#yes he’d run into a storm and have a yelling match with thunders

[samstree]

any fic that mentions anakin liking the rain is just 👌👌👌

[imomomi]

Word Count: 4,007

Warnings: Spoilers for the Nationals Arc

April 2012

          It was Osamu who convinced her to become their manager. A whole year of begging and bringing her food, had softened her and now Y/N found herself sheepishly leaving her classroom with Osamu and Atsumu gripping each shoulder. Afraid that she would run away, they’d come to escort her to Gym B where the rest of the volleyball team was waiting in anticipation of their new manager. Personally, she wanted to beat the twins over the head with her bag, but every time she’d fought with them Aran somehow found out and would yell at them for hours.

           “You know if you two were nicer, maybe there’d be more girls interested in doing this,” muttered Y/N. The urge to dig her feet into the ground and refuse to move grew stronger the closer they got. Atsumu and Osamu shared a grin over her shoulders.

           Atsumu ducked and grabbed her knees while Osamu wrapped an arm around her torso holding her up. Y/N shrieked and kicked at the laughing blonde. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, only to be caught by Osamu who nearly dropped her while catching it. A bright burst of anger filled her beat only by the sudden urge to laugh as they hurried past their perplexed schoolmates.

           “I’m wearing a skirt, you idiot. Let go,” she shouted, pulling the hem down as far as it would go. Atsumu swung her legs wildly, laughing again as she screamed.

           “Nah-uh, Y/N-chan, you’ll run away,” grinned Atsumu widely.

           “I’ll kill you both.”

           “Big words for someone at our mercy,” said Osamu, jerking his arms to the side.

           “What are you two doing,” Aran asked in horror as they arrived. Y/N hung limply between the two brothers only to be dropped as the twins straightened up. Groaning, she rolled over, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks.

           “L/N, you alright?”

           “Just kill me now,” said Y/N burying her face into her hands. The team shared matching grins, but dropped them as a boy with silver hair, the ends dipped in black, quietly asked them to move.

           “You two shouldn’t rough-house with a girl like that,” said the boy. He walked forward, kneeling down before her and offered her a handkerchief. Y/N took it gingerly, wondering what she was supposed to do it with. Her clothes were covered in dirt and her face was probably smeared with it as well. Atsumu glanced down, meeting her eye. His shoulders shook dangerously even as he met Aran’s gaze again.

           “I’m Kita Shinsuke. I apologize on the twin’s behalf.”

           “Don’t worry. I’ll get them back,” promised Y/N. Her eyes glittered with a hint of danger.

           “Seeking revenge will only cause you pain,” Kita scolded, “Accept their apology and let them learn from it.”

           Osamu twitched, hand flying to his mouth to choke back his laugh as Y/N’s eyes widened. Why was she getting scolded when the twins were the ones who had been misbehaving?

           “You alright?” Aran asked, hands pressed tightly on her shoulders as he looked over her for any injuries. “Thought I told you to stop messing around with the twins.”

           “They kidnapped me, Ojiro-senpai.”

           “Don’t pulled the senpai card. It doesn’t work on me,” said Aran, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile despite his words. He offered her hand which she eagerly took.

           “This is L/N Y/N,” Aran said. “Somehow Dumb and Dumber convinced her to be our manager, so try not to act like you usually do.”

           “She’ll eat you for breakfast if you do. Like Kaonashi,” said Atsumu. Y/N rolled her eyes, pulling her skirt straight and attempting to fix her wrinkled blouse. Aran’s fingers brushed the top of her head, smoothing down locks of hair that had escaped her braid.

           “Don’t listen to them. They barely managed to learn how read, let alone play volleyball,” she said.  Aran laughed behind her, the sound low and rumbling like the purr of a cat. It warmed her to her bones and a hint of a flush entered her cheeks, reminding her once more why she had been avoiding being manager in the first place.

June 21, 2012: 15:21

           Kibasen was the stupidest thing they could get caught playing. Y/N knew she shouldn’t have listened when they first suggested it, but somehow, she ended up sitting on top of Suna’s shoulders while Osamu sat on top of Atsumu’s. The twins were still fighting over the fact that Osamu was on top, while Y/N attempted to tie the bandana around her head as tightly as possibly.

           “Don’t let me fall,” said Y/N to Suna. He tilted his head back slightly and sighed loudly.

           “Whatever,” he said.

           “Oi, Y/N prepare to lose.”

           “I thought horses couldn’t talk,” she said. Osamu howled in laughter, nearly toppling over had Atsumu not been holding him so tightly.

           Osamu came in hard, pulling and tugging at her hair to get the bandana off. He barely filched as her fingers dug into his forearms and attempted to shake him off. They’re wobbling all over the place, spurred on by the cheers of the first and second years.

           “Come on, give up,” whined Osamu.

           “Ugh, my scalp is literally gonna fall off, you bastard. Stop it,” she shouted back.

           Her finger got right under the bandana, ready to pull it off, when the gym door flew open. The look of complete bewilderment on Aran’s face was almost worth the scolding they would get from Kita.

           “Do I need to get a babysitter for all of you?” Aran asked. She laughed, clutching Suna’s hair for dear life when he jerked forward in an attempt to throw her off.

           “If I say it’s not what it looks like, would you believe me?” she asked. Aran shook his head and sighed in the same breath. She clambered off Suna, ducking beneath Kita’s cold stare.

           “Why do I always find you in some sort of trouble?” Aran muttered. He helped her down, shooing Suna in Kita’s direction. Y/N smiled up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice how sweaty she was.

           “I’m trying to make your life interesting, senpai.”

           “Try a little less,” he said. The warm grin he gave her sent a jolt right through her spine, “And stop calling me senpai. It’s creepy coming from you.”

           “Yes, Aran-san,” she said. He groaned, dropping his head into the palm of his hands for a moment. She took slight pleasure in his annoyance, wondering how far she could push his buttons. Watching Aran yell at the twins was an experience in its own, but he was unknowingly funny when he was trying to prove his point. Once, she had claimed that the US hadn’t landed on the moon, just to watch him try and disprove her every argument.

           “Oi, do you have to be so….”

           “So what? Cute? Pretty? Adorable? Sma-“

           “Annoying.”

           “Ouch, that almost hurt.”

           “I doubt it.

           “Well, all that exercise made me hungry. Buy me food.”

           “Don’t you have parents? Ask them.”

           “Be a good senpai, Aran.”

           “No. Go away.”

           “Aran, I want food…. noodles and goyza. Or rice? BBQ? Chicken? I can’t choose,” she muttered under her breath.

           “Just ten minutes of peace, that’s all I want.”

June 21, 2012 18: 55

           “Ohhhh,” said Osamu. He leaned in close enough that she could smell a hint of mint on his breath and flicked her on the forehead. “Someone has a crush.”

           “Shut up,” she hissed, grabbing his sleeve as she looked around. Osamu laughed, throwing an arm over her shoulder. She wished suddenly that she could be like him or Atsumu. The twins never worried about right or wrong. They were creatures of pure passion, throwing themselves forward without a care of the consequences. But, Y/N was too proud to declare that she was envious of their attitudes. Her caution was often mocked, but it had helped her more times than not.

           “Just tell him,” Osamu shrugged. She closed her eyes, pressing away the storm of thoughts raging in her mind.

           She nursed the small flame of affection. Aran didn’t need to know. No one did. She pulled away from Osamu. A frown entering his brow, as if he were annoyed or confused at her lack of an answer. He let her drift off further ahead, hands twisting and untwisting before her. They were still young, years down the line they might resent each other for whatever relationship they had. She didn’t want that.  

           A tense silence settled in her body, the sort of silence that comes before a clap of thunder. If the choice lay between having Aran and losing him, she’d always—without a doubt in her mind—pick having him in her life. Aran and her might never be more than friends and she was okay with that. Besides, she’d never loved anyone in her life and doubted that she loved Aran. She was simply drawn to the brightness that surrounded him like a moth pressing closer to a lone lantern.

She paused, waiting for Osamu to catch up.

           “What?” he asked.

           “What do you mean what?”

           “You look crazy. It’s making me nervous.”

           “Shut up,” she muttered. They were approaching the end of the block and the familiar scent of food rose in the air, chicken, and the slight char of BBQ from the restaurants lined up and down the street. She and Osamu exchanged matching grins. Her parents would yell at her later for wasting money on food when they had some at home, but her and Osamu were too far gone to care about such things.

           August 26, 2012

          Summer vacation with the team meant taking a bonding trip out to Tokimeki. It also meant snapping at the various gawking idiots who muttered under their breath about foreigners. Snapping did nothing stop the stares coming from people who were used to seeing their own face reflected in everyone around them.

           If they felt or saw her annoyance growing, no one said anything about it, sharing the same tenseness that she did. Only Kita had a sense of calm about him as they switched trains. Y/N moved closer to Aran shoving herself between the twins. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before he reached over and took her bag from her, tossing it at one of the twins.

           “What did you pack? That was heavy,” he asked with a frown. Y/N looked up glad to have a distraction. It was odd seeing everyone not in uniforms. The Pokémon t-shirt he wore was slightly faded from constant wear. She wondered if it was his favorite or if someone had gifted it to him and he’d taken to wearing it often.

           “Clothes, snacks, and my manga collection.”

           “I’m stealing some of that.”

           “I don’t think my shirts will fit you, Aran.”

           “You’re the worse person I’ve ever met in my life.”

           “Wow, save that passion for the be-“Aran put his hand over her mouth, muffling the rest of her words as a small child gazed at them with curiosity. He laughed awkwardly as Kita turned towards them with a raised brow. Her tongue darted out from behind her lips and licked the palm of his hand. Aran didn’t even flinch and gave her a warning glance.

            “Promise not to say anything inappropriate.”

           She nodded and the moment he let go uttered the word bedroom as loudly as she could.

        August 29, 2012

          The beach was as horrible as she imagined. Suna refused to give up any space beneath the umbrella, stating that if he got a sunburn he couldn’t play. She was stuck sweating beneath the hot sun, wondering if the water was as cold as everyone said it was.

           “I miss spring,” she muttered, pulling her hair up. The back of her neck was slick with sweat and she felt her annoyance with the world grow with every passing second.

           “Let’s go get ice-cream,” Aran suggested. He threw her a look of pity, holding his hand out for her. Y/N took it eagerly, ignoring the snickers coming off the twins.

           “It’s not that hot,” Aran said with a laugh.

           “I know that, but something about the heat just shortens my temper,” answered Y/N. Aran shook his head and laughed.

           “Really? You with a short temper?” he asked. She winced, thinking of all those times she’d been caught by him fighting with the twins.

           “It’s not that short,” she muttered, instantly glaring at the sand that wavered from the heat.

           “At least I have backup for the twins now. I swear I saw Kita’s eye twitch last week,” he said with a laugh.

          They walked along the shore in comfortable silence, Aran’s height shielding her slightly from the sun. The cool summer breeze and icy water are enough to calm her down slightly. Her nerves came racing back, twisting dangerously in her gut. Even as they reached the ice-cream stand—how did Aran know her favorite—Y/N’s words repeatedly failed her. Part of her was afraid to break the peaceful quiet they had settled in. She liked that they didn’t need words between them. But another part ached to say something, anything to get rid of the constant anxiety that cropped up when she was alone with him. Did he know she had a crush on him? Sometimes she thought he did, and the fear of rejection circled through her like vultures over a carcass.

          “You know,” Aran said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, “When we first met, I honestly thought you were insane.”

          “What?”

          “You were just so loud; it was a bit scary.”

          “I’m loud because people are dumb. Especially adults.”

          “I know, but you looked crazy as a kid, screaming like a maniac at everyone…but, I’m glad you never grew out of it.”

          “I had a giant crush on you,” she admitted. Aran choked on his ice-cream, coughing roughly as her faced her head on. His eyebrows rose high as he searched for a response but failed to find one.

          “It was during that training camp. I came to show Atsumu how cool the bandage looked on my arm and he kept making fun of me for falling in the first place and then you told him to stop because he’d hit the net face first. That was the highlight of my year,” said Y/N.

          “Wh..what? Why? For how long?”

          “Should I tell you?” she teased and stopped walking, “I was probably insane back then.”

          “Yes! You can’t just tell someone something like that and not explain. It’s human decency,” said Aran, waving his ice-cream about. She watched as it fell from the cone towards the ground with a splat. Her laugh, high pitched and louder than most, sounded in the air. Aran sighed, grumbling about how he needed a new team and should have stayed home. Y/N felt lighter then she had in a while.

October 19, 2012

          With a flick of his wrist, he tapped the ball over the net between the blockers that had lined up in front of Aran and Suna. With a smirk, Atsumu landed back on his feet, winking at a fuming Uchida. If he hissed anymore, Atsumu would mistake her for a snake.

          “You didn’t think I’d let you scare me, did you, Uchida-chan?” he mocked. Aran clapped him on the back. One more and the match would be over.

          “You’re such a bastard,” Uchida muttered across the net. Aran smiled, a cutting grin that lacked any of his usual calm. Aran wanted to retort that being bastards was what made them win games but felt that it was a bit cruel for a team about to lose their chance to go to Nationals.

          “Keep that to yourself,” Aran said, pulling a fuming Atsumu away from the net. “Don’t bother with them. Just win.”

          “Hey, I’m not dumb. I know that.”

          “Just serve and watch out for my head,” said Aran. He glanced to the side once where Y/N was pacing as she watched the game. He was surprised to find that she was dealing with the stress well. During their very first match, she had promptly vomited all over Kita on the bus ride over to the gym. If anyone doubted Kita’s status as a saint, it was reaffirmed as he calmly cleaned up the mess and pulled out medicine that he bought in anticipation of someone puking.

          She sent him a thumbs up once she noticed his gaze. Her smile came out more like a grimace and the green tint to her face worried him slightly. He wondered how it was possible for someone to be so confident everywhere else and turn into a nervous wreck at the thought of losing a game.

          At the sound of the whistle, Atsumu tossed the ball in the air. Silence followed his steps. The lack of spin made it easy to hit and as he landed back, he watched as the ball swerved in the air, towards the back line. Sato got a hand on it, but the ball veered left towards the crowd. There was a scramble, Uchida and Midori jumping over one another to try and reach it. The ball hit the ground with a resounding thud, echoed by the loud trill of horns as Inarizaki’s band started back up.

          “YES!” Akagi shouted, turning around and jumping on top of him. Atsumu caught him, only to stumble as Osamu and Ginjima latched onto him.

          They were going to Nationals. His last one. Something hot and heavy burned its way through his body. They would win, Aran thought. He didn’t care how. He didn’t who they went against. Inarizaki would emerge as the champions. Like the throbbing beat of a drum, it echoed through their minds as they turned to each other. One by one, little by little, they would topple the other teams.

December 24, 2012

          Aran wasn’t sure how he’d gotten dragged out of the house on Christmas Eve, but Y/N has somehow ushered him into his jacket and tossed a greeting to his mother in the same breath before he’d gotten kidnapped. Snow fell in small light flurries around them. The smell of chestnuts and roasted yams filled the air. He tried not to think about all the couples around them, celebrating the holiday together. His Christmas’s at home might be more American thanks to his mother, but he’d grown up here where Christmas Eve was Valentine’s day 2.0.

           Y/N didn’t seem to notice or care. She rarely did, even if it sometimes embarrassed him how oblivious she was to the fact that people thought they were a couple when they hung out. He’d tried to get her out of his mind, but it seemed impossible when she was there all the time.

           “Look the Christmas Tree,” she said, racing forward to look at the extravagant light display in the middle of the square. He bit back a smile at the accent marring the word Christmas. Growing up in a half-American, half-Japanese household had given him an advantage over his class when it came to English. He was always quick to point it out when his teammates or Y/N attempted to show off their skills in the language.

           “Slow down,” he called out. She looked back, realizing that he hadn’t followed her and waited patiently.

           “You’re the athlete, move it.”

           “The tree isn’t going anywhere. It’s nice out, let’s just enjoy it.”

           “Ahh, but then we will be late for dinner.”

           “Dinner? Y/N, what the hell? Why didn’t you tell me before we left?”

           “I was afraid you would say no,” she said, softly. She gazed away from him, leaving him surprised by the low slope of her shoulders and the slight flush on her face. He sighed, tugging her hand out of her pocket and laced their fingers together. Her hand was smaller and smoother than his, but the feeling of her warm palm against his felt right. He swallowed hard and looked away from her bright eyes.

           He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t ever tell her no, but the words were stuck in his throat. He settled for holding onto her hand for as long as she’d let him. Eventually, the weight of her hand in his fades away and hours later, when they’ve walked in circles, snacking on food from each of the market stalls, carrying small gifts between them, does he realize that they’d never even made it to the restaurant.

January 6th, 2012

          “You’re crying,” Kita said. He was gazing at her as if he’d never really seen her before. Y/N shook it off, wiping her tears off with the back of her palm. She felt like a fool, crying like a child over the loss of a game. For Atsumu and Osamu there was always next year, but for the third years, this had been their last chance. Seeing how hard they fought, to the very end of the match, left a dull ache in her heart. It wasn’t fair, she thought. To have gone so far at Inter-High and be out in their first match at Nationals. In that moment, she hated their stupid logo. Why shouldn’t they have memories? Kita and the rest wouldn’t disappear after this year, they deserved to be remembered.

          “Sorry,” she muttered. Kita reached into his jacket pocket and silently handed her a handkerchief. She had the unexplainable urge to hug him.

          “There isn’t any reason to apologize, L/N-san. I understand how you are feeling. If I could ask for more time together as a team, I would,” he smiled, softly. Y/N’s breath stuttered, stunned because she doubted, she'd ever seen him smile, “But we played a good match, don’t you think so?”

          “The best,” she swore.

          “Then save your tears for something more important. We have no regrets, so you shouldn’t be upset.” Kita stared at her for a moment longer, before nodding his head towards Aran. “You should tell him, L/N-chan. I think right now, he would be happy to hear it.”

           It’s the push that Y/N needed. A bought of bravery or stupidity or both fill her. Y/N had hidden behind her own fears for so long, she had begun to think it was normal. But she’d never been the type to hold back.

           “Ojiro Aran,” Y/N said, forcefully. Aran looked away from Suna, grimacing as he caught sight of her swollen eyes.

           “Hey, they’ll win next time,” he said. Y/N shook her head, scoffing at his foolishness in the moment.

           “I like you. I’ve like you ever since we first met and it’s okay if you don’t like me. I just wanted you to know and well, I’m sorry that you lost, but you’ll be a good playe-“

           She was cut off by his hand on her mouth.

           “I’m supposed to say it frist,” he said. He pulled his hand away only to cup her cheek gently. She leaned into the touch, afraid that if she moved, it would all turn into a dream. He moved closer, closing the gap between them. She kissed his jaw, dragging her lips to meet his. His lips, hot and sweet, taste of the honeyed lemons he had earlier. Aran swelled beneath her touch, like the first bloom of spring. He pulled her flush against him, the movement full of longing. She could smell nothing but him, the sharp sent of fire, the warmth of the earth.

           Y/N does not know how long they are there. She drank him in, each sweetened breath, each movement of his lips. She thought, that this is the closest to happy she has been.

           The moment was broken by Atsumu whistling sharply as he clapped the two of them on the back. Aran immediately pulled away, retorting sharply that he shouldn’t make a scene after he’d lost the game.

           Y/N sighed, resigning herself to her fate. Despite all her complaints, she wouldn’t trade this team for the world. A glance at Kita told her that he wouldn’t either.

General Taglist: @haikyuuopalite​ @raenebalgaire​

[eurydicees]

Haruhi x Kaoru or Haruhi X Hikaru

kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though, it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it

oh my god anon i am BEYOND sorry that this took so long. this has been haunting me the whole time, and i am so sorry. i have absolutely no excuses. but here it is, with my sincere apologies. i hope it’s been worth the wait!

find me in the rain (i knew you would) 

summary: hikaru finds haruhi in the rain, and they share something that even they don’t really understand. at least, not yet. takes place during “Operation Haruhi and Hikaru's First Date!” in the thunderstorm scene.

prompt: kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though, it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it

pairings: haruhi fujioka/hikaru hitachiin

words: 1367

warnings: one swear :) 

After his apology, the two of them sit in the church without talking— there’s only the rain and the thunder and the space between them. Hikaru can hear the faint echoes of his music coming through the headphones Haruhi wears. He hadn’t asked her what music she wanted to listen to, or if it was helping. He doesn’t even know what kind of music she likes. There are a lot of things, he realizes, that he doesn’t actually know about Haruhi. 

By the time that the storm has begun to subside, sun spilling through the stained glass windows in little holy smiles, Hikaru’s phone has almost run out of battery. Once the sky has gone through ten minutes of silence, the thunder having run its course, Haruhi pulls off the headphones and lets them hang around her neck. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. She doesn’t pull away from him, even as she rubs at her eyes with one hand. She’s been crying, and Hikaru feels an unfamiliar guilt growing up in his throat. 

Hikaru swallows. “I didn’t think I would ever find you. I searched everywhere.” 

“But you did,” Haruhi murmurs. She glances over at Hikaru, something soft in her eyes that Hikaru doesn’t quite understand. At least, not yet. “Thank you.” 

“What for?” 

“For worrying about me.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s been thinking about this for a long time. Like she’s been listening to Hikaru’s music and seeing something about him that no one else has ever seen before. 

Music, Hikaru thinks, is just one of many pathways into the soul. He tries to remember what he had been listening to before giving Haruhi the headphones to block out the growls of thunder and her own cries, but he can’t quite recall. It had been something loud enough that Haruhi didn’t question him, but it must have been a song that said something about him that he didn’t think anyone wanted to hear. 

But Haruhi heard something there, while he listened to thunder and she listened to music. He thinks about everything that’s happened in the past few days— about Arai, and about his own anger, and about Kaoru telling him to take Haruhi out on a date, and about the way that Haruhi had given him a lick of her own ice cream, and about the way she laughed at him, and about how she just knew he had been worrying about Kaoru.

It’s a strange and uncomfortable thought, to think that Haruhi has friends who aren’t the hosts. Haruhi has a past that Hikaru doesn’t know anything about— and he has a past that she doesn’t know anything about. But still, he finds that he would tell her, if she were to ask. He’d tell her anything, and he wouldn’t lie. 

It’s terrifying, to think that. To think that there’s someone he actually trusts; someone he would give his lonely past to. He’d hand over the loneliness and his faithlessness in everyone except for Kaoru and the way he’s so scared of being alone and he’d hand over the spark of something that’s lighting matches in his heart. He’d hand over the little candles in the hollows of his ribcage, and he would trust that Haruhi isn’t going to set him on fire. 

“I think,” Hikaru says quietly, “we don’t really know each other at all.” 

Haruhi tenses up, pulling away from him and sitting straight up— he misses her warmth before her head has even left his shoulder. “What do you mean?” 

Hikaru shrugs, trying not to feel too hurt. “I didn’t know you were afraid of thunder. You didn’t know I liked whatever music was just playing. I didn’t know you were friends with Arai, or that you still talk to people from middle school. You didn’t know that I didn’t have people like Arai, not until Kaoru told you the other day.” 

“Oh,” Haruhi says softly. There’s something guarded about her expression, about the way that she’s looking at him. Like she’s holding some secret back that— if she gave it to him— Hikaru would take so carefully, a little bird of hope in his hands, feathers a little rumpled, but safe at his touch. 

“Yeah,” Hikaru murmurs. He turns away, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.

Haruhi is quiet for a moment, and then she shifts so that she’s turned away from him. “But… I knew you would find me.” 

Hikaru blinks, the sudden information pounding through his head like the beating of wings. That’s the secret, he thinks. That she trusts him. “Oh. You did?” 

“I knew you would come eventually,” Haruhi says. 

Her voice is barely a whisper, but it’s a rain of trust that Hikaru wants to drink in and savor. He’s never had anyone like Haruhi, and he doesn’t think that he ever will again. He doesn’t love her— whatever Kaoru might think— but he definitely cares about her. He wants to be someone that she trusts; he wants this kind of secret moment, of just the two of them, hiding under a table and sharing the rain. 

“How?” Hikaru asks. 

Haruhi shrugs, then turns to look at him. “Because I know you. Even if you didn’t know that I was scared of thunder, once someone told you or you figured it out, you would come. You’d look for me.” 

“Oh.” Hikaru thinks that maybe that’s all he knows how to say at this point. “Tamaki was the one to tell me, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Haruhi says. 

He thinks that maybe she sounds disappointed by that, like she wanted him to figure it out himself, and Hikaru swears that this will never happen again. He’ll figure it out, next time. He swears to himself that he’ll watch over her, pay attention, make sure that he knows when she’s hurting, and when she needs someone to sit with her in the rain. 

“Do you love me?” Haruhi asks suddenly. 

Hikaru flinches, some kind of reflex left over from how terrified he is of anyone other than Kaoru getting close to him— a reflex that he’s been working against ever since he met Haruhi. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He’s never been this honest before, and he doesn't know if he ever will be again. He pauses for a moment, looking at her. Their eyes meet, and he wonders if there’s something there, if there ever could be. “Can I kiss you?” 

Haruhi bites down on her lip, searching his eyes as if she’s about to say no, but Hikaru catches her eyes dropping from his own eyes to his mouth. “Yes.” 

“I—” Hikaru stops. 

There’s no room for doubt, not here. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why she said yes, and he doesn’t know why he wants to in the first place. He just knows that he’s putting a hand at her cheek and guiding her forward, and then he’s closing his eyes and they’re kissing. Haruhi makes some kind of half-startled, half-pleased noise, a kind of sigh that he takes in and breathes out.

Maybe, he thinks, there is something there.

But he pulls away, dropping his hand away from her cheek and taking a deep breath. No sparks flew, but his stomach turned over and his heart stuttered at the taste of her strawberry chapstick. No sparks flew, but his cheeks are red and he wants to kiss her again. Fuck, he wants to kiss her again. 

Haruhi turns away from him, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “That was nice.” 

He nods. “It was.” 

“What happens now?” 

Hikaru licks his lips. They taste like strawberry, and he exhales. “I don’t know.” 

There’s a pause, enough of one for Hikaru’s skin to begin to crawl. He doesn’t know if he’s ruined everything, now, or if he’s just made everything better. Before Haruhi can respond, though, the doors to the church burst open, and Tamaki is yelling, “Haruhi!”

Haruhi slides out from under the table, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders and headphones around her neck. She doesn’t look at him, but her face is red, too. “Over here. Hikaru found me.”

[tsarisfanfiction]

Chocolate Thief

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Virgil, Scott, Gordon, Alan, John

Scott’s on the warpath.

It’s 5am, this is not proofread.  This is also thanks to a random comment from @gumnut-logic (again) regarding missing chocolate and siblings... I just turned it into some sort of TAG mess.  Oops :P  I’d call this a birthday fic for Scott, except I don’t think he wants this as a birthday present (and also it’s technically the 5th here now...)

The sudden sounds of outrage from the kitchen yanked Virgil out of his painting zone and rudely deposited him back in the den, where he clearly had one fuming brother the floor below him.  He eyed his painting for a moment, wondering if it was worth investigating or if he should just leave his brothers to their mayhem.

Then something went crash and the medic in him reluctantly gave a nudge.  Someone had to make sure no-one was injured, and summoning Grandma in the direction of the kitchen…  His stomach made a minor noise of fear.  Yeah, no. It was going to have to be him.

With another sigh, he gently set down the palette and brush and made his way to the warzone below.

The fuming brother was Scott.  That was only marginally surprising; his eldest brother did have a bit of a temper – more than a bit, if Virgil was honest – but he tended to keep it on a firm leash around family.  The defiant Terrible Two standing opposite him, arms crossed and faces a matching disgruntlement, seemed to be the targets of his ire.

A stool was overturned. Presumably that was the source of the crash.  None of his brothers looked injured, though, and Virgil surmised that it was probably just knocked over.

Whatever had upset Scott, big brother clearly wasn’t running out of steam any time soon.  Virgil considered interrupting to get some sort of explanation for the sudden rage, but decided it was probably best not to draw attention to himself.  There was a high chance that Scott would just turn on him, and as Virgil knew he was innocent of whatever crime had apparently been committed, he wasn’t interested in opening himself up for the firing line.

Besides, neither Gordon nor Alan looked like they particularly needed his help.  Scott on a rampage could be a terrifying sight, but in this instance, neither of Virgil’s little brothers looked particularly cowed by it.  Alan was pouting and Gordon’s mulish glare said that he was just waiting for Scott to pause for a breath.

Unfortunately for the squid, Scott seemed to have forgotten the need for something as simple as breathing as he continued to snarl about… chocolate?

Oh.  That explained things.

Scott was barking up entirely the wrong tree; Virgil wasn’t the guilty party and had not snaffled any of his brother’s chocolate stash when his back was turned, but he had a pretty good guess who it was.

There was a member of their family who was very conspicuously absent.

It was also a member of the family Virgil didn’t feel like getting on the wrong side of.  He certainly didn’t want to be between them and Scott, so with the mystery solved and enough faith in his little brothers to handle the false accusations of an upset big brother without his intervention, he made the decision to retreat back to his painting.

Maybe he’d relocate to the studio, away from the ruckus of Storm Scott.

He’d made it up all of two steps when there was the sound of a scuffle, and the medic resurfaced.  It wasn’t like his brothers would actively try to injure each other, but accidents happened…

With a groan, Virgil reversed course and trudged back into the kitchen.

Gordon and Alan had clearly decided they’d had enough of the accusations and had jumped Scott.

On the plus side, it had worked to silence him momentarily as he staggered under the weight of two little brothers in his arms.  There were some flailing limbs, and with some alarm, Virgil realised Scott was losing his balance.

Reflexes honed from rescues had him across the kitchen floor in moments, grabbing Scott from behind and steadying him before he toppled.

Gordon had a hand shoved over Scott’s mouth – or rather a fist stuffed in it, which was both gross and rather impressive.  His arms full of little brothers, Scott had no way of forcing him to retract it, either.

With a sigh, Virgil decided that maybe it was time to play family peacemaker.

“You really think those two stole your chocolate?” he asked Scott.

The muffled noise said yes, he did.

Virgil wasn’t about to endanger himself by pointing out the real culprit, but thankfully he didn’t have to, because the two blonds decided that was the perfect cue for them to start proclaiming their innocence.

Loudly.

Virgil left them to it, glancing up at the balcony attached to the den, where someone was stood watching them.  Green eyes met his, one eyebrow raised, and he shrugged them off.

No, he was not getting in the way of that.  He quite liked not having to look over his shoulder constantly inside his own home, thanks.

He wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what Scott had done to have his chocolate stolen in retaliation. Then again, sometimes boredom or mischief was enough of a motivation.

Messing with Scott was like poking a hive of wasps with a stick, but not everyone was particularly worried about the retaliation.  Some people even found it amusing.  Gordon was also on that list, admittedly, but stealing chocolate wasn’t normally his style.

Deciding that Scott was well in hand – the blonds were small but mighty, and big brother didn’t stand a chance even if he liked to pretend he did – Virgil released him and once again headed up the stairs, away from the fallout.

“You know he’ll want revenge,” he pointed out as he reached the balcony and paused to observe the kerfuffle from a safe distance.  Gordon’s fist was no longer in Scott’s mouth, but he was still yelling over anything Scott might be trying to accuse him of, and Alan was like a terrier puppy as he clung on for dear life, his own protestations of innocence interjecting between Gordon’s declarations.

“I’d like to see him try.”

The tone it was said in informed him that boredom was the motivator.  Virgil would have winced, but at least it wasn’t aimed at him.  Then again, it never was.  The schemes only ever targeted Scott, or very rarely Gordon.  He and Alan tended to remain in the clear, or as occasional accomplices.

“Chocolate?”

A bar was offered, and Virgil eyed it for a moment, before glancing back at the trio of brothers in the kitchen – now leaving the kitchen and heading in the approximate direction of the pool.  One or more of them was going to get a dunking for sure.

“I’ll pass.”  Not that he didn’t want chocolate, but he knew that was the very same chocolate Scott was flailing about, and if he ate it he would become an accomplice, if not a full-blown scapegoat.

Neither of those particularly appealed.

“Suit yourself,” John shrugged, tearing the wrapper open and biting off the first few squares.  “Your loss.”

He let the wrapper drop, the sea breeze light enough that it carried straight down, landing in the pool at the same moment an almighty splash indicated that all three brothers had ended up toppling in together in a mess of limbs.

Virgil hurriedly retreated, out of sight, as Scott caught sight of the wrapper and let out a deafening roar.

“JOHN!”

Green eyes glimmered in amusement.

“I’d say that’s my cue to get back to the office,” Virgil’s trouble-making big brother commented as though there wasn’t a sopping wet eldest brother on the warpath for him.  “See you later.”

“Bye,” Virgil said automatically, watching as John strode over to Scott’s launch chute and slipped inside just before a dripping Scott Tracy thundered up the stairs and into the den.

“Where is he, Virgil?” Blue eyes sparked with fire and, knowing neutrality wasn’t going to work in his favour against Scott, Virgil pointed at the chute.

A second roar and Scott tore for the stairs to the hangar, even though Virgil knew full well it would be too late.  By the time he reached the hangars, the space elevator would be halfway back to Thunderbird Five, John and his stolen chocolate safely aboard and out of Scott’s reach for the foreseeable future.

Shaking his head at his brothers’ antics, and resolving to stay out of the way of whatever feud this was going to start between his big brothers – John seemed to enjoy provoking Scott when he was bored, and the youngest three had all learnt the hard way that it wasn’t worth getting caught in that crossfire – Virgil returned to his easel and paints.

One thing was for sure. Life with his brothers was never boring.

[lunatens]

scaredy cats

-

requested by bea (🌱✨anon) tysm bby!! i’m sorry this took so long, i made it a lil longer to make up for it :> 

prompt: “uh...did the power just go out?”

*part of my 2 years with luna event!

word count: 2.2k

genre: fluff, high school au, childhood friends to lovers 

pairing: lee chan x gn reader

warnings: there’s a thunderstorm and the power goes out!

[you: channieeeee pls come over~]

[chan: y??]

[you: do u rlly need a reason lmao i just wanna see my bestie]

[chan: it’s raining thoooooo]

[you: so? use an umbrella it ain’t a far walk]

[chan: okok i’ll come hang out]

[chan: i’m gonna kick ur ass at super mario party tho]

[you: in your dreams ;) see u soon bby!!]

slipping your phone into your pocket, you roll off your bed and excitedly rush to your front window, pulling the blinds aside so you can have a better view of the street outside. chan wasn’t kidding, it’s raining alright—heavy torrents of rain pour from the sky, and the clouds look a bit too dark for your liking. you bite your lip guiltily, feeling a little bad that chan’s walking here in this weather. at least he only lives a block over, you think to make yourself feel better. 

chan’s been your best friend ever since he accidentally hit you in the face with a frisbee way back when you were just ten years old. your nose started bleeding, and chan panicked and tried to comfort you as he went with you to get cleaned up. even when the school nurse tried to send him back outside, he refused to leave until he knew you were okay. you tease him about this all the time, laughing at how overdramatic he was (”it was just a little nose bleed, chan” “okay but you were crying!!”) but you’re grateful for it, as you probably wouldn’t have become friends otherwise. 

you smile to yourself as you think back fondly on the memories of your childhood with chan; it won’t be long till you’re both graduating high school, and it’s hard to believe it’s been so many years since that fateful frisbee incident. you can’t help but nervously wonder what the future will bring for you and chan, but you push those thoughts aside when you see a figure running down the street trying to cover his head as he sprints through the puddles. he slows down as he reaches your house, jogging up to your front door. not even giving him the chance to knock, you open the door for chan and usher him inside quickly. 

“it’s a little wet out there,” he comments sarcastically, and a distant clap of thunder echoes through the sky as if to emphasize his point. you quickly shut the door and lock it, as if that’ll do something to keep the storm at bay. 

“yeah, no kidding, you’re dripping all over the floor,” you comment. chan pulls of his drenched shoes and opens his mouth to say something but you cut him off before he can start.

“i’ll go get you some dry clothes, stay here so you don’t get the entire house wet,” you tell him as you rush to your room to search for something chan can wear. you find a couple of his sweaters lying around, one he forgot here just last week and the other one from god knows when. you decide to keep the more recent one and give chan the older one along with a pair of your sweatpants and some warm socks.

“here, catch,” you say as you throw the clothes towards chan, who’s now standing in a large puddle in your doorway. he’s caught off guard, and the clothes hit him square in the face. 

“hey!!! i come all the way over here through a thunderstorm to see you just because you’re bored, and this is the thanks i get?” chan complains as he makes his way to your room to get changed.

“oh come on, i know you were just as bored as i was,” you tease, and chan can’t help but smile when you call him out. 

“you got me,” he responds before slipping into your room and closing the door behind him. you proceed to hook up your nintendo switch to the tv, preparing for a night of video games and maybe a movie or two. as you connect the cables, you hear your bedroom door open and chan’s soft footsteps as he goes to throw his clothes in the dryer. he returns to the living room, flopping onto the couch and grabbing a controller.

“what do you want for dinner? my parents are away for the weekend so there’s frozen pizza or….some sort of leftovers i think?” you ask chan, making your way to the kitchen.

“you’re not gonna cook for me?” chan teases, knowing you sometimes struggle to make toast. you give him a look before digging the pizza out of the freezer. you preheat the oven and place the pizza on a tray. 

“don’t forget to take the plastic off!” chan calls from the couch.

“i know, chan,” you say, but you’re glad he reminded you; that was a close one. 

-

two hours and a slightly overcooked frozen pizza later, you and chan are yelling at the screen as your characters pummel each other in a heated round of super smash bros. it’s still heavily raining, but the sounds of the tv drown out the steady drumming on the roof and the increasingly loud and frequent thunder. the two of you hardly notice the flashes of lightning in the now-dark sky as you focus on the tv. you’re just about to smash chan’s character to oblivion when all of a sudden everything is pitch black and a blanket of dead silence washes over the house, save for the rain on the roof.

“uh...did the power just go out?” chan asks, the two of you sitting frozen on the couch. you turn your head to look at him, although there’s really no point--you can’t see anything.

“hm, yeah i think it did,” you say. you’re trying to tease him, but you can’t hide the fear wavering in your voice. 

“where are you?” chan asks, voice equally fearful, and you reach out to feel for his outstretched hands in the dark. you find them, and the two of you grab onto each other and pull each other close. the room feels so empty without the bright lights from the tv and the chaotic yelling over the sounds of the game onscreen. now, there’s only the rain, louder than ever, although you swear you can hear your heartbeat out loud. 

“i think we have some candles in the basement,” you whisper.

“noooooope, you’re crazy if you think i’m going down there; it’s scary even when the lights are on,” chan replies and you feel him shake his head. “what about that scented candle i gave you for your birthday?”

“ooh, good call! it’s in my room,” you remember. “let’s go,” you say, pulling out your phone to use as a flashlight. lightning outside lights up the room for a moment, and not too long after there’s a loud clap of thunder. both you and chan let out a small shriek, feeling your grips on each other tighten. now, is your heart beating from fear of the dark and stormy night? or from the way chan holds onto you for dear life? probably a mix of both, but you choose not to think about that right now. 

“ok we’ll go on three, ready?” you say, waiting for chan’s response. you’re met with silence. “chan?”

“oh sorry, i forgot you can’t see me nodding. on three,” he confirms

“okay, one, two...three!” you count. on three, you pull chan off the couch and the two of you race hand in hand to your bedroom, guided by the bright light of your phone flashlight. you hesitantly let go of chan’s hand as you search for your candle and some matches. it doesn’t take too long to find them, and soon enough a flickering orange flame casts a faint flow around your room. you and chan climb onto your bed, you sitting up against the headboard and chan lying with his head in your lap. there’s enough light that you can now see each other’s silhouettes at least, and you look down to watch as the flame casts shadows that seem to dance across chan’s face. when did he grow up so much? you find yourself thinking, feeling like it was just yesterday the two of you were a couple of snot-nosed kids running around at recess. your fingers absentmindedly play with his hair as you’re lost in thought.

“this is kind of spooky, we should tell ghost stories!” chan suggests.

“or we could just talk and not scare ourselves into staying awake all night,” you reply.

“good idea,” he agrees, but neither of you say anything. you lie there in silence for a moment; the rain sounds a bit less violent from inside your room, and now that you can see a bit you find it’s quite a peaceful sound.

“mingyu asked me out today,” you tell chan. you’re not quite sure what possessed you to just tell him that out of the blue; you weren’t even planning on telling chan at all, but now you’ve gone and said it and you can’t take it back.

“really?? that’s great, y/n! when’s the date?”

you’re a bit disheartened at chan’s reaction; he seems genuinely excited for you, unless the shock is just masking his true feelings for now, 

“i said no.”

“what?? why??? i thought you liked him?” chan sits up at this, his head now even with yours as he looks at you in shock.

“not anymore,” you say with a shrug. your voice is quiet, unsure of where this conversation will head. 

“oh,” is all chan says. “is there...any particular reason?” he asks after a beat of silence. there’s something more in his voice now that wasn’t there before.

“i just don’t think he’s really my type,” you explain without elaborating. 

“well, what is your type if not mingyu? he’s kind, smart, beautiful, tall...he’s got it all! i mean, you’ve had a crush on him for like, a year, and he finally asked you out and you said no?” chan says in mild disbelief. 

“don’t get me wrong, mingyu’s a great guy and all, but i just-i think i realized i have feelings for someone else,” you say, voice trailing off to barely a whisper. 

“really?? who is it?” chan asks all-too-eagerly, and you start to feel doubtful he likes you back.

“it’s no one.”

“awe y/n, don’t be like that! at least give me hints?” chan asks. 

“fine,” you sigh, knowing he won’t leave it alone. “first of all, he’s annoying and loud,”

“that doesn’t sound like a crus-”

“do you want me to give you hints or not?”

“...yes please,”

“ok then shh. he’s annoying and loud, but it’s perfect because i am too so we get along really well. he’s also the most caring person i’ve ever met; i know he’d do anything for me if i asked him,” you continue, not sure how much you want to give away.

“wow, he sounds really great!” chan comments. to any other person, he’d sound excited for you, but you know him well enough to pick up on the slight disappointment in his voice, and it’s just the boost you need to keep going.

“he is; he’d even go out in a thunderstorm for me just because i said i’m bored,” you say and you turn to look at chan now. it’s too dark to read his expression, but you can see how he leans ever so closer to you. 

“now that’s some dedication, i mean he sounds flawless,” chan teases. you can hear the smile in his voice, which makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild.

“the only problem is i’m not sure if he likes me back,” you whisper, your nose brushing the tip of chan’s, and before you know it his lips are on yours in a passionate yet gentle kiss. how you’ve gone so long without kissing chan you don’t know; the years of secret feelings all finally set free in this one kiss. 

you didn’t lie about liking mingyu--you had actually thought you might’ve finally gotten over your feelings for chan and found someone else. for a couple of months it worked, and you found yourself distracted with thoughts of the tall boy instead of your best friend. but it all came crashing down when you caught the common cold the other week, and chan looked after you while you were sick--he even skipped class one day to make sure you weren’t lonely. all of your true feelings came rushing back to you, and you knew there were no hopes of losing them.

“what about now?” chan asks as he pulls away just enough to talk.

“i’m still not sure, he might have to kiss me again to convince me,” you say, unable to contain your smile. chan kisses you again, and it’s just as magical as the first time. a loud crack of thunder startles you, and you gasp as you latch onto chan, burying your face in his shoulder.

“you’re such a scaredy-cat,” he says, bringing his arms up to pull you closer.

“shut up so are you, i can hear your heart racing,” your voice is muffled by his sweater.

“maybe that’s just because of you,” he comments, stroking your hair. 

“ew,” you reply, but your heart’s not in it; you can pretend to hate how cheesy chan is all you want, but internally you love it just as much as you love every other aspect of him.

[seagreen-meets-grey]

When Lightning Strikes Ch. 2

When your life is nothing but a cloudless sky, lightning can come and strike you so unexpectedly, you won't even know what hit you.

Or: When Hiccup and Astrid meet, it is as if lightning strikes.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6] [Chapter 7] [Chapter 8] [Chapter 9] [Chapter 10] [Chapter 11] [Chapter 12] [Chapter 13] [Chapter 14] [Chapter 15] [Chapter 16] [Chapter 17] [Chapter 18] [Chapter 19] [Chapter 20]

Crossposted on ao3 and ff.net

____________________

Astrid couldn’t move. Couldn’t move her body, couldn’t move her eyes away from the sea of green staring back at her from across the room. She didn’t know how long it took for the spell to break. Maybe it was the guy bumping into her, maybe it was the change of volume coming from the stereo that distracted her senses enough to pull her out of whatever deep, deep pool she’d just plunged into, or maybe it was Heather waving her hands around in front of her face.

It took Astrid a few seconds to snap out of her trance and understand that Heather’s waving had been directed at someone else. Her mind climbing out of whatever that had just been, she realized that Eret had taken back his spot by her side after adjusting the stereo settings. It seemed as if no one had noticed her strange absentmindedness just now.

Someone entered their little circle of three, putting his arm around Heather’s waist. His eyes resembled a forest on an early October day, fog wafting over the earth, the first signs of sunlight breaking through thick pine trees. Astrid swallowed hard.

“This is Hiccup,” Heather introduced him, “my boyfriend.”

The fog disappeared, both from his eyes and her mind. Completely sobering up now, Astrid smiled at him in greeting and raised her drink. “Skål!”

Eret shook Hiccup’s hand. “I’m Eret, this is Astrid. She likes to go by Skål.” That earned him a punch on the arm which only made him chuckle.

“Just to be clear,” she directed her glare at Hiccup, “if you ever call me that, I am going to end you.”

Hiccup blinked at her for a moment, then the corners of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. “How?”

“Axe to the throat. Clear cut. In your sleep, when you least expect it.”

“But now you told me, so I will expect it.”

Astrid smirked back at him. “Oh, believe me, you won’t.”

“Won’t even hear her coming,” Eret chimed in. Hiccup only laughed in response, having the audacity to not even look mildly threatened. That changed, however, when two hands grabbed him by the shoulders and the unmistakable booming voice of Dagur “The Deranged” reached their ears.

"Man, isn't this party great?" He began to shake Hiccup back and forth by the shoulders and Astrid had to stifle a giggle at the pained look on the poor boy's face. "And it just got more awesome 'cause my main man Eret arrived!" He pushed Hiccup aside who stumbled forward and had to hold onto Astrid to not fall over. He let go of her immediately after he caught himself but she could still feel his hand on her arm. He shot her an apologetic smile.

Dagur and Eret spread their arms and fell into a squeezing bear hug before raising their hands and smacking them together in a high five so loud it must have hurt. Both men didn't even try to subtly shake off the pain, complimenting each other's strength and starting to talk about their recent workout strategies.

"Men, right?" Hiccup said to her in a mock-exaggerated tone which made Heather giggle. Astrid turned her head to the side when Heather leaned in to give her boyfriend a kiss.

"Can't even say hi to Dagur, he only has eyes for my fiancé," Astrid murmured. This time, it was Hiccup who chuckled. His voice was slightly nasal but in an endearing way, she found.

"Maybe he's engaged to the wrong person, then," he said, instantly backtracking when he realized what he’d just said. "I mean, I mean I didn't- I don't want to- I'm not saying that, you know-" He was gesticulating wildly with both hands, running one through his messy auburn hair and a soft layer of slight panic was covering his irises. His shoulders finally slumped in defeat. "I'm sorry, that came out wrong."

Astrid couldn't help herself, she burst into laughter, and after one startled second, Heather joined in. "It's okay, Hiccup.” She wiped a tear from her eye. His face was priceless. “I know what you meant, and I agree. If anything, these two should get hitched and take their honeymoon to a gym or some training camp. You should have seen them last year when they ran into each other at the same resort and we spent the rest of the day at the outdoor gym at the beach." She shook her head fondly. "But while I was keeping it relaxed, they were comparing bicep sizes and gossiping about the other men around, all the while flexing and flexing and flexing some more, especially at each other."

"Yes, the gym." Hiccup nodded fervently. "That's where I gained all this raw manliness." He patted his upper arms and Astrid couldn't help but notice the lean muscles he was trying to play down. "Oh wait," he looked up, eyes wide, "the gym is that place where they sell all the light bulbs, right?"

"No," Astrid said, "that one is a few buildings over."

"Ooh," Hiccup made, holding a hand to his forehead like he just experienced a big revelation. "That's why I still look like a twig."

Grinning, Astrid considered telling him how she thought the opposite, maybe leaning more into the light bulbs place joke, but Dagur chose that moment to yell her name, suddenly making her aware of the other people that were still with them.

Now it was her turn to receive one of Dagur's bear hugs, and a mixed scent of weed, sweat, alcohol and his deodorant made her wrinkle her nose.

"Happy birthday, big guy," she said and gave him a playful punch in the stomach, which was more like a little knock on the washboard he must have hidden there. Pretending to be badly hurt, he doubled over, clutching his middle. "Help, Astrid attacked me," he whined. "Now I need some good medicine. Come on, sis, let's have a drink!" Dagur laid an arm over her shoulder and attempted to walk her into the garden but stopped short when he saw how the sky had opened up and was now releasing a flood down to the earth.

"The apocalypse, awesome!" he yelled. "MORE DRINKS FOR EVERYONE!" The house erupted into cheers and soon everyone had their refill. Astrid downed a birthday shot or five with Dagur, gracefully lost against him in an arm wrestling match – two out of three, and she definitely won the second one, no matter how much he was boasting about letting her win – and let him, Eret and a guy named Erik, whose right eye already adorned an ugly shiner, sit her on their shoulders and carry her through the house. Their journey ended in the kitchen where they started tumbling too much and lost their grip on her when she leaned too far to the side to avoid a rendezvous with the kitchen lamp which hung lowly from the ceiling like a miniature chandelier.

She met a few of Dagur’s cousins, played beer pong against Hiccup (which she only lost because the alcohol was throwing off her aim, not because his skills were better), discovered he could be just as competitive as her, battled Erik in dramatic expressions (which she lost as well, don’t tell anyone), and last but not least dragged Hiccup to the TV where someone had set up a karaoke game.

“Rematch, but this time, I’m winning!” she told him and he raised one eyebrow at her.

“Because we’re not playing beer pong?”

“Yes, and because I’m going to win something. This time for sure!”

He didn’t even have to pretend to lose on purpose, she beat him at Bohemian Rhapsody big-time. Basking in her triumph, she spent the next hour victory dancing with Eret.

It could have been the alcohol, but little jolts of lightning were still coursing through her veins.

____________________

Hiccup had anticipated this night to go far worse than it did. He’d thought he’d spend his night avoiding Dagur and his non-existent understanding of personal space while trying to not drown in the too large crowd gathered in the accordingly too small house. His only hope had been Heather – or, in the best-case scenario, Obi-Wan Kenobi. But he had promised Heather to attend her brother’s birthday party, for her, or at least for the sake of socializing. He’d only groaned and written off everything else he would rather have done but had come along anyway.

In the end, he had to admit he was having more fun at this than he would’ve had sitting on his couch binging something or sketching his cat for the umpteenth time. Dagur was bearable as long as he was focused on other people. Heather threw him I told you it would be fun-smiles every now and then. When midnight had passed, he did not find himself dead in a ditch. And he had found someone who made stupid games like beer pong and karaoke more exciting than it was allowed to be.

Astrid.

Eret’s fiancée with the beautiful eyes and blinding smile. With the iron fist and the ability to glare at someone so fiercely they wanted to turn on their heels and run to their mommy. Astrid with the thunder in her soul.

He still couldn’t forget that strange moment when the thunderstorm had started, when he had been able to feel that flash of lightning everywhere inside of him. He wondered if every storm now would bring up the image of blue eyes opened wide, of eternal milliseconds filled with high voltage, of white spots dancing in front of his vision curtesy of the intensity of the flash.

Hiccup didn’t know what to make of it. Had it been a coincidence that he had met her eyes the very moment the lightning had struck, like some grand romantic sign? It couldn’t have been love at first sight, because that concept was only a myth. Besides, he had Heather. And he didn’t believe that people could see each other and immediately be in love. Love was something that had to grow, had to be nourished and cherished. Such a deep bond couldn’t exist from one second to the other.

But a connection at first sight, a mutual feeling of sympathy, maybe even an attraction – that he believed to be possible. The best example for that was he and his best friend Fishlegs. On the first day of college, they’d sat next to each other and immediately formed a connection, the conversation flowing easily between them. Maybe it was the same with Astrid. It was true; they did get along splendidly and he felt like he could be himself around her. He wouldn’t mind staying in contact with her after this night.

Right now, however, she had disappeared somewhere in the dancing crowd with her fiancé after she had beaten him at karaoke.

“Hiccup, I’m proud of you,” Heather’s voice came from beside him. His girlfriend intertwined their fingers and kissed him on the cheek. “Singing in front of all these strangers with someone you only met a few hours ago? Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He felt himself blush and rubbed his neck. He was surprised as well, would have panicked at the thought of doing this just yesterday. Now that she made him aware of it, his self-consciousness made itself known again. He counted at least a few dozen people just in this room. Had they all heard him sing, if one could even call what he’d done with his vocal cords singing? Did they laugh about him making a fool of himself? Did they now think of him as an idiot, a moron way down below them? Would they forever remember him like this, would he become a story they told people so they could laugh about him together?

Hiccup realized he was spiraling and cursed at himself. He’d been doing so well until now. Fuck.

“I need some air,” he told Heather and freed his hand from hers. “Are you coming?”

“Are you okay?” she asked, face concerned and analyzing. He thought about telling her of his feelings but he already knew the approach she would take. Tell him he shouldn’t think about it too much, shouldn’t talk himself down again. But although he knew she just wanted to help and was serious about it, her strategy wouldn’t work on him. It never had before.

So instead of discussing that with her, he nodded and gave her a peck on the lips. “I’m fine, I just need a little fresh air.”

“If you say so,” Heather said, eyes set on a spot behind him. “Will you be okay then on your own? Because I’d rather stay in the kitchen, it looks like some asshat is trying to get himself electrocuted.”

Hiccup turned around and peeked over people’s heads to get a better view of the open kitchen. Some nimrod was indeed standing on the table, tinkering with the lamp. It was the same guy who’d shown up a while ago looking as if he’d already been in a fistfight prior to his arrival. Now that he thought about it, he swore he’d seen him talk to Astrid earlier.

Astrid, karaoke, people, suffocation- Hiccup took a deep breath, hoping it would stop his mind from spiraling further, and headed for the garden door.

The cool air hitting his face as soon as he stepped outside was a welcome change, sinking into his skin and slowly chasing away the anxiety. A couple of deep breaths later, his stomach untwisted itself, his heart was beating more comfortably again, and the pressing negative thoughts concerning his self-worth retreated into a corner of his mind.

It was no longer pouring; what remained was the almost therapeutic smell of summer rain and grass. In a nook of the porch, a small lamp attracted moths and mosquitos dancing close to the light. Crickets were throwing their own party in the garden, creating a counter world to the one behind him, the house’s walls and glass windows the only barrier between the two.

It would have been peaceful, if not for the loud music coming from inside and the few drunk people disturbing the scene. Some were smoking, some were making out in corners of the garden, one guy was relieving himself on Dagur’s little vegetable patch (Hiccup wondered if Dagur was trying to grow meat there), and a woman was stargazing from the deckchair on the lawn, although he wasn’t sure if she was actually passed out.

He leaned against a post and closed his eyes, relishing this break from the buzz of a large crowd constantly keeping him on edge. He’d gotten better at handling his fears over the recent years; only one or two years ago, his insides would have twisted and turned at the mere thought of going to a party where he didn’t know anyone besides his girlfriend and her crazy brother. And truth be told, he had been battling the urge to disappear into a quiet corner where no one could see him, where no one could judge him.

But for one, Dagur would have found him eventually. And second, he didn’t want to fall back into old patterns. In his mind, he started to list all the negative thoughts that had crawled out of their prison, tried to poison his mind, and snake their way back to his heart. He recalled what Dr. Mala had taught him and systematically sucked the life out of them with rationality.

It went surprisingly easy this time, confidence flowing back into his body and that thrilling spark sending little bolts of lightning down his back. A smile grew on his face. It felt good.

Hiccup didn’t know how long he stood there until the door opened and closed, the noise from the party momentarily escaping into the night. Afterwards, he couldn’t tell how he’d known, but he wasn’t surprised when he heard her speak.

“Also running from Dagur?”

He opened his eyes and turned to her when she stepped towards him and leaned her arms on the wooden banister. The golden light from the porch lamp caught in her eyes, illuminating the sky that lived inside them.

“Constantly,” he answered and watched the corners of her mouth twitch.

“That guy is nuts.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “You have no idea.”

When he didn’t continue, Astrid poked him with an elbow. “Hiccup, that kind of sentence usually precedes a story of some kind.”

“You really wanna hear about the time he thought trying to drown me in a lake was a fun game to play around children?” She snickered, briefly leaning into his side, a little unsteady on her feet. “Or when he decided to educate me in tough bro culture and took me camping in the woods for three days?”

Astrid let out a snort and he saw her shoulders shake in silent laughter.

“Yeah, picture that. Me and him sharing a small tent, hunting and fishing for our meals, with no bathroom or shower nearby. Only each other’s company and that of hundreds of insects and the beasts of the forest. Real manly bro stuff, just what every guy needs.”

She stopped holding back and what started as a chuckle soon grew louder, breaking Hiccup’s own deadpan façade as well.

After a minute, their laughter faded and they fell into comfortable silence. Even though it was dark and new clouds started gathering in the sky, concealing the moon and the few stars that had been visible before, the light from the house made it easy to take in the surroundings. The grass hadn’t been cut in a while, growing wildly all over the lawn. In the near distance, the silhouette of part of Berk’s forest defined the landscape. The faint smell of weed came wafting from another part of the garden.

“It’s really nice here,” she murmured, voice a little absent, as if she was deep in thought.

Blocking out the weed smell, he glanced over at her. “Yeah, it is.” She was still leaning on the banister, a soft smile gracing her features, contently gazing ahead. His eyes roamed the side of her face, her round cheeks, her button nose, her lips. A few strands of hair had fallen out of her braid and were stuck to her sweaty skin. His fingers twitched to reach out and–

He caught himself in the last moment, his hand already hovering in the air.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no! Wincing, he let his arm fall back at his side and swallowed hard. Where had that just come from?

“I… I’m… Um– “ he started, drawing her attention. Staring at her frown for a few moments, he opened and closed his mouth a couple times until he stepped back with a shake of his head. “I’m going to– I, I’m, I’m gonna go back inside.”

And with that, he darted back into the house, dodging Dagur and disappearing behind a wall of people.

He could still feel her confused scowl on the back of his head.

____________________

A/N: Small note on Erik to avoid confusion: He doesn't have any significance in this story. His only purpose is to be a (vague) reference to a character from a completely different fandom. If you know who I'm referring to, you'll get a big virtual jar of cookies. :D

[screensirenfic]

Black Leather - Chapter 15

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

One repeated cuss that had become my mantra for the past five hours.

When I flew into the police station like the devil was on my heels, Flo had assumed the worst; her wrinkled eyes blown wide at the sight of a near frantic Hopper careering towards her.

“Flo, Flo; is my dad here?” I’d near demanded; my messy blonde hair sticking to my forehead in an unsightly mess.

“No, Lola; he’s out on patrol. Can I help you with anything sweetheart; you look worried?” She’d asked with all the softness of the grandmother I’d never had, her hands reaching out to steady me.

“No, no. I just really need to speak to my dad...” I tried to reassure her, but my near panting did little to steady the nerves.

“Well; I can try his radio Lola, but are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” Flo continued to insist, even as she trotted over to the comms desk, her short legs surprisingly nimble at her age.

“No, no. Just; if you could get through to him, that would be great...” I replied, eager to speak to my dad ASAP.

She picked up the radio, first tuning into my dad’s frequency, before speaking into it.

“Chief Hopper; do you come in? This is the station...” Flo called, her voice steady as she waited for a response.

Nothing?

“I have Lola with me Jim; do you come in?” She asked, but still silence.

We both waited on baited breathe as the silence seemed to stretch on eternal.

Flo took her thumb off the button.

“Sweetie; I don’t think he’s gonna answer.” Flo said; her eyes softly sympathetic, but she must’ve seen the wild look in my eye and mistook it for fear.

“But we can try again...” She nodded, pressing her thumb down on the button once more.

————————————————-

I always thought the discovery that a child was missing would be the worst part; that one moment when time seemed to slow to a stop and realisation hit you faster than a freight train, but I was wrong.

It was the waiting that was killer.

Rocking back and forth on the edge of a worn couch, unable to sit comfortably, because goddamnit; she was somewhere out there! Chewing nails down to the beds, the taste of blood on my tongue, because already my mind had jumped to the worst case scenario, and that thought made bile rise up from my stomach.

Dad was no better; pacing up and down like a caged bear, contributing to the steadily growing pile of cigarette butts on the kitchen ashtray.

When he’d pulled up to the police station, his face cycled through the seven stages of grief; all sorts of wild and painful theories on why I’d called him crossing his mind.

I never rang him at work; not even when I fell off my bike and had to get twelve stitches in my left thigh.

There was very little a Hopper couldn’t deal with by themselves; so for me to call in for backup meant that the truly unthinkable had happened.

He’d rushed towards me; an unsettling mix of relief, confusion and concern passing over his face, because yes; I was okay, but I’d still called him, and that meant some serious shit had happened.

“Thank God!” Dad exclaimed, pulling me to his chest in the best attempt of a hug a Hopper could reach for.

“Are you alright Lo? What happened?” He asked as he pulled away, hands still resting on my flushed cheeks.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I insisted; my pulse finally slowing a little now I knew I wouldn’t be alone in this.

“But we need to go home ...” I insisted; my voice firm.

“Now.” I gave him a look, conscious of Flo’s worried form standing mere feet away.

“Of course.” He nodded, already reading between the lines and making his way back to his car; me following close behind.

“Wait Hop; where are you going?” Flo asked, picking up on our sudden exit.

“Family emergency. Got to clock out early.” He gruffly explained already unlocking his car.

I climbed into the passenger seat, knowing I could come back for my bike later, and that I really needed to give dad the lowdown on what to expect when we got home.

“But what do I tell Joyce Byers? She’s been calling all morning...” Flo hounded my dad as he climbed into his truck; our family’s ever illusive nature clearly losing its charm for her.

“Shit. Right...” Dad hissed, pausing to rapidly switch between his dad hat to his Chief hat.

“Tell her I’ll call her from home when I’ve sorted out this mess.” He said, giving Flo a look that let her know he wasn’t just saying it to keep her out of his hair.

“Alright Hop. But you best keep your word.” Flo conceded, before slamming the door shut for him.

Dad turned over the engine, the truck roaring to life, before he quickly spun it around in the parking lot; probably breaking several traffic laws in that manoeuvre alone.

He bombed it out of the parking lot, speeding onto the street as if we were hot in pursuit.

“Tell me what happened.” Dad demanded, all business as he refused to take his eyes off the road for even a minute.

I took a deep breath, before launching into a word for word account on what I’d found when I’d gotten home that afternoon.

——————————————————

Sitting in that cabin felt as close to torture as I was probably gonna get; the oppressive silence near stifling, because dad refused to do anything besides smoke and brood since he’d finished tearing the house apart.

And he wondered where we got it from?!

I’d really expected more finesse from an acting police chief, but apparently searching for clues looked a hell of a lot like having a tantrum, and I got a glimpse at what might’ve happened if I’d ever decided to call his bluff and run away to Steve’s one day.

The whole thing wasn’t pretty, and once dad had resolved that Eleven wasn’t actually hiding beneath any of the furnishings; he’d resorted to the Hopper Family’s most favoured pastime; simmering in absolute broodiness.

I heard footsteps outside; so light it could’ve been a hallucination, if not for the thunderous ones that followed.

The door opened and I looked up; relief flooding my system in a rush of endorphins that left me running over to her, encompassing her in a tight hug.

“Thank God...” I sighed into her hair, unable to stop myself from running my fingers through the curls, because yes; I wasn’t hallucinating and she really was okay.

“I was so damn worried about you.” I said with a pained smile, pulling away to take a good look at her, just in case she was in fact an illusion.

She smiled back at; the familiar warmth removing all doubts from my mind, only to be ripped away with the angry slam of a door.

“Friends don’t lie...” Dad spat; his face the picture of fury as he loomed in the doorway, his gaze nearly burning holes into Eleven’s skin.

“Isn’t that your bullshit saying?”

“Dad; give her a break...” I petitioned from the floor, still kneeling at Eleven’s height.

“After she deliberately disobeyed me?!” Dad asked incredulously; his eyes switching to shoot their venom at me.

“No; that’s not happening.”

Eleven was a smart kid, and pissed off to boot, so she took the first initiative and headed to her room.

“El...” I called after her, following close behind, because as much as I understood her desire to run away from this; I knew dad wasn’t going to make this that easy for her.

“Hey! Don’t you walk away from me...” Dad growled, charging towards us both with adamant ferocity.

El attempted to throw the door shut on him, but he caught it, storming into the room with his accusations blazing.

“Where’d you go on your little field trip; huh?” He interrogated, blocking the door as if she was about to make a break for it any minute.

“Where?!”

“C’mon dad...” I petitioned, stepping between them, because if this came to blows; I really didn’t want to be the one cleaning up.

“No; Lola. I want an explanation.” Dad cut in; his stony face making it clear he would not be argued with on this.

He turned his attention back to Eleven, who was currently stripping out of her coat; her face the silent image of petulance at the humble age of thirteen.

“Did you see Mike?” Dad asked; his tone making it seem more of an accusation than a question.

“He didn’t see me.” Eleven insisted, finally breaking her silence in order to engage him at the most basic of levels.

“Yeah... well; that mother and daughter did...” He retaliated, sweeping further into the room to confront her.

“And they called the cops...”

El didn’t respond; just gave him a look that harboured such bitterness, I doubted even I could match it.

“Now; did anyone else see you? Anyone at all?” He interrogated, getting up in her face as if she was some dirtbag in the cells.

“Dad...” I cautioned; I could see El’s gears were already grinding, but it didn’t matter.

“Come on; I need you to think...” Dad yelled; his face turning red.

“Nobody saw me.” El hissed; her eyes dark with a cold fury, but that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered to dad.

“You put us in danger...” Dad began to lecture; his anger barely contained beneath accusatory words.

“You put Lola in danger. You understand that right?”

But no; she didn’t understand that. She was a kid; she just wanted to get some air, but I don’t think that mattered to Dad.

“You promised... I go....” Eleven yelled; the words getting caught in her throat as she screamed them at him.

“And I never leave! Nothing ever happens!”

“Nothing ever happens and you stay safe!” Dad roared, meeting her word for word in red faced fury.

He reached up to pinch his nose; the clear sign a headache was coming on and that maybe he should give it a rest.

“Come on Dad...” I soothed gently, reaching out to touch his arm. “That’s enough.”

He didn’t say anything; just sighed and rubbed his eyes in a worn tiredness, drawing attention to the fine lines across his face.

But Eleven wasn’t to be cowed so easily; teenage hormones alongside a general sense of indignation a nasty fuel for the anger within.

“You lie!” She spat; marching over to dad like she could take him on singlehandedly, and knowing her powers, she probably could.

“I don’t lie. I protect and I feed and I teach...” Dad ranted; his blooming headache forgotten in the slight of her insubordination.

“And all I ask of you is that you follow three simple rules! Three rules! And you know what?! You can’t even do that!” He yelled; his face turning from red to purple in the dim cabin light.

“Dad; that’s enough...” I stepped forward; once more taking my place between them because this was getting too heated, too fast.

“You’re grounded!” Dad yelled; ignoring me in favour of sticking an ultimatum on her before storming out of the room; his face that of a man on a warpath.

Eleven swung her foot into the drawers, kicking it with a loud thump that told me it must’ve hurt more than she was letting on.

“You know what that means?” Dad asked; his voice echoing from the other room as I crouched down in an attempt to soothe Eleven, well aware she was a ticking time bomb about to blow.

“That means no Eggos...” Dad ranted, and I could hear the fridge door open and close, then the sound of boxes being tossed into the trash.

“Really dad?” I asked; looking up at him incredulously, because he was really gonna do this like this?

He didn’t take any notice, already half way across the living room and making a beeline for the TV. Eleven spotted him first, striding past me to the doorway to make her stand.

“And no TV for a week.” Dad barked, attempting to lift the set in its entirety, but it wouldn’t budge.

Not when Eleven stood there holding it down with her mind; and what did he really think was gonna happen?!

“Alright; knock it off.” Dad said, straightening up to look her in the eye.

“Let go.”

Eleven shook her head; a thin stream of blood trickling from her nose in the effort, because goddamnit; we were nothing if not stubborn!

Dad tried to pull the TV up again, refusing to budge on her punishment, no matter how much she resisted.

“Okay. Two weeks.” Dad stated, before attempting to rip up the TV from the ground with sheer brute force.

“Dad; this is getting ridiculous...” I reasoned, but it didn’t matter.

Reason and ridicule were nothing when faced with Jim Hopper’s wrath.

“Let go...” Dad growled at Eleven, shooting daggers at her.

She just shook her head again.

“A month!” He announced, but that was finally too much for El.

“No!” She argued back; blood now trickling down across her lips and into her mouth.

“Well; congratulations. You just went from no TV for a month, to no TV at all.” He declared, marching over to the plug socket and wrenching the plug from the wall.

“No!” El screamed despair, rushing over to the TV in attempt to revive what was her sole companion most of the time.

“Eleven; sweetie, it’s okay...” I tried to reassure her as she desperately fiddled with the TV switch, unsuccessfully trying to turn it on.

“Don’t comfort her!” He demanded, shooting me a cutting look that had all my hackles on the rise.

“She’s got to understand that there are consequences to her actions...”

“She’s a child!” I reminded him, because someone here had to remember that.

He opened his mouth to spit something back, when Eleven interrupted.

“You are just like papa.” Eleven spat; tears in her dark eyes, blood trickling down her chin.

“Really? I’m like that psychotic son of a bitch?” Dad muttered, rubbing his brow frustratedly.

“You wanna go back to the lab?” He challenged her; eyes cold and unfeeling.

“Dad; don’t say that...” I warned coldly; already seeing he was leading himself down a path he didn’t want to tread.

“No; if that’s what she wants...” Dad interrupted; his eyes returning to Eleven, staring her down accusingly. “Because I can make that happen.”

“Dad; stop.” I warned; raising my voice, because I’d been here before on different circumstances, and I knew he was going to say something he’d regret.

“I hate you!” Eleven screamed; bitterness heavy in her voice.

“Well I’m not too crazy about you either.” Dad retorted, and I knew I wasn’t gonna be able to stop this; but my god, if I weren’t gonna try.

“Dad; that’s enough...” I cautioned, but he was on a roll where all paths ended at Eleven.

“You wanna know why? You’re a brat!” He snarled, digging the knife in a little deeper with every word.

“You know what that word means? Brat?”

He pulled a dictionary off the bookshelf, flicking through the pages with sardonic dedication.

“Well; that can be your word of the day. Let’s look it up...” He continued, tearing through the pages with vicious efficiency.

“Dad—“ I tried, but he interrupted, holding a hand up for silence.

“B-R-A-T. Brat.” He repeated, tossing the dictionary towards her, but she stopped it midair, allowing it to hover menacingly.

“Eleven; put that down...” I instructed, because I knew that look in her eye, and it didn’t mean anything good.

She tossed it back towards him, narrowly missing his head as it fell to the floor in a loud thump.

“Hey?! What the hell is wrong with you?!” He grilled, striding through the room towards her.

She used her mind to pull the couch forward, striking him hard in the shin.

“Hey?!” Dad exclaimed, but Eleven was already storming off to her room.

“Eleven...” I called after her, but dad had already beaten me to it, following after her at military speed.

“Hey!” He shouted, as a bookcase toppled down onto him, narrowly stopped by his outstretched arm.

“Hey! Hey!” He yelled after her as she slammed her bedroom door, causing the house to shake for the second time that night.

“Dad; stop...” I petitioned, making my way over to him as he attempted to open her door to no avail.

“Open this door!” He yelled, shaking the doorknob vigorously, despite knowing it would do nothing.

“Dad; come on, please...” I asked, finally reaching him and attempting to pry his hand off the doorknob.

He snatched it away angrily, before pounding on the door, yelling repeatedly.

“Open this door! Open this damn door!” He roared, pummeling the wood with his fists, and I swear I could hear sobbing on the other side.

“You wanna go out in the world?! You better grow up!” He spat, and I honestly couldn’t believe I was hearing such spite from my father; a grown man, for Christ’s sake!

“Grow. The. Hell. Up!” He screamed, slamming his fists into the door with every syllable.

“Dad; stop!” I yell; squeezing myself between him and the door, because I was honestly worried he was about to break the thing down.

I stared into his red face; his eyes ablaze with a fury I’d never seen before, and for a split second, I thought he might hit me.

Then Eleven screamed.

An ear piercing shriek that made your ears feel like they’re about to start bleeding. I clamped my hands over my head, trying to stop the sound from splitting my skull in two.

Both dad and I fell to our knees, and I could make out the sound of glass shattering and then beginning to fall down on us.

Dad sheltered me from the most of it; tiny shards spilling onto the floor in a mosaic of crystal.

And just when I thought my brain would burst from the pressure; it stopped, Eleven’s screams dimming into a sob through the wood.

[riverdalepoet]

All I Ever Wanted (part 4)

PAIRING: Sweet Pea and OC (Emma Carter Wilson); Kevin and Fangs, Toni and Cheryl, Betty and Jughead

WORD COUNT: 2209

WARNINGS: LANGUAGE AND SUGGESTIVE THEMES

A/N: For whatever reason, I’m having issues with these posts.  The tag for this story is all I ever wanted sweet pea and emma.  It is also being posted on AO3 (kaylahselman15).  PLEASE message me if you see something missing from this post.  and I hope you enjoy!

___________________________________________________________

         “I’m not saying you’re a terrible driver, babe.  All I’m saying is that you should be taking better care of this vehicle.  How long has it been making this sound? Fangs could’ve already had this fixed.” Sweet Pea droned on and on and on.

I rolled my eyes and leaned against the window.  “Sweets, you know how you said you wanted me to tell you when you’re being an ass?”

“No, I don’t.  I was drunk and I still think you made that up,” he laughed as I reached over to smack the back of his head.

“First of all, darling, think what you want to.  Second of all, YOU. ARE. BEING. AN. ASS.  Not all of us drive like grandpas.  Some of us like to live a little.”

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and shot a pointed glare my way, “And that is how you totaled your first car.  I swear to you, Emma, if I get a call like I got that night ever again, you’ll be driving a bicycle.”

I crossed my arms and looked back out the window, muttering “You flip a car one time, and you never live it down.”

To be fair, he had a point.  We were still in high school and just had a huge fight.  At that time, we weren’t officially together…just fucking like rabbits.  It was sometime after the White Wyrm had been reclaimed as Serpent territory, and my future husband was using it as his safe haven to get with every new girl that walked in.   We had an arrangement- fight, rip each other’s clothes off, argue, leave hickeys on every visible surface of our bodies, insult, sneak off to broom closets for relief, and most importantly- no one finds out.

____________________________________________________________

A few months in, and it was starting to fall apart.  The more I watched them fawn over him, the angrier I got, and that night my blood was boiling.  I sat, frozen, at the bar with Toni, and listened to her complain about Cheryl being away for the weekend.  I was terrified if I got up, I would walk right over and tell Mr. Pea exactly what I thought of him, so instead, I pouted.  

After a little while, I got bored and started making eyes at the new recruit across the bar. He was brawny and certainly seemed interesting.  A few winks later, and he started to make his way over to the stool beside me.  For the next few minutes, I flirted shamelessly, making the most out of this glorious distraction.

Downing every shot of whiskey Toni slid in front of me and getting this much attention from somebody new, made me forget all my woes. He had just lifted his newly tattooed hand to grip my thigh, when “What the fuck?” thundered from across the room.  We both jumped and looked over to see Sweet Pea storming over to the two of us.

Before the poor guy had a chance to stand up, Sweet Pea had him by his jacket and slung him off the stool.  “You’re new around here, so I’m gonna make this very clear.” His eyes were black and his fists were balled tightly at his sides.  ‘If you put one finger on her ever again, you can kiss that hand goodbye.”

For good measure, Sweet Pea shoved him towards the door, and he clamored to his feet making a swift exit.  The Wyrm had gone silent.  Fangs was watching the scene with a smirk as Toni was eyeing me carefully.  

Slowly Sweet Pea turned around and his cold stare was met with fire from mine.  We stayed that way glaring holes into each other until Jughead walked up, clapping a hand on Sweet Pea’s shoulder and saying, “Maybe you two should go outside.  Ya know, talk or whatever it is you do? We don’t want to cause a sc-“

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” I yelled, ignoring Jug all together.  He took a deep breath and backed away.  Sweet Pea grabbed his jacket from the pool table and made his way towards the door, leaving his date for the night pissed.

I matched every step he took, finally able to corner him against the side of the building. “No, you don’t get to ruin my night and run away without an explanation.  What the hell was that?”

“Emma, go back inside right now,” he growled, reaching for his cigarettes, and leaning back against the wall as he took in a long drag.

“Excuse me?  Since you’re big on ‘making things clear’ for people tonight, let me clear a few things up for you. You don’t get to eye fuck every girl that gives you the time of day and blow your fuse when I flirt with ONE PERSON compared to your twenty.  You don’t get to insist that I follow the rules that we made, and then say to hell with them whenever you feel like it.  And you damn sure don’t get to tell me what to do, you self-righteous fuck.”  He pushed himself off the building with his foot, flicking his cigarette on the gravel.  He towered over me with ease, standing as close as he could to match my intensity.

“Get your ass back inside before I say something I regret, Emma, I fucking mean it.  Do not push me right now.” With that, I reached in my pockets for my keys and turned on my heel.

“I said get back inside, Emma Carter.  Where are you going?”  He followed me, grabbing my wrist and spinning me around to face him.

“Fuck you,” I spat through gritted teeth.  “Fuck this.  I’m done.” Jerking my hand free from his grip hurt, but not as much as it did to leave him in the taillights as I tore out of the parking lot.  

Paying too much attention to the pounding in my ears and no attention to my speed, I raced through the night, trying my best to get Sweet Pea out of my head.  The sharp curve on Holly Drive, locally referred to as the Devil’s Spine, appeared much sooner than I anticipated.  There was no use; I had no time to bring the car down to a decent speed.  Just like that the still of the night was broken as my car flipped over the guardrail, taking me with it.  

Sherriff Jones was the first on the scene.  Calmly, he assessed the damage and kept me sane as I dangled upside down, and waited for the ambulance. “You’ve really done it now kiddo,” he mumbled, dialing a number into his phone. I tried my best to focus on his voice as he spoke to keep from slipping into unconsciousness.  “Son, you might want to get Pea and head this way.  I’m at the Devil’s Spine with Emma…. Completely flipped.  Yeah, it’s just me here right now.  Okay.”

“FP, why’d you have to send for Sweet Pea?” I groaned when he hung up the phone, turning to face me again.

“Because he’s second in command…and because once Jughead told him what was going on, he’d come hell or high water.”

“I doubt it…”  FP shook his head in response as I tried to stretch my neck for relief.  I let out a small cry, and FP was kneeling in the window, trying to see what caused it.  “I’m fine, I’m fine.  It just hurts…why did I do this?” My eyes were getting heavy and I was struggling to keep it together.  

“Hey, little lady, stay with me now.” Tires screeching close by caught my attention and kept me going for a while longer. “Oh thank God.  Boys, get over here with her, I’m about to light a fire under these paramedics ass if they don’t get here.”

My vision was spotty, but I could tell by his height that Sweet Pea was quickly making his way towards my wrecked vehicle.  The crunch of boots halted as he bent down. “Emma, baby, look at me.”

“Go away, Pea,” I mumbled, wanting nothing more than to sleep. Paying no mind to the glass in his way, he reached through the window to stroke my cheek.  

“Emma, you gotta keep your eyes open. Hey, hey, open your eyes.  What can I do?”

Smiling to myself, I weakly replied, “You can say ‘I am a dick and Emma is the best’”.  Sweet Pea obliged making me giggle despite myself.

Jughead crouched beside Pea to let us know that the ambulance just pulled up, and before I knew it, they were working on getting me out.  Sweet Pea stayed by my side and held my hand.  At first, they would not let him ride in the back with me, but a few stern words from Sherriff Jones had them rethinking that decision.  Sweets clung to me for dear life and kissed each of my knuckles. “This ends now, okay? No more hooking up and hiding it.  That is over.  We are together now, you hear me?”

The last thing I remember before giving in to the medicine being pumped through my veins was nodding in response and begging, “Don’t leave me…”

_______________________________________________________________

 Sweet Pea reached over and squeezed my knee.  “Em, where’s your head?” I turned my attention back to him, swooning at his tender half-smile he saved just for me.

“Feeling pretty damn lucky,” I whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.  He used the hand that was on my knee to grab my hand, and we rode in comfortable silence the rest of the drive.

By the time we pulled up to our house right on the outskirts of the Southside, Carter was sleeping soundly.  We carefully got him inside and placed him gingerly in his crib.

We stumbled into the kitchen, exhausted from the stress of the day.  Sweets sat down on the barstool, reaching for a bottle of water. “Do you think we should cook something?”

“Well, a sure-fire way to get Fangs to fess up would be food, so yes.”  I laughed and started on dinner.

It wasn’t long before the man of the hour pulled into the driveway, and made his way into our home.  Sweets grabbed him a beer from the fridge as I set the table.  

“Well this is nice,” Fangs commented stuffing his face.  “I was just planning on going to Pops later.” Sweet Pea nudged my leg under the table.

“Oh? By yourself?”  Fangs slowed his chewing and looked suspiciously between the two of us.

“Yeah, I was gonna order take out like always.” I hummed in response.

“Emma….” Fangs started.  “Why are acting so….pleasant?”  Sweet Pea choked back a laugh as I stomped firmly on his foot.

“All I’m doing is feeding you, Fangs. I do this about twenty times a day.” Grumbling about being ungrateful, I stabbed a piece of chicken into my mouth.

Fangs was quiet for a moment as my husband was trying, still, to recover from his laughing fit.  “No, that’s not it. I’ve known you for too long. Come on out with, Wilson.”

The table shook as I slammed my hands down and rose to my feet.  “Alright fine.  I tried to bring you breakfast this morning, but somebody was already there, Franklin.  Any idea who that might’ve been? Looked suspiciously like Kevin Keller to me.”

Fangs averted his eyes as a deep blush spread across his cheeks.  He stared between me and Pea nervously, refusing to answer.

“Oh no sir!  What was that you told me? ‘Come on, Fogarty, out with it.”  Sweet Pea slid another beer to him, sympathetically and Fangs smiled slightly.  Sweets was thoroughly enjoying how uncomfortable Fangs was, and was fighting back a grin.

Fangs huffed and finally said, “No comment.”

“Okay then, no comment, no dessert.”  Fangs laughed at that and got up from his seat to follow me into the kitchen.

“Em,” he leaned against the counter and held eye contact.  “Why are you mad?”

I slapped the dishcloth on the sink and sighed before turning to face him.  “Because I’m not in the loop anymore.  You two used to tell me everything- even things I didn’t want to know.  When did that stop?”

Fangs grabbed my shoulders and looked me square in the eye, “When there’s something to tell, I will come to you first.  We’re figuring things out, okay?  It literally just happened less than eight hours ago.”

I nodded and pulled him into a hug, “Promise it’s not because I’m not cool anymore.”

Sweet Pea chose that moment to walk in the room and chuckled before I shot him a dirty glare.  Fangs just squeezed me tightly.  “No, no.  You’re still the baddest chick I know.  Now let’s go look at your car.”

Groaning, I ushered him outside, following Pea who handed Carter off to me so he could pop the hood.  It took a little longer than usual, but he had my SUV back in pristine condition.  I was still fighting my curiosity but felt a lot better after our talk.  Becoming a mom made me so happy, but distanced me from the people that in my life.  It was nice to know they loved me just the same.

[spartanguard]

savage garden, 7/8

Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope…

6k | rated T | AO3 | part 1 | part 2 (art) | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

A/N: Here it is! The last full chapter! Ngl, I got very close to tears a few times...my apologies if the same happens to you! (well, maybe not ;P ) Title comes from “Tears of Pearls” by Savage Garden. Enjoy!

chapter 7: love will be the death...the death of you

Two weeks had passed since Killian sent Emma away—or at least, he thought it was that long; it was hard to judge the passage of time when the shade of light outside the window stayed the same, a never-ceasing storm raging outside his cottage. It was fitting, really, because it matched the emotional one going on inside. No matter what he did, the Darkness refused to be sated.

The sea no longer calmed his racing heart; instead, it elicited an almost agoraphobic reaction to the wide expanse, and the waves too easily mimicked the constant whispers of his predecessors.

He managed to fix the bookcase manually, but every time he sat down to read a novel, the paper ignited in his hand from the constant sparking of magic in his palm; words of romance and fantasy burned away in his grasp.

At the slightest provocation—as simple as stubbing a toe, as terrible as setting fire to one of his favorite books—the magic spiraled out from him, breaking whatever fragile thing was in the vicinity, be it a window or a mirror, or the one time his wooden chair had fractured underneath him. But each time, he immediately mended it via magic; it was effortless at this point.

And he was tired—so, so tired—of fending off the incessant mental abuse.

You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it, dearie. Why are you still trying?

“Because I’ll be damned if I give in,” he replied listlessly, staring at the ceiling from his little-used bed. He’d hoped the sound of the endless rain on the roof might be provide some relief, but it hadn’t yet.

Yes, indeed you will; Hades has been waiting for you for a very long time, I daresay.

“But you won’t let me go that easily, will you?”

Heavens no! We’re just getting started!

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on the pattering rain on the roof and not the infinite list of tortures and maladies the Darkness couldn’t wait to execute.

Murder is always a good place to start; maybe a spot of famine too? We could start collecting hearts again, definitely...and oh, it’s been so long since we had a genocide...

The impending sense of doom hanging over him didn’t help his growing frustrations or unstable emotions; he felt like he was just awaiting his execution. Would that be what it was like? Would Killian Jones cease to exist, only the Dark One remaining? Or would it be like what happened due his last visit to the garden—would he be an unwilling passenger while the Darkness made a vehicle of his body?

The sooner you give up, the sooner you’ll find out!

His resolve hadn’t waned—but his endurance was flagging.

Blessedly, Emma hadn’t tried to come to him, to change his mind. He knew this was the only way. Part of him wished she had but he knew that, in the long run, she was better off without him. He could only pray the Darkness spared her when he was no longer in control.

Are you kidding? Her? Oh, we have plans for her.

He sat bolt upright, suddenly panicked. “Like what?”

Oh, there’s so many options! It’d be rather silly of us to let the one person who can destroy us run free.

The first image that flashed across his mind’s eye was Emma, begging for mercy.

Then Emma, covered in blood, his dagger dripping at his side.

Then her staring at him, wide-eyed, while a bright red heart glowed in his hand—until it was crushed and she was gone.

Over and over, it played all the ways it could think of to hurt her, each one ending in her death—and nothing he tried would stop the visions from coming. He screamed and yelled at it to end, but no respite came, even when he was sobbing and the storm outside was at its fiercest.

What, you don’t want us to do that? it finally taunted.

“No, please—not her, don’t…” he whimpered.

The Darkness sighed. In all his years, he’d never heard it do that. Well, fine; I suppose you have a point—think of what we could do with power like hers!

The illusion changed; now it was Emma standing over him with a blood-soaked blade, the inky tendrils claiming her for its own and washing away her light, leaving hard darkness in its place. Gone was the glow of her hair and the brightness of her eyes, only ice in its place, and the ruins of the garden behind her.

“You...you wouldn’t.”

Oh, yes we would. Better to control it than to let it control us.

Control...could she do that?

Only if she had the blade...but you’re not that dumb, are you?

He didn’t respond; he just stood and made a beeline for the main room.

We know what you’re thinking.

He pulled the new rug from the floor, tossing it aside with strength he didn’t know he had.

It’s not going to be that easy.

A crash of thunder boomed outside and made him jump; a bit of dark magic flew off of him and shattered the mirror.

Do you really want to see what will happen? Visions of a world cast into darkness, people screaming and crying, the memory of Milah’s death started playing in his head again, bringing him to his knees. Because we’re quite fine with that—and we know you’re not.

“It won’t—she can fix this.”

Why? Because she’s the Savior? Bollocks. Nothing can stop us. The only way to stop is to be stopped.

It felt like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on him. The gruesome images of the Darkness’s dreams wouldn’t leave him be, intermingled with its constant repetition of Emma’s name and his mother’s last words. “Keep your good heart.” It had once been a mantra; now it was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed.

He was sure he’d crush under the pressure—was sure he could feel his bones impossibly breaking—until he mustered up his last fragment of strength and, with a primal yell, pushed it all away.

The energy of the effort blasted out from him and took the windows with it, letting in the storm. The wind and rain whipped around the room, adding to the frenzied air and pulling at his hair and tunic.

Looking back on the next moment, he must have been using magic unconsciously; how else could he have punched through the solid wood floor in one shot? Anyone else would have incurred serious injury in the attempt but he just pulled his bloodied hand back and tore at the splinters, vaguely aware of the continued cuts and gashes on his hand and forearm as he worked to clear a gap.

At least this time when he pulled out the dagger box, he already had his blackened blood to offer; he wasted no time in tracing the letter on the surface.

But it didn’t open. He tried again, and again, but nothing happened.

You lovesick idiot. Did you forget Milah that easily?

In his rush, he’d been writing E on the box. A rare correct moment for the Darkness. Quickly, he shook his head, drew an M, and pulled the lid off as soon as it released.

The dagger somehow seemed darker when he held it—he swore he could see it’s black veins pulsing in time with his heart, the voices of Dark Ones past whispering even louder. The magic within him sang in its presence.

Now what are you gonna do?

Well, he should probably find Emma. He’d no sooner thought it than he found himself in the garden, the familiar smoke dissipating around him.

“Killian?”

He whipped around at Emma’s voice, and the Darkness began to spark inside as soon as it registered her presence. She was on the other side of the garden but he could still sharply read the expression on her face: confusion, concern, and more than a little fear.

“Emma, please, you have to help me,” he urged, running toward her. She took a step back when he did; he probably looked like a crazed man, but he was desperate. He held out the blade to her when he drew close. “Please—take it away from me. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Take it?” Her eyes darted warily between the dagger and his eyes. “Killian, what are you asking me?”

“Whoever holds the dagger can control the Dark One. Please, love; it’s yours.”

She swallowed as she stared up at him, eyes wide. “I—I can’t do that; I won’t take away your agency like that.”

Ugh, she’s so self-righteous. She’s clearly never held a heart in her hands...but we can change that.

“It’s not taking if it’s being given up,” he explained, then reached for her with his hook. He brought her forearm level with his chest and placed the handle of the dagger in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Please, Emma; for me?”

To his horror, she tossed it aside. “Killian—you don’t need me to; you can do this!” She was holding his hand and hook and trying to meet his gaze, but it hadn’t left the dagger, staring at where it lay cast aside in the grass.

And he was fairly sure his stomach was on the ground next to the blade.  

Would you look at that? She just threw you away.

“Killian, do you hear me? You’re stronger than this!”

Just like your father did...and your brother...and all those captains…

“Whatever it’s telling you isn’t true!”

Isn’t it, though?

He finally broke out of his trance to glare at her. “How could you?” he screamed. “I ask your help and get tossed aside?” Dark rage was starting to build.

“What? No, Killian—that’s not—”

“I thought you’d be the one who could do this! I’m trusting you!”

“And I’m so glad you do,” she said, giving him a teary smile as she cupped his cheek. “But Killian—you don’t need me for that!”

Some Savior she is.

“Well some Savior you are!” he echoed; the glass in the lanterns shattered as his magic began to reach out in response to his frustration. “No wonder you couldn’t break your parents’ curse!”

She stepped away, visibly shocked. Deep down, he knew it was a low blow, but he was on his last tether and it was rapidly fraying.

Emma took a deep breath. “You’re better than this.”

No you’re not.

“Am I? Really?” He took an intrusive step into her personal space; the thump of her pounding heart registered in his mind. “Does this look like it?!”

Show her...show her what she’s doing!

A strong breeze swept through the garden; he was fairly certain he summoned it, and the trees creaked in response.

But then he scrunched his eyes shut as he winced in pain; no—she wasn’t doing this to him—it was—it was—it was giving him a headache, splitting him down the middle.

“Killian, come on; fight this!” She was gripping his biceps and there was a cool, soothing sensation emanating from her. He wanted to lean into it, but her magic couldn’t quite permeate the Darkness, which was screaming in his head.

She’s not going to help you! Just take her out and forget her; why bother with people who’ll leave you behind? We haven’t…we’ve been here with you all these years!

The Darkness hadn’t left; it was sad, but true.

“I’m here—we’re both here, you and me—you can do this!”

Until she tosses you away again. She left her family, her kingdom—what makes you think she won’t do the same to you?

She had, hadn’t she? But she’d also pulled him back from the edge—unless he remembered wrong? God, everything was so fuzzy and foggy…the wind picked up and static energy filled the air as light and dark magic collided.

“Listen to your heart; you’re a good man, Killian Jones…”

No, listen to her heart! The Darkness was drowning her out. It’s the only thing standing between you and the peace and freedom you deserve. Her steady heartbeat pounded even louder in his head, shaking him to his skeleton; it was all he could hear.

Take it; take it; take it; take it… The whispered command came from all around, echoing in his head and reverberating off the garden walls. She’s just gonna hurt you; take it…

His cheeks were wet with tears and his voice was raw from yelling. It felt like every bone in his body was trying to flee the one next to it. And he could only see one way out of this agony.

He thrust his hand forward, into Emma’s chest; a shower of sparks fell at the intrusion. She gasped as his grip found purchase on the organ, and gave a small cry as he yanked it out.

Everything quieted then, as if the whole world was shocked: Emma’s heart, glowing a beautiful, pure red, was sitting in his hand; his fingers, with their blackened veins, curled around it.

The stunned silence that followed suggested that no one had thought he was capable of it, least of all him; he and Emma wore similar open-mouthed expressions as they stared at it.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

What you have to do.

“You don’t have to do this, Killian.” Her voice was strained.

Yes, you do.

He...he did, didn’t he?

“This isn’t who you want to be.”

What other choice did he have anymore, though?

None whatsoever.

Do it, do it, do it, do it… the voices were chanting.

Crush it, crush it, crush it, crush it…

He started to squeeze. Emma crumpled to the ground almost immediately.

Yesss, that’s it...oh, it’s been so long!

He squeezed a bit harder, watching as the glow of the heart pulsed faster. Something was definitely changing in him—there was a cold feeling spreading from his spine, not at all refreshing, but not wholly unpleasant either.

Just a bit more and you’ll be free!

Free...he couldn’t even remember what that felt like. He tightened his fist around the heart even more and Emma began to whimper and gasp. From her prone form on the grass, she flipped her head up to look at him, eyes rimmed and red with tears.

We’ll have everything we ever wanted!! Killian was vaguely aware of the scaly texture taking over his skin, but his focus remained on Emma and her heart.

“Please,” she choked out. “Don’t give…” Her eyes were fluttering, about to close for good. He could feel the corner of his mouth pull up in a sinister grin.

Almost there...

She took an arduous, strained breath, and uttered what would likely be her last words. “I can’t lose another person that I love.”

That stopped him. Love? She was on the verge of death... but was worried about his fate?

Don’t listen to her—she’d say anything to get you to stop!

Anyone else would...but not her. He knelt next to her as she lay panting, finally able to catch her breath now that he’d relaxed his grip on her heart.

Finish it! Finish her! the Darkness was demanding.

But he couldn’t hear it anymore when Emma reached up to caress his face. He could feel the roughness of his skin as she brushed her thumb across his cheek and found himself leaning into her warmth.

And he suddenly knew what he really had to do. It had taken seeing Emma in pain to make him realize it, and he knew he’d likely be hurting her further, but it was the only way—the only right way.

What are you waiting for?

“This,” he answered, no longer caring if Emma saw him talking to no one. As swiftly as he’d pulled it out, he shoved Emma’s heart back in her chest.

She gasped and coughed, but then looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Killian?”

What do you think you're doing?

“The courageous thing, for once.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself, then reached inside his own chest, pulling out his own heart this time. He saw Emma reach for him, but she froze before she touched him—a good thing, too, because the jolt from their feuding magic likely would have made him crush it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much—just a slight tug, and then there it was in his palm. It was encased in a hard black shell, but he could still see a bit of red glow inside; he wasn’t at all shocked it was so dark.

You can’t stop this. Whatever you think your plan is, it won’t work.

“If that means ridding the realm of you, then I have to try.”

And what if you fail?

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” But he was sure. He had no reason to be, especially with the frightened stare Emma wore, but he just...knew.

Carefully, he set his heart in the grass, which turned black and died on contact.

Then he reached over for the discarded dagger.

No! “No!” For the first time, the Darkness and Emma were in agreement.

Emma reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “Killian, you can't do this.” Tears were slipping down her cheeks now.

And he could feel his own brimming. “We both know there's no other way, love.”

You idiot! You absolute imbecile! After all we’ve done for you—keeping your sorry arse alive all these years? This is how you repay us?

“I can’t let you do this; I—I need you, Killian. I—“

“Your family needs you, love. I’m the only one who can do this, so please—let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sobbed, cupping his face again. “You already are.”

“I love you, Emma.” It was probably fitting how much this scene reminded him of Milah’s death.

“I love you too.” Without warning, she fisted her free hand in his tunic and pressed her lips against his, firm and soft at the same time. He kissed her back as fervently as he could manage, though it was far less than anything she deserved.

When she broke away for air, he could only pause a second longer in the brief afterglow of the moment.

Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing—you won’t accomplish anything? Do you want to waste your life? Do you want to make her watch you die? We could do so much together!

Gently, he pushed Emma away from him. She was still crying, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. He redirected his attention to he heart and adjusted his grip on the dagger.

You idiot...you lonely, miserable fool. You’re going to die as you lived: a one-handed coward.

The last insult was the final straw. He reared back and drove the point of the blade into his heart, splitting it in two.

Pain greater than anything he’d ever known—worse than any strike or lash, worse even than losing his hand—started burning a hole in him, starting from his chest and quickly bleeding out. Oddly, he wasn’t losing any blood, but those same inky black tendrils that had consumed him all those years ago were leaking out of him at a furious pace.

He wasn’t quite sure when or how he ended up on his back, but at some point, he realized he was staring up at the Darkness set loose as it escaped from its binding and left him behind, no more than a used, broken vessel.

And yet—he’d never felt more free or at peace in his life, because it had been his decision and no one else’s. He knew what would happen and he’d still done it.

The last of the Darkness broke away from him and he dropped back from whatever contortion he’d been in, feeling so much lighter than he could ever recall. Everything was growing dark and his vision narrowed; he must be approaching the end.

And all he could do was smile.

He turned his head to find Emma; she was kneeling in the grass next to his body, his broken heart held in her hands and tears streaming down her face. Amazingly, there was no black on his heart anymore—just that same pure red glow Emma had. He wanted to ponder its meaning, but more so wished he could comfort her—but there was time for neither, and he knew that eventually, she’d be fine without him.

The last thing he saw before falling into oblivion was the bright green of Emma’s eyes, and then everything, including his heart, faded to emptiness.

Oh, sweet rapture! The Darkness was finally free—free of that bumbling burden it had carried for far too many decades; truly free for the first time in its centuries of existence. No silly human emotions to weigh it down anymore; it could do as it pleased!

It had no idea what to do with such a lack of restraint now that it was out of its cage. It wanted to touch everything and everyone, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. But where to start?

The garden would make a perfect first victim, it supposed—what a better place to sew despair than in what was once a symbol of hope? Unbound, it flew around the space, its tentacles of darkness killing all it touched: vines shriveled, trees shed their leaves and turned black, and one by one, flowers turned gray and their petals fell to ash in the wind.

Imagine what it could do beyond that? The world would fall to darkness, unable to stop it.

Though, one disadvantage to being uncorporeal was quickly revealed when it attempted—and failed—to pick up the now-nameless dagger: there was some perk to having fingers.

The girl...oh, yes, Princess Emma—how could they forget? Such raw, untapped power! It had noticed her own rage and anger...if it could sway her to see things a little differently...oh, there was much fun to be had!

It concentrated its efforts on surrounding her; in her unsteady emotional state, she’d be especially vulnerable—and desperate souls were its favorite.

She flinched when it began to circle her. There, there, dearie; no need to cry over spilled blood.

Her eyes grew wide at its voice and she stood, her stare darting around at the cyclone of malevolence that was closing in on her.

We can dry those tears, if you’d like. And make sure you never shed another.

“Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

Whyever not? You hardly know me, love.

She breathed in deep at the use of the deckhand’s endearment; just as planned. “Leave me alone; I don’t need you.”

That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. The Darkness echoed her voice from earlier, when she’d told Killian as much; her face crumpled at the sound, to its glee. And you’d be no closer to breaking your parents curse without those books...but maybe we could help make sure you do.

“Never!” she screamed defiantly. “I won’t resort to dark magic to save them; they wouldn’t want me to.”

Even after what they did to the dragon’s child? (Even the Darkness knew to stay away when children were involved; it had some standards, after all.)

She clenched her jaw and glared, having no response.

To think: what happened to that poor thing would all be in vain, because you couldn’t manage to live up to your destiny.

Truthfully, the Darkness was bluffing a bit at this point. As much as Jones had gone mad in its company, it was mostly because the Darkness was equally listless and cut off from the world. It used to be at the forefront of all magical goings-on, so whatever this prophecy was surrounding the girl, it had no idea. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t try to use it to its advantage.

Although...the look of recognition on her face did lead it to worry—she looked like she’d just gotten an idea, and not one that the Darkness would be fond of.

“No, I think that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she spat. “I was given all this light magic for a reason; and if I can’t use it to save them, or Killian, then I can at least use it to destroy you.”

I’d like to see you try.

A look of grim, fierce determination took over her face as she closed her eyes and concentrated, holding her arms in front of her, palms up. Oh, she looked like such an amateur.

White sparks began to jump from her palms and the air began to shift a bit. And when the sparks hit the Darkness’s oozing spirals, something strange happened: it hurt.

What—what is this? What are you doing?

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Darkness had squared off against a light magic user, but it was only the vessel that got hurt, not the entity itself. This was new. And not enjoyable in the slightest.

It spun closer to Emma, seeking to drown out her powers, but it was no use: white lightning began to fly from her hands unrestrained, slicing through the column of the Darkness that surrounded her.

Well that wasn’t exactly the way it expected this to play out. All attempts to double down on the girl were failures as it was cut apart by her pure magic, until the pain became too much, like fire consuming its many limbs all at once.

Quickly, the darkest magic ever known to man was crumbling into absolutely nothing, its charred remains disintegrating where they landed and leaving behind no trace of one of the strongest forces on earth.

It managed to scream one last thing before evaporating into the ether.

No more Darkness...

Holy shit. Holy SHIT. She just...she just destroyed the Darkness, didn’t she?

Holy shit.

Somewhere, her mother was tutting at her repeated cursing, but Emma didn’t have the wherewithal to come up with anything more refined or creative. In the span of minutes, she just watched the man she loved die to avoid being consumed by the darkest thing ever, and then she obliterated said thing.

Yeah, she’d been prophesied to do that, and she’d worried it would come to something like this as soon as she met Killian. That was why she tried to keep him at bay at first, not trusting him—and even less trusting of her initial attraction. So much for that.

But that didn’t take away from the adrenaline coursing through her veins next to the surge of magic that wouldn’t abate. She let out a long exhale and tried to shake the sparks out, but they just dripped from her fingers and onto the charred grass below her. The garden was mostly destroyed from all that had happened, but it was a small price to pay for what she’d just accomplished.

No, there was a different price that had been too large—that shouldn’t have been part of the exchange. She knelt back down—well, more like collapsed—next to Killian’s cooling body.

It was odd, seeing him like this. Gone was the shimmery pallor of his skin; she assumed this was how he looked before he acquired the curse: tanned by the sun from long days at sea. But stranger still was that he looked so peaceful—she’d never seen him so relaxed, without the constant weight of his burdens and self-doubt resting on his lean frame. And she hated that it was death that had finally given him that respite.

A drop of water fell onto his linen shirt and was quickly absorbed by the fabric. Then another. After a few, she realized they were her tears, coming back in full force. She’d lost so much in such a short time; why did he have to be part of that?

For a long, long moment, she just let herself cry—for him, for her parents, for her kingdom—as she lay across his chest, holding him close like she only got to once in life.

But then something in the grass caught her eye—something glowing. Killian’s heart. What?

She immediately sat back up and grabbed the broken halves of his heart. As soon as he stabbed it, the hard black shell had immediately dissolved, leaving behind his pure, bright red organ—and she could have sworn she saw the light fade from it completely. But no, there it was: faint, deep in the center of each half, but there was still a flickering, pulsing sign of life.

Another tear fell from her cheek onto the dull surface of his heart from where she’d set them in the grass when the Darkness started encircling her, which seemed to absorb it—and the light got a little brighter. Her heart leapt for a moment, and a spark of her magic burst free from her palm, landing on the other half—which had the same effect. She gasped; did that mean...could she…?

Focusing everything on Killian and not on her own misery, she called on that extra magic running through her, bringing it into her hands with the two halves of his heart. Her tears were still falling on it, creating a sort of magical glue, she figured, as she pressed them back together and used her magic to seal it. The bright light from her palms blinded her for a second, but when it faded, his whole, healed heart was in her grasp, glowing a bright, bold red, and the extra pressure from her excess magic was gone.

She wasted no time in pressing the organ back into his chest, trying to make sure she did it the same way he’d removed his (and, well, hers, but she wasn’t dwelling on that—it wasn’t him who had done that). And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited, staring at his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breath that should have accompanied the return of his heart. But there was nothing.

She pressed fingers to his neck, right over the little line of freckles she’d just noticed. There was a pulse, but he still wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t it working?

Immaturely, she shook him, though mostly out of frustration. “Killian, please—can you hear me? Are you there?” His head lolled to the side, but there was no other reaction. “Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

There was only one other thing she could try. She didn’t have much success with it, and it was probably a longshot—but given what their goodbye consisted of, she had to give it a go.

“Killian, I love you,” she whispered, hovering over his face. “Come back to me.” And then she pressed her lips to his, praying that her love was enough to wake him.

Killian wasn’t sure how long he spent there in the comfortable nothingness. There was no light, no sound, no feeling—it was as if he was laying on the bottom of a deep, dark pit, while at the same time floating in a void. Was this the afterlife, he wondered, or merely where the souls of Dark Ones past ended up? Perhaps he’d landed in some sort of purgatory. But he was nothing if not patient, and could wait to find out.

He briefly pondered the fates of those who’d passed before him—his mother, his brother, Milah. Had they traveled through this space, too, or did they head straight for greener pastures?

Wherever they, or he, went, one thing was for certain: Emma wasn’t yet there. He’d so loathed to leave her behind, but she was strong, possibly the strongest person he’d ever known; she’d move on past his sorry self, regardless of the fact that she loved him. At least he’d had that before leaving the mortal plane.

Slowly, a warm feeling took over him, like being washed in sunlight—though it was still dark. He took a deep breath, unnecessary as it was, as he readied for whatever came next. Oddly enough, he thought he felt his heart beating again; perhaps that was just a trick of the afterlife?

For a few long moments, it was just he and the gentle thump-thump in his chest there in the abyss. But then he saw a light, quickly getting brighter until it was nearly blinding.

And he could have swore he heard Emma’s voice.

Suddenly, pain crashed back into him—like lightning striking through his limbs and pressing down on his body, violently reigniting a fire that had burned out. He was gasping for breath, sputtering and coughing—until he felt a familiar gentle touch, and it was all immediately soothed.

“Killian?”

He blinked a few times before his eyes truly adjusted to the light—not as glaring as whatever he just experienced, but still more than the previous emptiness. And the first thing he saw was Emma, hovering over him, a smile taking over her face.

“Emma?” His voice was unsteady.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

“What...what happened?” He was dead, right? Did that mean she was...oh, no… “Emma, are you—”

“I’m right here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She felt warm enough, but a tear was falling down her cheek. Beyond her, he saw the garden—but it wasn’t at all how he remembered; it looked much like it did after his very first visit: dead, dried up, dark.

“Where are we?” he asked shakily, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“We’re still in the garden,” she explained calmly, albeit a bit watery. “You...you were gone and then the Darkness was free, but I—I beat it, or destroyed it, or something, and then—your heart! Oh, your heart—I fixed it, and, and then…” She was rambling and crying and grinning and he only caught half of what she was partially explaining, but the last part sounded loud and clear: “True Love’s Kiss,” she said, reverently.

He was aware of his mouth hanging agape as he stared up at his angel, his actual savior. “I...I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“And we’re…” He hardly dared to put it into words.

“Mhmm.”

He exhaled and stared up at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent and leaving a deep blue behind. So he hadn’t seen his last sunset yet, or the stars, or the sea; he had a second chance. It was almost impossible to believe, but as he took another deep breath, and another, it sunk in.

The Darkness hadn’t won. Emma had. Love had.

“Nothing else to say?” Emma quipped nervously, then sniffled. Oh, gods, he’d been silent ever since the revelation—what poor form!

Quickly, he sat up—but immediately swayed in his spot at the rush of blood; he’d have to get used to that, and so many other mortal complaints, again. Emma gripped his shoulders and anchored him as he waited for the sensation to abate, too slowly, in his opinion.

But once the light-headedness passed, he gripped her hand and met her tear-filled eyes. “I...I have no idea what to say to that, love,” he stammered. “It’s nothing I ever imagined hearing, and more than I ever dared to consider or hope for. I’m...I’m speechless.”

“In a good way, right?”

He chuckled, but it came out almost like a sob. “In the best way anyone can imagine. It—you—is more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Hey—enough of that,” Emma said softly, cupping his cheek with her free hand; it felt so, so warm, and he realized all he’d been missing out on. “For starters, that was never true, and it’s even less true now. You deserve peace and happiness, Killian; you always have. And this?” She continued, placing her other hand over his heart, “is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. Not that I have many hearts to compare it to, but just so you know. I love you—I did then and I do now; so much now. So please stop beating yourself up, because today? You were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks now. “I love you, too, darling. More than I thought I could. Thank you for saving this sorry lost soul.”

Before they could continue down a spiral of platitudes, Emma pulled him close to kiss him, this time in celebration. It wasn’t a particularly long or deep kiss—his return to mortality did inhibit that a bit—but it was sweet and gentle and carried the promise of so much more.

thank you so much for reading! epilogue to come!

tags: @kat2609 @optomisticgirl @thesschesthair @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @selfie-wench @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @queen-mabs-revenge @killianmesmalls @distant-rose @sherlockianwhovian @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @nfbagelperson @the-captains-ayebrows @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis @wyntereyez @lfh1962 @bmbbcs4evr @therooksshiningknight @facesiousbutton82

[negare-boshi]

Prompt; Kyoutani and Yahaba being forced to share a bed, sarcasm, bantering, blushing, cuddles, denial etc ensues. (Honestly I just love this trope XD)

HI, HELLO, THANK YOU! I don’t know if this is what you wanted ;___; i tried. 

(also i started it like three times and i might develope one of those into a ‘future fic’ thingy because why not, so THANKS)

Here we go

Yahaba is about to die.

If it’s of a heart attack or in the hands of a bloody youkai, he doesn’t know, but if Yahaba has to take another step in this darkness, he’s sure he won’t make it out alive.

“Watari?”

Watari doesn’t answer. Yahaba has lost him some corridors ago, right when the lights had gone out on them. The storm has been raging for hours, now, but its intensity hasn’t decreased on the least. Yahaba’s heart will explode if another lighting flashes on him.

Taking in a sharp breath of courage, Yahaba keeps walking forward. He’s not sure where he is, exactly, but if his memory doesn’t betray him, the next door should have some of Aoba’s players.

Yahaba’s heart is beating out of rhythm by the time he knocks on it, thunder crashing somewhere on his back. There’s sweat running down his spine, no matter the unraged wind hitting the windows. Something cold touches his nape. Yahaba thinks, It’s a breeze, it’s a fucking breeze, it’s a goddamn—

The door opens right when Yahaba’s turning around and a lighting lights up the outside, shaping a shadow that should not be there at all.

Yahaba shrieks so loud he scares himself, and he jumps into the room and into whomever has opened the door with enough strength to throw them both to the ground.

“Close the door! Close the door, close—˝

“Shut up!”

Yahaba’s fingers dig on Kyoutani’s arm, —of course Kyoutani had to be the one to witness Yahaba’s worst panicked moment—, and doesn’t let go even when Kyoutani leans forward and kicks the door closed.

Another thunder resounds around them, and Yahaba can’t hold the little whimper that leaves his lips.

“You scared of storms or what?”

Yahaba frowns and glares at him, (glare might be too nice a word, for Yahaba’s squinting, trying to make out where Kyoutani’s face really is).

“It’s not the storm, I—” don’t tell him you felt something, don’t tell him you felt something, don’t— “There was… something… outside.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Seriously?”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not.” Kyoutani sits beside him and grabs his wrist. “Let go, dammit, you’re gonna make me bleed.”

“There was something,” Yahaba repeats, and there’s panic in his words now. “I felt… I felt it, okay?”

“You’re full of shit.”

Yahaba growls at him. “Yeah? If you’re so sure there’s nothing, let’s go!”

Kyoutani snorts. Yahaba doesn’t see him clearly enough to hit him, although he wants to very much. “This is my room. Don’t wanna step outside for shit, thanks.”

“Oh, so much for the brave stance, huh.”

“I’m not scared,” Kyoutani groans. “Whatcha doing here, anyway?”

“I’m looking for Watari. He got lost when we—”

Another thunder, this time so close Yahaba’s bones clatter. He’s not aware he’s grabbing Kyoutani’s arm and has his nose buried in his shoulder till the echo vanishes and his heartbeat falls into a regular pace.

“You are scared of storms,” Kyoutani says, amused.

“Shut up.”

But this time Kyoutani doesn’t untangle Yahaba’s fingers from his arm, no matter how hard Yahaba’s still holding him. Kyoutani’s pulse is constant under Yahaba’s hand, warm and solid and real.

Yahaba doesn’t want to let go, but the lights are still off, Watari’s still lost, the storm—

“What were you doing outside, then?”

“Trying to find the fuses.”

“Do you even know where they are?”

“Obviously not.”

“That’s pretty dumb, then.”

“What—”

Another lighting, another thunder. Yahaba controls better the sound of pain this time, maybe because Kyoutani’s hand covers Yahaba’s, and Yahaba’s heart skips a beat for reasons not related to the stupid storm.

It’s not fair. Yahaba oughtn’t be feeling safe in a room with Kyoutani, of all people. Not when—

“Scared of storms, scared of ghost, starts something without knowing how the fuck it’s supposed to happen… really, how did you manage to become captain?”

Yahaba snarls. “You little piece of—”

They both see it, this time. Yahaba knows, because Kyoutani’s heart goes from steady to mad crazy in a second under his fingers, his muscles tense and cold on his grip.

It’s just a second, the lighting showing them the shadowed figure of something, —someone— on the door from outside the window, but it’s enough to make Yahaba want to crawl under the tatami and die in piece.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

“That— What?”

“WE ARE GOING TO DIE!” Yahaba screams, all composure lost, nose buried in Kyoutani’s shoulder. “Oh, god, we are going to die! I knew I shouldn’t have let Watari convince me to book this shitty place!”

“Calm the fuck down.”

“You calm down! We are gonna get murdered!”

Kyoutani grabs Yahaba’s arms and shakes him, but it only makes Yahaba’s panic worsen, because as soon as they turn he can see the window, and what looks like a hanging body right outside. The shriek he lets out probably deafens Kyoutani, but what surely chokes him is the deadly grip Yahaba has now on his neck.

He can’t bear stare at anything, so he closes his eyes and lets Kyoutani’s warmth be the only real thing in his world.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

“Can you fucking calm down?”

“I already told you I can’t!”

“God, you are so fucking annoying.”

Yahaba wants to say, I know that, I know that, you don’t need to remind me, I know I’m annoying and I always yell at you and that you hate me, probably, and that you wish it’d been anyone else who’d stumbled into your room.

But what leaves his mouth is, “I can’t move.”

Yahaba waits a second for the mocking remark, but Kyoutani only sighs deeply and soundly. “I really don’t understand how you made it this far.”

It stings, but Yahaba’s lips are sealed for all he’s worth. He shakes his head, Kyoutani’s groan heavier than any thunder so far.

“You saw it too, though, didn’t you.”

Kyoutani stiffens under Yahaba. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yahaba wants to yell at him, I’m not crazy! I know you saw!, but a part of him relishes the fact Kyoutani’s not losing his shit, too.

“I need to go find the fuses, but—”

“Pointless. It’s the middle of the night, anyway. If they aren’t asleep, fuck them.”

That brings another question into matter.

“I can’t—”

“Move, yeah. So you say.”

“Stop being so condescending.”

“At least I’m not laughing at you. Be thankful.”

“Thankful!” Yahaba leans back, eyes open. He’s close enough to Kyoutani, they’ve been in the dark long enough that he can see the shape of his nose, the sneer on his lips, the light in his eyes. They are close enough Yahaba can feel his breath. “Oh yes, my big brave ace, you’ve been nothing but helpful.”

“Tone the sarcasm down.”

“You tone it down!”

Maybe Yahaba’s mental capacities aren’t in their best shape, his retorts nothing short of childish and typical of what one would expect of a ten year old. Kyoutani arches an eyebrow, and somehow his hands shift and find Yahaba’s waist.

The blush has nothing to do with that. The raise in his body temperature is just a reaction to the closed room, to the fact they are burning oxygen faster, being this close.

“You feeling better?”

“No!”

“You are nothing but work, you know.”

“I am– Seriously? Says the man who can’t even listen to what I say when we practice.”

“That’s not true. I do listen, I just ignore most of your orders, because they suck.”

“That’s it,” Yahaba growls, a hand on his hip, the other pointing at Kyoutani’s face. “You are reckless and suck at teamwork and you believe your perception of a game is better than anyone else’s.”

“So do you.”

“I am the captain!”

Kyoutani huffs. “And so what? That doesn’t mean you know what’s best for the team all the time, or what are the best plays in every single match.”

That’s true. It hurts, but it is true, although Yahaba has been trying to ignore that same fact since he became captain three months ago, trying to fill the space Oikawa left behind.

“Take that expression off your face,” Kyoutani growls, and Yahaba blinks in surprise. “I’m not attacking you, don’t take it personally.”

“It feels pretty personal.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

“Really? Because when you say—˝

Lighting and thunder, all together, happen three times in a row, with no break in between for Yahaba’s sanity to find any peace. He makes a strangled sound of despair, his hands again on Kyoutani, the only real thing in the world right now, and by the time it passes, he’s sweating as if he’d just played a five sets match.

“Your heart is beating like crazy.”

“I’m not feeling very good right now.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“I can’t sleep with this storm going on!”

“I’ll sleep with you,” Kyoutani muters, already shifting away from Yahaba’s grip.

“What?”

“You heard me. Bring your ass here, come on.”

“I don’t wanna—˝

But the next thunder has Yahaba on his hands and knees, crawling to the futon in less than a second. Kyoutani’s already there, and he pulls the blanket over their heads, covering them from the darkness, the rain and the light.

They’ll probably have to take it off soon, but Yahaba’s thankful for the heavy air, Kyoutani’s warmth and the protective veil they build around him.

“Thanks.”

Kyoutani shrugs. They are nose to nose, their hands almost brushing. Yahaba’s pinky finger twitches, so close to Kyoutani’s he’s tempted of tangling them, of holding him. It’s dumb. Kyoutani is Yahaba’s main source of frustration, of anger, of hurt. Sometimes, when they play something magic happens and they sync, and they know what the other’s thinking without words, and they just become this tandem of ace and setter, of partners, Yahaba has trouble imagine on his own.

But those times are few and hard to arise. The trick of their happening it’s just a mystery to Yahaba’s eager senses, so he usually ends up mad at Kyoutani for not filling up all his expectations.

“You okay?”

“Am I a bad captain?” Yahaba whispers, the words leaving his lips without his permission. It’s too late to back down now, so he says, “Am I a bad captain to you?”

“What’s with that question?”

“Answer me.”

Kyoutani shifts closer, and their fingers touch. Yahaba’s heart stutters in his chest. All his attention focuses on his hand, on the spot where they are touching, on the skin that could be touching his next.

“I think you’re a good captain, but you need to listen more. You’re not Oikawa, you know.”

“I know,” Yahaba says, hurt, hurt, hurt, because that’s what Kyoutani does, hurt Yahaba with his power, with his presence, with his truths.

“I’m not saying it to be mean,” Kyoutani presses, because he’s a sharp bastard as well. “Not being Oikawa it’s not a bad thing.”

“So you say.”

A thunder echoes around them. Yahaba flinches, unbidden, still scared of the shadows even under the covers of this little world Kyoutani has made for him. Another thunder is crashing over them when Kyoutani says, “Come here”, and grabs Yahaba so his head rests on his arm, his nose in his chest.

Yahaba doesn’t bother hiding his fear, nor does he pretend it to be an accident when his arms cross from his body to Kyoutani’s, circling his waist. A soft hand finds his hair, and brushes it, soothing his fears away.

“Just go to sleep, would you? No point on going to bed if you keep talking bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

Kyoutani’s muscles move under his palms. He’s so warm. And he smells good, too.

“Kyoutani.”

“Mmmh?”

Yahaba has so many things to say. You are a jerk anyway. This was nice. Did you really not see anything? Please, help me be a better captain. God, you smell so good. Can we do this tomorrow too? Please, please, can you let me sleep with you every night we stay in this awful place? Would that be okay? Would you like that? Do you like me?

Does this mean something to you too?

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Just spit it out.”

“No.”

“Goddammit, Yahaba, I swear—”

Another thunder. Yahaba tightens his arms, buries himself in Kyoutani’s body. Their legs tangle. Yahaba maybe whimpers in fear.

“I hate storms.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I can’t sleep, even if—”

“Not enough, huh?”

Yahaba’s too lost to the never stopping fall of thunder after thunder, so loud now it’s as if trees are being crashed by a divine force in this same room. He feels small and meaningless, his mind a chaos of scenarios of death and shadows in walls and scary tales, and so he says, “It’s not enough distraction, okay? I can’t play deaf. I can’t ignore—˝

“God, you are fucking difficult, aren’t you.”

Yahaba means to answer him, —the banter is keeping him sane,— but he has no chance to word anything else because as soon as he leans his head back to growl at Kyoutani, Kyoutani is there, there, there everywhere, and he’s looking at him with enough intensity to make the world just vanish and he—

Yahaba lets himself be kissed, because the roar of his blood in his ears finally quiets the crazy nature around him. He lets himself be kissed a second time because Kyoutani has the most beautiful eyes up close, and a third because Yahaba might have dreamt of kissing Kyoutani more times than he cares to admit.

They are chaste and short and dry, but Yahaba doesn’t care. He wants Kyoutani to keep kissing him, just like this, for the rest of the damn night.

But Kyoutani stops at the fourth time, so red Yahaba knows he’s blushing by how hot his face feels.

“Better, now?”

“No,” Yahaba says, just to piss him off. “Kiss me again.”

“What? No! I was just— I was just distracting you! Shut up, I’m not kissing you again.”

“Fine, then I will.”

Kyoutani lets himself be kissed too, although Yahaba doesn’t pretend to know his reasons. It’s rougher, this time, because Yahaba has little to no self control at this point. Kyoutani’s hands are gentle on Yahaba’s face, and his lips are gentler still, and by the time the storm clears off, Yahaba has memorised Kyoutani’s lips by heart.

It’s funny, when Kyoutani says, “Now you owe me,” as if the little paradise he’s built for Yahaba under his covers were nothing but a one sided favor.

But what really brings a laugh to Yahaba’s lips is when he answers, “Fine. I’ll make it up to you tonight,” and Kyoutani, beat red, chuckles with the softest of expressions, and nods.

[whatifexo]

A JJP Series: Today - JB (Preview)

(They say to love like there’s no tomorrow...)

The crash happens while you’re attempting to merge lanes.

You swear you made sure to look, not once but thrice, gauging the blurred lights on your side mirror and passing in front of the car that had seemed far away enough. You could say it was because of the rain. You could say that the pressure overcame you, that you were racing against the passing time that refused to wait for you.

A minute ago, you’d been accelerating without fear of the wet roads, pleading that you make it in time for your first internship. A minute later, you’re hearing the screech of metal and your body is being jolted forward. You don’t realize your car has lost control until you feel the wheels under you skidding sideways to a stop, just missing the guard rail, your life quite literally flashing before your eyes in an instant.

You find your hands shaking when you glance up at yourself through the crooked rearview mirror.

Except for your flushed cheeks, there are no signs of injury. No blood. All limbs intact.

The storm of honking behind you brings you back to your senses.  

“Are you fucking crazy?”

The driver of the other car is knocking on your window.

Drenched in rain, he has his phone pressed against his ear, probably calling for the police. Instead of worry, anger lines his face like the crack of thunderbolt.

His rude shouting somehow dissolves your fear and aggravates you instead, while a part of you also admits that you’re mostly at fault. But your swelled up pride wins out over admitting those faults. The idea of losing even such a trivial and obvious battle as this one is utterly humiliating and embarrassing for you.

Especially since you just made a rookie mistake by trying to rush to work.

At least you’re willing to admit that you’re about to do something incredibly stupid.

Instead of rolling down the window and apologizing profusely or trading insurance information like what you’re generally supposed to do after a crash, you unbuckle your seatbelt and step out into the rain.  

The guy is in mid-sentence on his phone--something about giving directions and reporting a crash caused by ‘a dumb bitch’--when you slam your door closed and look up at him with blazing eyes.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that the idea of courtesy died with the beginning of your very existence.” you shout over the roar of the storm, the cars whizzing by, and the driver’s angry conversation over the line.

He stops yelling into his phone for a moment, jaw dropping open at your brazenness. You can see that he’s pissed, absolutely insulted, and you can already tell what kind of response he has in store for you.

“What did you just say to me?”

He steps forward with a threatening glare, puncturing your personal bubble until your back hits the side of your car. From up close, you can tell how young he is. The sharp angles on his face create an illusion of older age. You know better than to be fooled, because a proper adult wouldn’t choose to wear ripped jeans on a rainy day or drive at sixty miles per hour in a forty zone. A proper adult wouldn’t stand in the rain long enough just to fight a reckless girl and get their clothes soaked.

You’re aware of all this, yet you’re still fanning the flames.

“It’s shitty enough that I’m late for my internship. But to get hit by a self-absorbed asshole? I must’ve murdered a whole town in my past life.”

“Are you kidding?” the guy scoffs, pounding his hand against your car. “I think you’re forgetting who fucking swerved into my lane without even thinking about it!”

“If you care to know, I checked three full times and saw a clear road!”

“Well damn then, let me call an eye doctor for your blind ass while I’m at it!”

“My ‘blind ass’ happened to keep your speeding ass in check!”

“Fuck me, you’re one to talk!”

“I may have lost a very important job opportunity because of you!”

“And because of you, my boss is going to slit my throat once he finds out that I wrecked his company’s car!”

You’re close to throwing fists by the time the police and ambulance arrive. You only break apart when an officer threatens to arrest the both of you if you don’t stop disturbing the peace, which makes no sense to you as the thunderous sky and building traffic are nowhere close to peaceful. But you���ve done enough damage here. At least you allow yourself to get examined by the paramedics.

On the other hand, the driver that had hit you is preoccupied with inspecting his car, running his fingers over the dent on his hood somberly as if he’d just lost a precious member of his family. Obviously, he has more concern for his vehicle than an actual person.

“Insolent prick.” you mutter under your breath when he later joins you in the back of the towing truck.

“I heard that.” he hisses back, the driver next to you shifting uncomfortably at your exchange of hostilities.

It takes hours to settle your dispute and walk away as calmly as you can with your car totaled and many dollars to spend. You contact your internship with dread in your chest, your mouth going dry when the famous reporter, Mark Tuan, answers the phone in an effortlessly smooth tone.

You explain your situation to the best of your abilities, stuttering an account of the day’s horrific events.

Mark generously offers to cover your medical expenses as soon as he hears the word, ‘accident,’ insisting that the company is also partly at fault for calling you in at such a short notice. You politely decline. You won’t know what to do with yourself if you ever allowed someone like Mark to pay for your mistakes. You tell him that you won’t take it to heart if he chooses to fire you.

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. I’m still more than happy to offer you the spot, Ms. ________.” Mark’s hospitality is so off the charts that you almost wish he had been the one who’d hit you instead.

At least you might’ve reacted a little differently if the other driver hadn’t been so rude. Not that it matters now. You’ve lost your car, yes, but your internship is intact and you’re one step closer to your dreams. You refuse to let one boy ruin this for you.

It isn’t too late. After all, you hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.

~~~

See the Light Gazette is a surprisingly humble building that fits a cozy team of 30. Mark Tuan himself greets you in the narrow hallways, leading you through a short tour of the newsrooms that has your head spinning as busybodies fly past you in full speed, many with paper or cellphones and tablets in hand.

“Sorry for the madness,” Mark says after he’s stopped for the fifth time in the middle of the hall. “We’re nearing a major deadline so everyone is in panic mode.”

“Does this happen often?” you peek around the corner of the break room curiously where a man with fluffy, golden bleached hair is lying face down on the floor.

He shows no signs of movement. He might be dead for all you know.

“Youngjae, please.” Mark groans, as if this kind of scene happens so frequently he’s long gotten used to it. “Now is not the time.”

It takes a short moment, but the body eventually stirs. At last, a sign of life.

“Is that salvation I’m hearing?” Youngjae’s muffled voice responds eagerly. He springs back up to his feet with his hair standing wildly from static, eyes scrunching at you in confusion and then widening in delight when he recognizes the tag around your neck.

He stretches out a hand with a grin.

“Nice to finally meet you, intern. I’m Choi Youngjae. Features editor. Kinda dying. You can find me in the break room napping most of the time.”

“Um, a pleasure,” you glance down at his outstretched hand and then to his electrified hair.  “I think I’ll pass on that handshake.”

Mark bursts out into a short laugh.

“The girl’s got spunk. I like her already. Are you sure Jaebum recommended her?”

“Oh my god,” Youngjae dramatically cups his hands together and presses them to his mouth. “Did you just say ‘spunk?’ I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Youngjae…”

You stop listening when Mark launches into a lengthy lecture. His gentle nagging simply flies by your head. Professionalism. Respect in the workplace. Timely coffee breaks. Forbidding naps in the break room. Etcetera. The two have moved on to discussing the gazette, but your thoughts linger with the name that Mark had previously mentioned and glossed over.

Jaebum.

You frown. You’re somehow familiar with the name but can’t match a face to it. Well, you amend that it’s more of remembering the right person. Jaebum is a common name, after all. You’ve known several Jaebums in your life. One was a mischievous classmate in elementary school. Another was a previous neighbor who smoked half of his lungs away on his front porch every morning. And finally, the most recent one you can remember was your supposed date to prom. Apparently, he’d only asked you out as a dare. He was rewarded fifty bucks for getting you to say yes.

Long story short, you’ve had quite a dark history with boys named Jaebum. You’re certain that every Jaebum you run into will curse your life in one way or another. And even if you’re in the building of your dreams surrounded by people who you look up to, this fourth Jaebum is bound to cross paths with you too.

It’s only a matter of when.

~~~            

Turns out, you don’t have to wait too long to find out.

Jaebum of See the Light Gazette makes his appearance in the middle of your lunch break. You’ve shoved half your sandwich down your throat, counting down the few minutes until you’re expected to return to your desk and continue with filing recently edited papers. You’re so focused on devouring your lunch as quickly as possible that you don’t notice someone approaching your table.

“Oh, you must be the other intern. I’ve got a few ads that recently came in and I could use-“

You recognize each other almost simultaneously, though you’re a little quicker to identify his face.

You actually witness his expression morph from a distant, polite friendliness to pure shock and horrification. Likewise, your face must show a similar type of reaction. You remember clearly now. The brief flash of his license in the rain, being handed to the police. The name imprinted on it. Im Jaebum.

Suspended in a stifling silence, you merely stare at each other for a long while.

“What the hell?” you question out loud just as Jaebum exclaims, “You’re the one who wrecked my car!”

Everyone in the cafeteria stops and turns in your direction.

It takes every ounce of effort to control your emotions, forcing your expression to turn complacent. Casual.

“Sit.” you hiss at Jaebum, ignoring the soft, curious murmurs of the reporters around you.

Jaebum has flushed scarlet, head dipping down in shame before he slowly slides into the seat across from you. Some of the reporters resume eating. Others continue to eye the both of you with interest. You’ve become a show. An embarrassment. All thanks to this jackass in front of you.

And yet….

---

GUYSSSSSSSS. I’m 1000 years late for this concept, I know, but I can’t pick a better time than to finally start writing for got7 amidst their October comeback jdshjkashkdjlashj. This is a snippet of something I’ve been working on in between my classes and my crazy working hours, but I’m loving every second of writing it. I hope you enjoy the teaser for now. I’ve also left out some key things for the purpose of no spoilers, so stay tuned. Teehee. Anyway. Please forgive the crazy format of my blog rn, I’m changing things around and redoing my masterlist because I’ve started writing for a second group. My babies :3

[irlaimsaaralath]

Kissy Prompt

The original ask disappeared from my inbox, so here’s this.  Prompted by @solverne (thank you!).  It was #16 on the kissy list (a kiss that should not have been).

*THIS* would be what the IT guy caught me writing.  I mean, all things considered, at least it wasn’t the last Solas prompt, ammirite?

Pairing is my human Inquisitor, Caitlin, and our dear Commander Cullen.

It had begun innocently enough.  After the incident with the guard, when Caitlin’d been unconscious in the cell, Cullen had tried to keep an eye on her when she was among the soldiers.  He would not tolerate a repeat of that near-travesty.  Between issuing instruction to soldiers during sparring matches, his eyes would seek her out.  He’d find her talking with Cassandra or trying out a new piece of armor Harritt had forged for her.  Other times, she’d be walking with Varric, which inevitably led to blushing or laughter on her part.  It seemed to please the dwarf immensely when she smiled at his stories.  Cullen could understand why; the simple gesture lit up her entire face.  Most frequently, though, he found Caitlin at the training dummies, bow in hand, burying arrow after arrow into the burlap-clad figures with an accuracy that was enviable.  When he admired her skill, it was impossible to not also notice that the years she’d spent honing it had made her body lithely muscled.  The long lines of her arms were shapely, shoulders always rolled back in practiced habit that made her stand that much straighter, and he could only imagine the taut strength in her back.  

And, he did imagine it, however much he tried to resist the temptation.  He’d shake his head and attempt to return his focus to the task at hand.  It wasn’t proper, and they could afford no indiscretions in an organization that existed outside the sheltering grace of the Chantry’s approval.  She also had more important things on her mind; she was still mourning.  While the rest of them spent evenings in the tavern, Caitlin typically chose to be alone, at least at first.  From Leliana, he'd been made aware that two of her elder brothers had been at the Conclave, and he had had the unfortunate duty of passing on the confirmation they were both recorded as in attendance.  He'd not had to deliver the news personally, but he'd heard her reaction had been...tremendous.  Cullen was still trying to confirm the location of her remaining brother, who was a templar in training.  It wasn't yet clear if he'd been at the Conclave, and the Commander prayed that would not the the case.  

As their time in Haven pressed on, he continued his protective vigil, though as her legend as the Herald of Andraste solidified and spread, he doubted it was truly necessary.   And yet, he maintained watch, and her influence, even if it were unconscious on her part, was insidious.  He found his thoughts turning to her in his scant hours of repose, late in the night and hours before daybreak, when he should have been sleeping.  When she teasingly flirted with him in the training yard, he somehow managed to return in kind, despite his apprehension and his tendency to stumble over such encounters.  He always chastised himself for it afterward.  Indulging even in play that could never be anything more would likely only lead to heartbreak for one or the both of them.  He imagined it was more likely to be him, however.  He was a wasted shadow of a man, plagued by ghosts of the lyrium that his blood summoned and memories that his mind couldn’t stop replaying.  He had nothing to offer her.

Then it came to light that she had been at the Conclave as part of the Ostwick Chantry’s envoy -- as a lay sister that had been affirmed!  He was certain he paled at the revelation, and he thanked the Maker that it was either too subtle to notice or that Leliana and Josephine had been too graceful to mention it.  He knew that it was unlikely that she had yet taken vows, but even so, she was a sister in the Chantry.  She was not available for his attentions nor those of anyone else.  This on top of being the Herald of Andraste.  He had been surprised by how gravely he’d taken the news.  Yes, he’d been admiring her from afar almost since she’d stumbled out of the Fade.  Yes, he had participated in a bit of back and forth flirting with her.  But, he hadn’t realized he’d become so invested in the idea of her, that he would be so affected by losing something that was never his.  With an effort he’d never expended before, he forcibly disengaged from her, shunning all untoward thoughts of her.  

When shuffling his feelings aside proved not to be a strong enough deterrent, he locked himself down entirely.  It wasn’t a pleasant thing, to turn off, but it was a skill he’d made use of from time to time as Templar.  It made his demeanor as cold as the fist he felt clench in his stomach every time he saw her.  The change in him didn’t escape her notice when her coquettish prods ceased to elicit a response in him.  He had to give it to her, however; she was quite stubborn and only relented after several failed attempts, and even then only gradually.  The confusion she first displayed faded into disappointment that she was miserable at hiding then into resignation.  When she stopped visiting him in the training yard, failed to seek his council after meetings, and gave him no notice after hours in the tavern, he knew his efforts had succeeded.   And, the knowledge gave him the distinct desire to hit something.  The closest he could get to that was sparring with the soldiers, and they unquestionably suffered with him.  

All that effort fell apart when Corypheus brought his forces to Haven.  The fight had brought them fleetingly together in the face of the attack, battling side by side off and on throughout.  But then the dragon arrived.  Forced to retreat, the mission became to save as many lives as possible, and that meant running.  But even then, their chances were slim.  When Chancellor Roderick shared his knowledge of the hidden trail, a measure of Cullen’s hope was renewed...and then dashed again when it was decided that she would have to stay behind to secure their escape.  It was she that insisted that he lead the survivors out.  He had protested, but only momentarily.  There was no time.  No time to tell her he was sorry for how distant he’d been.  How he seemed to off-handedly discard her.  To explain.  The two halves of himself warred even as he turned to leave:  the half that wanted to stay, to bear this burden for her, and the half that had spent a lifetime as a dutiful soldier, compelled to follow a direct order.  He hadn’t looked back a single time until they were well out of harm’s way, until he heard an echoing thunder fill the cloudless night.  He turned in time to see the whole mountainside come down, burying Haven in a deluge of snow and rock.  

His mouth suddenly went dry, and his heartbeat slowed to a dull thud that seemed to reverberate in the cavernous cavity of his ribcage.  Before he realized what he was doing, he’d taken several steps back the way they’d come.  It was only Cassandra’s hand on his shoulder that stopped him.  While the Seeker had a sometimes uneasy grip on her faith, she did believe, and the wordless glance they shared seemed to reflect his own hopes for another miracle.  The thin, pressed line of her mouth that nearly made her lips disappear, on the other hand, confessed that the realist in her was doubtful.  Cullen took in a breath of the frigid air and used the chill to draw the steel from his marrow, giving him the willpower to tear his eyes away from what had once been Haven and follow Cassandra.  ---  Once they’d made camp for the night, he allowed himself to look back across the plains of snow, their footsteps already blanketed in fresh powder to hide their tracks.  He should have stayed.  He should have sent her ahead and remained behind.  The Inquisition would survive without him.  It would not survive without her.  

His arms were bundled tight against his chest, the feathered mane of his mantle ruffled by the wind against his jaw.  He couldn’t bring himself to leave his vigil, and so he waited and watched.  The wind howled through the mountain pass, all other sounds muffled to the thick silence that comes with deep snowfall.  It somehow seemed unnatural.  Wind and temperature had pinked his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and both felt cold enough to crack, but he’d declined all invitations and suggestions and demands that he come closer to the fire.  He intended to hold his post until either he was physically unable or Caitlin walked out of the whiteout storm raging through the mountains.  As if the gusts of niveous wind weren’t enough to obscure his vision, his breaths painted opaque plumes on the air.  Beneath his sabatons, he could no longer feel his toes, and logically, he knew that he was straying into territory where frostbite was a valid concern.  He scrubbed a gloved hand over his face, then threaded his fingers back into his hair and turned toward the camp.

He’d taken only a few steps when the piercing howl of a wolf rose over the wind, and he paused.  It wasn’t unusual, but something about it tugged at him, so much so that he slid his gaze across the pass once more.  There was nothing, only the white of the snow swept up in the wind, his breath clouding his vision.  Flakes of ice clung to his eyelashes as he stepped further into the drifts and squinted narrowly into the darkness.  The last notes of the wolf’s song had faded, replaced again by only the wind, and his eyes could find nothing had hadn’t been there before.  Then, he saw movement.  A dark figure against a darker horizon.  He trudged a few steps further into the snow, and his heart stopped for a moment when a flicker of green erupted from the shadow.  “It’s her!” he yelled back toward the camp as he took off, eyes never straying from her as she stumbled, then sank to her knees.  Maker’s breath, he whispered to himself before he called again, “It’s the Herald!”

When he plucked her out of the snow, she was shivering uncontrollably and on the verge of unconsciousness.  By the time the others caught up to him, his mantle was wrapped around her, and she lay across his arms as he waded through the snowdrifts.  Once back at camp, he’d no sooner ducked into one of the tents and laid her out on a cot before a flurry of healers and Chantry clerics shuffled him out.  He was left standing dumbly just beyond the tent flaps as they swung shut to bar his view of her.  Afterward, he proceeded to wait.  And, when he could no longer wait in stillness, he paced in long, marching strides that carried him down the line of the tents and back again.  He failed to notice, but Cassandra observed him in a careful silence, while Leliana covertly scrutinized him from beneath her shadowed hood as she murmured hushed prayers.  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when Cassandra uttered a hopeful “Sister?” as one of the clerics exited the tent, he knew it only took him the space of a few breaths to be standing at her side.  

“She’s alive,” the woman said, and though she continued talking, Cullen couldn’t recall what was said after that.  The torrent of relief that rushed through him made his head light, and he parted the tent’s flaps with a pair of fingers to peek in.  Caitlin was stretched out on the cot, hands folded over her stomach, eyes closed, and hair disheveled.  She was pale, her normally tanned skin sallow, and a bandage stretched across her forehead.  He was able to see nothing else before one of the healers complained that he was letting the cold in and shoo’d him away.  --  Once it was established that there was an Inquisition left to save, decisions had to be made.  What had begun as a discussion between the advisors soon became impassioned voices raised in disagreement.  Then the whole of it dissolved into something more like the shouting one might encounter in a barroom, where everyone is talking without saying anything and no one is really listening.  At the ruckus, Mother Giselle strode from the Inquisitor’s tent, and in her presence, fighting ceased almost immediately.

Sometime after, when tempers had cooled, the fire burned a little lower, and most were settled for the night, he caught a glimpse of Caitlin as she slipped from her tent.  It was dark, and though she hugged the shadows like lost friends, he could tell she was unaware she was being watched and was still wearing his mantle as she disappeared into the darkness.  He was helpless but to follow, and when he found her, she was standing a short distance from the tents, gazing toward the buried remains of Haven.  The snow beneath his feet made a compacted crunch as he approached her, and she didn’t turn when she spoke, “I should be dead.”  It was said in an even tone, touched by neither grief nor marvel; it was a simple statement of fact.  “It seems the Maker would disagree,” he offered, infusing only a hint of mirth into his words as he came to stand behind her at her elbow.  The sigh she exhaled was tinged with weariness, irritation, and impatience, and a sickly green light reflected off the snow when she raised her marked hand.  

“I don’t see the Maker’s in this,” she confessed as she turned away from the endless drifts of white and snow to face him instead.  “I do,” he answered in return, and the words came out softer than he’d intended, laden with emotion he wasn’t free to express.  Nearly a head shorter than he, Caitlin’s violet eyes flitted back and forth over his, and a dull ache suffused his chest at the recognition of burden in her eyes.  Just as quickly as it had risen, however, it was gone again, and she shrugged out of his mantle.  The act struck him only as a conversation-changer, as he’d neither asked for it back nor needed it, and so he said nothing further on the topic.  “Thank you.  It was you that pulled me from the snow, was it not?” was her perfunctory question as she offered the garment out to him.  He realized then that the look in her eyes was at least partially because she was still braced for his rejection.  It was her answer to the cold facade he’d been wearing in her presence.  Mutely, he nodded once and took a step closer, reaching out to take his mantle.  His fingers accidentally brushed her knuckles but for a moment, and their eyes met.  

He wasn’t sure what possessed him, as he distinctly remembered his own voice in his head warning him from the action, but he found his hand slipping past hers to lightly encircle her wrist.  Like a sliver of sun slicing momentarily through the clouds on an overcast day, alarm flashed across her eyes as he took another step closer and tugged her forward.  He could feel the warmth of her body radiating to his when his palm swept against her jawline, lifting her face as he brought his lips down to hers.  He was still locked eye-to-eye with her when she stiffened beneath his hand, but as the tension drained away, an arm found its way about her waist, pulling her flush against him.  It was then that her eyes fell closed, and the kiss began in earnest.  At first, her response was wooden, immalleable and inert, as if she was unsure of herself and of him.  But by increments, she acclimated, and the curve of her mouth became soft and yielding, moving over his with a timidness that was endearing.  A small, meek hum was startled from her throat when his tongue traced her lower lip, but it was consumed when she parted to him.  His touch was cautious, a shallow darting that slowly sought and found, drawing deeper as she tilted her face up and rose onto her toes.  A streak of heat sank through him from head to toe when her hand grazed his stomach, and his reserved mein grew shaky.

He felt more than heard the sound that her touch elicited; it rumbled into his chest before being lost between them.  It provoked a forceful but pleasing response in her, and the weight of her mouth on his grew heavier, deeper.  His head was spinning, stirring thoughts that whirled in his mind.  But, the voice was a dim whisper, easily ignored.  His voice was soon joined by hers, a faltering sound that at first he didn’t recognize, but grew to understand when she planted her palms against his chest and pushed herself away.  Her sudden departure left him cold and stupefied.  It was only when they stood staring at each other, misty breaths mingling in the frigid air that the gravity of what he’d done settled fully and abruptly on him.  Violet eyes wide and unblinking, she raised a hand, fingers coming to rest lightly on her lips.  “Maker...Caitlin, I’m sorry,” he pushed out in a rush, taking a small step forward.  Without a word, she shoved his mantle into his open hands and darted past him.  He could only watch her go, slipping out of sight between the tents.

An audible groan left him as his head fell back, and he stared into the cloud-darkened sky.  “Why?  Why would you do that?” he asked of himself, and when only the deep silence of the night answered him, he swore and threw his mantle into the snow in frustration.

[scriimgeour-blog]

‟ ‼ ♜ ✒››› in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

a character study. ~8K words.

trigger warnings: violence, torture, mental illness, alcohol, gore, blood, death, parental death, self harm, drowning mention, anxiety, fire, panic attacks, sex, nudity, depression, blood, euthanasia, suicide

 i.

27 DEC 1979

                    –––––––   “ HOW MUCH ARE YE WILLING TO PAY FOR IT? ”

The shopkeeper’s inquiry cut through his silent pensiveness like a gunshot, and Rufus started suddenly. Borgin and Burkes was never full to begin with, but the unusual quiet of the shop had lulled him into a false stupor, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down to begin with. The shopkeeper, a good head shorter than he, leered from behind an oversized pair of spectacles; wiping his hands on an apron that looked suspiciously stained with blood; at the sight, Rufus swallowed, hard, and clenched his fist at his side to avoid reaching for his wand then and there. He’d come to Knockturn for a reason, after all - what good would jinxing the clerk do, anyhow?

“What, this?” He asked instead, evenly, gesturing to the faint mirror he stood in front of. Strange, hypnotic shadows darted in the glass, and as he watched, one reached its long, corpulent fingers over his shoulder, close enough to touch, close enough to reach into his throat and carve and cut and take and bleed….

He shook his head, turning his attention away from the glass. “Nothing. It won’t match my decor. Pity. I quite liked the framing.” The brass along the edge was particularly nice, but he wasn’t actually looking for decorations, then, was he? The recent attacks had left him shaken; after putting off his research for nearly two weeks around Christmas, he couldn’t help but feel that his lack of progress could be the cause of future attacks. As there was nothing he liked less than feeling listless, he’d taken the notes he still had and decided to visit Knockturn. Perhaps the seedy underbelly of the wizarding world could give him more answers.

The shopkeeper shook his head. His yellow teeth protruded from thin, pale lips, and, as Rufus watched, his eyes took on a menacing glint. “No, boy. Not the mirror. That.” He turned, and pointed accusingly across the small room. A necklace lay atop a velvet jewelry stand, glinting in the low light. Opal, the sign had read; as Rufus watched, the necklace seemed to be watching him.

 “I saw ye looking at it earlier,” The man continued, oblivious to Rufus’ internal struggle, or, more fittingly, reveling in his fear. “Spent an awful lot of time over there, too. Ye almost touched it, before ye heard me coming and sprinted off. A good thing too,” He chuckled, but the sound was almost more terrifying than the necklace itself. “You’d be a goner if you did.”

“A goner, eh?” Rufus repeated. He crossed the room in several long strides, returning to his position overlooking the necklace as he studied it pensively. “Touching the glass causes death, then? Interesting. And why would you chose to sell-” Abruptly, he swung around, almost hitting the silent shopkeeper, who had crossed the room while he mused, as he did.

“To sell to you?” The shopkeeper finished. His grin only widened. The air in the shop seemed to ebb and flow with the man’s very movements. The shadows in the abandoned mirror floated aimlessly in the glass, but Rufus had the sense that they were listening. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked beneath no weight.

“I don’t ask questions in my line of work,” He revealed, taking pleasure in savoring each syllable that passed his lips. “If ye protect the skin, the necklace shan’t harm you. If not, well,” He left his threat unfinished. Somewhere, Rufus swore that he heard the sound of maniacal laughter.

The necklace glinted and shone. Rufus thought that, if it could, it would’ve bathed in the sound. He swallowed. Hard. “How much are you asking for it?”

But the man only smiled, and smiled, and smiled, and Rufus knew his price.

         ii.

3 FEB 1972

                         –––––––  “YOU NEED TO IDENTIFY THE BODIES”

 The man’s voice is steady, but all Rufus hears is the roar of an aboveground train as he kneels before the remains. He feels dizzy, lost, his collar is too tight and his head is too loose and his brother hasn’t talked to him in months and sometimes Rufus feels like holding his head underwater until his lungs burst and he isn’t sure why.

“We really hate to do this. But Bernard didn’t respond to our letters, and Claire, well, we didn’t want to risk her losing the baby.”

 The man’s voice is steady, but all Rufus feels is the tightening of a noose and the fire licking his skin, corroding away the outer layer of hair and swear and ripping right down to the viscera and bones and burning him alive. If this is what it feels like to be godless, he’ll take every martyrdom twice over, feeling something close to alive even as they tear him in two even as they feed him to the lions even as he strikes himself a match, anything but this emptiness bursting into his chest. 

“Son? Are you alright?

There are maggots crawling on his parents. There are maggots burrowing into what once were his mother’s eyes and furrowing through his father’s hairline, through his nostrils through his jaw and finally out the gaping wound in his chest. Rufus smells smoke but can’t find the fire; listens to the sound of his decaying parents and watches as their skin flakes away in clouds of ash, everything they had ever planned on being up in smoke, and Rufus feels the train coming closer, its wheels churning to the rhythm of  youneedtoidentifythebodiesyouneedtoidentifythebodiesyouneedtoidentify

 “Take a minute. It’s alright. No rush. They aren’t going anywhere, heh?”

 There are words in the English language to describe losing your parents but there are no words to describe how it feels burying them.

iii.

1 MAY 1974

                        –––––––  “DON’T FOLLOW ME”

The postscript appears in her neat handwriting below a paragraph of text pressed into the thin parchment as if the writer sought to physically present her script with every ounce of rage and callousness present in the text. He runs a single finger across the paper, feeling the mountains and valleys of her raised print, and once again finds, without thinking, the simple signature on the bottom of the page: Claire. No love, no yours, no sincerely, even. Her name, stark and plain in the wilderness of the white paper. There is no love in her writing.

In his mind, he sees the letter, and its author bending over her work at whatever seedy hotel or apartment she’s taken to calling ‘home’ lately, her name blank and her identity a delicate lace scarf she can replace as it suits her mood. She’s changed her name so many times over the past months, shedding identities as she moved from state to state, that frankly, he considers it a miracle that his owl was able to find her at all. But, as her letter makes perfectly clear, she no longer wants to be found.

“Rufus,” It begins, and this is the worst part: he tastes his own name in her mouth and its bitterness repulses him. It tastes acidic and foul and it rots beneath her lily-white teeth. There is something dead in his name, and it’s killing her.

“I’m writing only at your insistence, and I trust this letter will find you.”

He sees her at the piano, home for Christmas, her lithe fingers tracing over the ebony and the ivory. She’s playing Beethoven at his insistence, though she prefers Mozart, and has told him so in no uncertain terms. He leans his head on his sister’s freckled shoulder, and she smells of cinnamon and hope.

“I have to ask you to stop trying to contact me in America. If I had wanted you to write, I would have written first.”

He sees her on the station, waving goodbye as he leaves for his fifth year. She’s running to keep up with the train, making him laugh despite the pit of fear in his stomach, yelling the words to an old drinking song in her comically oversized glasses because she knows the intimate crease between his eyebrows and his mock-chagrined eye roll is the only thing that will make leaving him behind any easier.

“As it is, I don’t have any need for your letters. Nor do I want them.”

He sees her in her bedroom with her knees pulled up to her chest and thunder booming mercilessly overhead. He’s six; she’s nine and the bravest thing he’s ever known, and he’s scrambling over himself and his too-long pajamas to curl up beside her in the midst of the hot summer storm, and she rolls her eyes but lets him fall asleep with his arms around her waist and her teddy bear pressed against his cheek. When he wakes the next morning, there’s a rainbow lighting the warm summer sky and she’s downstairs with Bernard sipping from identical mugs of hot cocoa. “Where were you?” Their brother asks, and Rufus shrugs, and Claire sips her cocoa and winks at him from over her cup.

“There is nothing new you could possibly tell me. I will burn all future correspondences.”

He sees her cross herself kneeling over their parents’ grave, her long locks blowing in the wind and her lips painted the same stark red as her hair. “Don’t,” is all she says as he takes a step towards her. “Leave me alone, Rufus.” She refuses to look at him, and he watches as tears stream down her face in waterfalls of black mascara and saltwater, and he wants to hold her, to absorb some of the grief she’s bearing, but she presses her open palms into the dirt and bows her head before the granite grave markers. She isn’t speaking, but he knows the source of her fury, knows that she wants to claw his eyes out and blames him for their corpses and the worst part of it all is that he knows she’d be right. (He leaves her, sobbing, and something inside him feels cold.)

“I’ve made my peace. Don’t come looking. - Claire.”

The signature, scrawled neatly beneath her taciturn response. The final denouement. The curtain call, of a relationship his entire life long; the only family he still has evaporating into smoke.

His breath comes in sharp gasps, and he wants to rip into his own skin and tear himself in two, rip open the scar tissue and bleed himself dry rather than face this loneliness he thought had healed after the funeral

He tosses the letter into the fire, watching the last remnants of his sister disappear into ash and float away on the midnight sky. And, he thinks to himself: wounds heal, but scars do not.

iv.

29 NOV 1977

                        ––––––– “ I NEED YOU TO GET IT TO ME BY IMBOLC ”

His voice is low and purposeful, and he swallows the glass of whiskey he’s nursing and sets the empty glass on the chestnut wood of the bar with a steady thunk. It’s his fifth of the evening; not nearly enough, he muses, as he gestures to the bartender for a sixth and, seeing the judgment cloud her features, adds an additional galleon to his tab because the night is long and he doesn’t want to end it alone with his thoughts.

His contact suggested The Sankt Birgitta, a muggle bar on the outskirts of town with a reputation among locals for minor hauntings, and so there they sit with the lighting fixtures overhead swaying ominously in an unseen breeze and the electricity flickering with every motion of the chandelier. Pixies, Rufus thinks, watching the motion out of the corner of his eye. Cornish, most likely. Muggles; fools, the lot of them. Why, if he watched closely enough, he could almost spot the flapping of the effervescent wings stark against the darkness of the wood ceiling.

“What’s your price?” The woman questions, her hood drawn taut so her face lay in shadow. A part of their agreement to assure his confidentiality; throughout the entire evening, he hears only the clipped Scottish tones of her voice; even then, she may have spelled it so her true identity lay hidden. Rufus casts a dubious look about the bar; aside from the bartender currently smoking a cigarette, they were entirely alone.

“1000 galleons.” He lays a small drawstring bag on the table, where it lands with a faint clanking of coins. The thief eyes the bag - at least, Rufus thinks that this is what her slight change in posture means - and fingers the bag slowly. Her fingers are covered with a layer of thick leather, but she spits in disgust as she tosses the parcel back to him and crosses her arms over her thick traveling cloak.

“Too low. 2000.”

2000 galleons? She must be joking, Rufus thinks to himself, as a scowl crosses his features. “1500,” He counters, “Minimum security with my help, and you get to keep whatever else you find.” For a moment, she pauses, and the air hums with electricity. Outside, a muggle jug band has already begun to play Christmas jingles, despite the thin inch of snow currently coating the mossy ground, and the sour notes of a badly-tuned trumpet coat the already strange evening with a layer of absurdity.

“1500,” She concedes after a chilling pause. “But you’ll pay me 1000 now.” Crafty girl, Rufus muses. Even if she couldn’t recover the Cup, she’d still have the original payment and none would be the wiser. Despite himself, he smiles. He could appreciate cleverness.

“Fine.” He shrugs as he tosses the bag back to his partner, who catches it midair with her deft left hand. “Keep the bag.” He downs the whiskey the bartender had long since replaced, sets the glass again on the tabletop, and stands purposefully. His boots thud against the creaking floorboards, but the sound doesn’t bother the man who’s quite certain he won’t be followed, and turns back to his associate only to mutter a curt “Imbolc, you hear? Leave an unmarked package at my office. You know the address,” He adds as he crosses the bar in several long strides.

“Mister Scrimgeour,” The thief’s voice was slightly curious - or is it just his imagination - and the sound she stops him in his tracks. “It’s a very dangerous artifact. What exactly do you want with it?”

He stops. He pauses. He clenches his left fist and their faces pass beneath his closed eyelids: and then rage, rage, rage, and nothing more. Despair. Darkness. He was a rat, and he knew he was in with weasels, but the knife against his left thigh felt cold and sharp and it reminded him to breathe.

He calms his racing pulse. He turns. And, with a coy but closed smile, he says:

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

Here, he lost a little more every day.

v.  31 OCT 1975

                         –––––––    “ BLESSED SAMHAIN, RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR”

The girl’s voice is teasing, flirtatious even, as the sensual rhythms of the drums pounds against his eardrums. He hadn’t heard her approach over the wailing of the musicians or the crackling of the fire, and so he starts to feel her soft hands against his skin, reaches for his wand - and then the beautiful face comes into his periphery and he relaxes at the sight of the costumed entertainer.

She’s dressed as a Druid; fitting, as this is a Celtic High Holiday that they’re purporting to celebrate; even if he hasn’t ever seen a Druid baring so much cleavage, he hardly thinks he minds. Her skin is cool and smells of rose petals, and as she presses her fingers into his skin, he’s reminded of lavender incense and spices. He watches the curves of her hips, the softness of her lips, the long hair she wears loose about her shoulders, and despite himself and his purpose tonight, a smile comes to his lips.

“Blessed Samhain, beautiful. You know me, then?” He asks, eyebrow lifting in mock-surprise. “That’s hardly fair. You have some knowledge of who I am. I,” And here, his voice lowers suggestively. “I have nothing about you.”

The girl giggles. She can’t be much older than twenty, he thinks to himself, but her eyes, lined with kohl, betray a hidden maturity unseen in witches twice her age. “Oh, a name is hardly knowing, Mister Scrimgeour, especially one worn as freely as yours” She teases, her Dublin accent lilting with each sliding syllable. “Powerful to the wee folk, but not to the spelling sort. There’s much more I could get from you, yet.” Her lips, reddened to match the rogue on her cheeks, twist into a smile as she presses her body into his. Oh, he’s going to like this very much.

“What more could you get from me, then? And how?” His voice is low; joking, even, but he swears he sees her eyes glint with deviance in the light of the fire. He takes her hand, small and light and her birdsong bones delicate in his grasp, and they walk together away from the revelry of the night’s bonfires into the cold, black night. “And who’s to say that I wouldn’t be a fully willing participant?”

And here, she giggles again, her pert nose crinkling with mirth. “Willing or not, Mister Scrimgeour, I’m sure I could coax it out of ye. I’m,” She lowers her voice, as if he’s being let in on a particularly scandalous secret. “Ye see, I’m a diviner.”

A diviner? She’s one of a dying breed, then. He hasn’t come across a genuine diviner in nearly a decade, since Claire brought home that Sybil girl she liked so much. Skepticism clouds his… aesthetic appreciation and, determined to sort out the truth, he scoffs. “So it isn’t just a costume, then? I’m not sure if I believe you.”

The moon is full, round, and white in the dark sky. A full moon on Samhain is perfect conditions for divining, and he can practically shape the words in his mouth before she pleads:  “Let me tell your fortune, then.” She takes his arm, elbow-in-elbow, and looks up at him with wide, long-lashed eyes. “ I have a tent just outside the festival. I won’t even charge ye if I can’t manage one ye like.”

Charge him? He hadn’t ever planned on paying, but judging by the curve of her cheshire cat grin, there’s a lot more that ten galleons could buy him than a cup of tea leaves. He follows her, already imagining the swell of her breasts beneath her dress and the musky scent between her thighs, and, judging by the way she tugs on his arm as they gallop through the fields of wheat, the idea hasn’t entirely been discounted by her, either. They sprint through the fields; her laughing, him struggling to catch up. The air is full. The realm is thinner tonight.

“Tarot cards, I think,” She says, breathless, after she’s seated him across from her and said the proper blessing. Her hands toy over the black embossed deck, one she’d pulled from her trunk with the air of a magician revealing her beautiful assistant, and she shuffles the deck with her pale hands, coating in henna dye and as many rings as she could fit on her lithe fingers. She handles the deck deftly, and Rufus wonders what else her hands can do.

He leans forward, pressing the deck to the table in one deft motion. “Or we could skip right over the present into the future,” He purrs. “I’m not diviner, but I can foresee some fireworks in your future, miss”

The girl starts; shakes her head playfully; frowns in mock-annoyance as she rescues her cards from under his grasp. “No, no, pretty boy,” She chastises him gently. “ I want to do this right.” And, without waiting for his reply of consent, she fans out the deck for his choosing. Dark symbols twist and morph on the faint parchment of the cards, bobbing and weaving with magical intensity, and the cards shimmer beneath her deft touch. There is no light in the tent besides the faint flickering of an overhead lantern, but Rufus can see each outline clearly, each shape as if it were tattooed beneath his lids, the faint pursing of her lips as if the room shone with the light of a thousand splendid suns. It’s otherworldly, and he shivers, wondering for the first time if he’s gotten himself into something he doesn’t entirely understand.“Pick three. Any three.”

He shrugs good-naturedly as if unperturbed by his own unawareness about the subject; points to three cards at random and watches as she, with deft, experienced hands, plucks them from the deck and catches them in her palm.

“The Hermit,” The girl lays the first card face-up on the stiff silk of her tablecloth. She makes an amused noise in the back of her throat as she examines the picture. “Represents change, isolation, loneliness. There’s going to be a sharp introduction in yer life in the near future. A woman, I think”- and here, she looks up from the cards, her red lips curving into a grin. “Ye haven’t got some fiancee ye’ve neglected to tell me about, have ye?”

(And here, Rufus laughs, a sharp bark of a sound. “Merlin, no” He says, sounding more at ease now that the cards have gotten him so terribly wrong. “Not now, not ever.”)

“Five of Cups,” The girl continues, the mirth in her eyes returning with the shift in mood. “Grief, departure, and depression.” Her smile wavers. “Ah, that one can’t be true, can it? Yer a right cheerful bloke. The cards must not be working today, yeah?” And, before he can interrupt, whether to concede or argue the point, it is moot: she turns over the third card.

When Rufus thinks of this moment, he’ll picture her skin paling supernaturally at the sight of the design scrawled in thick, black ink. He’ll picture the stilling of the winds and the howling deep, deep within his own soul. The girl trembles. The girl mutters indistinctly to herself; the girl turns over the card with shaking hands.

“Death.”

It is a pronouncement. It is a prophecy. It is a statement, it is a maxim, it is his life. Rufus falls silent, his motions stilling, the nerves in his body fired with adrenaline. His mind is racing a mile a minute; he tries to ration out just what exactly she sees reflected in the Grim staring up at the two of them; he opens his mouth, but the girl is moving too quickly, the jewelry on her arms clinking with her overexcited movements.

“No, no, this can’t be right,” The fortuneteller lets out a sharp breath. Her eyes frantically drift from the cards to her companion, before returning to the cards, and she turns them over with shaking hands, as if to ensure that the truth they have revealed is accurate. She shakes her head. “Separate, they mean nothing, but together? Aye, no, they must not be working. One way to check, though-”

(& this is the worst part, he thinks, before he can react or place a single shield he feels her reach out and probe the corners of his memory, feels her dip her hands in the waters of his youth and taste the sweetness on her lips, feels her dig her nails into his cerebellum at pull at the brain tissue until truth came loose; real truth, not the truth he presented with a cocky grin and a mouth full of blood. & she swallows them, rips them from him, searches him for meaning when her own reality gives her none, and he feels lightheaded at the shared mortality between them, feels weightless as she effortlessly slips into his skin.

& as soon as she has reached out, she pulls back. her skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat)

The birds are not singing.

The wind is not wailing.

Nothing but dread silence.

“I- I have to leave,” He begins, but she catches his arm in her palm, and beneath the low light he can see that she’s crying.  Crying for him, presumably, for the scared little boy who lost his sister and his parents in a single bloody day, for the scared little boy he buried the day he buried his father and cloaked in a thin layer of dust. She’s crying, tears rolling down her cheeks in thick streams of salt water and black kohl, and her scarlet hair and low-cut dress make him feel sick to his stomach, somehow, now.

“Oh, you poor, poor boy,” She gasps. She holds his hand in her own, less like a lover and more like a mother comforting her only child; traces her thumb over his palm, and he starts at the intimacy of that one, simple motion. “You poor, lonely boy.” She feels remorse, he gathers, but there’s something close to fear in her pitiful gaze, and he starts, wondering what else the Legilimens discovered when she probed his memory. Did she see the kills he authorized, the spies he tortured, the deaths he commanded for the sake of the greater good? Did she see the sadism he worshipped, the evil he spurned, and the shadows reaching across the table as he stirred his morning coffee? Or did she see even the dark of his soul, the part of himself that lies dormant, waiting and watching like a beast in the night?

Too much, he decides, and he reaches for his wand. Her low accent betrays her lack of station. She won’t be missed. He raises the wood slowly, fully prepared for what needs to be done.

But the girl speaks, and cuts his entire train of thought off at the station. “Lonely boy,” She laughs. It’s a watery sound, and as her eyes crinkle, more tears drizzle down her skin. “You’re not alone.” It almost sounds as if she’s pleading with him now, and he watches her with wide eyes. Something stirs deep within his chest, but he watches her with a heavy tongue. “You have so much love in your heart. You will never be alone.” She shakes her head indignantly. “Survival is hardly something to be ashamed of.”

Her words echo for years.

“Let me help you, please.”

He never sees her again.

“Let me in, lonely boy. Let me in.”

He raises his wand, and mutters a simple spell, his heart cold as he does:  “Obliviate”

The girl slumps forward, her eyes lifeless, as her skull hits the table with a loud, dead, thud. She does not move for several hours, and, when she wakes in the morning, her head throbs and she takes the evidence of the empty wine goblet at her feet as signs of a hangover. She does not remember him. She may never remember him again.

(But, when he watches her linger in St. Mungo’s, dying painfully for years of a yet unidentified disease, he comes to her bedside in the night and mutters a soft Avada Kedavra. He holds her hand as the life leaves her veins, and as she breathes her last, he can almost hear her breathe a soft thank you, lonely boy.)

For now, with a single glance at her dormant form, he grabs her tarot cards, stuffs them in the pocket of his robes.

And then, with his hood up over his head, he’s running, running, running.

vi.

6 JUN 1973

                            –––––––   “ I DON’T CARE, RUFUS.”

Bernard, his fist thudding into the vinyl of the tabletop, the skin meeting harshly on impact and the glass of his signet ring scratching away the protective outer layer of the chestnut-colored paint. He’s clutching a thin sheet of parchment in his free hand and gesticulating wildly - he’s inherited their mother’s taste for the dramatics, along with her inquisitive hazel eyes (and here, as Rufus gazes from Bernard to Claire, mirror images with their freckled frames and sharp-toothed smiles, seeing Claire bearing their mother’s nose and thick eyebrows, seeing a woman he barely understands immortalized in her favorite children; wonders how it could be fair that the perfect children fit like puzzle pieces and he alone has edges that never fit.)

Rufus sighs. “One of you needs to take the house,” He explains, as if he’s speaking to petulant children rather than his successful older siblings. “I don’t want it.” As an afterthought, watching Claire’s lips purse in a comical attempt of a concerned frown, he adds: “ They wouldn’t have wanted me to have it.”

( His muggleborn mother, clad in a silk nightgown, wandering the house late at night with a glass of white wine and a long black bathrobe flapping  in an unseen wind. She’s taken to doing this lately, and he’s taken to following her. Six years old, he watches his mother pace the house until, by chance, he steps on a loose floorboard and she looks upwards to the banister, fear making her expression almost comical. “Rufus, darling,” She calls. “Go back to bed. It’s late.)

“I don’t care what they bloody would have wanted,” Bernard, thundering. Claire, silent, watchful. “Do you think you’d know, anyhow?”

( His muggleborn mother, cooking the kitchen and chopping the stalks by hand because sometimes she feels like burying the knife deep in her forearm and cannot understand why. She’s happy. She has everything she’s ever wanted, and sometimes she feels so sick of it she could scream. Rufus is home from daycare early, and as she turns to greet him, the knife slices across her palm. “Mama!” Rufus shrieks, and the blood drips so peacefully she stares at it for a long moment before she goes to the sink to clean it. )

“Do you ever think of anything but yourself?”

( His muggleborn mother, listening to the taunting of his father’s coworkers, calling her a slut because she married a man ten years her senior and ignoring the way his eyes wander at dinner parties. She stays home from work galas, now, because the Sacred 28 have no time for whores and interlopers and sometimes her necklaces feel too tight and she wonders if she should just tighten the noose and get it over with. )

“Listen to me, you bastard. Listen to me.” Bernard is inches from Rufus, his eyes alight with unearthly fire, and Rufus is once again glad of the six centimeter height difference between them, though Bernard, the stockier of the two, looks ready to crack his jaw and Rufus, unwittingly, takes a step back. He crosses his arms over his chest and examines the eldest surviving Scrimgeour with cold disgust.

“Which one of us was home and which one of us was off galavanting in Bulgaria?” He asks, and Claire takes in a breath sharply, her eyes darting between the two of them worryingly, like she’s watching a tennis match and can’t decide who’s ahead. Rufus senses her hand go to her wand, ready to cast a protective shield between the two of them at a moment’s notice.

But Bernard only scowls. “Maybe you shouldn’t’ve been home,” is all he says, but the words unspoken cut worse than a knife.

Maybe their blood wouldn’t have been on your hands.

vii.

10 OCT 1963

                           –––––––   “ MISTER SCRIMGEOUR. COME IN, COME IN”  

Albus Dumbledore’s voice is quiet yet warm as he calls from behind the halfway-open door to his office. He sounds almost amused by the predicament Rufus has found himself in, and as the young Slytherin crosses the threshold of the headmaster’s office, Rufus is surprised to find that the benevolent elderly man is smiling from behind his enormous desk. In fact, his cold blue eyes glint with a degree of mirth that Rufus, as of yet, has never seen.

He clears his throat, and his hands go to to adjust his tie; anything to prevent them from trembling. Is Dumbledore laughing at him? Is this some sort of joke? What’s the protocol for these sorts of visits? His eyes go the the floor, fixating on the pattern of the tiles, and his cheeks redden horribly, despite his best efforts. “I’m sorry, sir, to disturb you and all,” He begins nervously. His throat is so dry it’s as if he swallowed hay. “It’s just…” He trails off; breathes deeply; makes eye contact at long last with the headmaster, and blurts in one long breath: “ I think I was placed in the wrong house.”

Dumbledore’s expression never changes. Rufus had expected some irritation, or at least, worry, but the headmaster shows no outward sign that he cares a jot for what Rufus said. In years to come, Rufus will realize that he could’ve shot off fireworks in the headmaster’s office and Dumbledore would’ve politely thanked him for their display.

“The wrong house?” He questions, looking at the scared Slytherin boy over the top of his crescent-moon shaped glasses. “Mister Scrimgeour, the hat has not made a mistake in over three hundred years of existence. It’s highly improbable that you were placed into an incorrect house”

Highly improbable. Rufus latches onto the faint glimmer of hope buried in the phrase. “I know that, sir,” He admits, tentatively, spurred on by the possibility that he has, in fact, been incorrectly sorted. “ I just, I think it might’ve, somehow? With me, I mean.” There’s a chance, he thinks to himself, the hope welling within him and spreading throughout his entire body. His breath catches -is this it? Will Dumbledore let him be resorted?

Here, Dumbledore raises his eyebrows. He leans over the desk towards Rufus and clasps his hands together. His voice is gentle, but Rufus feels probed, somehow. “And why do you believe so, Mister Scrimgeour?”

And here it is - the reasoning behind the weeks of self doubt, the long nights of restless dreaming. Rufus, before he can over think any further, blurts: “It’s just - I’m not evil.”

The statement hangs in the air for a long moment. It’s blasphemy, to say what they’ve all been thinking, but in the presence of Dumbledore, Rufus feels emboldened. He watches the headmaster expectantly - he expects Dumbledore to agree - the headmaster, after all, is a Gryffindor alum. Surely, he understands why Rufus can’t live in a house with villains.

But Dumbledore simply shakes his head morosely. “Slytherin house is not an evil house, Mister Scrimgeour,” He chastises the young boy. “Ambitious, yes; cunning, yes, but capriciousness and cruelty are not requirements.” As an afterthought, he smiles benevolently. “Merlin himself was an alum of your house, you know.”

Merlin? Was he truly a Slytherin alum? Somewhere, Rufus suspects that he knew this information, inherited from his Ravenclaw mother and her peculiar talent for absorbing strange bits of information without rhyme or reason. However, the realization that his house was home to the greatest wizard of all time does anything but comfort him. Unlike Bernard and Claire, he has no magical talents. He barely manages to perform basic magic at the best of times. The idea of being surrounded by future politicians and obliviators fills him with despair.

“But -why me?” He pleads. “I’m not cunning. I’m not clever. I’m just…” He feels his eyes fill with tears. “Rufus. I’m not special.”

Dumbledore makes a clicking noise with his tongue, but his voice is soft and slow when he comforts the young boy. “I would have to disagree.I believe that you are a perfect fit for Slytherin house.” Rufus looks up at the headmaster, fully believing that the man’s simply trying to assuage the concerns of a terrified first year, and is surprised to find genuine kindness remaining in his features. “You chose to come and see me,” Dumbledore continues, “revealing great self-promotion and ambition.”

Years later, awaiting his NEWT results that will determine whether he studies as an auror or as a magical law enforcement agent, Rufus remembers Dumbledore’s parting words:

“It is our choices, Rufus, what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

Rufus blinks, slowly, fully aware that Dumbledore won’t let him be resorted, despite his pleas, but feeling strangely lighter after the experience. There’s something Dumbledore knows; something he isn’t telling him, and Rufus is determined to find out just what exactly the headmaster recognizes, but before he can even open his mouth to utter another question, Dumbledore has returned his attention to the plethora of papers spread haphazardly across his desk.

“Now, run along,” Dumbledore commands, with a impish glint in his eye. “I’m afraid that I can’t keep you any longer, or Professor McGonagall will have my head. Do take a lemon drop on the way out, though,” He adds as an afterthought. “They’re quite invigorating.”

And Rufus does, sucking on the candy the entire long walk back to Transfiguration. The sour taste stings his tongue.

He feels hopeful.

viii.

12 JAN 1977

                        –––––––  “MY SON, WHERE’S MY SON?”

The woman is howling as she beats her own breast in grief. He can barely hear her, barricaded behind his office door as he currently is, not above the typical din of the ministry and the grief of parents who have lost their children in the greatest attack on the Ministry since Grindelwald’s reign of terror in the 1940s. They’ve come seeking answers and, Rufus, a coward, has left his sprightly young secretary out to defend him from those that security couldn’t capture.

“I’m sorry, m’am,” She says, and unlike Rufus, she embeds every repetition of the sentiment with sympathy for their grief, “but Mister Scrimgeour is out at the moment, there’s nothing I can do for you now.” She’ll repeat it over and over, like a record stuck on a single phrase, while Rufus buries himself in his office and listens to the sounds of death.

“My son, where’s my son?”

( Claire, her expression unrecognizable as she ties her black hair back from her tanned, blank face with a long silk scarf, smelling like cheap gasoline and whiskey. She’s on the border between Scotland and England, driving a stolen corvette with contraband in the passenger’s seat when he finds her, or at least, he thinks he finds her, though it’s hard to tell as the car ricochets across the pavement at 110 kilometers/hour, but he sees her watch him as they pass on the highway and something about her reeks of rot. )

“My son, my son, you have to find my son.”

( Bernard, clutching his children in his arms a little tighter after their grandparents leave, hearing the screams of his parents on the wind whenever he goes to close the window, hearing his name on his father’s lips as the life left his eyes, buying a cottage in Northern Ireland because the spark never fades, only the embers, and Rufus returning home defeated with a mouth full of blood because Bernard wouldn’t even deign to speak to him. )

“I’m sorry, m’am, I’m sorry -”

(Alone, alone, himself, always alone. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I‘m sorry...He keeps tripping over apologies and his own tongue because there is never enough forgiveness, he does not deserve forgiveness)

Later, when the chaos has died and they’ve retreated to his office, he’ll ask his secretary: “Who was that woman?”

She sighs, pushes back a lock of blonde hair, and clutches her coffee mug a little tighter, though her tone is anything but. “Philippa Merryweather.” He vaguely recognizes the name, but, seeing his look of blank confusion, she continues, with a pointed look in his direction to get him to read his memos: “Her son Apollo’s one of the missing. The husband died a year ago,” She shakes her head morosely, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “Poor love. She’s all he’s got.”

She’s all he’s got.

It’s a refrain he repeats as he stays late, searching through records, obituaries, coroner’s reports, and newspaper clippings for any mention of Apollo Merryweather. He finds him after the third hour of searching. Dead in the first round of fighting.

She’s all he’s got.

No, not anymore.

( The next morning, Phillippa Merryweather wakes to an additional 50,000 galleons in her savings account, courtesy of the ministry as compensation for her loss, a payout for an insurance policy she didn’t remember taking out. It’s not much. And it will never bring back her son.

But it is all he still has to give. )

Sometimes, he thinks he can still hear her screams.

ix.

1 SEPT 1960

                –––––––    “ YOU’D BETTER WRITE TO ME, CLAIRE.”

There is a boy, and his voice is quiet as he stares up at his older sister with wide and terrified eyes. She’s been packing, unpacking, and repacking for nearly an hour as she wraps her long underwear around a complete set of Sherlock Holmes novels, the boy watches and waits and realizes that this may be the last time they live together, and it fills him with so much fear that he physically trembles in his striped pajamas.

There is a girl, and her hair turns bright pink as she studies her younger brother because it makes him laugh when she transforms in front of him. “Of course I will, little red,” she chastises him, though he sticks out his tongue at the nickname, and she sticks hers out in return.

But this isn’t enough and, as the girl returns to her packing, the boy pouts at her admission. “Every day?” He asks, prodding his favorite sister for a promise he realistically understands she cannot, or will not, give, Claire has never been fond of letter writing, not the way Bernard is, truthfully, but he doesn’t want to read his brother’s letters. Filled with talk of Quidditch and his latest boyfriend, it’s not as if his letters will contain any mention of the dragons and castles of his imaginative, flighty sister’s.

 But Claire surprises him with a glance. “Every day,” she replies, and he thinks she’s joking because of the curve of her lips twists upward, but he’s scared of their house, never a home, without her lively laughter to make it feel less cold and his voice grows deathly quiet.

 “You promise?”

 He is her brother. He adores her, completely and utterly. And here, she stands, runs to her brother, and collapses on top of him, squealing with delight as she wraps her arms around the young boy. He’s squirming, protesting her attacks, but she mutters:  “I won’t ever leave you.”

 He waves her goodbye at the station the next day, every year like clockwork, until at last it is her turn to wave him off. She’s promised she never leave him, every year, just the same.

 But she did. 

x.

27 DEC 1979

               –––––––  “ YOU NEED TO LEAVE ”

The voice was a growl from behind his left ear, and his hand was on his wand before he could fully react. Rufus had left Borgin and Burkes, necklace intact in the case he wore at his belt, but the footsteps had followed him even long after he paid the blood price for the artifact. His research direly needed a test subject if he was to discover the source and mysteries of death, like his sister before him. He felt the cloud of chaos swirling about his skull - no matter how shining his victories, he only plunged himself further and further into darkness.

“Who says I’m not on my way?” He asked, without turning his head, though his grip on his wand betrayed the tension in his taut muscles. He was a tiger, a panther, he was poised to strike and rip and tear, and he fantasized about his teeth on a neck, biting through the jugular, swallowing hard as blood ran down his throat.

But the man only laughed. “We don’t like your kind around here,” he growled, his voice the rumble of a passing train. Behind him, Rufus heard footsteps, and came to the sharp realization that his guest had not come alone. Nor had he come to negotiate. He slowed. He concentrated. He counted the footsteps internally, listening for the thud as they hit the ground, counted two, three, four - one of whom was over six feet, judging by the heaviness of his step. Goons. Thugs. Or something else entirely? His hand stilled.

“Then I suggest you find a new stomping ground,” He hissed and, before the man could react, Rufus had whirled around, pressed the wand to his temple, and muttered “Fracto calvariam” With a sickening crack, the hooded figure fell to the ground, a thin trail of blood dripping from his nose and his eyes vacant and lifeless. His flat palm fell open, revealing a knife in his grasp. Rufus had been right. They hadn’t been looking to talk at all.

They’d been savages out for blood.

When he woke in the hospital the next morning covered in a thick layer of his own viscera, he remembered a sharp red blur and the feeling of giddiness as men hit the pavement. He didn’t remember their faces, their names, their voices, or how they died, only that a single curse to the chest had nearly taken him with them.

But in the moment, he was running, sprinting, casting a hex to the left and a jinx to the right, with a flash of green light across the cobblestone alleyway and the death rattle of a man who breathed his last hitting the pavement. A hex made contact with his forearm and he gritted to avoid hissing in pain as his skin broke and fired back an equally powerful jinx.

“Come back here, you bastard,” one of them cried, and Rufus sprinted away, enjoying the thrill of the chase as he rounded the corner and they followed in hot pursuit. Why they’d chosen him as a target, he wasn’t entirely sure - and if he reasoned with himself, the entire situation was suspicious - the necklace, Knockturn, all of it a whirlwind of light and energy, and he was made with it, alive with it, bloody hell he was alive.

But he spoke too soon. And the elusive hex finally made contact with his heart. The pain of it was overwhelming, immense, and tears sprung to his eyes as he felt a rib crack in two. Blood, blood, all of it, blood - and as he fired off a single, final hex, watching his assailant drop the ground, he knew, in that moment, exactly why he’d been followed.

He was a fool.

Rufus pressed a palm to his split side. His hand was red when it came away. Amelia, he thought. Edgar, Amelia, Alastor, John-, I’m so sorry. His skin was trembling - the pain flooded all of his senses. Claire, oh Claire, oh Claire, he thought, croaking out his sister’s name only once before, with a final gasp of agony, his vision went white.

And he collapsed.

[cappurrccino]

Keeping Watch

This is one I had an idea for a while ago but never bothered to write until I watched my sister play the Nightstalker missions again. Sort of a follow-up to It’s Called Supervising and takes place some time after Sickness and Darkness, when Lox went silent on the Dreadnaught. 

[Also available on AO3]

(~1300 words)

The first time it happened, both of them were caught by surprise. The heavy and warm air of the Ishtar Sink combined with the incessant patter of rain on the roof of the abandoned building and managed to lull Lox into a doze. The Venusian rains had finally gotten on her nerves and she temporarily abandoned her mission to hole up in one of the many shelled out buildings along the coast, hoping break in the weather.

Her Ghost, usually a stickler for staying on track during patrols, had decided to let her sleep instead of pestering her back out into the rain. Vex and Fallen hadn’t been in the area for weeks and it was a rare occurrence for Lox to get genuine sleep. The patrols weren’t the highest priority, so he kept a quiet watch and let her be.

“Cayde!”

The sudden connection of a channel from the Vanguard startled him and his verbal outburst woke Lox up. She was half on her feet, rifle in hand, before she was fully awake. A beat passed as she assessed the area and realized there were no enemies before she looked at her Ghost. He twirled his tines sheepishly as Cayde addressed them.

“Ah, um. Sorry to… startle you?”

The Vanguard had an odd tone and Lox upturned a palm at her Ghost; he tilted side to side in a shrug.

“Did you need something, Cayde?” Lox asked.

“No, no. Well, yes. Kind of. Noticed you hadn’t moved or checked in in a while and uh… just wanted to make sure everything was ok.”

“All good. Boring, but we’re fine.”

“Right.”

Cayde hadn’t closed the connection.

“Um… did you need something else?”

There was a beat of awkward silence. “Just… be careful out there, Hunter.” The channel closed, leaving a slightly baffled Lox to finish her patrol.

It happened again a few weeks later on Mars. She was patrolling close to the massive gate that marked the entrance to the Black Garden and was in a shouting match with a Centurion when Cayde silently connected. She wouldn’t have noticed except for the small blinking light at the corner of her visor that indicated the open comms. Lox ducked down behind a rock, an exhilarated grin plastered on her face.

“Cayde. Hi. What can I do for you?”

“You sound far too happy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never be happy doing an energy reading patrol for Ikora.” Several slugs exploded into the rock she was sitting behind and the Centurion bellowed in the distance.

Cayde clearly heard the explosions, if not the angry shouting that followed. “Uh, Hunter?”

“One sec,” Lox said.

She spun around and poked her head over the top of the rock and yelled back, external speakers in her helmet carrying the challenge across the sand to the already outraged Cabal. A grunt escaped her as she threw herself to the ground, narrowly avoiding the new volley of shots aimed at her head.

She giggled and then cleared her throat. “Sorry, continue.”

“I was just going to ask for an update to pass to Ikora, but now I think I should monitor this situation – as your Vanguard. Make sure you stay out of trouble.”

Lox snorted. “I’m always out of trouble.” Another volley of missiles slammed into her rock and sent up a cloud of sand.

“Of course.” It sounded almost like Cayde laughed before he held a muffled conversation with someone else. “Right. Ikora wants those readings, so get back to work.”

Lox rolled her eyes and Cayde added, in a quick whisper, “500 glimmer says you can’t get that Centurion to shoot his own soldiers.”

“Cayde,” her Ghost said flatly.

“You’re about to lose 500 glimmer, old man.”

Time passed and Cayde opening comms for no particular reason became a regular part of their patrols. It seemed to happen most often when Lox was on Venus or got close to any known entrance to the Black Garden, but the Vanguard had popped in several times while she was on Earth and once while she was on the Dreadnaught. He almost never had anything to say related to the mission – usually just odd comments on the happenings, or bets that she couldn’t do something, or he would just quietly observe what she was doing.

Finally, during a stalled Venus patrol, she decided she wanted an explanation.

She sat under the large statue on the coastline, sheltered from the storm that raged overhead. The Fallen forces who usually fought anyone who came near were hiding in the nearby buildings, chased inside by the same weather that had driven her to duck into her improvised shelter. They’d long been off her radar and her attention focused on the driving rain and loud cracks of thunder and lightning as it lit up the sky and the nearby volcano.

“Do you watch every Hunter on patrol?” There was a muffled shuffling, but no real answer, so she continued. “Must take up a lot of time.”

Cayde’s response was somewhere between a challenge and a dodge. “I know how to manage my time, Hunter.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She got a noncommittal noise in return. Lightning crackled through the clouds overhead and she let the thunder echo out before trying to speak again.

“I’m just going to keep asking. Don’t have much else to do right now, and neither do you if my clock’s right.”

Cayde made a noise that came through as frustrated static and Lox’s mouth ticked up into a grin.

“I don’t watch everyone,” he said. “Just the troublemakers.”

“Flatterer.”

A half-hearted huff of laughter. “You’re a good Hunter, but you’ve got a knack for getting into some dangerous messes. I just want to make sure if you need backup I can send it on time.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

Oh… The Garden. Her Ghost stirred and jumped into the channel. “Did you watch Tevis?”

Uncomfortable silence stretched on and Lox swiped a hand through the air over her shoulder in half-hearted reprimand. She hadn’t even thought of that, but her Ghost’s observation made sense – Cayde starting this only after she took up the bow; Cayde contacting them most frequently around the Black Garden.

“I…” Cayde sighed and she could easily imagine him running a hand over his face. “I did. He thought it was the funniest thing I lost the dare. Started showing me clips from his patrols to rub it in my face he was in the field and I wasn’t.”

Lox held up a finger to tell her Ghost not to interrupt. Cayde almost never spoke like this and she didn’t want to stop him.

“Eventually it just became a thing we did – I could tune in anytime and he just let it go. Certain missions he’d tell me to stay off so he could focus and, uh… his Venus mission was one of those. By the time I realized and you got out there…”

There was a heavy silence cut only by a rumble of thunder.

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Another huff of laughter, this time a little bitter. “I suppose I should be apologizing to you. Shouldn’t have started treating you like you were him.”

Lox hummed quietly. “’s fine.”

Silence fell again. The storm picked up again and the wind howled around the statue’s base, driving rain nearly horizontal as thunder clapped loud enough for her helmet to compensate for the volume.

“I just love the weather on Venus. Truly gorgeous,” she deadpanned.

Cayde snorted and she heard a muffled call from somewhere on his end.

“Ah, damn… Zavala wants to have a Talk,” he said. “Stay alert out there.”

“Sure.”

“And you better clean your damn boots before you get back.”

[desperatepenguin722]

Rewind (Part Four)

Pairing: Lin x Reader

A/N: Yes, the final part is here! I want to thank @hamiltrashy1776 for this request, it’s seriously been one of the most fun to write stories I’ve ever done. Thank you everyone who commented and reblogged and liked all the parts so far, you guys make my heart leap and I’m so thankful for each and every one of you. Alright, enjoy y’all!

You refused to look over at Lin, he’d no doubt notice how flustered you had become and possibly (not so) subtly hint at, “Oh (Y/N), do you need some air? Is it too hot in here?” Yeah. No.

“I’m, I’m going to go back and check the prop room, I think I uh dropped some candles.” You said, quickly standing and smoothing out your sweater, trying not to take into account how both boys stared. Alexander has preobably never seen a woman in pants just out in the public. Right. A part of you hoped for that to not be the only reason he was staring.

“We’ll be here.” Lin called as you walked through the rows of seats. “Need help?”

“Nope! Show him indoor plumbing or something.” You half-joked, pushing through the door, quickly closing and slumping against it.

A frustrated groan escaped your lips as you rested your head against your knees. Come on (Y/N), keep it together. Remember; he’s a guy- scratch that- DEAD guy who you’re still not even sure how the hell he got here. 

Now you could definitely see why Angelica couldn’t stop whatever her and Alexander had. She must’ve known it wrong, must’ve felt it deep down, but those eyes of his and such eloquent speech, it was no wonder she didn’t give it up until the Reynolds Affair.

Your heart panged. Right, this was pre-Reynolds Alexander. Pretty much pre-everything Alexander. The bags under his eyes were only light lines, only noticable if you took the time to stare at them and take note. Kind of like how Lin’s got if you finally forced him to-

Wait.

You scrambled to your feet and began nervously pacing, your hand reaching up to rub at your lips while you contemplated.

Everything about Alexander, you were comparing to Lin. His speech, his posture, even his damn height. Maybe you weren’t “falling” for Alexander at all. Maybe you were just...

Falling deeper for Lin. 

You didn’t want to admit it, because then it’d be real. Then that would make whatever you felt for Lin hurt even more because, well, he was Lin Manuel Miranda. And you were you. You thought with a bitter smile. Only a temporary ensemble member who he’d probably never remember ten or even five years from now. 

You held back the tears threatening to spill and made some noise of frustration. Where the hell was the damn rain? You looked to the small window to your right and saw only dim flashes of lightning and heard the occassion grumble of thunder. Must be a lightning storm then. 

Great, just when you could use some calming. Whatever. Now that you had made this revelation (that wasn’t really a revelation at all), it was time to face the music. After all, you couldn’t really hide and pretend to be looking for candles that you didn’t need forever.

Taking a deep breath, you turned around and grabbed the door, swinging it open and taking a step into the dimly lit auditorium. 

Alexander and Lin looked like mirror-images of each other, cross-legged and hunched over the laptop that sat between them. A small smile took hold as you leaned against a seat in the back, watching them work together on something. Alexander was pointing to the screen, and each time he did this he looked to be making a suggestion or correction, and Lin would enthusiatically fix it, a giddy smile on his own face. You chuckled quietly, shaking your head. Of course he would have Alexander look over his writing. 

“What’re you having him look over Lin?” you stepped onstage and Lin shut the laptop. Weird.

“Oh-uh, nothing. Just showing him Google.” He put on a strained smile. 

“But the electricity’s out, how’re you getting wifi?” The only thing that worked on his “entire life” without wifi was Microsoft Word, how the hell was he getting on Google?

Alexander stood and beamed, striding towards you. “I don’t know of this wifi, but your friend has shown me Google, it’s a beautiful place, one of which I’ve never had the pleasure of taking a trip to but I do hope to someday. Maybe I shall take my Eliza once I return to New York.” He grandly exclaimed.

Your heart grew, as did your smile. Alex was trying to cover for Lin, thinking Google was a physical place to be shown. Not wanting to ruin what he thought to be a clever cover uo, you nodded, sending a knowing glance over his shoulder at Lin who seemed to have taken a particular interest in the lint on his jeans. 

“You should. It’s quite the place, right Lin?”

He hummed in agreement, not lifting his eyes from his legs while his hand picked non-existent pieces of lint. You didn’t give it much thought, you knew you’d get it out of him sooner or later. Most likely sooner.

“Oh, Lin?” Alexander turned back around to an alert LIn. “Do you mind telling me where the facilities are located? 

Lin furrowed his brows. “Facili- Ohhh,” he chuckled, standing, “You’re gonna love indoor plumming. Come on it’s this w-”

Suddenly, a great boom of thunder erupted throughout the theatre, nearly shaking it, all the while the lights shut off once more. This time, you were sure you squealed.

“Lin? Are you in front of me or behind me because I really don’t want to acciedentally punch you.” You bluntly stated.

“I’m right here next to you, to your left. Here-” You felt a warm hand interwine with yours and were suddenly glad for the mask of darkness.

“Alexander?”

...

“Mr.Hamilton?”

...

“(Y/N), do you have those candles?” Lin whispered. You tried to ignore how his breath tickled your cheek and the way your heart was beating loud enough to where Lin probably heard it.

“They were right next to your laptop, besides I think I lost the matches. Hey, why’d you run up next to me when the power went out?”

“You yelled, I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He gave your hand a soft squeaze. Yeah, definitely glad for the dark.

“Yeah, I was just surprised.” You mumbled. “Where’s Alexander? Is he still here?”

“Maybe he ran off when the lights-” As if on cue, the spotlight came on once more, “Went out.” He finished, looking up at the light.

You looked around, no sight of Alexander. You cleared your throat, stepping away from Lin if only to put some distance between you and his comforting touch. “I didn’t hear him run anywhere, did you?” You turned back to face Lin.

He shook his head, raising his brows. “Maybe he dissappeared just like he came.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Well considering Alexander Hamilton just stood on our stage and talked with us for a good,” You checked your phone, “thirty minutes or so, I don’t think anything’s out of the ordinary about his entrance or exit.” 

Lin bit his lip, nodding. Then, an evil grin spread across his face. “Hey, would you say that’s kind of like the Weird sisters’ entrance and exit in,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Macbeth?”

You gasped, looking around the empty stage. “Lin! How dare you bring up he-who-shall-not-be-named?”

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Isn’t that Voldemort?”

“Well M-, he, is basically the Voldemort of theatre.” You playfully shook your head. “Talks to Alexander Hamilton once and thinks he’s unstoppable.” You tsked.

He grinned. “Actually, I prefer the title Non-Stop thank you very much.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled, picking up his laptop and handing it to him. “Come on you dork, we’re going to your dressing room. It’s too weird being up here now.” You looked at the spot where Alexander stood only minutes before. Lin nodded, grabbing your hand once again and leading you off stage. “Uh, Lin, I’m good now. You don’t have to hold my hand anymore if you don’t wan-”

“I do.” He confidently stated, not looking back at you.

“Oh. Okay.” You smiled,  your blush only growing. But you had a feeling if Lin turned around right now, you wouldn’t be the only flushed one. “Lin?” You asked as you neared the dressing room.

“Yeah (Y/N)?”

“Why won’t you tell me what you were working on?”

He stopped at the door, sighing. “Am I really that obvious?” His voice was quiet, small. Not like usual Lin at all.

“Hey,” You turned him around gently, resting your hands on his shoulders, “You can share anything with me. We’ve been good friends for a few months now, you know I won’t judge.” You softly said, moving a hand to cup his cheek.

His breath hitched at the contact. “Okay. Inside.” He reached up and took the hand on his cheek, holding it in his and breaking your gaze. Your heart beat a thousand miles per minute, you prayed you wouldn’t have a heart attack before he could show you. 

He led you into the dressing room and you took note of all the Hamilton fan-art which he proudly displayed, the letters from fans and fellow stars hung all over the walls, his Hamilton costume, but there was something new your eye couldn’t help but catch. You stopped, forcing Lin to stop next to you. You pointed to a plaque above his mirror. “Did you get a new plaque?”

“No...” He let go of your hand, walking closer to read the small engraving;

“A legacy is important, but remember that the mark you make will never go away. It may fade and be forgotten, but it will stain whatever it touches forever. Be cautious, try to live in the moment. -Alexander Hamilton.”

“That’s the advice I gave him less than half an hour ago.” You said in utter disbelief. “Damn bastard stole my words and put his name next to it.” You grumbled.

Lin chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “To be fair, we did tell him we were figments of his own mind, so he probably thought he was subconciously giving himself a word of warning. So technically,” He smiled at you, “It’s his quote.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well you liked it enough to buy a plaque with it on it so,” You let him him you to his worn couch and sat down, “it had to be one of your favorites.’ You couldn’t hide the smugness in your tone nor smile.

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. Opting instead to boot up the laptop. Right, top-secret-writing-project-reveal time.

“Okay, so uh, I worked on this on like six hours of sleep and almost no coffee and I only had Alexander go over the first part so if it doesn’t make sense I completely understand actually I don’t even know why I didn’t look this over before I decided to share it so-”

“Lin,” You scooted closer to him so that you were curled up, laying on his chest with a perfect view of the screen on his lap, “What ever you wrote will be perfect. I promise.” And you meant it. Even on Lin’s “bad” writing days he still left you breathless with mere words. 

“Okay.” He breathed, clicking on a document and moving the computer up on his lap. “Here you go.”

You focused on the screen, beginning to read.

“My dearest, (Y/N),”

You smiled.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase, ‘falling in love’,

But when I think about what I’m doing,

That never comes to mind.

You see,

Falling implies that after you start,

You’ll eventually end up landing, but it’s unclear whether they’ll actually be someone there to break your fall.

With you however,

I see no uncertainty.

When I look into your eyes, I don’t get lost in them like many claim,

I find myself home.”

“Lin...” you breathed, tears springing to your eyes.

“Keep reading.” His soft voice spoke, once again his breath brushed your cheek, which you were sure were on fire.

“When you speak,

I don’t hear a chorus of angels.

I hear someone who’s kind, who’s smart, who’s geniune,

I hear the possible next twenty years or more of my life.

Your touch isn’t light and soft,

It’s strong, yet gentle.

I long to forever slip into your embrace, so that I may not only find myself home, 

But feel home as well.

Your lips aren’t rose petals,

They’re a far rarer flower,

One that only exits in the breathtaking sight that is your face.

Everything about you is rare,

Your entire being, your persona, your light.

Which makes you the most valuable living thing,

The most sought after.

I long to be the richest man alive,

But only because of you.”

When you finished, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. How could Lin say this was bad? This was...beautiful. Amazing. Incredibly sweet and romantic. 

And he’d written it just for you.

“(Y/N)?” Nervousness had crept back into his tone, and you were sure that if his arms weren’t wrapped around you he’d be messing with his hair.

You shut the laptop, sliding it gently on the floor before turning to face him, positioning yourself once more on his ches, only this time you were facing him. His eyes studied you as if trying to gauge your reaction.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek, his hand lingering on your cheek.

“Lin...” You breathed.

“How was that?” He whispered, biting his lip.

“I think Eliza said it best, you and your words have left me defenseless,” You leaned up, looking at him through your lashes, “And boy,” Before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips against his, a mini-fireworks show exploding at the tension left your body and his arms tightened around you, you were sure you’d never forget the feel or taste of his lips in this moment, “You’ve got me helpless.” You breathed, resting your forehead against his.

“Give me a chance, I promise you you won’t regret it.” This time, he kissed you. The ghost of his lips etched on yours, even when he pulled away for breath.

A relaxed smile spread across your lips. 

“How could I say no to this?”

(A/N: My name isn’t Phillip, I am most definitely not a poet.)

[mrs-padelecki-ackles-blog]

When you fall in love with an Angel...

When you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will not understand

When you first go to run your hands through his hair, his halo will slice your palm. And it will hurt. He will mend it with the touch of one golden finger and will leave so abruptly that he is gone almost before you blink. The last thing you will see is him standing in the doorway, a terrified expression on his face and blood in his hair. (Later he tells you he didn’t realise how breakable humans could be, and when he explains what it takes to make an angel bleed you start to understand.)

Ask him about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away, about how the universe looks like a blooming garden. Do not ask about Lucifer, because your Angel will become a soldier before your eyes. Do not, do not, DO NOT, ask about God. Do not ask about rebellious older brothers or absentee fathers, do not infer about a war you know nothing of. 

In a science class you are taking simply to get the credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics, she will call planets “celestial bodies” and suddenly you will only be able to think of the way his mouth curls at the sides, of all the puckered scars that criss-cross his torso, of the graceful arch on the boy on of his foot. When the teacher calls on you and asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. (At times it is lovely to be in love with an angel, but other times, it is not.) 

When you fight, it's as though the world is ending. His anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire state is three inches deep in water. You shatter a picture frame, a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. You are screaming at the top of your lungs - something about duty, something about God - and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the house. The weatherman talks about the storm for days and you change the channel. Then there are the times where he doesn't visit for months on end, and when he finally comes back to you, he is not himself. There are new scars across his chest, and he does not speak. He sits with you in his arms for hours, his nose buried in your hair and his arms squeezed tight. So tight. He does not cry. You do not cry. You do not cry. When you call in love with an angel?...Oh, sweetheart, it's too late to take it back now.

“Where have you been?! Who were you with?!!?” I cried out at him, pounding my fist against his chest as tears cascaded down my face. He just stared at the floor, silent, a look of pain on his face. I backed away, still screaming at him. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was yelling at him, I just knew that I was angry. That I needed to scream. To let it out. He just continued standing there, making no move to speak. Making no move at all. I just wanted to know where he’d been. Outside, I heard a crack of thunder. A downpour of rain. “Just answer me!!” I scream, again, and throw a pillow off the couch at him. He flies towards me, fast as the lightning he made outside and pushes me against the wall. “What do you want me to say?!?” he yells directly into my face, his ocean blue eyes pouring into mine. I go speechless, listening to his outside storm, watching the internal struggle behind his eyes. His eyes searching mine, hoping to find an answer. “What do you want?!?!?” he screams again, with an ice cold voice. “Where were you?..” I whisper, barely audible. “What?” he asks, barely containing his anger, his voice strained as if trying to contain another outburst. Another thunder strike. A flash of lightning that illuminates his face, showing every wrinkle, every scar, every outline and crevice of his face. “Where. Were. You?!?!” I cry out as I shove out of his grip, with fresh tears pouring down my face, and stare at him. Willing him to tell me. There’s another crash. A flash. I try to blink away the tears, but they won’t stop. They just keep coming. “Why does it matter?” he asks, his voice barely heard over the sound of each thunder crash, happening every other minute now. “Why won’t you tell me?...” I whisper, refusing to look him in the eye. “Why do I need to explain myself to you??” “Why can’t I know? Is it because of this devotion you have to please your father? To please Him?! Why?!? He has never been there for you! There is no reason to keep this devotion to him! Let him go and move on!!” I absent-mindedly cry out. I watch his whole body tense and hear the wind outside, so strong that it could rip the roof of a house. “What did you say?” he replies with a monotone voice. “I - I”m sorry. Gabriel, please, I didn’t mean -” I’m cut off by another crash of thunder. The impact of this strike was so great it knocked me to the floor. Blinking I stood up and looked for Gabriel, but he was nowhere to be found. “You coward! Come back and face your problems like a man!” I yell towards the sky. “Come back!!” I scream again as I crumple to the floor of the living room. “Come back…” I whisper. I’m sitting on the floor for no longer than five minutes when I get a call on my cell phone. With great effort, I get up and slowly make my way over to the kitchen, where I left my phone. When I pick up I’m immediately met with more screaming. “What the HECK?” Ava screams in my ear. “Why haven’t you picked up?? I’ve called like fifty times!!” Sure enough, when I pull my phone away from my ear, I see fifteen missed calls. “Calm down, Ava. It was fifteen, not fifty.” I answer, my voice raw from my screaming match. “What happened? Was he back? Why is your voice so raw? Olivia. Answer me!” “Calm down and give me a second! Yes, he was back. We had a little bit of a...fallout. That’s why my voice is so raw. It’s no big deal, really. He’ll be back in a couple days and we will be fine. Just like always, right?” “Right…...Olive, I know you don’t wanna hear this, but I don’t think -” “I’m stopping you right there Ava. Just because we have fallouts like this doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. Everyone fights. Everyone has secrets. Everyone. Even us. Okay? I don’t need the talk again. Okay?” “I know, I know. I’m just trying to look out for you Olive. You know that.” She answers, a bit defensive, and I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry, I’m just...tired. Stressed. I need a break, you know?”