#yes i know miracled is not a word its fine

[pucksandpower]

The Center Cannot Hold

Charles Leclerc x wife!Reader

Summary: one cruel diagnosis sends your hopes and dreams crashing down in painful shards around you

Warnings: cancer, medical procedures, infertility, religion, recommendation to terminate pregnancy

The sun sneaks through slits in the blinds, casting patches of warmth on your shared bed. You’re nestled against Charles’ chest, his heartbeat a gentle hum beneath your ear.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You smile, shifting around to meet his gaze. “It’s beautiful outside.”

Charles brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “Every day with you is beautiful.”

There’s a silent pause as the two of just stare at each other. You both know there is more to this morning than mere pleasantries. You think of the tiny stick in the bathroom, far more significant than its small size would have you believe.

“Should we?” You ask hesitantly.

He nods, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Together.”

You both rise hand in hand, making the short walk to the bathroom. Your hands tremble as you reach for the plastic stick on the granite counter.

With a deep breath, you pick it up.

Two lines.

Positive.

Tears prick your eyes and you turn to Charles. “Look,” your voice barely a whisper.

He chokes on air. “Is this ... are we really”

“We did it,” you confirm, tears streaming freely.

Charles’ eyes shimmer with unshed tears of his own. He pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “We’re going to be parents.”

You pull back slightly, placing a hand on your stomach. “Our baby.”

He nods, laughing softly through his tears. “Our little miracle.”

Holding the test between you both, you share a look of wonder. It feels like the universe has just shifted and realigned in the most beautiful way.

***

The waiting room is a sea of neutral tones and the soft murmurs of hushed conversations. You sit, nervously tapping your fingers on your knee, while Charles wraps an arm around your shoulders in an attempt to calm you.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, “You alright?”

You give him a small, tense smile. “Just a bit nervous. First-time jitters, I guess.”

Charles gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Everything will be fine. It’s just a routine check-up.”

Before you can respond, a soft voice calls out, “Mrs. Leclerc?”

You both rise and follow the nurse as she leads you into a cozy exam room, pastel walls adorned with photos of smiling babies and happy families.

After a series of routine checks and questions, the mood remains light. However, when the doctor enters, a middle-aged woman with a kind face, there’s a subtle shift in the air, a feeling that’s hard to pin down.

“First-time parents?” She asks with a warm smile, trying to put you at ease.

Charles nods, beaming with pride. “Yes and we’re over the moon about it.”

She returns the smile but then her expression becomes more clinical, professional, as she reviews the ultrasound. The room is filled with the sound of the machine and your quiet exhalations.

Minutes stretch on, the silence growing more pronounced. The doctor’s brows furrow, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Charles, sensing the change, grips your hand tighter. “Is everything alright?”

She hesitates for a moment before turning to face you both. “Your baby seems healthy but there’s something concerning about your cervix. I would like to run a few more tests to be sure.”

Your heart plummets, the room suddenly feeling colder. “What ... what do you mean?”

She chooses her words carefully, “There is a chance that it is just a benign irregularity but we need to be certain.”

Tests turn into more tests and the hours seem to blur. Charles is fidgeting anxious mess beside you but his thumb never stops stroking your hand.

Finally, the doctor returns, the weight of the world seemingly on her shoulders. “I won’t sugarcoat it,” she begins heavily. “The results point to cervical cancer.”

Silence deafens the room. The world around you blurs and you feel Charles’ arms wrap around you, holding you as if you might shatter.

“No,” Charles whispers, his voice breaking. “There must be a mistake.”

The doctor looks at you with sympathy. “I wish there was. We caught it early but it’s aggressive. My recommendation would be to terminate the pregnancy and begin treatment immediately.”

Your mind races, heartbreak and disbelief clashing within. “Terminate? But our baby ...”

She gently cuts you off. “It’s the best chance to save your life.”

Your vision blurs, the reality of her words crashing over you like a tidal wave. The room, with its softly painted walls and happy baby pictures, suddenly feels like a cruel mockery.

Charles eyes are clouded over with tears and despair. “Please,” he whispers, holding your face between his trembling hands. “I can’t lose you.”

You choke back a sob, the enormity of the situation making it hard to breathe. “But our baby, Charles. Our little miracle.”

He hugs you close, his voice muffled as he buries his face your hair. “I know. But I need you. We promised each other forever, remember?”

You clutch at him, memories of shared dreams and whispered promises flooding back. The villa by the sea that you would fill with warmth and laughter, growing old together, watching sunsets side by side.

“I can’t imagine a life without you,” he continues, voice breaking. “Not a single day.”

The pain in his words cuts deep, each syllable a raw wound. You hide your face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt.

“We wanted this baby so much,” you whisper brokenly.

“I know,” Charles chokes out. “But I need you with me. I can’t be alone. I can’t live without you.”

***

The soft glow of a lamp casts long shadows, making the room feel both intimate and immense. You sit on the couch, a soft blanket draped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the tea that has long gone cold in your mug.

Charles sits opposite you, unmoving. He clears his throat, searching for words, “I’ve been thinking ... about what the doctor said.”

You look up, meeting his gaze, a storm brewing within it. “So have I.”

Charles closes his eyes, struggling with his emotions. “I can’t bear the thought of a world without you in it. I would be content, you know? To grow old, just the two of us, if it means I spend every day of my life with you by my side.”

Your heart aches, tears pricking your eyes. “Charles, our baby ...”

He cuts you off, voice filled with raw emotion. “I know. But you’re my world. I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you.”

A heavy silence settles between you two, the weight of unsaid words pressing down.

You take a deep breath, “I want this baby. I want our baby. But I also want to grow old with you, to be there for every race, for every win and every loss, on and off the track.”

He reaches across, taking your hand in his, fingers interlocking. “We’ve faced so much together. But this is tearing me apart. I just want you safe.”

You squeeze his hand, searching his eyes. “If I choose the baby, will you ... will you resent me? Will you resent them? If I choose the baby, and ... leave you alone?”

He looks away, the pain of thinking about it clear on his face, “Never. I would be lost. Completely and utterly lost. But I’ll never hold it against you. Or them. I’ll cherish our child but my heart ... my heart would be forever broken.”

You both sit in silence, lost in your thoughts.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

Charles looks at you intently, waiting.

“I’m going to keep the baby.”

He shuts his eyes tightly but a tear manages to slip through the crack and down his face. “I will support whatever decision you make. I just ... I love you so much.”

You move closer, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you too. We’ll face this together, no matter what.”

As you lay down beside Charles, the comfort of the familiar sheets beneath you, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You can feel the tension in his body, the struggle to be the rock, to be strong.

In the quiet darkness, you feel more than hear his silent sobs, the tremors that shake his frame. You reach out, intertwining your fingers with his, offering the only comfort you can as the world falls apart around you.

***

“Please, mon amour, just eat something,” Charles implores, voice laced with worry as he holds out a plate of your favorite pasta.

The aroma drifts to you, making your stomach churn, but you force a weak smile. “I’ll try.”

It’s been months since that fateful doctor’s appointment. The specter of cancer looms over your pregnancy like a dark cloud, casting shadows on the joy you should be feeling.

Days blur into one another. Doctor visits are now your routine. Charles, who once sped around racetracks with fearless abandon, now navigates the hospital corridors with a silent determination.

There are days when weakness consumes you, moments when you can’t summon the strength to get out of bed. Charles has become your lifeline, helping you dress, making sure you eat, and even carrying you when your legs give out.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper to him one night, tears tracing down your cheeks. “I’m not strong enough.”

He cradles your face, his own eyes brimming with tears he refuses to shed. “You are the strongest person I know. You’re carrying our baby. That’s the bravest thing anyone can do.”

The pain is relentless, a constant companion. Each doctor’s visit brings more bad news. The cancer is spreading and your body is weakening. Yet, you cling to hope, to the belief that your love for each other can conquer anything.

One evening, you're curled up on the couch, aching and exhausted. Charles, sitting beside you, traces a finger along your cheek, his touch gentle as he tries to be strong for both of you.

“You’re my world,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I hate seeing you like this but I would rather be with you in this darkness than without you in the light.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you reach for his hand. “We’ll get through this together. Our love is stronger than anything. Even cancer.”

But you’re not sure how much you can believe that anymore.

***

“You’re playing with fire,” your sister blurts out the moment she steps into your living room. Her eyes are red, mascara messily smudged around them.

Charles’ jaw clenches but before he can retort, your father interjects, his voice roughened by age and worry, “She means you’re risking too much. We all see it.”

You sink further into the couch under the weight of their stares. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you really?” Your mother questions wetly. “Every time we see you, you’re paler, weaker. Is it worth it?”

Charles steps forward, taking your hand. “It’s her choice. And I’ll stand by her through everything.”

Your best friend sighs deeply. “We’re just scared for you. We don’t want to lose you.”

The room becomes a whirlwind of opinions, tears, and pleas. They all mean well, you know that, but the their concerns feel suffocating.

The tension escalates, words sharper than intended, when suddenly Charles explodes, “That’s enough! It’s her decision and it’s not up for you to debate.”

The room falls silent.

Your sister speaks up, “We just love you, that’s all.”

Charles collapses onto the couch beside you, burying his face in his hands. “And you think I don’t? I don’t want to be a widower. A single father looking at our child and seeing only the love we lost,” he admits in a hushed tone, his voice breaking. “It’s the only thing I see whenever I close my eyes. It plagues my dreams. But that love means supporting Y/N even if seeing what she’s going through breaks my heart.”

You pull him close. “I know. But I need to hold onto hope. To believe we can have it all. Our baby and a lifetime together.”

He gazes deep into your eyes. “I love you. More than words can say. I just want you with me, always.”

Tears flow freely down your cheeks as you reach for his hand. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I believe in us, in our love. And I can’t bear to let go of our baby.”

He wraps you in a hug and you can feel his body trembling. “I don’t want to lose you but I can’t stand to see you suffer like this either.”

***

“Do you think they’ll have your eyes?” Charles murmurs, his hand gently resting on your swollen belly, fingers tracing small circles.

You smile weakly, feeling the flutter of tiny kicks in response. “Or your fearless spirit?”

He chuckles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your baby bump. “Hey there, little racer. Promise me you’ll take after your mother more.”

Despite the weariness that constantly lingers, these quiet moments fill your heart with warmth.

“Imagine,” you whisper one evening, “our little one’s first day of school or their first race if they decide to follow in their papa’s footsteps.”

Charles grins, “And inheriting their maman’s stubborn streak will surely mean they’ll be a world champion.”

As your body grows heavier with the weight of the pregnancy and growth of the cancer, your time spent outside the confines of your bed becomes increasingly limited. The facade Charles wears for your benefit becomes increasingly brittle. He’s your rock, never letting his worries show in front of you, but you still see the toll it’s taking on him.

One evening, after ensuring you’re comfortably tucked in, Charles kisses your forehead softly and whispers, “Rest, mon amour. I’ll be right here.”

Drifting into a fitful sleep, you wake to the muffled sound of heart-wrenching sobs. Curiosity pulls you from the warm cocoon of your bed with the last of your strength, guiding you towards the soft light spilling from the slightly ajar bathroom door.

Listening closer, you can hear Charles’ broken voice, “I can’t ... I can’t lose her. Not like this.”

You press your hand to your mouth, tears spilling down your cheeks as you realize he’s on a call, probably with one of his brothers.

“You don’t understand,” Charles continues, his voice trembling with emotion. Every time I look at her, I see our future slipping away. Our dreams, our plans ... everything is fading into ashes.”

There’s a pause, punctuated with stifled sobs. “I have to be strong for her but it’s tearing me apart. Every smile I wear, every reassurance I give, it all feels like a lie because I am so freaking scared.”

Your heart aches, hearing the raw pain in his voice, knowing all this time he’s been shielding you from his own agony.

Silently, you retreat, not wanting him to know you’ve overheard. Slipping back into bed, you grapple with the weight of the shared pain, the collective heartache that has become your reality.

Minutes later, Charles returns to the bedroom. His eyes red-rimmed but determined. He sends a shaky smile your way, “How’s my brave girl?”

You reach out, trying to pull him against your chest with tired arms. “Let’s be brave together.”

He nods, choking back fresh tears. “Together. No matter what.”

***

The old church stands quietly in Maranello, its tall steeple pointing skyward, as if reaching out to the heavens. Inside, the soft glow of candles flickers as the side door swings open. Don Pietro, an aging priest with kind eyes lined with crow’s feet, is startled by the sudden entrance.

“Charles?” His voice, filled with surprise, echoes softly in the hushed space.

Charles’ normally confident stride is replaced with hesitation. “Don Pietro,” he tries to muster a smile but fails. “I ... I didn’t know where else to go.”

The priest approaches, eyes filled with concern. “I’ve been worried. When Ferrari announced you were taking a season off, I prayed for you.”

Charles chuckles bitterly, “Prayers. Never thought I would be seeking those.”

Don Pietro studies him for a moment. “Pain has a way of making us turn to the unexpected.”

Charles’ face contorts in anguish. “I’ve always called myself an atheist. After Jules ... after my father ... I felt abandoned by any god that might exist. But now, she’s ... she’s everything to me and I’m powerless to stop losing her.”

The priest’s voice is soft when he replies, “Life may test us in ways we can’t comprehend. But God never gives us more than we can bear.”

Charles’ laugh is hollow, devoid of mirth. “Bear? I can’t bear the thought of a world without her. Tell me, how does a loving god allow such pain?”

Don Pietro sighs, the weight of many years shining through. “I won’t pretend to know all the answers but sometimes faith is all we have.”

“I feel like I’m being punished, like I’m cursed. Why else would I lose the people I love most?” Charles looks at the ground, his shoulders slumped in defeat as he takes a shuddering breath. “I would give anything ... anything to save her. I have thought to visit mosques, synagogues, temples ... anywhere some higher power might listen to my pleas. I’m desperate, Don Pietro.”

The priest speaks gently, “Turning to God in times of despair is not weakness. It’s human. But faith is not about bargaining, it’s about having trust.”

A tear rolls down Charles’ cheek. “I’m so scared. Every night, I watch her sleep, wondering if it will be our last night together. I would gladly give up everything else if it means she stays with me.”

The priest reaches out, placing a comforting hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Then let’s pray, my son. Let us pray together.”

The tears turn to a steady stream rolling down Charles’ cheeks as he falls to his knees. “Please ... I’ll do anything. Just don’t take her away.”

Don Pietro kneels beside him. “God hears you, Charles. And He knows your pain.”

They stay united in prayer. Two souls reaching out to the heavens and begging for a miracle.

***

“It’s too early,” you gasp, clutching the bed sheets as another contraction grips you.

Charles is by your side, panic evident in his eyes even as he tries to keep you calm. “Breathe, love. Just breathe. We’ll get through this.”

But the pain is relentless, each contraction more intense than the last. The hospital room is a blur of activity, doctors and nurses rushing around, preparing for the premature delivery.

“You need to stay strong,” one of the nurses urges, trying to guide you through the pain.

Charles, pale and shaking, holds your hand so tightly it’s almost painful. “Stay with me,” he pleads, his voice breaking. “You and our baby, both of you, stay with me. Please.”

The labor is grueling, each passing minute a test of your willpower and strength. Charles is crumbling into pieces beside you, every ounce of his pain clearly written across his face.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, leaning close. “Not now, not ever.”

But the world around you is fading, the pain becoming too much to bear. “I love you so much. In this life and the next,” you choke out with the last of your strength as your vision tunnels.

Suddenly, alarms blare. The room becomes a whirlwind of organized chaos. “We’re losing her!” A doctor shouts.

Charles is pushed aside as they work to save you. “No! Please, no!” He screams in agony.

You’re dimly aware of being rushed into another room, doctors shouting orders and starting emergency procedures.

Then, everything goes black.

Charles is left in the corridor. A broken man, waiting for news, praying for a miracle. Hours feel like days, each passing second an eternity.

Finally, a doctor emerges, his scrubs covered in spots of dark blood. “The baby is fine,” he begins, “But your wife ... we had to put her in a coma. The cancer is advanced. We’ll do everything we can but she’s not out of the woods.”

Charles sinks to the floor, tears streaming down his face. “Please, just save her. Please.”

***

“It’s a girl,” a nurse approaches Charles with a small bundle wrapped in a soft pink blanket.

Charles, tears still fresh on his face, looks up, momentarily stunned. “A ... a girl?”

The nurse nods, offering the tiny newborn to him. “Would you like to hold her?”

He hesitates, then slowly reaches out, cradling his daughter in his arms. Her small face, a canvas of peace among the chaos, is a stark contrast to the turmoil surrounding them.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers, tears starting anew. “Just like her mother.”

The nurse smiles gently. “Have you thought of a name?”

Charles nods, “Juliette. After my godfather.”

Gently rocking the infant, he leans down, pressing a tender kiss on her forehead. “Hey, Juliette,” he murmurs. “I’m your papa. Your maman and I have waited so long for you. We love you so much.”

Juliette stirs, her tiny fingers curling around one of Charles’ own.

“I promise,” Charles voice breaks, “to protect you. I will be here for you, always.”

A doctor approaches, clearing his throat. “Mr. Leclerc, your wife’s condition is critical. But she’s a fighter and she has a lot to fight for.”

Charles nods, looking down at Juliette. “She does. We both do.”

Gently rocking your daughter, he loses himself in the rhythm of her soft breaths and the warmth of her tiny body against his chest. It’s an odd feeling — holding the fresh promise of life in his arms while the love of his life hangs in the balance.

***

“We’ve run all possible tests,” the oncologist begins. Charles, clutching a sleeping Juliette to his chest, waits with bated breath. “The cancer has progressed aggressively. To give her a fighting chance, we need to perform a hysterectomy.”

The room grows cold as the gravity of the doctor’s words sinks in. Charles’ voice trembles, “But that means ...”

The doctor nods, voice as gentle as the situation allows. “She won’t be able to bear children again.”

Silence stretches as the weight of the world seems to fall on Charles’ shoulders. He gazes down at Juliette, the embodiment of the dreams and hopes you both had.

“We had plans,” Charles whispers, more to himself. “We wanted more children, a big family.”

The doctor waits. “I understand how hard this is. But without the procedure, her chances ...”

“I know,” Charles cuts him off, voice breaking. “Do it. Do whatever it takes to save her.”

The doctor nods, squeezing Charles’ shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “We’ll do our best.”

As preparations for the surgery commence, Charles sits in the dimly lit waiting area, holding Juliette close. The baby, as if sensing the heavy atmosphere, remains unusually quiet.

“It’s not fair,” Charles’ lips form words meant for the void. “She’s sacrificed so much already. She deserves a world filled with joy and laughter.”

From across the room, a nurse, having overheard, speaks up, “Life has its cruel twists but the love you both share … that’s rare. Hold onto that.”

Charles nods, taking solace in the nurse’s words. Time seems to lose all meaning, each tick of the clock amplifying the uncertainty and fear.

Finally, a surgeon approaches, fatigue evident in her posture even as her face remains carefully professional. “The procedure went as well as could be expected. Your wife is stable for now.”

Relief floods Charles so rapidly that he has to stop himself from falling to the ground as he murmurs a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

But as he sits by your bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, the reality of what you had lost sets in. The dreams of a large family, shared laughter, and memories, all stolen by this cruel twist of fate.

***

The world around you is a haze of light and shadow, the sounds a distant echo. Your eyes flutter open and for a moment you’re lost, disoriented, and overwhelmed. Then, you see Charles, his face etched with relief and sorrow, tears glistening in his eyes.

“Welcome back,” he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’ve missed you so much.”

You try to speak but your throat is too parched to make a sound. Charles offers you a sip of water, his hands trembling as he helps you drink.

“What happened?” You finally manage to croak, your eyes darting around the unfamiliar room.

Charles takes a deep breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “The cancer ... it had advanced. They had to perform a hysterectomy to save you.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and final. Your abdomen feels sore and you reach down, fingers tracing the bandages. Panic seizes you and the tears pour down without permission as the reality of what’s been taken from you crashes down.

“It’s gone,” you sob. “Our dreams ... our family.”

Charles leans in, tears mingling with yours. “Shh, mon amour. None of this is your fault. We’ll find another way, another path to happiness. We have Juliette and we have each other.”

But the weight of guilt is crushing. “We dreamed of a big family,” you cry, the depth of your loss piercing. “And I’ve taken that away from us.”

He brushes your tears away. “You have nothing to be sorry for. This is not your fault. We’ll make new dreams together, I promise.”

“I just wanted to give you everything,” the grief wracks your body.

“You already have,” Charles insists. “You’ve given me love, you’ve given me our little girl … our Juliette. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

With great effort, you lift your arms, weak from the ordeal. Charles, understanding your unspoken desire, carefully places Juliette against your chest. You’re too weak to hold her on your own but together, you and Charles support her tiny form.

“Hello, Juliette," you whisper, tears of joy mingling with your earlier tears of grief.

She blinks up at you, her eyes wide and curious. You’ve never felt anything like what fills your heart as you look at the perfect human you both created, the embodiment of love and resilience.

“I love you both so much,” you whisper, heart swelling with a dizzying mix of joy and sorrow.

Charles, his own eyes filled with tears, leans down and kisses both you and Juliette gently. “We have each other and right now that’s all that matters.”

***

“I never imagined it would be like this,” your voice wavers as you lie propped up by pillows in the dimly lit bedroom.

Charles, his fingers intertwined with yours, meets your gaze. “Neither did I.”

The weight of all that’s transpired hangs heavily in the room. The joy of Juliette’s arrival is marred by the pain and loss you both feel.

“I feel ... incomplete,” you admit, tears forming in your eyes. “Like a part of me is missing.”

“I wish I could take away the pain,” Charles responds. “If I could trade places with you, I would in a heartbeat.”

You squeeze his hand. “It’s not your burden to bear. But it’s … hard. I wanted to give Juliette siblings, the big family we always talked about.”

Charles leans in to rest his forehead against yours. “We still have a family. We have each other and we have Juliette. We can still have a full, beautiful life together.”

You sigh, “But do you ever wonder why? Why us?”

He hesitates, searching for words. “Every day. Sometimes, there’s just no answer, only a path forward.”

You curl into him, drawing comfort from his warmth. “What does our path forward look like?”

Charles pulls back, looking deep into your eyes. “It’s filled with love, with hope. We heal together. We face challenges together. And we build a future together. No matter what.”

“I’m scared.”

He brushes away your tears. “So am I. But we have each other and that’s a pretty good place to start if you ask me.”

***

“She smiled, Charles! Did you see that? Juliette smiled!”

Charles rushes over and peers into the crib with gleaming eyes. “There it is! That little grin,” his voice is filled with wonder. “Our little miracle has the most beautiful smile. Just like her mother’s.”

Juliette, seemingly aware of the shared happiness in the room, gurgles softly, her small fingers reaching out to grasp a lock of Charles’ hair.

You watch them, a gentle smile playing on your lips. “She brings us so much joy. It’s amazing.”

Charles nods, his eyes never leaving Juliette’s face. “She’s our light in the darkness.”

Leaning over, you press a soft kiss to Juliette’s forehead. “I’m so thankful for both of you.”

He shifts closer, resting his head against yours. “You know, mon amour, I’ve been thinking ...”

You turn to him, curiosity piqued. “About what?”

He takes a deep breath. “About our dreams. I know it’s not what we originally planned but what if we consider adoption?”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, love and hope blossoming. “Adoption?”

Charles smiles warmly. “Yes. We’ve always dreamed of a big family. And there are so many children out there who need a home, who need love. We can give a child all of that and more.”

Tears well up in your eyes but they’re tears of joy and gratitude. “That’s a beautiful idea.”

He leans in, pressing his lips to yours gently. “Our love knows no bounds. The path to our dreams may not be as simple as we once imagined but we will get there, one step at a time.”

***

Charles’ phone buzzes with an incoming call in the early hours of the morning. Seeing a familiar name flash across the screen, he answers immediately. “Don Pietro? Is everything okay?”

“Charles, you need to come to Maranello. Both of you. As soon as possible.”

Charles exchanges a puzzled glance with you. “Is something wrong?”

“Just come,” Don Pietro insists, “and bring your wife. I believe there is a miracle waiting for you.”

The drive to Maranello is filled with anticipation. Your mind races with possibilities, questions whirling in a tornado of confusion and hope.

Upon arriving at the church, you’re met with the sight of the elderly priest holding a tiny bundle. The baby, with soft tufts of hair and eyes wide with curiosity, looks up at the two of you.

“This,” Don Pietro begins, “is Enzo. He was left on the steps of our church last night. And the moment I held him, I thought of you two.”

Charles’ eyes widen. “Enzo ... like Ferrari?”

Don Pietro nods with a soft chuckle, “It’s as if the universe is trying to tell us something.”

You reach out, taking the infant into your arms. Enzo’s little hand wraps around your finger, his eyes meeting yours. The connection is instant, like two souls recognizing each other.

Charles’ voice is thick with emotion, “It’s as if he was meant to be with us. A sign, maybe?”

Don Pietro smiles warmly, “Perhaps a nudge from above, reminding us that miracles happen when we least expect them.”

Tears spring to your eyes, the weight of the moment overwhelming you. Charles is equally moved, his eyes glistening and lips trembling.

“We talked about adoption,” he murmurs. “But this ... this feels like fate.”

Don Pietro nods. “He needs a family, love, and a home. And I believe you two can give him that.”

As Charles takes Enzo from your arms and cradles him close, a bond that goes beyond words quickly forms. You lean in, touching Enzo’s chubby cheek, your heart swelling with love.

The moment feels destined — a new piece seamlessly fitting into the puzzle of your family.

***

“Look at that, Julie and Enny! Those cars go vroom vroom,” you point out with a smile playing on your lips as the roar of engines fills the air.

Juliette’s eyes widen in awe, her tiny hand pointing excitedly. Beside her, Enzo claps his hands, giggling. “Vroom!” He mimics.

Charles, his racing suit on, kneels to their level. “Would you like to see papa’s car up close?”

Both children nod eagerly, their eyes sparkling.

As you make your way through the paddock, team members and other drivers stop to meet the kids. “Look at these future champions!” Exclaims one of the engineers, ruffling Enzo’s hair.

Juliette, ever the social butterfly, giggles and offers a shy “Hello.”

Reaching the Ferrari garage, the team breaks into smiles. “Looks like Charles brought his lucky charms today,” someone comments, causing a round of chuckles.

“Ready for a photo op?” Charles grins, lifting Juliette into the driver's seat as you follow suit with Enzo, placing him right beside his sister.

They look so small in the cockpit, faces full of wonder. “Beep beep,” Juliette laughs, pretending to steer.

“Future Ferrari driver right here,” Charles beams.

As the team gathers around, cameras flashing, you take a moment to soak it all in. The laughter, the joy, the memories — this is what life is about.

“There were times I thought this day would never come,” Charles whispers to you, his arm wrapping around your waist. “Our family here, all together.”

You squeeze his hand, tears of happiness threatening to spill over. “Our dream is now … and it’s only just beginning.”

***

“Henri and Helaine, look it’s your sister!” You cheer, pointing to the massive screen as Juliette’s Ferrari speeds past, making your young twins cheer and clap clumsily in excitement.

Charles grins as an orange blur follows shortly, “And Enzo’s not far behind. What a race!”

The atmosphere in the paddock is electric. Red for Ferrari, orange for McLaren, the colors of a family divided by teams but united by love.

Suddenly, a microphone appears as a familiar reporter approaches. “A quick word for the fans? It must be a thrilling day for the Leclerc family!”

Charles grins, adjusting his half-Ferrari, half-McLaren cap. “Oh, absolutely! We couldn’t be any prouder. A bit of sibling rivalry never hurt anyone, right?”

You laugh, nodding in agreement. “We’ve always said, as long as they’re safe and enjoying themselves, that’s what matters. Though,” you add with a playful wink, “I always wear both colors, just in case!”

The reporter chuckles. “And the young ones? Future racers in the making?”

Henri, with all the innocence of childhood, pipes up, “I wanna go vroom too!”

Helaine nods rapidly. “Me too! Super duper fast.”

You and Charles exchange a glance in amusement. “Well, there you have it,” Charles says with a smile. “Looks like the tracks will be seeing Leclercs for many years to come.”

The race ends with both Juliette and Enzo clinching a podium finish. The celebrations are loud and filled with joy, but for you, true happiness is seeing your family — past, present, and future — come together just like you always dreamed.

[aphroditelovesu]

Winter Solstice | Yan!HOTD

❝ 🐉 — lady l: Merry Christmas, my dear readers! I wish you a great day and a prosperous New Year! I hope you enjoy this Christmas special with our yandere family from HOTD! Good reading, forgive me for any mistakes and once again, have a great holiday to you ❤️🎄.

❝warnings: yandere themes, mention of death and obsessive and possessive behavior.

❝🐉word count: 1,941.

A long, long time ago, when the Earth was young and the days were short, people looked up to the sky with wonder and awe. They watched the Sun rise and fall over the horizon, its heat bringing life to the earth and its dark nights bringing a deep sleep to the world.

In the ancient realm of the seasons, each cycle marked the eternal dance between light and dark. As winter approached, a whisper spread through nature. Leaves fell from the trees, animals sought shelter and the nights extended, enveloping the world in a blanket of darkness and cold.

It was the time of the Winter Solstice, a magical moment when the Earth seemed suspended between extremes. People gathered around campfires, telling stories of times gone by, sharing warmth and hope amid the impending darkness.

On the eve of the longest night of the year, eyes turned to the sky, waiting for the miracle. Slowly, the Sun began its journey towards the horizon, fighting the darkness with its golden light. The stars twinkled above, bearing witness to the celestial spectacle.

And then, in the most sublime moment, the Sun began to rise, rising majestically into the sky. The colors of dawn painted the landscape, and people celebrated the rebirth of the Sun, knowing that light and warmth would return to the world. It was a symbol of renewal, hope and the continuous cycle of life.

On the Winter Solstice, people came together to celebrate the courage of the light that faces the darkness, remembering that even in the darkest moments, there is always the promise of rebirth and the light that returns to warm the hearts and illuminate the souls ways.

It had always been your favorite time of year, you loved how the snow fell from the sky and painted everything white, the food, the exchange of gifts and most importantly, it was when your whole family was together. You appreciated more than anything the few moments of peace that your family spent during that date, all happy and together. Like a big, loving family.

Having them all together was what you loved most as you grew up. All the disputes, the fights seemed to disappear during this time of year. Your heart and mind were at peace.

The green of the forest and the fiery red of love and passion. Its fabric was as soft as a spring breeze, a harmonious blend of silk and cotton that moved like leaves dancing in the wind. The predominant green was reminiscent of treetops, its hue varying from a lush emerald green to softer nuances, like newborn buds. The waist was accentuated by a deep red belt, as if it were the blush of the petals of a passionate rose. The intense tone stood out, creating a magnificent contrast with the lush greenery, and a decorative bow added a touch of elegance.

Something beautiful and elegant, with both of your family colors. Of the Targaryens and the Hightowers. There was some small, discreet blue embroidery that symbolized the Velaryon, subtle but standing out in its own way.

You turned to your maid who was looking at you with affection, you smiled at her, ''What do you think, Diane?''

She smiled widely, ''You looked incredible, my princess/prince. A suitable choice for a dinner with your family.'' There was a hint of worry in her tone, but you just held her hands and squeezed them gently.

''Don't worry, Diane. Everything will be fine.''

She nodded, ''Yes... Do you want me to accompany you to where the banquet will be held?''

You politely denied, ''No, but thank you.''

A hint of disappointment flashed in her brown eyes, but she just smiled and after a simple bow, she left the room. You took a deep breath and looked at the ring that adorned your finger, a gift from your grandfather, Viserys. He was sick and you swore to yourself that you would do everything to make this dinner enjoyable for him. He deserved it.

Just as you expected, everything was impeccable and your family was already waiting for you. A majestic dining room, adorned with golden chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft light on long solid wood tables.

The walls were covered with richly embroidered tapestries, depicting scenes from Targaryen history and grand festivities. The polished stone floor gleamed in the light of the torches that adorned the walls, reflecting the grandeur of the space.

In the center of the room, a long table stretched out, covered in an immaculate linen tablecloth and decorated with wildflower arrangements and heraldry of noble families. Silver candelabras exuded a soft glow, while golden goblets glittered in the dancing light of the flames.

Music filled the atmosphere as skilled musicians played lutes, flutes and harps, entertaining guests with happy melodies and lively dances.

''(Y/N)!'' Your mother's excited voice called out to you and you smiled at Rhaenyra, who quickly hugged you, placing her head against the crook of your neck, ''You look great, sweetheart.''

''Thanks, mom. You look great too.'' And indeed, she did. Rhaenyra wore a dark red dress decorated with gold that fit her perfectly. She pulled back a little and smiled at you.

''(Y/N)! We're here.'' On one side of the table, your younger brothers sat. You looked at Jacaerys, Lucerys, and little Joffrey, who were smiling at you. You kissed Rhaenyra's cheek and went to sit next to your brothers. Or you tried, for that matter.

For you were quickly pulled to the side as Aegon grabbed you and pulled you closer to him, Aemond, and Helaena. You smiled at your aunt and uncles and greeted them.

''Sit with us.'' Aegon asked and pointed to an empty chair next to Helaena who was smiling sweetly at you. You looked nervously at your brothers, who were staring at Aegon with disdain.

Aemond frowned and placed a hand over your shoulder, ''Come, stay with us.'' His tone said there was no room for argument.

Luckily for you, the doors opened and revealed Viserys along with Alicent, both smiling when they saw you. You apologized to your aunt and uncles and quickly walked over to your grandparents, helping Viserys sit down.

''Ah, (Y/N)... You look great!'' Viserys praised you, as soon as he sat down. You smiled at him and kissed his cheek in thanks.

Alicent pulled you into a tight hug, ''My husband is right, you look great. This shade of green suits you very well.'' She murmured and walked away hesitantly, adjusting your clothes. You kissed your face.

''Thanks. You look amazing too.'' She smiled in response and held your hands, squeezing them gently.

After a few minutes of talking to your grandparents, you walked over to your father and uncle, who were sitting next to each other. Laenor smiled widely and pulled you into a tight hug, not wanting to let go. He only let go when Daemon cleared his throat, irritated.

Laenor rolled his eyes and let go of you, staring at Daemon with an iron gaze. Daemon returned the same look and you acted quickly before they fought.

''Happy Solstice to you both.'' You said, twiddling your fingers nervously. Daemon smiled and patted you on the shoulder twice, pulling you into a hug. You hugged him back.

''Happy Solstice, my child.'' Laenor said after you and Daemon parted ways.

''Happy Solstice, (Y/N).'' Daemon said, looking at you softly. You thanked them and apologized as you left them, wanting to greet your other family members. You spotted Baela and Rhaena sitting near your brothers and quickly walked over to them.

''Finally. I thought you would never come and talk to us.'' Baela complained and got up from the chair and hugged you tightly, ''I missed you, cousin.''

You returned the hug tightly, smiling at her words, ''I missed you too, cousin.''

Rhaena cleared her throat and stood up, hugging you as you and Baela separated.

You smiled at the squeeze and said, ''I missed you too, Rhaena.''

Joffrey got out of his chair and jumped into your arms, laughing loudly when you caught him in a tight hug.

''You're getting too big for me to keep doing this.'' You laughed and rolled him over, placing him on the floor. Russing his dark hair, you smiled when he laughed. You hugged Luke, who seemed especially clingy today. Jace also hugged you tightly and wished you a Happy Solstice.

After talking for a while with your brothers and cousins, you went to greet your paternal grandparents. Rhaenys and Corlys were sitting next to Otto, oddly enough, and the three of them looked at you with affection.

''Grandmother.'' You kissed Rhaenys's cheek who kissed yours back.

''Grandpa.'' You hugged Corlys and he hugged you back and complimented the blue details on your outfit.

''Otto.'' You greeted your great-grandfather, who smiled warmly at you. He seemed relaxed and calm, more so than he normally was.

''Shall we have dinner in honor of this happy day?'' Viserys's loud voice sounded in the room and everyone focused on the King. There was a bit of tension about where you should sit, but you chose next to Viserys and Rhaenyra, who shook your hand under the table.

Servants brought silver trays loaded with delicious delicacies. Large roasts of meat browned on skewers, exuding a tantalizing aroma of exotic spices. Tables were adorned with fresh fruit, from crimson apples to juicy grapes, and freshly baked bread that looked like it had come straight from the oven.

Plenty of wine circulated among everyone and soon everyone was laughing and talking. Your heart felt lighter when you saw your entire family happy, getting along for the first time in a long time.

After the banquet, you all went to one of the rooms of the castle, where the gifts were. The exchange went well, you received gifts from everyone individually and you presented them with what you carefully chose. Ser Criston was present and you gave him a gift too, under the watchful eye of your family, a pure Valyrian steel sword. He smiled in thanks and said he would give you a gift later.

When it seemed like the exchange of gifts was over, Otto said, ''We have a special gift for you, (Y/N). From all of us.'' He gestured to your entire family, who looked on expectantly. You took the gift from his hand, a wooden box with gold details, which was well packaged.

As soon as you opened it, all the color in your face disappeared. It was a head, a human head. You felt like you were going to throw up when you recognized the head. Diane, your servant.

''W-What is this?!'' You groaned, the words stuck in your throat as you held the box, your legs shaking as terror invaded your body. Everyone seemed calm, even Viserys.

''This is our gift to you, my child.'' Rhaenyra said and approached you, placing a hand on your shoulder, ''To remind you not to approach anyone.''

''They can't be trusted,'' Alicent began to say, ''Diane couldn't be trusted. Criston was the one who cut off her head and Rhaenyra, Helaena and I cradled her. The choice of the box was Daemon's.''

They looked at you expectantly, as if they hoped you really liked the gift. Your hands were shaking so much that the box fell to the floor, Diane's severed head falling to the floor.

A perfect ending to a loving Winter Solstice with your family, from their perspective.

[toournextadventure]

a novel life pt.3

Summary: You admit a few things to Sam, and finally she starts to feel a little more normal. Almost as if Ghostface was truly a thing of the past. Almost.

Word Count: 4.2k Warnings: mentions of Scream-typical violence, mentions of trauma, light swearing Pairing: Samantha Carpenter x GN!Reader (pt.1) (pt.2) (pt.3) (pt.4) (pt.5)

Oh you had messed up. You had messed up so badly. Why hadn’t you told Sam about Ghostface all those weeks ago? It was certainly far too late to tell her now, it had happened last year. Okay, slight exaggeration, you had simply passed into the New Year last week but still!

And now it was too late. You didn’t know why, it just was.

“Can you hand me that pen?” Sam asked.

You hummed and handed her what was on the table, still staring off into the distance. The television was on in your apartment and you couldn’t have told a single soul what was on. Perhaps it was the news. It was usually the news, you liked to keep up to date with everything.  If you had time, you would even split the screen between all news stations so you could compare all sides of information.

It was a miracle you had managed to keep Sam as long as you had.

“I think I’ll fuck J on the coffee table in an hour, is that okay?”

“Yes darling, whatever you want,” you said as your mind continued to race through possibilities.

You straightened up and quickly turned to look at her.

“I beg your pardon?” You asked, her words finally forcing its way through the plethora of thoughts to the forefront of your mind. “No, it’s absolutely not okay.”

Sam smiled and placed the remote on the table. Which you supposed you had handed her instead of a pen. Because of course you had, why would you hand her the pen she had so clearly asked for? She placed a warm hand on your jaw and you couldn’t help but lean into it.

“What’s going on in your head?” She asked far softer than she had any right to. “You’re usually not this distracted.”

You didn’t want to tell her. It felt like a betrayal of her trust that you hadn’t told her right after it had happened, how could you come back from it now? What excuse did you have other than you were afraid? Being afraid certainly wasn’t going to win you any favours, not with the Ghostface Murder family.

A mental note popped up to never, never call them that to their faces.

You should tell her.

No you shouldn’t.

Yes you should.

No.

Fine.

“I saw Ghostface the night I was buying your stockings,” you said rather unceremoniously.

Sam looked at you like you had grown a second head. Oh lord, had you grown a second head? Oh you bet you had, you absolute fool. Your mother had told you time and time again, there were consequences to lying. And now that you had finally come clean, you were facing the consequences. You hoped Sam still liked you with a second head.

“You saw Ghostface?” She asked in a whisper.

“I know I should have told you,” you said quickly, “but to tell you the truth, I was too afraid to tell anyone so instead I simply kept my mouth shut.”

Sam still said nothing. She almost looked afraid, which you could understand. You yourself were rather afraid as well. There had been no news of Ghostface running around New York again, but you knew for a fact he was out and about. And judging by the look on Sam’s face, she knew it was the truth as well.

Oh, this was precisely why you had kept it from her! You hadn’t intended to terrify her, oh no, quite the contrary. You wanted nothing more than for her to not fear the masked delinquent that habited wherever she existed. It was rather unfair when you started to think about it. No surprise at all that Tara was untrustful of… well, everyone.

“Promise me you won’t try to find him again,” Sam finally said, her voice far more vulnerable than it had any right to be.

“My dear,” you said, doing your best to emulate her tone. You reached out to hold her hand in a tight grasp. “I would rather defend my thesis a second time than try to find that… hoodlum again.”

Her laugh, though nervous, was beautiful. There was nothing quite like the sound of Sam’s laughter. Even when unsettled, there was a heartiness to it that called to your soul. It touched the deepest parts of you, coaxing them out of their hiding spots until you were laid bare before her, eagerly awaiting her next move.

“I don’t think anyone has ever called Ghostface a “hoodlum” before,” she said before squeezing your hand.

“Well they should,” you said, all joking put aside. “Or perhaps even a coward,” you continued. “Only a coward prevents their victim from seeing the face of their attacker.”

Sam leaned against your arm as she grabbed her textbook again. “You’re talking pretty big for someone who was supposedly terrified of him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t get within one hundred feet of him,” you clarified. “I’m bold, not brave, my love.”

Her weight settled into you a little more as she pulled her knees up and rested the textbook on top of them. She was doing her best to stay calm; that was what gave her away. The faux-relaxation and attempt to act like you hadn’t just been talking about the person that had terrorised not only her, but her family for years.

And shame on you for bringing it back up again.

You wrapped an arm around her, allowing her to truly sink into you as you both continued your studies. It was not, nor would it ever be, an easy thing to live with. You hadn’t experienced it long, but you could already imagine the constant horror. There was something horrific, not about the immediate threat, but about the ever-looming fear that it could be a threat.

Maybe Tara’s suspicion of you was making more and more sense.

—---

Days passed by without even the slightest hint of Ghostface returning. You kept the news on (when Sam was away) in case there was talk of any familiar murders, but there was nothing. Well, nothing outside of the usual murder and carnage that could be found all over New York City. The more you watched the local news, the more convinced you were that you were not living within a safe city.

Then there was the neverending curiosity that desperately clawed itself up from the deepest recesses of your brain. You hadn’t wanted to think of that… that criminal. Not his motives, his history, none of it. There had been an attempt to push it back down. You had even asked your mother for advice, not wanting to bring it up to Sam in an effort - however futile - to keep her away from it all. Again.

She had not been on your side.

“Just ask her, dear,” your mother said. In the background of the call, you could hear Jeopardy playing on the old television. “If you want the knowledge, you ask the expert.”

You sighed as you flopped down on your own couch. “I don’t want to upset her though.”

Subconsciously, you turned on Jeopardy to watch it with your parents. Just like old times.

“She’ll tell you if it upsets her,” she said. Then, quieter, “what is Metamorphoses.”

“Gosh darn, hon, at least give me a chance to guess it,” you heard your father say. It was a faux complaint; his laugh gave him away.

“He needs to guess faster,” you mumbled, not entirely to anyone in particular.

“Did ya hear that?” Your mother started to blab. “Our little Doctor says you need to guess faster.” She barely contained her giggle.

“Don’t tell him that,” you huffed.

“Well I’m sorry we’re not all fancy pants doctors, kiddo,” he said, far too loud. He still couldn’t really comprehend how phones worked. At least he tried. “Takes some of us a bit of time to think, ya know?”

“What is the knee,” your mother said.

“See?” Your dad groaned. “Got me all distracted, I can’t keep up.”

“Then let me let you go,” you said quickly before either one of your parents could say anything else.

“Don’t forget to ask Samantha,” your mother said with an air of nonchalance that you only dreamed of achieving.

“I will,” you said. The commercial had ended and you knew if you waited much longer, you’d hear your parents arguing over the answer again. “I’ll talk to you both tomorrow.”

“Tell Samantha she needs to watch Jeopardy with us some time,” your dad called out.

“Good night,” you insisted.

“Night, hon,” both of your parents mumbled before you finally managed to end the call.

You loved them, you really did. But the last thing you were going to do anytime soon was invite Sam to watch Jeopardy. You wanted to keep a girlfriend, not lose one. Although maybe it would be the mundanity that she needed. There was nothing less exciting than watching game shows with your parents, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“Who is Castro,” you mumbled to yourself before the screen showed your exact answer.

It was truly amazing you had kept a girlfriend for as long as you had so far.

—---

“You’re quiet,” Sam said softly.

You looked up from the abyss that was your wine. The restaurant of the week was a bit more luxurious, “fancy,” as J called it. Tara called it “ridiculous,” but you kept your mouth shut; she would be going on a date to the same place within the month. Her opinion didn’t change the fact that it was a lovely restaurant, only made more beautiful by the woman sitting across from you.

“I’m sorry,” you said just as softly. “I’m just thinking.”

She leaned forward on her arms. “Anything in particular?”

Yes, your mind started, would you truly consider yourself a child of Ghostface? After all, Billy Loomis is technically the forefather of the Ghostface lineage, but he didn’t raise you. Would you still consider him your father? Or, perhaps he is your father but not your dad. Some people make that distinction, you know. Does such a thought bother you-

“-My parents are coming to visit in two weeks,” you said with a calm smile that contradicted your internal monologue. “Would you like to meet them?”

Now that made Sam freeze. Her eyes grew wide as she stared at you. If you looked closer, you almost thought you saw her jaw nearly drop. Oh, so she could fight off Ghostface twice and yet she couldn’t meet your parents? They weren’t so bad! Well, not really, just in a different way. Okay, maybe they were a little intimidating, but not in a bad way!

“Are you afraid of my parents?” You asked as you both sat up, sitting back far enough for the waiter to place your food before you. He pursed his lips and attempted not to smile.

“I’m not afraid of them,” she said indignantly. “I’ve just,” she shrugged, “never had to meet someone’s parents before.”

“Never?” You asked. It was easy enough to maintain eye contact - which your mother claimed was important during serious conversations - while picking at your food. “Not once?”

“Not really, no,” she said. She, however, was not making eye contact. “I mean, there was a boyfriend or two in highschool, but I already knew their parents so it doesn’t count.”

“What about Agent Reed?” You asked before taking another bite of your dinner.

Sam smiled softly. “Already knew her parents too.”

“Right, right,” you said with your own nod before finally looking down at your food. You had nearly forgotten what you had ordered to begin with.

You supposed you couldn’t blame her for being worried. No, you couldn’t blame her at all. Though not quite on the same level - although it completely was - you had been as terrified to meet Tara. Though not her parent, Tara was the only family she had left, aside from the twins. That was terrifying enough without technically being a parent.

Then there was the fear that, although you knew Sam would never admit it aloud, she was afraid of parents. Perhaps it was from the fear that they wouldn’t approve of her as her own mother had made painfully clear. There was no gentle way to tell her that her mother was not a good mother. Parents were rarely disappointed in their children, even on the worst days.

Not every family was as tragic as hers.

“Would it help if I told you about them?” You asked slowly. “Then you can decide if you would like to meet them or not.”

Sam chewed her food thoughtfully before looking up at you through her eyelashes. You hated when she did that, truly you did. It made you fold within an instant. She knew it too. Samantha Carpenter knew what she could do to you, and she used her wiles shamelessly. A femme fatale indeed.

“That would actually be nice,” she finally said. There was a raspiness to her voice that she kept reserved for whenever she wanted something.

You didn’t know what exactly she wanted, but you would have given her the world just to find out.

“Alright then,” you said softly, almost inaudibly as you swallowed harshly. “Where to start?”

Throughout the rest of the evening, you told her of your parents. Of their childhoods, or at least what you were aware of, and their accomplishments. You spun tales of their “wild years,” as they had called it back in the ‘70s. She slowly scrolled through the photos on your phone, the ones you had scanned from their physical photos.

By the time you had ordered dessert - a tiramisu that was to die for - you had moved your chair closer to hers. You had told her of their professions; your mother was a librarian at the small elementary school, and your father worked at the local pharmacy. Nothing fancy, nothing to brag about, but they were proud of their jobs.

All the while, Sam listened intently. You could feel her eyes on you the entire time you talked. It was as if she was staring into your soul, trying to pick apart what could be a lie and what was fact. A painful realisation of just how deep her familial trauma ran, even though she and Tara would never admit it aloud.

“That’s about it, really,” you finally said with a shrug. The signed check had been sitting in front of you for far longer than you could say. “My parents’ entire story in the span of a singular dinner date.”

You… wouldn’t think too hard about the fact you had spent an entire dinner date talking about your parents.

“They sound like good people,” Sam said. Her hand was warm in yours.

“They’re rather eccentric in their own way,” you said, “but they mean well.”

You didn’t ask the question yet. It would be up to Sam whether she wanted to meet your parents or not, and you certainly weren’t going to push her one way or another. This was wholly her decision, you had simply laid out enough for her to make an informed decision of her own.

“Would they like me?” She asked softly.

There was a desperation on her face that she rarely let show. Sam was a tough woman; not just physically. But something about this was making her second guess herself and her own abilities. It was preposterous, though you knew one couldn’t fight their own insecurities so easily. The very look on her face broke your heart.

You lifted her hand to cup her cheek, which she eagerly leaned into.

“My darling,” you said gently, “they already do.”

The smallest of smiles lifted the corners of her mouth. Just as with every time you saw her smile, you knew you would do anything for her if she but looked at you the way she was in that moment. All bright eyes and carefree smile and as beautiful as the day you had first seen her.

“I want to meet them,” she said. “If it’s alright.”

You leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead. “It’s always alright.”

—---

Your parents loved Sam.

On top of that, your parents loved Sam and Tara. The literal moment they had found out Sam had a little sister, they had demanded you have her over as well. You had done your best not to eavesdrop, but when Sam called it was clear Tara wanted no part of it. However, for better or worse, the decision was made and Sam agreed to bring Tara over the next evening.

Then you all made the mistake of mentioning J. You should have known better, truly you should have. You knew your parents and their proclivity for practically adopting everyone into the family. They had picked it up in the ‘70s and had never gone back. Tara was practically blackmailed into bringing J with her the next night.

Your parents took to all of them like they were blood.

“You three better start practising,” your dad pointed out when the three newest family members were unusually silent while The Price is Right played in the background. “We only take it easy on ya the first time.”

“Dad,” you warned as you continued putting up Trivial Pursuit.

Your mom had wiped the floor with everyone, as usual.

“Don’t listen to him, hon,” your mom said. She was sitting proudly on her Winner’s Chair, as she had dubbed it after only the second win of the night. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“You sure about that?” J asked, their accent almost a comical contrast to your mother’s. “I felt like a fish outta water.”

“Practice makes perfect,” your mom said with a smile that was far too cheery for the humiliation she had instilled upon you all.

You would never forgive her for embarrassing you in front of Sam.

“We should get going,” Tara said rather reluctantly. “We have to be somewhere in the morning.”

“Where?” J asked.

The disappointment on Tara’s face was worthy of a picture.

“Brunch with your parents,” she said quietly.

“Oh shit, I forgot,” J said. Their voice, on the other hand, was far too loud for the situation. It was rather comical; you didn’t know how those two had ended up together, but their contrast was a work of art. “We gotta go.”

“Before ya head out,” your dad said as everyone stood up to tell them bye, “we gotta hug it out since we’re leavin’ tomorrow.”

J and Tara shared a look before looking at you. Right. None of them were really touchy-feely people. Being around your parents for the week had erased that possibility from your mind. With your bunch, you were all touching, hugging, patting each other on the back, whatever you could get away with. There hadn’t even been a thought in your mind that everyone else was a bit hesitant with their physical affection.

“You don’t have to,” you said softly with a shake of your head.

“Oh, are ya not a hugger?” Your mom asked.

“How’s about a handshake, bud?” Your dad said just as quickly.

“Handshake works great,” J said with their stereotypical toothy grin.

Your parents shook both J’s and Tara’s hands, telling them how lovely it was to meet them, inviting them over for Christmas and Easter and 4 of July and every other holiday they could think of. You walked the both of them out of the apartment while your parents continued to shout invitations to them.

Come over if ya need to get away for a weekend.

I’ll mail ya both some homemade cookies soon.

Expect somethin’ for your birthdays.

They didn’t stop offering things until the door closed behind the couple and it was only Sam left. Not that it stopped your parents, of course, they just simply turned their invitations towards her. Your parents were overwhelming, you knew they were. They meant well, they were just… a lot.

Yet Sam managed to handle it with grace and charm, and you simply fell more and more in love with her. She had your parents laughing, smiling, cracking jokes that they normally wouldn’t when they were alone with you. Something about her brought out a slightly less reserved side of them that you didn’t think you had ever seen.

And when she looked up and met your eyes as they continued talking with her, there was a familiar sparkle that you didn’t see as often as you would like, especially after hearing that Ghostface was back. She looked like your Sam, the one who had joked with you and teased you about your proclivity for books. The one you had woken up with last summer without a single care in the world.

The one you were utterly devoted to and would have sacrificed anything to make happy. That was your Sam once again.

—---

It was a beautiful late-winter day. The air was still a bit chilly, and you were bundled tightly in your warm coat that went down to your ankles. One of your hands was shoved deep into the pockets while the other held a small bouquet of flowers. The sweet bodega owner on the corner of your street was notorious for having the most beautiful flowers, and you now had to agree.

You were supposed to be home grading essays while Sam studied. One of the few relegated nights a week where you were both at your own homes. But you had missed her during the day, and you wouldn’t apologise for it. On the walk home, you had decided you would surprise her. After all, everyone loved flowers, didn’t they?

The streets were as busy as they usually were, but that was alright. It was a rather lovely evening, and it gave you more time to think about Sam. There was no doubt in your mind that anyone, possibly everyone would have teased you for how much of a… what did J call it? A simp you were for her. Yet you didn’t mind. You would have done anything for her without an ounce of hesitation.

Your mind started replaying the nights you spent with her. Some more exciting than others, though none of them a bore. The nights you spent together in each other’s bed, keeping quiet at her place while not bothering to do the same at yours. Or the nights you would just lay there, tracing scars and telling stories. Hers were far more interesting than yours, that was for sure.

Would it be too soon to start questioning if you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her? It had been nearly a year, if your memory served you well. Not the longest length of time, but you knew plenty of people that had questioned it much sooner. Would you want to spend the rest of your life with her?

Yes. Yes, you would. Being able to wake up to Sam every morning, hair splayed out on your pillow even as she insisted she was on her own. To be there for her when the nightmares and fears became too much. A shoulder to lean on, to cry on, a hand to hold when she needed it. You wanted to be by her side through it all, the good, the bad, the fun, the terrifying.

Nothing sounded better than being able to call her yours for the rest of your lives.

You didn’t bother buzzing to be let in; someone already downstairs let you in, having recognised you, you supposed. It wouldn’t have been too far of a stretch, you had frequented the apartment complex often enough. You were almost certain you knew the Carpenters’ neighbours better than they did.

Each step up the stairs had your heart racing faster. You were of the mind of a giddy school child, seeing their crush for the first time after the weekend. It was a little silly, but you didn’t care. Your parents had instilled in you the ability to be proud of your tendencies that most would find a little ridiculous. And you would never be shamed for wanting to see your girlfriend.

There were a few muffled voices behind the door when you approached the apartment. It wasn’t unusual, they were the centre hub for their friends. Sometimes the twins would come over, sometimes Anika would come around for a short escape, sometimes all three would arrive at once. On occasion you had even seen Quinn, though she had moved out some months ago and only frequented the bigger gatherings.

You opened the door quietly, doing your best not to disturb whoever else was inside. Slowly slipping into the apartment and easing the door shut, you did your best to keep the flowers as presentable as possible. After all, that was the surprise you had spent so long picking out. It would do you no good to mess them up before you could even give them to Sam. You turned around-

-the flowers fell to the floor with a thump.

“Oh shit.”

[adventuringblind]

Heyyyy

Is it possible to have more autistic reader X Oscar like something happens at the race weekend and it's the rest of the grid helping her out as they also try find Oscar. Or anything really.

If not totally fine.

Also LOVE your writing!!!

Grid Panic

Oscar Piastri x Autistic Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort and fluff

Summary: a photographer is taking pictures during a night race and gets in readers face with the flash on. She panics and Oscar is nowhere to be found.

Warnings: cameras and autistic meltdowns

Notes: Okay, so this is MY experience with meltdowns. Please remember that everyone is different and experiences things differently. Also, this is HC format.

Masterlist

Night races are your favorite

The weather is more mild at night

It's easier to hide away from the crowd

The journalists don't spot you as easily

It's perfect

Currently, you're waiting for Oscar to come out of the media pen

Meandering around the paddock with headphones in as you wait

Oscar is protective yes

But not overprotective

He lets you lead the way, and if you get uncomfortable, then he'll step in

He can read your signals like it's clockwork

But he's not here

And a photographer has decided to make you his muse for the moment

He begins snapping shots with the flash on since its dark

You've never been on for bright lights

It's been the cause of many moments spent tucked away under tables and desks

He's saying things to you about smiling for the camera

But your not listening

Desperately trying to shield your face from the onslaught of flashing lights.

You’re lucky that Lewis is walking by

It’s not like you were trying to screech his name

But volume is harder to control when you feel like this

Needless to say it gets his attention

He gets in between you and the photographer

His arm slung around your shoulders protectively

Eventually you register the darkness of the alley between buildings

“Are you alright?”

Everything in you wants to say yes

But the urge to slam yourself into the ground and stay there says otherwise

No words

Just breathe

Physical contact is to much right now

“Can we go to Oscars room?”

You nod yes

Then you’re journeying to the McLaren motor home

You run into Charles on the way

He trails behind you

Mildly panicked because you aren’t speaking

Never a good sign

He waits with you in Oscar’s room

He plays soft piano music to drown out the noises from outside the room

You hide in the corner and curl yourself into a ball

Meanwhile Lewis is running around the paddock

He wishes he hadn’t put his scooter away

He runs into Lando during his search

“Need…Oscar…”

“Why? Am I not good enough for you?”

“Girlfriend is having- a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Ahhhh- what’s it called- a meltdown!”

Lando joins in on the search

At this point it feels like they’ve looked everywhere

Then they see Max

“Max!”

The Dutch does a spin and smiles when he sees them

“Have you seen my teammate?”

“Zak dragged him off somewhere, I think.”

*internal screeching from the two Brits*

“Can’t you show us where they went?”

Max drags the two along

They end up back in front of the McLaren motor home

They head inside with Lando leading them to Oscars room

Charles is watching from outside the door

“Took you long enough.”

They all collectively roll their eyes

The photographer got a warning

The boys (Lewis in particular) fell asleep as soon as they hit their respective beds

Oscar covered you in his jacket and drive you two home

Taking back ways and using the back entrance of the Hotel

He laughs to himself after he manages to get you to fall asleep

It’s a miracle they didn’t send the whole paddock into a panic

You fall asleep knowing your have good friends who can listen to your needs

[nikoruistyping]

Better Hold Your Breathe || Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader​

Summary: You had hoped to have a nice normal morning but its nothing but normal at the BAU and next thing you know you end up locked in the Evidence Room with none other than Spencer Reid, your coworker and crush. As time passes Spencer starts to have a panic attack and there was only one thing you could think of to help stop it...

TW: Fluff, Coworkers to Lovers Relationship, Kissing, Playful Banter, Jealous Spencer, Derek calling you Babygirl as a joke, Depictions of a Panic Attack due to Claustrophobia

Word Count: 2.5K?

A/N: This fic is my annual bday present for my best friend so happy bday my queen and I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I did making it for you. I hope your MGG thirst is quenched with this one even though its not really a smutty piece since I ended up changing my plot/idea last minute because I wasnt happy with my writing at all and I’m rusty so I’m sorry if its not as good as my other pieces. THIS IS ALSO MY FIRST CRIMINAL MINDS/SPENCER FIC SO SORRY IF HE SOUNDS A BIT OUT OF CHARACTER I TRIED YALL. BEFORE ANY ONE COMMENTS AND COMES FOR ME YES THIS WAS INSPIRED BY THE STILES & LYDIA KISS FROM TEEN WOLF 3x11 SO SHUT UP I KNOW!

Coffee holder in hand you used your hip to push the glass double doors to the BAU open. You had purposely gone to the coffee shop early that morning so that you could order not only yourself a cup but to also get one for Spencer, who also happened to be the one guy in the BAU that you had the biggest crush on ever since the first day you joined. By some miracle you had remembered his order by heart and it was stupid that you were remembering such little things about him but that's what you do when you really like someone that much right? You tried to convince yourself that watching him make his coffee step by step every morning in the kitchen wasn't creepy at all but next thing you knew you were taking notes about what milk he used and how many sugars he would put inside his cup.

You shook your head at the silly thought and happily you walked over to your desk with the biggest smile on your face ready to take on the rest of the day. Penelope took notice from across the room as she walked in at the same time as you and she lightly nudged your shoulder.

"Well someone looks extra chipper this morning." She commented pushing up her pink colored glasses.

"Aren't I always happy every time I walk into work?" You question raising your eyebrow at her.

"Usually you are but I'm guessing that it has to do with the fact that you bought two coffees...I'm pretty sure that's not all for you." She says with a sly smirk on her lips since she is clearly the best hacker in the BAU there is, but your crush on Spencer was blatantly obvious that she didn't need to hack into brain to know that information.

"Bold of you to assume that Penelope." You say trying to look away but you weren't always the best at hiding your feelings.

"Oh come on, you know I'm right and I'm pretty sure that coffee is for a special someone that we all know you have the biggest crush on." She says with a small roll of her eyes at how it was pointless for you to deny it at this point.

"Fine! Fine...I did get him a coffee but it's just a coffee and that's it, nothing more I promise." You say as you lie to not only yourself but to Penelope who wasn't believing a word that you were saying at all but she just gave you a look of disbelief as she saw Derek across the room and waved hello to him.

"Whatever you say Y/N. Just promise me that eventually you will make a move or else I'll do it for you." She said with a nudge to your shoulder again which just made you chuckle at her declaration.

"I pinky promise, you happy now Penelope?" You say a bit reluctantly.

"Much better. I'll see you in ten minutes in the meeting room, Hotch gave us a new case so I have to prepare." She says as she parts ways with you and heads to her office as you make your way to your desk which of course happened to be right across from Spencer's and it was extremely hard to focus all day looking at his pretty face twenty four seven.

You were surprised to see another coffee cup on your desk with a little sticky note attached to the lid and it instantly made you smile. The closer you got you set down the holder and looked across to Spencer’s desk but he was nowhere in sight. You carefully took the sticky note off the lid and started to read it to yourself.

Y/N,

Hope I got the order right and enjoy.

- Spencer Reid aka Your Favorite Desk Neighbor

His little note made you smile from ear to ear and you could help but pick up the cup and take a small sip. To your surprise he really did get your order right, you hadn't expected him to be so observant but then again he would have a job if that was the case right?

As you look up you see Spencer walking in your direction and when your eyes met his you tried your best to keep your composure and waved to him, his footsteps getting closer until he seemed to park himself right in front of your desk.

"Morning Spence. I-Um...thanks for the coffee that's really thoughtful of you." You admit taking another sip as you glanced over his beautiful facial features.

"Morning Y/N," His reply a controlled stutter, barely keeping it together while you inched closer to where he was leaning against the desk.

He accepted the pipping hot cup you bought him with a whispered thank you. You were excited to see his reaction and you had your fingers crossed that you remembered every detail of his order.

"Did I get it right?" You asked with an eager attitude and smile on your face while you tried to hide behind your coffee cup.

"Surprisingly enough you-" His words were interrupted by Derek coming up from behind and shaking his shoulders playfully.

"Good Morning you two," He said greeting us as he looked at all the coffee cups on your desk and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Looks like you two decided to throw a coffee party and not invite anyone. I'm taking this as compensation." He says with a laugh and grabbing the cup of coffee you had bought for yourself.

"I-I'll allow that but you owe me next time Derek." You say taking a sip and gritting your teeth a bit in anger but not letting it get the best of you.

"Fine I'll get you one next time babygirl," He said with a smirk and a little playful wink which made you flustered for a quick moment since it was out of character for him to ever call you that, that was always his thing with Penelope. You glanced at Spencer and his gaze seemed frustrated and angry, his knuckles almost turning white as he gripped the coffee cup harder. You couldn't quite read what was on his mind since he never was the best at showing or expressing his emotions. It was clear he was upset maybe jealous even.

"Oh come on now, I'm just playing no need to get all flustered. I'll see you both in the meeting room in ten." He said patting Spencer on the shoulder seeing as he made no comments at all about the interaction.

Before you could try and bounce back from the awkwardness Derek had instilled into your conversation with Spencer this morning felt like it couldn't get any worse until you got a call on your desk phone and you picked up.

"Hey Y/N, I need you to go into the evidence room and bring me a few boxes of evidence. Looks like its so old and outdated that its not in the computer system yet," Penelope explained over the phone.

"Penelope really?! Is it that urgent that it needs to be right now?" You question in a bit of an annoyed tone in your voice being as nothing seemed to be going as planned this morning.

"Yes Y/N it is! Pretty pretty please I won't ask you for any other favors for the whole day I promise," She pleaded and well you couldn't say no to your best friend in the whole department.

"Fine I'll go. Just text me the record box numbers and I'll go get them." You said letting out a breath as you nervously played with phone cord.

"Make sure to bring Spencer or Derek with you. The boxes are pretty heavy and good luck!" She hung up quickly before you could even say another word in protest but you accepted that this was basically defeat at this point.

You put the phone down hanging up and you give Spencer a look that makes him immediately curious. After with whatever just happened with Derek there was no way you were bringing him as a helping hand. You hated to admit it but the evidence room was extremely dark and scary looking to go into by yourself so it put you at ease that maybe Spencer would tag along.

"So...Spencer I need your help to go get some boxes from the evidence room. Are you in?" You ask taking one last sip of the delicious coffee and putting it down.

"Yeah, yeah of course I'll help." He quickly responds without hesitation as he followed your lead around the office and towards the direction of the room.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence between the two of you, he finally broke it the moment you reached your destination.

"I didn't know you and Derek had a 'thing' going on. I just always assumed him and Penelope were more into each other because of that ridiculous petname he calls her which honestly I think is a violation against having a healthy and safe work place environment-" He was fumbling his words as he rambled on about how he just couldn't imagine you and Derek being together.

"If it makes you feel any better Derek and I aren't a 'thing'. We never were. I don't know why he called me babygirl...it felt wrong but I know he was just probably joking with me to get on my nerves or something." You admit as you turn the rusty old doorknob after fussing with the keylock and open the door slowly.

"Wait...really so you aren't into him?" He questions while following your lead into the very lowly lit room that was filled with hundreds of boxes on dusty shelves.

"Make sure to hold the door open or else it will-" You spoke a bit too late because before you knew it you heard the door close and lock behind the both of you.

"-lock us in." You finish your sentence and Spencer looks behind him seeing as the door had really locked you two in there for who knows how long now.

"You should have warned me beforehand."

"How was I suppose to warn you beforehand if you had me distracted with something else?!"

"Jesus now we are stuck in here and Y/N you know how much I hate small dark enclosed spaces! This is literally my worst nightmare right now!" He exclaimed as his breathing seemed to get faster and he put his hand to his chest that was heaving up and down quickly. Spencer was having a panic attack and you weren't sure what to do.

"Hold on Spence, let me just call Penelope I'm sure she can help us." You say quickly fumbling with your phone, trying to put on the flashlight and finding her contact to call her as soon as possible.

"PENELOPE!" You scream into the phone in a panic.

"AH! Y/N why are you screaming into my headpiece right now?!"

"Spencer and I are stuck in the evidence room and he is having a panic attack right now so what do I do?! Can you get us out of here please!" You begged.

"Oh god…ok so this wasn't how this was suppose to go!" She replies back quickly.

"Penelope what are you talking about?! Did you plan this?"

"Well I wasn't planning on the door locking but I wanted to give you the right moment to make your move on Spencer but not like this!"

"Penelope I'm going to seriously unfriend you after this."

"I'm sorry! I'm gonna try and fix this right now just give me a few minutes, I will call you back right away."

"Is everything ok?" Spencer asks in-between quick and heavy breaths now that he has resorted to sitting on the floor while he tries to control his breathing but sadly all the dust and darkness isn't really helping at all and he seemed to be clutching his chest.

"We will get out of here soon, don't worry about that right now, just focus on me Spence." You say sitting in front of him and trying to do something but you didn't know what to do that could help in this situation.

His breathing only got quicker the more he seemed to panic and at that point you got an idea but maybe it was worth the risk of whatever would come afterwards but you decided to just do it anyways.

"Hey! Spencer look at me...just look at me..." Your voice trailed off as you seemed to lean in closer to him, your hands cupping his face, being pricked by his stubble as you made eye contact with him despite the lighting situation.

Without even having to think twice you quickly closed the gap between the both of you and your lips met his. At first he was completely stunned you could tell by his reaction since his teeth seemed to clash with yours but as you both eased into it a wave of relief hit his body and he was completely relaxed. You didn't let go of him only bringing him as close as humanly possible while your lips moved gently against his. Before the both of you almost ran out of breathe you slowly pulled away, his forehead leaning against yours as you were surprised with yourself that you even did something like that to begin with.

Spencer's eyes seemed to be darting everywhere looking at you but then looking all over your entire face, still in shock that you flat out kissed him.

"How...How did you do that?" He whispered out into the small space between you both.

"I-Uh...I read once that holding your breathe can stop a panic attack," You paused for a small moment almost getting lost in his brown eyes as you tried to focus on trying to shamelessly explain yourself.

"So when I kissed you...you held your breathe."

"I-I did?" He asked almost in disbelief that he even had the chance to kiss you.

"Yeah...you did."

"Thanks...you know that's really smart..." His voice trailed off almost echoing but you could help but blush and feeling absolutely flustered by the whole situation.

"Well I just-I read it somewhere and I felt a bit helpless not being able to help you so I thought this must be the only way." You twiddled your thumbs in your lap looking down as you bit your lip, it still tasting of coffee except it seemed more bitter tasting.

"Must be the only way, hmm," He hummed a bit in disbelief at your explanation but he reached his hand out to hold yours and gently squeezed.

"Do you believe now that I definitely don't have a 'thing' with Derek?" You question squeezing his hand right back as you couldn't help but smile at him despite not being able to see him too well in the darkness.

"I don't know I might need you to verify one more time just to make sure." He says with a chuckle coming off his lips.

"Wow you're much cheekier than I thought Spence." You say giggling a bit to yourself.

"You know when we finally get out of here do you maybe want to go to dinner with me sometime? I mean only if you want to-" He was still nervous and somehow stuttered out his sentence but you just pulled him in for a hug and kissed his cheek in the process.

"Yes, I would love that Spence." You say with a smile on your face as you squeeze him tightly in your arms.

Eventually Penelope came to the rescue with a giant crowbar in hand as she pried the door open, breaking the lock in the process. You had never seen Spencer happier to go into the meeting room and go straight to work in his entire life. Now that you both were finally out of the evidence room the next hurdle to jump over was to finally go on your first date with him knowing that it was confirmed that you two both had feelings for each other and it was a plus that he was a really good kisser too.

[hobiespick]

Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

[fictionalgap]

Steal my heart (chapter 2)

Pairing: Kit Thantalos x Thief! Reader

Summary: You woke up somewhere you don't know.

Warnings: Swearing

Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Note: I accidentally used spoon feeding here too and have no regrets.

Song Recommendation: Blue Eyes - Elton John

"Dehydration and malnutrition. Honesty Its kind of a miracle for her to be able to carry herself, let your higness to the castle ." The healer was reporting to the Queen.

"Your majesty, our two guards just let us know that she was a part of a criminal activity. That-that she's a thief! "

"I don't care who she is. She saved my daughter's life. I owe to her."

You were able to hear the conversations but you couldn't find the strength to open your eyes and move around.

"B-but."

"That's enough. " you heard a familiar voice.

"She saved my life so what I need is, her to be okay." The familiar voice sounded distressed.

"Yes, your highness. "

You felt sleep taking you once again in its world.

~~~

You woke up to sunrays in front of your eyelids. You blinked a couple of times. You were in a bed. You looked around to see the girl who you carried to the castle. She was sitting in a chair next to your bed and polising her sword.

"You are awake! How do you feel? "

You blinked a couple of times. You wanted to answer but your throat was too dry to make a proper sound. You licked your lips and before you knew she came closer to you with a glass of water.

"Let me help. " You nodded as you looked in her blue eyes. She put her hand to the back of your head and raised it so you could drink from the glass. You sipped the water first then you grabbed the glass and finished it in a second.

You were thirsty.

She took the carafe and filled your glass with more water.

You chugged it in a second again.

"Thanks." You managed to say to the princess next to you as you looked up and down to take her in more.

She smiled and it rushed your heart.

"No problem...wait." She said and went to get a healer to check on you.

She came with a middle aged woman who first checked your temperature with the back of her hand.

"How do you feel? " th woman frowned worried.

"I feel better. Thank you."

Your stomach grumbled in a desperate way.

The princess nodded to herself "I am going to bring some food."

You tried to hide your red face.

"She needs soft food, your highness like soup. Something easy to digest but I can make someone go get her you don't have to-"

The princess already vanished to get you something to eat.

'Are princesses really that helpful?' You thought to yourself than you remembered what happened in detail.

She was bit by a large snake but she looked pretty good now.

You cleared your throat.

"How is your highness? She was bit. "

Woman who was busy with things you didn't know turned to you and her gaze soften.

" Yes, she was but thanks to you she is alive now. We are so grateful for that. Your highness's mother, Queen Sorsha wanted to see you when you got better."

"Oh... uhm. Sure and I'm glad I could make it in time. "

"Your highness is fine right now. Don't worry about that. You on the other hand had been sleeping for two days."

Your eyes widen to woman's words.

"What? Two days? I -I..."

The princess came into your sight with a tray in her hands with a dedicated expression on her face. She put the tray to the table next to you.

You tried to sit on your bed but you hissed when your back shivered in pain.

The princess and the healer tried to help you to sit properly on your back.

The princess was very close to you right now which made you blush. She took the bread and started to make it into small pieces and d put them in the soup.

You could feel her breath when she sighed as she grabbed the bowl. You looked at her face. 'She is really pretty." you thought and you might have looked at her more than appropriate cause the woman cleared her throat and you turned your head to her direction.

She smiled knowingly.

"Your highness I shall feed h-"

" I want to." She took a spoon of soup blew it to make it a comfortable temperature.

"I can eat own my own. "

The healer and the princess shoted a look to you and you found yourself being unsure.

"I- I mean. I really don't want to be a bother." you explained nervously.

The princesses eyes pierced yours.

"How can you say that when you literally saved my life. I couldn't make it without you. Thank you. I owe you. "

You smiled softly.

"You don't owe me anything. It's an honor for me your highness."

"It's Kit. Call me Kit." Her smile met her eyes.

The healer's mouth hang open as Kit's head turned to the healers direction.

"Brenda, did you know she didn't know I was a princess when she took me here?" she smirked at your direction.

"Really? " Her eyes widen with shock.

"Yeah. I told her I was a daughter of a guard in the castle. "

You remembered the earlier conversation.

*Flashback*

Your arms ached with pain as you carry the girl who was becoming more and more pale by each moment.

"You don't know where the castle is? "

"I'm not really from here."

"Where are you from? "

"Not around. "

"That was specific." she chuckled with a groggy voice.

You sighed heavily.

"Why are we going to the castle? Who are you?"

"My dad works there. As a guard. They can help me there. "

"Is that why you dressed up as one? "

She snorted as much as she could a poisoned person can.

"Don't tell me you stole your daddy's sword. That looks too good for you to have."

She smirked tiredly.

"You know about swords? "

"Kind of... " you smirked tiredly.

*end of the flashback*

You understood why she lied.

Many people could kidnap the Princess for their interests.

She put the spoon between your lips. The soup felt delicious and warm. It was like nothing you had for the longest time. You let her feed you as you eagerly took every spoonful of soup down to your stomach.

" Why didn't you eat before, darling? " The healer asked.

Kit cleaned your mouth with a napkin.

"I didn't have time to."

A few minutes passed with silence. You were never spoon fed by a Princess before. It felt weird. In a good way.

Kit's brows raised up.

" I heard things about you. "

She cleaned her throat and looked at the healer. The healer took it as a sigh and left you two alone.

You gulped.

"The guards came here, didn't they? "

You didn't felt like lying to her.

She sighed.

"Yes, they did. They told my mum, the Queen that they were looking for you. They told her that you are a thief. " She stopped and looked at you for an explanation.

You looked down at your lap and fiddled with your fingers.

"If I am going to jail or be executed I-"

She started to laugh "What? "

Her laugh was a song you never heard of.

"I mean, It's true. I am a thief."

"You saved my life. So you're not going anywhere." Her face came closer and it was pretty serious. "I-I mean anywhere bad. " She got back in her chair.

Relief came to you by her words but her being close to you made you nervous.

In a good way.

"Thank you, Kit. "

She put her hand on your leg.

"No, thank you, ...uhm? " her eyes pierced yours again as she smiled.

"Y/N." you smiled.

Her hand warmed your entire leg.

"Thank you, Y/N." She smiled softly.

You never really knew you could ever like blue eyes so much until now...

Taglist: @valenftcrush @elliewilliamsgf69 @hayatistirahati @rubycruzsbitch @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes

[galaxiasgreen]

💐🍃Flowery Language

Shenanigans with minor Garreth/ Reader [G-Rated, 2k words]

"Are you aware of the language of flowers, Mr Weasley?" "I'm fluent in honking daffodil, yeah. HOOOOONK. See?"

Garreth gets you flowers, and things go terribly wrong.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

A/N: Written for a prompt challenge, 'flower language'. This is a companion to Stay With Me and features my MCs Prim, Gibby and Missy, but can be read with no prior knowledge. Enjoy! <3

Garreth Weasley swaggers down the hallway with a very important bouquet of flowers.

Today, after all, is a special anniversary: precisely three months and nine days since you started dating. And with O.W.L.s starting soon and the fifth-years hunkering down for the exam period, you've been very keen to frolic the Highlands to escape the stress... just kidding, you hole up in some dark corner of the library and cry about how you don't know anything. Close enough. He's just been making sure you're fed and watered and occasionally getting social contact in the form of a cuddle. Later he'll celebrate with you properly, but for now – what girl doesn't like flowers?

With Professor Garlick's permission he raided the greenhouses for some blossoms, mostly for ones with funny names like cyclamen and rhododendron, and a ton of primroses too, a nice little nod to your nickname, and clumped them together with twine. The end result is a colourful ensemble that will look great in a vase and, not to brag (yes to brag), this might be his best work ever – and he's a potion's genius, so he frequently creates his best work ever on a regular basis.

"Prim!"

In the hallway during lunch, he finds you with your nose in a textbook on your way to the library. Piqued by his voice, you turn towards him, summoning a broad smile, and he sidles up to you with the bouquet hiding behind his back.

"Guess what day it is today?"

You blink owlishly. "Thirty-two days, twenty-one hours and forty-seven minutes until exams?"

"... Well yes, but actually no. Try again?"

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, frowning. "I'm sorry, I've been so stressed. It's the fifth of May? A Thursday? Oh no, have I forgotten something important?"

"It's our sixty-ninth day together! Isn't that great?" He brandishes the bouquet. "And I brought you—"

"AAAAAH!" you shriek suddenly, flinching backwards and warding him away with the book. "No no no!"

"What the—? What's the matter—?"

"Get it away from me!"

You run away – full on, around the corner, dust swirling in your wake – leaving him standing there with his bouquet like an utter plonker. It takes him a few seconds to process what happened. Did he have bad breath? Did you not want to celebrate? Was it the flowers? He glances down at the bouquet, befuddled. You only reacted when he pulled them out – there must be something wrong with them.

He needs help, and he decides to seek it from the wisest person he knows.

"Mr Weasley, I am a door knocker," says the eagle on the Ravenclaw common room door. "I am not a relationship counsellor."

"I'm not here for counselling!" Garreth says, flinging out his arms. "Prim and I are fine, except for this one thing. It's these flowers. She screamed at them! Like, shrilly! Come ooooon, you love giving me your honest, brutal and often very rude opinion. Is it ugly? Does it smell bad?"

He shoves the bouquet to its beak, and it splutters, "I can make judgement perfectly well from a safe distance, thank you! To answer your question, it is neither ugly nor foul-smelling – by some miracle you have indeed managed to pull that off. No, I suspect the young lady takes a different issue. Are you aware of the language of flowers, Mr Weasley?"

"I'm fluent in honking daffodil, yeah. HOOOOONK. See?"

"That's not what I meant." It sighs. "The language of flowers is a Muggle method of subtly communicating emotions or thoughts through floristry. You know a red rose means passionate romantic love, for example? All flowers have a similar connotation, ranging from friendship to jealousy to life. When gifting flowers, one may create a dialogue of meaning through them."

"And you reckon Prim knows about flowery language?"

"She is a Ravenclaw," it says haughtily.

Garreth glances down at his bouquet. Honestly, he chose most of them because they looked pretty. He's simple like that.

"Okay, so... what do these mean?"

"I'm afraid that's as much knowledge as I possess."

He lets out a laugh. "You don't know something? You? The Ravenclaw door knocker?"

"If you don't want the whole school to know about when you were gyrating to Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in only a bath towel, I suggest you keep quiet."

"... How the heck do you know about that? I was alone!"

"The dorm mirrors talk, Mr Weasley. Very loudly."

Bloody mirrors... "Fine. Where do I go? Who do I ask?"

"Someone fluent in the language of flowers might be good start. Perhaps a Muggle-born?"

"Gibby." She would know way more about this stuff. He heads down the stairs. "Thanks for the help. You're my favourite door knocker!"

"May my title be swiftly usurped."

Surprisingly, he finds Gibby outside the greenhouses. On her knees in the grass, she seems to be deep in concentration when he lumbers over, her brow scrunched behind her glasses. Strangely enough, Professor Black's house-elf Scrope is also at her side.

"Gibs! I need your Muggle expertise!"

She takes one look at the bouquet before screaming.

"Lord Almighty! Those better not be for me!"

Uh oh. "No! This��� I made this for Prim. She ran away when I gave them to her and the door knocker said it might be because of some flower language thingy. Why? What's wrong with it?"

She gets to her feet, wiping grass off her knees. "Okay, my flower language is a bit rusty, but I believe this is what you've told her." She clears her throat. "Beware! I hate you. This is goodbye, you poor, jealous virgin... yay!"

It's like the earth swallows him whole. He said all those horrible things, all in some stupid flowers? No wonder you ran!

"Tell me how to fix it," he says desperately. "Please, I can't have her believing any of that's true!"

"I'd help you, but I'm kind of sort of... doing a punishment right now."

"... What for?"

Scrope finally pipes up. "The young lady thought it appropriate to bake Master Black a cake."

"He's so moody all the time! I figured it would cheer him up."

"She fell as she presented it. A direct hit on Master's face."

"But it tasted great!"

"As punishment, the young lady has been made to count blades of grass for three hours."

"I'm at eight thousand! ... Or was it seven? You sort of lose track after the first. Can I take a quick break, Mr Scrope?"

"Ten minutes," says Scrope. "Only because Master forbade Scrope from laughing when it was very funny."

It's apparently all she needs, when she drags Garreth to the greenhouses and starts plucking flowers furiously.

"You're going to have to scrap the whole bouquet," she says. "I mean, all the flowers you picked were horrible. Just really bad. Awful. It might've been kinder to tell Prim you hate her."

"Really not helping."

"The primroses can stay though. That's the yay one."

"Primroses mean yay?"

"Well, no. It sort of means youth and optimism, which I interpret as yay!"

Of all the flowers he picked, at least this one isn't bad. Gibby runs around taking her favourites.

"Okay, so, we have this one, pink heather, which means admiration. You want to show how much you admire her, right? Yes. More of it. We need amaryllis, for pride, because you're proud of her. Crocus – that means cheer. Oh! Honeysuckle. They grow in Feldcroft, they're lovely. Jasmine for elegance, red tulips for passion, pink roses for happiness.... are you getting all of this?"

"Yeah," he says, absolutely not getting all of this.

"We should add myrtle, for good luck, since she's taking her O.W.L.s soon. And purple hyacinth for sorrow, because you are very apologetic for that last bouquet. Oh, oh! And some daisies!"

"Aren't daisies weeds?"

She gasps. "No! How dare you! They represent first love! It's perfect."

He sticks them in the bouquet. By the time her ten minutes are up, Garreth has a ginormous bunch of flowers almost as large as his chest. He can barely hold it with one hand.

"Thanks for your help, really."

"Just guarantee me a front-row seat at the wedding. Now, if you'll excuse me..." She drops back to the lawn with Scrope. "Eight-thousand-and-fifty-one, eight-thousand-and-fifty-two..."

Garreth's on the way to find you in the library when he bumps into his friend Missy. She's not wearing her Slytherin robes today, instead an eclectic blouse and skirt, and her hair is dark blue, curling down almost to her waist.

"Good grief, what is that?"

"The bouquet I made for Prim. Isn't it glorious?"

"No, it's terrible. Do you plan to bludgeon her in the head with it?"

Garreth groans. "What do you mean? What's wrong now?"

"Look at the composition! It's much too heavy." She takes it from his hand, shooing him away to inspect. "The silhouette is too imposing... the flora to foliage ratio is unbalanced... the dimensions are far too biased on this side..."

"Can you please talk in wizard's English?"

"Bouquet ugly. Me fix."

"Fine." He gestures. "Have at it."

She starts tossing the flowers she deems extraneous, ruthlessly paring down the bouquet with pursed lips and callous eyes. "I assume you asked Gibby for help?"

"Yeah, why?"

She stifles a snort. "She knows her language of flowers, but her arranging skills leave much to be desired. Frankly I'm insulted you didn't come to me first."

"Sorry I didn't know you were an expert flower arrangerer."

"I only took floristry lessons for eight years. I'm sure that means nothing."

He rolls his eyes. Merlin, what a rich girl past-time. Once she's satisfied skinning the bouquet, lightening it physically and visually, she starts trimming some of the stems.

"No!" he yelps, just as she makes to remove the primroses. "No, keep those."

"It symbolises new beginnings," she says, raising an eyebrow. "However, you seem to have it in abundance. You don't think it's too much?"

"Keep it all," he says again. "It's the only flower I got right the first time."

And he's quite attached to the little primroses now. Name aside, they remind him of you: small and unassuming, but very cute. Missy shrugs in a suit yourself sort of way, and adjusts the stem heights instead. She changes the placement of the flowers so there is greenery between, and makes the foliage fan out prettily over the sides. By the time she's done, she holds an appealing, moderately sized bouquet with a variety of pink, purple and white flowers perfectly balanced with green.

"This will suffice," she says at last, handing it back to him. "Good luck."

"Or you could say myrtle, am I right?"

"Mmm, no." She pats him twice on the shoulder before spinning him around. "On your way, lover boy."

The library is fairly abandoned by the time Garreth arrives with his sensible bouquet. He has to do some real sneak-thievery crab-walking to get inside without Madam Scribner noticing, but when she gets distracted by another student chucking an inkwell over the bannister, Garreth makes his way to the back aisles.

Like he expected, you're there, textbooks and quills abound, ink staining your hands and face. He checks his breath, just in case (it's good), before he walks around the shelf.

"Don't panic, Prim—"

You spot the bouquet immediately and scramble to your feet, slapping a hand over your nose. "No, no—"

"Prim! Merlin's saggy danglers—" He snatches your arm before you can run away. "What? What is it?"

Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears form at the seal. "No, let me go! Please!"

"I'm really sorry if I offended you with my last bouquet! I swear I didn't mean to call you a poor, jealous virgin—"

"No, Garreth— ACHOO!" You flinch through a whole-body sneeze. "I'm allergic to primroses!"

As you fling yourself away, aggressively sneezing, Garreth's hand goes limp.

"I've been calling you Prim for the whole year and you're allergic to primroses?"

Fin.

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad] [Divider credit]

[yun-jin-noona]

When you wake up next to him (in the middle of the night)

.

It wasn't invited in, you promise.

But...it wasn't necessarily shooed away either.

Mark was a dick, he knew it, you knew it, everyone outside the relationship also knew it. He wasn't like that from the start, he was a nice man- romantic gestures and dates were aplenty, and he never asked for more than he gave.

Then he pulled a ring out.

It was a complete 180 after the engagement, it was like he was someone different- someone far, far worse.

Now it's happened again. But this time it's...strange.

Mark seems to have forgotten a whole lot. About you, about him, about us. He always denied it when his abuse was brought up, but now its like...he genuinely can't remember?

Not to mention his speech is so...weird, now. Stunted, as if he somehow had a stroke that nobody knew about.

But the change is fine, he doesn't hurt you anymore- doesn't hurl insults for the smallest things, doesn't stop you from going out, he's even letting you make new friends! Well, letting is a strong word, he actually isn't stopping you at all.

But today, he just seemed...off. He was twitchy, but also lethargic. His posture was worse and he seemed not to talk so much.

You thought he was just having an off day, but then you heard something outside- it sounded like an animal, crying out.

You're not sure why you felt compelled to investigate, maybe to save the creature if you could?

The sight that was presented was...not anything you'd imagined, not in your wildest dreams.

The raccoon was dead, yes. But hunched over it was...Oh my god, is that Mark?

But he's different, his body is contorted, it looks broken, and- oh hell, did tentacles just come out of his goddamn back?

He, it- whatever the fuck, turns to you as you begin to dry heave, its a miracle nothing came up, really.

"Sorry...sorry...you weren't.. supposed to...see...this." He says. Its not Marks voice anymore, but it also...sort of is?

You don't know what's going on, but when he begins to rise and step closer to you, everything goes black.

You wake up the next morning, still cuddled close to what has to be Mark, there's no way he's anything else. It's not as if there's actually something out there that snatches people's bodies and pretends to be them and-

"Good morning sleepyhead~"

Speak of the devil.

"How'd you sleep? I think you had a nightmare last night, do you want to talk about it, love?"

Bullshit. No way that was a dream. Your throat still hurts from trying to evacuate yoru stomach contents.

"I...I can't quite remember, sorry."

He frowns- more like pouts, comically, and kisses the top of your head, patting your side gently where his arm curls around you.

"C'mon, at least let me make you breakfast, I went to the butchers on the way home yesterday- what do you say to some sausage?"

"I think I'll pass, my stomach doesn't feel quite right- I'll just have some toast."

He looks genuinely concerned. "Oh? Do you want me to go pick up some medicine?"

"No- I'm sure it's nothing, just feel uneasy is all."

Mark pets your head with his other hand. "My poor sweetheart, take it easy then today, alright? If you need anything, call me, work isn't as important as you."

He seems genuine. He seems to care. You almost think he loves you again.

"Alright, thank you."

You swear you can hear a cracking as he gets up out of bed- it's probably just his spine, right?

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter One

(AO3 counterpart here.)

All things considered, it was a nice night.

Fireheart was half-rolled onto his back, front paws tucked into his upturned chest while his rear end remained on its side. His tail tapped absentmindedly on the still-warm sand as he gazed up at the stars. The weather had loosened up, mercifully keeping the sky clear and even warming the air a little. It was still somewhat chilled, but the ground had softened from muddy slop to dense soil—still retaining a bit of moisture, but not enough to stick to a traveling cat’s paws—and the frost had barely made an appearance before shying away and melting again into dew.

Thank the Three for small miracles, Fireheart thought as his eyes lazily drifted from star to star. They know we needed it.

Caught up in the beauty of the sky and the grainy comfort of the sand, he was only somewhat registering cats talking around him. Faint squeals drifted out of the nursery’s entrance and his ear twitched at what he thought (hoped, really) was Goldenflower gently chiding the kits inside. Frostfur’s litter was already out, but in the past month they had calmed down considerably and come to prefer talking with the one cat in the apprentice’s den who would soon be a warrior, Swiftpaw, as he regaled them with stories of the territory and all the strange creatures they would see there.

Fireheart twisted his head back and to the side a bit—yes, there they were, listening to the black tom recounting his experience going to the Mother on the far side of the territories.

“And I know she looks scary,” he was saying, “but that’s kind of the point, I think. It makes you respect her even more. You just have to be brave and go into her mouth, trusting her. And Yellowfang will be there to guide you, so you’ll find your way.”

The sole molly of the litter, fluffy ginger-patched Brightkit, spoke up now. “I won’t be scared. The Mother wouldn’t hurt us—we’re her favorites.”

Thornkit, dark and golden-brown, frowned at her. “Still gotta be ‘spectful.”

Fireheart’s mouth twitched into a brief grimace in sympathy as the tom’s ears went back in embarrassment at the end of his sentence. Thornkit still slurred and stumbled over his words, even with as much as Frostfur had worked with him on speaking clearly, and he had been speaking shorter and shorter sentences recently, and at a much lower volume. His siblings understood him just fine, save one.

That one, the deaf little white tom directly in front of Swiftpaw, was Snowkit. His bright blue eyes, wide and vibrant, were fixed on Swiftpaw’s mouth as the apprentice said, “Yeah, it’s important to be quiet on the walk in and during the ceremony. Just wait until Yellowfang speaks to you.”

Brackenkit, a thinner and lighter version of Thornkit, tilted his head. “Will Cinderpaw be there?”

“She was when I went.” Swiftpaw’s eyes lifted upwards as he squinted a bit. “I mean, we did ours together, so that’s why, but I think she’d have to go anyway.” He turned to look at his dark grey sister as she limped out from the ferns by the meeting stump. “Hey, Cinderpaw! Are you going to be with these kits when they do their pilgrimage?”

Cinderpaw beamed with a hacking scoff very similar to her mentor’s. “Obviously! I have to learn how to do it myself, and there’s no way I’m missing out on Brighty getting blessed.” She swept her tail, crooked at the tip, in the direction of the toms. “And you guys, of course.”

Brackenkit seemed to take no offense. “I bet my blessing will be from Rokhar.”

Fireheart purred, rolling slowly onto his side. Of all the three gods, the Tiger was the one he understood the least. Then again, it seemed like everyone outside of the seer role had some trouble grasping exactly what Rokhar was all about. The first seer of Fireheart’s life in ThunderClan, Spottedleaf, had described him as being “in-between” and “all-encompassing”. Even after more than a year of being a Clan cat, Fireheart still had no idea what that meant.

“Why Rokhar?” Swiftpaw asked, sounding amused. “Because he’s the cool—?“

“Because he’s the cool one!” Brackenkit said, exactly in tandem with the apprentice. At another frown from Thornkit, he added, “I mean, they’re all cool, but Rokhar’s the coolest.”

Cinderpaw limped up to the little gathering of the young, her bad leg crumpled up towards her belly. “Knowing your dad, he’s probably telling Horoa right now to bless all of you with a Lion’s touch.”

While the kits all started babbling to each other about whether that was true or not, Fireheart’s heart clenched at the mention of Lionface. He had been the deputy of ThunderClan after Redtail, another first for Fireheart when he had joined the Clan from life as a house cat. Both of them had been great toms, Redtail kind and friendly and Lionface majestic and confident (even if he and Fireheart had clashed here and there). Both of them were gone, and both of them had been…

Fireheart’s claws sank into the sand. He eyed Cinderpaw’s crippled leg.

It had been around a month since the trial that shattered the Clan’s collective heart. No one had spoken of it after it happened, and even the mere implication of something that would link back to that night was hushed or ignored. Fireheart couldn’t stand this thing Clan cats had with refusing to acknowledge bad cats or the things they’d done; it didn’t help anyone feel better, it just made things awkward and sad. Supposedly, the spirits of these bad cats could come back if spoken about or named and haunt the territories, but as far as Fireheart had seen, the only thing they haunted was his dreams.

What he’d give to talk about this with Goldenflower.

But she was in the nursery now, and she needed peace and quiet to raise his adoptive siblings until they were big enough to come out and explore camp. Being forbidden from visiting, Fireheart just had to rely on news shared by Brindleface or Frostfur—mostly Brindleface, as Frostfur had left the nursery early to give the crowded den some room and now only came to check on her nearly-grown kits. Brindleface had been incredibly nervous and sensitive when she was stuck in the den, but now that she had been able to leave her kits for walks here and there…

“Fireheart! There you are!”

The ginger tom blinked and got to his feet, shaking off what sand had clung to his fur. The beautiful grey tortoiseshell in question had just climbed up and out of the nursery, her pale green eyes shining as Fireheart approached her.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said when he was close enough. “Well, two surprises.”

Fireheart perked up. “Really? Are they about Cloudkit?”

“They are.” Brindleface’s fluffy tail curled at the delight that must have immediately brightened up Fireheart’s face. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have come seen him before, but that makes this a little more interesting.”

Cloudkit had been adopted into the Clan, the same as his uncle. Fireheart had been given the kit by his frantic sister, Rosy, and ThunderClan took him in with only a bit of reluctance. The two of them did not look similar—Fireheart was skinny and shorthaired and Cloudkit was a ball of white fluff—and with the automatic distance of Fireheart not being able to visit to see his nephew and bond with him, he could only hope that they wouldn’t be so different that they could not find common ground besides being outsiders at birth, especially since Fireheart had promised to mentor Cloudkit once he became an apprentice.

“What is it, then?” he asked, trying not to sound overly-eager.

“Well, for one…” Brindleface turned and poked her head into the nursery. “Babies, do you want to come out now?”

Indistinct squeaks of excitement immediately followed this, and Brindleface purred before turning back to Fireheart, saying, “That’s the first surprise. They’re ready to meet you.”

Fireheart’s fur flared out and he beamed. “I can see him now!”

Brindleface nodded, her whiskers twitching. “And the second…”

She gestured with her paw just in time for the first kits to scramble out of the den: both grey with broken tabby markings, similar in every way except for the molly being both more delicate in the face and fluffier than her brother. They completely ignored Fireheart and bumbled out into the center of camp. Who followed them was—

Not the kit Fireheart had brought in.

This kit was fluffy and round, sure, but ginger covered his ears and nose and was steadily claiming his tail. His fur was quite long and puffed out, even if he was a bit small; if it weren’t for the unusual color, he would fit perfectly in with the rest of ThunderClan. By the way his deep blue eyes blinked owlishly at Fireheart, he was just as surprised at the reunion.

“Cloudkit,” Brindleface said with another paw-gesture, “this is your uncle, Fireheart. Remember how we talked about him?”

“Ohhh,” Cloudkit said loudly. He looked Fireheart up and down before announcing, “You’re short.”

“Cloudkit!” Brindleface scolded. “That’s rude.”

Fireheart chuffed and bent his head to meet his nephew’s eye-level. “And you’re pudgy.”

Cloudkit squinted at Fireheart. “What’s ‘pudgy’?”

“Fat!” Cinderpaw called from across the clearing.

Cloudkit squawked and slowly and clumsily swatted a paw in the direction of Fireheart’s nose. “’Mnot pudgy! You’re pudgy!”

Brindleface stared at the little tom in baffled embarrassment, but Fireheart pretended to be struck and rubbed his nose like it’d been scratched.

“Don’t beat me up, please,” he said, poorly hiding his amusement. “I’m sorry, you’re not.”

Cloudkit nodded in satisfaction—then, to Fireheart’s surprise, he toddled right up to his uncle and bumped their noses together. Him being so small, it didn’t hurt, but it was more of a punch than usual.

“Hi, uncle,” Cloudkit said, pulling back.

Fireheart’s whiskers twitched. “Hi, nephew.”

“That’s better.” Brindleface stepped forward to lick Cloudkit’s ear. “Are you ready to meet your Clanmates now?”

The little puffball nearly jumped in place and waddled off after his siblings, who were currently interrupting the discussion between Frostfur’s litter and Swiftpaw. Fireheart watched him go, amazed at the strength of the flame of affection in his chest, even when he hadn’t seen the kit since he’d come to the Clan.

“How did his fur get like that?” He turned to Brindleface now. “He was white when I brought him in.”

Brindleface rolled a shoulder. “Kittypet blood, I’m guessing. I’ve never seen anything like that in the territories. I thought he was sick at first, but he’s been perfectly happy and healthy this whole time.” She gave Fireheart a cheeky squint. “Both of you stick out now.”

Fireheart sighed a chuff. “At least he’ll be warm this winter.”

Brindleface nodded. Then her eyes flicked to the side and narrowed a fraction before she walked off after her litter. Fireheart’s gaze followed where she’d looked.

Darkstripe. Of course. He was glaring at the now-wandering Cloudkit.

Fireheart contained another, much heavier sigh. Since the trial, the dark tabby had hardly said more than one word to anyone, and they had to speak to him first. Fireheart hadn’t dared start a conversation with him—Darkstripe had never liked him to begin with, but since the end result of the trial was largely on Fireheart’s shoulders, the hatred in Darkstripe’s eyes burned Fireheart’s back whenever the two had to cross paths. He’d done his best to give the older warrior space, which was difficult when they shared a den.

Anticipating the glare to turn on him, Fireheart prepared to look away and find something else to engage with. He was saved by the camp entrance rustling to reveal the pale brown tortoiseshell Speckletail leading a patrol in. As her followers trotted to the prey-pile, she approached Darkstripe and said something to him Fireheart didn’t catch. Darkstripe didn’t respond beyond a twitch of his lip, getting to his feet and stalking out of camp. Speckletail watched him go, huffed and shook her head before joining the rest of the patrol.

After the loss of the prior deputy—the one that trial had been all about—Speckletail had been selected to replace him. She hadn’t been the expected choice, but she had accepted the role and immediately went about keeping the Clan busy and organized for the first month of her tenure. Fireheart suspected that this was a tactical decision; giving everyone something to do kept them from stewing in their own thoughts over the events of the past fall. Things had finally slowed down, with the warmer weather gifting the Clan with more prey than Fireheart had been told showed up in the end seasons. This was one of the first nights in quite a while that Fireheart had gotten to stay home and just enjoy the peace of camp.

“Good evening,” he said to Speckletail as she walked past him with a woodrat.

She nodded to him, putting down her prey for a moment. “Any word while I was gone?”

Fireheart shook his head, ears going back sadly. “I haven’t spoken to her since a few days ago.”

Speckletail sighed through her nose. Her eyes were tired. “I’ll talk with her once I’ve eaten.” She picked up her prey again and continued on her way, sitting down with Willowpelt on the far side of camp.

Fireheart’s eyes drifted to the wall of briar that surrounded the sandy clearing. Though he couldn’t see it, his gaze landed on the area where the leader’s den was situated on the outside.

Where Bluestar was undoubtedly sleeping.

The trial and the near-murder preceding it had hurt everyone, but it had broken something in the Clan’s leader. Only a few days after the deputy’s execution, Bluestar had become a rare sight. She now walked alone in the forest or holed up in her den, only coming out to order patrols or respond to something Speckletail asked her about. It had been part of the quiet conversation for some time now, but no one dared to broach the topic to Bluestar—even Fireheart, her former apprentice, or Whitecloud, her nephew.

It wasn’t fair, Fireheart wanted to shout to the stars. Of all the cats suffering, why did their leader have to struggle the hardest? The pain and suspicion and fear clouded her eyes and silenced her voice. It had been her throat the deputy’s teeth nearly crushed, her friends and Clanmates he crippled and murdered to get to her. Now, whenever she looked at her charges, it seemed like she was gauging their intentions, how well they could be trusted. Even Fireheart had been under scrutiny more than once.

She really would benefit from being able to talk about this whole thing…

“Cloudkit, please!”

Fireheart blinked and was back in camp. He turned his head to see his nephew marching for the fallen log that was the elder’s den. The elders were already out—lanky and grey One-eye, dark brown Halftail, and black-and-white Patchpelt—but they were talking among themselves, completely unaware of the kit making his way towards them, his siblings trailing behind with curious looks on their faces. Brindleface was padding after them, calling for Cloudkit.

“Let them be—” she started, but Cloudkit broke into a clumsy imitation of a run and continued on. Just as he reached Patchpelt, he tried to slow down, only succeeding in crashing right into the elder and stumbling backwards, plopping into a sitting position.

Patchpelt coughed (as he had been lately) in surprise and looked round to see the kit. His faded eyes brightened. “Well, now! I don’t remember this one.”

“I’m Cloudkit.” The furball blinked up at him. “My sister is Aspenkit and my brother is Ashkit.”

Halftail tilted his head, eyes narrowed analytically.

“You’ve got some ginger on your face, little ant,” croaked One-eye, peering with her single eye at the kit. “Or you’ve been playing in the sand.”

“No, he’s supposed to look like that.” Brindleface hurried up to them. “I’m sorry he disturbed you.”

“You know we love being disturbed,” Patchpelt said fondly, looking at the grey kits as they approached. “Ah, and this must be Ashkit and Aspenkit.”

The tom kit nodded firmly, standing as tall as he could, while the molly lowered her nose and shyly regarded the ground. Cloudkit, meanwhile, was meeting One-eye’s gaze, looking completely unbothered by the marred face that every kit and new apprentice was a little taken aback by. Fireheart noted with pride that he didn’t broach the topic of One-eye’s accident, only chirping, “You’re tall.”

One-eye chortled. “And old, on top of that. Do you know what my name is?”

Cloudkit shook his head.

“I’m One-eye, unsurprisingly.” The pale molly nodded to her denmates. “That’s Halftail and Patchpelt. Can you guess which is which?”

“Um…” Cloudkit scrunched up his little face before answering slowly. “Patchpelt’s got patches, and Halftail’s brown, right?”

“Very good.” Patchpelt purred. “We have easy names to remember.”

Cloudkit brightened up and wagged his short little tail. “I did it!”

“Yes, you did it,” Brindleface said, touching her nose to her adopted son’s head, adding to the elders, “I can distract him if he starts to bother you.”

“Oh, he’s not a bother at all.” One-eye tilted her head comically at Cloudkit, who trilled in response. “I haven’t had a kit not flinch at my face since I became an elder.”

Fireheart watched on as Cloudkit made his way around to Halftail, who eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. An anxiety he didn’t know was in his stomach settled at the warm looks on the elders’ faces when Cloudkit loudly announced, “Fireheart’s my uncle!” and puffed out his little chest.

He’s bold, Fireheart thought affectionately, watching his nephew respond to Patchpelt’s kindly questions about life in the nursery. Rosy, whether or not you get to see him again, I know you’ll be proud.

[atlas-likes-writing]

Death in the Family

Characters: Jason Todd/Red Hood, Dick Grayson/Nightwing, Bruce Wayne/Batman

Summary: The world is falling. Dick and Jason are trapped under the rubble of a now-destroyed building. It takes everything to escape.

Word Count: 2325

Tags: Angst, whump, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, death/deaths in the past, swearing (but nobody actually gives a shit about that), mentions of explosions, angst with a sad ending.

Authors Note: Is the pacing goofy? Yes. Do I care? No. I will be paying in advance for everyone's therapy bills regardless. This fic was inspired by the movie "Fall" on Netflix! Let me know if you want me to tag you in my fics!

Masterlist | AO3

@qcomicsy

It’s as if the world is falling. Everything feels so heavy. An uncomfortable weight lies on his chest. Moving doesn’t help. It instead makes it worse. A disgusting feeling of wetness coats the side of his face. Is it sweat? Tears? He can’t tell. His body is heavy. His eyelids are heavy. Maybe he should just stay there. Slip into sleep again. Maybe then that weighted feeling will leave him. 

“-Bird!” 

A tiny voice sounds out in the dim. That’s peculiar. What’s the importance of a bird right now? He’ll figure that out when he wakes up. He’s too tired to care right now. 

“Jaybird!” 

The voice is clearer now. Louder, but not to the point of deafness. Loud in the way your parents are loud when they yell at you from downstairs to tell you that dinner is ready. It’s distant. Muffled. Like someone has put earmuffs over his ears. 

“For goodness' sake, Jason! Wake up!” 

That’s what got his eyes to snap open. When he does, he’s met with almost pitch black. His arms are pinned to the ground beneath him by sharp stones. No, not stones. Boulders. His left arm has clearly snapped at the force of them falling on top of him. The dull throb that emanates from the now useless limb is soon to crescendo, but for now that’s all it is; a dull throb. It’s now Jason realises that the uncomfortable weight isn’t just the feeling of impending doom as he originally thought. It’s a slab of concrete. Thick and jagged and it’s digging into his torso, surely leaving bruises in its wake. 

He begins to panic when the dust begins to settle on his eyelids. How long had he been down there? He shifts around, attempting to move any of the debris that fell on him. Immediate regret shoots through him; as does a sharp, blinding pain in his leg. He cries out. The sound of it is gravelly and clogged as if something is stuck in his esophagus. The dust around him coats everything. His skin, his helmet (which he now realises is broken), his tattered costume; everything. It sticks to the interior of his throat and makes speech scratchy. 

“Nightwing?” he calls out to the darkness, “What happened? Dick? Are you there?” 

“I’m here, Jason. Had me worried for a second there,” the voice of his brother breaks through the cracks between the rock. Relief floods through the younger man. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” he responds. “Where are you? Are you injured?” 

“I’m fine, Jaybird. Only a couple scratches. You’re the priority right now. Keep talking to me, okay? Do you remember what happened?” 

What did happen? The vigilante ignores the pounding in his head in an attempt to recall the happenings of the past thirty minutes. His mind is filled with the images of a battle with the Joker. Jason broke down at the sight of him, and his distraction resulted in the C4 at the base of the high-rise building to explode, falling directly on top of them as a result. The two men are lucky to be alive. It’s a miracle Dick scraped away with only a few bruises and scratches. 

Yeah, Dick is apparently far luckier than Jason right now. 

“The fucking Joker,” Jason spits. “I’m going to kill him.” 

“Let’s focus on getting out of here first, eh? We don’t know if the rest of the family are trapped under here as well.” 

Dick’s defusal works. Jason breathes in deeply to calm his nerves. His eyesight begins to adjust to the darkness, and he can make out his surroundings more clearly. 

“Right. Yeah. You’re right. Where are you? I can’t see you anywhere.” 

“I’m next to you, Jason. Through this gap in the rock,” Dick replies. At his words, Jason tilts his head as far as his predicament will allow him (which, predictably, is not very far), and the eyes of his brother shine out in the dim between two large rocks that separate them. They’re bright and unmoving and make Jason relax a little. They always seem to have that effect. The constancy of them always ooze safety and competence no matter the situation. He’s Nightwing. His gaze can make even Batman feel safe. All it takes is a meaningful look and Jason feels calmer almost immediately. 

The younger man moves his head back to its original position, looking up at the debris instead of to the side. He closes his eyes, before throwing his head back onto the ground in frustration. 

“Fuck! This is my fault,” he exclaims. 

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Dick replies. Jason fights the urge to tut at him mockingly for his colourful language. “That man beat you to half-to-death and then caused the building you were in to explode. Nobody is blaming you for acting the way you did. This is not your fault. Stop blaming yoursel-" 

“People could be dead, Dick.” 

That shuts him up. 

The two brothers lie there in silence for a while before Jason speaks up again. 

“We should be dead, Dick.” 

“How come?” 

“What are the chances of us making it this far? You’ve been a vigilante since you were what, eight? You’ve been in the game almost as long as Bruce, and yet here you are.” 

Dick remains quiet. Jason continues. 

“Me? I did die. Quite horrifically, might I add. Yet here I am.” Jason opens his eyes and turns back to his brother. “Why am I not dead?” 

“Because it wasn’t your time.” 

“Then when is my time?” 

“Not right now, if you’re wondering.” 

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be silent. 

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” Dick states, “Now is not the time for you to talk like you want to give up.” 

“I’m legally classified as dead, Dick. There is a gravestone in the gardens of the Manor with my name on it. I’m already halfway there.” 

“And? You’re alive right now, right? Is that not excuse to keep on living?” 

Jason sighs, a heavy exhaustion settling like bricks on his body. 

“Fuck you, man.” 

“What for?” 

“For being right.” 

Dick’s eyes remain trained him, steady and still. It’s almost unsettling. The older of the two speaks up, this time with humour in his voice. 

“I’m always right,” he says, a smile evident in his voice despite the fact that Jason can’t see the lower portion of his face. The younger brother chuckles, the sound scratchy and harsh. 

“Now that’s bullshit.” 

The silence that follows is comfortable despite their surroundings. Jason closes his eyes, a faint smile on his face. He could fall asleep here and be perfectly content with it. A heaviness presses on his eyes as he begins to drift off.  

“Jason! Don’t close your eyes.” For the second time in the span of about five minutes, his eyes snap open in shock. They flutter for a moment, and he lets out a disgruntled groan. 

“I’m tired, Dick. I want to sleep.” 

“I know you want to, kiddo, but I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Bruce will never forgive himself if you end up dead.”  

Jason scoffs. “Fuck that. He’d get over it as soon as the funeral’s over.” 

“Yeah right,” Dick replies. “You didn’t see how he treated himself after the first time. He nearly destroyed himself.” 

“Let’s put the emphasis on nearly, hm?” he spits into the darkness. “If I was in his position, I would have torn the world apart if he had-” 

“Bruce isn’t you, Jason!” 

“What. And you are, Golden Boy?” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

“What did you mean then?” 

An audible sigh is heard from the other side of the boulder but the older of the two brothers otherwise stays silent. Jason closes his eyes again, this time out of regret. 

“Shit. Look, Dick. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t waste oxygen arguing.” 

“You’re right. We shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” 

It’s at this point when an audible drip of something falls onto the rocks behind Jason’s head. His eyebrows knit into a frown at the sound. What was that? Is there water above them? If so, maybe they could use it to find which way is up so they can escape. 

Another drip, this time closer to his head. He can’t see the droplet of whatever it is falling from the ceiling of debris. Is it coming from the side? He turns his head away from Dick to look for the source. In the dim, he can make out a puddle of something next to his head. He squints his eyes, and he sees that it’s red. 

Oh.

Red. Crimson. It’s blood. 

His blood. 

He’s bleeding. 

The thing coating the side of his face isn’t sweat or tears. It’s his own blood. 

Oh God. 

Was the space he was trapped in always this claustrophobic? 

Was this smell of death always present? 

His chest is tight. His throat is closing. The pounding in his head heightens. 

A short way above him, he can hear his family. They’re shouting for him. They’re shifting rubble and debris. They’re trying to reach him. They’re shouting for Dick. Dick is shouting back. 

They can’t hear him. 

“Jason! Shout! Let them hear you!” 

He does so. He shouts. He screams. He yells. He yells for Bruce. He yells for Tim. He yells for Steph. He yells for anyone who might be there to save him. 

“Red Hood? Is that you?” He hears his father’s voice. 

“Bruce!” Jason replies. “It’s me! Help me!” 

“Keep shouting, Jaylad. We’ll find you!” 

He continues to yell for his father. His voice quickly growing hoarse from the dust that sticks to his windpipe. Beside him, Dick urges him to keep going. 

“Keep shouting, Jason! Keep it up! Don’t stop!” 

It’s only when light spears through the rubble and debris is pulled away that he stops. Tears stream down his face as the now unsettled dust falls on top of him all at once. He squints as his eyes try to adjust to the newfound light. The boulders pinning his broken arms are lifted and the slab of concrete is removed from his ribs. Strong arms lift him up and out of the pit he was in moments before. Bruce was always able to lift him as if he weighed nothing. Now is apparently no different. He’s picked up and cradled by his father like a child as he’s taken away from the hell that trapped him. He hunts for his family amongst the destroyed remains of the building that fell on top of them. He sees Tim. Damian. Steph. Duke. Cass. Carrie. Harper. Kate. Everyone. They’re all there. They’re all safe. 

But they’re missing someone. 

“Dick! You left Dick!” Jason’s voice cracks. Bruce gazes at Jason, the eyes behind the cowl seem sad. Defeated. It’s an unnatural look on the man. The Dark Knight shouldn’t look defeated. 

“I’m sorry Jason,” Bruce soothes. He sounds broken. Why does he sound broken? 

“What? No. Can you not find him? He’s there! He was right next to me!” he exclaims. Jason looks over Bruce’s shoulder to see his family gathered around the hole he was pulled out of. Steph is crying into Tim’s shoulder, his hand rubbing her back in an attempt to calm her. Damian is on one knee; the blade of his katana is stuck into the ground in front of him with his head lowered as if in prayer. Kate puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. What are they doing? Can they not find him? Jason feels like a child. Helpless and ignored. 

As he continues watching, he sees a flash of black and red fly into the pit. There’s silence for a moment before he sees Connor Kent bring the limp body of Dick Grayson out of the rubble. From where Jason is, he can see the teary eyes of the Kryptonian and his heart sinks to the ground.  

He doesn’t want to look down from Connor’s face. He doesn’t want to see the truth of it. He saw Dick in the rubble moments ago. He was alive! He was well! He only had a few scratches. He said it himself! He- 

“-was dead on impact.” 

His eyes are open, but the usual shine is gone. They’re glassy and dead. 

What? 

No. 

That- 

That doesn’t make sense. 

“But he was talking to me! I heard him speak!” Jason exclaims. Bruce shakes his head. 

“No, you didn’t,” he states, voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“You’re gaslighting me? Really?” 

“He didn’t talk to you, Jason. I promise you that.” 

Jason looks down from his brother’s eyes, unbelieving. He knows what he heard. Dick was speaking to him as clearly as his father does now. He was speaking right into his ear, for heaven’s sake! He looks at Dick’s mouth as if to disprove his father’s words. 

Or rather, where Dick’s mouth should be. 

His jaw is gone. Probably smashed by a rock on impact. The hinge hangs uselessly on Connor’s arm. It’s grim and ugly. Jason can’t look away despite himself. 

“They say that,” Bruce begins, “sometimes, when someone is in a life-or-death scenario, their brain hallucinates a loved one as an act of self-preservation.” 

The puzzle pieces are locking into place. The fact that Dick’s voice is what woke him up in the first place is making sense now. The fact that Jason never saw the lower portion of his face is making sense now. The smell of death wasn't coming from him. The unblinking, still eyes wasn’t a knowing gaze, he was fucking dead and Jason didn’t realise. He was stuck in a hole with the corpse of his older brother, and he didn't fucking know. But Dick saved Bruce from having two dead sons that day. 

Even in death, Dick Grayson is always there to keep you safe. I suppose he is luckier in that respect.

--

Should I do a part 2 to this?

Reblogs appreciated!

Masterlist

[cherr-22]

TNGDH 39

“Why so? It’s a long distance to the palace, making it a difficult trip for Cashew to follow.”

Kyle looked at me in surprise. Receiving that gaze, I let the words flow out of my mouth like flowing water.

“How hard could it be to take along a little chestnut…… no, a demonic beast? You could take it to the famous demonic beast specialist at the imperial palace for a checkup and feed it delicious food. Besides, I bet you’d be worried about leaving Cashew alone for days.”

“Hmm.”

“However, you absolutely cannot inject mana into it! Only a regular checkup is allowed. Besides, you were going to have Cashew checked by the specialist there at least once, right?”

Kyle pondered for a while before nodding.

After spending some time together, I could now guess what he’s thinking about just by looking at his face.

Right now, he was thinking about what kind of cage to carry Cashew in, what cushion to bring along, and what snacks he should take. Seeing the tips of his lips and his eyes subtly softening, that was probably what he was thinking.

‘You like it this much, yet you didn’t think about taking it along.’

I smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

Thus, both Cashew and Shu could ride the carriage to the palace. However, there was one problem. Going to the palace didn’t take just an hour or two.

‘System. Open the store for me.’

A blue system window flickered in response to my words.

In front of me were delicious and pretty-looking items spread out. I’ve thought about it before, but the more I used my hearts and Miracle Points, the more flashy the store became.

‘You’ve also worked hard.’

Whenever I saw the system staying up all night to update the store, it reminded me of myself when I was making the game. It made me a little sad.

Developers tend to be more familiar with the night than the day, but that kind of life is very stressful. People need light to live. At that time, I almost believed that even mold might start growing on my body.

But as it happened, I ended up possessing a nocturnal animal. It made me think life really didn’t like me.

I away my thoughts and turned the pages of the store. At first, there were only one or two pages but now there were four pages.

Let’s see. I have to refrain from using too many Miracle Points, but since the system made these for me, I’ll at least take a look at them.

‘Oh. This looks delicious. This one too.’

There were all kinds of desserts made with nuts. I lived the majority of my life eating soup and hamburgers, so I couldn’t help but keep looking at the desserts decorated so beautifully.

Don’t they say that food that looks good also tastes good? Of course, the cookies and bread Kyle prepared were great, but don’t you sometimes wish to have desserts that are pretty……

‘Wait. Is that why you made these like this?’

As I narrowed my eyes, the system responded.

[⚆_⚆]

It’s fine, whatever.

It’s not like I’m going to buy them based on their appearance anyways.

Then, an item caught my eye. It must’ve come from the update since there was a big label [NEW!] on it.

NEW! [Emergency Toffee Nut Candy x5 ｜ Miracle Points 0.5% consumption ｜ Detect approaching beings while holding the candy in your mouth.]

It was an amazing item that gave you 5 candies just for 0.5 Miracle Points. Its effect was amazing so buying it ahead of time would be useful.

I bought it without thinking twice. The small, individually wrapped candies looked like they would taste like caramel.

I wanted to try one now but I held in my urge.

“Are you done?”

“Yes?”

“You were pointing your finger in the air.”

“…….”

I kept my mouth shut.

Luckily, Kyle didn’t ask me for an explanation. Perhaps because he’s used to seeing me do a lot of strange things…… though I don’t know if this is fortunate or unfortunate.

“I will prepare your clothes in the same size as before.”

“You’re preparing my clothes too? You don’t have to.”

“Your attire will affect how people see you in the imperial palace. The ones at the North are not good enough.”

Kyle’s voice was soft, but I knew that I had to take it seriously.

I knew It. I knew it more than anyone else. This was something Kyle experienced himself in the past, and this was the attitude of the nobles of the imperial palace towards those from the North.

I’ve also been treated like that before in my previous life. I guess growing older won’t always make you mature.

I scratched the back of my head and nodded. This wasn’t a hard request from Kyle anyways. Thinking about it, this was also something that could affect Kyle’s reputation.

“Then, I’ll leave it to you.”

“Alright.”

Two weeks until Sen and Belial’s engagement ceremony.

There was plenty of time to prepare.

*

“Put this over there, ah, that one goes there.”

“How long has it been since we’ve went to the palace?”

“Definitely been at least a year!”

“Hold the reins well. And inspect the carriage again!”

From early in the morning, the Blake castle was like a marketplace. Even I, who rarely woke up from my sleep to most noises, had my eyes wide open.

I gazed at the sunlight seeping through the curtains. Seeing that it was still a little dark, it must’ve been around six o’clock.

―Squeak squeak. (It’s today.)

I stretched and reached for the strawberry sweater I tucked away in the corner of my hut. I then put on the sweater, regardless of my own feelings about it.

Because my limbs were short, I was only able to put it on after rolling in the sawdust a few times. But thinking about it again, Kyle got my measurements accurately.

―Squeak……. (Sigh. This is my life as a hamster.)

I pat off the sawdust stuck on the sweater and used ‘Summon’ after checking the door.

It seemed that it would be a while before Kyle comes to get me. Well, it wouldn’t take much effort to put me in the hamster cage anyways.

‘Let’s see…….’

I hid myself in a corner and used ‘Summon’.

I closed my eyes from the bright light and when I opened them, I was in a familiar room. On top of the bed were the clothes Kyle prepared for me.

I took off the sweater and stored it in the inventory before changing into the new clothes.

The high-quality silk gently wrapped around my body and flowed down elegantly. There were no extravagant accessories, but it definitely had a luxurious feel. Even the golden embroidery didn’t feel like it was made in vain.

‘The pants also fit me well.’

As I was examining my appearance in front of the mirror, I raised my eyebrows at a sudden thought.

“……How does he know my size?”

It was really mysterious. It wasn’t as if he measured me while I was asleep, nor did he ever asked me.

A knock came from the door.

I turned towards the door to open it. Outside was a familiar servant, unable to hide his excited face.

“His Highness Kyle asked me to bring the demonic beast specialist over to him.”

“Ah. Thank you for coming to get me. However, there is somewhere I want to visit first.”

“Yes?”

I led the curious servant towards into the study. I unfolded a black cloth I had prepared and covered the hamster house with it.

From now on, I must keep this hamster house with me no matter what. At least half a day, I must keep it with me.

“Let’s go.”

The servant, who had been examining my actions, tilted his head in confusion, but hurriedly moved on.

As I followed him, I checked the number of Miracle Points I had. After buying two cookies and some candies yesterday, I had exactly 20 percent left.

After complaining to the system all day long to lower the prices, I was able to save quite a few points.

[(￣へ￣)]

Hey. Do you think I’m saving money for my own benefit?

……Well technically I am.

“You can get on this carriage.”

The servant who took me outside bowed his head and walked away at a slow pace. His steps were so light that it almost seemed as if he were skipping. No, he probably was, seeing how happy he looked. He must also be taking the carriage to the palace.

Well, I did hear that it has been 1 year since they were able to go on a trip to the imperial palace. It was definitely a joyous event. It was said that the climate and atmosphere of the palace were the opposite of the North, making it feel like it was a foreign country. Of course, I heard this from Kyle.

“Shu.”

“Oh my gosh!”

I jumped in place.

Turning my head, I saw Kyle standing with a cape in his arms.

“Make some noise as you move around, please!”

“I didn’t know you could jump so high.”

“Ah! Really! Don’t scare me like that.”

As I grumbled at him, Kyle wrapped the cloak around my shoulders and chuckled.

“I did call for you, but I thought I’d have to circle around the castle a few times to find you. Were you in your room?”

“Of course. And you even prepared my clothes. Ah. I also brought Cashew with me, so there’s no need to go to the study.”

I pointed at the hamster house with my chin and held the cloth tighter. I’ll never open it. Don’t even think about removing the cloth.

“Thank you. Now, I’ll take it with me.”

Kyle held out his hand. I avoided the hand and twirled my body away from him.

“No. I could take care of it plenty well. It’s not like you’re going to play with Cashew on the way, so you can just leave it to me and focus on your work.”

“Then, let me see its face at least once…….”

“Ahem! Do you not see the time? Don’t disturb its sleep! Even demonic beasts have a routine.”

I quickly got into the carriage before Kyle could push on anymore. I sat down and held the cage in my arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Kyle entered the carriage after me and said after sitting across from me.

“I won’t take it from you so loosen up.”

“Really?”

“……Have you lived your entire life being fooled?”

I certainly have. But I couldn’t say that and just relaxed my hands and shoulders.

I’ve been tense the whole time, making my shoulders feel a little stiff. As I groaned and complained about wanting to massage them, Kyle suddenly took out a bag.

“Still, we should feed it…….”

“I will feed it! I will!”

I quickly pressed myself to the window like a magnet. I glared at him with wary eyes, and he bursted into laughter.

“……Are you enjoying yourself?”

Are you enjoying playing around with me?

He had a calm smile on his face. He tilted his head and rested his chin on his hand, which was held up against the carriage wall. 

“Being with you always makes me feel happy.”

Just then, the carriage started moving. A light breeze blew in through the window. I turned my head away with a sullen look on my face.

The tip of my ears felt a warm.

Even though the wind blowing felt cool.

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

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[peachy-cheeks]

Defined

ch: 1 | 2 | 3

synopsis: you and nanami are coworkers and former friends with benefits grappling with the decision to consciously uncouple as a non-couple (aka stop doing each other)

word count: 1,937 words

characters: nanami kento x gn!reader

warnings: angsty kinda, slight sexual mentions this chapter

a/n: i was gonna talk a bunch here about clarifying intentions, labels and titles meaning things, etc. but i thought that was entirely too much... i imagine if you've been anywhere on the fwb/situationship spectrum then you'll just get the gist of it all

"With this, there was no dating. No tender moments in public or meeting family. And no telling coworkers... absolutely not. The closest semblance to a normal partnership was the rare mission assigned together. The ones you both went on afar from Tokyo, apart from the blood and guts, felt a bit like little vacations.

But even if his hands fell onto and held your waist a certain way. Or if his teeth tugged your bottom lip as his to claim. Even with the smiles that bookended your meetings of intimately learning the other's weaknesses. This was not that kind of relationship."

Violet with dying rays of orange and pink melted into the growing spread of navy sky. The moon always seemed to look brighter up north.

So many mundane blessings clicked for you in moments like these. The daily changes in the sky, the gentle crumble and cushion of leaves beneath your sore soles, an intact spine... it all felt so nice. Normal miracles.

Lucky, some would say. You were lucky to experience those blessings.

"Ah, so you're headed to Hiraizumi?" "Yeah well, nearby. There've been quite a few disappearances near the Satetsu river. I've never been but it seems fairly quiet there otherwise." "It's pretty... beautiful really. But you'll want to be careful up there. Lots of concentrated energy." "Of course. I'm looking forward to it." "Try not to take offense to this, but who'll be going with you? I don't imagine they'd send anyone near there alone unless it was Gojo." "Well, I'll be with Nanami... we've worked together a couple of times. I think we get along just fine. Should go fine." "Aren't you lucky..." "Mmm." "Seriously though, be careful. For them to assign a grade 1 and semi grade 1 on a single assignment. Sounds like they don't even know how big of a problem it really could be." "Right... you sure you don't wanna swap places with me, Kusakabe?" "Don't make me laugh. Try to come back in one piece."

Last week's conversation played in your head while you gradually retreated from the wilderness toward the nearest town. The replay was a welcomed distraction from the internal and external bruises that slowed your pace. It also took away from the freshly-made replay of you nearly being split into pieces by the wickedly sharp appendages of the curse you faced not even an hour before.

"Nanami?" "...Yes?" "Thank you... for watching my back there."

Met with silence, not that you were expecting much. An expression of gratitude is a hard conversation point for someone unenthused to relish in their own good deeds. Because he was there, your near-fate was returned to its sender. As planned, the 7:3 Sorcerer's dull blade tore apart the sickened flesh that held the curse together. No rumination of the act on his part out of politeness, sure, but more so out of professionalism.

His position, tried and true, was simple: what kind of sorcerer would he be if he stood by and allowed you to be decapitated by a curse mere feet away from him?

'I need to work on my reaction time...' Who doesn't? You're at the best that you've known yourself at. 'I'm sorry for being a burden...' Fuck no. That doesn't make sense and it sounds pathetic.

Thoughts trailed off as your steps continued. 'Just leave it...' A breeze slapped against your cheeks and your adrenaline continued to fall.

Even now, the silent air between you both was not uncomfortable. Though, it never usually was. Besides, many sorcerers pray for minutes of peace to grow into hours, days, and months. Most find the time after intense combat to be the purest form of peace; from one extreme to its polar opposite in seconds. Colors, light, scents, and temperature all came through so much clearer... more precise in those after moments.

Auras too... and his captivated you. It had for so, so long, but in the duration of your relationship you had rarely seen this particular quick swell, bright glow, and slow decompression. Witnessing it made you grateful.

Strong. By nature and nurture, his strength was hardwired into his body, mind, and soul. It struck a perfect balance with his kindness, something unwavering that you witnessed the moment you ran into him years ago (literally, by immaculate chance) as a salary man.

Kindness and strength, just two of his many traits that defined the humanity you adored. Steady in your meeting, brief union, and eventual break. At every stage, it was never difficult to find Nanami admirable.

“There’s no way they properly considered the risk of this assignment."

What were you two talking about again? Oh—

"Yeah. It's odd that they sent us both." "It’s… a disheartening situation.” "..."

You sincerely hoped it wasn't becau—

"...Not because of you..." "Oh, I... I understand."

Of course you understood, it came with your own strength. But surely he could've handled that curse without yo—

"Thank you for your hard work. You created a wide opening for me to assist. I'm not sure I would've been able to do this without you." "...Mm. No problem... me either. I certainly couldn't have done this alone."

Your statement was obvious, as you were covered in far more wounds and marks compared to your coworker. You may have landed more blows against the curse, but he certainly managed to move efficiently and avoid the brunt of what you got.

"Are you feeling faint?" “No… I’m okay. Thanks.”

Maybe faint wasn’t the proper word, but the goosebumps on your skin made it harder to move. Colors, temperature, and that growing navy sky felt colder and colder. Terrible shame that the nearest town was still a 30 minute hike... and that the nearest auxiliary manager was another 20 minutes away.

“Are you sure?” “…Yeah… I’m just a little chilly…”

In a singular, swift motion, the weight of Nanami’s blazer comfortably swallowed your shoulders. Without hesitation, he had removed the layer for your benefit.

“Your adrenaline is dropping.” “T-thank you… thanks... but so is yours. Aren’t you cold?” “My injuries are minor and we don’t have long to go.” “Okay… well... let me know if you want this back at any point.” “I’ll be fine.”

If Nanami was anything, he was an excellent coworker. A professional and selfless team player in every sense. The evening grew cooler and despite the donated layer, the chill sank into your exposed skin and down your bones. 15 more minutes, huh?

"Do you think you can make it for the next-" "Next 15 minutes? Y-yeah, I think so." "..."

You figured, at least until his question made your knees buckle. His ever watchful eyes took in your attempt to conceal a growing limp. Did this curse really fuck you up that bad?

"Hold on."

Nanami placed a firm hand on your shoulder prompting you to pause and repositioned the harness that holstered his weapon from his back to his shoulder.

"If you're comfortable with this, I'll carry you until we reach town. Please don't feel indebted to me, I don't want your injuries to worsen from oversight." "I... Nanami..."

God. First, his coat. Now, his back. What more could he give?

He certainly wasn't being chivalrous to prove a point... was he? What point would he even be making?

Well... how long were you going to make him wait...?

"I don't mean to pressure you..."

Hazel eyes, bare of his glasses, were kind and waiting for your answer. A familiar air of disarming patience carved the cold air between you. Were his eyes always this way when looking towards you? Even now?

"N-no. No, it's... I..."

Deep breath... okay.

"Thank you. Thanks... I really appreciate that." "Okay. Just try not to lean back, I might lose my balance."

He wouldn't, you both knew, but the warning put you at ease. You smiled, nearly drawing out a teasing quip in response. As gently and respectfully as possible, you made your way onto Nanami's back. Your body was pressed flatly against the broad, dense surface of his. With sturdy arms roped around the plush of your thighs that rested on both sides of his waist, he resumed a slower pace.

The bob of his walk complimented the steady rhythm of his heart, both of which reverberated through your own chest making you wish you could sink into him. The newfound warmth soothed the growing aches and you slipped into sleep. No matter how hard you tried, your body could never forget the comfort that his brought you.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea..." "...Sure." I guess the illusion of this fantasy had finally caught up to you two. Five months of willingly bending your own limits, testing the line of professionalism and personal boundaries. Neither of you would've ever sought out another sorcerer as a long-term partner. Sort of stupid to think that indulging in each other carnally would be a sustainable form of healing. With this, there was no dating. No tender moments in public or meeting family. And no telling coworkers... absolutely not. The closest semblance to a normal partnership was the rare mission assigned together. The ones you both went on afar from Tokyo, apart from the blood and guts, felt a bit like little vacations. But even if his hands fell onto and held your waist a certain way. Or if his teeth tugged your bottom lip as his to claim. Even with the smiles that bookended your meetings of intimately learning the other's weaknesses. This was not that kind of relationship. "I don't regret where we are. But being like this might do more harm than good longterm." What an incredibly stupid conversation to have in bed. And what a crazy thing for him to say with his lips still pressed to your neck. "Kento... I don't think we were planning on doing this forever, right?" So why do this in the first place? Maybe he doesn't need a friend (is that what you are?) like you anymore. The sex, itself, was never the problem. If it was, the conversation wouldn't have followed your pleads for him to consume every part of you (and him fulfilling every request.) Pillow talk and waxing poetic about alternative lives or separate futures would eventually run dry. Neither person wanted to escalate beyond where you two comfortably were. Blissfully uncoupled. And as cathartic as it proved, unpacking core memories and histories as a non-couple was... very intimate for the type of relationship you agreed to share. But sometimes you figured you could do this... it all... forever, at lest with him. Not that forever was particularly long for the average career sorcerer anyway. Your own trauma was similar to his own formative heartbreaks, both spoken about in bits and pieces scattered across your time together. Compassion and the embracing calm of your bedroom beckoned Nanami's largely regulated vulnerability. Five months of unlocking each other to see and be seen, if only for a few hours. Maybe what you both really needed was a good therapist? "Hey... Kento?" "Yes?" "Do you still want to work together?" "Of course... but I think we'll need distance." "Of course. Yeah... ok. Ok... just don't treat me like a stranger." "I never will."

Of course. Responsibility was never solely about physical strength, but about balancing the variables: endurance, intuition, experience, maybe even spite at times… but, most importantly, care. And he was always so responsible.

A responsible, capable, and careful man would do what he could to protect you. How cruel would it be for him to suddenly change when your heart had been so close to his, then and now? Of course a responsible man would carry you when you were down and he'd even let you dampen his shoulder with your tears, awake or not. Naturally, he'd let you grieve what should have been let go.

For the sake of work, sanity, and your friendship.

So here you two were. Nearly five more months down the line since your last meeting. And as much as the partnership changed, the players stayed the same. Accepting another rare assignment together, but with the new goal of making it unremarkable. Just work. Open and closed, with no strings attached.

[actual-changeling]

i know i just posted a 6k+ fic today but have this ficlet from aziraphale's pov as a treat before i disappear for the night.

@dancingcrowley a lil gift for u

-

In hindsight, it is entirely his fault for getting way too drunk.

"The... point?"

Crowley is looking at him without blinking, his head hanging upside down off the edge of the sofa, his legs hooked over the backrest, and it is either by pure luck or a subconscious demonic miracle that he hasn't slid to the floor yet. His wine glass is empty and has been for a while, probably since around nine when Aziraphale swapped his glass for the bottle and began pacing around the backroom with an increasing frenzy.

"Yes! The- the point of," he vaguely waves his free hand, unsure what exactly he is even referring to, "of it all."

Another swig of red chases the dryness out of his throat and causes his next words to tumble out of his mouth like a glacier-fed waterfall in early spring.

"The point of being here, like, earth, you know?" Crowley does not, in fact, know, that much is obvious from the expression on his face, but he shifts around a little, and that's good enough for Aziraphale.

"She put me in in in the SKY, and then there was WHOOOSH heaven, all white and empty, and suddenly, oh, look, humans! Humaning like, like rabbits or something. All doing things."

Emptying the wine bottle takes him less than a few seconds, heat rising to his cheeks and blushing down his chest, and Aziraphale briefly considers taking his waistcoat off when Crowley flings himself upright and slithers into what can loosely be called a sitting position. In reality, it is closer to what you would get if you put wet spaghetti on a dollhouse chair.

"There's no point, angel," he says, sounding vaguely bored, and maybe it's his growing disinterest; maybe it's the apocalypse that should have happened two years ago but didn't, maybe it's the fact that Aziraphale has been thinking one too many times about the last time God had actually talked to him.

"There fucking HAS to be a point, Crowley. There has to be! Otherwise, what's the- why would I- there wouldn't be a reason to-"

A reason to do good except to be kind, but he could live with that. He can live without knowing Her plan or being able to return to heaven, he can even live without ever hearing Her voice again, not that the last few millennia have ever offered any of that to him.

No, the point is, and Aziraphale has a point, he is sure of that even as the room begins to spin slightly, the point is that if there is NO point, there's no reason to deny himself anything.

...fine, not anything.

Crowley. Without a point, he could have- THEY could have- but they can't because there is a point.

"I just- just can't see it," he finishes out loud, uncaring that Crowley has not been privy to the argument in his head.

"There is a point," Crowley repeats, his voice dipping into a tone he knows from late-night dinners at the Ritz and casual temptations. In the low, golden light, his face is half-covered in shadows, and he sprawls across the sofa like calligraphy drawn with watered-down ink, flowing apart at the seams.

Or maybe Aziraphale's just way too drunk.

"There's a point."

Falling back into his armchair and coming close to immediately sliding onto the floor, Aziraphale tries to settle down and returns the bottle to its place on the side table. Maybe he should sober up and steer the conversation into safer waters, but he is still busy chasing one last question around his head.

What would we do if there wasn't a point?

Who would they be, then?

Crowley is already who he would be, always has been, and the parts of him that aren't are anchor points of the red thread weaving between them.

The real question is who he would be, and the truth is that he already knows the answer.

He feels Crowley's gaze on him, his eyes glinting amber in the relative darkness of the room, and Aziraphale looks back, chews up the bitterly familiar answer on his tongue, and swallows it like he always does.

"Hungry?" Crowley asks, already grabbing his shades from between the cushions.

Aziraphale lingers for a second, watching the smooth flex of his muscles as he pulls on his jacket and the tip of his tongue when it darts out to wet his bottom lip, but he smiles when Crowley turns back towards him with raised eyebrows and concern tight on his face.

"Starving."

[polaritiesoop]

Lemme just share here this one-shot? I guess? based on the what-if Scar was left in the SL server for way too long of a time? So yeah, its just Scar all on his own. Trapped in SL for some unforeseeable future. This is supposed to be prologue to a fic idea I have, but I don't know if I'll be able to write it in entirety really. BUT because this took me long to write, I want to share it regardless. Its nothing special. Just Angst. Hurt.... but is there comfort? Technically yes?

Title: Far From Home

Words: 5,000+

Scar is still trapped in the Secret Life Server. With nothing much to do but wait for a miracle to bring him home. But in the mean time, he fixes what he could fix, and tends to animals left on the server.

--------

And that was the last block placed.

Scar take steps back to survey his work. It looks right from what he could remember of the Heart Foundation. There wasn't much interior in it, right? It was just some big heart on the middle of an island filled with cherry wood leaves.  Not like Scar was a frequent visitor inside either.

But! ...this was the last structure to rebuild. He has done best on the terrain surrounding the Heart Foundation.  Truly can be called pink land at how cherry trees lined up the lake, its petals fluttering on the grass and on the rippling water.

Scar did his best. He never was the closest ally toward Tango, Big B, and Skizz in this server. He resented them. The first few people on his kill list. But they weren't the cruelest either.

This would be the prettiest place at night second after Lizzie's cute little cottage, which he thinks he can never give justice on rebuilding. Though Scar doesn't plan to stick around long for the night to come and see. He has all the time in the world after all.

Scar felt a peck on his cheeks he grew accustomed to along with little chirps and loud squawks near his ear. He looks at the parrot companions perched on his shoulders, a gray and a cyan parrot.

"Wouldn't this be a lovely home for you, Tango and Skizz?" Scar asked all jolly. A peck on his forehead caught his attention, crossing his eyes up to peak at the tilted head of a blue parrot. "And of course you too, Big B!" the blue parrot clambered on his palm. He chuckles at inquisitive looks it give toward the build. It mimics his words rather poorly.

Sinister as it is to call these parrots after the fallen members of the Heart Foundation. One of them...he personally killed. Sure. In his defense, he admits to it now, he did his best to bury what was left of Tango's body. Even burying him with his allies, though it took long to find BigB's and Skizz's body. He just couldn't think of better names when he visited the jungle yesterday, and he was busy making progress in rebuilding the Heart Foundation that he could only think of them, when he saw these three were the only parrots left, as far as he was aware, he plans to return later in hopes to find more.

It wouldn't be a bad idea to let the birds stay in here. They might adjust fine to the cherry wood trees! And Scar could always feed them seeds every day.

"What do you say, if you three stay here?" He asks again expecting a reply, somehow. He lays down some pumpkin seeds on the ground. The birds munch on them quickly. Big B, the parrot, stares at him oddly flapping its wings and squawking. As if trying to communicate, or so was his wishful thinking.

"You guys stay here. I'll come back tomorrow morning." They seem to understand the command, despite being only tamed yesterday. Man, he could be a zookeeper at how many animals he saved and bred! All bases had some animals left that he fed and provided with better areas to live. Scar could go crazy if all he did was rebuild, he had made it his personal mission in keeping the remaining animals in this server. Which came with some extensive farming too.

Scar does leave the Heart Foundation once he was finish surveying his work. The birds were not following him, so he felt comfortable at leaving them be.

Scar hops onto his camel. His petulant camel, he called Cheerio. Cheerio 2.0, he did lose his first camel but he found a camel egg at one of the chests at the abandoned bases of Gem and the Scotts.

"Cheerio, let's go!" Scar got what he would call an equivalent of an eye-roll before Cheerio lifts off the ground and she starts walking. Slowly.

Thus, a petulant camel.

"C'mon, you had plenty of grass to eat!" He pats at her neck, like a complaint she grunts. Horses and other steads would've been better but they weren't quite friendly when Scar tried to ride them. They still remembered their owners even though they seemed scattered about the server, most likely abadoned or forgotten. The best Scar did for them was to build stables, and lead their infuriating butts inside.

But Cheerio 2.0 feels familiar like an old friend that Scar cannot hate.

At the back of his mind, he wonders if any llamas were roaming the server.

-

Just passing by Trader Scar's, he decided it would be better to leave Cheerio inside opting to walk the rest to the Jungle nearby.

The sun was nearly setting. The sky was on its red and orange hues. Usually Scar would avoid spending the night in a forest area. But today? he was feeling brave!

"Maybe not the best biome..." he thought to himself. The Jungle was green as ever, a creeper's favorite place, definitely. This biome is small, still imposing with its large trees. Scar could hear bugs, yet no birds at all.

He was starting to think it was a bust, it was not worth it, climbing vines peeking on the shades of trees and on the branches, or any signs of nests which last time led him on finding Tango, Skizz, and Big B.

His last resort was to climb the largest tree, trying to spot a different color other than green on the forest floor. Or spot anything moving below, there are green parrots too. The sun sinks beyond the horizon, the cold air was tell tale signs of mobs spawning soon. He should just return tomorrow morning.

"I should get outta here." Scar was about to climb down a vine when he heard a creeper hiss directly behind him. The man yelps and fell off, a flash of pain on his ankle caused him to yell and stay laid on the ground. He manages to realize just in time that the creeper was shuffling towards him. With all the force he could muster, the creeper died at a slash of his diamond sword. It vanishes into gunpowder.

He tries to catch his breathe before checking if he did not just sprained his ankle. To his relief, he could move it with minimal pain, "Oh man, atleast the worst did not happen." Scar laughs, "but it'll be faster to get back to spawn."

There was another hiss.

Scar scrambles to swing his sword behind him. Only not to see any creeper. He quickly turns to look around, but he saw nothing.

Hiss.

There was it again! But there weren't any creepers to see!

"Void, I must be going crazy, huh?" Scar lifts up his shield near his body. He could hear skeletons and spiders too, "serves me right for winning this stupid game."

"Stupid game."

Scar jumped at hearing those words behind him accompanied by a wicked laugh. It was a witch. He twisted to look and parry at an upcoming potion throw, ignoring the sting of pain on his ankle, only for him to be meet with ... nothing.

No large purple hats, no purple robes, no weird long flabby nose.

His pulse quickens and his body is shaken by a cold shiver, "What, what is going on?"

He felt something wet on his nape. Scar wonders if it was going to rain despite the clear skies. His palm wipes at whatever that wet feeling is.

What he sees on his finger pads at the moon light is... white and yellow.

His question is answered to him when he hears a squawk. Fear and confusion was exchanged by excitement. Above him, on pearly light, was a red parrot. It was looking at him. It was squawking. What he got on his fingers was definitely bird poop but he could not be anymore happier at seeing another bird.

"Oh my gosh. Okay, okay... we need seeds." Without looking away, he digs through his pockets for seeds, happy that he still a got a few and thankful that he had not thrown it all out.

"Come here, birdie, birdie. I've got some delicious seeds for you." He offers up a palm full of seeds. The parrot did not move for a second, simply mimicking nearby sounds and flapping its wings. It was just staring.

"Geez, are you picky or something- ow!" Scar felt a prick on his arm. He sees an arrow imbedded on a tree trunk. A skeleton had sneaked behind him. Quick on his feet, he put up his shield and grips his sword. Scar made a quick work of the skeleton but another emerged out of the bushes. Now, he is paying close attention to the surroundings, there were many mobs moving towards him.

He could barely dodge all arrows firing at him, "Awful timing! awful timing!"

He fought every mob coming at him. Until there were none left. He was left breathless but at least the bird did not get hit by an arrow.

Speaking of the bird, he searches around for where it could've gone. It was squawking around while he was fighting.

He was surprised that the seeds he accidentally thrown on the ground were... not there. Consumed by the looks of it.

Scar gasps, "this means it's tamed!"

There were wings flappings overhead. "There you are, young man! I was worried you would fly off somewhere. I'll give you a name later, let's go home for now." Scar extends out his arm for the bird to land on.

Except, it didn't respond. It fled away to the tree tops.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Scar groans at himself, that was not a tamed parrot at all. Of course those seeds were not enough.

Chasing the parrot to wherever it was going was probably not the best idea. At every angle he's getting assaulted by mobs. To climb the treetops instead was hard, spiders could still follow him. The darn parrot just cannot be caught, always airs away from Scar's reach. He does not even have seeds on hand that he needed to climb down again, to try quickly get some watermelons and shove his hand inside to pick some seeds. He had to do it all without keeping his eyes off that parrot.

Oh, and run right after it with arrows sticking up every where on his aching body.

Finally, for what seems like an hour, the parrot landed on the tallest tree. Scar wasn't gonna give up now.

Through panting breaths he yelled pointing a finger at that stoic face, "You better stay there! I am coming to get you!" against his body's protests, he climbs the vines all the way to the top nearly letting go, surprised by the squawk that greets him. How funny.

Scar wheezes as he drags his body to prone on the precarious branch of the tree, "Man, I don't think this is worth it."

"Squawk!"

Scar glares at the parrot. It pecks at its feather in a way for Scar looks like a person picking on their nails. "Oh, you must be sooo proud of yourself, huh."

"Squawk!"

"Alright, alright. You've won the race."

"Squawk!"

"But bet you don't know what a runner does after a marathon."

"Squawk."

"You got it. By after any race, what's better than some hearty refreshments?" Scar presents the wet seeds in his hands, gripped with so much strength during the run his nails left marks on his palm. "This is newly harvested, just so you know from the most finest hands on this server. Well, the only ones really working. Have a taste?" He starts sweating when the parrot tilts its head longer than it probably should. When it did let out a sweet trill and hop near his palm to peck at a seed that Scar lets out a relieved sigh.

Never mind the sharp beak pecking his skin, it could not compare at the burn he feels on his muscles.

"No skipping leg day." He said defeatedly.

"Squawk!"

"Word."

Scar ends up watching the parrot devour the seeds to its hearts content. To lay on his front and having to keep his arm extended is not a comfortable position for the rest of the hour. Scar feels more tired than ever when he could see the sun shining on the hills.

"Would be nice to get a nap."

This time the parrot simply whistles. He wonders if it's already done eating, it kept pecking while he watched the stars and the moon fade away.

Scar felt a sharp pinch. He retracted his hand in shock. "Ouch! What was that for?!" The parrot does not look guilty being hit by an accustory look. It oddly looks satisfied. He would be angry if it wasn't cute to see a seed stuck on its top beak.

"Void, tell me atleast you are tamed." Scar pleads, groaning as he sits up to try and extend his forearm again. The parrot lifts up, circling as if it is acting like it's running away again, but Scar felt happiness welling up when it landed on his forearm.

"Okay this is good. Geez, you took so much seed to tame!" Scar complains right at the parrot's face. It retaliates in the form of a full warm poop. Great.

"...And you're so not friendly. What is wrong with you?" He tuts.

The parrot squawks and he scoffs pointing a finger on its head, "Your companions were perfectly friendly! And not greedy! Skizz and Tango were loud, sure, but they were loveable. Big B loved hiding, acting all sinister, but he loves my hair. But you little man?" Scar huffs, "You are such-... such a ..." Scar trails off. A certain word hangs at the tip of his tongue. And there was that. The sinking feeling in his stomach that clenches him on his ribs to his heart.

His croaks, " ... what a pesky bird."

What is wrong with him? Really, over a word?

The parrot blinks, gnawing his finger without much a reply.

His breath constricts at the wave of it hitting him. A sense of painful nostalgia, flashing to him in a memory of a Jungle far larger and warmer than this - this little excuse of a biome. In a server where he once belongs to now out of his reach... taken out of his reach.

Scar blinks at the tears welling up. He uses his dirty sleeves to brush it off furiously, "Not this again, danggit. Geez!"

The parrot seems to stop gnawing to stare at him in blank confusion.

He lets out a wet laugh. "I miss him."

Scar missed them a lot. It's been how many fucking days has it been since he won? since he realized that he is forever stuck here with a task already fulfilled?

The parrots could not understand that. Nor can Cheerio, nor the steads, Lizzie's bees, nor Etho's sheep. No one's coming back for those animals other than Scar.

Good for them, because who the hell is coming back for Scar?

"He did not even come back for me, stupid... Grian." Scar wipes at his tears, and forces a breath pass to his lungs. "This is pathetic."

When is anyone going to come back for him? he questions this everyday. He has nightmares of Pearl, of Etho, of Tango, of anyone, choking and killing and crying at them his question more like a plea. He screams at the Secret Keeper of his question.

But curse the gods and all, no one will hear him.

"Squawk."

Except a parrot obviously. Scar couldn't help chuckling at the parrot's antics, it landed on his head doing whatever on his hair. He wipes his tears away, finding this whole thing ridiculous. This bird is ridiculous. It pooped again, on his hair.

"Yeah, I'm calling you Grian." Scar smiles, the name carries a heavy weight on his heart.

"Squawk!"

"Not the best person to be named after I tell you."

-----

Trying to get Cheerio to hurry up her pace while keeping an eye on Grian so as not fly off anywhere, overcame Scar's whole being with absolute exhaustion when they finally reached the Heart Foundation. It would be best to leave the new parrot here too, where he can live and be taken care of too. Scar knows how parrots are not solitary animals.

"Off you go now, shoo! I had enough of you squawking at my ear and pooping on my cape!" Scar scolds urging other parrots to get accustomed with their newest addition. He can already tell they are familiar with each other. Plus, Scar is not too keen on having this kind of parrot companion admittedly amusing but a very obnoxious bird. Something, something namesake.

"I am leaving you guys now." Scar offers up more seeds for the birds before leaving the island.

He couldn't help but stare at the flock, they were flying around well and playing by the looks of it. There shouldn't be any concern then in leaving them.

Scar realized halfway to spawn that he does not have any more goals in mind. He was relieved to find Grian, and he was sure there were no more other birds in that Jungle.

In like some sort of trance, Scar steers Cheerio on the way to the base of Etho and Cleo. The sheep and cows need tending to for sure. Before he knew it, he was making rounds around the server to check on the animals leaving the mounders for last.

Scar replaced the water and gave more hay to one of Bdub's horse. That he might as well call Bdubs! His mane does remind him of that man's hair when it was blond. Scar chuckles at it, heart achingly, because he misses that little man too. They were at petty odds fighting over who is Cleo's favorite child, but his angry shouts and jolly attitude... Scar misses him.

"Oh, the sun's setting." Scar murmurs to himself. He got caught in the chores again, geez.

So, what to do next? Scar wonders. He decided to walk Cheerio instead of riding on. He was in his thoughts when the sky darkens around him.

Subconsciously, Scar came to the Secret Keeper.

It was a mess. He had left so many papers on the ground, some teared up and some empty, scattered with leather covers. There is a serious overgrowth all over this area. Foliage and wildflowers, moss and cracks on the concrete.

When was the last time he visited this area? 10 days? 20 days? Scar knew he managed to steer clear for a while.  He has lost count of days, as making a diary felt like an unnecessary chore.

He feels his fingers itch. Right in front of him was the button, never quite worn up at all unlike the fail and the reroll buttons.

He lets Cheerio stay out, as he walks near it. A part of him is anticipating, which is funny how he still got this glimmer of hope that something would change one day if he just presses that button again. But he knew he would be only disappointed.

"I'm here." Scar announces. He hovers over the button. He stares at the statue through tired eyes. Of course, it does not respond.

Scar slams the succeed button and the incorporeal voices were near comfort to his ears despite the gibberish whispers. He hears that music saying he succeeded, but he once again hears the whispers and another book has popped and landed on his hands.

Win Secret Life.

Scar sighs, "Same thing." and the new book joins the others on the ground. Scar sat down, his back against the button. He closes his eyes and breathes out. He wraps his arms around his legs, never opening his eyes as he feels for the moonlight and the night breeze.

-------

There was a rumble.

It had awoken Scar up. Though his back aches and his vision was blurry from sleep, he managed to see a bright object dropping down from the sky and its blast illuminating an area of the server before disappearing with a boom followed by a shockwave that made Scar stumble to his front.

He groans at the impact and the scrape the cobbled ground gave him. Other than that and a faint ringing in his ears, he was okay. Thank the void he was okay.

Scar could only stay sat on the ground. He could see that there is smoke on the distance but not too far. When he realized where it went, he felt the urge to run for it, even though he knew it was just his destroyed base.

Cheerio was being loud, the poor animal is probably in distress. As gentle as he could, he stood up to comfort the camel.

"Shhh, Cheerio... everything's fine. We're okay." He said soothing her to calm down. It seems to help, though she seems agitated still. Scar doesn't know what to do other than continue patting her.

....What in the world happen?

It was good that whatever the thing that flew and crash landed on his base was not a bigger blast. The shockwave made him believe it's radius of explosion would expand all across the server. The Mounder's base looks perfectly intact from what Scar could see from the secret keeper atleast. Was it a meteor?

Scar pushes the camel to sit, "Sit down, Cheerio. That rumbled must've got you off balanced. I'll go investigate." and surprisingly, she listened to him. For the most part she looks to be calming down, so Scar felt good enough to leave her to make his way to his base.

It was mostly curiosity than concern of what happened to his base. It wasn't intact at all when he left it, only its walls and parts of the court house were destroyed because of tnt traps.

So when Scar was near enough to see what really hit it.... things were mostly fine. Like the impact was from another tnt not some space object. There was a small crater at the front of what used to be Trader's Scar....yet oddly, no space object to see.  But the sunflowers and berry bushes near it were scorched around the assumed point of impact.  Scar was beyond confused. He wonders if this is another hallucination or a weird dream.

His eyes searches around. Nothing is amiss. He contemplates if he should just go back to Cheerio until there was an echoing sound, of something high pitched that made him jump.

He looks at his back at the ruins of Trader's Scar. There was it again, it sounded like a child crying and the thought of a baby suddenly spawning in this server made Scar shiver. He asked to get out of here, for god's sake!

Scar was going to run away but it sounds more and more insistent and faded. It rings a bell, somehow, that Scar felt a sense of deja vu. That echoing cry of something could only come from the mine shaft and mob farm he made long exposed to weather. Probably dangerous to go down its ladders.

Scar observes. The ladders are intact and not erroding as he thought. There's no more light, all torches burned off since he stopped coming here. A cold air passes through him from the hole. Is it actual air or fear seeping in his skin? Because this feels like the start of a horror movie!

"Do I really have to?" Scar whines. He hadn't expected a response yet he got one akin to an ominous drone that made him want to sprint to the secret keeper for protection.

"Okay! When did my mineshaft become such a place of nightmares?" He laughs nervously, hair rising as his words echo down and that sound suddenly stopped.

Does he really want to go down there? There has to be so many mobs Scar will struggle to defeat. He breathes in deeply thinking about how worth it is to face whatever creature that is.  On the bright side its something new! Scar is curious and bored, worst case scenario? Nothing! He will always respawn back at the secret keeper and he can curse at it for bringing a haunted creature at him, and not some getaway helicopter back to home!

Scar's hands has made the decision before his brain starts to function. The ladder felt rickety to his sweaty grip.

"Why am I doing this to myself?"

Only eerie silence met him this time. A normal person would think thats cue to leave.

Unfortunately for everyone, Scar is far from normal.

His feet finally hit cobble. He was surprise that there is still a torch lighting the tunnels dim. No immediate attack from some mob, no hideous clown face coming to gnaw him.

"I did come all the way down here." Scar sighs, "There's no going back."

He takes another torch to light from his inventory. He is surprised of his own bravery of looking and exploring tunnels. So far he cannot hear that crying sound from everywhere.

Nothing really remarkable caught his attention. Everything looks normal, too normal and somehow strange for Scar. This was his mineshaft, sure everything looks the same, but there is no attachment to this place, it was simply a reminder of that urgency Scar felt because of the unfortunate tasks that brought him to this situation.

He hears a shuffle. That couldn't have come from him as he was stood on a little room carved out to accomodate chests of random items. He was starting to hear his pulse because of the silence, now he hears it gallop because of that odd noise.

"A-alright! What comes there?!" Scar decides to bravely ask. He wants to get this over with. He equips his sword, ready to face whatever is at the dark, "Just know that I can and will kill you once I find you."

He hears that cry, now much closer but still echoing around the walls he could never quite pinpoint the source. His eyes frantically looks around, for any thing thats moving.

Scar picks to march on another tunnel. Staying silent to observe that cry, where he could hear it closest. He follows it, the turns he takes are almost dizzying that makes him feel lost forever or that he was in some labyrinth that BigB made. But he could hear it clearer and he knew he was close, he wasn't gonna turn around. He reaches another room. This ones bigger and was obviously a section of a cave he found. The crying stopped. Scar held his breath anticipating to hear it at any of the tunnels.

At the corner of his eyes, he spots movement. He was swift to turn to his feet onto the long winding tunnel. He dropped the torch away to equip his shield and approaches the shadow he can see at the end of it. It turns at him, and he hears a hiss. He knew it was too late to hit it, so he braces for impact with his shield but it never came. None of the familiar blast. Instead, the creeper seems to back away. Unmoving. Scar tilts his head in confusion. Why was the creeper not blowing up, and when he did adjust his eyes to the dark, its back was turned on him.

Then, he felt something brush at his thigh. He screams in panic, lets go of his shield, lands on his butt rather painfully, and realizes that the creeper was suddenly shuffling closer towards him. It flashes before Scar's hand could hold up the shield. He could only close his eyes, knowing it hurts more to get his eyeballs blasted.

'Well, I'm coming home, Secret Keeper.'

Something landed on his head. He heard more hissing but this one... this one hiss wasn't the kind of distinct hiss of a creeper.

Scar froze unable to really move at whatever it was on his head. But it was lightweight. Oddly familiar. His scalp is hurting and getting pricked by something, and the creeper was... running away?

"What just happened?" He asks. Expecting an answer. Something landed on his stomach. His hands comes around it. The silhouette of what was....

"Meow."

...a cat?

Scar knows that Impulse has a villager along with Scott and Gem that they used to trade with. He found the villager, but it was only singular that couldn't form a village on his own that Scar set free to be killed by mobs. There were no village on the server, nor any beyond the border. So, how was there a cat existing in this server? And here in a mineshaft of all areas?

Scar holds the cat. The torch he left on the ground long extinguished.

"Who are you?" He asks. He got a paw on his mouth.

However, he was stupid to turn his back on the creeper still on the tunnel with them that it blew up behind him sending him to fall forward on his front. The cat definitely jumped out his hold.

Scar groans, "Yep, hurts. Everything hurts." He turns on his back. Just laying there unable to move much. He doesn't really care if it stings to... he just wants to lay down and take everything in.

That cat clambered on him. He would've told it to get off because its claws were scraping at new wounds when he felt a lick on his chin. What a sweet cat! He couldn't help but pet it even if the cat starts to nip at his nose.

"I don't know how you got here, but you're coming with me." Scar chuckles, hated how his ribs were definitely cracked. He remembers that he had a lantern on his inventory.

"Alright, mysterious cave cat. Let's see what you look like, and I'll name whatever first name I could think of." Scar grunts with what little strength he had on his hand, he gets the lantern to materialize. The cat mewls.

Scar turns to look at wherever he could put it and light it with a flint and steel.

His eyes shut at the pain of even moving, willing out the sudden lightheadedness he felt swaying his vision. He holds onto the cat,  "Let's see... I'm naming you..." and lifts it up to see it clearly.

His breath caught in his throat. Heat pools behind his eyes at the familiarity of those eyes. Green eyes blinking down at him owlishly. The cat was of white fur and grey patterns so familiar to Scar that he knew right away that this cat wasn't just any cat at all.

"...Jellie?" His voice wavesr, unsure if he has truly gone out of his mind.

The cat mewls and bumps her head onto him. Fluffy and warm, a gesture so familiar that Scar tears up.

"Jellie... god, is it really you?" She purred, pawing on him and rubbing her head on his chin. Scar sobs.

It was Jellie. Jellie came for him. His sweet girl was here for him.

He holds her up laughing, and sobbing at how ridiculous this dream was but he wishes... how he fucking wishes to the secret keeper that he won't wake up ever.

"I've been...so alone, Jellie. You don't know how much I've missed you." Scar sobs out.

Jellie was here! Jellie is in his arms now, and god, crying hurts his chest but he couldn't stop. He never thought a piece of home would come for him at all in this endless game. Jellie was warm, and safe, and purring.

Scar was a mess on the cave floor, in utter agony from his injuries but the happiness and relief he feels at the moment has made the pain worth it.

Scar wasn't still in hermitcraft. This isn't Scarland. This isn't his tree house. His friends were not here. Scar was far from home. That constant hum of life was still in his bones.

But Scar has never felt any safer and happier than having Jellie in his embrace. He chokes out words he cannot understand himself.

But he murmurs it anyway at the top of Jellie's head, "I'm home."

[wisteriasymphony]

Pulcinelle - Negotiation

The gaggle of kwamis stared blankly at Aurele as he spun around in his chair. Sitting on his desk was, unfortunately, the best he would be able to work with since he had no genuine miracle box—Just a plain jewelry box bought from the store. 

Sublimation: Banish. I grant myself the ability to return any object to its universe of origin. 

With that, his old Rooster Miraculous was safe where he’d found it, and he’d tied up all his loose ends. Other than the broken anklet, but he was currently stitching the frayed ends back together anyways. 

“You know, if I wanted to be stared at and judged for half an hour, I would’ve signed up for rehab,” he quipped, keeping his own gaze on the anklet. “I did you all a service, really.” 

“What you should be doing is returning us to our guardian,” the turtle frowned.

“Absolutely not.” 

Now it was the tiger's turn to speak. "Why not?” 

“I don’t want to,” Aurele responded, enunciating every word. “If I wanted to just let Ladybug have her victory, I wouldn’t’ve shown up in the first place.” 

“That’s awful!" the bee piped up. "You’re awful!” 

Aurele sneered. “What’s so wrong with a man causing hell as a hobby?” 

The kwamis met him with a flurry of scowls. No matter—Aurele set down the mended anklet in its designated tray. He pulled out his old laptop (old by this time’s standard, that is, not his own) and a pad of paper. 

“Alright, I’ll need you to list off your foods of preference,” he sighed. “As long as it’s nothing with a particularly horrendous smell, I should be fine with procuring it.” 

The first to concede was the mouse, pushing past her fellow kwami to place her forepaws on the top of the notepad. 

“Emmental, please?” 

“Emmental… You’re one of the pendants, correct? What’s your name?” 

“Mullo.” 

And so, Aurele wrote: Mullo, Emmental, Pendant, letting a golden pen glide over the thin yellow paper. It was only a matter of time before more of them spoke up, gathering around to rest on his shoulders or lay on the desk beside his computer. Aurele wondered for a moment if the previous guardian had ever felt this way, this warm feeling of being surrounded on all ends by clamoring pixies, and if that was why the one he knew best had been so stingy when it came to sharing kwamis with others. 

“Alright, let’s review: Green tea for for Wayzz, gummy worms for Sass, bananas and apples for Xuppu and Kaalki… Oh, damnit.” Aurele slipped the ring off his thumb, sending Orikko flying into the laptop screen.

“Watch it!” 

“My apologies, Orikko. Do you still like sunflower seeds?” 

The rooster huffed, brushing himself off with his feathered paws. “Why are you even bothering with feeding us, anyways?” He asked. “We can just use your energy.” 

“Because I want to? Besides, the less energy I’m sapped of the better, but if you’re fine with nothing then—“ 

“Corn. Anything with corn.” 

Aurele’s lips thinned in response, but he added to the list regardless. The other kwamis varied between acting embarrassed or ignoring their feathered colleague’s annoyance, still continuing to crowd around Aurele as he counted each dot on his shopping list. Aurele himself wasn’t a stranger to Orikko’s temper, given how he had briefly used his own world’s Rooster Miraculous for some time before swapping over. It was a simple issue of Aurele being rather ambitious with Sublimation, often giving the kwami little time to rest. He’d make sure to be better about that, now that Aurele had fourteen others to care for. 

…After tonight, that is. There was one thing he needed to do still. 

Sublimation: Graphomancy. I grant myself the power to alter the perception of history in accordance with what I write, in the confines of a single page of a digital encyclopedia. 

Was it dumb to make himself a Wikipedia page? …Yes. But every Graham de Vanily had one, and if he wanted to alleviate possible suspicion, Aurele needed to fit in. 

“Would cornbread work for you, Orikko?” He asked, already letting his fingers fly across the keyboard to write down what he had planned for this identity of his. “I’ll learn how to make it myself, just for you.” 

Orikko was back in the ring, but Aurele had the feeling the little rooster was rolling his eyes at him. 

“Look, I know you’re not a huge fan of me, but I really think we got off on the wrong foot in the last universe. I’m not a stranger to uncooperative kwami—Hell, you know who I used to work with and how that went—but I’m really hoping our relationship can be a good one.” Aurele stopped typing for a minute, before adding “Do you think ‘Aurele Lucius Florian Graham de Vanily Fathom’ is too over the top?” 

Naturally, Orikko declined to respond. All of the others were fast asleep in the pro tempore miracle box, so they weren’t much help either. If there was anything good about his previous kwami, it was that he had gotten used to Aurele’s bullshit. If Aurele hadn’t renounced him before even thinking of going for the Rooster Miraculous, maybe he wouldn’t taken both along with him instead to cause some real havoc. 

...Of course it was only now of all times, with fifteen stolen miraculi in his possession and stuck in a world he wasn’t born into, that Aurele was having doubts. He’d never be able to keep up the act, Felix would rat him out immediately, and in the wrong circumstances Aurele could even get himself killed. Just like every choice he’d ever made in his life, it was stupid and vain and destructive. 

But it was still a choice, at the very least.

The page would go up later that night, and it would say that Aurele Graham de Vanily (/ɔ.ʁe.l ɡræm də ˈvænɪli/) was born on the Ides of March of 1995, and after graduating secondary school at the age of sixteen, he had been studying at the Université Libre de Bruxelles. And, for what it was worth… nobody would suspect a thing. 

Aurele removed the ring, setting Orikko down in the last open tray in the box. 

“You can think about it while you sleep, Orikko. I’ll get you something in the morning. Corn flakes, corn syrup, whatever you’d like. If I want to do one thing right,” he sighs, “It’s feeding you all on more than gruel and insults. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

@beezonia @lemons-taste @silliersuliriforme @pyrusinc @wuhuislandconspiracy