponsive as he tried to wake you. The source of the noise became clear when he saw your phone a few feet away slid into the corner away from you.

Dia was still on the line and sobbing now. If that didn't twist the knife that was already speared into his heart. Picking up your phone he spoke with his wife trying to reassure her as he felt for a pulse. You had one, one that was faster than normal. Your body was probably still reeling from what you just went through. But he wasn't a doctor and wouldn't count you out of the woods until one assessed you themself.

Jo wasn't waiting long before he heard the sirens, he went out front to meet the sheriff. After you'd been packed into an ambulance and taken to St. Francis Hospital Jo told Dia so she could meet you there. He'd stuck around while the sheriff and his deputy surveyed the area and came back to him for his statement.

“Looks like we've got most of what we needed Jo...But the kid, they got hallucinations you said?” Sheriff Owens asked.

“Why're you asking Zeke?” now wasn't the time to anger the large man as he was barely holding his normal civility.

“Now I don' mean nothin' by it – 's jus' tha' well we didn' find any evidence of a break in.”

“You think the kid coulda done that to themself? The marks on their wrists are bigger than their hands!”

“Jo, in some cases people sufferin' from delusions can do all sorts a things ta themselves... 'm just trin' ta find out if we ought ta have 'em kept in the ward for a bit.”

“They're fine. They've told me themself that they only get visual hallucinations and they can differentiate between the two.” a small lie on his part, he knows occasionally a hallucination will grab your attention for longer than it should if that were the case but he'll keep you out of the damn ward for now because this wasn't a hallucination. He had heard the struggle going on between you and someone else.

Right now his top concern was getting to the hospital and meeting up with Dia to make sure your condition was stable. If he had to lie to the sheriff to do it, so be it. Not like he wouldn't enlist his own detail to figure out what went down here. He'd let you stay with them while he contacted Lydia about updating security on her property.

Sheriff Owens didn't put up a fight on this, and said he'd swing by the hospital Wednesday to get your statement on the encounter. With that the sheriff and deputy piled into their car and left. Jo had found your keys still in the door and locked your home, a lot of good it did you but at least this way a bear wouldn't get in before they set up the new system.

Jo got to St. Francis and was greeted by his teary eyed daughter and sobbing wife. Dia really wasn't cut out for any type of violence. He's have to make sure she called her therapist this week for an extra appointment or two just to help her through this. Looking at his daughter he sees the worry in her eyes as she runs to him.

A doctor comes up to the family to inform them of your condition.

“Ah Mr. Cowell good to see you. Mx. LN is responsive right now, and in enough of their right mind to complain that we are keeping them awake.” The doctor pauses with a slight chuckle, “We have them set up with an IV drip that's giving them fluids, their pain meds, and for tonight they'll also have a caloric infusion. They mentioned that they hadn't eaten much today. So to ensure their body has the energy to heal we thought it'd be the best course of action. We're keeping them up for another hour or so before they can sleep and then we'll be keeping them for observation for at least two days.”

“Can we see YN?” little Jo interrupts.

“Unfortunately we believe they wouldn't enjoy that right now. Their injuries aren't extensive but they are quite cranky due to residual pain and hunger.” the doctor says with a smile to little Jo. “Now speaking of their injuries the worst of which is their slight concussion again we're monitoring that and they seem to be very receptive to us right now. And then there's the dislocation of their left shoulder that we've already mended and the various bruising and mental trauma they're likely to retain from the incident your wife has briefly informed us about. We'll give a card for a good therapist to you and one to Mx. LN on their departure. When can we expect the Sheriff coming?”

“Owens said Wednesday.”

“Perfect, then that should be all. If anything changes or we want to keep them longer we'll let you know right away. And Miss Cowell if you come back in the morning we're sure Mx. LN will be much more agreeable company.”

The doctor waits for a moment letting the Cowells have time to process and ask a question or two. But when nothing comes up the doctor turns away to continue their work elsewhere.

And with that the very emotionally exhausted Cowell family go home. With plans to come visit you sometime tomorrow. Big Jo does however makes a few phone calls before going to bed that night. It isn't lost on him that he's already had one employee mysteriously vanish, he doesn't like the thought that she was targeted and your next on some hit list.

[unrelatedpostsetc]

Crap spamton drawings in my assignment book. I don’t know how to draw but who give a shit. more disorganized thoughts below the cut. Image ID in alt text and below cut. The ID also sucks - I’m trying to get better, so feel free to send an ask if you have any advice on that front.

I don’t care that Mettaton never got famous in this universe - I’m just making shit up. Anyway, I think Spamton would have been a big fan of Mettaton’s shows, not least evidenced by the fact that he plagiarized the guy’s cool robot body design. I also think he would snore loud as hell. The colored image (the one that’s not in pencil) is based on an actual spam email I received, although they were trying to get me to buy ethereum instead. Also, I’m aware this sucks. I drew most of these in like 12 seconds at 3 am, I haven’t drawn in years, and I never really learned how. I do take good-faith criticism.

edit: I’m adding the alt text here, just in case it doesn’t work. It’s super long because I can’t summarize to save my life. Sorry about that. [ID 1: assorted pencil doodles of Spamton (see next ID for description of him) in an assignment book. From left to right and top to bottom: unshaded (all white) drawing of him saying “bro”. Him grinning. Him face down on the floor, captioned “(splanched)”. Him sitting next to and leaning his head on a drawing of mettaton (from undertale), saying “oh mettaton we’re really in it now”. This and the two subsequent drawings are dated 08/10/21. Him with blacked-out glasses, then with huge cartoony pupils. Him hanging from strings, saying “whadda [hell]”. Him, with spirals going two different ways on his glasses and a more disproportionately large head than usual, saying (in caps) “[hot $ingles in [[your]] area now]”. Him with just the top of his head and arms peeking over a wall. Him lying on the floor again. Him, looking sweaty and nervous, with motion lines added to indicate that he’s moving forward and hitting himself in the chest, captioned “pacing and thumping chest” and “this guy sucks”. Final doodle has its own image (refer to ID 3). End ID. ] [ID 2: a drawing of Spamton, a white puppet-looking character with a long, pointy nose, large teeth, and a small body. He has slicked-back black hair that resembles a mullet. He is wearing a black v-neck sweater and glasses with one pink and one yellow lens, and has red spots on his cheeks. The image text reads (in caps) “9938 free [[kromer]] click [h3re]”. End ID.] [ID 3: pencil doodles of Spamton in an assignment book, dated 16/10/21. A wiggly vertical line separates the two drawings. In the first drawing, Spamton is sitting on a pile of nondescript lumps labeled “trash”. He is watching a video on a smartphone, which is emitting the text “Welcome back to ‘Cooking With a Killer Robot’”. He looks sad, or maybe thoughtful, and is thinking “wish I’d learned to cook”. In the second drawing, Spamton is lying on his side on more nondescript lumps, also labeled “trash”. His glasses are blacked out and his mouth is wide open. One arm is stretched out in front of him and the other is folded over his chest; his knees are slightly bent. The drawing is captioned “*extremely loud radio static*”. End ID.]

[mattzerella-sticks]

Heart in My Hand (15x18 “Despair” coda, Dean-centric, Destiel. post-that scene)

(ao3 link)

He was right there.

Cas was telling Dean everything he ever wanted to hear since meeting the angel of the Lord... only each and every word of his confession stabbed at Dean's heart. Because once he finished, there's no more time for them. For him. For any chance of happiness - all that taken away by the Empty. And now he has to carry on.

He tries. Stands, gets in his car and drives where Sam tells him. When he meets with the others, though...

           Dean spots them easily, only two people left on the planet besides himself. Standing in the middle of the street, waiting. He rolls to a stop near some crashed truck and an abandoned bag of groceries that spills out the top. Egg yolks oozing into a small puddle, mixing with freely leaking juice burning bright against dark asphalt. Visible even from where he sits inside his car.

           With Sam and Jack advancing, Dean crams the rest of his emotions down. Puts on a brave face. What he sees in his rearview isn’t anything like that. Trembling lips. Red, blotchy skin. Wide eyes that look more haunted than an average, Midwestern home. It’s better than how he appeared earlier. And since they’re already here, he must move on. Steeling himself, he exits his car.

           “Dean,” Jack starts, glancing from him to his empty car, “Where’s Cas?”

           Dean fails, again. “Cas…” He croaks, words blocked by the boulder that wedged into his throat once that black portal of despair vanished. Water traces familiar pathways down his cheeks, Dean steadying himself on his open door. Hisses panicked breaths through clenched teeth. “Cas, he…”

           “Oh.” Sam stumbles backwards, news dealing its own damage. Jack stares at Dean, jaw hanging limply. Gaze wet from threatening tears. “Was it…” his brother coughs, regaining his footing, “was it Billie?”

           He shakes his head, still not ready to speak. Voice abandoning him like… well.

           “Chuck?” Jack asks, inching closer. “Did Chuck make him crumble, too?”

           Dean nearly forgot. Chuck… if only. His anger would have a target, instead of hanging around him as if it were a fog. Miasma thick he cannot see past a never-ending reel of those few, long minutes. Cas’s parting message replaying ad nauseum. “No,” he manages, staring at Baby’s roof. “No, he – he sacrificed… to take out… to save…” Gasping, Dean lolls his head upwards. Staring up at an empty sky, sending what’s left of his sentence into the heavens.

           Someone approaches, lays a hand on his elbow. There because it hovered over Dean’s shoulder and chose a different path. Dean felt how close it came to fitting over his angel’s mark. Heard a sharp intake of breath after they noticed it, confirming Dean’s suspicion. “Dean,” Sam says – of course it’d be him. He recognizes his little brother’s voice. Especially when he forces confidence through his tone. It lacks, however, as an undercurrent of worry threaded through it. “Dean,” he continues, “what happened?”

           First, he searches for Jack. The younger boy leans across from Dean, waiting. Curious. Heartbroken. “He,” Dean whispers, knees buckling under him, “Billie was out for blood and – and we couldn’t stop her on our own. So Cas, he…” Sam’s grip tightens on his elbow, adds another supportive touch to Dean’s armpit. Keeps him standing. Dean thanks Sam by letting his hands stay. “We were dead to rights. So Cas… let himself be happy.”

           Jack’s muttered curse resolves a lingering question, whether he knew. Doubly confirmed since Jack draws further attention to himself, slamming his fist on Baby’s roof. Dean doesn’t raise his usual objections. “The Empty,” he says.

           “The Empty?” Sam glances between Jack and Dean, “What would… why would the Empty be there? When Cas is happy – what are you talking about?”

           “A deal Sammy,” Dean says. Louder, rougher. Shattering the eerie silence of this deserted city scape. “He made a deal with that damned thing, his life for… for…”

           “For mine.” Jack tilts his head, brows drawn in such a mirror of his father Dean nearly collapses where he stood. He remains strong. “When I was in Heaven, after I… I died, the first time.” Sighing, he stretches towards them. Extending an empty palm in a gesture of regret. “I’m… I’m so sorry –“

           “No.” Dean slides his own hand, taking Jack’s. Squeezes it. Grounding himself further. “I don’t… it’s not your fault. Cas made the deal. He – he’s made his choice. It’s… if he had the chance to go back, he’d still do it. Again and again. That’s who he is.” Dean hiccups, face cracking as his mouth stretches wide, gracing the others with a rueful smile. “Putting everyone’s needs before himself even if it… even if it meant he could never…” He shudders, Cas’s peaceful expression when the Empty struck frozen in his mind. “Too good, Cas was – he was too good –“

           “Dean, Dean!” Sam tore Dean away from Jack and Baby, carrying him off to sit on the sidewalk’s curb. Bent him, head between knees, helping him work past growing hysterics. Jack followed them, hovering. Shadow blocking the sun from shining above, casting him in darkness. Thinking this makes Dean spiral further. “Breathe Dean, just breathe.”

           It’s stupid. Dean wastes valuable time, their world crumbling all around them. And what is he doing? Crying. Making Sam and Jack comfort him because Dean lost the shovel he usually buries his feelings with. Empty probably taking that, too. It’s stupid. Maddening. Also, completely unavoidable.

           Dean wondered if, one day, he might shatter so completely gathering those pieces might prove impossible. He has his answer, at the worst possible moment.

           Soon he calms, and Dean can lift his head without flashing back there.

           “Dean…” Sam starts, cautiously. Treating Dean too carefully given how far into this war they’re in. “Dean, Cas’s deal… the Empty wanted him happy?” Nodding, Dean waits for the next question. Dreading it. “What… what did he do?”

           Sam hadn’t broken down, when they found Eileen’s duffel – and her phone. Recovered best he could and shouldered his pain. Allowed those seconds of grief, then used it as fuel. Whereas Dean drags his suffering into eternity. Mourns his best friend, and their lost potential. A stolen future. Years spent in denial. If he’d taken a chance earlier… at some point. “Cas,” Dean sighs, “he let himself… he confessed…” Explaining it was too difficult, but Sam needed to know. Jack, too. “He loved me, Sam.” Laughing, Dean wipes at his eyes. “He loved me, after all I – he still… he loved me, and that killed him.” Whispering, he repeats, “He loved me.”

           Sam’s features shifted, journeying from shock to a pitying understanding. Rubs comfortingly at his back, sighing. “Loving you was what made him happiest?”

           “Yeah… it was, it was so simple…” Dean uncurls, teetering, flirting with the idea of lying on his back. He and Jack trade a fleeting glance, Dean checking his reaction. Not surprised in the slightest. Kid’s too damned insightful. “Just admitting it was enough and… and you know what he said? He said he… Cas believed it was something he could never have?” His chest tightens, and Dean scoffs. “I don’t… how could that be – how could loving me be, I’m… how can I be Cas’s happiness? Out of all he could have had, and what he wanted was me – what I… what I thought I could never have.”

           “Don’t say that Dean,” Sam admonishes, “you are worthy of having love.”

           Shrugging, Dean turns from his and Jack’s heavy stares. Looks at the pooling egg yolk again; focuses on that spreading mess. “Cas said about as much, before the Empty… had this whole speech that I – it felt like I was being peeled away. Called me out for… it all feels so meaningless. Is that what it felt like, with Eileen? Being with someone who can see through you and make all this big stuff seem – well, seem not so big anymore?” Sam agrees, as much. “There we were Billie hot on our heels. Waiting for death, and he spits out the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I almost forgot what was going on. It was just him and me… him seeing – seeing me. And you know what I did? Not a goddamn thing…”

           “Dean…”

           “I could barely speak, I – I was so scared,” Dean admits, “if you’d’ve been there Sam, the look of – look of finality that was there, alongside the love, and peace, and happiness. I always wanted to hear him say that, couldn’t predict him saying all of that… I would’ve traded it if it meant he’d stay. And I can – I get to have him in the only way we could. But he made up his mind, like with Jack. Took Billie down, and him, too. Leaving me there – alone – that it… when I finally said it back, I was too late.”

           They echoed. Hung in the air. Mingled with Cas’s blood on his sleeve and the fresh tears pouring out of him. Shook Dean down to the very core of his being, barely hearing it past the low pitch of static filling his ears. Dean thought those words innumerably before, imagined different scenarios, played pretend in the comfort of his room where no one can see.

           No one ever will, now.

           “I…” Dean tries saying his truth. It doesn’t want to come out. He continues regardless, “I miss him, Sam. Why do we do this? Hurt everyone we’ve ever cared about? Hell, the whole world’s collateral damage because of us!” Exhausted, Dean gives in. Falls fully off the cliff, lying on the sidewalk. Arms spread beside him while he watches endless blue.

           Sam squeezes his knee, “I miss her too. I miss them all.” He stands, adding another shadow. Jack’s advancing, too. Blanketing Dean in a strange temperature. Not cold, still there’s an absence of warmth he notes. “But it’s not on us. It’s Chuck. Always has been…”

           “Then is this it?” Dean asks, “One last play, even if it kills us? Even if it can’t bring everyone back?”            

           “At least we died fighting, then.”

           Dean cannot argue with this. He doesn’t feel too inclined to move yet. “For them,” he says, closing his eyes. “This isn’t about us, anymore. It’s about all of them. The world… our family… Eileen and – and Cas.”

           Their shadows move. He senses them leave, sunlight returning. Bringing with it more memories. Of how it felt first hearing Cas say it. A natural glow that lit from within. Snuffed in Cas’s next breath, as Billie’s fist pounded on the door, and when the bitterness of Cas’s declaration hit his tastebuds. Dean grasps for that feeling, basking under the sun. Pretends it’s Cas giving him that gorgeous, soul-shattering smile. Encouraging him into his final battle. Telling him it’ll be over soon, he’ll be done, and that he loves him.

           He loves him. He loves him. He loves him.

           “I love you Cas.”

           Dean will rise. Gather what little he, Sam, and Jack have and rush at Chuck until there truly is nothing left. Of this world. Or of them. But that’s later.

           Right now, Dean dreams of his losses. Apologizes, one by one, faces blurring together as he starts counting strangers his mind saved for no purpose other than to make him carry more crosses.  Never his, though.

           Cas’s face shines uninterrupted, clearly, like the sun. There even as everything else fades. In the safety of his mind, where the Empty can’t steal him. In the safety of his heart, that Chuck can’t control. In his hands, wearing Cas’s blood like a badge of honor and pride.

           And love.

[easily-infatuated23]

The Mark of the Angel Part Two: Emergence

Part One

a/n: i’m totally creating my own lore so sorry about that lol also this is in third person now bc it felt better to write so sorry for the grammar change from part one

pairing: 11th Doctor x Reader Angel OC x Amy and Rory

word count: 1.6k

warnings: none

summary: The Doctor is ecstatic to have found the Angel but, have they always known each other? 

The group of friends stared in amazement, but for different reasons. Amy and Rory couldn’t believe the transformation that had occurred right in front of them. This seemingly ordinary girl had suddenly levitated and her skin glowed a brilliant orange color. Now, she still looked slightly ordinary but her aura and attitude had changed completely. The Doctor, on the other hand, was amazed at the discovery of the creature that stood before him. As a boy, he had been told many stories about the Angel. Some came from his family which described a noble being that had saved and practically created the Time Lords, others came from his mates at the academy who told stories of a terrifying creature who would steal your soul. He buzzed with excitement. Even as his hundreds of years of life had passed, he never found a story that rang true or made sense. Now he could know. This is why the TARDIS had brought him here, to learn the secretes of this legendary creature.

Even though thoughts raced wildly through each of the friends heads, none seemed to be able to speak. The Angel surveyed her surroundings. “You know I actually quite fancied this little flat, it might’ve been fun to stick around a bit longer but no matter, there are things to be done”. She looked directly at the Doctor who realized that he was, for the first time in his life, truly at a loss for words. “Doctor, it is very good to see you again, and…. I forgive you”. Amy and Rory turned their heads sharply toward the Doctor, awaiting an explanation. But, none came. Amy grew impatient. “I thought you said you had never met or even seen the Angel before” Amy said, somewhat accusingly. The Doctor barely heard her voice, a darkness swimming in his head as he knew exactly why the Angel said she forgave him. “I suppose there is no harm in sharing now” the Angel began, looking at Amy. “A long time ago I decided I wanted to watch over the Time Lords more closely. That would be easier to do from the inside, not from above. I am very gifted in changing my form, you see, so I would cycle through a new form every couple hundred years or so. Living the life of a Time Lord on Gallifrey, never revealing my true identity. The Doctor and I were friends for a very long time but he still hasn’t figured out who I was then, have you Doctor?” the Angel said, her gaze fixed on the man who was adjusting his bowtie nervously.

His eyes darted from side to side, scanning his brain for all of the faces and names of his friends on Gallifrey, before it was lost. “I will give you a clue” the Angel said. The Doctor looked up at her. She held up her hand, it was balled into a fist with only her pinky finger sticking straight up. “Do you trust me?” she asked. He was stunned and confused. The Doctor had lived for so long that sometimes he was convinced that some things from his childhood were made up. This being one of those things. A memory flashed into his mind of himself as a boy, running around and playing with a little girl. The two would go on “adventures” together. Whenever one of them was hesitant to do something, they would hold up their pinkies and ask the question. He knew the words he had to say next. He stepped forward and interlaced his pinky with hers. “To the ends of the universe” he replied. Another gust of wind blew through the room. This time, the Angel’s appearance changed completely. She looked as if she had become a few years younger, looking more like a teenager now. Her long blonde hair replaced by short curly red hair with light brown freckles peppering her face. Her eyes glowed a fantastic green. She was now wearing red robes instead of the jeans and t-shirt she had previously donned.

“Cora?” the Doctor asked. The Angel smiled and nodded. “Yes. It has been a very long time my friend” she replied in a smooth voice. The Doctor felt his eyes welling up with tears as he pulled the girl into the tightest hug he could manage. Amy and Rory, feeling very left out, simply stood there. Unsure if they should wait in the TARDIS for this odd reunion to conclude or remain standing and watching. “We should probably leave them alone for a minute” Rory said as he opened the doors to the TARDIS. He pulled Amy inside and shut the doors.

The Doctor released her from the hug. He cupped her face. “I thought you were lost or even dead. What happened?” He said, somewhat breathlessly. “There will be plenty of time for you to get the answers you desire but for now, we have more pressing matters” the Angel said. She shook her head back and the physical appearance of ‘Cora’ disappeared and she returned to the form the Doctor had found her in. He tried to hide the awe struck expression on his face but he was unsuccessful. “I like my form as Cora, but I figure this is less distracting for the moment” she said. He nodded. She walked past him and, snapping her fingers, opened the door to the TARDIS. Amy and Rory looked up, expecting to see the Doctor entering. “Can she really do that? I thought only he could” Rory whispered to Amy. She shrugged. As much as she loved Rory, and she really really really loved Rory, she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous toward the Angel. Amy had always felt like the Doctor’s special girl, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of sharing that.

The Angel entered the TARDIS and took a deep breath. She traced her hand on the center console. “Hello darling” she said. Amy and Rory looked at each other again. The only person they had seen act like that toward the TARDIS was the Doctor, who at this point looked like he was going to jump out of his skin with excitement. “Is the story about the TARDIS and you true?” he asked, walking closer to the Angel. She chuckled. “Yes, I did give some of my body to create the first TARDIS. After that, they grew all on their own but they are all connected back to me in some way.” The Doctor smiled, his hands on the brink of waving wildly.

“So, how did you find me after all this time? I know you have been on and off of Earth for a long time now. What took so long?” she asked. “Yes, well, I punched in that the TARDIS should take us somewhere I have always wanted to go but never knew I wanted.” “Interesting” the Angel said. “Seeking an unknown destination can be quite dangerous. You two are aware of those risks aren’t you?” She looked up at Amy and Rory. “Oh yeah, we’re aware” Rory said. “Once, the Doctor took us to Venice for a ‘date’ and we ended up having to defeat vampire fish from space” Amy added. The Angel turned to the Doctor. “I like these two” she said. Amy smiled, she was beginning to warm up to the Angel.

“Would you mind if I held your hands for a moment” the Angel said. She walked over to Amy and Rory and held her hands out. They each placed one of their hands into hers. The Angel closed her eyes, her head moving slightly from side to side, as if she was viewing something only she could see, and it was in fast motion. The Doctor moved in, eyes widening. “Doctor what’s she doing?” Amy asked. He walked closer the Angel then pulled out a magnifying glass. He surveyed the Angel’s face and then followed the line of her neck, down to her shoulder, and all the way down her arm. He focused on the top of Amy’s hand then ducked underneath to look at the top of the Angel’s hand. As he did this Amy gasped. The Doctor popped back up and saw what caused Amy to gasp. On the top of her and Rory’s hands was a small spiraling shape resembling a drawing of a sun. The design was glowing with the same hue as the Angel’s regeneration light. The shape was constantly spiraling, never remaining static. “Oh!” the Doctor said slapping his forehead. “She’s gathering all the information she needs about you and the world and the universe through your life experiences. Past, present, and future! This is incredible!” As the Doctor finished speaking, the spirals transformed into the shape of a pair of wings flying before the light poofed in a small cloud of smoke and disappeared from their hands.

“Thank you for that” the Angel said, letting go and opening her eyes. She fixed her gaze on Amy. A small tear dropped from the Angel’s eye as she took a step closer to Amy. “You my dear, are going to have some wonderful adventures.” There was a small awkward silence before the Angel stepped back and looked at the Doctor. “Now, we have an issue to discuss. When I escaped from Gallifrey, an echo went across the universe exposing my actual existence. I came to Earth and became human to avoid detection. I have a feeling that now the echo just repeated itself” “Is that a bad thing?” Amy asked. The Doctor’s face was suddenly pale. He looked at Amy. “We’ve just told the universe that there is an actual god on Earth…” “And people will want me for themselves and to use my powers the way the Time Lords could…” the Angel added. Rory rubbed his face anxiously. “Basically, the biggest bounty in the universe just became active, and people will be coming to collect” the Angel said. This was going to be trouble.

[calumcest]

couldn’t make it more obvious could you (be any more obvious)?

this is my birthday present for the wonderful brilliant @clumsyclifford​ i don’t wanna get too emo in the a/ns especially because i just wrote an incredibly long a/n out and then accidentally deleted it still slyly fuming about that but anyway enough about my technological incompetence i love you so much you deserve the entire world and i’m sorry this is all i can give you of it i’m so grateful i know you and so honoured to have you in my life loving you truly is a privilege i adore you and i hope you have the best birthday you can possibly have also can you BELIEVE i found vegas lyrics that i haven’t used for a fic title yet this is the EIGHTH fic i’ve ever written named after lyrics from vegas THE EIGHTH

(also i have to give a cheeky thank you to @kaleidoscopeminds​ for listening to me scream about this tonight and watching me slowly spiral while listening to right here right now by fatboy slim on repeat for like an hour straight ily meg you do gods work you truly do)

It all starts by accident. 

They’re in Paris, or maybe Rome, or maybe Budapest, when Luke decides the bad mood Michael’s been in all day will be greatly improved by him tossing an opinion about Red Rock chips into the mix. Calum and Ashton both groan loudly as soon as he’s said it, knowing what’s coming, and Michael’s head snaps up from where he’s been scowling at his phone in the corner, eyes already narrowed, finally getting the fight he’s been spoiling for all day. 

“Are you fucking serious?” he demands. “Sea salt is better than sweet chilli?” 

“Well, yeah,” Luke says, with a shrug, like he hasn’t noticed the way Michael’s brow has furrowed, or the glower he’s sending Luke’s way. “It’s the simplicity, y’know?” 

“The simplicity?” Michael echoes incredulously. “The simplicity?” He stares at Luke for a moment, righteous anger etched on his face, and then turns back to his phone, and starts typing something furiously. 

“What’re you doing?” Calum asks, a little warily. Michael, a bad mood, Luke riling him up and the internet are usually a bad combination.

“Adding to my list of reasons I hate Luke,” Michael says, and Calum’s face clears, and he nods. Luke frowns. 

“What d’you mean, your list of reasons you hate me?” he says, like he’s not sure whether he should feel offended or upset. “You have a list?”

“You don’t?” Ashton asks, sounding a little surprised. Luke stares at him. 

“Why the fuck would I have a list of reasons I hate myself?” he asks. Ashton shrugs. 

“It’s good to be self-aware,” he tells Luke, who stares at him for a moment, looking torn between indignation and disbelief, before rounding on Michael 

“What’s on your list?” he demands. 

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my list. Keep your own.” Luke opens his mouth, brow furrowed, ready to make some kind of furious retort, but Ashton gets in before he can succeed in his mission to piss Michael off further.

“D’you want to hear mine?” he offers mildly. “Yours is the shortest of my lists.” 

“You have lists on all of us?” Calum says, and Ashton nods. Calum just hums, mulling it over. It’s fair enough, really. He’s only got one on Luke, because the things that annoy him about Ashton are so few and far between that they don’t warrant a list and the things that annoy him about Michael are so well-worn that they’re imprinted in the very fabric of his soul. Michael, though, whips around to face Ashton at that, with a deep scowl. 

“What the fuck?” he demands hotly, and puts his phone down. Calum eyes it in trepidation, knowing that if Michael’s freeing both hands up to gesticulate, he’s going to fucking mean what he says next. Sure enough, both hands come flying up in indignation as he says: “You have a list of reasons you hate me?” 

“You have a list of reasons you hate Luke,” Ashton points out.

“Yeah, but who doesn’t?” Michel says, waving a hand dismissively. 

“Me?” Luke says, a little stroppily, but Michael’s not listening. 

“What’s on your list?” he wants to know. 

“I’m not telling you.”

“You offered to tell Luke his,” Michael points out. 

“You’re not Luke.” 

“How many lists do you have?” Calum asks curiously. 

“One on you, one on Luke, two on Michael-” Ashton starts reciting, cut off by a noise of indignance from Michael. 

“Two?” he says. “Why the fuck would you need two?” 

“You’re really fucking annoying,” Ashton tells him, and Calum groans when Michael’s eyebrows knit together further and his mouth twists in an angry grimace. 

“Why’d you say that?” Calum says to Ashton, gesturing at Michael. “He was pissed off enough already.”

“Luke started it,” Ashton says, and both of them turn to Luke, who crosses his arms sullenly. 

“You’re the ones who keep lists of reasons you hate me,” he says sulkily, like that’s at all relevant to the fact he’s just made certain that the next two days of their life stuck in a cramped tour bus with Michael will be hell. 

“I can’t believe you don’t have a list,” Ashton says, shaking his head. 

“Why the fuck would I have a list?” Luke says, a little upset. “I love you guys.” There’s a pause, and they all look at him. “Well-” he starts to amend, and Michael lets out a triumphant noise and sits back against the sofa again. 

“See?” he says, a victorious edge to his voice. 

“Maybe we should go to relationship counselling,” Ashton suggests. 

“We don’t need relationship counselling,” Luke says. “You guys just need to stop being dicks.”

“You just need to stop being fucking annoying,” Michael says, pointing at Luke with one hand as he picks up his phone again with the other. “Then there wouldn’t be any need for the lists.” 

“What about Ashton’s other lists?” Calum points out, and then immediately regrets it when Michael’s eyes flash with irritation again. 

“It’s healthy,” Ashton objects. 

“Healthy?” Michael echoes in disbelief. “It’s healthy to keep a list of reasons you hate me?”

“What about me?” Luke protests, but nobody’s listening.

“Two lists,” Ashton corrects, and Calum pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to have a word with him about tact. “I bet everyone in a band does it.” 

“I don’t,” Luke says pointedly. 

“Well, maybe that’s why you’re not a well-adjusted individual,” Ashton says, with a shrug, and Luke stares at him. 

“Are you trying to tell me Michael’s well-adjusted?” he says. 

“What the fuck?” Michael starts indignantly, but then there’s a loud cough from someone that’s none of them, and they all start in surprise, whipping around to try and find the source. 

“Mike?” the voice says into the silence, sounding a little far away and tinny. “Did you mean to call me?” Michael looks down at the phone in his hand in bewilderment, frowning at it for a split second before lifting it to his ear. 

“Alex?” he says, a little perplexed. The rest of them all look at him, waiting as his eyebrows furrow further for a moment before his face clears. “Oh.” 

“What?” Luke wants to know. Michael shoots him a glare, and points at the phone in his hand, mouthing I’m on the phone dramatically. Calum rolls his eyes. 

“It’s only Alex,” he says. Michael raises his eyebrows. Only Alex? he’s saying, and Calum sighs, exasperated, because Michael knows full well what he means, he’s just being difficult. Maybe Ashton has the right idea, keeping a list about Michael. 

“Put him on speaker,” Ashton says, and Michael flaps a hand at him and shakes his head, listening to whatever Alex is saying. “Put him on speaker, Mike,” Ashton says again, a little more insistently. Michael throws him a glare too. 

“No,” he hisses. “He called me, not any of you.” 

“He only has one phone,” Calum points out. 

“He could have started a group call,” Ashton says fairly. “And anyway, he said Michael called him.”

“Whose fucking side are you on?” Luke says, and Ashton holds his hands up in defence, leaning back a little in his seat. Calum makes a mental note to add learn when the appropriate moment to be diplomatic is to the conversation he’s going to have with Ashton later.

“What?” Michael says suddenly, eyes darting to the wall opposite him. He listens for a second as Alex speaks, and then makes a noise of triumph, a smile spreading across his face. “Hang on, hang on, let me put you on speaker.” 

“Are you serious?” Luke says in disbelief, as Michael tears the phone from his ear and presses the speaker button. 

“Say that again,” Michael says to Alex. 

“Michael’s right,” Alex says, a little tinny and edged with static. “It’s bad practice to keep lists of things you hate about all your band members. You’ve each got to pick one.�� 

“How’s that make any sense?” Luke demands, at the same time that Calum says: “Who’s yours about, then?” and Ashton hums thoughtfully. 

“Mine’s on Rian,” Alex says. 

“Why?” Calum can’t help but ask. He’s not sure why anyone would keep a list on Rian, least of all when Jack’s right there. 

“He needed an ego check,” Alex says. 

“An ego check?” Calum echoes. “What does Rian-” 

“That’s not important,” Michael interrupts, before Calum has a chance to ask what’s on the list, waving his hand dismissively, because the fucker can’t stand going more than thirty seconds without everyone’s attention on him. “The point is I’m right.” 

“This time,” Alex says, and the triumphant smile on Michael’s face turns into an indignant scowl. 

“What the fuck do you mean, this time?” he demands hotly, and Calum snorts. Serves him right, really. 

“See?” Luke says, sounding incredibly satisfied. Michael glowers at him. 

“He still said I was right, though,” he says. 

“Conditionally,” Ashton says, and Michael whips around to glower at him too. 

“You guys should try relationship counselling,” Alex remarks, and it’s Ashton’s turn to sit back and raise his eyebrows pointedly, looking pleased. Calum feels a bit left out, now; he’s the only one that hasn’t had his moment of triumph. “Anyway, I’ve got to go and stop Jack.”

“Why, what’s he doing?” Calum asks curiously.

“No idea, but I bet he needs stopping. Hey, text me when you’re in the States, yeah?” And with that, he’s gone. 

The four of them stare at Michael’s phone for a moment, before Michael sits back and stretches. 

“I’m right,” he tells them, just in case they hadn’t heard. Luke scoffs. 

“So, what, Alex’s word is law, now?” he says. There’s a moment of silence. “Alright, yeah,” Luke relents, and Calum snorts. 

“At least we know how to sort any arguments, now,” he says. “Ring Alex.” 

“Y’know, in a way, that’s sort of like relationship counselling,” Ashton says thoughtfully, and Luke sighs, loud and exasperated, and Calum and Michael both chorus: “Shut the fuck up, Ashton.”

 -------

 It becomes a thing after that. 

When Luke and Michel can’t agree on which of MarioKart Wii or MarioKart 8 is the better game, they call Alex. 

(“Obviously MarioKart Wii,” Alex says, sounding almost offended that the question’s even been asked. 

“What d’you mean, obviously?” Michael says, outraged. 

“When was the last time you played MarioKart 8?” Alex asks pointedly, and Michael opens his mouth furiously, and then stops, and closes it again.

“It’s still a better fucking game,” he mutters, and Luke grins.) 

When the four of them can’t decide whether they should get takeaway McDonald’s or go out to eat at a proper restaurant, they call Alex. 

(“Well, this is easy,” Alex says. The four of them frown. How the fuck is this easy? They’ve been arguing about it for twenty minutes. 

“How?” Luke says. 

“Who’s paying for Luke if you go out?” The four of them look at each other. They’ll split the bill, surely?

“Well, I thought one person would-” Luke starts, a little defensively, which is all they need to hear. 

“McDonald’s,” Michael, Calum and Ashton say decisively.)

When Ashton and Calum argue about whether or not Ashton functions well on four hours’ sleep, they call Alex. 

(“How long did you sleep last night?” Alex asks, after humming, like he’s having to think this one through. 

“Four fucking hours, Jesus Christ,” Ashton snaps. Calum throws him a pointed look. 

“Y’know what, you don’t even need me for this one,” Alex says delicately, and hangs up.) 

Alex always has an answer for them. 

“Why the fuck aren’t you in this band?” Ashton laments one night, when Alex has successfully convinced Calum to go on his third night out in a row, and on an empty stomach, no less. Alex laughs, bright and easy. 

“I can’t leave Jack on his own for more than fifteen minutes,” he says. “Contractual obligation.” 

“What d’you do when he’s asleep?” Ashton wonders. 

“What d’you think?” Alex says, words curled around a coy smile. Calum frowns, and opens his mouth to say something - what, he’s not entirely sure; are you implying sleep with, or sleep with? maybe - but then there’s a crash, and Alex swears loudly. “Shit. See, it’s been seventeen minutes. I’ll send the bill for whatever that was over to your management.” 

“Send it to Luke instead,” Calum says. “We shouted him at least six rounds last night.” Alex laughs again. 

“Got it,” he says, and then he’s gone. Calum’s frown doesn’t go with him, though.

“D’you think he was being serious?” he asks Ashton, who’s already engrossed in his phone again. 

“Hm?” Ashton says, without looking up. “‘Bout what?” 

“Jack.” That makes Ashton look up, brow furrowed. 

“What about him?” Calum hesitates. 

“Y’know,” he says, a little uncomfortably. Ashton cocks his head, raising his eyebrows in an I don’t know sort of way. “About them. Sleeping together.” 

“Oh,” Ashton says, shrugs, and turns back to his phone. “Yeah, obviously.” That’s all he seems to have to say on the matter, and Calum decides not to push it. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to, because right then Luke wanders into the lounge area, frowning at his phone.

“Hey,” he says. “Why the fuck has Alex just sent me a bill for a new drum kit?” 

 -------

 Alex doesn’t mention it again, but Calum can’t stop thinking about it. 

He’d said it so casually, so easily, a lick of wicked humour to it. What do you do when Jack’s asleep? Calum had asked. What do you think? Alex had said, like it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a joke. Ashton hadn’t seemed to think anything of it, had he? Maybe Calum was just reading into it. Yeah, that was it, surely; Calum was probably just protecting. It’s not like everyone’s in love with their childhood best friend that they happen to be in a band with, is it? God knows Calum’s shared a bed with Luke and Ashton enough times without wanting to fuck them. 

(He’d never get that coy edge to his voice, though, if he were talking about Luke or Ashton.)

He manages to push the matter to one side for a few weeks, until one day when he and Luke are arguing about whether the lyrics to Some Kind of Disaster are ‘I let the sun rise up’ or ‘I let the song rise up’, and they ring Alex, but Jack picks up. 

“What’s up?” Jack says casually, like it’s perfectly normal for him to answer Alex’s phone. 

“Where’s Alex?” Calum says. 

“Hello to you too,” Jack says. 

“It’s important,” Luke adds, leaning over the phone like it’s not on speaker. Jesus Christ. Calum wonders whether the boy was born in ‘96 or ‘56, sometimes.

“You don’t need to lean over it, Luke,” Calum tells him, wrenching the phone away. “He can hear you.” 

“I’m just making sure,” Luke says, scowling. 

“What d’you want Alex for?” Jack asks. 

“To decide something for us,” Calum says. 

“Oh,” Jack says, brightening. “I can do that. I make great decisions.” There’s a pause. 

“Yeah, no,” Calum says, and Luke says: “Just give us Alex.”

“Fuck you two,” Jack mutters, but there’s a rustling sound and then the sound of footsteps. Calum and Luke both wait, listening to a door open and close quietly, and then they hear a soft: “Hey, baby, wake up.” 

Baby? 

Calum’s head jerks up to look at Luke, who’s still staring patiently down at Calum’s phone, like he hasn’t just heard Jack call Alex baby. Maybe he hasn’t. Is Calum hallucinating? Shit, he doesn’t have time for a mental breakdown; they’re playing a show in three hours, and they’re supposed to start recording their next album soon. 

“Mm,” Calum hears Alex groan. “Wh’s’it?” 

“Cal and Luke,” Jack says. 

“Tell ‘m to fuck off,” Alex mumbles, and there’s more rustling. “Come t’ bed.” Come to bed? Calum shoots Luke another glance, but he’s still just waiting for Alex to say something. Maybe Calum is going insane. Maybe he should’ve listened to Ashton about that whole seven-to-nine-hours-sleep thing.

“I’m cooking,” Jack says, and his voice is gentler than Calum’s ever heard it, edged with a smile. Alex makes a noise of discontent, then a deep sigh, and then there’s some very loud static as he raises the phone to his ear. 

“What?” he says, sounding simultaneously sleepy and annoyed. 

“Some Kind of Disaster,” Luke says, getting straight to the point. “Is it ‘I let the sun rise up’ or ‘song’?” There’s a pause. 

“I don’t know,” Alex says, through a yawn.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” Luke demands. “It’s your fucking song.” 

“It’s both,” Alex says. “It was sun, and then I changed it to song.” 

“So it’s song?” Calum says, because that’s what he’s been arguing. 

“Well, it’s sun too,” Alex says.

“Well, it’s not,” Calum says, “because you can only sing one of them at a time.”

“Exactly,” Luke agrees. “So which one is it?” Alex sighs, all long-suffering, and there’s a shuffling sound, like he’s sitting up in bed. 

“You’re both right,” he says. Calum and Luke exchange a look. They’re not really sure what to do in this situation. 

“But on the album version-” Luke starts, and Alex makes a noise of exasperation. 

“Fucking hell, I sang ‘song’ on the album,” he says, and Calum sits back triumphantly and throws his hands up in a see, I told you gesture, forgetting that he’s got his phone in his hand and sending it flying. Luckily, it doesn’t go far, lands somewhere on the sofa to their right, and Luke reaches over, inspects it quickly and dusts it off before handing it back to Calum, who inspects it again, because Luke’s managed to get through three phones in the past year alone, so he’s clearly not a trustworthy source when it comes to phone maintenance. It doesn't look scratched, though, but when he lifts it back up to his face to apologise to Alex for the disturbance, it’s on the home screen, and Alex is gone. 

“If ‘sun’ was the original, though, I think that’s the right answer,” Luke says, and Calum shakes his head as he pockets his phone again. 

“You heard him,” he says, letting the vindication leak into his voice, because Luke had been making fun of him for at least fifteen minutes before they’d called Alex. “The final version’s ‘song’.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Did you hear him and Jack?” Calum cuts in, not wanting to get caught in another argument when they’ve just settled it. 

“What about them?” 

“Well, did you hear them?” Luke stares at him. 

“Yeah?” he says, like he doesn’t quite understand the question. Calum stares back. Surely he hadn’t misheard what they’d said, not twice. Baby, Jack had said, and Alex had asked him in a sleepy, needy voice to come to bed. 

“Well?” he asks. Luke blinks at him. 

“Look, I know I said I thought I had tinnitus, but that was on a bad day after Michael had been yelling in my ear all day-” he starts, but Calum shakes his head, a little impatiently. 

“Jack called Alex ‘baby’,” he says. Luke frowns. 

“Yeah?” Yeah? Yeah? What the fuck? Is Calum abnormal for not going around calling his bandmates ‘baby’?

“So, is that, like, a Baltimore thing?” Calum asks, as casually as possible. There’s a pause. 

“Is...having a boyfriend a Baltimore thing...?” Luke says slowly, and Calum frowns right back at him. 

“A boyfriend?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Cal?” Luke says, brows now so closely knit that he sort of looks like he has a unibrow. 

“What are you talking about?” Calum asks, because Luke’s the one that suddenly brought up boyfriends and is now acting like Calum’s the idiot in this conversation. “What have boyfriends got to do with this?” Luke looks at him for a moment, like he can’t tell whether Calum’s being serious or not, and Calum raises his eyebrows in a what? sort of way. 

“Cal,” Luke says slowly, like he’s still not entirely sure whether Calum’s taking the piss or not. “You...you know Jack and Alex are together, right?” Calum stares at him. 

“They’re what?” he says. 

“Are you being serious?” Luke asks, frowning. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“They’ve been together for years, Cal.” Calum blinks. 

“How the fuck didn’t I-” he starts, somewhere between shocked and affronted that everyone seems to have known except him.

“I have no idea,” Luke says, sounding completely bewildered. “Jesus Christ, Cal.” 

That pretty much sums it up.

 -------

 That night, Calum can’t stop thinking about it. 

He stares up at the ceiling of his bunk, hands clasped over his chest, and replays memories of interactions with Jack and Alex, memories of them grinning fondly at each other when someone told a joke, of them stood off to the side at a party, Alex’s hand resting gently on Jack’s elbow as he stood far too close for comfort and told him something with an earnest expression on his face, of them declining nights out because they ‘want to rest, guys, we’re getting old - or at least Alex is’ and Rian and Zack exchanging a look and wordlessly going to secure their bunks. Calum had just thought it was because they didn’t trust Alex and Jack not to fuck around if left unsupervised, but maybe there was another reason, the reason everyone else snorted or smirked when Rian and Zack stood up and raced to their bunks. 

It feels like something slotting into place when he thinks about it. Of course Alex and Jack are together; how could he have ever thought any different? How could he have thought those fond looks and gentle touches, those private smiles and shared frowns, those lazily tangled fingers and open-mouthed kisses ever meant anything else?

He knows why. Because he and Michael do all those things too. 

But it’s not the same, right? Or, well, it might be from Calum, but it can’t be from Michael. Michael probably just thinks they’re friendly gestures, too. The two of them have been so intertwined with one another for so long that they’ve forgotten how to live apart, how to exist without the other’s touch, and that’s all it can be to Michael. Maybe Michael doesn’t even know about Jack and Alex. He probably wouldn’t act like he does with Calum if he knew it could be misinterpreted like that.

Yeah, Calum thinks, rolling on his side and folding his arms, staring at the wall instead of the ceiling, and trying to let the white noise of the bus calm his churning stomach and slow his racing heart. That’s what it is. Michael doesn’t know. He can’t.

 -------

 A few weeks later, Calum and Michael are sat on a pier in England while the bus gets serviced, legs dangling off the edge as they smoke in silence. It’s quiet here, nothing but the sound of the waves and the wind (and the odd screeching seagull), and Calum lets it wash over him with every drag of his cigarette, letting it go with every exhale.

“We shouldn’t be smoking so close to a show,” Michael murmurs, and then immediately proceeds to take another drag of his cigarette. Calum raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “What? It’s already lit. Shouldn’t waste it.” Calum huffs out a laugh, rolls his eyes, and exhales his own cloud of smoke, watching as it curls upwards and disperses to join the clouds above them. 

“You shouldn’t be smoking at all,” he tells Michael, because Calum’s a lost cause, but there’s still hope for Michael. 

“You shouldn’t be giving me cigarettes, then,” Michael retorts, which is fair enough. 

“I won’t next time,” Calum says, which is a flat-out lie. They both know Calum would give Michael the world, and the stars and moon and sun too, if he wanted them. 

They smoke in silence for a while, and Calum watches as his clouds of smoke mingle with Michael’s as they tip their heads back and breathe up at the sky, and thinks there’s maybe some kind of symbolism in it that he can’t quite make out through the grey haze. Ashton would know, would say something like it means your mothers are twin flames with a dead straight face and mean it, and Calum would catch Michael’s eye over the top of Ashton’s head and share a quick look with him, something so brief that Ashton wouldn’t even notice it, something only Michael and Calum would know about. He’s seen Jack and Alex do the same thing hundreds of times when Luke’s made a stupid comment, or when Rian’s giving them a lecture about not pulling pranks on the tour bus that everybody has to share, or when they’ve passed a stranger on the street that had been wearing something crazy.

“Did you know Jack and Alex are together?” he blurts, before he’s had the time to process the thought and stop it in its tracks on its way to his tongue. Michael throws him an odd look. 

“Yeah,” he says, as though Calum’s just asked did you know my name’s Calum? 

“Oh,” Calum says. 

“Why?” 

“I didn’t.” Michael stares at him. 

“How the fuck-”

“I don’t know,” Calum says quickly - too quickly, because Michael stops, looks, narrows his eyes, gaze flicking from Calum’s eyes to his lips and back again, and then opens his mouth. 

“You thought they were just friends?” he says slowly. Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably, and stubs his cigarette out on the pier just for something to look at that isn’t Michael. “You think friends just- just, what, look at each other like that?”

“Well, to be fair-” Calum starts, a touch defensively, but Michael interrupts. 

“Or, or, what, hold hands and make out?” he says. 

“We hold hands and make out,” Calum points out. 

“Exactly,” Michael says. There’s a pause. 

“What?” 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Michael says. “Friends don’t do that.” Calum frowns. 

“...but best friends do?” Michael throws him a strange look. 

“What?” he says. “No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. My only other best friends are Ashton and Luke, and I’d rather make out with a pig than either of them.” Calum pulls a face. 

“That’s illegal,” he says. 

“Well, I didn’t say I was going to,” Michael says, exasperated, like Calum’s derailing the conversation. “The point is, friends don’t do that.” Calum looks at him for a moment, looks at the certainty in Michael’s eyes, and then looks out at the sea, stomach matching the tidal current. 

He doesn’t get it. Michael and Calum are friends, he knows they are, knows it from the way Michael snuggles into Calum’s chest as soon as he spots him lying or sitting anywhere with a space next to him, from the way Michael stays up all night rubbing soothing circles on Calum’s back while he throws up everything he’d drunk on the empty stomach Ashton had convinced him to go out on, from the way they laugh and joke and cry and hold each other, foreheads pressed together, or sometimes cheek-to-cheek, or sometimes Michael’s face pressed into Calum’s throat. Michael loves Calum, and Calum loves Michael, and Calum’s entire system of faith is built around that. It all starts with Michael, and Calum and Michael, and builds out from there. 

So why is Michael saying friends don’t act like they do? 

Sure, Calum only holds Luke’s hand as a joke, or when he’s in his darkest moments, and only kisses Ashton chastely on the lips, and usually only when he’s drunk, nothing like the casual and easy hand-holding and the kisses with tender hands cupping each other’s jaws or with fingers curled lightly in each other’s hair he has with Michael, but it’s still friendly, isn’t it? It’s what he and Michael have always done, finding respite in each other, building a home in each other’s hearts and hands and mouths. That’s just how they are, Calum’s always thought, when Michael’s slotted his fingers between Calum’s confidently, like they were made to be there. That’s just how things are with them. But they’re still just friends, aren’t they? It’s not like Calum fucks Michael, or anything. They both go out and get laid, come back to their shared hotel room smelling like girls and boys neither of them will ever see again. But, Calum thinks, when he stumbles into their hotel room at God knows what time in the morning and falls into bed next to Michael, he’s the one that’ll press soft kisses to the bruises already blossoming on Calum’s throat. And maybe that’s what it’s about. 

“But we do that,” he says again, trying to understand what Michael’s saying. 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says, sounding a little annoyed now, like Calum’s being wilfully ignorant. “What’s your point?” 

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” There’s a pause. 

“Oh,” Michael says, and it sounds small, and hurt, and raw. “Is- oh.” 

“Is what?” Calum tears his eyes away from the sea, looks over at Michael, who’s hunched into himself a little, shoulders sagging and knees drawn close to his chest. He shakes his head, but doesn’t look at Calum, and Calum’s heart lurches. He’s fucked up. He said something wrong. 

“Hey,” he says gently, and reaches over to put a hand on Michael’s arm, but Michael flinches away. Calum frowns. “What’s up?” 

“I just-” Michael cuts himself off, shakes his head again, and stands up abruptly. 

“I’m going back,” he says shortly. 

“Okay,” Calum says, and makes to get to his feet too, but Michael stops him. 

“No,” he says. “I- you stay here.” 

Oh. 

Okay. 

“Okay,” Calum says, and he can’t help the bit of upset that leaks into his voice at that. Michael looks like he’s torn for a minute, like maybe he wants to stay, but then he balls his hands into fists at his side and walks off, fast and stiff. Calum watches him go until he’s all the way off the pier, until he’s turned past the shop at the corner and is heading back up the hill to where they’d left the tour bus, and then, when he’s blocked by a row of houses, turns back to the sea. It looks greyer than before, but Calum doesn’t mind. It means he won’t have to see the smoke curling up into the sky without another cloud to join it as he smokes the rest of his pack. 

 -------

 Michael’s not on the bus when Calum gets back, and, surprisingly, neither are Luke or Ashton. 

There’s a note on the table that says gone w/mike, wtf did u do, burn this before we get back in Luke’s hasty scribble, and Calum’s stomach drops as he picks it up and reads and re-reads it. What the fuck did he do? 

He heads back out of the bus with the note clenched in his fist, both to burn it without setting the fire alarm off and because the bus feels oddly claustrophobic on his own, too many floors and ceilings and walls and reminders of Michael plastered all over them. The fresh air feels a little calming, even though he’s just come in from outside, and he lets the breeze steal over his face as he gets his lighter to the paper and watches it burn itself out in his hand. 

All he’d said was we’re friends, aren’t we? He doesn’t understand why Michael’s taken such offence to that, like he doesn’t crawl into Calum’s bunk three times a day and demand to be told he’s Calum’s best friend. Maybe it was because Calum had only said friend that time, not best friend. Michael can be oddly sensitive about these things; Calum remembers a time that he’d told Ashton he was in love with him with a completely sincere expression on his face because Ashton had made him a coffee in the morning, and Michael had stormed out of the room and spent the next three days steadfastly keeping his hands to himself around Calum, no heads on shoulders or in laps. 

But he’d said it all of two minutes earlier, hadn’t he, and even Michael’s not stroppy enough to get that fussed about wording, so that doesn’t make any sense. And he can’t be upset about the hand-holding and kissing itself, can he, or he’d’ve stopped doing it by now. So it’s got to be something to do with the fact that Calum had been confused about the fact that they did what Jack and Alex do, but that they’re friends, and not boyf-

Oh. 

Oh.

But surely not. Surely- 

Calum racks his brains, heart racing, palms sweating, trying to come up with some other explanation for the hurt etched on Michael’s features, the anguish in his eyes, the way he’d stood up so abruptly and stiffly with his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands, but there’s nothing. 

All he can think, echoing loudly in his mind, is that maybe Michael thought they were- well, not quite boyfriends, but not quite friends, either. 

The thought bounces around Calum’s head like it’s trying to find a way out but is trapped in a panicked bubble of Michael and shit and no no no that won’t let it escape. Calum’s breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, and he leans back against the bus, staring unblinkingly at the sky as he tries to wrap his head around what’s just crossed his mind. Fuck. Fuck. Maybe it had meant something to Michael, too. Shit, of course it meant something to Michael, what the fuck was Calum thinking? Of course it did, because it meant something to Calum. Calum never kissed Luke like that, or let Ashton hold his hand until it was slick with sweat on a hot summer night, and neither did Michael, so of course it meant something to him too. God, Calum’s an idiot, so fucking stupid; of course it meant something to Michael. And Calum’s just thrown it in his face. 

He’s fumbling for his phone before he’s even really processed the desire to do so, stabbing at the last number he’d dialled and muttering c’mon, c’mon while he waits for Alex to pick up. He does, on the third ring, making the dial tone cut out with a click when he raises the phone to his ear and says tiredly: “Who’re you fighting with this time?” 

“Alex,” Calum says, and he hears the desperation and confusion in his own voice. 

“Shit, Cal, what’s up?” Alex says, suddenly alert and serious. “You okay?” Calum almost laughs. No, he’s not fucking okay, because he’s just fucked something up that he’s always wanted and didn’t even know he already had. 

“No,” he says, feeling a little hysterical. “I- it’s- I was with Michael, and-”

“Oh, shit,” Alex says. “You haven’t- like, did you break up, or-” 

“What?” Calum says. “No, we- what? We’re not together, Alex, but we-”

“What?” Alex says, in disbelief. “What d’you mean, you’re not together?” 

“I mean we’re not together, but-”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’m not getting,” Alex interrupts. “How are you not together? Physically? Like, right now?”

“What?” This phone call was a mistake. Calum’s even more confused than he had been at the start. “No, we’re just- we’re not together, we’re single, I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“What?” Alex sounds absolutely dumbfounded. “I- what? Wait, okay, no, sorry, you were saying?” 

“I think that’s the problem,” Calum says. “I- we were talking, about you and Jack, because I didn’t realise you were together, and-”

“You-” Alex stops himself. “Never mind, never mind, carry on.” 

“-and I just said I didn’t realise you were together because me and him do all the same things that you two do, and we’re friends, and he got upset and left.” He’s expecting another interruption, or at the very least an immediate rushed sentence, but instead all he gets is a long, long silence. 

“Oh, Cal,” Alex says eventually, exhaling heavily. It makes Calum wince, far too loud in his ear. “You fucked up.” 

“Yeah, I know that,” Calum says. “I just- I don’t know what to do now.” 

“Just tell him.” 

“Tell him what?” 

“That you didn’t realise. That you mean it. All of it.” 

“I can’t,” Calum says. “He’s gone. Ashton and Luke, too.” 

“Gone?” Alex sounds horrified. “Where? Aren’t you on tour? How are you going to finish-” 

“No, like, just gone out,” Calum says hurriedly, although his stomach drops at the prospect. Surely he hasn’t gone. Luke and Ashton wouldn’t have left with him, would they, wouldn’t have left Calum to try and perform some kind of one-man She Looks So Perfect with his bass slung over one knee, guitar over the other, sat at the drums with a mic in front of him. Or would they? Calum feels like he can’t be certain of anything anymore, not when the one constant in his life has been tipped on its head, his world tilted sharply around on its axis. 

“Oh,” Alex says, sounding distinctly relieved. “Well, just call him, then.” Oh. Yeah. That would probably have been the best first port of call, rather than ringing Alex.

“I don’t know what to say,” Calum says, a little desperately, and hopes Alex will hear what he’s really asking. Tell me what to say. 

“I can’t help you with that, Cal,” Alex says gently. “It’s gotta come from you, man.” Calum knows he’s right, knows it has to be what Calum thinks and what Calum feels, but it doesn’t stop his stomach flipping unpleasantly as he thinks about it. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, inhales deeply, and closes his eyes. 

“Hey,” Alex says, kind and warm. “It’ll be alright.” Calum huffs out a humourless laugh at that. 

“Will it?” he says. It’s not like him; he’s usually the calm one, the rational one, the one who says yeah, man, it sucks and then shrugs and takes another swig of his beer because what good’s worrying about it going to do? This is different, though, the core tenet of his world shifted off-kilter, panic blooming in his lungs as scenes of a life without Michael flash through his mind. He’d challenge anyone to remain calm in the face of a life without Michael. 

“‘Course it will,” Alex says, sounding far more confident than Calum feels. “It’s you and Michael, isn’t it? It’ll always be okay.” That soothes Calum a bit, that Alex has so much blind faith in the two of them. He wouldn’t say that unless he meant it, and he wouldn’t mean it if he didn’t believe it, so there’s still someone out there who has trust in them. 

“Okay,” Calum says, more trying to convince himself than anything else. “I’ll call him.” 

“Okay,” Alex says, still in that gentle, kind voice that Calum’s sure he reserves for small children, animals and Calum in a crisis. “I’ll stay by my phone in case you need me, yeah?” Calum loves him. 

“Thanks,” he says, and Alex murmurs a no problem back at him. Calum hesitates for one more second, savouring the last moment of the safety of knowing he’s not on his own out here in the chilly English town that he can’t remember the name of, and then hangs up and scrolls down his recently contacted list to find Michael. His heart’s in his mouth as his sweaty fingers press on the contact, and he brings the phone back up to his ear. It rings once, twice, three times, and then-

“Cal?” It’s not Michael. It’s Ashton. 

“Where’s Mike?” He can hear the urgency in his own voice, but doesn’t even have the time to care. All that’s going through his mind is I’ve hurt him and I might lose him. 

“He’s here,” Ashton says slowly, delicately, like he knows the next words are going to hurt, “but he doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

(They do.) 

“Please,” Calum says, a little desperately. “I- I honestly didn’t realise, okay, and I need to tell him, and-”

“Woah, woah, hey,” Ashton sys, and Calum can picture him frowning, concern etched into the lines in his forehead. “Slow down. What are you talking about?” 

“I didn’t mean to, like, friendzone him, or whatever, I just didn’t think it meant to him what it means to me, and-” 

“Hey,” Ashton says again, and Calum falters. “Breathe, Cal.” 

“‘M breathing.” 

“Breathe slower.” 

“Just let me fucking talk to Mi-”

“Breathe.” There’s a pause. 

“Shut the fuck up, Ashton,” Calum says fiercely, “and fucking let me speak to Michael.” 

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Ashton says, a little apologetically. 

“Can I- shit, okay. Can you just tell him something from me, then?” 

“What?” That’s a good question. He’s not entirely sure what sums all of it up. I’m sorry doesn’t quite cut it, doesn’t make it clear enough that Calum’s sorry for misinterpreting, not that he’s sorry that he doesn’t feel the same way. I love you is the same; it’s not clear enough, not without the stricken expression on Calum’s face and the distraught look that he’s sure is in his eyes. He needs something that works only through words, that won’t get lost in translation somewhere along the phone line or in Ashton. 

There is something, something that nudges at the tip of his tongue, a gentle reminder that it’s there, always has been and always will be, but Calum pushes it aside, doesn’t want this to be the first time he says it. There’s got to be something else, something like I need you - no, too selfish - or come back, please - no, too ambiguous, or- shit, no, that’s it, Calum’s all out of ideas. 

So, he takes a deep breath, tries to use the cool sea breeze to quell the panic still rising steadily in his lungs, and says it. 

“Tell him I’m in love with him.” 

He’s expecting it to feel monumental after he’s said it, like a seismic shift will have occurred on Planet Calum, expects a gasp and a dramatic response from Ashton, but all he gets is a feeling of slight fear and an “Alright, sure.” 

Is that it? Is that what Calu’s been afraid of all these years? A nonchalant remark from Ashton and a bit of stale fear? Jesus, Calum’s a fucking idiot. If he weren’t so blind, if he weren’t so stubbornly set on forcing things to fit the way he thinks the world is rather than simply letting the world be what it actually is, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have overlooked Jack and Alex, and he wouldn’t have overlooked him and Michael, and he wouldn’t have waited nearly ten years to say hey, Michael, I’m in love with you. 

“Okay,” Calum says, testing the word out on his tongue to see how it feels. Surprisingly good, actually. His stomach’s still churning, and his heart is still clenching with something between panic and despair, but the weight pressing down on his chest is a little less heavy, his lungs a little less constricted. He’s said it, now. It’s up to Michael what to do with the words. 

“I’m going to come back,” Ashton says. “I- sorry, Michael was panicking and we didn’t think you’d be-”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Calum says hurriedly, because it is. He gets it. Luke and Ashton would spring straight into best-friend mode upon seeing Michael upset and panicking, would take him out and away and calm him down, too preoccupied with the there and then to think about whether Calum might be in a similar state. “Don’t. I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine,” Ashton says, but it’s not unkind, and he’s not entirely wrong. 

“Just- just...tell him, please?” Calum says, and Ashton exhales, and Calum can imagine him nodding. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, ‘course, Cal. I’ll call you back.” He knows Calum doesn’t want to stick around, doesn’t want to hear what Michael has to say just in case, and Calum’s grateful, loves him for it. 

“Love you,” he says, because he does. 

“Love you too,” Ashton says, and then there’s a click, and he’s gone. 

Calum sinks to a crouch, staring at the houses lining the steep hill opposite him, and then sits down properly, exhaling a little shakily as he does. It’s getting colder, he notices, pulling his coat around him and shivering a little. He thinks the sky might be getting darker, too, or it might just be getting greyer; it’s always hard to tell in England. 

His thoughts are racing so fast that he’s barely thinking at all, doesn’t have time to process one before the next one pushes it out of the way, so all he can focus on is the guilt and the panic and the worry blooming in every inch of him and try to quell it, try to think about the cool breeze and the hard metal of the bus pressed against his back and the scratchy gravel under his legs. It’s sort of better this way, though, he thinks, as he lets his eyes flutter shut and tries to think about the sound of the seagulls squawking above him. It’s better that he doesn’t know what’s going through his own mind. 

He’s startled out of trying to count his breaths - seven in, eleven out, Ashton always says - by the shrill ringing of his phone, and he jumps, phone slipping out of his fingers and onto the gravel between his legs. It’s cracked when he picks it back up again, but he doesn’t even care as soon as he sees the Michael UK New on his screen, can’t care about anything other than the way his heart’s suddenly jumped to his throat and is beating faster than Calum had thought humanly possible.

“Ashton?” he says, expecting a yeah, listen, mate- but there’s nothing. He just gets silence. “Ash?” he tries again. “Can you hear me? What’d he say?” 

“D’you mean that?” It’s not Ashton. It’s Michael, and he sounds completely blank. 

“Mike,” Calum says, both relief and fear spiking in his veins. “Mike, I’m sorry, I-” 

“D’you mean it?” 

“Mean wh- oh,” Calum says. “I- yeah. Yeah, I do.” 

“Say it.” 

“Michael, I just-”

“Say it.” It’s softer this time, less insistent, a little more pleading. Calum swallows. Who is he to say no to Michael?

“I’m in love with you.” 

There’s no cosmic shift this time, either. The clouds stay grey and the air stays cool, and Calum can still hear nothing but his own breathing, ragged and echoed down the phone line. 

“Okay,” Michael says, carefully even. 

“Okay?” Calum echoes, a little incredulously. “I just told you I’m in love with you.” The words don’t get any harder to say as he repeats them, nor any easier; they’re just there, as though they always have been. 

“Yeah, I heard.” 

“So?” Calum prompts. 

“So what?” 

“So, are you gonna say anything about it?” 

“Yeah.” Calum waits. “Not here,” Michael adds, like he knows what Calum’s thinking, and then it clicks. 

Michael’s coming back. 

Well, of course Michael was going to come back - they have a tour to finish, don’t they - but he’s coming back for Calum. 

“Okay,” Calum says. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll be five minutes.” Michael doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t hang up either, and Calum just stays on the other end of the line, listens as Michael’s breathing speeds up and as shoes hit pavement, letting his heart slow to the beat of Michael’s footsteps. It feels like two seconds and ten years have passed by the time he sees Michael rounding the corner, phone still in his hand, eyes automatically searching for Calum, and then Calum watches his step falter as he sees Calum slumped against the tour bus, sat on the floor. 

“Hey,” he says, when he gets close enough, and hangs up. 

“Hi,” Calum says, eyes following Michael as he hovers above Calum for a minute, and then sits down next to him. Their arms are pressed together, which is a good sign, but Michael doesn’t hold his hand out for Calum to take, which isn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Calum says, when Michael sits down. “I didn’t- like, I didn’t realise. I didn’t think. I should’ve known you wouldn’t do this with just anyone.” 

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Michael says. “But I should’ve known you wouldn’t know. I should’ve told you.” 

“I should’ve told you too,” Calum says. “I should’ve told you years ago.” Michael turns to look at him, a little bewildered, and Calum clarifies: “That I’m in love with you.” 

“Oh,” Michael says, and turns away again. “Yeah. I should’ve told you that too.” 

“You’re in love with me?” Michael turns to look at him again, a little incredulously. 

“What the fuck do you think we’re talking about here?” he says. “‘Course I am.” 

“Oh.” 

Oh. 

Oh.

Calum had sort of known it, as soon as he’d realised. He’d sort of known that it meant there was something soft and warm and cosy thrumming under the surface for Michael too, something that had only taken Calum until the age of seventeen to place as love. It’s different hearing it, though, different when Michael looks at him like he’s an idiot for not realising Michael’s in love with him, like it’s easy and simple and just something that is, no question of whether it should or shouldn’t be. 

“I’m sorry I ran off,” Michael says quietly, and now he holds out his hand, and Calum almost wants to sigh in relief, but settles for threading his fingers through Michael’s and squeezing as hard as he can instead. 

“Don’t be,” Calum says. He probably would have done the same in Michael’s place.

They sit in silence for a moment, staring out at the grey sky and the sliver of shimmering grey sea in the distance, and Calum counts Michael’s heartbeats as they pass against his fingers, one-two, one-two. The seagulls are still squawking, and the breeze is still cold, and Calum’s still in love with Michael. Nothing’s changed. 

“Maybe we should kiss,” Michael suggests suddenly, and Calum turns to look at him, a little confused. “What?” Michael says, a little defensively. “Feels like the natural next step after admitting you’re in love, right?” 

“Well, we kissed before we did that,” Calum points out. 

“Okay, but we should still kiss now,” Michael says agreeably, and Calum hums. 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, and Michael’s lips quirk up in a tiny grin, and Calum’s stomach bottoms out, all the panic and fear and anguish flooding out of him. It’s okay, he thinks, as he grins back and leans in, their heads tilting just the right amount at just the right angle as their lips touch, a well-worn move done by muscle memory, not by thought. Calum’s still smiling as they kiss, and it’s a little awkward, a little uncomfortable, but it’s okay, because it’s Michael. It’s always okay if it’s Michael. 

He brings his hand up to cup Michael’s jaw, thumb stroking across the soft skin there, and Michael sighs, a content, happy little noise that goes straight to Calum’s heart, makes him smile back and kiss Michael a little slower, a little sweeter. Of course Michael’s in love with him, he thinks a little giddily, as Michael winds his fingers into the hair at the nape of Calum’s neck and pulls him closer. How could this ever be anything else? 

The kiss isn’t new, and neither are the grey sky and the grey sea beyond them, nor the seagulls that circle them, squawking loudly and incessantly. It’s all familiar, known and comfortable, and Calum can’t help but breathe in the scent of the sea as he pulls away and rests his forehead against Michael’s, grinning at the softness - no, the love - in Michael’s eyes.

Nothing has changed. 

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[frenchy-and-the-sea]

OC Kiss Week 21 - Switched

Kiss Week technically ended yesterday but I was like partway through this one, so I figured I’d finish it anyway. Featuring @urdnotgrunt’s Sarula, the best bard/cleric that ever did walk the face of Thiele. This is entirely too stupid, I’m so sorry Gabby, I’M SO SORRY. BUT ILU.

~700 words

----

Just past the second hour of the morning, Val slipped through the door of her rented room as quietly as she could manage, thinking only of closing as much distance between her and the bed inside as she could. 

By all accounts, she should have guessed this would happen. An invitation to spar from Amon was always a roll of the dice between a rigorous training session and an unintended attempt on her life, and so much more the latter when they'd already spent a few hours in a pub. But he'd accidentally singed a generous portion of her eyebrow off in their escape from the guard that morning, and well, she had been feeling just a little vengeful. 

She crept slowly through the darkened room, shedding boots and gloves and her ash-covered shield into a corner as she went. By the tiny spear of light coming from beneath the door, she could just make out the shape of the bed in front of her, already turned down for the night, its sheets pulled over into a tiny bundle on one side of the mattress. She smiled despite herself. Rona must have escaped Amon's attention and followed Sarula’s much more excellent example up to bed. A thread of fondness, warm as a bonfire, curled up through Val’s chest as she kicked herself free of her arming doublet and finally stole towards the bedside.

She managed to make it almost to lying down before the bundle stirred. 

“Shh,” she whispered as it started to turn, “it’s just me. Dot, Amon and I got into a bit of a friendly scrap. It was less friendly to some of the more flammable buildings nearby. Fire’s out now, though,” she added, at the hazy noise of alarm that drifted up from the blanket mass. That seemed to placate Rona enough that she let herself settle back into bed, muttering something incoherent into the folds of her pillow. Val grinned and tucked in beside her, looping an arm across her back. It didn’t sink like she expected it to, buoyed up on the mountainous pile of blankets that Rona had stolen around herself. Val huffed a little laugh.

“And here I thought you were suited to the cold,” she teased. She slid closer to press a kiss into the curls that she could just see peeking out from between the sheets, then leaned down towards her ear. "You know, if you let me in, I’m sure I could find another way to keep you warm - ”

The figure under her arm suddenly wrenched itself away, scrambling up and over the side of bed with a speed that made Val’s heart twist painfully in her chest. She pushed up onto an elbow, frowning.

“Rona, what -”

It wasn’t Rona. There, frozen on the other side of the bed, was Sarula, wide eyed and flushed a shade almost as dark as their hair. Val felt her insides suddenly shrivel to nothing. 

“Oh,” she said, her voice a full octave too high.

“Yup!” Sarula squeaked, in the same tone. They stared at each other across the bed, stunned into blistering, mortified silence. Little flashes of memory suddenly swept into Val’s mind, traitorously late; a figure too tall, a voice too soft, curls in too-close spirals against her cheek. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words fizzled away like static.

A small eternity passed before she thought to stand. Sputtering something that felt like an apology, Val scrambled up and out of the bed with as much speed as she could muster, snatching up what little of her armor was still within arm’s reach.

“Well,” she managed as she backed towards the door. “I’m just going to, uh, go, now. Find a hole to the Abyss and, y’know, throw myself into it. Sorry, again. Good night."

And then she was gone, fleeing through the door and down the hall to the room that Amon and Dot had disappeared into barely two minutes before. As the door fell shut, a second figure stirred from bed on the other side of the room.

“Well, shit,” said Rona wearily. “We probably should have told her we only rented two rooms this time, huh?”

[maine-writes]

Vonvon's Time Vacation: Part III, Winter Wonderland

Every travel brochure that features a beautiful hotel in the midst of an idyllic alpine paradise always like to emphasize the majesty of the great outdoors, the serenity of being far away from the chaos of metropolis, but all without leaving behind the conveniences and modernizations of today. Imagine taking a vacation in a tropical paradise, ostensibly to live the "island way", but with high-speed internet, cable, and a nearby familiar fast-food joint or coffee shop.

But always seem to fail to mention very obvious limitations and risks.

Such as weather.

Or the ever so rare "Trapped in a the middle of nowhere with a madman" situation that only really applies to hotels in the middle of nowhere and Airbnb.

Vonvon hurriedly scurried down a twisting hallway, flanked by storage cages made of slats of wood, locked by simply latches and a padlock. Their shoes squeaked on the cold concrete floors as they clumsily ran, occasionally glancing back down toward the other end of the hall. The grey lights of the hall flickered and buzzed, some dying entirely.

"Oh, Vonvoooonnn..." hissed a low, raspy voice. "Where are youuu?"

The child ducked around a corner, their back against the wood, clasping their mouth shut with their hand as they struggled to catch their breath. In their eyes, the dim glimmer of absolute fear.

As they peeked around the corner, peering down the hall, they saw a form slither out from the edge of the far turn.

It was a googly-eyed sock puppet, a demented smile scribbled on with red marker.

"I see you Vonnie," said the puppet, "You can't hide from me. I can hear your breath. I can smell your fear."

Vonvon scrambled to get away, running deeper into the darkest bowels of the basement. But how did they end up in this situation? How did a crazed killer get into the hotel?

It was around three in the afternoon, everyone had returned to a banquet room adjacent to the ballroom, where a staff of servers worked tirelessly to deliver their meals to them. Tonight, they were served a plate of beef bourguignon on top of garlic mashed potatoes. For dessert, they had an eggy flan with a topping of sweet, sticky caramel. Interestingly, the staff were rather short, a squat team of mostly identical looking oddballs who all seemed to be a bit dim. One notable server wore an eyepatch.

Vonvon looked around at all the empty tables, realizing that their party were the only guests in that evening. A troubling revelation when vacation.

They were just about halfway through their dessert when the lights suddenly died, only the dim afternoon light from the windows illuminating the room.

"I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen." Said the tall front desk agent as she walked through the door. "It seems the storm has knocked out our electricity. We have a backup generator on standby, but until main power is back online, we will have to limit electrical use."

With a groan, Vonvon's party dragged their feet back to their rooms.

Vonvon flipped through the channels in their room's television set, all with the same program: static.

"Von, they said we need to limit electric use." Connie said, turning off the TV. "I'd rather not lose power to the lights early. Or heat."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Vonvon groaned. "Some vacation this is turning out to be."

"I'm sure they'll get the power back on soon."

Then there was a knock at the door. It was Sour Cream, peeking his head in.

"Hey, you guys seen my brother?"

Another instance of Onion wandering off to stave off the boredom. Another problem to add onto the load. To help in the search, Buck, Sadie, Jenny, and Lars joined him, and now to see if either Connie or Vonvon were up for it.

"We'll stay with Steven." Connie said, "Where is he?"

"He's in his room." Jenny replied, "I think he's a bit down."

"Ok, good luck guys."

As the group went down the hall, ready for the arduous task of searching for Onion, Connie and Vonvon gathered some blankets and pillows to take to Steven's room.

"You really think a pillow fort will cheer him up?" Vonvon inquired, a stack of pillows in hand.

"Are you kidding?" Connie laughed, "He'll love it!"

"Anything to get his mind off of it, huh?"

But as Connie raised her hand to knock, the door slowly creaked open, revealing a darkness within, illuminated by the flickering light of the TV set.

"Steven?" Connie said, finding no sign of him anywhere. "We brought pillows and blankets, thought we'd make a fort."

But the only thing in the room was a sock puppet, googly-eyes glued on, lying in front of the TV.

"Ok, this is weird." Vonvon said.

"Yeah, you stay here. I'll go find him."

Vonvon was now alone in a cold, dark room, accompanied only by a sock puppet. Nothing good can come of this.

Creeped out by the noise of the static, they turned off the TV and reached for the light switch. But when the lights flipped on, they were not greeted by a warm glow, but by sinister, blood-red light. They looked around the room in horror as they saw the mad rabblings of a crazed psychopath scribbed on the walls, revealed by the crimson glow.

No play makes a boy bored.

No play makes a boy bored.

No play makes a boy bored.

Written again and again and again and again and again and again on every surface, on the mirror, on the painting, on the mattress, and spiraling on the ceiling.

As Vonvon recoiled in horror, they looked at the TV, realizing that the sock puppet that was once there, was there no longer.

"Vonvon..." hissed a voice in the walls. "Want to play a game?"

And that's how they ended up in the basement, running for their life.

"Ok, obviously Dad is stressed out." Vonvon said to themself, "Maybe he just needs a hug."

"Vonnie..." said the sinister sock. "I plan to get under your skin..."

"No hug, no hug!"

Then they came upon a fork in the hall, one leading to darkness, the other to a doorway. They chose to risk it with the door.

As they slammed the door behind them, they turned to find themself trapped in the laundry room. On the far wall, there were large machines, baskets of linen and uniforms, and a cart of cleaning supplies. Above it were a series of windows, but too small for them to crawl through.

"Vonnieeeeee..."

Vonvon pressed their ear against the wooden door, listening as heavy footsteps drifted away. A sigh of relief escaped their lungs.

Then came a loud bang against the door, shaking its hinges, and Vonvon's sigh turned into a scream.

Then came another, and another, with each strike, the child screamed in fear.

"This door's pretty solid." panted the madman, gasping for air.

"I think it's oak." Vonvon sobbed.

"Then I guess I'll just have to huff and puff on this one then."

Vonvon could hear their pursuer take a step back, winding up for a mighty swing. They withdrew from the door as an axehead chopped through the wood, screaming in terror.

Peering in through the door was the puppet, an axe beside it.

"HERE'S COOKY!"

The child backed up toward the washing machines, pulling down tables and throwing baskets of clothes and fabrics on the floor in a vain attempt to make some sort of barrier or obstruction.

They then looked up at the windows, seeing the Garnet lookalike talking on a cellphone.

"Garnet!" Vonvon screamed, "Help me! Help me!"

But all she did, seeing the child waving their arms in distress, was wave back with a smile and return to her call.

Then Vonvon remembered that they had a cellphone.

"Right, stupid scared brain!"

They quickly went through their contacts, finding Pearl's cellphone number and called.

"Pearl's phone, Garnet speaking." responded a familiar voice.

"Garnet!" Vonvon screamed, "Get down here! Your disguises suck and Dad's gone berserk! Why'd you build a whole fountain with badly disguised statues?!"

"We're in the Caribbean." Garnet stated to Vonvon's disbelief. "We thought since you guys are on vacation, we should go on one too. Amethyst rode a shark."

Vonvon looked up through the window, watching the Garnet lookalike finish up her call before walking off.

"Tell Steven we said hi." Said Garnet, Lapis and Peridot laughing loudly in the background. "And don't forget, little kids shouldn't play in laundry rooms. There are exactly 47 ways to die in those rooms."

"Yeah, and I'm in Number 47!" Vonvon yelled into the phone, "Killed by crazed Dad!"

"Vonvon, don't be silly." Garnet said. "47 is Killed by Angry Ghost. Crazed Dad is number 4."

Then she hung up.

Out of options and out of luck, Vonvon threw their phone aside, brandishing a nearby brush as a weapon.

"Back off!" Vonvon yelled, failing to be intimidating, "I have a deadly brush!"

With one final push, the door came crashing down, splintering as it hit the concrete floor. Standing in the doorway was Vonvon's relentless pursuer; Onion, the sock puppet in hand.

"ONION!!!"

"He's such a handful sometimes, isn't he?" Jenny said. "Wandering off like that."

"Sour Cream thought he went to the maze out there and got lost." Buck added, pointing at a shivering Sour Cream wrapped in bundles of blankets, his feet soaking in a bucket of warm water. "Took hours for us to find him."

"Why didn't you come to the pool?" Steven asked, "One of the staff came by after you left and said they were going to keep it heated for us if we wanted to use it."

"Hey, I want to go to the pool." Sadie said.

"That sounds like a fun time." Lars agreed, "I think we can get bathing suits through my head if Lion's with the Gems."

Vonvon was tired. They sipped quietly at a juicebox, reflecting on the traumatic events that transpired. To think, this is what Onion was like as a child. The mild mannered young man they know in the future is the exact opposite of this strange boy.

"So Vonvon," Connie began, "What do you want to do now?"

The child thought about it, not for long though. There was one thing on their mind since the time they thought they were going to die.

"Think the kitchen can make me a burger?"

@artsycooky13

[noona-clock]

Indefinitely - Part 5

Genre: Dystopia!AU

Pairing: Jaebum x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: Mentions of death, some emotional angst

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 | Words: 3,656

He... heard something? Like... on the radio?

“What do you mean --”

Jaebum shushed you before you could finish your question, and he rotated the volume dial on the radio to turn it up.

You pressed your lips together and listened to the static coming through the speakers. ...But then the static was interrupted by a voice.

“If there are any survivors out there who can hear this --”

Both you and Youngjae gasped, and you scrambled to sit up on the couch, your attention now laser-focused on the radio.

“--please know you’re not alone. We’ve started a settlement in Windenburg, and we have plenty of space. We welcome any and all survivors.”

“Windenburg?” you asked softly, not wanting to talk over the rest of the message -- if there was anything else.

“I think it’s about... two-hundred miles from here?” Youngjae stated, though there was a hint of caution in his voice.

“Two-hundred?!” you cried. Jaebum set the radio down on the coffee table in front of you, startling you and causing you to jump slightly. He sat down next to you then, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

...Why was your stomach doing somersaults right now?

“We have to go,” he said, keeping his eyes on the radio as the message repeated again.

“How can we get there?” you asked. You were surprised to hear your voice was a bit shaky; there was no reason it should be. Maybe you were just still so surprised about what you’d heard on the radio.

...Yeah. That was it. It had to be!

“There have to be cars around the neighborhood,” Youngjae piped up.

“I’ve been checking when I’ve been gathering food,” Jaebum replied, sighing. “Most of them are at less than a quarter of a tank, but... I think there was one that had about half a tank of gas left. Maybe more. It’ll at least get us most of the way there, and we can just walk the rest.”

“Most of the way... as in...?” you questioned hesitantly.

“Probably one-fifty,” Jaebum answered.

Your eyebrows shot halfway up your forehead. “So, we’d have to walk fifty miles.”

“Unless you can come up with another plan, yes. We’ll do it over a few days, it’s not like --”

“Where would we sleep?” you interrupted.

“Do you want to get to this place or not?” Jaebum asked sharply.

“Well -- I mean, yeah, but -- but what if it’s a trap or something?!” you pointed out.

“A trap?” Youngjae repeated, the confused disbelief very obvious in his normally friendly voice. “Why would it be a trap?”

“What if -- what if they want to do medical testing on the survivors to see why we didn’t catch it?”

Okay, honestly, you had no idea where all of this was coming from. You knew going to this settlement was the right choice, but... I don’t know. You liked living here. You’d finally settled down here, and now you were going to have to move again.

Jaebum obviously understood the reason behind your questioning because he took a deep breath and turned to face you better.

“I know it’s scary,” he said quietly. “But we have to go. We’ll all be together, and if -- for some reason -- it turns out to be a trap, we’ll make our way back here. But do you want to live in a house with no power and a dwindling food supply forever? With just the three of us?”

Jaebum was making direct eye contact with you as he spoke, but... it wasn’t his usual eye contact. It wasn’t stern or intimidating. His gaze was actually... kind of soft. And comforting. In his own way.

“No... Sorry, I’m just --”

“I know,” he murmured. “But you’re not alone.”

“Yeah, the world is kind of messed up right now,” Youngjae interjected. “But I think you’re being a little... paranoid.”

You glanced over at Youngjae, and even though you now trusted him with your life... you still turned back to Jaebum.

He just nodded, and then you let out a defeated sigh.

“So, when are we leaving?” Youngjae asked, sounding way more optimistic than you felt.

“I guess... tomorrow,” Jaebum shrugged. “We can pack up first thing and leave whenever we can.”

Yes, you had to leave eventually... but did it really have to be tomorrow?

You looked over at Youngjae again, your brow furrowing slightly. “Are you sure you want to leave? I mean... this is your home.”

Instead of looking cautious or unsure, Youngjae simply smiled at you. “Yeah. As long as you guys want me to come along, I want to stay with you.”

A soft grin came to your lips, and you said, “Of course, we do.”

Jaebum simply muttered a “Yeah” before he stood from the couch. And then he added, “I’m gonna head off to bed, try to get a good night’s sleep.”

You figured you should do the same, so you grabbed your blanket and laid down on your couch. “Good night, guys,” you said just as you did every night.

And, just as they did every night, Youngjae replied with “Night” while Jaebum said absolutely nothing.

You shot Youngjae a look which said ‘See? I told you he hates me.’

Youngjae looked back. ‘You are so wrong.’

You just rolled your eyes.

The sounds of footsteps, doors opening and closing, fabric rustling, and zippers unzipping woke you up the next morning.

It’s not surprising to anyone that you hadn’t been sleeping incredibly well for the past month, and you’d gotten to a point where even the softest noise could awake you from your restless slumber.

Today, those noises were the sounds of Jaebum getting things packed and ready to leave.

He came back in the living room when you opened your eyes, taking the blanket from his armchair and beginning to roll it up.

“Hey,” you said, your voice groggy and sleep-filled. “Let me help.”

“We’re taking one backpack each,” he murmured as you sat up and stretched out your back and arms. “Roll your blanket up and gather up anything we might need while we’re on foot.”

You hummed in response, rubbing your eyes a little and yawning before swinging your legs over the side of the couch. You sluggishly grabbed your blanket and started rolling it up. Jaebum held out his hand, and once you’d finished, you gave it to him.

“Youngjae!” you called out, shuffling over to the other couch and reaching out to shake his shoulder. “Wake up, we’re packing!”

You knew it would take much more than that to wake him, though. Somehow, this guy was the absolute deepest sleeper you’d ever met. Most days, you let him wake up naturally because none of you were on any type of schedule. But you could tell Jaebum wanted to get going as soon as possible, so you took both hands and shook Youngjae again.

“Come on, Youngjae,” you said, bending closer to his ear. “It’s time to get up. We’re leaving soon.”

Youngjae stirred, but he didn’t open his eyes or say anything or give any indication he was awake.

So, you shook him again. You called out his name again.

And again... and again... And finally, after the fifth time, his eyes slowly blinked open.

Well, now you’d finally found one of Youngjae’s flaws. With his good looks, positive personality, infectious laugh, and kind innocence, you were beginning to wonder if he was the perfect guy.

But, nope. He was annoyingly difficult to wake up in the morning.

“We’re getting ready to leave,” you told him once one eye was fully open. “You need to pack up your things.”

He mumbled something and began to close his eye... but you whipped his blanket off of him and grabbed his upper arm.

“Nope, you’re not going back to sleep. Get up.”

“Okay, I’m up. I’m up,” he muttered.

As you tossed his blanket back over him, you thought you heard Jaebum chuckle out a “Finally” under his breath. But when you looked at him, he was too focused on packing up his backpack, so... you must have imagined it.

You spent the next half-hour or so gathering everything you’d brought with you a month ago plus a few things from Youngjae’s house you figured you might need.

Unsurprisingly, Jaebum was already waiting out by the car he’d taken from one of Youngjae’s neighbors by the time you were all packed and ready to go. He was leaning against the driver-side door, his forehead wrinkled with concentration as he read a book.

“Ah, The Great Gatsby,” you said once you got close enough to see the cover. “Seems like an entirely different universe compared to now.”

Jaebum chuckled softly as he closed the book and shifted his gaze up to you. “I doubt we’ll ever drink champagne again.”

“Or hear a live band.”

“But, on the upside, we probably won’t get into any car wrecks,” Jaebum pointed out as the front door opened and Youngjae came out to join you.

“This is true.”

“What’s true?” Youngjae asked, hopping down the front porch steps.

“Nothing,” you said with a gentle laugh. “Just talking about good old Gatsby.”

Youngjae frowned in confusion, but simply shook his head a little instead of saying anything. He then headed to the backseat, opening the door and heaving his backpack inside.

Which, I guess, left you in the front seat.

“So... you know where we’re going?” you asked Jaebum, just to be sure.

“I found an Atlas in the bookshelf,” he answered, nodding inside the car.

You bent slightly, seeing a large spiral-bound book in the passenger’s seat. When you stood up straight to look at Jaebum, you quirked an eyebrow.

“You trust me enough to be the navigator?” you asked, only half-joking.

“Yes, of course,” Jaebum answered. There was a tone of offense in his voice, and even though you had been half-joking, you could tell he was not joking in the slightest.

Just like it had last night when he’d sat down next to you on the couch, your stomach did a little somersault. Probably because you were going to be responsible for getting you guys to this settlement place, so basically everything was riding on your map-reading abilities.

“Well, I will not let you down,” you said, bringing your right hand up to your forehead and giving Jaebum a salute.

Jaebum just nodded, but just before he turned to open the driver’s door, you saw a tiny smirk pull at his lips.

And there went another somersault.

...Huh. Interesting. You couldn’t really accredit that one to being the navigator, so...

Had your stomach flipped because of... Jaebum’s smirk?

Surely not.

...Right?

Even after driving the speed limit, barely braking and accelerating more than necessary, and turning the air conditioning off, the car was only able to take you just a little over one hundred and fifty miles. If you were calculating the map correctly, you still had about forty-five to go on foot.

“The day is barely half over,” Jaebum said as he slid his backpack onto his shoulders. “We can get at least ten miles done before we stop for the night.”

You studied the map again, biting the inside of your cheek as you tried to space out ten miles along the route you’d created.

“Looks like there’s a town in about twelve,” you announced after a few moments. “Brindleton Springs.”

“Perfect,” Jaebum nodded. “We’ll find a place to sleep there, see if there are any supplies we can find.”

“All right, which way, Navigator?” Youngjae asked, sounding far more upbeat than either you or Jaebum had.

You looked up from the Atlas, grinning at your friend before you pointed off down the interstate. And once you slipped the book of maps into your backpack and heaved it onto your shoulders, you headed off, trailing behind your two friends.

...So... Jaebum was a friend now?

Maybe.

He probably didn’t consider you a friend, but you just might consider him one.

A part of you was curious to ask him about it, but another part -- a much bigger part -- knew that was a bad idea. Most likely, he just wouldn’t answer. If he did, he would probably ask why it was important to be friends. Either way, things would get awkward, and if you were going to be traveling on foot for the next few days...

So, you let Jaebum lead the way while you trailed behind with Youngjae. The two of you talked about whatever random subjects came to your mind, occasionally requesting input from your strong and silent leader. You sang pop songs which had been popular before the Epidemic. You dreamed about what the settlement would be like -- mainly what kind of food they might have.

After ten miles, however, things began to quiet down. You were all getting exhausted, and you still had two miles left to go until you reached Brindleton Springs.

The sun was getting extremely low in the sky, and the air was getting chillier. Compared to how far you’d already walked, two miles seemed like nothing. But now that it was dark and cold? It seemed like it was going to take forever to reach your destination for the night.

You began to walk with your arms across your body, hugging yourself tightly to try and ward off the frigid temperature. You kept your eyes focused ahead of you, hoping they would get used to the darkness fairly soon.

No one had said anything for probably the past ten minutes, and you were just about to break the silence by asking where the three of you should stop for the night... but then you felt the toe of your boot catch on a very small pothole in the road.

You let out a surprised cry, immediately uncrossing your arms and holding your hands out to break your fall as you tripped to the hard ground.

A sharp, stinging pain jolted through your leg as your knee hit the asphalt, and you felt the fabric of your jeans rip. The stray rocks of the road dug into your skin, a pained gasp escaping from your lips.

Almost immediately you heard the thud of footsteps running over to you, and a pair of hands wrapped around your upper arms.

Jaebum picked you up easily and said, somewhat urgently, “Are you okay?”

You held onto his forearms, bearing all of your weight on one foot as you kept your injured knee bent slightly.

“I just --” you answered. “I only scraped my knee, but Jesus, it hurts.”

It was the same kind of pain you experience with you stub your toe. It’s only the most minor of injuries, but it hurt enough to make you cry and be in a bad mood for the rest of the day.

“Here, sit down,” Jaebum murmured, guiding you down to the road and gingerly setting your leg down. “I brought some first aid things.”

As he turned to rummage in his backpack, the stinging and pain of your skinned knee began to throb until you could feel it all the way up to your head. Embarrassingly, tears began to fill your eyes, and by the time Jaebum turned back around with an alcohol wipe and band-aid in hand, you were sniffling to try and keep yourself from crying.

“Does it really hurt that bad?” he asked quietly.

“I mean, kind of,” you replied with a watery murmur. “I -- it’ll be fine.”

Jaebum nodded, opening the wipe and moving to gently press it to your knee. You hissed as soon as the cooling alcohol touched your open skin. You had to bit the inside of your cheek to stop from reacting verbally. It was just a skinned knee, and you were more than old enough to handle it.

Jaebum then delicately placed a band-aid on top of your knee, disposing of the trash in his backpack and sliding it back onto his shoulders.

“Can you walk?” he asked as he stood up.

You nodded, and when he held out his hand to you, you took it just a little bit hesitantly.

He pulled you up quickly but carefully, waiting just a few moments to make sure you really could walk. Which, of course, you could. It’s not like your entire leg had been chopped off or something.

You fell behind Jaebum and Youngjae, unsurprisingly, walking slowly -- almost limping -- and... to be honest, you let yourself fall down a hole of self-pity.

Your knee was stinging. You had to walk with a limp. You were slowing down your friends. You were walking to a place that was still over thirty miles away. It was cold and dark and you were exhausted and you didn’t know where you were going to sleep tonight. You were hungry. You hadn’t had a real meal in about a month. Your parents were dead. Your life as you used to know it was done, completely, forever and ever.

It was all just too much at the moment, and the tears began to slide down your cheeks without you even realizing it.

Your vision became so blurry that you had to stop walking, and truthfully, you almost plopped down on the road right then and there.

But Jaebum was by your side before you got the chance.

“We only have a little over a mile to go,” he murmured quietly, taking a hold of your arms again to make sure you stayed upright. “Can you make it?”

“It’s just too hard,” you answered, your words slurred with emotion.

“What is?”

“Everything!” you sobbed. “We still have so far to go, and I’m so hungry and tired, and I know you guys are, too. I have nothing to complain about, it’s just -- it’s too hard. I don’t know if I can --”

“Yes, you can,” Jaebum interrupted. He kept hold of one arm but he moved his other hand to cradle your cheek and force you to look at him. “You can. I know you can.”

You shook your head the tiniest bit. “I’m not -- I’m not strong enough.”

“Yes, you are. Your parents wanted you to live, didn’t they? They told you to leave so you could have your best chance. Right?”

You sniffled and tipped your head in a nod.

“This is your best chance. It’s hard right now, I know. You miss them. Thinking about them never being a part of your life again is basically... unfathomable. But you can’t give up.” He raised his eyebrows and repeated sternly, “You can’t give up. They wouldn’t want you to give up. I don’t want you to give up, Youngjae doesn’t want you to give up. We’ll figure something out, okay? We’ll get to this place, we’ll be with other survivors, and we’ll have a life again. We’ll live again. You will live again. Okay?”

You met his gaze, and even though tears were still escaping from your eyes, you nodded.

“Promise me,” he murmured.

“I promise.”

Jaebum searched your face for a few moments before nodding and taking a step back. “Are you sure you can walk?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” you whispered, now avoiding his gaze because you were so embarrassed.

Again, you followed behind Jaebum and Youngjae, though you managed to keep any more tears from falling -- for now. Youngjae also did fall back to walk beside you for a little while, putting a friendly arm around you and not saying a word.

When you finally reached the sign welcoming you to Brindleton Springs, Jaebum led you to the nearest place where you could spend the night -- a park. There were no buildings in sight besides a gas station and what looked like a school down the road, but apparently, he didn’t want you to have to walk any farther than you needed to.

As he began to set up camp on some benches, Youngjae gathered some sticks and kindling to start a fire. You limped over, taking off your backpack and reaching for your blanket.

Jaebum strode over to you, taking your backpack from your hands and setting up once of the benches for you as a bed.

“Here,” he murmured, taking your arm and helping you over to it. “It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.”

Youngjae was currently focused on getting the fire started, so you spoke softly so only Jaebum could hear.

“Thank you.” And you hoped he knew you meant not just for now but for earlier, too.

He nodded, and you thought he would move away to make his own bench bed... but he surprised you by saying. “I’m sorry there wasn’t a better place to stop for the night.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking a few times before you spoke. “No... no, it’s not your fault.”

...Jaebum had just apologized? To you? For the fact you had to sleep on a bench?

...Was he feeling okay?

“All right, that should last a few hours,” Youngjae murmured, standing up from the fire he’d started.

Within just a few minutes, all three of you had settled onto a bench with your blankets. Your knee was still stinging, and you knew you weren’t going to get a good night’s sleep... but you decided to start the night with your usual routine, anyway.

“Good night,” you called out, though your voice was just a bit weaker than it normally was.

“Night,” Youngjae replied.

You closed your eyes, not even anticipating a reply from Jaebum. Because he never said anything back to you when you wished them a good night. Ever. He never had.

But tonight, you heard, “Wake me up if your knee starts hurting.”

...Oh. Well, that was new.

Part 6

[hunter-the-sad-skeleton]

So Helluva Boss Episode five dropped and I decided to write. May continue this, who knows. Enjoy!(Reblog if ya enjoyed reading this! :D)

“The Harvest Moon Festival,” Skip read from his phone. “Is a festival that takes place in the circle of Wrath every year to celebrate the harvest with Prince Stolas cursing the locals with the glow of the true Harvest Moon.” Skip hummed.

“It’s a lot more than that, hon!” Millie grinned. “I can’t wait to introduce ya to my folks! They’re gonna love ya!....Maybe!...We’ll see!” Millie smiled.

Skip grimaced, pulling his legs to his chest, tail thumping against his seat anxiously. “Dad, do I have to go…?” Skip asked Blitzø anxiously.

“Now, Skip, this’ll be a fun experience for ya! You need to get out more anyway! Maybe you’ll make some new friends here!” Blitzø smiled.

Skip sighed. “Maybe even someone more than a friend~!” Blitzø winked.

“DAD!!!” Skip squeaked, discomfort evident.

“Kidding, kidding!” He chuckled.

Millie grinned excitedly as a sign came into view. “Rough and tumbleweed ranch.”. Skip chuckled to himself at the pun.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I mean, if they made a pun like that, maybe he’d get along well with them.

...It took him all of five minutes to not feel comfortable around them. He didn’t voice this fact, that would be rude, but the mention of “An Imp is only worth a dime if he can tear the head off a beast” made him feel uncomfortable.

“Guys, come on, lighten up!” Millie smiled shakily.

“I-I can go…” Skip said shakily.

“Wait!” Millie called, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“Ma, pa, meet Skip! He’s Blitzø’s adopted son!” Millie introduced.

“H-How d’ya do…?” Skip asked shakily.

“Hm. Doesn’t carry himself well.” Joe shrugged.

Skip internally cringed and curled into himself, internally screaming at himself to just run off, run away and never come back.

“I suppose y’all should meet our newest help.” Joe said. Skip tilted his head in confusion. “STRIKER!” He called, Skip jumping at the sudden volume increase.

Skip heard the sound of thundering hooves and...flames…? He immediately perked up, knowing what it was right off the bat. What he DIDN’T know, however, was the absolute SIZE of the beast.

He could only see up to around his belly without looking up. Then came a voice, Silky as high quality curtains and smooth as freshly melted butter.

“Howdy~!” He greeted.

Skip’s jaw hung loose as he took everything in.

“Is your, uh, friend okay?” Lyn asked.

“Hold on, I can check.” Millie said. “Skip? You alright, hon?” Millie asked.

The rider’s gaze drifted down to Skip. Skip now wished he could spin off into space, never to be seen again. He began nervously messing with his tail.

“Skip, huh? Nice name.” Striker smiled.

Skip processed everything for a moment, eventually snapping out of it. Oh Lucifer be merciful, he started accidentally infodumping about Hell Horses that he learned around when he was six-ish, since he took to teaching himself.

It took him about thirty minutes before he realized he was infodumping and he stopped, face heating up in embarrassment.

“Sorry, that was weird.” Skip coughed.

“Huh, never knew someone liked Hell Horses that much.” Striker chuckled.

Skip wringed his tail nervously. He internally screamed at himself. He’d embarrassed himself again, in front of everyone.

“I-I’ll go, uh...do...something away from here…” Skip trailed off, turning around.

“Shame, I was gonna see if ya wanted to pet him maybe.” Striker shrugged.

Skip’s heart skipped a beat. He’d embarrassed himself in front of everyone else, and yet he was being offered pets for a Hell Horse? “I-If you’re okay with it, s-sure!” Skip squeaked. Striker chuckled, gesturing for Skip to come closer.

Skip slowly walked over, freezing when he looked at him. “I...don’t think he likes me.” Skip gulped nervously.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Striker smiled.

“He looks like he wants to kill me.” Skip added.

“That means he likes ya!” Striker beamed. “He thinks you’re worth killing and hiding!” Striker joked.

Skip’s heart stopped. “Um...Good Horsey…?” Skip said, gently patting the tall animal.

Striker laughed. “That he is, Tiny!”

Skip slowly smiled. “He’s really soft…”

Skip’s tail slowly started swishing back and forth in happiness. “How did ya know all that about Hell Horses, Tiny?” Striker asked.

Skip froze, collecting himself quickly. “I had a, uh, Hell Horse G-I had a Hell Horse phase.” Skip corrected swiftly, smiling and hoping that Striker didn’t notice the slip-up.

Either he didn’t notice, or he did but just didn’t care. “Ah.” He nodded.

“Y’all should consider entering the pain games! It could be fun!” Lyn suggested. Skip perked up at the mention of games.

As they began to describe them, Skip lost interest and wandered off elsewhere.

(With Skip)

Skip wandered through the open fields, drifting off and spacing out and getting lost in his thoughts.

He thought over the events that had happened so far. He’d asked his dad if he could stay behind, but he ultimately got forced to go.

He embarrassed himself in front of everyone on multiple occasions.

But he met a Hell Horse, so that was good. He also met Striker. That was also good.

When Skip thought of Striker, he felt...Happy. He felt warm, fuzzy, happy, at peace, calm, almost in-he stopped himself. No. He wouldn’t let his dad be right. He refused. Even if Skip wanted to know what hugs from him felt like-no. Skip threw the thought away.

He wouldn’t.

He COULDN’T.

Love had hurt him so many times in the past, why would now be any different?

He eventually found a clearing and sat down, letting his thoughts settle.

He couldn’t let his dad be right...But why? Why was this such a bad thing?

Why did he let one bad experience dictate his view of such a widely celebrated thing?

Why did he find himself hating himself for allowing such good feelings into his heart?

Why did he not want this to be true? Why did he renounce such feelings? Why did he never want to be in a relationship ever again?

Why did he find himself so in lo-Why did he find himself so attached to Striker?

Why did he want to spend more time with Striker? Why did he want to know more about him?

Was it the Hell Horse? The thrill of finding someone else with his same interests? The potential for a new start?

The chance to find a Millie to his Moxxie? The chance to, Lucifer forbid, finally fall for someone in such a way that he would bare his soul to another party?

The fact that, despite having just met him, Skip would enjoy spending more time with Striker?

He had been so spaced out that he didn’t hear hoofsteps coming his way. “Got ‘nough room for one more?” Striker asked.

Skip nodded, still slightly spaced out.

Striker climbed down from his mount, sitting next to Skip. “Ya know, I didn’t find ya weird back there.” He sighed.

Skip snapped out of it as he realized who had sat next to him and his face heated up.

“Y’alright, Tiny?” Striker asked, half smiling at the smaller imp.

“Fi-ye-yeah, fine!” Skip chuckled shyly, wringing his tail again. “Um, uh….sorry for, uh, running away back there…” Skip apologized.

Striker scoffed, shrugging it off. “Your dad said ya have anxiety, so I don’t hold it against ya.” Striker shrugged.

Skip shuffled his feet nervously. “Still sorry, I, uh, unloaded a lot…” Skip stammered. As Skip spiralled, Striker rolled his eyes, giving the smaller imp a quick peck on the cheek, shutting him up immediately.

“Stop apologizing so dang much.” Striker smirked.

Skip’s face was now a bright crimson red and his brain was now basically tv static. Was this...what it was supposed to feel like?

Striker chuckled, leaning back. “You’re a great guy to be around, ya know?” He complimented.

Skip was now pure crimson and trying to hide in his hoodie. Lucifer, please come riding in a flying chariot pulled by flying pigs wearing togas made from clouds and take him away from this night-no, he couldn’t call it a nightmare. He...Enjoyed it.

“Thank you…~” Skip mumbled.

Striker put an arm across Skip’s shoulders. “Ain’t nothing, Tiny.” He smirked.

Skip stumbled for words, still caught off guard by the sign of affection from the farmhand. It was too good to be true. It HAD TO BE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

His dad COULDN’T be right.

“Got anything ya wanna tell me, Tiny?” Striker asked, almost as if he could read Skip’s mind.

Skip stammered, struggling to find words to say. Skip’s heart froze as he was pulled closer to Striker. “I’m all ears, Pumpkin~” He hummed softly.

Skip struggled to find words, but was shut up as he was given another quick peck on the cheek. “You’re so easy to read, Tiny~!” Striker hummed.

“I...You...Uh….” Skip stammered.

“Sure ya don’t have anything to tell me, Tiny~?” Striker repeated.

“I….I just don’t wanna get hurt again.” Skip said nervously, breaking eye contact.

Striker hummed, tilting Skip’s chin up and making eye contact. “Come now, Tiny~! Would I ever hurtcha~?” Striker asked innocently.

Skip’s mouth flapped open and shut multiple times. He couldn’t think of any words. “I…” Skip trailed off.

Striker pulled the tiny imp into his lap, putting his head on top of Skip’s. Skip’s tail swished happily. “Called it.” Striker smiled.

“Huh?” Skip asked.

Striker smirked, rubbing Skip’s horns, earning a contented sigh from the smaller Imp. “You’re in love, huh?” Striker hummed.

“N-No!” Skip protested.

“Then why’s your face so red, Tiny~?” He hummed, sending chills down Skip’s spine.

“I...Um…” Skip stuttered.

Striker rubbed Skip on the back. “It’s okay to love people after a bad experience, ya know.”

Skip shook his head. “No. That’d mean Dad was right.” Skip objected.

Striker chuckled, Skip internally swooning at the sweet-as-honey sound. “Is that all that’s holdin’ ya back, Tiny~?”

Skip struggled to find words to say. He didn’t have to. Skip was stunned into silence as he was pulled into a kiss.

He was shocked at first, but relaxed after a few seconds.

Eventually, the two separated. “Like I said; easy~” Striker hummed. He eventually stood up, Skip following suit. “Come on, your dad’s probably worried sick.” Striker said.

Skip gulped nervously. “I-I….Don’t know how to get back...I kinda spaced out…” Skip winced.

Striker quirked an eyebrow, grabbing Skip by the sides and lifting him up.

“Huh?!” Skip squeaked in confusion.

“I’m takin’ ya with me.” Striker said, hopping on Bombproof with Skip.

“Just stay calm and you’ll be fine.” Striker instructed. Skip nodded. “Also, hold on.” Striker said.

“Wait, what-” Skip started, getting interrupted as Bombproof burst into a run, Skip barely holding on.

(With Blitzø and the others.)

“Has anyone seen Skip come back yet? I’m kinda worried about him.” Blitzø paced nervously.

“Don’t worry about it, Boss, I’m sure Skip is fine!” Millie assured.

The group’s attention was grabbed by thundering hoofsteps approaching them.

Striker came thundering into view riding Bombproof, Skip holding on tightly.

“Ya know how to halt a Hell Horse, Tiny?” Striker asked.

“Y-Yeah, kinda, but-” Skip started.

“Great! Time to test that knowledge!” Striker said, hopping off, leaving Skip in control.

Skip shrieked, quickly taking the reigns, struggling to stay on the Hell Horse, bouncing up and down at the speed he was going at.

“S-Slow down! Please!” Skip stammered.

“YOU’VE GOT THIS HONEY, JUST LIKE YOUR DADDY TAUGHT YA!!” Blitzø called happily.

“DAD!” Skip called, face heating up in embarrassment.

Skip eventually stopped Bombproof, falling off and landing on the ground. “I’ve never seen someone stop him like that. Nice job.” Striker winked.

Skip smiled shakily. Blitzø rushed over, picking up Skip in a hug and spinning around happily. “Ya did it! I’m so proud of you!” Blitzø grinned widely.

“Dad…?” Skip asked.

“Yeah?” Blitzø asked, smiling widely.

“How do you feel about me having a small crush on someone?”

“I’m sorry.” Blitzø started.

“WHAT?!?”