#super uncanny like hes got human lips and shit

[papas-new-guineas]

No thoughts

Only wheek

[jaeminscoffee]

Daddy Issues | S. Jn

Pairing | Seo Johnny x Fem!Reader

Genre | Smut, fluff

Wc;type | oneshot: 3.93k [not proof read]

Warning(s) | Pwp, dilf!johnny, y/n's a pillow princess, daddy kink, overstimulation, teasing, edging, dacryphilia, slight voyeurism, degradation kink, heavy use of the words 'doll, princess, slut, pretty, angel', typical lyra smut, i made haechan johnny's son (i was about to write changbin as johnny's son but decided against it) age gap, unprotected sex ( the Reader's on pills. Remember this is a fiction, don't play the wrong card irl) filth.

a/n- i found this request buried in my asks and was tempted to write it. Sure, the warning looks intimidating, but i know you wanna read it, y'all whores (ily) shoutout to @bakugou-is-my-bae @cvntzennie and @jenopollo for helping me decide what to post first! @suhpersonic

Minors try not to interact! <3

Age is just a number, so surely, there's nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed of, right? 

There's no reason for you to not fall for the friendly neighborhood bachelor, well not so bachelor bachelor, since he does go around asking people who knows of his marriage to pretend it never took place. 

Johnny's hot, super hot. Has the build of a supermodel. Has the face that one can only imagine belongs to a greek god, as you'd jokingly tell him how he seemed to be god's favorite and how you loathe Aphrodite for showing favoritism (which would always end up with you getting a very sultry, teasing look from the lad) 

Johnny has the type of personality that women can only wish the entirety of the male species would possess. He's an absolute sweetheart, life of the party, definitely the center of attention wherever he goes. And oh god, does he have an immaculate fashion sense. 

But Johnny's also the father of Donghyuck. Your best friend. 

More than being ashamed about the fact that you actually fell in love with a man who has a child of your age, it was the fact that you had to fall for Donghyuck's father of all people. 

Donghyuck is a sweetheart, definitely got his personality from his father but he's also got that glare that could creep the Lord's of the darkness from his father. He's got so much from his father that the resemblance is uncanny. 

You'd not want to get onto hyuck's bad side since you've gotten first hand experience at stopping him from almost committing homicide to someone who spoke shit about his friends, more specifically, you. 

But Hyuck's not in town. So a little fun with Mr. Suh wouldn't hurt anyone, correct? After all, you're still only a human with desires and the want to take risks. 

You'd always not so subtly drop hints at Johnny and he'd always give you that look that would have slick collecting itself between your thighs. A warning look. 

A look that said, "cross the line and you'll get it" 

But that's the thing, you want to get it and will do anything to get it.

"Y/n." 

You'd ask yourself less than a million times if you want to do this or not.

Sure, you weren't this hesitant when you decided to sext your best friend's father knowingly when he was in business mode to irk him up but that's one thing. 

And having to confront the same father who left a message smaller than a sentence that completely disregarded all the obscene text and images to show that he's not the slightest bothered or suprised by your behavior for that matter was another thing.

"Tomorrow at mine." 

It's almost as though he deals with hormonal teenagers one as such as yourself on a daily basis and that thought kind of backfired at you considering the whole 'Let's piss Johnny off so that he'd finally give me what i want' agenda. 

Ironic, huh? 

"Mr. Suh." you start hesitantly, unsure of what to call him, scared of what his reaction would be after your inappropriate shenanigans last night. 

Your stiff demeanor broke down a little with just a hint of shiver passing down your spine as you watch his features contort into a subtle but cocky smirk, "So now you're being all formal,"

"Well, what else would you like me to address you as?" you inquire, feigning oblivion to his tone and what he's implying at. "You tell me, doll. You seemed to have a lot of names to call me last night," he takes a step forward, prompting you to walk a step backwards, further into the corridors of his apartment and away from the actual location. 

"I do not know what you're talking about.. " you let your voice shrivel towards the end, eyes wandering around the complex, finding interest in every small detail as you avoid Johnny's teasing gaze. 

"You don't?" Johnny takes another step forward, latching his hands onto your forearms to prevent you from stepping further away, "You must have had a heavy sleep to forget all that you did last night," his voice drops dangerously low as he begins to walk backwards and back into the safety of his apartment, all the while keeping his gaze fixated on you.

"That won't do, would it? How about we take a walk down the memory lane? And see if that rings any bell?" He brushes your hair away from its static position on your shoulder, allowing him to appreciate all those fine details of your shoulders and neck that are exposed from your selection of clothing, an off shoulder. 

"How about we don't...?" You ask with skepticism, jolting slightly when you hear the door shut behind you and at the new intrusion of personal space by the lad.

"Why are you acting all shy now, Y/n? Weren't you the one so eager to get into her best friend's fathers pants? Just be the whore you are, darling. Your facade's fooling no one." okay you definitely didn't see that coming. 

Johnny's expressions morph into that of mischief as he watches your eyes grow wide and mouth fall ajar, "Am i not correct? Are you not a whore?" he asks with an eyebrow quirked up in a questioning manner.

You don't reply, almost as though the question was meant to linger in the open and that it was a rhetorical one. What you didn't expect, however, was for Johnny's hands to find pursuit around your neck, not necessarily applying pressure, but there as a warning. 

"Answer me." 

"I'm not.." you answer with a feeble voice, internally cringing at how squeaky you sound which only added to Johnny's amusement. 

"Really? Because I don't think good girls go around drooling at a divorced man, her friend's father for that matter and definitely do not send lewd images and voice out their fantasies to a guy twice their age, still want to pretend you're innocent? Or you admit it and we cut down the chase?"

"Yes, I am." you breathe out when his fingers tighten around your neck, a triumphant smile making its way onto his lips. Yet, Johnny felt the need to keep pushing,

"you're what?" 

"I am what you said I am," you speak, trying to avoid looking at the scrutinizing look on his face which seemed futile as he had his arms wrapped around your neck, keeping your head in place. 

"I want to hear you say it, doll. I need to hear you say it." At this point Johnny's intent was to get you into a flustered puddle in his hold and it sure as hell was going in that direction, seeing how you can't even hold his gaze for more than a few seconds in a shot. 

"I am.. I am a who-"

The sound of a phone ringing loud cut you off midway through your sentence, to which you were absolutely relieved. Johnny only seemed to grow annoyed the more he heard the phone ring. With a loud huff, he lets you go, not before giving you a stern look, "Go to my room." he instructed, making his way to the study. 

You let out a breath you've been holding in unknowingly the moment he steps away from you. You watch his figure retreat from you with awe, only now realizing how messy you felt between your legs and how your knees keep buckling. 

"Oh Hyuck!" you hear Johnny exclaim into the phone the minute you step forward to follow his command. 

Your best friend is on call with the guy you're about to fuck. 

Your blood runs cold as you shakily make your way into the apartment and towards the bedroom, shrugging off your sling bag, hanging it behind the door as you place your phone on the bedside table to wipe your hands dry from all the sweat that had accumulated at the palm of your hands. 

"Yeah, I'm fine, about to eat to my dinner actually" you hear the moment to make yourself comfortable at the edge of the bed, looking over to the door where Johnny stood with his arms across his chest, the other holding up the phone as he leans his weight onto one shoulder, leaning into the doorframe.

You take the time to really appreciate his appearance. He adorned nothing more than a simple grey sweat and tight black tee but he seemed ready to walk down a runway at any given moment now. His long hair, slightly disheveled looking almost intentionally messed up, compliments his features. And oh his features. 

The everlasting smirk stayed still on his lips, moving as he exchanged words with his son.

You only come back to your senses when Johnny snapped his free hand in front of you, gaining your attention. He points at his own shirt, then points at you, mouthing 'off' while he listens to Donghyuck speak about whatever he's speaking. 

"Really? Jeno said that? Tell him I'm more than willing to welcome him as my gym partner, the lad seems strong" Johnny makes a quick move to remove the gadget from his ear, before holding it in front of him after placing the call on speaker mode 

Your eyes widen the moment you hear the disturbance in the background and Donghyuck's voice resonate through the room. "no?? Why would you want to work out with him? He'll only make you feel old, you know?" 

"Says the one who still can't beat me at arm wrestling. If anything, i think Jeno would make the perfect gym buddy for me," Johnny raises an eyebrow at your defiance, cocking his head towards the side, staring down at you with a predatory look, "Hyuck, you know, Y/n-" you scramble to take your shirt off at the mention of your name on the call, "-stopped by earlier" he lets out a silent laugh of disbelief.

"Oh? Oh yeah! I'd told her I'd give her book back before I left but I forgot, did you perhaps give it back to her?" Donghyuck questions. 

"I figured you must've forgotten so, yeah i did." Johnny replies, pushing himself off of the doorframe, now walking towards you. 

"Man, I miss her! I might facetime her after I end the call with you," Johnny sets down the phone beside you on the bed, leaning down, placing both his hands on either side of your lap, finding comfort at the crook of your neck,

"I remember her mentioning something about her cousin coming over? Maybe wait for an hour or so before calling her" his lips graze against your neck each time he spoke, you let out a tiny whimper at the so longed feeling, only to earn yourself a small bite at the earlobe, immediately accompanied by a hand over your mouth, "you need to be quiet, doll. Or my son would find out how much of a slut his best friend is," he whispers in your ear. 

"Yeah? Did she mention which one?" 

"No, not really, she kinda just stormed out after getting what she wanted" Johnny creates a trail of kisses all the way from your neck to your shoulders, down the collarbone while one of his hand worked to unhook your bra, "Yeah, she's weird like that," you hear Donghyuck let out a chuckle as you whine into Johnny's palm, your figure slightly trembling from the fear of getting caught all the while being excited about the risky situation he's put the two of you in. 

"Anyways, I'll call you tomorrow? The boys are coming over now so I got to go! Night, dad!" Donghyuck speaks up again, "Night, Hyuck." 

You hear the beep indicating the call has ended. Johnny let's his hand drop from your mouth and makes its way towards your hair, brushing through the strands before pulling at it with a firm grip, "I had my son on call and here you are making all these sweet noises, you wanted to get busted, doll?" 

"It's not my fault! You-"

"ah-ah! Don't talk back, angel. You're already in deep trouble, don't want to add onto that now, do we?" He makes a swift move to have you lying on your back, your torso completely exposed to him while he remains clothed. 

"But Johnny-" you whine, jolting when you feel his hands caressing the soft flesh of your inner thighs, "How do you think Hyuck would feel about this?" his hands travel further north, cupping your heat from underneath your skirt. "fuck, you're drenched"

"Now tell me, pretty girl, what are you supposed to be calling me, now?" 

"Johnny-, tha-that was a joke! I don't have daddy kin-" you try clenching your thighs close from the sudden attention your core was receiving. Johnny wholeheartedly lets out a laugh at your attempt to hide your true feelings, making a quick act of disregarding your soaked panties somewhere behind him.

"Darling, the more you deny it, the longer we keep going at it-" his thumbs at your clit, applying pressure but making no move to quench your needs. You let out a sigh of bliss at the feeling, your back arching off of the sheets at the sensation.

In any other situation, you'd be embarrassed at how sensitive you'd gotten just from all the dirty talking and looks Johnny passed you. But that's the catch, he's Johnny, the only one who can get you this sensitive while doing the bare minimum. 

"Say it, Y/n." 

"No, Johnny! It's-it's embarrassing.." you plead with your eyes, grinding your hips against his fingers, earning a satisfied, dirty look from the lad. 

"Very well.. I'll just draw it out of you"

Without warning, Johnny with little to no resistance, slides two slender digits into your wetness, setting a pace fast enough to draw loud chains of cries from your mouth.

"You hear that, doll? You hear how fucking wet you are? Hm?" he growls animalistically, the thumb that remained on your clit now moving in circles with a motive to get you undone in seconds. 

"Johnn-..!" you whine out, feeling your orgasm growing so close that you could almost taste it, "Still going at that, angel?" he questions, not really expecting an answer as he soaks up the pleasured look on your face. "Johnny- I'm close.. -" you fail to notice the mischievous grin growing on his face as he speeds up the movement of his fingers. 

"Of course you are, doll" He feels you clench around his fingers, back coming off of the mattress as you ready yourself for your release, waiting until the last minute to draw his finger out.

"Why would you-? Johnn-I was so close!" you cry out as you sense your core clench around nothing, whining about the incomplete orgasm. "Why would I give you what you want when you wouldn't comply, baby? That's not how this works." He shrugs, licking his fingers clean of your essence, moving up from the bed to remove the shirt that seemed to be suffocating now.

"Johnny, please!" you whine louder, rubbing your thighs together to create some sort of friction, all unsatisfactory as it did not meet the same intensity as that of his fingers. 

"Please what, doll?" He smirks, knowing the ball is in his court and that you'd had to give in any moment now. Johnny leans down once again, drawing lazy circles at your clit, using his other hand to hold himself up above and close to you, his minty breath which had a hint of coffee fanning your face as you whimper, finally feeling your high building itself up again. "Spit it out, princess, you know you want to." he speaks in a soft voice.

"Please..please" you beg for nothing in particular, getting all worked up again, "The begging's lovely, doll. But you're starting to anger me here, will you say it? Or should I leave you hanging again?" 

You mutter prayers under your breath, hoping he wouldn't actually leave you hanging again, "Fine-" he moves again to remove his fingers from you to deprive you of pleasure all over again when you finally latch onto his wrist, keeping his hands in place blurting out, "Daddy! I'm so-sorry.. There, daddy, please make me come" you give in, the name, the feeling and look of pure victory on his face as he grins like a cheshire cat only intensifies the heat growing at a rapid pace at the pit of your stomach. 

"Final fucking ly, princess. Daddy will make you feel good" He reinserts his fingers in, drilling it with desperation to see you come undone as he draws rapid circles on your now sensitive clit with the other hand, watching you squirm under him.

"Joh-Daddy i'm coming..!" you cry out weakly as you feel your orgasm hit you with much force, easily driving you into over sensitivity. Johnny's patient in helping you ride out your orgasm, not stopping until you let out a throaty sob and plead him to stop to allow yourself some room to breathe. 

Johnny, however, makes no move to stop, only speeding up his fingers, his gaze fixed on where his fingers disappeared inside of you while his other hand held you down with a vise grip, "Give me one more, doll. I know you've got one more in you. " he pants, the feeling of his girth in confinement only throwing himself to sensory deprivation as he feels himself twitch inside his sweats painfully. 

You shake your head, tears now flowing elegantly down your cheek, your lips puckered into a slight pout, your eyebrows drawn together as you let yourself melt into the pleasure Johnny was providing you with. "Daddy.." 

You whine, feeling your second high reaching you ridiculously quick as you see Johnny's face contort in concentration, 

"I need to get you nice and wet for me, princess, you're doing so well. Give daddy another one" you coaxes you with his sultry tone, words and actions, inevitably having you come undone under him for the second time that night. 

You let out a choked moan, finally having enough as you curl upon yourself the minute Johnny removes his fingers from you, full fledged crying at the overbearing feeling of sensitivity. 

Johnny groans at the sight, leaning down to press a soft peck on your sweaty forehead before getting off of the bed to remove his pants alongside his boxer at a slow speed, granting you some time to recover.

"Condom?" he asks, readying himself to reach into the drawing when he notices you shake your head a no as a reply, "I'm on pills.." you mutter weakly. 

You hear him curse out at the thought of doing you raw, flexing his muscles before climbing on top of you again. He takes his time to gently turn you back onto your back, pressing his tender lips against your irritated one for the first time that night, his hand ever so slightly moving to play with your clit once again, making you jerk, "Daddy!" 

"Sorry, doll. Daddy just needs to make sure that princess is ready to take his cock" 

Your whining intensifies at his words, wiggling your hips to move closer to his own, "But I am ready! Look, daddy! I'm so wet and ready for you!" you whimper, earning a chuckle from the lad. 

Just like all the other times that night, he aligns his cock at your entrance without a warning, the tip ever so slightly pushing through your walls, "Alright, big girl. Show daddy how much of a slut you can be for him."

Suddenly, Johnny detaches himself from you, moving further away as he leans by the edge of the door, smirking at you whining at the loss of contact, "Patience, angel" 

He grabs hold of your hips, manhandling your body into all fours as he enters you completely with no trouble once he's got you where he wants you to be.  

Something about having to take Johnny from behind was so sexy that you could almost immediately feel your orgasm grow, "Fuck baby, keep clenching around me like that and i won't last long," he grunts, moving in you with a steady pace, 

"I never expected my son to befriend such filthy sluts like you, Y/n. Look at the mess you're making on my sheets" He grabs a fistful of your ass in a tight squeeze, the sudden shift in his demeanor only serving as a whiplash as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to the sweet orgasm. 

"Jesus, doll, you're so fucking tight i can barely move" Johnny growls, talking to keep himself from coming too fast. 

"Daddy.. I'm close. M-I'm so so close" you cry as your arms give out and you fall face first onto the mattress, the new stretch in your back only encouraging his cock to hit you deeper, finding the sweet cushion that serves as extra pleasure for you. 

"Me too, princess, me too.. '' You hear him let out a whine, his thrusts growing sloppier as he does you slower but deeper. 

He reaches around your body to find pursuit at your clit for the nth time that night, rubbing rapid, messy circles to go with his deep thrusts, "Daddy!" you reach your high with a high pitched cry of his name. 

Johnny comes not too long after you as he couldn't resist the constant tight clenching of your walls around his cock. He thrust slowly to ride out his high as you twitch helplessly, face scrunched up in too much pleasure. 

You feel your body being manoeuvred onto your side as he whispers sweet nothings which pass right through your ears as you feel him softened inside you, the feeling ridiculously soothing for your used up walls, 

"You did amazing, darling." he kisses your temple, not making any move to remove himself from within you, which you silently thanked him for. 

You both lay in silence as you turned your body towards him, earning a hiss and a playful smack from him as it added pressure onto his sensitive member. You wrap your arms around his torso, about to nuzzle into his chest and just drift away to dreamland when you hear the familiar ring of your phone from the table beside the bed. 

You feel Johnny's body shift to reach out to get your phone, looking at the caller ID before handing it to you with a smirk that you knew meant that he was up to no good. "Oh! It's hyuck" you exclaim in shock, quickly accepting the call and placing it near your ear, moving to get away from him. 

But Johnny seemed to have other ideas, as he latched an arm around your torso to keep you from moving, "Hey-" you begin, immediately feeling Johnny experimentally thrust into you again, making you whine, "Y/n! I miss you~-oh hey, are you okay?" you hear Donghyuck's voice from the other side, 

You look at Johnny with a pleading and warning gaze to which you earn yourself a toothy grin from the lad, 

"Of co-course! Just a little.. peachy,'' You turn around to place a hand on his chest to halt his movement, "You don't sound just peachy.. I've heard you like this before!" you hear Donghyuck make those noises he makes when he's thinking as Johnny keeps thrusting lazily the more you look at him, you see him open his mouth to speak, "Oh fuck! You're getting laid, aren't you???" 

"Tell Hyuck daddy says hi"

[pallasperilous]

Occursus

Castiel/Dean Winchester Gen/Teen, 4341 words 15x20 coda  AO3 version “The natural environment of the human soul is a human body,” Cas says. “Humans have yet to meet a foreign substrate that they don’t immediately attempt to colonize. My form in Hell was not an exception.” 

Then he shuts his mouth very deliberately and gestures back to Dean like his mic is going live in three, two. “Or the bit where my soul gave you some kind of STD?” Dean finishes. “It was a poor analogy. I apologize.” “So what’s a better one?” Castiel drums his fingers for a second. “It’s more like…the way a parasitic jewel wasp injects a cockroach with venom, and transforms it into a willing host for wasp larvae.” “Holy shit are you ever bad at this,” Dean says, with that signature brand of fond horror he special-orders just for Castiel, Angel of the Gourd.

It’s half past midnight by the time Dean gets another run at Cas.

Granted, what the fuck does half past midnight even mean here, where time is as free as tap water? Why does anybody even bother? For all it matters, Dean could set his watch to eleventy minutes past twenty o’ nope and still never miss last call.

Then again, somebody felt it necessary to invent the idea of Tuesday in the first place, and Dean’s not gonna volunteer himself for the task of replacing it with something better. What’s important is that he’s survived (or rather, he hasn’t survived) a battery of poignant moments and tearful reunions. He and Sam hugged out burdens registering in the triple digits. They even had a little fight, pretty much for the fun of it, while Ellen fucking Harvelle watched them over the bar with her eyes shining. She still charged them, though.

Right at the beginning of the party Dean and Castiel had their eyes-across-the-room thing, followed by the same magnetic, exhausted embrace they’ve shared on just about every plane of reality now. Dean supposes he could ask Cas for a nickel tour of the Empty just so they could hit for the cycle, but he’d really rather not. Sam let them eke out a few gruff, tear-choked monosyllables before diving in, sweeping Cas up in a bear hug and laughing like a fucking kid. Dean doesn’t push it, because it’s been longer for Sam, after all. Or something.

 And now it’s quiet, just the jukebox and the clink of glasses back in the kitchen, a few folks murmuring in booths. It might be dark outside, it might not; it’s waiting on Dean’s opinion before it commits to anything. And so is Cas, who is standing in the warm glow of the jukebox, hands in his pockets.

 Dean walks up, leans against it, bottle still dangling from one hand.

“C’mon, sunshine. I’ll show you yours, you show me mine.”

Cas looks up and into Dean’s eyes with the wary, elegant patience of a deer. “What is it that you would be showing me, Dean?”

Dean gives him a long, languid blink and bites his lip, and Castiel lags for half a second before rolling his own eyes. “I see death hasn’t refined your sense of humor.”

“Nope. Guess the billionth time aint the charm.”

Cas remains stonefaced, which means a corresponding you dumbass blush starts crawling up the sides of Dean’s neck. The jukebox switches records like it’s making a suggestion.

“I’m gonna sit down outside,” Dean says. “C’mon and sit down with me. There’s a patio somewhere, right? Ellen was always talking about adding one out back. No way she hasn’t bossed somebody into buildin’ it.”

“There’s a patio,” Cas says, taking his hands out of his pockets.

 Heaven’s patio is pretty nice; twenty square feet, some scattered picnic tables, fences covered in ivy and string lights. It still smells like fresh pine boards. There’s even a fire pit, which seems kinda bougie for the Roadhouse, but hell with it, it’s warm and pretty, and since when did pretentious people get to lay claim to “a hole with a fire in it”? There’s no moon overhead, and so the Milky Way is giving them the full monty — the runnelled spine of it, the ribcage packed with galaxies.

“Are they all alive?” Dean asks. The warmth from inside leaks out of his collar, wisps away.

“Who?”

Dean points up. “The stars. They always make a big deal about how most of the stars you can see from Earth have been dead for millions of years by the time we get the light from ‘em. That still true here? Or is everything on auto-renewal?”

“That’s a very complicated question,” Cas says, not looking up, only at Dean. He does that a lot, Dean knows, but it turns out to mean something different than what Dean had always assumed, which was ironically pretty similar to what it actually meant, but was reassuringly unactionable and therefore unfuckupable.

“I’m a very complicated guy,” Dean says.

Castiel smiles at that. “I don’t actually know the answer,” he admits. “And it would take an extremely long time to investigate. There are some other things I’d rather do first.”

“What, you can’t just call the kid for directory assistance?”

Castiel lets a good-humored sigh. “Like many young people these days, Jack prefers to avoid the phone.”

This is a solid riff, and Dean respects it. He picks the table closest to the fire and takes a bench and Cas sits next to him, instead of opposite. Dean thought he managed to break him of this habit a few years ago, but here all things are made whole again.

“So what,” Cas says, without a single molecule of playfulness or seduction, “is it that you want us to show each other?”

“Yeah, I was…it was a dumb joke. But I mean it, just not in a ‘playing doctor’ way.”

Castiel frowns, tightens his lips; the firelight throws a fluttering shadow across his face.

“I mean…Christ.” Dean takes a medicinal slug of his dwindling beer. “I don’t really look like this anymore either, right?” And he gestures at his usual shitshow personal presentation, which death has also noticeably failed to refine.

Castiel frowns, smoothes his hand across the surface of the table. “This is a corporeal world, Dean. It operates on a different set of rules, but your body here is no more of an illusion than it was on earth.”

“Seriously?” Dean ponders a second, squints through the dim light at his fingernails, at the high-resolution grime contained therein. “Jesus, that sounds like a lot of work. At least compared to Holodeck Heaven.”

“It is. But we didn’t build this place to be a...a…doorprize. It’s a real world,” Castiel enthuses, looming forward. “It’s the one that should have been created for all of you in the first place.” He pauses, glances down. “For all of us.”

Dean shrugs. “Okay, so no holograms. I’ll keep all that in mind next time Charlie tries to convince me to go skydiving.”

Castiel snorts, but not in pure aggravation, so Dean feels like he’s finally got a point on the board. “What I’m sayin’ is…physical or not, this place has different rules, right? So could I look at you without my eyeballs exploding? The…you know, the angel parts of you. Not just your vessel,” and Dean fwippies his hand at Cas to indicate that true beauty is contained within and Dean is completely indifferent to the fact this dork-ass alien managed to bodysnatch a guy who’s never dipped below an 8.5.

“It isn’t a vessel anymore. We can create our own bodies, now.”

“Peachy,” Dean clips, because that shit is a little late coming off the line.

Castiel sighs. “You could see me in that form without coming to harm. But you should know that I don’t consider it any more a reflection who I am than this form. Not anymore.”

Dean rolls the bottle towards him, nudges a knuckle. “You’re a real boy now, huh?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Castiel says, and smiles a smile so small that Dean would need a microscope to figure out if it’s pleased or pained.

So Dean thwacks the bottle down on the totally-real table and claps his totally-real hands. “Well then let’s go. Hit me with that angel weirdness. If we’re gonna do this, I gotta taste all thirty-one flavors.”

Castiel smiles a little more convincingly, but it still doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are really only the two,” he says, and holds his palms out to the warmth of the fire.

“Great, then we’ll be done in time to catch Letterman. Then if you’re good maybe you can help me shimmy out of this thing.”

Cas cocks his head. “Out of which thing?”

“This super real heavenly meat-suit, dude. It’s not fair if only one of us gets naked. Peep show has to go both ways. I see your angel-face, you see my soul.”

Cas looks stricken, like Dean is asking to suck on his toes next to a playground. “I mean, unless that’d fuck you up,” Dean adds.

“No,” Castiel replies, a little absently. “It wouldn’t fuck me up. But it…wouldn’t really accomplish anything, either.”

“What, no soul kink? That’s bullshit and you know it. You love this crap.”

Castiel replies, “Your soul is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” with the easy confidence of a regular latte order. With the same uncanny, 2 Blessed 2 B Stressed face he had when Dean plowed Ruby’s knife hilt-deep into Jimmy Novak’s sternum, that he had when the Empty collapsed him  like a carcass in an acid bath.

That face shuts Dean right the fuck up, because it sends him skipping backwards into that fucking basement, where his phone is buzzing and the gritty concrete chill of the floor is seeping through his jeans into the useless meat of his legs and leeching into the hot, wet channels of his piece of shit heart.

Turns out you can work up a good little panic attack in heaven, which seems like a significant oversight.

From a million miles away he feels Cas’s warm, dry palm slide over the back of his hand –– there’s a ring there now that Dean lost down a motel sink drain ages ago, is nobody spotting continuity errors here?—then Cas’s hand tightens on his and it feels like a Xanax kicking in. (The good kind, direct from the hot nurse with the little paper cup, not the kind you get in a from a shady burnout at a truckstop, that’s been ground up with baking soda or benadryl and carefully remolded, as if you could possibly give that much of a shit when you’re freaking out bad enough to buy Xanax at a truckstop.)

Point being, he calms the fuck down.

Cas has good hands. They can do a lot of impressive shit, and they look nice doing it. They don’t look like –– they’ve never looked like –– they belong to somebody whose main job is destroying people, places, or things. They’re hands that how to play the cello, or make tables from reclaimed wood, or give soapy, encompassing handjobs in the shower on cold evenings.

“It’s been years, though,” Dean rasps, not looking up yet. “I was a kid when you got me out of Hell, Cas. I’ve done a lot of shit since then. Maybe souls get stretch marks.”

Castiel’s hand tightens on his, clamps it down on the table. “I’ve always been able to see it.”

“Okay,” Dean mumbles, but Cas keeps on going –

“The only time I couldn’t see any part of your soul was when I was without grace, and I promise you that was one of the greatest deprivations imaginable.”

Dean snorts, looks away, but his hand is still on lockdown. “Worse than going hungry, huh?”

“Much.”

“Hey, what about Sam? Or, hell, fucking Donatello. They both were both walking around minus their creamy filling, and you didn’t say boo.”

Cas shrugs. “I can’t see their souls under ordinary circumstances.”

“So what, mine’s just extra loud, or day-glo, or what?”

“It’s both of those things, but that isn’t why,” Cas answers, and the boy is downright wry.

Dean tugs his hand out, raps his knuckles against the wood. “Okay, so stop bein’ coy and tell me before I get a complex. And if you say it’s because of love or some shit, I’m bailing to Rowena’s.”

“You infected me,” Cas says.

“Uh,” says Dean.

The fire pops and a log shifts; Cas glances over at the kerfuffle, absently lifts his fingers to his chin like he’s looking for an old scar. “In Hell, when I retrieved you…I had to grip your raw soul. I was meant to wear a gauntlet, so I wouldn’t be burned.”

Dean snickers. “You’re telling me you were supposed to be wearing a soul condom. What happened, you get too excited and forget to suit up? It’s okay, I know I’m a lot to take in.”

Castiel purses his lips. “No, I was properly armored. But my arm was torn off in combat shortly before I reached you.”

“Ouch.”

“Ouch,” Cas agrees. “I didn’t have time to retrieve the arm or its protection from the pit, so I had to grow a new one very quickly.”

Dean really should’ve switched to whiskey before starting this. “What, you didn’t pack a spare?” He wheezes.

“Ordinarily, yes, I would have had the resources, but I was equipped very lightly for that mission. It was a raid, not a siege. You understand the difference.”

“Sure, yeah, you left your emergency arms in the trunk. So you just popped out a new one. No big.”

“It was a big. Your soul was close enough that it forced me to grow a human arm, instead of a much quicker and more powerful extensor.”

“Okay, uh,” Dean pinches at the bridge of his nose, “there’s a lot to unpack there.”

“What part of it confuses you?”

“I dunno, the bit where apparently angels are I guess heavenly octopuses,”

“The plural in the Greek is octopodes,” Cas interjects, not without pleasure.

Dean glowers. “Or the part where you can apparently swap in different drill bits,” Dean continues,

“Mm,” Cas notes, careful not to open his mouth,

“Or that I, like, accidentally bullied you into growing a person arm,” and Dean pauses for breath here, which Cas evidently takes as permission to dive in with more Planet Earth commentary.

“The natural environment of the human soul is a human body,” he says. “Humans have yet to meet a foreign substrate that they don’t immediately attempt to colonize. My form in Hell was not an exception.” Then he shuts his mouth very deliberately and gestures back to Dean like his mic is going live in three, two.

“Or the bit where my soul gave you some kind of STD?” Dean finishes.

“It was a poor analogy. I apologize.”

“So what’s a better one?”

Castiel drums his fingers for a second, listens to the fire pop in its little cage. “It’s more like…the way a parasitic jewel wasp injects a cockroach with venom, and transforms it into a willing host for wasp larvae.”

“Holy shit are you ever bad at this,” Dean says, with that signature brand of fond horror he special-orders just for Castiel, Angel of the Gourd.

“What I’m trying to avoid saying,” Castiel sighs, “is that you rubbed off on me.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. That’s fair. I wouldn’t be dumb enough to say that around me, either.”  He lays a couple little pats on Cas’s hand. “Lookit you, though, seeing around that corner. I’m proud of you, man. That would’ve totally flipped your breaker back in the day.”

“Just one of the many ways you have reshaped me, Dean,” Cas says, with warm sarcasm.

“Alright, so you rawdogged me, I whammied you. Chocolate, peanut butter, peanut butter, chocolate.”

Cas’s forehead wrinkles in skepticism. “I still prefer the cockroach. But some part of your soul injected itself into one of my more exposed frequencies. Under different circumstances, I would’ve stopped and excised the affected area before it spread, but. I was being pursued, and the mission had taken much longer than any of us anticipated.”

“Us? Thought it was just you down there.”

Cas looks vaguely offended, straightens and folds his arms like he just remembered he’s giving a deposition. “No, of course not. Michael assigned sixty-six angels in eleven groups of six, each escorted to the field by a seraph. We struck simultaneously at six different areas in perdition. From there we dispersed to individual targets –– to cause as much chaos as possible in order to help obscure the object of our mission, and to increase the odds that one of us would actually find you.”

“And you were the lucky winner.” Dean pushes down a touch of sick shame at the thought of it — he’d been coiled up like a snake around somebody else’s torment, anesthetized by it. It was one of the random rags of infernal time where his own pain decreased in proportion to how much he dealt out, and that was the closest thing Hell had to a Friday night.

“I was,” Castiel nods. “I took some liberties with my assignment,” he adds, squinting. “I flattered myself that I shared a special affinity with The Righteous Man.”

“That guy always sounded like kind of a cunt to me,” Dean notes. “You know, not withstanding the fact that I’m him.”

Castiel shrugs. “I found you, and I did what was necessary to save you, and my siblings did what was necessary to save me.” A little falter enters his voice. “Only twelve of us returned from that mission.” Cas looks up, out, away. A dove coos somewhere nearby of the Roadhouse; did it have a run-in with the windshield of an eighteen wheeler one day and show up here, Dean wonders, or does heaven make its own birds from scratch? That’s gotta be a softball compared to whether Betelgeuse is still open for business.

Castiel waits until the bird shuts up, then says, “Of those twelve surviving angels, I personally murdered nine, in everything that followed.”

After a moment Dean says “Yeah,” with practiced neutrality. He’s got some similar tallies, written in Sharpie on the back of his eyelids.

Cas sighs and his attention comes back down to the table. “By the time I received the authority to restore your soul to your body, the infection had spread almost past the point of containment. That’s why I resisted taking a vessel at first. I worried that occupying a human form would speed up the process.”

“Hey now. I thought you showed up naked because you thought I’d be one of those special people,” Dean quips, “Who can handle angel stuff without going all kibbles ’n bits.”

“That was only a partial truth.”

Dean tips the beer bottle in salute. “You’re a real special flavor of asshole, Cas.”

“So I’ve been told. I was right, though. When I took Jimmy as a vessel, I contracted — condensed — myself very severely. The infection had a much shorter distance to travel to reach all of my extremities, and a human form was the most hospitable environment possible.”

“You got a raging case of the Deans.”

Cas’s head kicks back in a laugh that kinda surprises them both. “Yes,” he says, grinning. “I did. I was very displeased, and very concerned I’d be found out and judged unfit for duty. And I very much was. Unfit, that is. Though I was not found out.”

“C’mon, never? You went rogue on the company.”

“Uriel suspected. Naomi certainly detected it later, as did Metatron. But in the moment, no. The Host’s attention was focused on the Apocalypse ahead, not on debriefing a mission that was considered a success. After the Cage was closed, I had too much influence to come under that level of scrutiny.”

“Hmh.” Dean realizes he’s been systematically picking down the label on the beer bottle, so he sets it on the ground before he gets sticky little shreds everywhere. “So I gotta ask. My little souvenir, the handprint. That’s where you grabbed me, with your lil…Mister Potato Head human arm?”

“It is.”

“If I’m the one who infected you, how come I’m the one who got burned?”

“My hand didn’t burn you.”

“Well, it ain’t fingerpaint.”

“Your own soul burned it, as it flowed out of your flesh and into mine. It burned until the moment when I finally released you from my grip. My hand healed itself; your arm did not.” Castiel gives a thin scoff. “I hadn’t planned to leave you interred.”

“Oh, no? Well that’s nice to hear, you know, a decade after the fact. I still have nightmares about that shit.”

Castiel winces. “It’s no excuse, but I was in a great deal of…the equivalent of pain. It took an immense effort to break off the inflow of your soul, and when I did manage it, I was thrown quite a ways by the recoil. By the time I recovered enough to return, you were already looting a gas station,” He finishes, dryly.

“Yeah, well, Dad didn’t think much of leisure as a virtue. Also I was thirsty, because I’d just crawled out of my own grave.”

“And I was distracted, because I’d just fought my way out of the inferno while being digested by a demented human soul.”

“You wanna call it even?”

Cas lifts his brows. “If you don’t mind.”

 There is a long, dark breath, during which their little smiles fade. 

 “So, all that,” Dean says, because he’s a fucking coward.

“All that,” says Cas, because he isn’t.

 Dean clears his throat. “That means you can see my soul-stuff 24/7, huh?”

Castiel slides one leg up onto the bench, shifts to sit astride it, like he’s maybe about to deliver an after-school PSA on the Real Deal About Drugs. “I can always see myself, and extensions of my self. And since your soul made itself into an integral part of me…I can see you.”

“I take it that’s not exactly in the manual.”

“No. I didn’t entirely understand it at first — for a long time, I convinced myself it was because you were designed to be a celestial vessel, and that I had been destined to save you from Hell.”

That thin, acidic feelings starts to rise up in Dean’s chest again. “Do you…” A dry swallow reflex grabs his throat. “Hm. Fuck.”

“What?” Cas asks, scooting forward. An angel. Scooting. What a world. “You can ask me anything, Dean. I hope we’re both past being offended.”

“Have you ever thought that. This whole deal. Our…thing.” Dean lets out a breath. “The way you feel about me. The way I feel about you.”

“Do I worry that its only basis is our shared material?”

Dean licks his lips, works a jaw muscle, forces out a nod. 

Cas frowns, sets one elbow up against the table, then lets his head tip to the side. “Why do you love Sam?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I get it, he’s my brother. We got shared material, too. But we’re not talking genetics.”

“Genes were the initial basis of your love for Sam. But you share half as much material with Adam. Do you love him fifty percent as much as you do Sam?”

“One, love doesn’t work that way and you know it, and two, fucking of course not. I barely know the guy, and what I’ve seen didn’t exactly blow me away.” Not that the poor dumb kid ever really had a chance. “Sam’s Sam, he’s earned it a million times over just by bein’ him.”

“Then you understand.”

“But Cas, man…I…” Dean laughs, which is an abbreviated form of screaming, “I treated you like shit.”

Cas nods. “You did.”

“Okay, the rules say you’re not supposed to agree with me.”

“But the balance remains in your favor. Dean, are you genuinely afraid that you — care for me…”  and Dean can hear the FCC live-bleep in that one, like does his total cowardice have a special color Cas can see with his soul-o-vision? “Only out of some compulsion?”

“No,” Dean says, to the great surprise of his frontal cortex, which was busy kicking the shit out of itself. “No,” he says again, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, that that answer actually came out of him and entered the living air between them.

Then the wave is rolling towards him and he enters that slim moment of body-physics where you either take a lungful and commit to diving under the break, or you kick out against the undertow, arch your back to meet the blow, and let yourself be flown all the way up to the waiting shore––

“No,” Dean says, “I love you.” And he chokes up a little, first at the release of saying it, then at how much of exactly jack-shit it changes anything so what was he even scared of, and then at the look on Cas’s face: how he’s frozen. Like that dog from that video, the one that loved tennis balls so goddamn much that his owner bought him a thousand fucking tennis balls and dumps them out all at once and the dog absolutely stalls the fuck out, just seconds on end of underspecced dog-brain hang time before he finally snaps back to reality and loses his absolute shit scrabbling all over the porch.

Castiel comes back online with a little choking noise of his own, and a kind of awkward scrabble for Dean’s hand.

“I have for a long time,” Dean continues, because apparently he’s continuing, “I’ve loved you for fucking ages, Cas. In people years, anyway, I’m sure that mean’s fuckall to somebody who’s a zillion––”

“I don’t,” Cas says thickly, “really give a damn about the age difference, Dean,” and cracks into a chuckle.

“So how come you never knew it?” Dean asks, feeling freedom turn into a hunger or something like vertigo. “If you can see my soul, how could you not know?”

Cas shrugs, a bit helplessly.

“Seriously,” Dean laughs, “how did I manage to hide that shit so well? Sammy found every nudie mag I ever shoplifted.”

Cas shakes his head. “You’ve never actually been able to hide anything from me.”

Dean scoffs. “C’mon, man. I snowed you plenty, or else we woulda had this conversation dirtside a long time ago.”

“Whatever I missed, Dean…it wasn’t because you succeeded at hiding it,” Castiel says, softly. He takes a slow, shaky breath, and meets Dean’s eyes with a smile. He lifts a hand to Dean’s face, bone and flesh on flesh and bone. “I just loved you enough to look away.”

 It’s a long time before they go back inside. By any measure. {AO3}

[alovesongshewrote]

Whumptober Day 19: Broken Hearts | Reader

Plot:  Part 3!!  Torture!!

Word Count: 3,158

Warnings:  Torture, threats, demons, possession, the demon is a mega asshole still

A/N:  Whump

Tag List:  @furblrwurblr​ @einahpetsyarcip​ @sorrels-scribbling​ @anxious-stitcher​ @alive-and-afraid​ @animedweeb333​ @douxiesdamsel​ @saroski05

Nari was not having a good time right now.  Her guardians, her protectors were dealing with some massive evil presence, and there wasn’t much she could do other than look for help with Archie.

Archie was also not having fun.  He was supposed to protect Douxie, to look out for him and make sure he was safe.  But now?  Now Douxie was anything but safe.  It was a new kind of horror, the cat-dragon decided, to watch his oldest friend get tortured in his sleep; to watch his skin tear on its own and the blood stain the sheets.  And then he had to leave him.  He had to leave his wizard, his boy, who he had watched over for almost a thousand years, to an uncertain fate.  He trusted you, of course, but this thing, this darkness that haunted you was a force to be reckoned with.  He didn’t want either of you to be hurt more than you already had been.

The two of them ran for a while until they found a payphone, which is literally the luckiest anyone ever gets in this story because those things are almost extinct, and called for help.  After that, all they could do was wait.

You were not doing any better.

You woke up restrained, tied to a kitchen chair with bonds that glowed the same blue as the demon’s eyes.  While this wasn’t the first time this had happened, it was the first time the magic burned.  Wherever it touched your skin an unfamiliar ache took hold.  That was new, it was different, and it hurt enough to make you wince.  The demon was waiting for that.  Now that you were awake, the fun could begin.

“Good morning, darling.”

You groaned a little bit, not wanting to deal with this asshole.  Unfortunately, you had no choice in that matter.

“What’s the matter?  Uncomfortable?”

“Eat a dick.”

The thing snarled, and the expression looked uncanny on your wizard’s face.  It was just so unlike him, and that reminder that he was trapped in there hurt you more than anything this demon could do.  That didn’t mean that the demon wouldn’t try.

It grabbed your face, jerking your head to face him, “Don’t get smart, now.  You don’t want poor Douxie to suffer any more than he has to, do you?”

You bit back a string of insults while trying to escape from the demon’s grasp.  That wasn’t going super well, and it only made the thing tighten his grip.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” you spat, words laced with venom.  The demon was unaffected.

“Do you want him to suffer?”

You stopped struggling and stared at the thing that controlled your boyfriend’s body.  He couldn’t be serious, could he?  Did he actually want you to say it?  

He jerked your face again, pulling it upwards, exposing your neck, “Come on, darling, we don’t have all day.  Just say it, yes or no.”

You stayed silent, incredibly wary of why exactly he would want you to say this.  In your first nightmare, he kept trying to manipulate you, telling you that if you loved Douxie you would die for him.  The situation was too similar for this to be a coincidence.

When you said nothing, the demon sighed, shaking his head.  You felt a sharp pain wherever his fingers made contact with your face.  Claws, you realized, were extending from his hand, carving into your skin and leaving shallow cuts across your cheek.  You gasped, trying to pull back, but that made things worse.  Not only did it give the monster’s talons a better chance to tear your skin, but it let you see the awful mix of demon and man that was this thing’s hand.  Simply put, it wasn’t Douxie’s.  It may have been attached to his body, but these long sharp claws were anything but human.

While you were distracted by that little abomination, the demon drew closer to you.  The hand that wasn’t embedded in your face curled around the chair, effectively boxing you in, not that you had anywhere else to go.  His figure loomed over you, reminding you that you were completely outmatched magically and physically.  You shut your eyes and gritted your teeth as the demon’s lips grazed your ear.

“If you say yes, I’ll let you go.”

Your eyes snapped open, and you turned to face the monster as much as you physically could.  Why the hell would he offer that?  To torture Douxie, probably, but this was too weird.  Before he’d based his attacks on your love for the wizard.  Why now, was he trying to get you to betray him?  You guessed it was because his identity as a demon had been revealed, forcing him to try another tactic, but that didn’t make too much sense if you thought about it too hard.  You knew that he was lying, he would never let you go that easily, the question was why?

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

You remained silent.  You weren’t going to say anything to this guy that wasn’t an insult.

“Well, you can't be blamed for that.  Here, let me show you,” he removed his claws and his hand from your face, allowing you to move your jaw again.  He moved that hand down the length of your body, and as it descended, your bonds loosened a bit and the burning subsided.  The demon pulled away from you for a moment, only to lean over your other side and push a strand of your hair back into place.  You didn’t make a sound.

“I bet you’re wondering why you get this deal,” he ran a clawless hand down your jawline, bringing it to rest on your chest, the same place he had stabbed you weeks ago.  You felt your muscles tense up as he lowered his head to rest on your shoulder.

“It’s because you remind me of my wife.  She had the same spark you do.  I don’t regret draining her, killing her slowly as I stole her power, but,” you could feel the demon smiling against you, as he paused, letting the threat sink in “There are some things I do miss.”

He kissed your neck, making you want to vomit.  You liked it when Douxie kissed you, but even though this was his body, it wasn’t him.  You were relieved when the demon stood, taking a few steps away from you.  You even relaxed for a second before he pulled out the knife.  Silver with a green gem.  It was the blade from your nightmares.

“This was hers once.  She’d never approve of it being used in this way, but she can’t exactly stop me from where she is, can she?”  he came towards you, pushing the point of the blade against your collarbone, “So, what’s your answer, darling?  Yes or no?”

You weren’t saying anything.

And it was pissing off the demon.

“Come on, darling, I’m running out of patience.”

Silence.  From both of you.

But you noticed his grip tighten around the hilt of the blade, his eye twitched, his jaw clenched.  It wouldn’t take much for him to explode.

It took nothing, actually.

“SAY IT!”  he screamed, the blade slicing through your skin, small drops of your blood hitting the wall.  You said nothing, but you could not hide your smirk.  The demon didn’t like that.  He placed the knife against your skin again, getting in your face and growling as he spoke, “Say.  It.”

You smiled then.  This may have been a powerful demon possessing your even more powerful boyfriend, but you were the one in control right now.  You said nothing.

The monster’s face went blank, and you smirked, even as he drove his blade into your chest.  It was enough to hurt, but not to kill.

He waited for you to say something, anything, but you just sat there, grinning.  He moved his blade down to rest against your ribs, demanding that you answer his question once again.  You refused, and the knife ran against your skin, breaking it and drawing blood.

The process repeated a few more times, but you never answered.  At this point, it had moved beyond refusing to respond out of fear.  If he wanted to manipulate you, the time had passed.  This was a game of defiance now, and answering meant surrender.  Answering meant death.

You could tell the demon was growing tired of this game.  Eventually, he threw the knife down and just started hitting you.  When he finished that, you were laughing.  Maybe this was just your way of avoiding the trauma that you would have to deal with eventually.  Maybe it was your way of letting Douxie know you were still there.  Maybe you had gone insane.  Either way, the monster was now slumped over your counter, screaming out of frustration.

Once your laughter had subsided, you leaned back still grinning, “You ruined my shirt.  Just, FYI.”

With a growl, the demon flew across the room, grabbing your throat again, not hesitating to squeeze this time, “You vile little-”

He cut himself off, letting go of your neck and stepping back.  You were already concerned, but the smile that spread across his face really set you on edge.

“Well, you won’t answer me, and you clearly don’t care about your own life,” he picked up the knife, “but maybe, you’ll care about him?”

He brought the blade over his wrist, Douxie’s wrist.  You started to struggle again, panic returning and adrenaline running through your veins.  The demon pushed the point of the knife through his skin, not far enough to cause any lasting damage, but more than enough to scare you.

“What’ll it be, love?”

“I-”

“Answer or he dies!”

“Okay, stop!” you cried, straining against the magic keeping you in place, “Stop it, please, I’ll answer, just don’t hurt him!”

He dropped the knife, grinning at you, “That’s all I needed to hear, darling.  Now, tell me.”

You waited until he was right in front of you.  You had never seen Douxie look so smug.  True, this wasn’t actually him, but it was still a weird experience.  This entire day had been a weird experience.  Your Douxie, the real Douxie, would never hurt you, ever.  He would never lay a hand on you, never swat you away or elbow you in the ribs or touch you when you didn’t want to be touched.  But today, his body beat the shit out of yours for hours.  Fortunately, if you got things your way, that would be over soon.  You tried to stay calm as you followed your plan.

First, you looked into the demon’s cold blue eyes.

Next, you let a few tears fall, trying to look as weak and unassuming as possible.

Then, you gave your answer.

“No.”

You waited for the demon’s response.  He smiled sadly, shaking his head, “I thought you’d say that.”

He drew closer to you, probably going in for the kill.  Whatever, it didn’t matter, what mattered was that he was close enough now for your attack.

Here’s the thing about them bindings.  They only last as long as the one doing the binding is focused on them.  When the demon had his little meltdown, you were able to free one of your hands.  It was only one of four limbs, but it was a good start.  You waited until the demon was in punching distance.

And then you just fuckin punched him.

It felt great.

Not physically, because, y’ know, hours of torture tend to make you feel like shit, but still, it felt nice.  

While the demon took a second to regain his bearings, you made quick work of your other bonds, freeing yourself quickly and getting to your feet.  You almost fell as soon as you stood, but shit, torture will do that to you, and you could deal with it later.  You needed to run first.  

So you did.  You grabbed the nearest weapon and bolted, not out of the apartment, but into your bedroom.  Sure, the demon beat you and Douxie before because you were in his domain, but now you were in your apartment.  It was over for him.  You had the high ground.

Thinking fast, you hid in the closet preparing your weapon, which was an unopened can of something.  Maybe it wasn’t great for melee purposes, but it would make one hell of a projectile.  You waited in the dark until you heard the demon outside.  You didn’t wait anymore after that.

You kicked down the closet door and yeeted the can at your boyfriend’s head.  It was a direct hit!  With a grin, you ran at the demon, tackling it to the ground and rolling away.  While it tried to get up, you slammed your fist into the ground, your magic forming a sigil on the ground and trapping the demon inside.

You stood up, breathing heavy but smiling.  But you weren’t done yet.  You needed to get Douxie back.

“Hey babe, I know you’re in there, and I’m sorry for beating you up.”

The monster growled, lunging towards you only to hit the invisible wall made by your sigil, “SHUT UP.”

You did not do that.  Instead, you kept on talking, “But I need you to come back to me.  I know you’ve been fighting him, and I’m sorry I couldn’t help you before, but I can now.”

“STOP THIS!”

“Fight him, darling, you can come back to me, I know you can.”  

Darling.  The word slid off your tongue like you’d been meant to say it all your life.  It just felt right.  It must have felt right to Douxie too because as the demon screamed, the glow of his eyes faded.  Blue turned to hazel, and your boy was back.  Behind him, smoke gathered, but you didn’t care.  Your mans was no longer possessed.  You could not stop the smile on your face as you grabbed his hand, pulling him out of the sigil.

In an instant, his arms were wrapped around you, and yours around him.  You buried your face in his chest, letting yourself relax for a second.  He was shaking and clinging to you as if he feared he would never hold you again.  That was valid.  Today was a traumatizing day for everyone.

You brought your forehead to rest against his, placing your hands on his face, tracing his cheekbones with your thumbs.  He was crying.  So were you.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hey.”

You let out a sob, pulling yourself closer to him, “I love you.”

“I love you too, I love you so much,” he said, repeating those words over and over, throwing in apologies pretty frequently. 

“YOU FOOLS.”

“Oh great, this guy again.” Your voice was muffled, but Douxie still heard you, smiling despite the situation.

“YOU WILL DIE FOR THIS.”

“Sure, Jan.”  Maybe it was the blood loss, but you had decided to be funny.  Also, it pissed off the demon, which was nice.

It growled again and lunged for you, and this time, the sigil flickered and faded, freeing the thing.  The monster had to take a second as he hadn’t expected that to work, but it did, and now you were in trouble.  Again.

Douxie had no time to deal with your delirious ass.  Instead, he picked you up and ran, stashing you in the elevator while he ran up the stairs to the roof.  He managed to beat the beast to the there, grabbing you from the elevator and running to the edge of the building.  He kept you behind him, trying his best to protect you.  The monster burst through the doors, now in its true form.

“(Y/N), I love you.”

“Eh, no, don’t do anything stupid.  We’re in this together,” you grabbed his hand, and smiled.  Maybe you were about to die, but that wouldn’t stop you from being a cute significant other.

“I love you, too, just by the way.”

Douxie shook his head, but he had no choice but to smile back at you.  That’s love children, that’s love.

You stretched out your hand, magic at the ready.  Douxie did the same.  

It was time to fight the demon.

It lunged at Douxie first, and he knocked it to the side with a spell.  It jumped back up, screeching again.  Now that you thought about it, you weren’t sure how your neighbours didn’t hear any of this, but you really didn’t have time to think about it.  The demon was coming for you now.  You dodged the attack, rolling under the monster and striking upwards.  It flew back, nearly falling off the roof, but it pulled itself back up at the last second.

“Hey, babe?  If we knock it off the roof, will that kill it?”

“Not sure, we’ll just have to see!”

Douxie attacked now, fighting off the darkness with flashes of blue.  You joined him, your magic whipping around the creature and throwing it, where else?  Off the roof.  Things looked good for a moment.  

Then the thing rose from the ground, knife in hand, starting in its true form and morphing.  But it didn’t turn into Douxie.  It turned into you.

And then it stabbed Douxie.

“NO!”  the scream tore itself from your throat as you ran at the demon, wrenching the blade from its grip and driving it into the monster’s heart, your heart, over and over again.

When it was dead, your face was wet with tears and blood, both yours and the demon’s.  You dropped the knife, covering your mouth and trying to keep in your sobs.

You felt Douxie’s hand on your shoulder, and you let him help you away from the body.  Neither of you could get far though.  A few minutes later, both of you were on the ground.  Your head was on his chest, his arms were around you.  From here, you could hear his heartbeat.  You wanted to look into his eyes, to make sure they weren’t blue, that this wasn’t a dream, that he was safe and you were safe, and everything was ok.

But his eyes were closed.

You just let your head drop back to his chest, and shut your own eyes.

“We did it, darling,” you whispered, “We’re safe now.  You-you were amazing.   I’m so sorry, Douxie, I’m sorry about all of this,” you gripped onto his shirt, trying to keep yourself grounded. “I love you, I love you so much.  Don’t worry, love, help is-help, help,” your words died in your throat as the world around you went black.

//

Even though you’d passed out, help was, in fact, coming.  It just took a while to get there.  

About a minute after you lost consciousness, Nari, Archie, Zoe and Claire burst onto the roof, finding a very dead demon, a dying witch, and an unconscious wizard.

Not a great thing to find tbh.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Not Another Mummy!

Chapter One

First Chapter will be on Tumblr only until more can be written. Story originated thanks to this thread. One hundred percent @magellan-88​ ‘s fault. 

Pairing: Stucky   |  Word Count: 2001

Warnings: Language, mild angst, takes place after CA:TWS

Rick O'Connell was a mummy hunter. 

It hadn't always been his job, but he fell into it rather naturally. Well, Evie fell into it by way of raising Imhotep from the dead, damn near dying as the sacrifice to return his dead lover Anck-su-namun to the living, and then banishing him to the underworld. 

Twice.

As he was the (often) put upon hothead Yank to her more stoic (stiff upper lip, Chaps) British ways, her colleagues rolled their eyes at her but always out of Rick's line of sight. Still, there was no one better when it came to weird, ancient woo-woo crap.

So when a telegram came from a woman named Pegs, Evie had dropped everything to run to her side. 

It didn't matter they were crossing warzones or dragging their seventeen-year-old son with them to occupied France, Evie was going.

That was how Rick O'Connell met Steve Rogers, the Captain America, and his best friend, Bucky Barnes, and learned there was such a thing as kindred spirits.

Because Steven Grant Rogers was a punk with balls the size of Texas and no sense of self-preservation, and while Rick would never comment on the size of Evie's metaphorical brass bangers, the first time Bucky Barnes groaned with all the dramatics of a putout housewife and screamed, "Steven Grant Rogers! What the hell are you doing? Get down from there; you shit little punk!" Rick knew he'd finally met someone with his own Evie. 

For Barnes, Rogers was a bit like watching Evie, Alex, and Jonathan all rolled into one, but he at least had Peggy and the Howling Commandos as backup. Rick only had himself - and occasionally Ardeth Bay - to keep his troop of walking disasters from falling into pits, and waking the undead.

In France, the Howlies helped them clear out the spookables in the castle where Pegs had found the books she knew Evie would want to preserve, and the O'Connells and Howling Commandos had parted ways. 

Over the next few years, they occasionally crossed paths, and Rick developed a lasting friendship with Bucky Barnes built on saving their idiots and loving them with their whole hearts. 

So when the news came that Barnes had died, Rick took it hard. He tried to find Steve, but the war was too hot, and any commiseration of grief would have to wait. 

Still, he drowned himself in liquor for a week straight, and Evie, lovely, wonderful Evie, his very own Steve Rogers, poured him repeatedly into bed, where if Rick cried out his grief against her, she never told a soul. 

Then, with the news about Steve, Rick was both saddened and a little at peace. At least they were together. They could spend their afterlife as they had their life. Together. Best friends and, if Rick wasn't mistaken, something a little closer to what he had with Evie than either man shared publicly.

Rick didn't mind. He'd seen them together. Love like that, what did gender matter?

Decades later, when the news splashed across the screen that Steve Rogers was alive, Rick again cried for Bucky Barnes. Seventy years apart. How cruel was this world?

Things had changed by then, some for the better, some worse, but when Steve Rogers once again took up his shield and defeated the enemy falling out of the sky, Rick knew the world hadn't lost both heroes. Steve was still there, still fighting, still a symbol of hope to a nation desperately in need of it.

When the giant of a man showed up at Rick's door, after the Battle for New York, Rick was one hundred and ten years old. The look of surprise on Steve's face made Rick chuckle, even as he welcomed him inside and shuffled back to his recliner. 

They didn't talk about Bucky, though they did chat about Peggy, and Steve asked after Evie, gone now almost thirty years. A long time to be without his soulmate. They'd lost Jonathon before Evie, surprisingly to something as benign as a heart attack, not the loan sharks Rick always figured would do him in. Alex was eighty-six, but that hadn't stopped him from continuing the family business, hunting down artifacts and saving them and humanity when such was required.

Steve smiled softly before saying, "Thank you. People always know what I do or what I've done. They see me as a hero, but you and Evelyn, Alex and Jonathon? You saved the world a couple of times yourselves, but no one knows."

Rick shrugged. "I didn't do it for the world."

Two years later, though Steve didn't visit much, he kept in touch via email or text, which both surprised and touched Rick. He'd moved back to the States after Evie's death, mostly because he couldn't stand to be where she wasn't and had made a life there with Alex hovering.

Then one night, Steve showed up on his doorstep in the pouring rain, still healing from the bruises and broken ribs.

"He's alive."

Rick didn't need to ask who. Just led Steve into the house where the man fell to his knees beside Rick's chair and cried against his thigh like his soul had broken. 

Or maybe it was like the broken bits were slowly forging back together, a beautiful work of Kintsugi, his fractured soul now filling with golden lines of hope. 

When Steve left, it was with determination and purpose Rick hadn't seen on him since the forties. It was like he became a man possessed, determined to find what he'd lost, and Rick wished him every bit of luck. If Rick had the chance to get Evie back, there would be no stopping him. 

Two more years passed, Rick aged a little more, and finally, a knock came at his door. He was one hundred and fourteen when he saw Bucky again. One hundred and fourteen, when he opened the door to a man haunted by trauma Rick couldn't even fathom. 

Still, he opened the door to a grinning Steve, but it was the scowling Barnes he looked at. 

"Jesus fuck you got old," Barnes muttered. 

"Bucky!" Steve gasped. 

Rick laughed so hard he made himself wheeze and waved them in. They joined him in his living room, where he sat, unable to stop smiling. "Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humour."

"Lost some good chunks of memory, but some nice people helped stuff them back in." 

The harsh, cold blue eyes weren't the ones he remembered, but Rick could see him in there. He knew the stories, had heard all the reports. Longest living POW. Assassin. Killed JFK. Some said, war hero. Others cried, villain.  

Rick knew it was likely a little of both in Barnes' mind. 

But Steve still looked at Bucky like he hung the moon, and Bucky occasionally linked his pinky finger through Steve's when he thought Rick wouldn't notice. 

"It's nice to see you boys back together." He jerked his chin at Steve. "That one mopes around something fierce."

"We're figuring it out," Steve said, enough force in the sentence to make it clear he was tired of Bucky running. It had taken two years to get the man to stop. "We've worked things out with Stark. Tony's a hothead, he's angry, but he gets Bucky wasn't in control as the soldier."

Rick watched Barnes' flinch. "No, but it was still your hands, right, Buck?"

Blue eyes darted to his and then away. "How the hell are you still alive?"

"Jeez, Buck!" Steve growled. 

Rick chuckled, enjoying the role reversal. "Clean living." 

They both snorted. 

"Clean my ass. I've never seen anyone out drink Dum Dum before. What gives, O'Connell?" Barnes muttered. 

Rick glanced at Steve. There was a pink flush to the man's cheeks, a clear indication this was something they'd talked about, but Steve had never asked. Rick had always wondered if it was out of self-preservation. Maybe he thought asking would jinx whatever link Steve had left to his past. 

"Alex?" he called out. "Could you come in here?"

"You sure, Dad?" 

Steve and Bucky both stiffened and exchanged a look, likely surprised they hadn't known Alex was there. 

"I thought you said Alex was still in London?" Steve frowned. 

"I lied," Rick smirked. "Yeah, boy. Get your arse in here."

He trotted down the hall and into the living room. "Highya, fellas!"

Bucky and Steve stared, gaping from Alex to Rick and back. 

"Shit," Bucky hissed. "They got you too? How come no one knows?"

Alex leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grin wide, his face as smooth and unwrinkled as it had been at twenty-five, the year he stopped ageing. The bright, burnished blond of his mop of unruly curls, something he'd inherited from Evie and only recently allowed to grow out, fell over his forehead and into his eyes.

"He's not a super-soldier," Rick explained before either man could have kittens. "Seems there was a side effect to the Bracelet of Anubis no one knew about."

Alex spread his arms and gave a cheeky grin. "Looks like I'm immortal."

Rick slapped a hand to his face. "Unageing is not immortal. You can still die, dumbass!"

"That explains him, but what about you?" Steve asked.

"Something to do with the temple." Rick shrugged. "I went through the door with him. Some of the power rubbed off. I age, just… slower."

"Hence the reason you look a spry eighty?" Barnes mumbled.

Rick chuckled, reached up, and pulled the prosthetics from his face. "More like a spry fifty."

"Jesus!" Steve's eyes went wide. "I never even guessed!"

"Alex is good with the face paint. We've had to be. And that's another reason we moved back here. People were starting to remark on the uncanny resemblance of my grandson to my son."

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look.  

"What?" Rick murmured. "Surely, this isn't too much after witches, aliens, and giant green Hulks?"

"No. No, it's not that," Steve said, quick to reassure them. "It's just…"

"Punk had a second reason for coming today. The Avengers found some woo-woo shit. He wanted you to take a look at it. Stark's fancy AI can tell us lots, but she ain't you."

Rick leaned forward, his back cracking, thankful to be straightened. "I'm no Evie, but squirt over there took after her for smarts. She was always the brain. I was just the muscle."

"Come on, Dad." Alex sauntered in and nudged him. "You learned loads from Mum. Plus, that Warrior for God thing comes in handy on occasion."

"Warrior for God?" Bucky asked.

Rick worked the cuff off his right arm, showing them the tattoo hidden beneath it. "Sorry, fellas. Didn't tell you everything that happened with the Scorpion King."

"Yeah. Like how we used the Book of the Dead to bring Mum back to life," Alex grinned. 

"I'm sorry. You did what now?" Steve asked. 

Rick laughed and shook his head. "All in good time. Alex, get the whiskey. Let's see what you've got."

Steve rose and returned to the door where he'd left a backpack, while Alex grabbed four glasses and a bottle and dumped an unhealthy amount into each one. The bag clanked when Steve set it on the floor between his feet, and Rick arched a brow. 

"This is what we found." He placed the golden box on the coffee table. 

Rick gave a low whistle. "Jonathon would have liked the look of that."

"It's really brilliant, isn't it?" Alex mumbled as he crouched to take a closer look. "Look at the way the rubies are inlaid. It's like someone wanted it to appear as if it were dripping blood." He spun it slowly, taking in the images and raised glyphs. "Shite, Dad! Do you know what this is?"

Rick didn't get a chance to answer no as Alex was already running out of the room. 

"So, is he as reckless as Evie?" Bucky asked, the first semblance of a smirk since his arrival twitching the man's lips.

"Worse. He's got a nose for treasure like Jonathon and my stubbornness," Rick chuckled. "Then, there's his mouth."

"Which he definitely got from you," Steve chuckled.  

Rick didn't dispute it. 

Alex returned and dropped a book as thick as Steve's arm on the table, causing it to jump, the chest to skitter across it, and only the reflexes of two super-soldiers to keep everything from going sideways. 

"Alex! Calm your enthusiasm!" Rick barked. 

"No! No, calming!" The manic gleam in his eyes never boded well for any expedition. "Look!" 

He wrenched the book open, sending dust and the scent of musty pages spinning, but it opened on an illustrated page of a female warrior standing over the bodies of the slain. 

"Ah, no," Rick groaned. "Not another mummy!"

[jasonsgrayson]

Jasonsgrayson’s Guide To All Things Spideytorch

Hi guys, I know I do rec lists sometimes, and I wanted to do one for Spideytorch since I just got into it and a lot of the fics on AO3 are really great. Theres a ton of fics here, of all shapes and sizes and ratings, and in no particular order as always, so take your pick.

Above the cut are my all time favorite spideytorch fics, below the cut are a mess of totally awesome fics that you guys should really take a look at. 

If you want to save some time just look at any of Traincat’s and lamujerarana’s spideytorch stuff. They’re amazing. 

Kind, Sober, and Fully Dressed by Traincat Rated M - 8,685 words Is this my favorite spideytorch fic of all time? Yes. Is it one of my favorite fanfics of all time in general? Also yes. Are the Johnny Storm sex tape related events of this fic cannon? Yes they absolutely fucking are. Read it, I beg of you.

"Pete, my man, my completely platonic best bro," he muttered to himself in the voice he reserved solely for mocking Johnny Storm. "Come over and watch my maybe sex tape! Fun times! Just two guys hanging out -" he slammed the bathroom door maybe a little harder than necessary "- watching the one guy's celebrity sex tape! Good clean fun!" Mrs. Moretti downstairs banged on her ceiling with a broom. Everything was coming up Parker tonight. -- Or, in which Peter proves himself tragically unable to take a hint. Post-Amazing Spider-Man Digital #17, aka the time Johnny asked Peter to watch his sex tape.

Lost and Found by Traincat Rated E - 8,154 words Is it another fake relationship fic? Yes. Is it my second favorite spideytorch fic? Also yes.

“A field trip?” Peter said. “Just a little family outing,” Sue said, passing him a knife. He took it and obediently started helping her cut the crusts off a small mountain of sandwiches. “We thought you might like to join us.” “I mean, it sounds great,” Peter said. “But work is a little swamped and somehow whenever I take off with you guys I always manage to go missing for two months. My landlady does not love it.” “We really could use the extra set of hands. Also,” Sue said, “someone needs to keep an eye on Johnny.” Peter groaned. -- Peter's spider-sense starts acting up on a Future Foundation field trip. He and Johnny, recently returned from the Negative Zone, have to pretend to be married. These two things are related.

Work Song by Traincat Rated E - 50,953 words I will never get tired of this one, I’ve read it so many times it’s one of my absolute favorites. Basically Peter is Johnny’s sugar daddy.

Peter Parker has his company, more money than he knows what to do with, and the echoes of a ghost in his head. Johnny Storm's lost his family, his home, and is clinging to the remnants of his old life. -- "I’m here with you. That’s not nothing, right?” “No,” Peter agreed. It definitely felt like something, all the way up here with Johnny so close they were almost touching. Peter looked at him, at the full lips set in a slight frown, the sharp curve of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead. He fit all the dazzling lights around them, warm like sunshine even in the middle of the night. “Beautiful,” Peter said before he could stop himself.

River Eyes by perissologist Rated M - 22,749 words I love it because Noir is my shit, especially when it’s done this freaking well.

If Jonathan Storm was the movie star Betty said he was, he looked the part: Hair like spun gold in perfect curls atop slender features, with eyes bluer than the Hudson in midsummer. “Normally I’d ask what a dame like you is doing in a place like this, but”—Peter cast a glance up his guest—“you’re not exactly a dame, are you?” Storm flashed a weak smile. “I can be, if you want.” Peter raised an eyebrow. Storm turned beet-red. “I mean. I’m. I didn’t mean that.” Storm huffed and shoved out a hand. “Johnny Storm.” --- It's 1933, Peter Parker has just shut down a Nazi eugenist and lost one of his oldest friends, and life in the big city is as joyless and hardscrabble as ever. Then Johnny Storm, movie star with a soul made of sunshine, walks through Peter's door, asking for his help. The rest, as they say, is history.

Eight Arms to Hold You by metaphoracle Rated T - 15,071 words I love it because it has Namor the Sub Mariner and fake relationships and Atlantis, and a really lecherous octopus, and really what’s not to like?

When Spider-Man’s best friend Johnny Storm asks him for help in tactfully declining a marriage proposal from the King of Atlantis, Namor the Sub-Mariner, the only solution is for him to volunteer Daily Bugle photographer Peter Parker to pretend to be dating Johnny at the Engagement Banquet in Atlantis. Sure, it’s technically lying to his best friend about who Peter Parker is, but the important thing is that Johnny won’t have to marry Namor, and if Peter gets some photographs of Atlantis to sell, what’s the harm? Peter thought the most difficult thing about this scenario was going to be making sure Johnny didn’t figure out Peter is actually Spider-Man. Having to pretend he wasn’t actually falling in love with his best friend never crossed his mind. Featuring fake relationships, forced (almost) marriages, identity porn, traditional Atlantean clothing, and amorous cephalopods.

Keep Throwing Things and Slamming the Door by Traincat Rated T - 7,817 words I think I’ve read this one a half a dozen times already, it’s so good/funny. She-Hulk’s in it, and she is fabulous.

Waking up in a stranger's bed is not how superhero Johnny Storm planned on spending the morning after the night before. From now on… A) No more secret hookups with Peter Parker—he's the last man on earth Johnny'd want to share a room with, never mind a king-size bed. B) Maintain a professional persona at all times. After all, he's a photographer for New York's #1 Superhero Bashing Rag and Johnny's perfect tabloid fodder. C) Keep friends close but enemies closer. Easier said than done, with She-Hulk away on her honeymoon and Spider-Man avoiding him.

The Boy From New York City by Traincat Rated E - 84,499 words I really love this one. Of all the fics on this list I would say this is a spideytorch must read, a true classic.

Central City, California is beautiful, but it’s not where Johnny wants to be – and he’s not who he wants to be, either. Inspired by the recent return of Spider-Man, Johnny convinces the newly minted Fantastic Four to return to the Baxter Building, the site of the incident that gave them their powers. But not everything is what it seems, and worse yet, Spider-Man wants nothing to do with the Human Torch. In the wake of Gwen’s death, Peter has finally put the mask back on, but nothing’s the same as it once was, and the thrill has gone out of Spider-Man. The Fantastic Four’s arrival only makes everything worse. The Human Torch is good looking, he’ll give him that much, but Peter has no plans of making friends. A series of strange attacks and a fateful encounter on the docks may not leave him much choice.

‘cause I can’t compete with your boyfriend (he’s got 27 tattoos) by Traincat Rated T - 13,495 words Who doesn’t love a high school au? I know I do. 

The thing was, Peter was stuck with Johnny forever, basically. The super glue of unintentional friendship. It was cosmic, fated, and incredibly annoying. Johnny Storm might have been a handbasket of bad decisions and personality defects wrapped up with an incredible smile, but he was Peter’s handbasket of bad decisions -- of which Daken was still the worst one Johnny had ever made, and Johnny had made some truly bad decisions. -- Johnny dates Daken, Peter has a crisis, and everything works out okay in the end.

All That We Were by paramountie Rated G - 10,298 words Here’s a super cute stuck in an alternate universe kid fic, if that’s your thing (It sure as hell is mine).

“What do you think the deal is anyway?” Peter asks. “My money’s on dreamscape.” “Twenty bucks says it’s an alternate universe.” “Nuh-uh, pal. It’s a dream for sure. Or a nightmare.”

The Spider Prince and the Morning Star by Traincat Rated M - 24,337 words Every ship needs a great fairytale fic, and this is a phenomenal fairytale fic. It’s sort of a Beauty and the Beast/Eros and Psyche tale and I loved it so much.

“Folks like to say there’s a monster that lives in the forest,” Old Swenson said the next day when Johnny told him his story. Johnny worked in his shop, when Swenson could afford to pay him. He fixed things, clocks and broken carriages. Johnny wasn’t good for much, but he had a hand for repairs. “And that it’ll grant you wishes, for a price. Folks will say anything, after a drink or five. Don’t listen to that kind of foolish talk, Johnny.” When Johnny makes a deal with the monster that lives in the woods – himself for his sister’s happiness – he doesn’t expect the giant spider to take him to a beautiful castle, or to reveal himself a cursed prince. There’s only one catch: he’s only a man in the darkest night, and Johnny can never see his face.

Better in Picture by weekend_conspiracy_theorist Rated T - 12,218 words I love this one, it’s freaking hilarious. It really uses Matt, Foggy, and Peter to their full comedic potential.

In which Peter Parker has no interest in sleeping with Matt Murdock, no matter what anyone seems to think.

you keep me hanging on by lamujerarana Rated E - 19,031 words Here’s a great friends with benefits to lovers fic, because there must always be at least one.

Johnny, reeling from his breakup with Medusa and the loss of his entire family, turns to Peter for comfort...that eventually involves casual sex that isn't so casual for Johnny, since he just so happens to be in love with Peter. Everything becomes incredibly complicated. This story takes place between the events of Inhumans vs X-Men #6 and Uncanny Avengers v3 #20.

Always Glad You Came by aloneintherain Rated T - 13,290 words Mistaken Identity or boys being dumb, take your pick.

Spider-Man is a relatively new, controversial vigilante, and Johnny has a crush the size of the Empire Building. The Four - operating under the assumption that Spidey is an adult - do not approve. “I just happen to think Spider-Man's cool,” Johnny says, matter-of-factly. “A hero can think another hero is cool without making it weird. I admire his aloofness. And his badass-ness.” “His aloofness,” Ben repeats, chuckling into his mug of beer. It’s roughly the size of Johnny’s head. “Yeah, sure, I bet that’s all your admire, right?”

When Peter Met Johnny by Measured Rated T - 14,437 words A paparazzi fic!

Peter takes up additional paparazzi work to pay the bills, which inevitably leads to an angry flaming man, a broken camera, an accidental friendship and a whole lot more than he bargained for.

Tied to the Wait and Sees by Mizzy Rated T - 14,283 words This is hilarious, poor Johnny’s trying his best. 

Johnny Storm's in love. With Spider-man. Except no one seems to even believe Johnny when he tells them. Everyone thinks he's totally joking. What a buzzkill. Even his bff doesn't react supportively, which is rude, disrespectful, and completely awkward when Johnny walks into a time anomaly and wakes up in the future married not to his beloved Spider-man, but to Peter Parker. Huh, no wonder Parker reacted so badly to the news.

Say You Will, Say You Won’t by Traincat Rated T - 15,563 words Peter in this one is hilarious, it’s perfect characterization.

Johnny Storm found him on a Friday afternoon, wearing the kind of beseeching look that filled Peter with dread. “I need to ask you a favor,” he said. “No,” Peter said, swinging away. -- Peter and Johnny get married, really-not-really.

Tales From The Black Pages by Traincat Rated T - 19,019 words A soulmate words fic, because, again, there must always be at least one. And it’s a really great one, too. 

Peter Parker was born with his words. Johnny Storm's been sure his will be said sarcastically since he was a child. Everything else more or less happens according to plan. A first words soulmate AU.

Weaving Spiders Come Not Here by Mizzy Rated T - 13,809 words Mistaken identity or boys being dumb, I think I can guess which one it is. 

People are treating Peter oddly. Really oddly. It turns out they're being nice to him because they think his boyfriend cheated on him. …with Spider-Man. It's honestly quite tiring pretending to be jealous of yourself.

Peter Parker’s Guide to Secret Identities by coocoocachu Rated T - 93,789 words Johnny is a teen heartthrob, enough said. 

“Oh wow, it’s the Human Torch, Johnny Storm.” MJ whispered to Peter. Peter just hummed back. Maybe it was a little childish to be upset but he totally had that thing with the weird mutant moth under control last night. Peter leaned against the wall while MJ milled around talking to people trying to figure out what the big scoop was here. ‘There always has to be a reason for an exclusive, Peter!’ she had said. Yeah, Peter thought, and the reason is Johnny Storm loves the attention. Peter fiddled with his camera. Action shots were more his thing, particularly somehow managing to take action selfies of himself as Spider-Man or a few of his supercharged enemies. Pictures of egotistical superhero’s shirtless? Not really his area.

stranger danger by I_mNotYourEnemy Rated T - 10,600 words Mistaken identity or boys being dumb 3: Grindr Identity

pete is this a bad time to ask who this is?? Hothead Is this not Grindr Peter? pete nope Hothead Ahhh fuck Sorry for the unsolicited dick pic pete that’s alright, ive seen worse -- In which Johnny gets a username wrong, Peter gets a dick pic, and MJ gets a headache just thinking about the situation.

Turn Me On, Turn Me Off by blue_jack Rated E - 5,158 words Honestly the summary speaks for itself here.

“I have. A vibrator. Stuck. In my ass,” Johnny said, enunciating clearly and concisely while staring him straight in the eyes, and Peter didn’t know who was blushing harder, but he was sure they were in a race to see who could match the color of his mask first.

Flip a Coin - Choose Both Sides by the_overlord Rated T - 10,993 words Johnny is president of the Spider-Man fanclub. Just- that’s it. 

Wherein Johnny Storm gets given a wrong number and ends up the President of Spiderman's fanclub. Things get a little more complicated from there.

Tanglewood Tree by amaronith Rated E - 6,901 words Another fuckbuddies to lovers au.

but love is a light in the sky, and an unspoken lie, and a half whispered prayer Or: what happens when Johnny becomes fuck buddies with the guy he's been in love with for years.

let the choir bell sing by gottalovev Rated E - 16,457 words Another fake relationship, this one set abroad in Venice.

Johnny and Spider-Man are on assignment at the Carnival of Venice, and asked to be present at an influential politician's costumed party. When he becomes worried that said politician wants to match him up with his daughter, Johnny announces he's secretly married to Spider-Man. They can totally fake being secret husbands for a few days! Not a problem, not even when they have to share a bed. After all, they are good buddies; it's not as if Johnny would have to sleep with someone he has a crush on, like Peter Parker.

Stay With Me - by oneshinyapple Rated E - 2 works - 29,958 words total This is a great verse which is also part of the Like Gravity verse, which I haven’t read all the installments of. 

Movie nights, fighting alien dinosaurs, and falling in love with your best friend — one of these may be a worse idea than the others.

A Melody That’s Calling Your Name by gleesquid Rated T - 32,731 words Another great high school au.

When a boy gets trapped in the Baxter Building fire, Peter must make a quick choice: let the boy die terrified in the flames or gain his trust by showing him what's underneath his mask. In the end, it's no choice at all. But when that same boy shows up on the first day of senior year, Peter finds himself caught in a spiraling lie. The next thing he knows, he's got a boyfriend, he's starring in a musical, he's going to rich kids' costume parties, and he's realizing that maybe there are worse things than having someone know your biggest secret. You'd think high school couldn't get any weirder than a radioactive spider bite, but that's just the Parker Luck.

hang a shining star upon the highest bough by lamujerarana Rated E - 15,386 words A lovely little Christmas fic for that time of year

The first time Johnny and Peter meet up at the Statue of Liberty on Christmas morning, Johnny's kind, thoughtful, and supportive to Peter at a time when Peter, still mourning the loss of Gwen Stacy, really needs it. Peter doesn't know how he'll ever pay him back for that, but he's sure going to try. Or, Peter tries his best, throughout various Christmases, to be there for Johnny when he needs it.

take my medicine, treat you like adrenaline by gleesquid Rated E - 2,763 words The one and only Spiderverse fic on this list, for when you’re in that Peter B. Parker mood.

“Every time I even think about dating again, it’s like, ‘oh, there’s MJ’s nose,’ or ‘hey, she has MJ’s eyes.’ I don’t know how to not see her in everyone. I don’t know if I want to.” “You ever figured you’re maybe barking up the wrong tree?” Peter furrowed his brow. “Explain.” “Well, ya know.” Harry sipped his martini. “There’s a larger dating pool out there than you’d think. With people who will not remind you of MJ.” Or: After the divorce, Peter tries for a rebound.

Save a Horse-Adjacent Alien by Traincat Rated E - 3,915 words Poor Johnny made a terrible actor. 

He was minding his own business, sitting in a movie theater in Queens, snacking on popcorn and wondering how many times he could make fun of Johnny Storm’s hair before Aunt May asked why he was so fixated, when the trailers ended, the lights went out, and Johnny appeared on the screen. Peter’s mouth went dry, and it wasn't because of the popcorn. Maybe it was the distance the movie gave him, Johnny up on a screen instead of right in front of him, warm and bright and frighteningly human. Maybe it was how endearingly terrible of an actor he was. Maybe it was the lighting. It was, Peter thought, probably the cowboy boots.

Bring That Summer by pommenade Rated T - 15,070 words Ahh social media, get’s you every time.

Juggling the duties of Spider-Man as well as his life as CEO of Parker Industries was easy. Peter Parker had years of practice. Add in a clandestine relationship with Johnny Storm and things got a bit more complicated. Add in Johnny's Instagram account, and suddenly Peter's life is impossible.

Educational Purposes by Traincat Rated E - 5,510 words A sexy little married fic

“I just,” Johnny said, flicking his gaze up at Peter through his eyelashes. He pressed the pen to his bottom lip and lowered his voice, pornographic. “I really need to pass your class, Professor Parker.” Peter snorted. “Cute, Johnny.” “Please, Professor Parker?” Johnny continued, and suddenly Peter realized that he wasn’t just joking around. “Isn’t there anything I could do to improve my grade? Anything at all?”

[anywhozits]

All I Really Want

Rating: M

Pairing: Kristanna (eventually hah)

Verse: 90s High School AU

Notes: chapter one of my first frozen multichap! yayyy but warning it’s an emotional roller coaster (naturally, because teen angst and all)

Read on Ao3, too!  

Champagne popped, fireworks cracked, loud screams of excitement echoed throughout the large Mediterranean style-mansion in Newport Coast, California. Everyone in the house counted down the seconds until 1997 and celebrated the victory—the host’s software company had ended the year with the most fiscal prowess of any software company in the country.

Ten.

Right—The Company that Agnarr Larsen had founded and owned had hit a milestone. 10 billion dollars in sales worldwide in 1996.

Nine.

They’d opened some international subsidiaries. Most recently one in Oslo, Norway.

Eight.

Within the last month it was finally acknowledged that The Company had the first fully developed Internet Strategy of all the tech companies.

Seven.

Whatever “Internet Strategy” meant.

Six.

Agnarr Larsen had thus gone all out. He and his wife, Iduna, spent a sickeningly large sum of money on this party.

Five.

The theme—70s Disco / Studio 54 because 1997 had one number in common with that decade.

Four.

At least 35 Cirque-employed go-go dancers served drinks, danced on tables, and strutted their stuff throughout the house.

Three.

They had exactly five separate disco balls, an indoor and an outdoor dance floor, properly themed food, and an incredibly well-stocked open bar that left the guests in awe.

Two.

And in the corner sat a girl with striking red hair, alone, again… as always, sipping on some champagne she thought her parents would care she swiped from the open bar.

They didn’t.

One.

More fireworks went off, bursting into sparks of gold, blue, red, and white right on top of the hill behind the house.

The girl—Anna—didn’t look up. She remained seated on the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs, taking sip after sip of champagne. It was damn good champagne. Despite having no actual knowledge about the quality of sparkling wine after only 14 years on this earth, she could tell this was some quality shit. Cristal. It even sounded fancy.  

God was she bored.

Her blue eyes scanned the crowds. Everyone was yelling, throwing their hands in the air, hugging and kissing each other.

She had no idea where her parents were. Agnarr and Iduna Larsen. The very hosts of this party. This was their house. This was her house, too, then, she supposed. The cold walls, the empty halls, the wide-open spaces that most of the time housed one or two or three people only. It was a nice house, though.

And all of that—well, everything in her life—was owed to the success of her father’s company. The Company. She knew nothing of the specifics other than it being some kind of tech software situation that clearly allowed them such a large sum of money that they were comfortable at the very least. Comfortable was Agnarr’s favorite word to describe their unnatural and disgustingly wealthy lifestyle.

Looking around again, Anna saw no trace of them anywhere.

Well—classically her mother was nowhere to be found, blessed with the uncanny ability to seamlessly blend in with the furniture at these types of parties. Well. Actually… with Iduna, it always went one of two ways. Either 1) she hid out somewhere using her stealthy camouflage skills as the night progressed or 2) she took on the role of belle of the ball, effortlessly engaged in radiant conversations with every partygoer. The difference between those two perfectly outlined by one simple distinction—whether it was a Bad Day or a Good Day.

Today was a Bad Day. Anna could feel it. Her mother’s absence more-than confirmed that blatant fact.

But still no sign of her father.

Anna rolled her eyes and gulped down more champagne. Her stomach dropped. Worst New Year’s ever. She was always required to attend these stupid Company parties because it looked good for her dad to have such a supportive youngest daughter.

And she loved parties. But.

But she wished she had somebody, anybody even remotely close to her age to share this with.

Because even though their house was filled with people, filled with people having the time of their life, she still felt so... lonely. Maybe even the loneliest she had felt in a long time.

She knew she’d feel this way. Anna had really tried her best to preemptively remedy the situation, asking her dad if she could invite her best friend, Kristoff, to the party. But of course, Agnarr had grumbled something under his breath about how that would be a bad look.

Shaking off all of that frustration, Anna slowly rose from the couch, making her way past a few scantily clad go-go dancers, trying her best to push away the cocktail meatballs and the fondue skewers they kept trying to shove into her face.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of her father, finally, standing next to a couple of his business school buddies, all of them wearing custom tailored suits with bowties and sunglasses even though they were indoors. They carelessly swung their glasses of Cristal and laughed hearty belly laughs.

Anna thought maybe she could join this conversation. Seemed fun enough.

But when she made it close enough to hear their conversation, she stopped in her tracks. They hadn’t noticed her approaching, of course. They never did. Being invisible to her father and his cronies was one of her biggest talents.

Even still, she backtracked a bit, allowing herself to hide behind the series of potted plants that lined their living room.

“I kept telling her we already had the perfect kid—why would we risk the second one? But she didn’t buy it. She wanted Elsa to have a sibling. And look where we are now.” A series of masculine laughter—guffaws more than anything else—broke out.

Anna gulped. This wasn’t new. She’d even heard it all before. Her father’s go-to party story.

But then he said it. The punchline. Stated in such a light-hearted manner with a characteristic shake of his head. “We should’ve stopped after one.”

Anna stumbled backward. It always hit her. It always hurt her. Her fourth time hearing this dumb story and it still felt like being punched in the gut.

And yet… here she was at this party alone and bored and miserable trying to please him. Hoping maybe one day he would change this story. Maybe one day he would stop telling it altogether. Because she was here. She tried. She made the effort.

It didn’t seem like it was too much to ask. Things used to be good. They used to spend time together as a family.

Tears stung her eyes. She totally should’ve just said fuck you to her dad and gone to Kristoff’s house like she wanted.

Whatever. Right now, all she needed was an escape. Anna desperately wanted to get the hell away from him.

Thus, she took off in a jog toward the kitchen, the echoes of her father’s continued laughter taunting her remorselessly.

On the way, she caught her reflection in a golden floor length mirror. Her jog slowed to a halt.

She sighed, staring deeply at her reflection. Poofy but also flawlessly curled, her usually chest-length red hair now only fell to her shoulders. Anna gave it a quick toss, adding even more body to the curls.

She stared harder, looked closer.

Both frosted pink lips and electric blue eyeshadow brought out every single feature of her face—her piercing blue eyes, her soft yet diffuse freckles, and the eternal flush of her cheeks no doubt heightened by the Cristal. She sighed, carefully biting her lip so as to not mess up her lipstick and touched the thin silver choker around her neck. One of her Christmas gifts from Santa. From her parents, duh. She knew that. But… it still felt like it came from Santa.

Anna sighed again.

She thought she looked okay. Just okay.

Now she wished she’d worn something different. Sure, the aqua sequined dress framed her body well. The straight neckline and spaghetti straps were cute. And naturally she did love that the dress fell to her upper thighs, something she figured her parents would take issue with. But again, that was exactly the reason why she’d chosen the dress in the first place.

She wanted a response. She craved a response…

But she only looked okay.

One more sigh and she decided it was time to move on.

Thankfully it didn’t really matter how she looked while she did the thing she really wanted to do next.

Anna took one last moment to look at herself. To psych herself up for what was to come.

You got this, Anna. You’ve done this loads of times before. Tonight is no different.

Because.

There was somebody she wanted to talk to. Somebody she needed to talk to. It was a new year now. 1997. Maybe 1997 was their year, maybe in 1997 they’d be close again.

Her heart beat heavily and quickly within her chest. Faster yet when she reached the kitchen… when she picked up the clunky gray cordless phone.

She had the number memorized. Duh. Anna called her sister, Elsa, at the minimum once a day.

Elsa very rarely picked up. Elsa very rarely called her back. But every so often, like a glimmer of hope, she did.

It was like 3:06am for Elsa and Anna knew that she was probably asleep. She knew, logically, that the chances Elsa would actually answer the phone were about 0.2 out of 10, but… there was that glimmer. Because Anna needed it. Because it was a new year and…

Anna couldn’t help it as the thought crossed her mind again. It now played on repeat almost like a chant. Or… a cheer.

No.

A prayer, honestly. It was a desperate prayer.

Maybe 1997 was their year. Maybe 1997 was their year. Maybemaybemaybe.

God did she hope 1997 would be their year.

After Elsa got shipped off to boarding school in the 6th grade because of her super human intelligence level that apparently could only be properly nourished by snooty institutions on the East Coast, the two sisters had largely lost touch. Elsa was busy with academics and the consistent string of pressure her parents put on her as their successful and perfect first-born daughter.

But lucky for Anna, Elsa had a shiny new Nokia phone that she got for her 18th birthday.

Anna dialed the number and held her breath. The sounds of more fireworks and more chatter and more people being beyond obnoxious filled the background and Anna decided it best to lock herself in their massive pantry. It was quieter there. She could drown out the sounds of everybody to the point that she only heard the phone ringing, her heartbeat, and that same nervous and hopeful mantra.

Maybe 1997 was their year.

The ringing stopped cold. And then one aggressive beep later and Anna thought she might start sobbing.

She couldn’t hide the quivering in her voice. “Um, Elsa. Hi. Happy New Year!” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Um. It’s dad’s dumb disco party right now and everybody’s being so loud and boring, and I have nobody to hang out with, so I thought maybe…” Her voice cracked. “I thought maybe you’d be free, but. I guess you’re not. You’re probably, like, sleeping or something. Which makes sense, um, because. Time difference or whatever. But. I thought, maybe, since it’s New Year’s and all that you’d be free or still awake or something. Um.” Maybe 1997 was their year. A sob caught in her throat. “I miss you, Els. I really miss you. I know we don’t talk that much, and I know you have so much going on and school is stressful and I’m just your annoying little sister. But. I love you. I feel…” Anna took a deep breath in. Tears rolled at a steady pace down her cheeks. “Um. Never mind. Can you just—can you give me a call when you get this? I’d love to talk to you.” She couldn’t hold in the sobs anymore. Instead of a singular crack she broke down fully, her voice quaking with frantic cries. “I miss you, Elsa. I love you.” She had to take a minute to catch her breath. “Um—bye.”

The second Anna pressed end on the phone she collapsed onto the floor. She hadn’t bothered turning the light on in the pantry and now she was thankful for the darkness. It somehow comforted her. Like she was in an entirely different dimension. She needed that escape. Shit did she need that escape.

She didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t know how to feel. Her entire body was numb.

Why did she ever let herself get her hopes up again? It always ended the same way.

Disappointment.

This wasn’t their year. It was never going to be their year.

She was stuck in this endless cycle of loneliness and rejection and abandonment and she would never break free. Never.

[knybits]

A Murder of One

Chapter: 

21

Summary: 

Akiko can see ghosts

Previous Chapter | Origin | Next Chapter

The first time Akiko saw a ghost was with the Kamado family. 

It was only for a day, and he didn’t say anything. 

All he did was stand behind Tanjirou, and kept his eyes on Akiko. 

“Tanjuro-san,” Akiko tugs on his haori with her small hands, cheeks still round and wide with innocence. He smiles down at the girl, having taken some time to stand for the day so that he could move himself to the front entrance of the house. 

“Hm?” He wonders, and with her hand still clutched to the hem of his haori, she points to Tanjirou, who helps Nezuko and his mother with the laundry. 

“Over there,” she says, eyes unblinking. “There’s a stranger with Tanjirou.” 

Tanjuro laughs, setting a hand on Akiko’s head and ruffling her hair. 

“Perhaps it’s just the spirit of the mountain guiding Tanjirou. No need to be afraid.” 

So Akiko thinks nothing of it, nodding her head and rushing over to Tanjirou to help with the laundry. When the man moves his attention to Akiko, she smiles and waves her hand at him. 

He blinks, perhaps in shock, but almost as soon as it appeared on his face, his usual stoic mask falls into place. He offers Akiko a nod, and she giddily returns back to the task at hand. 

“Were you waving at a bird, Akiko?” Tanjirou asks, reaching up to hang a sheet. 

Akiko sings to herself, off pitch and horrid, but she’s happy. Tanjirou pouts when Akiko holds a finger to her lips. 

“Secret!” 

She sees the ghost till near night fall deep in the woods, where all of the younger siblings beg to stay outside a little longer to play. 

Tanjirou gives up, sighing and nodding his head per their request and everyone cheers. But when he looks over to Akiko, he finds that her face is troubled. 

“Hm? What’s wrong?” 

The man behind Tanjirou is shaking his head, and he points in the direction out of the woods and to the house. 

“I think… we should go home…” Akiko mutters under her breath. Takeo’s jaw drops and he starts to complain loudly, and even Nezuko looks disheartened with Akiko’s sudden objection to continue playing. 

“Mmmm… I think Akiko’s right! We can play with dad back home, right? It’s getting too dark for us to see anyway, right? What if we get lost on our way back?” Tanjirou slips his hand into Akiko’s, and the tension in her shoulders relax ever so slightly.

He can smell the fear off of Akiko, and though she’s been avoiding his gaze and looking over his head the whole day, Tanjirou decides not to think much of it and trusts that Akiko will be back to normal the next day. 

He scolds Takeo when he decides to pout on the way home, but Nezuko talks excitedly with a couple oranges in her kimono to present Kie and Tanjuro with. She and Akiko swing their arms between each other, hands interlocked as they laugh all the way home. 

Two days later, Akiko has to go back to the main estate down the mountain. Upon entering the village, she hears rumors that makes her feel glad that everyone got out of the woods before it was completely dark. Apparently, hunters in the mountains were torn to shreds by wolves. 

Or, that was the story. 

Looking back on it now, it was probably a demon. 

And right now, seeing the ghost by Tanjirou’s bedside isn’t a good sign. 

It’s been a few days since she’s returned from Tokyo, and patients haven’t arrived for a while so Akiko has been tending to Haruki for the time being. With the new technology she’s received, she knows that his brainwaves are faint, but they’re there. 

At any rate, Akiko doesn’t know what to do when she sees the ghost by Tanjirou’s bedside. 

Now that she’s grown up, she can see his face much more clearly now. Actually, there are two men. She assumes that it’s because her eyes have evolved to something inhuman, but with the way she works she can only be thankful. 

One of the men’s hair is long, tied up into a ponytail. There’s a scar similar to Tanjirou’s on his forehead, though the ghost has a larger scar shaped like flames.His eyes are uninterested, sure, but they hold a certain warmth that brings Akiko at ease. There’s a katana at his waist, and Akiko assumes that he’s a passed away demon slayer. 

The other man has long hair as well, but not as long as the one with a katana by his side. Instead, he looks much more like Tanjirou, just grown up. He doesn’t have a katana, and Akiko only grows curious to the relation he has with Tanjirou and the other demon slayer. 

She watches as the one without the forehead scar places a hand atop Tanjirou’s forehead, and when she steps into the room he looks up at her before smiling. He probably already knew she was nearby and only looked up to acknowledge her presence. 

“You’re back,” she states matter of factly. The man with the scarred forehead bows his head to Akiko. 

“If you’re going to take him away I won’t let you,” her tone of voice doesn’t waver. She walks up to Tanjirou’s bedside, leaving the usual glass of water and changing out his vase of flowers for the week. 

The man that looks like Tanjirou laughs, but no noise comes from his mouth. With his other hand, he waves it around as if to say “we won’t,” and Akiko shrugs her shoulders. 

“I just have to make sure. Tanjirou is important to me. If you take him away…” despite her eyes gleaming bright like the sun, the man places a hand above his katana at the sight of Akiko’s poisonous look. 

Not like he can do anything anyway. 

Akiko sighs to herself, opening the window to pour the remaining water out of the vase and allowing fresh air to breeze in. She can only think that the men being here is a good sign. 

Mountain spirits, right? 

“Akiko?” Zenitsu’s voice brings her attention away from the two ghosts and she rolls her eyes at the blonde. 

“Did you get another splinter?” 

“How rude!! ...Yeah.” 

“Deal with it yourself. If I touch it I might make it worse.” 

“AkikO PLeaSe!!!” He begins to cry, throwing himself at her feet and begging Akiko to help him with his small splinter. 

She rolls her eyes, hoisting him up and tugging on his ear as she walks out of the room. When Akiko looks back, she sees that the two ghosts are gone, and she purses her lips, hoping that they won’t do anything extreme to her fiance. 

Zenitsu looks at her with worry, clutching his ‘injured’ hand, “By the way, I heard you talking… Who to?” 

Akiko looks down at his dragged form, an eerie smile on her face as she creakily sings, “Oh y’know… Ghosts.” 

---

Akiko sees the castella before she sees Goto. 

It’s been two weeks since the ghost incident, and nothing has happened to Tanjirou. His vitals remain unchanged, but ever since Akiko has received the brainwave machine, she’s been able to pick up on brainwaves as well. 

Tanjirou’s would act up every once in a while, but only during his sudden bouts of fever, so she has to assume that the fever is making him go haywire. But the past few days have been peaceful, and Akiko is finally at peace knowing that Tanjirou will be alright. 

She smiles and Goto lazily waves a hand at the doctor before she comes running up, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she asks, “For me?” 

Goto scoffs at her uncanny antics before pulling the tray away. 

“No,” he rolls his eyes, “They’re for your fiance.” 

Akiko blinks owlishly, “He’s awake?” 

Goto shakes his head and Akiko’s chest feels heavier, her shoulders sagging under the weight. But she shakes it off quickly and tries her best to smile at him instead. 

“Well, I thought that since his nose is super human he might be able to smell the castella, and then maybe he would wake up?” 

“Goto you’re… You’re a real work of art, I’ll give you that.” 

Goto bumps his hip against her and she kicks at his leg in an attempt to trip him, but Goto wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The two catch up with what’s been going around in the past few months, exchanging stories and whatnot of the Pillars and what they’ve been doing recently. 

Akiko learns that Miyuki has been spending more time with Sanemi, though it’s more like they’re spending time yelling and teasing each other at nearby restaurants (and eventually getting kicked out of them). 

Chiyo has been travelling with her baby sister (who is no longer sick, which is a relief) and has bumped into Giyuu a few times. Surprisingly, Giyuu is good with Ayame. Any other baby or animal and he’s screamed and bitten at though, and Akiko chuckles at the news. 

Genya and Himejima have been training hard and Genya is set to go to the swordsmith village to fix his guns again. Akiko raises her brows at Goto, and he sighs at the fact that he now has to run over to Genya and remind him of his monthly check up with Akiko. 

Iguro is being a pain in the ass as always and Mitsuri has been enjoying her time in Hokkaido eating their apples. Uzui is at home resting with his wives and Goto just recently helped to ship a box of jewels to his mansion, so Akiko has to assume that he plans on being as flamboyant as ever. 

When Goto asks about Shinobu, Akiko can’t help but purse her lips. But she’s quick to smile, explaining how Shinobu has been working as hard as ever and telling Goto to thank the other kakushis for regularly shipping packages to the Butterfly Estate. 

Akiko squints her eyes at the broken porcelain pieces in front of the hospital ward’s doorway. 

The words “Clean this shit up,” seem to write themselves on Goto’s face and Akiko can tell that her face must hold the same words. 

She sighs as she leans down to pick up the broken pieces, and Goto steps forward. 

“Uhhh, I brought some castella over. So please clear the way so I can put it down. If it looks spoiled, just go ahead and eat it.” 

“Th… Thank you… so much…” 

At the sound of her fiance’s broken voice, Akiko’s head whips up and her eyes are wide with disbelief. 

Her eyes are so fucking damned that they didn’t notice his concious state. 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Akiko whispers to herself as Goto screams at Kanao, then promptly trips over Akiko’s still bent over body in his appempt to rush out of the room. 

Akiko pulls her own chair up besides Tanjirou’s bedside and she smiles widely, unwrapping the stethoscope around her neck and adjusting it to fit it into her ears. 

“Kanao, please step out of the room. And make sure no one walks in until I say so,” she smiles at the girl, who nods her head eagerly. 

The screaming and crying out in the hallway, but at least it’s as quiet as it can get now. Akiko proceeds to do a general check up on Tanjirou’s body, and he watches with tired eyes as she does her job. 

“Did you miss me?” Tanjirou laughs weakly once Akiko’s finished, and she carefully takes her hand into his own. 

Akiko scoffs, wiping the tears in Tanjirou’s eyes away before replying, “Of course I missed you. Two months without you was a bit too much.” 

She’s beckoned closer and now it’s Tanjirou’s turn to wipe her tears away, though small and sparse. Still, it warms Tanjirou’s heart to find that Akiko missed him during her time alone (though she won’t admit it.) 

“It wasn’t too hard for you, was it? I thought I heard some things, but I might have been wrong.” 

She shakes her head, cradling his palm against her cheek and sighing in bliss. 

“It was rocky, but now you’re here so I’m better. You’ve missed out on a lot. I’ll fill you in when you’re all better,” she kisses his palm and Tanjirou laughs at the feeling. 

When Akiko moves her head to his mattress, tilting it to stare at his face and asking him to run his fingers through her hair, Tanjirou can’t help but cast her a worried look. 

“Are you okay? You seem a little off, Akiko.” 

“I can stop if you don’t want me to touch you.” 

“There’s my wife,” he laughs again, and she bolts upright with a fierce blush raging on her face. Akiko mutters a quick, “Fiance,” under her breath to correct him, but Tanjirou begs for her to rest her head again. 

So she does as told, though much more hesitant now, and the two relish in silence together. The commotion outside has died down and Akiko assumes that Aoi waved everyone off for she and Tanjirou to have their alone time. 

Tanjirou waits for Akiko to spill her feelings, and he can smell the turning of gears in her head as she tries to form sentences. He doesn’t mind waiting though. She’ll be able to talk in due time, and that’s a much better step up from when she wouldn’t say anything at all. 

Akiko reaches up, grasping the fingers that are tangled in her hair and bringing them down to slowly peck. He gazes at her with all the warmth in the world, and he thinks of how he can get used to this special treatment. 

But when Akiko starts, it’s a much heavier topic than one he thought he was prepared for. 

“I’m not sure if you heard me while you were in your coma, but I hate how we’re fighting a war as children. We’ve gone through more than the average person our age has gone through, and our enemies have nothing to lose whereas we have everything to lose.” She’s crying now and the two both hate to see the tears. 

Akiko moves to hide her crying face, but Tanjirou helps her lift her face so that the two can at least meet in the middle. 

“Please, for just one day can we forget who we are with the only information being that we love each other?”

thank you for reading this new chapter!! sorry its taken weeks to come out with it, so im truly thankful to those that are still hangin into akiko’s story! 

im lowkey waiting for kny to end so that i know how to close this story, but also i dont want kny to end so im stuck in a pit smh,,,, 

although only breifly mentioned, still want to thank @kny-writings​ and @thunderandrainclouds​ for letting me use miyuki and chiyo! 

also im workin on another au for machute so look forward to it 👀

christmas break is comin up, so hopefully ill be able to update like i used to!! please look forward to future chapters! ill work hard for you guys :,,) love you!!

[luxexhomines]

Here For You (1/?)

This is an imagine for the Danganronpa Ladies & Gents with a Self-Harming, Low Self-Esteem Reader.  No one requested it lol, I just wrote it because I wanted to and because I needed it for myself. It sounds kind of arrogant, but I hope this can offer some happy feelings or feelings of comfort. If you’re hurting, please do reach out to someone. You can talk to me, too, although I’m not sure how helpful I will be!

I plan on doing all the Danganronpa game characters eventually, or at least the second and third games because I’m not as familiar with the first one but for a start, these are some of the characters I imagine being the most aware of your self-harm and low self-esteem or finding out the most easily. I missed others, but this post is already way too long, so I’ll do another part for the aware characters and more for the rest. Imagines under the cut!

Characters included (not listed in this order): Super Danganronpa 2– Hajime, Komaeda,  Danganronpa v3– Shuichi, Kokichi, Kaede, Ryoma, Rantaro

Trigger warning for self-harm and negative self-talk!

Shuichi Saihara

He might not guess right away, but you can bet that he knows something is wrong.

You never want to let him know; even though you know he would be accepting and supportive, you can’t stand to imagine the look of disappointment and sadness that would etch into his features if he ever found out, god forbid him even considering the possibility that it could have anything to do with him.

You considered stopping so you wouldn’t have to hide or lie anymore, but you couldn’t see another way to cope with all the dull pain, the murky clouds hanging in your head.

So you’re always super sneaky about it.

You cut or burn yourself on places you normally never show in public anyway, like your hips or right below your chest on the rib, not quite on your stomach area.

An especially good spot for when you’re in a rush and don’t have the effort to take off any clothes is that area on the lower, inner area of your upper arm, which naturally faces toward the sides of your torso when your arms hang at your sides.

But one day you get lazy, and you can’t seem to find the will to care anymore, so it all just goes on the non-dominant side of your inner forearm and wrists.

You wear long-sleeves the day after when you have a date with Shuichi at the aquarium and regret your carelessness because now you have to make extra sure you don’t roll up those sleeves.

And the petting tank! You can’t reach in and pet the sea cucumbers because you can’t afford the consequences of rolling up your sleeves and revealing your scars.

Now Shuichi’s extra suspicious, when he asks you if you want to try picking up a starfish or reach into the tank, you decline with a conflicted expression, only saying that you weren’t that interested.

As far as he knows, you’re a curious person that likes to explore all kinds of things, so saying no to trying something new is super unexpected.

Finally, he pulls you aside at your home, asking you to answer him honestly.

Why were you so hesitant and reserved? It almost seemed like you just didn’t want to roll up your sleeves. What? Where was this coming from? His detective’s intuition.

You sigh, and figure if you didn’t tell him now, he’d find out anyway, being a detective and all.

So you roll up your sleeves, and Shuichi can only stare blankly, his face only growing paler by the second, taking in the sight of your fragile arms, marred with cuts and burns.

He doesn’t really know the right way to address your self-harm, but if it’s in any part because of low self-esteem, he understands those feelings and he’ll offer you affirmations and warm reassurances that you are everything you need to be, beautiful, attractive, talented, kind, and as far as he goes, all that he’s ever wanted.

Whatever the reason is, he’s sure to open his arms and let you come into his embrace, leaning your head on his chest or shoulder.

He knows it’s cruel of him to ask when you’re already fighting so hard, but he asks you not to hurt yourself anymore anyway. He tells you to come to him anytime you feel like hurting yourself, and together, the two of you can work something out–talking, snuggling, working out, or even just having him be there for you.

Kokichi Ouma

One day when the two of you go out on a date like normal, he’s up to his normal mischievous antics, and grabs your arm firmly to pull you along, only to have you flinch in pain.

But the pained expression is gone quickly, and you give him a big smile, hoping he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t say anything but leads you along for the rest of the day having fun like usual, even though on the inside he’s severely concerned about your well-being.

He has his suspicions–after all, you are his s/o. But he never had any evidence until now that you had been hurting yourself.

When he reaches your home, he asks to come inside with a strangely calm, blank expression.

You giggle nervously. Why so serious? But you let him inside anyway, and he skips inside all the way to your room, sitting on your bed and staring at you intently.

What was bothering him? But he didn’t answer. What was bothering you? All you could manage was that nothing was bothering you, everything was fine.

But he called your bullshit. There was something you weren’t telling him, purposefully concealing from him, and that was lying to him. Didn’t both of you promise to be open with each other from the beginning of this relationship? Hadn’t you sworn sincerely, pinky-promised him?

You broke down and started sobbing. Yes, there was something bothering you. It was yourself, and you hated yourself even more because you couldn’t escape from yourself.

Before you could react, he had rolled up your sleeves, only to find bruises and cuts on your beautiful skin, and all you could do was cry harder, looking away from the truth of your scars and from him. He had seen it all.

He grabs your chin and lifts your face toward his. Look at him. His purple eyes suddenly seemed so sharp, so discerning, and you felt like you were falling apart at his gaze.

What was bothering you wasn’t yourself, couldn’t be counted as part of you. It wasn’t because of yourself, and you were much too good to be hating yourself. People like you should adore every inch of their skin from head-to-toe because they were the gift to humanity, unlike the little shits out there like himself.

He rubs your back reassuringly, whispering in your ear about how much he loves you, and how you should do the same, though he’d understand if it took a lot more time.

Next time you feel like hurting yourself, just call for him and he’ll take you out to play and distract you from the misery running in your mind, liberate you from your heavy thoughts.

Kaede Akamatsu

Even though Kaede can be sometimes absent-minded and appear spacey, she’s unexpectedly sharp when it comes to things like this.

You’d debated about telling her about your scars for a while, but always lost the courage to do so every time you tried to sit her down for a talk.

...Kaede? -Yeah? ...Never mind.

And sometimes she’d push the subject, sometimes she’d leave it alone. But she hadn’t gotten you to say it yourself yet, which is what she hoped you’d do.

You’re sitting in your room, looking at the box where your tools lay. You’re severely tempted, and reach out to the box if only to examine them, even though you know that always leads to more scars. But then-

Don’t do it, s/o.

She was here. In your room. You had no idea when she’d even got to your place—you vaguely remembered giving her a pair of house keys a while ago though she hadn’t used them yet—and suddenly she was standing in your room.

All you could was look at her, and you slowly put your hand down, laying it on your lap.

So...you knew, huh?

You pinned your gaze to the ground shamefully. You opened your mouth to apologize, but she had crossed the room before you realized, and put her fingers to your lips—those fingers you loved so much, from which music emerged, and which looked equally elegant even when just typing on a computer.

Stop. Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.

And she wrapped her arms around you, and you felt her tears wetting your shoulder. You couldn’t help it and started crying, too.

I wanted to tell you, you wept. But I couldn’t do it. I was so scared.

I know, she replied. It’s okay now.

Kaede rubs your back comfortingly. She lets you know that you don’t have to ever be scared of telling her anything—nothing you do or say could ever make her hate you or leave you.

Next time you feel like hurting yourself, just call her or send her a text and she’ll either rush over to keep you company or stay awake with you as long as you need over phone or messages. If you want, she can play the piano for you too, however long you want, whatever you want to listen to. So she hopes you won’t resort to hurting yourself again.

Nagito Komaeda

Like Shuichi or Hajime, he’s got an uncanny intuition for these kinds of things. Even though his hope and boundless love for you might cloud that intuition and lead him to believe that there’s no way you could think of such an ideal being as yourself in such a lowly manner, he’ll catch on and immediately plan to confront you about it.

So when you tell him you can’t go out today all of a sudden, he catches on immediately and rushes over to your house.

The doorbell rings, and you manage to make your way over to the door, only to find Nagito standing on the other side.

You don’t look sick, he muses. And you’re clearly not fulfilling another appointment. I suppose my speculations were correct, after all.

You feel extremely anxious now in addition to the crushing pain thudding in your head and heart.

W-what speculations? you stutter.

He doesn’t answer but moves to come in, and you step aside to allow him unthinkingly. He’s rather tall, so you tend to automatically let him do as he likes.

Closing the door behind him, he treks upstairs to your room without saying a word, leaving you to trail quietly behind his wide strides, confused.

He stands in front of your dressers with his hands on his hips. Then-

What’s this? he says, almost to himself.

He’s holding a small container with your tools. Without stopping to consider the implications, you dart forward to grab the box in desperation, but he raises it above your reach, opening and examining its contents for himself.

Once you realize it’s futile, you sit on the bed with your elbows on your knees, head in hands. This was it. He’d leave you and never come back, find a greater hope because that was just his way.

But he simply walked over to a corner of your room, and you heard clattering as your tools fell into the plastic garbage can. You hear a small click as he places the box back on your bedroom dresser, and feel his weight sink down on the bed beside you.

S/o, he murmurs.

You lift your head a bit to look at him. And what hurts most isn’t that he looks disappointed, like you expected. Instead, he’s smiling softly, looking pained.

I guess I really am that unreliable, huh? he asks. You couldn’t rely on scum like me to help you.

Your eyes widen in shock and you shake your head wildly in response.

That’s not it, Nagito! I just…

He looked at you with those gentle eyes of his. What? What is it, s/o?

You couldn’t stop yourself from crying.

I just thought you’d leave me if you ever found out. Leave me for someone better, someone more full of the hope you love.

Silence reigned for a couple stark moments.

My my, he said quietly. Even though I may be garbage, I’m not so completely hopeless. he laughs at his own pun, bitterly.

He takes your face in both hands, cradling it and looking into your eyes kindly with a warm olive gaze.

S/o, my hope only lies in you. And the fact that you’ve been battling against such despair is only further proof of the strength of the hope that sleeps inside you.

Nagito brushes your tears away and lets your head rest on his chest, wrapping his long arms around you.

You feel safer than you ever have—safe from the dangers of outside, safe from yourself.

He makes sure you know just how much he loves you, and tells you that he’ll do anything you need to help overcome this despair. He’ll cook you food, give you lots of soft cuddles, bring you to the therapist, whatever you desire. All you need is ask.

Rantaro Amami

It happens one day as the two of you are out, shopping. You’ve just refused to try on the outfit he picked out for you, perhaps a little bit too adamantly, too loudly, and not only are you starting to look suspicious, but you also feel guilty and wonder if you made him feel bad.

S-Sorry! you stutter. It’s not because of you or anything. I just...don’t feel like changing today, you lie.

Rantaro assesses your fidgeting figure, and nods in understanding, but doesn’t put the clothes back on the rack. Instead, he grasps your hand firmly in his own and pulls you along forcefully to the changing rooms.

Didn’t you hear me, Rantaro? you panic. I don’t want to change.

He doesn’t turn to face you as he speaks, dragging you into a changing room and closing the door behind both of you.

I heard, he says. I’ll help you change, then.

You shake your head and back up as he closes in on you, the backs of your knees hitting the chair and causing you to lose balance and sit. Rantaro isn’t usually even half this forceful, and you’re scared.

You close your eyes, scared as he comes in closer, only to feel his warm, nimble fingers taking your arm and rolling up the sleeve. You realize your mistake, and without the courage to face what’s happened, you leave your eyes closed, not knowing how Rantaro would react.

Then, you feel his presence disappear after letting go of your arm, and you open your eyes, feeling lost. He really left you. You try to keep the tears away, but they won’t stop coming out as you wipe them with the back of your hand.

All of a sudden, someone’s taking your arm and placing bandages over the fresh cuts. You look over in surprise to see the familiar green-haired boy kneeling in front of you, and hiccup through your tears.

I didn’t realize it hurt that much, s/o, he says apologetically. I should’ve noticed earlier, but I didn’t want to cause you any unnecessary strife.

You pause for a moment, staring at him as he finishes up, and he places a tender kiss to your wrapped arm. You giggle at the ticklish sensation, and then start talking.

I’m sorry, Rantaro. It didn’t hurt that much, but I thought you had left me for good. I thought you weren’t coming back.

He looks up, clearly shocked. He has his clumsy moments too, after all.

Well, that’s no good, he scolds you. Would I do something like that, now?

When you only bite your lip in response and then shake your head hesitantly, he offers a wide smile.

Looks like you’ll need some convincing, he says cheerily.

Before you can ask what he means, he rolls your sleeve down over the bandaged arm and sweeps you up in his arms, walking out of the changing room and the store while peppering you with kisses all the way back home, on your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, the tips of your blushing ears, and your soft lips, letting words of praise fall from his lips and shoot straight into your heart.

Rantaro is sure to let you know that he’s here anytime you need him. He’s got obligations to his job, yes, but if you’re in dire need, he’ll call in sick and bring you his comfort pack–a manicure set, heated blanket, stack of feel-good movies, box of hot cocoa/tea/coffee, and offer you a massage and lots of kisses. He’s definitely the kind of person to bring you to a cat cafe, or if you’re allergic, a themed cafe to bring your spirits up.

Hajime Hinata

There’s no way Hajime wouldn’t realize something’s wrong. He’s literally the most observant guy in the world, and if he notices anything off, he’ll investigate until he finds the truth and a solution.

Lately, Hajime has been noticing the way you fade in and out of awareness, and the way a somewhat melancholy expression settles on your face when you zone out and aren’t paying attention or talking to him.

Hello? S/o? Are you listening to me? he waves a hand in front of your face, slightly irritated with your lack of attention.

You snap out of it and your eyes shoot back up to meet his furtively.

Hajime? Oh, no, did I do it again? you ask, feeling guilty.

He sighs in exasperation. You knew you don’t have to come and meet him if you don’t want to, right? Why even bother spend time with him if you were just going to drift off on your own?

You grip your other arm with your dominant hand tightly, tempted to scratch at your scars, the still healing bruises and cuts, and try to prevent yourself from shaking as you answer.

I’m sorry, that’s not it, you reply, looking away from him.

Then what is it, anyway? he asks. Why don’t you tell me?

I… I can’t, is all you can say.

He abruptly stands up in the cafe, pays for both of your orders and starts walking out. Troubled, you follow him like an abandoned puppy, teasing your bottom lip between your front teeth anxiously. Hajime didn’t even know why you were still following him after he’d walked out like that.

He felt a tug on his sleeve as he was fast-walking on the sidewalk, and stopped.

What is it? he said. I thought you couldn’t tell me?

His eyes looked tired and his entire demeanor was aggravated. You didn’t mean to hurt him like this. Weren’t you the one who was hurting in the first place?

You took a deep breath before saying anything.

Can we talk? you said quietly. At my house.

He grudgingly turns around with a nod, acquiescing. Relieved, you walk beside him and are surprised to feel his warm, large hand intertwine with yours. You look up at his face, which is slightly red from the chill of the air outside, and see his kind eyes.

You might get lost in the crowd if I don’t hold on to you, he mutters. Hurry up.

You speed up your walking pace, and soon enough, the two of you have arrived at your house. The two of you seat yourselves on the couch, side-by-side. There’s silence for some time as you try to decide how best to say what you want to say.

But before you start to speak, you feel him take your non-dominant arm in his, and surprised, all you can do is let him as he rolls up the sleeve.

Upon him seeing your scars, you hear a sharp intake of breath. Then, he takes his fingertips and trails them ever-so-lightly across your arm, as if you might fall apart at his touch.

Is this what you wanted to tell me? he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear him. He’s the quietest you’ve ever heard.

You nod robotically. What else was there to do?

Hajime slings an arm around your lower back, pulling you closer to him by the waist, and you feel his lips touch your temple in a gentle show of affection as he speaks, his voice sending pleasant vibrations down your spine.

I’m sorry I was such a jerk, he apologizes. I was worried, and I felt like you didn’t trust me and that’s why you didn’t want to tell me. I should’ve known you were just as worried so you couldn’t tell me.

When he says these words, another wave of immense relief runs through you like a douse of thick syrup, and you feel tears fall from your eyes.

Thank you, Hajime, you replied, still crying. I do trust you, and if I were going to rely on anyone, of course, it’d be you. I was scared you’d be disgusted, that you’d leave me.

You feel his grip around you tighten, and he leans in to smother your lips with kisses.

Trust me, he says. The thought of leaving you scares me more than it does you.

He lets you sit on his lap in an unusually daring show of affection, rolls of blankets wrapped around the two of you, and his arms are protectively wrapped around your middle.

If you feel like hurting yourself again, Hajime will drop everything and give you lots of affection, because you’re just that worth it. Or, if you’re in the mood for something else, he’ll accompany you as you engage in other activities, like exercising, cooking, or eating a tub of ice cream. 

After all, he’s not really mindful about what it is that you two do together. He just hopes he can help you distract yourself and do something more loving of yourself!

Ryoma Hoshi

Ryoma’s not really sure how to approach you and talk about it. He’s never been good at these kinds of situations, didn’t know what was socially proper or exactly how being tactful would look like. After all, it was suffering, and no one can make suffering beautiful, despite any glorified portrayals.

But he knows. Even if he’s never seen your scars directly, he knows by the way you talk about yourself and how you rub your arm when you’re feeling miserable.

He decides to just be upfront about it and calls you over to his house. You’re pretty surprised because he usually never invites you over–in fact, you have to invite yourself over if you ever want to see even a glimpse of his home–but accept.

You come in and ask him if he wanted to see you for a particular reason.

Well… he trails off. I’m not really sure how to say this, he says. Let’s sit on the couch.

Now you’re sweating bullets. This was sounding an awful lot like the precursor to a breakup. You suddenly feel desperate to show him how much you love him, but you know there’s no point in delaying the inevitable either, so you swallow nervously and sit as he requested.

S/o. I know about your scars, he says.

That was not what you were expecting. Or the way you expected him to say it. But what did you expect, anyway? Ryoma had always been pretty straightforward. Before you answer, he puts a hand on yours, which is plopped in your lap and looks you in the eye.

I love you, s/o. I hope you know that. I know it sounds selfish to say it this late in the game, or after I revealed that I know about your self-harm, but I wasn’t sure if I had told you before. And to be completely honest with you, I did it before too, once.

You wet your lips nervously and place your other hand on top of his.

Ryoma… I love you too. I thought you were going to break up with me for a moment there.

His eyes widen comically, and then he pulls his hat downwards a bit in embarrassment.

Sorry, wasn’t sure how I’d come off. I never know how to approach these kinds of things, he replies.

That’s okay, you smile gently. I’m glad you told me directly. It’s relieving to have someone know about it, really.

He seems to contemplate this for a moment and then smiles back hesitantly.

So I’m the first to know?

You affirm the notion, nodding.

Ryoma’s usually not one for too much physical affection, although he’s always fine with you initiating it. But this time, he scoots closer and puts an arm around your back, bringing the two of your bodies flush together, and you automatically lean down for a kiss on the cheek from him by habit.

He’s pretty down-to-earth, so if you ever beat yourself up over something and attribute it to your personal failing of character, he’ll reason through the situation with you. He’s also given you a set of keys to come to his house anytime you need, although he doesn’t guarantee his presence. Of course, you can text him to ask if he’ll be home, too, or ask him to come to your house–he’s a dedicated fella who knows the way the pain only increases tenfold when alone, surrounded by dark thoughts and energy. Ryoma’s here for you, and in his words, whether you like it or not.

[hvndcvffed]

“ let me just –– can you –– uh. ”  grizz clears his throat and raises a finger. because this? oh, boy. stomaching this shit without laughing mandates a breather.  “ hold that thought for a moment while i collect myself. s’been quite the day and i want to give you my undivided attention. ”

or, alternatively :  yo yo yo, party people ! guess who finally made it ?  i’m lev / linc ( she/her/hers ) , comin’ atchu from the ever so lovely est timezone with ya boy, the tru ledge, grizz visser! click on that read more to read some headcanons i’ve got goin’ for west ham’s resident handcuff-owning, intellectual beb !

[   g    r   i   z    z        v    i     s     s     e    r    ––    B O Y   O N   F I R E .

✔ ┊❝ ( nick robinson. 18. he/him &. cismale ) rumor around town is that gareth “grizz” visser was on one of the buses that left for the field trip. they’re the eighteen year old that resides in new ham. over the summer news spread that he purposely botched his chances to win a football scholarship to a local uni because he applied to several ivies behind his parents’ backs, but who knows if that’s true or not? what we do know is that their friends describe them as well-read & piquant, but who knows when they’re known to be elusive & misanthropé from time to time. 

( &&. general information )

full name: gareth visser

nickname(s) or alias: grizz

preferred name: grizz –– call him gareth and he will... not be happy.

current age: eighteen

astrological sign: leo

gender: cismale

preferred pronouns: he/him

sexual preference: homosexual ( but closeted )

romantic preference: demiromantic

home environment: a quaint three-bed / two-bath house with his parents. a positive, almost sickeningly sweet home: family portraits all over the place, cheesy “ home is where the heart is ” décor all around from his mother’s many trips to pier 1 imports.

current occupation: student, student athlete.

language(s) spoken: english, french, a tad of latin. wants to learn more hebrew, but that shit is complicated as heck.

native language: english.

current relationship status: single.

( &&. background )

reason behind name: y’know, he’s asked his parents this countless times. why gareth? why. gareth. and each time he’s just gotten the same vague response: they liked it. it sounded respectable. ack.

birth order: only child.

ethnicity: american. west ham born & raised, baby!

nationality: american.

religion: agnostic. goes to church with his mother as a way to keep the peace, but... the idea of a god out there saying homosexuality’s a sin gives him a bad taste in his mouth. he’d rather discount his whole existence and uphold morality than accept that there’s a bigoted big guy in the sky. sees the bible more as a literary exercise to instill human value. did jesus really walk on water? heck no. but it makes a good fable.

political views: very, very liberal. doesn’t subscribe to labels, but as close to democratic socialist as you can get in this country without causing riots. anti-brexit. anti-trump. anti-bullshit, basically. maybe socialism or communism done right wouldn’t be a terrible idea.

financial status: very, very comfortable. his parents earn well and know how to save / spend frugally. the vissers are modest in living so they can pour more into experience. for grizz’s twelfth birthday, his parents took him hiking through the adirondacks. they’ve gone on some awesome trips together, and most of their vacations include some aspect of super cool nature. unbeknownst to grizz, his parents’ planned grad gift for him was a month-long backpacking tour through new zealand.

hometown: west ham, connecticut. cool beans.

level of education: high school senior. but he’s one of the learned folk: ap literature on lock. he took some college courses at the local community college last summer, because his job as a summer camp counselor wasn’t exactly intellectually stimulating. leading kids on hikes is fun ‘n all, but... not as engaging as college-level philosophy.

( &&. physical appearance )

looks like (or face claim, if applicable): nick robinson. with longer hair. reference [ here ] . 

height: 6′0 ( jack’s shorter, but nick’s my main fc i’m workin’ with so i decide to bump it up. plus, height? football? makes sense. )

weight: 158 lbs

shoe size: 10.5

figure/build: athletic build. muscular. broad shoulders, lean waist.

hair colour: deep, deep brown. almost black. natural.

hair length: about jaw-length. curly. ( REFERENCE. )

eye colour: brown with an overlay of hazel-y jade-green. his campers over the summer compared his eyes to moss a lot. it kinda felt badass. “moss boss” had a ring to it.

glasses?: nope. 20/20 vision. but he’s been known to steal friends’ glasses sometimes, just for funsies.

skin tone: light, but not necessarily pale – spends a lot of time outdoors. no freckles.

tattoos: none, yet. would love to get a quote from walden. or a pine tree, if it wasn’t so cliche.

piercings: none. but getting an ear pierced has always intrigued him.

birthmarks/scars/distinguishing marks: some miscellaneous scars on his hands from whittling incidents growing up. a faint line across his arm from stitches, when he broke it in the peewee football league in fifth grade. 

dominant hand: left-handed, but very recently learned he’s marginally ambidextrous for important tasks.

if painted, what color are their nails?: never painted. he keeps them short.

usual style of clothing: letterman jacket. jeans. tall socks, boots. pants tucked into socks, because why the hell not? flannels, hoodies, utility jackets layered over plain white tees. pendant necklaces, leather bracelets. occasionally he’ll wear a statement button-downs that looks like your grandmother’s upholstery, but somehow it’ll work really well. varsity t-shirts. hats of all varieties. if he could, he’d showcase some edgier styles. but he’s paranoid. he’s got a stanford hoodie buried in his closet. and a yale one, too.

frequently worn jewelry:  leather bracelets. a silver ring strung on a chain, engraved with “ for sylvie, with love ”. he found it on a hike, and... figured he’d be sylvie for a day, or something.

describe their voice, what accent?:  he has a light, gentle voice. a soft autumn breeze. laced with some gravel. strong, resolute. kind.

what is their speaking style (fast, monotone, loquacious)?: often speaks slowly, surely. not always keen to fill silences. but words are some of his favorite devices of deflection. if he’s unsure, he’ll cut himself off, leading to some choppy and hard to follow sentences. he very rarely mumbles. not afraid to speak eloquently, but will certainly match his speaking style to those he’s around, to an extent. rarely seems bothered. he masks it well.

describe their scent: amber, sandalwood, musk. vague hints of cinnamon. 

describe their posture: grizz holds himself proudly. shoulders broad, chin up, chest open. it makes his vulnerable moments very easy to spot.

( &&. legal information )

any speeding tickets?: nope. this kid drives by the book. probably because he very much prefers to walk or bike around town, when he can help it.

have they ever been arrested?: never. he’s only been to the police station once, to drop off some promotional donuts for the homecoming football game.

do they have a criminal record?: nah.

have they committed any violent crimes?: no sir.

property crimes?: no.

traffic crimes?: nope! unless you count accidentally cutting cars off with his bike, because that’s happened a handful of times, when he’s been deep in thought.

other crimes?: just breaking hearts.

( &&. medical information )

blood type: o negative.

date/time of birth: july 26, 1997. 3:23am. during a rainstorm.

place of birth: west ham hospital.

vaginal birth or cesauren section?: vaginal birth.

sex: male

smoker? / drinker? / drug user?: no / yes / marijuana.

addictions: does good lit count?

allergies: sulfur-based antibiotics. bullshit.

ever broken a bone?: his left arm in fifth grade. right foot at the seventh grade dance –– the girl he asked to slow dance tripped and grizz, wanting to show off his cool socks, wound up with a stiletto heel to the talus. ouch. collar bone, freshman year of high school: he climbed a tree to save his neighbor’s cat and slipped.

any physical ailments/illnesses/disabilities: nope.

any medication regularly taken: allergy meds. sometimes he gets the sniffles.

( &&. personality )

direct quote from them:  UNO.  DOS.  TRES.  QUATRO.

positive traits: charismatic, cunning, introspective, virtuosic.

negative traits: cataclysmic, self-destructive, reckless, careless.

likes: classic literature, trail mix, synth vibes, 60s/70s/80s rock, the beatles, radiohead, faith by george michael. old vinyls. bob ross. vanilla-cinnamon candles and jasmine tea. wind-rustled leaves. fresh fallen rain.

dislikes: bitter coffee. the disappointment just after sunrise. katy perry. cleaning, laundry. the warmer side of the pillow. waking up without a hand to hold. gareth. secrets, but he harbors a few big ones. pretending. hiding. transitively, himself.

strengths: can be quite resolute but sometimes about the wrong things. his ability to analyze and respond to complex literature is… uncanny. intelligence. deduction. survival facts. he’s a postmodern bear grylls trapped in suburbia.

weaknesses: impatience. do-it-yourself attitude.  fear of rejection. fear of acceptance. fear of others. fear of himself. 

insecurities: what if people in west ham discover who he really is? how’s he supposed to postpone that?

fears/phobias:  irrelevancy. book-burning. ignorance. time.

habits:  playing with his fingers. biting his bottom lip and twisting it between his teeth. humming when he thinks no one is listening. going for late-night walks through the emptiest parts of town. staying up ‘til 4am to read and re-read and read again.

quirks: rarely settles his gaze on anything for more than a few seconds, except for other peoples’ eyes. eye contact is probably one of grizz’s biggest conversational strengths. probably why he makes such a good liar, when he needs to. he’ll finish a pint of ice cream and just sit there for over an hour sucking on the spoon, lost in thought. licks his lips when he’s nervous. plays with his hair a lot. you know he’s nervous when he keeps tucking his hair behind his right ear. chuckles to himself, even when things are the pure opposite of funny.

hobbies: jotting notes in book margins. he dabbles in poetry but feels like his shit is too beat-generation to be that cool. wandering through the woods and attempting to generate his own maps, then checking them for accuracy. lighting matches in the cold, mid-evening air just to watch them burn.

guilty pleasure: peanut m&ms. twizzlers. burned marshmallows. apartment tour videos on youtube.

desires: to prove he’s… sometime more than this. something more than a footballer destined to pretend.

wishes: he could come clean about college. wishes he could come clean about himself. wishes he could work up the courage to ask a guy to prom.

secrets: he purposefully botched an interview he had with central connecticut state university’s football recruiter because he doesn’t want to play in college. he wants to go to yale, or stanford, or brown. to study literature. classics. philosophy. his sexuality. but it’s getting harder and harder to keep that locked down.

turn ons: intelligence. genuine, pure intelligence. sharp-witted humor. dimples. dorky laughs. gentle touch. someone who doesn’t bother with worries ‘bout tomorrow.

turn offs:  idiocy. khakis. people with too much pride. line cutters. naggers. people who don’t think the proper way to eat bugles is by fashioning crisp-claws first and pretending to be edward scissorhands. people who overlook adrienne rich’s poetry, or claim dante shouldn’t be taught in school.

lucky number: 0.

pet peeves: hearing people scratch their scalps. sniffly public transit users. people who don’t use earbuds. cold fries. nail-clickers. knuckle-crackers. people who slurp from straws like they’ve never had a drink before in their lives. 

their motto:  “ i’m surrounded by idiots. ”

( &&. favourites )

food: curly fries with cajun seasoning.

drink: half-oreo half-chocolate milkshake. extra whipped cream. two cherries. please.

fast food restaurant: he’s not huge on fast food, but he can fuck with five guys.

flavour: anything chocolate and peanut.

word: fuck !!!  or zephyr: a soft, gentle breeze.

colour:  a nice, deep forest green.

clothing: his letterman jacket. his deep green flannel’s a close second.

accessory: “ for sylvie, with love” . silver ring. he likes pretending he’s sylvie and that someone cared enough to get his name etched into a precious metal forever.

candle scent: the connecticut homesick candle. it smells like cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla and fireside bliss. and pine trees. yum.

game: monopoly. but only if he wins.

animal: fish. they’re so graceful.

holiday: halloween. boo.

weather: sunset, just after rain. golden rays peering through deep gray clouds. it makes the greens of trees practically scream against the sky. it’s glorious. it’s heartbreaking. grizz loves it.

season: late fall.

book: le petit prince by antoine de saint-exupéry. it was the last book his grandmother ever read to him, on his fifth christmas eve.

artist: edvard munch. or van gogh, simply because he chopped his ear off and mailed it to his lover. now that’s modern romance.

band/group: the divine comedy, radiohead, pink floyd, the beatles, the rolling stones, the kooks. the avett brothers. belle & sebastian.

song: high and dry, radiohead. elephant, tame impala. anything by the beatles.

movie/film:  mr. nobody. eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. the first time little grizz saw alice in wonderland, he wouldn’t shut up about it for two weeks.

tv show: he grew up watching wallace and gromit. he’s still got a soft spot for it.

sport: football.

possession: his dad’s collection of beatles original release vinyls.

number: 0.

person: henry david thoreau.

( &&. skills )

talents: writing, but he won’t admit it. football. wood-whittling. gardening. navigation.

ability to drive a car?: yes.

can they ride a bike?: yes, and will frequently do so with no hands.

do they play any sports?: football.

anything they’re bad at?: juggling. sleeping. pretending to like gross food.

do they have any combat training? why?: grizz once yahoo answered how to punch somebody to the moon, after one of his best friends got made fun of in grade school for accidentally wearing a costume the day before halloween. he’s still waiting for an answer to that post.

( &&. firsts )

childhood memory: waging what was left of his fruit gummies during a game of fireside poker on the first visser camping trip.

crush: matty kerrington, pre-k. his hair smelled like strawberries and his smile reminded grizz of the hot honey that clung to his mum’s spoon after stirring tea. but to this day, he’ll say his first crush was amanda vander-voss, because her hair was pretty in braids and she reminded him of the pretty deer from bambi.

email address: grizzlybear@aol.com

job: camp counselor at a hiking / adventure camp based in west ham.

phone: a nifty samsung with a slide-out keyboard. made him feel like a god.

kiss: jessica winthrop, in a game of third grade truth or dare.

love: tess de luca ( @tessdl )

sexual experience: with jessica winthrop in the woods behind the middle school, three years later. jess got poison ivy in all the wrong places. grizz thought it was hysterical.

( &&. childhood )

best childhood memory?:  honestly? wearing that boa in dance class. his mom was quick to stop that.

worst childhood memory?:  nearly breaking his nose on the neighbor’s front porch, while attempting to ding-dong ditch with his friends. he’s not sure what gave them away more –– his blood staining their pavement, or the fact that he blubbered the whole run home.

what were they like as a child?:  grizz tended to poke his nose into all the wrong matters, landing him in oodles of trouble. he’d steal from the snack cabinet, sketch constellations across the walls… even stole his dad’s old walkman so he could listen to music under his covers past his bedtime. tried to sneak into the library after hours to get his hands on another thoreau novel. but it was all harmless. the vissers weren’t very firm disciplinarians: they just loved that their son was engaged and passionate about knowledge.

any crushes growing up?: oh, loads. more than he’d like to admit.

( &&. this or that )

expensive or inexpensive tastes?: inexpensive, but lasting.

hygienic or unhygienic?: hygenic.

open-minded or close-minded?: open.

introvert or extrovert?: ambivert. thrives in social settings but the mood has to be right.

optimistic or pessimistic?: pessimistic with a weak optimistic veil. pragmatism, is how he’d put it.

daredevil or cautious?: cautious daredevil.

logical or emotional?: a blend of both, but emotions often influence his actions more than he’d like to say.

generous or stingy?: generous.

polite or rude?: polite when it’s socially mandated. but if there’s no threat of repercussions? a bit rude, if he has to be.

book smart or street smart?:  both.

popular or loner?:  popular, by proxy. but grizz vibes with some solid solitude, especially to recharge.

leader or follower?: leader. follower, though, in the high school structure of things. it’s a way to ensure his place and avoid potential fallout. he’ll call his friends out if they’re up to no good, though.

day or night person?: night. definitely night.

cat or dog person?: both! prefers cats just a smidge more.

closet door open or closed while sleeping?: open. maybe his demons wanna cuddle or some shit.

( &&. social media )

do they have a facebook? twitter? instagram? vine? snapchat? tinder/grindr? tumblr? youtube? yes to instagram and (begrudgingly) snapchat.

if so; name on facebook: none.

instagram user: grizzvisser

snapchat user: grizzybear

( &&. musical tastes )

theme song: kimochi warui ( when? when? when? ), car seat headrest. god... get him OUT of this town.

makes them sad: blackbird, the beatles. his grandparents used to sing this when he’d sleep over/ they’d be in the kitchen early in the morning trying to convince him to eat his cereal. they’d change the lyrics and snap slightly off-tempo, all smiles and coaxing gestures. ave maria. he’s not sure why. it inspires melancholia.

makes them dance: hazy miss daisy, kid bloom. anything with a sick beat and erratic synth. take on me, a-ha. good times bad times, led zeppelin. 

loves the most: fool of myself, the band camino. it’s a song he can throw his head back to, close his eyes, and sway in the breeze.

( &&. miscellaneous )

do they have a fake i.d.?: yep, used to, but now that’s not necessary!

are they a virgin?: nope siree!

describe their signature: it’s unapologetic on the page. takes up more room than it should with lateral squiggles and grandiose swirls. G and V are decipherable, but everything else is convoluted by its own physics. a muddled mess. beautiful in its self-collapsing structure.

how long would they survive in a zombie apocalypse?:  he’d outlive everyone. survivalist visser, right here.

do they travel?: yes, but he wants to do more, see more. the grand canyon would be cool. or maybe the alps. he’s always had a dream of hiking yosemite. 

one place they would like to live: anywhere but here.

one place they would like to visit: new zealand. australia. hawaii.

celebrity crush: young johnny depp. emma watson.

what can you find in their pockets/wallet/purse: tic tacs, but never the mint ones. only the odd flavors.

place(s) your character can always be found:  anywhere with trees. rooftops. alleyways. the football field. coffee shops. the local diner. roadside sunflower fields. his parents’ garden.

when does your character like to wake up?:  with the sun.

what’s your character’s morning routine?: blink at the ceiling for about 20 minutes. wash his face, brush his teeth. annotate a few lines of whatever book he’s reading. push-ups, pull-ups, crunches. run a mile or two. rush into the shower. grab his lunch from the fridge and bike to school (and barely make it).

what does your character eat for breakfast/lunch/dinner?:  grizz’s mom loves to cook, so they’re always trying some new paleo trend. some of it’s awful. but he’ll try to eat it and if he can’t, he’ll sneak a granola bar later. if the school’s serving smiley face fries, he’ll have those. he really likes green apples and those little clementines.

how does your character spend their free days?:  hiking. reading. writing. lying in the sun and just... thinking. lately, he’s been daydreaming a lot about an ivy league education. something more engaging than west ham’s high school snoozefest.

what’s your character’s bedtime routine?:  some kind of pre-bed stretching routine. wash his face, brush his teeth, curl up in bed with a book. fall asleep with it still open on his chest.

what does your character wear to bed?: boxers and a t-shirt.

if your character can’t fall asleep, what are they thinking about?: the past. mistakes. time ticking away.

what is their idea of perfect happiness?: he’s still workin’ on that bit.

on what occasions do they lie?:  very rarely, if he can help it.

most marked characteristic: his hair. it’s all russet waves. untamed. some days, his hair truly has a mind of its own. it screams free spirit. it doesn’t let on that, inside, his soul is burning.

what is one thing they’d most like to change about themselves?:  honestly? it’s not so much what he’d want to change about himself as it is about this town. 

how would they like to die?:  well-read.

do they snore? not unless he’s got a head cold. then there may be a few soft snores here and there.

can they curl their tongue?: yes!

can they whistle?: yes indeed!

do they believe in the supernatural?: not really. but it’s fun to indulge on halloween.  did he move your cup, or did the ghouls?!  s p o o k y .

has anyone ever broken their heart?:  no. haven’t had the opportunity to.

have they ever broken anyone’s heart?:  yes. little marsha lapone’s, at summer camp. she was 8, he’s 18. he told her there was no chance, and she cried into her pb&j. tough.

are they squeamish?: no. 

have they ever seen anyone die? what happened?: just in films.

are they a lightweight?: heck no.

that was a very lengthy thing but... yeah! hit me up for plots! i’m gonna get to crafting and replying to starters v shortly!

[tamgerines]

KH3 First Impression and Complete Thoughts

BACKGROUND: i've played kh1, com, kh2, bbs, 2.8, and a bit of khux. i've watched coded and 3d on yt, so i know the story relatively well. this is an impression of my first playthrough. i did my run on standard mode and watched the secret ending on yt. i mostly did this for story, so this will have my initial impressions based on my run that will not cover extra content like the phone mini games and cooking.  my opinions are subjected to change if i ever do any later playthroughs. pls, feel free to disagree w/ me.

!!! WARNING: THERE WILL BE A LOT OF STORY SPOILERS!!!

AUDIO: 

Music: utada is queen!!! that opening song!!! also i kept noticing how lit the songs are in each world esp frozen???  and aqua's. worth a replay just for the soundtrack alone.

Voice Acting: everyone sounded great for the most part. sora’s va have certainly improved and sounds less strained. his vanitas voice has suffered significantly though lolololol. i think i read that someone called it a wannabe dark knight voice? the organization sounded incredible, w/ my fav being xemnas, marluxia, and larxene. the disney and pixar va’s are incredible w/ my fav probably being randall in monster’s inc. 

some ppl did not get vas like xaldin and laxeaus. and phil in hercules. which were all very disappointing bc in the scenes that they were in, they would just stand around woodenly, and it’s very noticeable. 

VISUALS: 

mostly a+. environments are beautiful. water and frost textures are amazing!!! you can really feel that waterga and blizzaga. fur textures in monster's inc. could use some work. little details like the sails moving in potc rly make the worlds come alive. this could be a me prob, but environments in certain worlds make it very hard to see map markers, treasure chests, and disney emblems (which are supposed to be hard to find, but still). mostly in tangled.

strangely enough, this is the only game where i prefer in game graphics to cgi. it's already highly expressive and there's something creepy and uncanny about the cgi esp in the final fight. and it's mostly bc sora's thin chapped lips throughout the entire game suddenly becomes full.

DESIGNS: 

i don't love everyone's outfit or sora's outfit changes in this game besides toy story. this is something i alrdy knew going in, but i've always felt like the outfits in kh1 and 2 rly suited each of the character's personalities. and this is not just destiny trio but even chars like roxas, the twilight town kids and the hollow bastion crew. the move towards a uniformed look makes no sense to me like is it to unify the key bearers as one force against the organization? i could understand why destiny trio was wearing plaid but why the twilight town kids also? by the end of the game, almost everyone was wearing black and it's just boring to me. like there's a right way to do uniform while retaining characters' individual looks, and that's the wayfinder trio in bbs. in this game, not so much.

an aside, but i'm sort of disappointed in the hud moving to 3d too. the 2d portraits have always been part of kh so it's kinda a bum to see it go away.

i don't love the lvl designs but it might also be due to a narrative and pacing issue that i'll expand on. any case, vertical maps are a challenge to figure out. i don't consider myself bad at directions but there are so many moments, esp in hercules and tangled where i would be like where the heck do i go next (and i have the map) only for me to look up and find a shotlock teleport point (and this isn't so much a thing that heightens the difficulty but a time waster).

lvls and bosses in previous kh games have always been known for their gimmicks and mechanics, but in this game particularly i found it to be more tedious? and this mostly applies to frozen: who the fuck designed frozen? who the fuck thought it's a good lvl design to have sora climb a mountain, get kick off it twice, and climb it again as good lvl design? who?

all the disney bosses started blending together for me bc they're literally all giant monsters and rly easy. i think the mistake here is the fact that the disney worlds are put back to back whereas in kh1/2/bbs you have the interruption of original worlds and an actually playable important parts to the main story, in this game all the important storyline in radiant garden are locked in cutscenes interspersed throughout the game between finishing disney worlds.

a lot of ppl might disagree w this, but i miss the cinematic reaction commands and limit attacks. we still have them but i find them to be on a much smaller scale in the form of drive finishers and situation commands, but i find them to be less imaginative in kh3 in order to be less """"disruptive""" to the gameplay. i've always found cinematics charming in previous games as a way to show sora interacting with his party members during combat. little things like beast putting a hand on sora's shoulder, aladdin leaning on him, or riku bumping his fist have a way of making the friendships he forms feel organic. outside of link commands/ summons, in this game, he........just throws a lot of ppl around or is thrown around?

GAMEPLAY:

already sort of went through parts of it in the previous section, but overall combat was smooth. i love how mobile sora is in this game. the improvement to his running speed and addition of all the mobile skills like dodge roll, super slide, flow motion, blizzard skating, etc. makes combat feel fast paced and juking so easy.

magic is super improved on ever since 2.8 and feels satisfying to use esp bc i feel like ur given a lot more mp now and with the ability to save the last of your mana for cure, it feels like you're not always budgeting your magic.

underwater combat was smoother than i expected.

it's a mistake putting almost all the commands on the triangle button. there's so much options you can do in combat and you'd mean to activate one thing, but then an attraction flow comes out and you just want to die. it gets a bit easier as i went on and got more used to the controls, but in general, i still think it's a mistake to not to have an ability or something to disable certain features like in kh2 fm.

gummy ships continue to be a thing. why. i don’t like how i have to turn the camera myself now ;;;. 

i'm not a speedrunner or anything, so i can't say too much else about fighting. the physical combos to me did feel like he was spinning a bit too much tho.

STORY: oh, fucking boy.

i'm not mad, i'm not disappointed, and i'm not even surprised. i already knew that post bbs, kh has already departed far from the franchise i loved as a kid and still today, at least story wise. but let's walk through it.

Disney Worlds: the disney worlds was literally a retelling of their movies. and unlike in kh2 and bbs, where visits to disney worlds were split into two parts, with the first part following the disney story and the second part being heavily tied to the main kh story and thus having original content, the disney worlds in kh3 only get one long visit. and the integration of kh into disney was just done so poorly. remember how kh villains used to kidnap princesses? remember how they used to actually conspire to take disney characters' hearts and turn them dark? remember, you know, when they were still evil and actually interfered with the worlds? in almost every world in kh3, an org member just comes says vague menacing things to sora, calls him stupid, and then leaves. yeah. and oh, maleficent and pete looks for a black box only to not find it, and leaves. AND THEY DON'T DO ANYTHING ELSE FOR THE REST OF THE GAME.

the pixar worlds + bh6 were the only ones with any actual new content and they feel so fresh. i esp loveeeeeeeed toy story omg. the script was so good, funny, and heartwarming. the pixar consultants should have helped kh all the way tbh.

like previous games, there's an attempt for each disney world to thematically tie into the main kh story. in this game, it was as heavy handed as ever, probably even more so. 

Original Worlds: onto the meat of kh, the main story was rushed up until the end. you have a slew of disney worlds, then bam, they slam you with all the human bosses and the important story stuff. 

the ‘awakening’ of roxas, xion, and ventus were very rushed. you literally have one moment they’re no there then two seconds of white screen and all of a sudden they’re there. 

there’s a shit ton of shoehorned character redemption arcs: vexen, demyx, saix, eraqus, xehanort, xemnas, ansem. all were done either offscreen or by some miracle, they reached an epiphany after sora beat his keyblade into their heads. 

the only death scene that i actually liked, that a lot of ppl complained about, was vanitas bc yes, although i thought his character had so much potential, it was at least a consistent and sympathetic death. bless him, born a villain die a villain. same with xemnas bc i loved his last speech. 

xehanort was a shitty villain through and through. no one understood his motivation; it’s like nomura took a page from thanos’ guide of how to write villains, gave him some stupid ass goal to have a keyblade war to restart the world, and then just have him...get everything he wanted? his estranged friend comes back in ghost form for whatever reason and is just like ok we’re cool man even tho u took my student and indirectly murdered me and then gets taken up to heart heaven, like O K. and like what’s the most frustrating is that it’s implied they’re keeping him as a villain??? bc fucking ymx is like ooohh imma just go back to my own time via time travel. it’s too late for u sora hurdur. 

and the younger members of the organization, the ones that we do know were in khux. we don’t get to know how they became nobodies and they don’t get a redemption??? really???  

you can tell they tried, TRIED, hard to give everyone closure. and they miserably failed to close plot points. they actually opened more. who the fuck is the unnamed girl in lea and isa’s storyline? why the fuck did you mention her if you were going to play the pronoun game and not name her??? what the fuck was in the black box??? why are they looking for it when no one know what’s in it??? why the fuck was repliku inside of riku the whole fucking time??? why have org members be norted if they can still have agency and choose to betray xehanort??? why the fuck was BOTH sora and riku in different worlds in the secret ending????? ? ? ? 

and tho i’m very glad that wayfinder and sea salt trios get their happy ending, the destiny trio had their characters assassinated. kairi was teased to become an independent character of her own and fight alongside sora, only to get shafted to become a damsel in distress, again, literally replaced by xion in one of the last battles, AND referred to as ‘motivation’ for sora by xehanort lol. sora, the guy who’s always going my friends are my power, ONLY grieves about losing kairi, accrediting all of his strength ONLY TO HER. riku, who spent the first game desperately trying to get kairi’s heart back, and who protected her from saix in the second, suddenly doesn’t give a shit about her and is just there as sora’s moral support. it’s so frustrating that nomura has the audacity to say that this series is primarily about friendship and then pull this shit lol. it’s transparent. 

CONCLUSION: 

i think for me, the quintessential kh trilogy has always been kh1, com, and kh2. as far as i’m concerned, the story should have ended there for destiny trio. and it’s like nomura said, how he feels more sympathetic towards villains now, i think nomura’s ideas have outgrown his main character. 

sora’s journey worked in 1, com, and 2 because he had an overarching goal to find kairi and riku and return home. not everyone has to understand heartless vs. nobodies or dark vs. light but at least, anyone can understand the desperation of saving your friends. when that framework is taken away, sora’s goals and motivations become unclear; he’s a kid and has little reason to be caught up in xehanort’s plans, the keyblade war, or the organization’s agendas. and his failure to grow with the increasing complexity of the plot, to investigate for himself the bigger picture or even come into a similar realization of his own darkness/ balance like riku, makes him unfit; he’s a reactionary character instead of an active one. that’s why this game, being experienced from his point of view, felt mostly like a catch up to speed for sora and a set up to nomura’s next big thing instead of a genuine ending.  i honestly don’t think nomura knows what to do with him and with kingdom hearts anymore. 

kh3 is a game wrapped in nostalgia and promised something bigger than it could fulfill. and aside from better graphics and improved gameplay, the story wasn’t worth the wait. 

[jojotier]

"Where do I obtain a wedgie board? Do I have to make my own wedgie or can I buy one from a witch or vegan?" - Arataka Reigen

(You’re right!)

“Mmmm… Mobbbbb…” Reigen slurred, glancing off to the side. “W-where do I… get a wedgie board? Huh? Do I make my own, wedgie or can I buy one from an esper or…” He wracked his brains for a moment, trying to think of the word. He stared first at the shot of whiskey in his hand, and then to his other hand, because maybe he’d written it down there. Except, wait. He didn’t, because he was a fully functional adult that owned paper. Paper and writing software. Reigen was set. He checked his other hand before remembering that he didn’t have another hand, because he only had two of them.

God. What was he thinking about? “… vegan.” He finished for some reason but didn’t really know why.

On his other side, a voice said, “You sent him home like three hours ago, you brain-melted dumbass.”

Reigen turned his head towards the voice and squinted, watching the floating ball of mean green (mother, from outer space,) idly hover nearby. Kind of like the idle animation on a video game. Man… Reigen should get a video game. It’d been years since he played…

Ekubo manifested a scrawny arm from his weird plasma snot flesh and pointed an extremely uncanny human finger towards Reigen. “Hey! Listen up!! Don’t just go staring off into space, you creep!”

“I did send Mob home. Oh yeah.” Reigen mused, body slowly curling forwards to rest his cheek against his desk. And now here he was. Drinking on the job. Or well, not on the job- the office had been closed for hours now, and Mob needed a night off to spend with his parents. Man, sometimes, with all the shenanigans that Reigen had done where he and Mob got into super magical special ~psychic adventures~, he forgot that he had those. He guessed you just got used to being a de facto father figure. The side father. The one Mob was cheating on his real father with. God… did that make Reigen a homewrecker?

Blinking quickly, he told himself he wouldn’t cry, but- dammit, he didn’t want to be one!

Ekubo seemed to be saying something, and it occurred to Reigen that he was probably tuning the spirit out. He could feel somewhat bad about that, and he was just about to, when he remembered that Ekubo was kind of an asshole. But then again, assholishness notwithstanding, Reigen wanted to extend spirits the courtesy of a living person… but wait.

“Do you have a butthole?” Reigen slurred out, interrupting whatever Ekubo was in the middle of saying. He was just musing out loud, really. Didn’t really wanna think about his earlier thoughts… they’d probably make him cry. Ekubo made a face, but because his face just so happened to be slathered all over the surface of his weird blob body, he just kind of looked like putty stretching inward on itself. Which was, objectively, pretty hilarious. Reigen giggled a bit, bringing his hand to his mouth to cover the kind of undignified sound before realizing, oh wait, this was the whiskey hand. He could drink more of that!

“I fucking despise that I know you,” Ekubo groused, huffing out a breath after he got done throwing his tiny spinny tantrum. “God, you’re such a drunkard- why do you even need a ouija board? You can just have Mob see everything for you!”

“Well yeaaaaaaaaaa,” Reigen drawled, sitting up a bit more and downing the last of his drink. Finally, he was free to gesture as much as he wanted, and he did so with relish, tossing the arm with the empty shot glass towards the side and waving his hand up and down to help visualize his point, “but I still need one! It’s for the good of my- my customers, see? Every psychic has t’, have one!”

“No, they really don’t. Those things don’t even work.” Ekubo said flatly. Then two arms appeared and he laid them both across his face, “Wait- this is more scam shit. You don’t really believe that load of garbage, do you?”

“What!” Reigen exclaimed, utterly offended. His not-glass hand went over his heart, clutching the fabric of his suit as the other jabbed the air in an uncoordinated mess of gesticulating. “How- how dare you, you weird smile slime? In my own office? You’re gonna just accuse me, in my own psychic office, of scheming.”

“Scamming, more like. You’re too stupid to scheme anything really meaningful!” Ekubo shot back, and Reigen figured that the spirit no doubt was thinking about. Whatever dastardly booger based Saturday morning cartoony reformed evil spirits thought about now.

“‘M not scamming, not really,” Okay that sounded a little fake, even to him. “Th-the feelings, Ekubo- the feelings my clients come in and leave with? Those are real,”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ekubo groaned, but Reigen wasn’t done yet.

“They come in here, desperate and destitute- most of them not even knowing what they really need if anything!” Reigen gestured more, and his grip on the glass tightened. “Some of them aren’t ready to face that they’re the cause of their own stuff- so if they wanna, wanna blame it on spirits ‘n such, tha’s on them, y’know? I’m just here to help!”

“And take their money,”

“But mostly to help-!”

And just like that, there was the sound of glass shattering. Reigen blearily glanced down at the floor beside the desk chair and calmly regarded the remnants of the shot glass that had been in his hands mere moments before. Ekubo also looked on, completely unimpressed.

Reigen blinked. “Man. I’m really drunk.”

“No shit,” Ekubo rudely said, hovering back on his desk with the other shot glasses that were still there. It was only just now getting to be really late- but then again, if Reigen stayed at the office and set a timer on his cell, he could just wake up and clean this mess up while sober, before the workday started. Which hey, it still gave him time for another round, if he really wanted to knock himself out good for the night…

Reigen got up and was about to say something when everything suddenly started tipping around him. Quickly catching himself on the edge of his desk, he tried to blink the dizziness from his eyes as he tried to regain his bearings. Damn… it’d felt fine when he was sitting! It wasn’t like he’d had that many drinks… Mostly because it was all from one bottle that he had the great idea to separate into different cups for extra fanciness about two drinks in, but still- he was totally fine. Just had to… steady it.

“You’re fucking hopeless,” Ekubo huffed, slowly floating backward. “Now hold still.”

“Eh?” Reigen muttered intelligently, squinting at Ekubo. “Wh-what d’ya need me to-”

Then Ekubo rushed him and it felt like a cold wind had swept straight into Reigen’s body. The feeling settled somewhere on the right side, where his heart would have been if he looked in a mirror, and then slowly spread to every inch of him. At first, it was cold- then it got warmer, and then, just plain numb. Reigen’s body straightened up on its own and Reigen heard, in the back of his head, God, you’re such a fucking lightweight!

“Ekubo, what the hell?!” Reigen said out loud, and god, he was happy at least that was still fine. His legs started moving, but Reigen didn’t feel himself moving- he just felt the phantom imprints of feeling in his limbs, swaying gently under the spirit’s influence, and felt blood pool in his cheeks. “I never authorized you to start fuckin… fuck… piloting me like an EVA!”

I’m not piloting you, idiot, I’m possessing you. Ekubo huffed, and despite himself, Reigen felt a wide smile creep over his face. ‘Sides, it’s not like I can do much- even when you’re out of it like this, I can’t exert any full-time control.

“Oh, well! That’s re-a-surrring,” Reigen got a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he passed by and was only annoyed that he couldn’t grimace. God, he looked like some kind of weird zombie, shambling forwards and swaying; cheeks branded with red circles like a goddamn cartoon. With great effort, Reigen found that he could kind of exert some control over himself- though it took… a lot more concentration than he was willing to think on. His nerves jumped under the skin of his arm like a bunch of spiders as he brought a hand up to smack himself on the cheek, stopping short of the door.

Hey! Come on, don’t try pushing me out-

“Well, well tell me where we’re goin’, firs’-!” Knees suddenly buckling, he leaned against the wall, vision swimming. “Y’ can’t just, take on someone’s body liike that without sayin’ what you want-”

Alright, alright, Ekubo said, and even if he wasn’t visible (being inside of Reigen in a totally nonsexual way) Reigen could just tell the little shit was rolling his eyes. I’m getting you back to your house and bed because you’re drunk off your ass! Otherwise, you’re gonna smell like shit in the morning and then you’re gonna complain when all your idiot customers get scared away by your reek.

“I don’t stink!” Reigen shot back, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

You will, if you don’t have the chance to take a shower- and then you’re gonna bitch at me about having a slow day! Ekubo complained, slowly exerting control back over Reigen’s legs. Now come on- you’re a real god damn lightweight.

“But the- the glas,” Reigen whined, glancing back with some effort towards his desk. “Mob’ll be, worried if he sess.”

He doesn’t get here until the afternoon, dumbass!

Reigen thought this over. “… Oh yea. I g… guuess, I sh’ld, go h-” And as Reigen tried to step forward on his own, his knees suddenly buckled, and he sprawled out on the floor. For a moment, he just laid there, face down because damn. This must have looked pitiful. Biting his lip, he tried not to cry- except that wasn’t his own doing. He guessed that was just Ekubo’s. “Maybe I nnneed… hel’p, gettin’ back.”

Wow, what gave you that idea, genius? Ekubo snarked from inside his head as Reigen retracted control again. The numbness spread back into his limbs, and his body heaved itself up, now much more balanced. Stop being such a damn crybaby. You’re a grown ass man- at this point, it’s just pathetic.

“Oh, piss off,” Reigen mumbled as his body finally shuffled out onto the streets.

The feeling of being possessed was… weirdly restful. Which sounded all kinds of wrong when one was possessed by a spirit who used to have a penchant for weird cult shit, but it was still restful nonetheless. It didn’t feel as if Reigen himself was really exerting any energy, with his limbs roving on their own. Plus, with the slow going, it wasn’t too bad- the streets had quieted down, and Reigen’s eyes were allowed to wonder around his surroundings. Lots of lights everywhere, shops closing down… And then there was the feeling of kind of being rocked inside his own body, mind relaxing back while the rest of him was on autopilot.

“I shouln’t do this too offen,” Reigen slurred sleepily, eyes blinking hard against an onslaught of exhaustion, “or else you’ll prob’ly get the wrong idea.”

You’re the one who can’t even keep your own eyes open! Ekubo huffed. But I guess I have to deal with that, huh. Just like I have to deal with all this shit around here.

“Mm.” Reigen hummed back, but even with the visual stimuli still coming towards him, he was starting to slip into unconsciousness. He tried to think on what else he could have even said to that, but the mix of alcohol and exhaustion from another eventful day of dealing with powers far beyond his reach, he began to fall asleep.

Reigen’s body straightened up immediately, movements becoming much more fluid. His arms stretched up, back popping slightly before he settled a hand on his chin, a smirk on his face. “Damn. The idiot actually lost consciousness! I could really take this body out for a spin…” The possessed man looked at the row of shops lining the entrance to the subway, a slow grin spreading.

Then, it dropped, and he sighed. “Ah, no. Shigeo will have my head on a platter…” That was his excuse, anyway. He was plenty strong as was, but… he’d rather not chance these sorts of things, when it came to Mob and his esteemed bastard of a mentor.

Ekubo continued to steer Reigen’s body back to his apartment, dealing with the conman’s snores in the back of his mind all the while.

[imaginetonyandbucky]

little bit of me, little bit of you

Part II | Part I | Part III

It has to be a coincidence—a weird, improbable, very uncanny coincidence—and Bucky really, honestly tries to convince himself of that, at first. Because even in a world with actual aliens living and working among everyday humans, super soldiers and superheroes running around New York, and hot dogs costing more than two fucking dollars, what are the chances that Bucky, somehow, had a child with current crush more than a decade ago without either of them remembering anything about it?

They’re pretty slim, is what they are.

Bucky has ample reason to doubt that he was in any way involved in creating Gabriel, and one of the biggest one is Steve. Bucky’s memory is, admittedly, still full of holes and untruths, but Steve’s known Bucky since they were toddlers, and he’s always been excellent at remembering even the most asinine things, even long before he got the serum. If there’s one other person aside from Bucky who’d see any potential similarities between Bucky and Gabriel, if there were any, it would be Steve.

But Steve hadn’t said anything before moving Bucky into the tower, and had only tilted his head, shrugged, and said, “Huh, you think so?” when Bucky had made a joke that wasn’t really one about how Gabriel could be his little brother or cousin, looks-wise.

So, Bucky tries to let the whole thing go. And fails, miserably.

(More after the break!)

He can’t explain why, or how, but he just knows. He knows there’s something more here, something he can’t recall, something just beyond reach, that was stolen from him, and he’s determined to find out what, exactly. And get it back.

The very first thing he learns—and probably should’ve expected—is that tracking down baby photos of someone who’s supposed to have died over seventy years ago, and has no more living relatives is a huge pain in the ass. He does eventually find a few, in a private art collection centred around the Howlies, of all places, but the owner is more than happy to send him copies in exchange for one of those tacky autograph cards Avengers PR insists they all carry around with them.

Once he has the pictures, carefully laid out on his kitchen counter, Bucky has to admit that he can’t blame Steve for not noticing. At first glance, Gabriel looks like Stark, just like his brothers, and doesn’t seem to have anything in common with Bucky at six, or fifteen, or twenty. They all have the same colouring, the same basic facial structure, even the same cheeky smile. Stark’s gene game is pretty strong, to put it short.

But it’s there, in the details, the resemblance that had initially thrown Bucky so much; that stubborn hair whorl that seems nearly untamable, the dimple in the left cheek that only ever makes an appearance during full-on belly laughter, the tiny little beauty mark under the right ear, some of the distinctive mannerisms, like the way the both move, sometimes, when they tuck their hair behind their ears, or try to hold back a smirk.

None of it is obvious, though, not unless someone’s actively looking. And Bucky can’t seem to stop, once he has admitted, to himself at least, that Gabriel has to be his.

Natasha’s silence is simultaneously skeptical and judging when Bucky calls her up to ask for a favour. He doesn’t delude himself that he won’t be interrogated about his sketchy behaviour eventually, but Nat promises to get him the HYDRA mission reports involving the Winter Soldier from the year before Gabriel’s birth, and that’s all that matters.

With that done, all Bucky can do, unfortunately, is wait. He briefly considers just flat out asking Tony about it, but he doesn’t actually think Tony knows much more than he does himself, as unlikely as that sounds. Tony hadn’t seemed like he’d met Bucky before, when Steve had introduced them, or acted like he was hiding something, or keeping secrets. And they might not have known each other for too long yet, but Bucky refuses to believe that Tony’s the sort of person who would lie like this, about his own child.

Before Bucky can drive himself crazy by overthinking the situation, and going over what little evidence he has again and again, Tony himself actually, albeit unknowingly, gives him his next clue.

The boys are parked on the couch when Bucky walks into the penthouse, not arguing or bickering for once, but all talking at once and over each other at the smiling man on the screen of the tablet that sits on the coffee table in front of them. Gabriel is talking about his science project, while Max whines about how unfair Tony’s being about something or other, and Theo just throws out all the Spanish words he’s learned recently, from the sound of it.

“Come on,” Tony says, appearing in the kitchen doorway, “they won’t even notice you’re here. They haven’t talked to Léon in a while, I think they’re updating him on literally everything that’s happened over the last two months.”

They settle at the kitchen table, where both Tony’s tools, and a cup of coffee for Bucky are already waiting. Tony’d suggested moving their maintenance sessions up to the penthouse a few weeks ago, as long as no bigger machinery or anything was needed. It’s definitely more comfortable, and usually ends with Bucky staying for lunch or dinner, and then a movie or games with the kids. Or just the food, movie, and games, more and more often.

He’d jumped at the chance to get to know Gabriel the first time Tony had invited him to stay for grilled cheeses and creamy tomato soup—it had been Theo’s day to choose lunch—but it’s not only his curiosity that keeps him coming back. He’d grown up in a huge family, with five sisters and little cousins always around, and he misses it. Still having Steve helps, a lot, but playing, snuggling, or roughhousing with the boys just settles something in Bucky, and always manages to calm him down or cheer him up, depending on what kind of day he’s had.

And getting some quality time with Tony is a definite plus, too.

“So,” Bucky says, once Tony’s knuckle deep in the wiring of his arm, and conveniently not looking at Bucky to see how much he’s currently failing at being subtle, “I’m assumin’ Léon is the famous Tío Léon?”

It’s not that Bucky’s jealous, because he’s got neither the right nor a reason to be—he gets to see the boys and Tony at least three to four times a week, these days—but Tío Léon is a constant topic of conversation in the Stark household. Still, he doesn’t expect the question to make Tony pause, and chew his bottom lip for a moment before sitting back, a strangely intense expression on his face.

Bucky is about to apologise for overstepping when Tony says, “He’s their father. Max and Theo’s.”

Even though he’s not sure why, Bucky can tell Tony’s being defensive. He must realise it, too, because a moment later he deflates, breathing out in one long whoosh, and sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I—not everyone’s happy with our arrangement. I keep getting shit for it still, which. I can brush it off easy enough, but I don’t want my kids too see or hear any of that.”

“Fuck those people,” Bucky says, frowning, and Tony snorts, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders. Then he points at Tony, and warns, “I’m not puttin’ a dollar in the jar for that, the boys didn’t even hear.”

“Fair,” Tony allows, but the silence that follows is uncharacteristically awkward, for them.

It’s Bucky who breaks it after a moment. “You don’t have to, obviously, but you can tell me, if you want. I’ll listen. An’ only judge you quietly.”

“Asshole,” Tony quips back, smiling again as he kicks Bucky’s foot. Then he groans, tipping his head back, clearly embarrassed when he says, “Theo was my midlife crisis, I think. I just. Woke up one day, and realised I was almost forty, and that if I wanted more kids, I should probably get on that. Léon was happy to help out again.”

Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something dumb like, “I bet he did,” but he manages.

“And Max—I was an only child, and I hated it,” Tony sighs, absently playing with the small drill in his hand. “I didn’t want that for Gabriel. And having children had always been a vague plan for the future, so. After Gabriel, I knew I definitely wanted more, and I didn’t want to wait forever. And so we had Max.”

“But you’re not together?” Bucky guesses, trying to not sound hopeful. “Anymore?”

Tony shakes his head. “Never were. We met in college, kept in touch over the years, hooked up sometimes when we were both single. I love him, as a friend and the father of my children, but it was never more, for neither of us. He agreed to help me, uh, make Max and Theo, but he never wanted to be a dad. Which was perfect, really, since I wanted kids, not a boyfriend.”

It feels like he’s pressing his luck, but he most likely won’t get another chance like this one. Hiding his trembling hands under the table, heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of his chest, Bucky asks, “And what about Gabriel?”

- Potrix | AO3 

A/N: This is now officially a story full of cliffhangers, I guess? Also, I’m thinking of Oscar Isaac when I talk about Léon. Just imagine how gorgeous those kids have to be? Part III on Monday! 

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Lena and the Winchesters, Part 3

Over the next six months, they continue to monitor the headlines that soon spread from California to the national news circuit. National City becomes ground zero for a series of Super vs Luthor face offs. It all remains distant, though. The three of them don't have any any ties to the city, and give it a wide berth whenever they wander back to the West Coast.

"That'd be one hell of a cat fight!" Dean remarks, and it's about as much thought as any of them give the conflict.

Their lives are wrapped in much smaller, more harrowing tasks. Lucy's gift of seeing things for what they extends well past small-town ghouls. Vampires, skinwalkers, shtrigas-- anything with the ability to hide among humans can't hide from her.

Lucy proves a voracious reader, consuming everything they have on hand about the things they hunt, plus any reference she can pull from from the libraries they visit. Her mind works like a steel trap, and each new fact she learns takes her fear away, until she as learned--and brazen-- as the brothers who took her in.

Dean prays to Cas what they learn about Lucy. It starts with her uncanny gifts, and progresses through the oddities that slowly emerge the more she experiences the world.

Like the fact she's a wizard at making weapons-- especially improvised explosives. Or her pickpocket skills, which match her ability to hustle pool better than even Dean (a fact he attributes to her other, unlearnable assets). She prefers whiskey to beer and likes scotch over both.

Lucy also knows code, which is the final straw for Sam.

"She's gotta have another life out there, Dean," he says one night while Lucy is busy playing darts with a young woman in a stetson. "A ghoul or a shell wouldn't be created with knowledge about computer code! It just isn't-- I don't think she was created from nothing. That cult abducted her, did god knows what, and somehow erased her memory."

"O-kay," Dean returns.

"She could have people looking for her! People who care about her, who are probably worried sick!"

"And what do you expect me to do about it Sam? We don't exactly have much to go on with Cas in silent mode!"

Sam takes a deep breath, and leans his arms against the table between them. "All I'm saying is that maybe we should devote a little more time to figuring out WHO she is, rather than what."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He glances towards Lucy and catches her eye just as her darts competition tilts her head and whispers something low and smooth in her ear. Lucy throws her head back in a sudden laugh, breaking eye contact with Dean to then pull the girl even closer, close enough for the stranger's hand to slip into her back pocket and stay there, as casually as if it belongs there.

He can't deny that whatever Cas says, Lucy isn't a shell. Life spills from her with every smile, every crinkle of her eyebrow when she runs into something new. She's not empty at all.

But reluctance tugs at his heart as Sam's words roll across his brain. He doesn't want to look for who Lucy was. If they do, then sooner or later they'd find something. And when they find something... Lucy will go back to being who she should be. Lucy will leave them behind, and Dean is a selfish son of a bitch.

He doesn't want to lose this strange, surprising woman who's become a part of their lives.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," he says, before taking a long swig of his beer. "Why not."

The conversation niggles at the back of his mind for days, before he finally goes to Lucy. He explains Sam's theory, and waits for her response.

It's a long, long beat before she speaks.

"What if... I don't want to?"

"You don't want to what? You don't want to look?"

Lucy shrugs.

"Why not?"

"You and Sam... you help people. A lot of people. And as long as I'm with you I get to be a part of that. Doing good. Whoever I used to be... that person might not be a good person."

Dean can't help the laugh that pops out of him. "That's what you're worried about?"

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not, I'm not," he immediately surrenders under her sharp glare. "I swear."

Lucy softens then, and a shadow seems to settle over her, darkening her gaze, and in that moment Dean realizes that this isn't the first she's thought about it.

"Look, Luce..."

Green eyes lift to meet his, heavy and uncertain.

"Not that long ago, you put yourself between us and a monster."

"He was only a kid, Dean." It's the closest they'd come to falling out. The only thing that had kept Dean from shooting the kid anyway was the pastor who'd stood at Lucy's shoulder, and promised to ensure the child would never harm a human. "He hadn't done anything wrong."

"Not yet," Dean returns. Even now, deep in his bones, he knows that if the kid survived long enough to reach maturity, it'd be back on their radar.

Some ganks just don't change their stripes.

"My point is-- someone who does that isn't a bad person. In any life. Just like that kid has violence and bloodlust in his genes, you have something good in you. No memory will change that."

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Dean gives her an affectionate shake.

"If you don't want to look, that's fine. Whatever. But don't let that be the thing that stops you."

Lucy goes missing a week later, before they even know there's a thing to hunt. Sam and Dean leave for take out, and come back to a ransacked motel room. Nothing is missing but Lucy, and in her place they find half a dozen spent rounds and an alarming amount of blood.

They find her thirteen days later, chained by one wrist to a wall deep in the sewers.

"Luce? Lucy!" Dean pats her cheek, hard, desperate to find signs of life beyond the thundering of his own heart. "Come on!"

"Dean...?"

She can barely open her eyes, but his name slips thick and slurred from bloodstained lips. More blood oozes from the claw marks that rake her from shoulder to sternum, and another, deeper laceration rips the length of her thigh open. The cement under her is dark with her blood, and in the shine of their flashlights her skin is sallow and dull.

"It's us, Luce. We've got you."

"There were other girls," she mumbles, struggling to hold her head up. Only then does Dean notice the empty manacles lining the room. More than a dozen. "I'm the last. I think..."

She doesn't finish, and Dean taps her back awake. "Come on, stay with me, okay? We're gonna get you out of here."

Sam works furiously on the lock holding her prisoner, but it's too dark and their lack of knowledge on whatever took her presses against their spines, urging them to move faster.

"I think... he ate them."

"Who ate them?" Sam asks, jiggling the pick to dislodge it. It doesn't work. "What is it?"

"Won't believe it if I tol' you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake Sammy, get back!" Dean stands and fires twice at the chain link that connected to the eyebolt anchor. The rusted metal cracks, and then shatters when Dean gives it a frenzied yank. Lucy struggles to stand with their help, only to lose consciousness as soon as she's upright.

"Shit," Dean curses as he catches her. He tosses his weapon to Sam and scoops Lucy into his arms, pulling the trailing chain into her lap so it won't trip them up.

Sam takes in the blood Lucy's leaving behind, and meets Dean's gaze with fear in his eyes. "She's lost a lot of blood."

"No shit," Dean snaps. "Let's get the hell out of here."

A door behind them slams open before they can hit the next corridor.

"THAT'S MINE!" a voice roars, before something big and solid slams into them from behind. Lucy and both guns go flying as Sam and Dean sprawl across the damp concrete floor, pinned by a single hand to each of their chests.

The man connected to both fists is diminutive, and doesn't look capable of squeezing the breath out of them, but their wheezing confirms there's something more to him than meets the eye.

"Thieves!" the guy hisses, spraying foul-smelling saliva across both of them. "You'll pay for trying to steal from me."

"Steal?" Dean gasps. "No, no, no, we were just borrowing--URK." A hand clamps around his throat.

"You talk too much." The man leans in close, sniffing deeply. Then he grins, and leans in close enough for Dean to spot the bits of meat still stuck between its teeth. "You have its scent on you. A protector, perhaps... I'll enjoy eating you too."

"Hey, asshole."

Lucy fires her pistol from where she landed.  Barely able lift the gun clutched tightly in both hands, her shots go wide, but the pressure on Dean's chest disappears. He heaves for breath, the rolls and paws his way over to Lucy while Sam goes for the second gun.

"Good job---"

A deafening, bellowing roar cuts him off, reverberating off the walls and rattling their skulls.

"Time t'go," Lucy and Dean tell each other. Dean once again reaches for her, prompting another bellow of rage.

"MINE!!"

With the sound of crunching bone and cartilage, the man's shape starts to shift, distorting into something larger, longer, and much, much scalier.

"Is that a...?"

"Tol' you," Lucy mumbles, slumping against the floor.

The next roar comes with heat and flame as the man-turned-dragon comes barrelling towards them on all fours, wings scraping against the rusty pipes over head and sending metal shard flying in every direction.

Its tail catches Dean across the chest, flinging him into Sam and sending them both to the ground. Lucy blindly reaches around her for a gun, a weapon, anything, and comes up with nothing but a piece of pipe. With the beast bearing down, she has no time to do anything but angle the sharpest end up and brace for impact.

"LUCE!!"

Dean's shout gets lost in a cacophony of shrieking metal and agonized wails. But then an eerie silence fills the air around them. No snapping bones, no rending flesh-- just a jagged sigh that trails to nothing.

"Dean..." Sam prods him, but Dean can't move. Every muscle locks tight, waiting for the worst to be confirmed. He only forces himself to look when Sam yanks him to his feet. "DEAN!"

The dragon sags upright against the pipe impaled through its chest, dead. The force of its attack had shoved the base of the pipe against the stone floor, gouging a deep furrow in the concrete, but Lucy's hands were still wrapped loosely around the base. She lay as lifeless as her assailant, and just as bloody.

"Lucy!" Dean slides to his knees next to her, searching for a pulse. When he can't find one, he sticks his palm under her nose, and almost jumps when he feels the faint puff of breath. "She's alive!"

"Dean, we gotta move! Now!"

Dean scoops Lucy up just as the carcass above her starts to smoke. In seconds, it's consumed by flame, reducing it to little more than a puddle of noxious, black ooze.

Sam snaps a picture with his phone, then shoves Dean towards the exit. "She needs a hospital, now!"

They book it out of the sewers and back to the Impala. Dean loads Lucy into the backseat with him, holding her close as Sam peels towards the nearest hospital. His heart pounds in his ears, chest tightening with every second that passes.

He starts humming Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and doesn't stop.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 4, Part 5, Interlude, Part 6a, Part 6b

[stereksummerexchange]

The Accidental Alpha

@septima-sum | AO3 - Septima, I hope this fulfills your fluffy college romance wishes! Thank you for the excuse to write this idea I’ve been thinking about for ages!

by @poetry-protest-pornography

When Stiles goes to college, he meets a new group of supernatural creatures (because of course he does) and it turns out he’s pretty good at taking care of werewolves–and a witch! Derek and John are… wary.

Two and a half years of running with wolves had given Stiles the ability to recognize a supernatural being with a relative ease, and going to a university with a very large student body gave him a fair amount of practice.

In his first semester English Lit class, there was a girl who spent all of the first class with a sour look on her face, leaning as far away from the professor as possible while still remaining in her seat in the middle of the auditorium. It wasn’t until Stiles went to get the syllabus from the prof that he got a whiff of the man’s oppressive cologne. The next time the class met, Stiles brought some herbal candy and a small tub of salve with him. He had sat next to her in her new place in the back row and placed the items on the table in front of her.

“The lozenges will help, and put a little of the salve under your nose, too. That should block the worst of it,” he’d said quietly, smiling with no teeth and as much sincerity as he could manage so he didn’t appear as a threat–or a crazy person. He preempted her denial by dropping his voice further, turning toward her as he stood to find a different seat and reassuring her with, “When my brother got turned, his senses went crazy, and these were a lifesaver.”

Her jaw had dropped slightly, and her brow had furrowed in a way that Stiles found startlingly endearing, but when her eyes snapped to meet his, there was only mild surprise and confusion there. She’d even smiled, though it seemed to be involuntary, and after he’d settled into his seat a few rows down, he heard the quiet crinkle of a wrapper open. When he’d looked up a moment later, as Dr. English Leather walked in carrying his cloud of chemicals and musk, she was wearing a small pleased smile and replacing the lid on the jar of salve.

It felt good.

After class, she had waited for him at the door, blurting out a “Thank you,” before he could say anything. “I’m Bianca,” she’d said, sticking out a hand and tilting her head to the side. Stiles had been startled by the display, but did his best to ignore it. He’d introduced himself and offered to bring her a bag of the candies and the recipes for both items, and by the end of the conversation he had a study partner for the semester. 

The guy at the campus coffee shop with the too quick reflexes and the uncanny habit of forgetting he had enhanced hearing might as well have just worn a shirt that said “I’m Not Human.”

Stiles had actually called Derek after his first encounter with Neil during orientation week and rambled about the total failure of supernatural education. “Der, you can’t tell me there isn’t like, Super Summer Camp or something! Why do none of you know how to people! You can’t go 2002 Spiderman-ing all over the place and stay a secret!” 

Derek had done a manful job of pretending to be unimpressed, but had eventually agreed that the barista needed to be a little less spectacular. 

Thankfully, Stiles’ nearly problematic dependence on caffeine meant that he didn’t end up having to wait too long to steal a minute with Neil. Unfortunately, creating the moment meant that he’d had to sacrifice his perfectly crafted cinnamon mocha. As he “accidentally” dropped the steaming cup of spicy chocolatey goodness, Neil predictably moved to save him from the burning hot backlash. When the kid had successfully saved him, Stiles had untangled himself from the still awkwardly long limbs of Neil The Were-Barista (mentally noting that the kid was going to be gigantic when he was done growing) and thanked him with a genuine smile. Neil had shrugged it off shyly and gone to grab a roll of paper towels to clean the mess.

He had looked startled when Stiles kneeled down next to him, a wad of napkins in hand to wipe at a puddle of cocoa-dusted whipped cream. When Stiles had said, calmly and quietly, “I appreciate the save, dude, but you need to start being a little less super, or you’re going to draw unwanted attention, bro,” his eyes had clouded over and his whole body tensed.

“Shit. That didn’t come out right. Don’t freak out.” Miraculously, Neil had relaxed a little, and Stiles was able to continue. “Let a few lattes get dropped now and then. Don’t start making someone’s super complicated half-caff, non-fat, double bullshit drink before the cashier calls it out to you, and maybe be a little more careful not to answer questions you shouldn’t have been able to hear being asked, okay? I know it’s overwhelming, but you have to keep yourself safe.” 

Neil’s stunned gratitude had made Stiles feel proud and warm. The extra-large replacement mocha was nice, too.

He had had his suspicions about his Folklore professor, Dr. Garrett, from day one. The woman was a little too knowledgeable and a little too passionate. And a little to spry for a human 58-year-old.

When Derek, Scott, and Kira had dropped in on him for a surprise “we all randomly had the same 24 hours free and decided we missed you” visit one weekend a few weeks into his first semester, it had been a much needed if whirlwind visit, and also confirmed that Dr. Garrett was most definitely a werewolf (though Stiles had been hoping for a were-cat of some sort, the woman’s grace and haughty humor screamed feline). Dr. Garrett had walked into the classroom with her usual casual determination, but once she reached her desk, she’d frozen and taken a deep breath, her head darting immediately to Stiles, and he had sworn her eyes flashed briefly at him as they narrowed in consideration.

Their conversation after class had been brief, but they continued to meet throughout the semester, sharing stories and resources. She had a fascinating life and an incredible collection of books, and Stiles was grateful to have someone on campus to talk to.

***** 

Going home for Thanksgiving break was strange. Stiles was looking forward to getting back to his pack, to his dad, but there was an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he was forgetting something. Leaving something behind.

He had to physically shake himself to stop from turning around to head back to campus and double check all the knobs on the stove or something. Which was ridiculous, because in the mad paper-writing spree that was the last week before break, he had lived mostly on coffee and take-out food. If not for Bianca and Neil, he probably would’ve opted for just the coffee, but the two had become good friends since their respective first meetings. Stiles was grateful for their presence; it was hard being away from the Pack, and even though he spoke to Derek almost daily, Scott and Lydia at least once a week, and Malia and the junior wolves often enough that they were all up to date on each other’s lives, it was lonely.

The lack of constant life-threatening danger was pretty nice, though.

Despite the feeling of leaving something behind, pulling into the driveway at home was as much of a relief as it always was, the knot of tension in his shoulders relaxing itself at the prospect of a whole week to spend with his dad, Derek, Scott and Melissa, and the rest of his rag-tag crew.

His dad opened the front door before he could fumble his key into the lock, and before he could drop his duffel bag to the floor, he was wrapped up in a tight hug. For a moment, he was caught up in a rush of emotions that had him hugging his dad back a little tighter. The first year after Stiles discovered that werewolves were a real thing had strained his relationship with his dad to the point he wasn’t sure they would be able to recover. He wouldn’t ever stop being grateful he’d been  wrong.

“Good to see you, kiddo,” John said as he pulled away. “You look good, son, you eating something besides pizza and instant noodles?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and raised a brow. “Are you?” They shared a laugh, and Stiles was surprised when Derek joined them in the entryway.

“Like Jordan and Melissa would let him get away with takeout five days a week and face your wrath,” Derek deadpanned. Stiles laughed harder and John snorted, and then Derek was right there, so Stiles took half a step and Derek wrapped his arms around him. “Hey,” Derek said quietly into the side of Stiles’ head, and a different kind of rush went through him.

His relationship with Derek had changed so much, Stiles wasn’t always sure he believed that they had gotten to where they were now. From the beginning they’d been like magnets, pushing against each other and pulling each other in in turns. Now, though, there was almost nowhere he felt safer, felt more like himself, than when he was with Derek.

“Hey yourself.” He pulled away enough to look at Derek, vaguely noted that his dad had disappeared, and reached up to scratch lightly at Derek’s cheek. “Y’know, this is officially a beard now, Der. We are well past sexy-mysterious stubble, dude.”

Derek’s eyebrows quirked upwards and he smirked, his voice dropping teasingly low. “Is that a complaint?”

Stiles’ tongue darted across his upper lip as he shook his head. “Nope,” he said around a grin, relishing in Derek’s answering smile and the way Derek’s eyes traced over his face. So of course instead of doing something, he blurted out, “Are you wearing my shirt?”

Derek laughed, his eyes crinkling in a way that Stiles would never not be endeared by, and he couldn’t regret missing a chance to make a move.

“It’s comfy,” Derek said easily, shrugging and turning stepping a little further away, tweaking the collar of Stiles’ flannel as he did so. “Besides, it’s yours.”

The smile that Stiles felt curve his lips came with a warmth in his chest, and he and Derek were caught in a still moment, just watching each other and enjoying the warm, quiet space between them. 

A small clatter from the kitchen tore them both out of it, but Derek just turned, throwing his arm over Stiles’ shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go help with dinner.”

Read the rest on AO3 

[askthenewhopespeak]

Natalie busted open the door to his room, bucket in one hand and deck of cards in the other. “HEY, MARUYAMA! LISTEN UP, ASSHOLE, ME BEING SICK IS PROBABLY YOUR FAULT, SO I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS AND THEN WE’RE GONNA PLAY GO FISH. GOT IT?”

Daichi gave a weak thumbs up. “Did you bring another blanket in that bucket, Martinez, because I’m freezing right now,” he asked, gesturing towards the chairs set up by his bed.

Natalie shook her head. “No, but I’m an actual human furnace, so don’t worry. Gimme your hand, you can help me cool down and I can warm me up,” she said, giving him a weak smile. She walked over to his bed, looking down. “Sit up. It’s hard to play cards when one person is in a chair and the other’s in a bed.”

“Yeah, can do,” Daichi mumbled, pushing himself up. He set his pillows up in a way to support him. “Alright, that better?”

“Sure is,” she said, pulling herself up onto his bed. She set the bucket beside her, pulling out the cards. “If you very too cold, I can try and find another blanket.”

Daichi shrugged. “I’ll live. Although, after this, I’m really getting a coat.” He sits up a little more, pulling the blanket even higher. “Alright, ready to go.”

Natalie smiled. “Fair. I’m considering getting a blazer. Like…I’m just saying, we’d both look killer in suits,” she said, starting to shuffle and deal the cards.

“Hey, we’re despairs, right? We’d literally be killers in suits,” Daichi added. A wry grin worked its way across his face.

Natalie grinned, weakly punching his shoulder. “You fucking son of a bitch idiot. You suck.”

Daichi snorted. “Ouch. I put all this work in my comedy and-” He broke off laughing. “That… was bad.”

Natalie smiled. “Yeah, just as bad as you. Anyway, you know how to play, right?”

“We’re playing go fish, right?” Daichi grinned. “Because if that’s the case, then absoooolutely.”

“God, you sound high. But, yeah. Let’s get started!” She cheered, holding up her hand to look at it.

Daichi does the same. “You starting or..?” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow.

Natalie shrugged. “Sure. Let’s see…do you have any eights?”

“Damn, yeah, I do,” Daichi cursed, handing her the card. “You got any twos?”

Natalie shook her head. “Uh…nope! Go fish!”

“Well, then.” Daichi drew a card. If this was how his luck was going so far, it didn’t seem like it would get any better as it went on.

Natalie furrowed her eyebrows. “Um….any sixes?”

Daichi sighs. “You’re shitting me,” he mumbled, handing his 6 over.

Natalie laughed, taking it. “Wow, are you usually this unlucky?”

“I didn’t think I was. But I’m also sick and losing at go fish, so who knows how much luck I really have,” Daichi said. “Alright, so what are the odds that you have a five?”

“Close, but no cigar,” she said, laughing. “Jesus, are you cursed? Or did I just take all your luck?”

“Hah, maybe I am cursed. Would sure explain a lot of shit, honestly,” Daichi replied. He shrugged. “Guess it’s not my day.”

“Alright…uh…sevens?” She asked, haphazardly shuffling through her deck.

“Mmmm…. nope. Go fish,” Daichi said, sorting through his cards.

Natalie drew from the deck, perking up. “Holy shit!” She said, setting down her set of eights.

“No fucking way. Oh christ, you’re not a SHSL Luckster or some shit, right?” Daichi stared at the set. “Because wow.”

Natalie laughed. “Not that I know of. I’m pretty average when it comes to luck, she said, taking moment to puke before turning back to him. "I think I’m just destined to whoop your ass at go fish.”

“May the gods have mercy on my soul,” Daichi mumbled, a small smile starting to grow. He pulls his blanket up to wrap around him easier. “So… got any threes?”

Natalie shook her head. She ran a hand through her,admittedly messy, hair, shuffling through her cards. “Nope. Go fish, bucko.”

“Well, then,” Daichi paused, drawing from the pile of cards. “I didn’t realize you could be bad at Go Fish.”

Natalie grinned. “Neither did I. I knew there were same games you just can’t be bad at, but wow….”

“Maybe I should try other games. You think Old Maid would work out for me?” Daichi shuffled through his cards, checking which ones he had.

“I’m not sure you can play Old Maid with two people… wanna just gossip?” She asked, looking up from her cards. “You can’t exactly lose at gossiping.”

“I’d be fine with gossiping. You got any good dirt on anyone?” Daichi looked up from his cards.

Natalie shrugged. “It’s all pretty pointless stuff. Like, fun fact, Naegi uses chocolate shampoo. Who does that?”

“Chocolate? I always took him as more of a strawberry guy…” Daichi snorted. “Still, how’d you find that out? Did you steal his shampoo?”

Natalie laughed. “You think I’m above a B & E to get info? I just happened to see that, and I haven’t been able to forget it since. Just… chocolate shampoo.”

Daichi chuckled. “Chocolate shampoo… That’s ridiculous…” He smirked. “That being said, I found out where all the whipped cream went a while back. Apparently, a certain doctor is fond of it. Heard about that from a couple teachers in the lounge.”

Natalie stuck her tongue out. “Gross. Nakamura’s like everyone’s lame dad, I didn’t need to hear his weird kinks.”

Daichi shrugged. “Everyone has one, even your lame dad friend. Can’t help it really. Now, got anything else that’s juicy?”

Natalie furrowed her brow. “Let’s see…hm….we’ve all got a bet going round on when Nakamura will castrate himself for what happened to Tsumiki.”

“What like…I have to cut my dick off, it’s the only way. Christ. That’s…hardcore,” Daichi said

Natalie shrugged. “You’ve met Nakamura. He’s an all or nothing guy. Anything else you know, newcomer?”

“Not really… I haven’t had enough to listen to the rumor mill,” Daichi rubbed his chin. “Although… I think Naegi might be a furry.”

Natalie burst out laughing. “Are you kidding? Well, I’ve heard rumor that Tsumiki’s beauty mark is fake. Someone said they saw her putting eyeliner on her cheek.”

Daichi snorted. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, can you blame her? If you do it once, you gotta commit,” She said, grinning a bit.

“What if she forgets one day? Do you think anyone would notice?” Daichi asked.

“Probably Nakamura. Other than that…I don’t know,” she said, nodding in thought.

“I think one of the kids would… probably. Anything else you know?” Daichi tilted his head in curiosity.

“Um…let’s see…I’m pretty sure those Akamatsu kids are related to Kirigiri somehow. I don’t know how, the resemblance is just too uncanny,” she said, frowning a bit.

“You know, the girl… she has hair like Kirigiri’s honestly,” Daichi shrugged.

“Yeah. You got any other info? Like…I heard that Storm got shot. I’m just kinda pissed I’m not the one that shot him.”

Daichi paused. “Storm definitely got shot… and I… have a new boss. No clue who, just know that it’s Red’s boss too.”

Natalie groaned. “Another one of those fuckers? Great. Oh, do you know how I could find Red? I’ve been trying to hook up since V-Day but she’s super hard to find.”

“I mean… I… might have a way. Do you have anything she last touched? Because I probably can make something that will track down her dna signature or something,” Daichi said, shrugging. “It wouldn’t take me that long. Probably. I think I still have the schematics somewhere.”

“I mean. I have her number, so it’s probably way easier than that. I just can’t really do jack shit when it comes to tech. In person manipulation is more my deal, yknow?” She said, giving him a weak smile.

“Oh wait, you have her number? Should have said that first… that’s way easier, we’ll just track her down with that,” Daichi replied, “If you’re comfortable giving it up for a bit, that is.”

Natalie shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll just tell her I’m on lockdown for the stunt she pulled. So… once we’re over this hell sickness, we’re gonna hunt down my kinda-sorta-girlfriend?”

“Unless you want to start with your family first. Whatever you want to do. Both work.” Daichi shrugged.

“Listen, I at least know Red’s alive. I sincerely doubt my family is, so I might as well try and find her before she’s gone too,” she said, looking down.

“I… yeah, we can do that,” Daichi said, looking away. “Uh… sorry about your family. Don’t know if I said that before.”

Natalie shrugged. “I mean…that’s what they get for resisting. Hell, I’m surprised I’m still alive after joining Storm’s little despair brigade.”

Daichi watched her carefully. Various things were running through his head so he settled on one. “Resisting?”

“Yeah. The Tragedy hit my hometown kinda hard, according to my sister, so…they tried to help save everyone. It really turned out well for my parents, huh?” She said, biting her lip.

Daichi swallowed, his throat dry. That was… unfair. They sounded like innocent people and… he shook the thought away. He couldn’t afford to think like that. “Christ… I’m… I’m really sorry for that,” he said.

Natalie shrugged, trying to keep herself calm. “I’m just thankful she got out alright. You take what you can get, right?”

“Right… right. That’s still… terrible. They sound like good peo-anyways, about Red… It’ll take me maybe a week to get it done,” Daichi said, speaking faster. “I’ll get her location before you even realize it.”

Natalie rubbed her eyes, looking back up at him. “Thanks. To, uh…to repay you, how about I go buy you a jacket? Since you said you were looking for one.”

“That would be nice. I can hide more cigarettes that way,” Daichi said, reaching towards his counter. He was pretty sure he had some tissues.

Natalie laughed a bit. “Alright. It’s a deal, then?” She asked, holding her hand out for him to shake it.

“Deal,” Daichi said, shaking her hand. “Uh… there they are.” He pulled out a couple tissues. “Do you want these or…?”

Natalie shook her head. “No thanks, I’m good. I kinda…cried myself out a long time ago.”

“Oh.. I… yeah, ok.” Daichi set them back on a counter. “I… get that.”

Natalie gave a weak smile before perking up. “Well, now that we’ve talked about our traumatizing dark pasts, what do you say about another game of something, until we pass out?”

“Please,” Daichi grinned awkwardly. “More go fish?”

“You’re on.”