#Sitting on the couch with my heart beating like I’m being hunted for sport
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Literally cannot stay at my cousins house for more than like 2 days not because we don’t get along or anything it’s just so messy that it causes me so much stress. Love them but I think I gotta stay in a hotel from now on.
#Sitting on the couch with my heart beating like I’m being hunted for sport#Just took a shower and almost threw up bc of the bath mat#Had to get images of lice out of my mind maybe I should’ve showered at a gym instead
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SessKag Discord Drabble Night
All word counts: 100
Prompt One: Tradition
“No.”
“It is tradition, Miko.”
“I said no.”
“My mother will expect-“
“Then she can be disappointed.”
“She may question the validity of our union if you do not.”
“Who cares? She doesn’t like me anyway.”
Sesshomaru sighed and sat down, staring blankly at his little mate-to-be as she turned her back and huffed in annoyance.
“It would mean a lot to ME if you would-“
“Oh ALRIGHT ALRIGHT!” She said, snatching the fur from his hands. “I’ll wear your grandmother’s carcass to our ceremony.”
He smirked.
It was not a carcass, but would not correct her.
He had won.
Prompt Two: Belief
“I believe we’re in trouble.”
“I believe you are right.”
Kagome chewed her lip nervously, while Sesshomaru simply stared.
“Your dad is gonna HATE me.”
“He will not.”
“I RUINED it.”
“You did not, you… renovated.”
“Sesshomaru.”
He sighed and stepped forward, picking up the old, priceless inuyokai artifact that now sported a dark purple wine stain.
Toga swept in then, to check on them.
“Oh oops! Well that’s ruined.” He said, voice amused.
“I’m so sorry sir! Sesshomaru said it was priceless, but I can pay-“
“Oh nonsense. I just told him that to keep him from touching it.”
Prompt Three: Fear
His claws slid through the silken lengths of her hair as she slept against his chest.
He could feel her heart beat, every breath, every twitch of every muscle pressed against him.
Evidence of her vitality, safety, and existence.
He was the fiercest being alive, relentlessly trained, carefully bred, the pinnacle of all life.
What use had he for fear?
Kagome shifted, nuzzled close and kissed his jaw.
His heart twisted with love.
She would be hunted for loving him, their children targeted and outcast, just as his brother had been.
She could be taken.
His heart twisted- with fear.
Prompt Four: Habit
Kagome sat at the edge of the couch, leaning as far away as she could.
Sesshomaru absentmindedly snipped his toe claws as he watched the evening news.
She stared in horror as he dropped each claw clipping in a pile right in the middle of the couch.
“Do you HAVE to-“
“You KNOW I find modern shoes unbearable unless I keep my claws trimmed. We have discussed this.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you do THAT! It’s the worst habit you have!!”
He smirked, clipped another claw, dropped it on the pile.
“This I do just for YOU.”
She shuddered.
Prompt Five: Pretense
“I guess I just… don’t get what you see in him.” Inuyasha groused, and Kagome bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
“He’s just… such a bastard and you’re… not.”
“Maybe.” She said, trying to keep her voice level.
“You’re so emotional, and I don’t think he’s ever felt anything in his LIFE.”
“Mmhmm.” Kagome stirred her coffee, avoiding Inuyasha’s eyes, playing along to keep her fiancé’s privacy.
Because of family expectations, he valued his reputation for cool indifference.
But it was all pretense.
In private, Sesshomaru was… a mess.
He’s scatterbrained, sensitive, forgetful.
He was normal.
He was hers.
Prompt Six: Notion
“Sesshomaru!!!!”
“What?”
“COME HERE!”
“Why.”
“I need you!”
“You told me this bath was for relaxation and that I, specifically, was not allowed in-“
“That’s NOT what- UGH okay, what’s a 7 letter synonym for “notion” that rhymes with “tambourine” and starts with an “Z?”
Sesshomaru furrowed his brow and looked up from the book he’d been trying to read.
“What nonsense are you speaking of, Kagome?”
“Just come here and look please! This crossword is hard!”
He rolled his eyes and went, shocked to find her standing, biting her lip, suds sliding enticingly down her nude form.
“I lied.”
Prompt Seven: Legend
“Land of what?”
“Land of the Legendary.”
“And why should I be interested in such games?”
“We aren’t PLAYING it Sesshomaru, Inuyasha just said to check it out because there’s a character that looks like you.”
“Doubtful.”
“Well I’m curious, so we’re looking.”
He scoffed but settled in next to her as she opened the game on her laptop.
“Oh. My. God.” Kagome snorted as they saw the character.
A small, fluffy white dog with a big pink bow.
She covered her mouth, stifling a laugh while he glowered, sniffed, turned his nose up.
“I do not have a brother.”
Prompt Eight: Careful
Needle pricked fabric and pulled through, carrying the beaded thread, locking it in place.
It came back through, and deft, careful fingers loaded several more colored glass beads before pulling, turning, placing, pricking.
Kagome watched with with her usual appreciation as a field of glass and silk flowers grew across the gauzy fabric that she would make her newest dress from, and then she brushed a kiss across Sesshomaru’s cheek.
“I never get tired watching you embroider.” She said, voice full of love and pride.
“Hn. And I never tire watching you clothe yourself with the work of my hands.”
Prompt Nine: Myth
Kagome sighed, sitting back at her kitchen table, letting all her plans crumble to dust.
At first, when she’d run into Sesshomaru in the modern era, she’d been shocked by how quickly feelings had developed, and tonight she’d invited him over hoping for… THINGS to happen.
Instead he was alphabetizing her spice cabinet.
“It is inconceivable that you manage to cook anything in such disarray.” He growled, but she rolled her eyes.
“You are literally a living, breathing myth, and you’re snipping at me about spice organization.”
“SOMEONE must.”
She’d hoped to kiss him, now she wanted to smack him.
Prompt Ten: Coincidence/Consequence
“You have come back many times this week.”
Kagome blushed as she stared at the owner of the little book shop she’d stumbled into.
She had been back a lot, buying more books than anyone could read in seven days.
But the owner, who manned the register, looked SO MUCH like a human Sesshomaru. It must be a coincidence, but after how things had gone between them before the well closed, she HAD to be sure.
This was the consequence of her curiosity.
“Well, I-“
“Kagome,” he purred, “It IS me.”
She gasped, tears filling her eyes.
“Sesshomaru….
“Found me.”
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The ministry is good for one (1) thing... getting Tonks a date
‘Why-’ Tonks says to the head that is currently sticking out of her fireplace, ‘Why did you ask me for this job.’
Charlie doesn’t even hesitate before answering. ‘Because you speak French fluently, and because you love me and therefore couldn’t say no.’
Mentally, Tonks curses out the Black family and their fucked up traditions. Why French, of all things? Then she corrects herself and blames her mother instead, for keeping this particular tradition. Couldn’t she have gone hunting when she was ten, instead? Bella always thought that was great fun.
Out loud, she replies. ‘I could’ve said no. If I wanted to.’
‘So you want to do this? Good to hear! You can always thank me later, a gift basket would be nice-’
Tonks scoffs at Charlie’s way too wide grin, a laugh threatening to crack out on her face too. ‘You know what, Charlie?’
‘What?’ he says, smugly, as if he’s won.
‘You weren’t completely wrong. I couldn’t have said no.’
‘I know.’
‘You were wrong about one thing, though.’
The fire crackles as Charlie cocks his head. ‘Well?’
Tonks pulls her face into something sad and melancholic to the best of her ability, and looks dramatically into the distance. ‘I don’t love you.’
Charlie’s gasp is loud enough that Tonks almost fears that he’ll douse the flames, somehow. ‘How dare you! Was all this…. a lie?’ After he has stared morosely into the flames for a while, though, he asks: ‘But seriously, babe, what is it?’
The back of Tonks’ shoulders itches a little now that they aren’t joking anymore, and she feels a bit too closely scrutinized. ‘It’s not that bad, okay? You don’t have to look so worried.’
Charlie still looks worried.
‘It’s just- remember how you asked me so that I could translate what she would say?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, since she’s here partially to improve her English, she told me that I wasn’t really needed.’
‘Okay.’ Charlie says, ‘And?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You wouldn’t be bothered this much by that. I know you, can’t fool me.’
‘Okay so I may have-’
‘May have or you did?’
Tonks ignores him, words spilling out of her. ‘I may have spilled my coffee on her. And she’s so fucking pretty, Charlie, and confident, which I’m apparently attracted to?’
‘There we go,’ He mutters under his breath. Tonks isn’t done.
‘And she doesn’t sugarcoat stuff, you know? So logically I know that she means it when she says that it’s okay, and that she doesn’t mind me ruining her clothes, but what if she secretly hates me now?’
‘Mhm.’
‘She was perfectly kind, though, and have I mentioned how good-looking she is? Name is Fleur, by the way, and sure looks aren’t everything, I change mine on the daily, but the way she looks when she smiles… Only, there’s no excuse for me to stay around her, anymore, and now I’ll never see her again, and she’ll only remember me as that horrible person who ruined her day.’
Charlie’s laugh rings around the room, warm and comfortable, and some ash gets on the carpet when he finally decides to just step out of the fireplace. ‘I’m going to have to stop you there, babe. You’re not just here to speak the language of love-’ After these words, there’s a horrible eyebrow wiggle, and Tonks makes and even weirder face back, just because she can. ‘- but also to show her around!’
‘I don’t even work here anymore! It really is weird that you couldn’t find anyone else who speaks French. I mean- Sirius does?’
‘Yes,’ Charlie responds, while walking around in her house in that comfortable way of his, easily settling down on her couch, ‘because I know Sirius so much better than I know you.’
Tonks lifts up his legs so that there is some space for her to sit, and then keeps one hand curled around his ankle, the other gesturing wildly, almost hitting the lamp that stands near. ‘I don’t know! You both like animals, right?’
‘You know very well that Sirius has adopted a hippogriff. Now, if it’d been a dragon-’
‘Fair enough,’ Tonks says, because while she loves Charlie’s ranting there’s still one topic she’d like clarity on, ‘But still, aren’t there people who speak French and, like, actually work at the ministry?’
Charlie purses his lips. ‘Maybe. But while I am very aro ace I still have eyes and she’s indeed very pretty, and you are very single, so-’
He can’t even finish the sentence before Tonks has thrown a pillow at him. He throws one back, of course, and soon enough they’re two adults in a full-on pillow war, laughing up and until Tonks accidentally punches Charlie in the face.
She gets him some ice and then they just cuddle on the couch for a bit, legs intertwined, and as Charlie tells her about the proper way to clip a dragon’s toenails, she gets a feeling as if she might just be able to handle the whole Fleur thing.
~~~
Tonks is not able to handle the whole Fleur thing.
They don’t spill their coffee again, they’re trying to be careful now, but she’s already confusing departments, and accidentally pressing all the buttons in the lift, which isn’t really appreciated by anyone.
Fleur just laughs at that. ‘How did you press all of them?’
‘I was-’ Tonks stammers, ‘I was trying to hold on to something so I wouldn’t fall.’
‘Why not hold on to me?’ Fleur asks, a thick French accent coating her words, and Tonks just stares for a while. Is this flirting? Is it a joke that Tonks is simply too dumb to get? Should they respond to this with ‘but then I wouldn’t have fallen for you’ and some finger guns?
Tonks only knows the answer to that last one (it’s ‘no’, in case that wasn’t clear). ‘It’s- erm- I mean-’
Fleur just smiles at them in a way that Tonks wishfully thinks might be flirtatious. Tonks is suddenly very glad blushes don’t really show up on their dark skin.
A voice calls out ‘Department of Magical Games and Sports’ and Tonks and Fleur get out, because this was the next part of the tour.
Fleur, her eyes lingering on the various posters hung on the walls, says, ‘Aren’t people here supposed to be impartial? This must be inefficient.’
‘For sure,’ Tonks says, never one to defend the ministry, ‘it’s all a bit shoddy, as if it’s taped together with duct tape.’ (They very carefully pronounce that last word. Who knows, maybe muggle knowledge will impress Fleur?)
‘Then why do you work for it?’
A laugh curls Tonks lips. ‘I don’t! Me and Moody, that’s my old mentor, have opened a sort of private detective office.’
They aren’t even walking through the corridor anymore. One quidditch poster (The Chudley Cannons) is slightly crinkled where Fleur’s shoulder is leaning on it. She throws a bit of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘Then why are you giving me a tour here?’
With a bit of a crooked grin, Tonks answers: ‘Like I said, a bit shoddy.’
Tonks likes the fact that they’re talking now, likes it very much, and therefore they try to lean on the wall just as casually as Fleur does, but they miscalculate, and the ground suddenly comes at them with an alarming speed.
‘Watch out!’ Fleur says, from somewhere very, very close, a flowery smell suddenly surrounding them. One of Fleur’s arms is around their upper arm, the other one curled around their waist. Fleur is very warm. Coincidentally, so are Tonks’ cheeks.
They get up quickly, trying not to elbow Fleur, avoiding eye contact just a little bit. ‘When you said I could hold on to you, I didn’t think I’d need it this quickly.’
Fleur snorts. ‘I am not all too surprised, honestly.’
‘That’s fair,’ Tonks' heart is still beating wildly.
There’s a bit of a silence, and Tonks wrecks their brain for something to talk about. They don’t want this to be over just yet. Luckily, Fleur speaks up.
‘How is being a metamorphmagus? I am part-Veela, and I know other magical beings are immune for that, but I do not know much more. What do you change most often?’
‘My hair,’ Tonks laughs, raking a hand through it (short and a deep blue today), ‘It’s partly apart from my body, in a way, so it takes a bit more effort to change, but once it’s a different colour it stays that way without any effort.’
Fleur cocks her head. ‘It takes effort to change?’
‘For sure. Not all that much, but if I change too much for too long I get a headache. I would never change my skin tone, but if I did I’d get really grouchy, most probably. Oh! And I sometimes change my nose and such as a party trick.’
‘Sounds fun,’ Fleur says, a smile playing on her lips. Tonks seriously considers changing their nose into the one of that squid in the cartoon Hermione showed her, before realizing that that wouldn’t impress Fleur, but rather the opposite.
‘It is! But I get tired if I do it too much. That’s also why, on days that gender is-’ Tonks makes a vague hand gesture, ‘- I sometimes wear a binder, because while I can make my chest flatter, sometimes I’ll be concentrating on some work and suddenly, bam!’ They mimick an explosion in front of their chest, pushing their hands forward.
Fleur snickers. ‘Poor you.´ That sounds like the end of the conversation, but Tonks has finally had enough time to get their brain to work again, and they’ve come up with a new topic.
‘So, what are you here for?’
‘Did you not get that information?’ (Tonks had never said it was a good topic)
‘No, I did, but I thought you might be able to explain it better?’
‘Oh.’ Fleur says, ‘well, I am looking into the practical applications of magic, but specifically on magical creatures. Dragons, for example, can be lured to sleep with a sleeping charm, but can resist most hexes without any effort.
‘Giants, who can also resist hexes, can easily resist a sleeping charm, but curses can seriously harm them, and that’s already fascinating, but I’m going to look into what effects other kinds of magic have, outside of wizardry, starting with Veela magic, because I happen to possess that, and that's not even talking about how that magic works. Only female Veela have any sort of non-wixard magical power, but the magic is not stored in the uturus as one might think, because I do not have one, but still have magic. How does the magic know that?’
Fleur had been talking slowly and deliberately ever since Tonks had met her, as if she was weighing the words, remembering the pronunciation, but now she talks faster, a flush on her cheeks.
‘But I'm getting of topic. I will mostly work with stuff like: why does Veela magic affect unicorns but not dragons? Why does it affect giants but not metamorphmagi? And if it doesn’t affect metamorphmagi, then why do you still get so flustered?’
‘I-’ Tonks says, ‘Erm-’
‘Do not worry,’ Fleur says, smiling ever-so-slightly, ‘I think I know the answer. Would you like to go on a date with me?’
Honestly, Tonks didn’t think a dingy corner lined with quidditch posters could ever be romantic, but Fleur makes it work, with the soft lighting on her cheek, and that fucking gorgeous smile on her lips. ‘Yes,’ they answer (was there ever another option?), ‘I’d like that very much.’
In a sudden rush of courage (what are they, a gryffindor?) they ask: ‘Can I kiss you?’
Fleur nods, and they discover that yes, Fleur’s smile tastes as wonderful as it looks.
#flonks#in my timezone its still femslash february so im saying it counts#even tho this isnt completely FEMslash yall get what i mean#fleur delacour#nymphadora tonks#charlie weasley#to anyone wondering: yes this is what prompted the 'charlie weasley calls his friends 'babe'' post#and im right!!!!#oneshot#mywriting#i took hp lore and RAN with it#fleur is just so smart tho.... that deserves its own place#and moody and tonks ruining a private detectives business is actually something that can be so personal-#also just so yall know charlie doesnt work for the ministry EITHER the reason why he could still get tonks the job is. well.#its explained in the story
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i love the unviable au an unhealthy amount, could you elaborate a little more on how they stop the apocalypse?
HMM. Well. They wake up, and Team Apocalypse is a go. Five absolutely insists that they get Vanya on the team, and he absolutely wants Vanya to know he’s alive. Well, present at least.
(Ben - Ben retreated from the world, after he died. He didn’t want the others to know. He wanted them to grieve and let him go. Besides. With how the rest of the family treated Klaus after - after everything
after Five. After Five vanishing and the drugs and Ben’s death and Klaus’s spiral that no one seemed to care enough to pull him out of. Klaus was the only sibling that could see Ben, and Klaus needed him. Needed him in a way that none of the rest of the family did.
Ben didn’t ask Klaus to tell them others about him. Klaus figured that no one would believe him anyway.)
Klaus in hemming and hawing but Five isn’t exactly Ben, is he? He can interact with the world, in his own limited way. He can write. He could do this with or without Klaus.
But no one else needs to know, probably.
(Five doesn’t think much about how Team Apocalypse is going to be comprised of mostly people who he didn’t find dead on the ground. The only one he saw dead is Klaus, and isn’t that funny? To Klaus, a solid half of the team is dead.
To Five, only Klaus is.)
So Klaus and Ben and Five get up in the morning, and Five says that they Have To Find Vanya. Except Vanya’s not in the house, she’s gone back to her own apartment because she has stuff to do and a life to live.
(Somewhere, the Commission is getting antsy. Klaus heads towards Vanya’s apartment, and that’s not supposed to happen. Vanya is supposed to be isolated. Something is changing the timeline, and they aren’t sure what.
So they send some investigators. Their best. Hazel and Cha-Cha are deployed.)
So they go to the apartment. Klaus awkwardly knocks on the door and it swings open and there’s Vanya blinking at him in the way she always does.
“Vanya!” Klaus cheers, and leans forward to wrap her in a hug, because he is a very touchy-feely person and he had to watch as Five and Ben got all the hugs last night.
“Klaus?” Vanya says, sounding confused, but she lets her brother in. She watches him with wary eyes, and Klaus feels his heart break a tiny bit but - he’s known to his siblings, as a thief and a magpie.
“Do you want... some tea?” Vanya asks awkwardly, shuffling towards her kitchen, “I have uh. I have a lesson soon, but I mean, uh...”
That’s about the time when Five loses patience from where he’s been telling Klaus to Say Something and starts picking up couch cushions and throwing them.
“Uh.” Klaus says, staring, from Vanya’s point of view, into space. In actuality he’s looking at Five who is behaving like an absolute gremlin.
(Klaus is reminded, all over again, of how young his brother looks. Is. How old Five was when he died.)
“Do you want to explain what’s going on, Klaus?” Vanya asks tightly.
“Five is really impatient.” Klaus blurts out, and then covers his mouth because oops.
“Five?” Vanya says loudly, and Five rattles a cabinet in confirmation.
“Uh.” Klaus looks at Ben. Ben shrugs, because lets be honest they weren’t able to control Five when they were younger either, they have no chance now.
“Wait,” Vanya says, pale as milk, “So yesterday, in the courtyard...”
“Yup!” Klaus says cheerfully, putting on his best grin, “Aw, you know, a broken calendar is right twice a year and all that!”
“That’s not the saying.” Five informs him, flopping dramatically onto the couch.
“It was almost the saying.” Ben says sympathetically.
Klaus valiantly ignores them.
“Five is... here?” Vanya asks, her eyes scanning the apartment.
“On the couch, like he owns the place the little shit.” Klaus tells her.
Vanya stares at the seemingly empty couch for a moment, and after a few beats of silence, she just says “I’m going to go ahead and cancel that lesson.”
(Somewhere, somewhen, the Commission’s hackles all go up in alarm as Harold Jenkins frowns down at his phone and wonders if he should try his luck and go to the apartment anyway.)
Later, when Ben has Five distracted trying to teach him to pick something up, Klaus talks quietly to Vanya.
“Van, he’s - he’s so little.” Klaus tells her, voice a little too thick, “He looks - he’s exactly the same as when he left. He’s so tiny, and he’s still in that fucking uniform. He’s so tiny and I can’t stand it.”
And Vanya wraps her arms around her brother. She and Klaus have never been close, not even when they were little, but they’re both outsiders. They’re both rejects. And there’s a certain sort of kinship in that.
“I wish I could see him, too. See them, too.” She whispers, because telling her about Five also means telling her about Ben.
And Klaus could say a million things to that. Could snarl and tell her to be careful what she wished for, because alongside Ben and Five came a hundred million nightmares that rattle around Klaus’s head every time he’s too sober to ignore them.
But he looks over as Five slaps at Ben’s shoulder to get his attention and then guide his hands over to the apple they have settled in between them as their test subject.
And then he looks at Vanya, and he says - “Yeah, me too.”
And then there’s a knock on the door.
“Shit.” Vanya says, swearing. “I left a message but - it’s probably my student. Just. Lay on the couch and look miserable or something.”
Klaus is very good at acting, sort of. So he immediately drapes himself across the couch and groans dramatically, adding in a cough for good measure.
Vanya rolls her eyes, and opens the door to apologize to whatever child was supposed to have a lesson and -
Oh. Not a child. An adult. She blinks, “Uh, hi. Can I help you?”
“Hi!” The man greets, smiling at her. Not too many people smile at her like that. “I’m here for the lesson? I know, I know. I’m a bit older than your usual clientele - ”
Klaus coughs loudly and Vanya winces, “I’m sorry.” She says, cutting the man off, “I tried to leave a message - I’ve had an emergency come up and I’m not able to do lessons today.”
“Oh, but - ” The man starts, and Vanya suddenly feels someone push on the door as if to close it. She manages to catch it, but considering there’s no one there, well.
“I’m very sorry.” She says firmly, using one hand to bat through the air behind the door to shoo who she assumes is Five away. “If you send me your availability, I’d be happy to reschedule.”
“That would be really great.” The man says, nodding. “Do you think you’d be free tomorrow? It’s just - I’d really like to get started, you know?”
The door rattles again and Vanya winces, “I’m not sure. If it’s urgent I can, uh, send you the information for another teacher. I really am sorry about this.”
“I’ll call later then.” The man says, “Sorry for bothering you.”
“Not a problem.” Vanya says automatically, “Have a good day.”
And then she closes the door, and turns around to frown at Klaus, “Tell Five to quit, I had that handled.”
“You know, I only have to translate his responses to you.” Klaus points out, sitting up and swiping a hand across the back of his mouth, “Like, he has ears.”
“Five, I had that handled. You didn’t need to be pushing on the door.” Vanya says to the room at large, her hands on her hips.
“Five!” Klaus says loudly, sounding very scandalized, “Why! We oughtta wash your mouth out with soap!”
Vanya gives him a critical look, “I’m not sure whether you’re saying that to get him into trouble or if he’s actually swearing. Either way, we should probably talk.”
“Five says to clear your schedule for the week.” Klaus says scooting over on the couch and giving it an inviting pat, “You’re officially recruited for team apocalypse.”
“Me?” Vanya asks, completely confused. And why shouldn’t she be? None of her siblings have willingly recruited her for anything before. Forget being the last kid picked for team sports, Vanya wasn’t even on the list.
Klaus’s eyes soften, because even if Vanya wasn’t on the list, Klaus was still the last picked kid. “Five insists. Loudly.”
And Vanya smiles. It’s wobbly, but it’s there, because she’s been leaving out peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches and leaving the lights on since she was a kid, grieving for the one sibling who was on her side. And here he is. Refusing to ignore her. Picking her for the team.
Of course the apocalypse can’t happen the same way, because Vanya isn’t isolated. She’s part of Team Apocalypse.
Instead of nagging at her about Leonard, Allison sighs and tells say that she loves Klaus as well but... he’s Klaus. He’s probably going to rob her the moment her back is turned and all that. He’s still their brother, and it’s nice that Vanya is hanging out with him but...
And Vanya bristles, because yeah Klaus is the family fuck up but he’s their brother. She’s the family wallflower, the odd man out, the freak. So she and Allison still fight, and Allison still insists that she’s just looking out for Vanya and Vanya insists that she’s never needed Allison to look out her before now -
An important thing of note.
Five doesn’t have the eyeball.
Five knows what it looks like, he probably had it in his apocalypse nest and poked at it when he was stuck on an equation. He knows that color it is. He probably memorized its serial number. He doesn’t have the physical eye.
Klaus is still chaotic as fuck, but Vanya adds a certain sense of... level headedness to the team. And despite everything, Klaus is actually fairly efficient... when he wants to be.
Vanya has the exhausted “I don’t want to be here any more than you do” look to her that inspires some measure of sympathy from overworked desk ladies so they probably get the info about the eye not existing yet without all the... extra drama.
Now. Hazel and Cha-Cha aren’t hunting someone down. They’re investigating. So they don’t burst in gun blazing, they’re basically stalking Vanya in an effort to figure out both What Changed and how to isolate her.
I know what you’re thinking. But what about Griddys? Do the squad not know about the commission agents trailing them?
Well, after the whole eye escapade, Klaus is hungry. He fondly recalls food an ex used to make with Vanya and she smiles and marvels at how different their lives are. And then, because she’s suddenly a little nostalgic, she offers to take him to the one restaurant they went to as kids.
Griddys.
So they go, and Ben and Five are there are well, and Klaus probably insists on getting them waffles as well (“it’s lunch time Klaus” “waffle time is ALL the time Vanya”) so they’re sitting there eating
and of course Cha-Cha and Hazel are stalking them. And why be careful and hide their faces. The Hargreeves don’t know them. They can just blend in as two ordinary people, eating lunch.
Except there’s the one little ghost who can. Five spots them, and immediately freaks out because those are ASSASSINS and he never did figure out what role Vanya played and What If They’re There To Kill Her
So he frantically informs Klaus, and Klaus whispers to Vanya, and Five tells them they need to get the hell out of dodge. ESPECIALLY Vanya.
And this is Vanya’s life now, so she sneakily tucks money under her plate (because she isn’t dining and dashing Klaus, jesus) and smiles at Klaus and goes to the backroom, where she shimmies out the window.
Klaus stuffs the remainder of his waffle in his mouth and grimaces at his hands and goes to the bathroom as well, except he diverts and goes out the back entrance where he meets Vanya in the alley and they both scarper.
“I can totally talk you through stealing a car.” Five says eagerly, “I saw like, loads of commission agents hotwire a care. I totally know what I’m doing.”
“Fucking sweet.” Klaus says, nodding. “Pick out a ride then, little man.”
“Absolutely not.” Vanya says, having gleaned enough from Klaus’s words to understand, “We are not stealing a car, jesus. If we need a ride, I can always... I don’t know. Call a cab.”
“The little dude has a point.” Klaus says, “Calling a cab isn’t exactly uh, you know. Conducive to a quick getaway.”
Vanya frowns.
“We could steal Diego’s car.” Ben offers, because secretly Ben is also very chaotic.
“Diego’s car.” Klaus agrees with wonder.
“We’re going to get stabbed, aren’t we.” Vanya sighs, putting her face in her hands. It’s not a question.
(And meanwhile in the diner, Cha-Cha realizes that the targets are gone and checks outside, and Hazel gets to chat with the lovely owner. Agnes. What a lovely name, huh?)
Honestly the whole au sort of ends up being like. The Klaus and Vanya show against the siblings while Five and Ben work together in the background and Five causes, you know, absolute chaos. And also gets lots of hugs. Ben and Five get lots of hugs in this au.
Klaus still gets kidnapped. Not because they want to get Five, but because they want to isolate Vanya. Well, not just that. They’d just kill him if that was it. They also want to know - what changed. What made Klaus seek Vanya out. What changed the timeline.
And Five can move things. Five can write on things. So he sees Klaus get kidnapped and follows him, figured out where he is, tells Ben to look after Klaus, and goes back to Vanya. He grabs a sharpie, and scrawls the address on the closest available surface, and hey if Vanya just happens to be fighting with Diego about the car...
“What the FUCK.” Diego demands.
“Fuck.” Vanya says, looking at the address. “Fuck. Okay. Okay, Diego, are you in?”
“In what?” Diego demands, scrubbing a finger over the sharpie that has popped up on the windows of his fucking car.
“Rescuing Klaus.” Vanya says, looking braver than she feels.
“Klaus can deal with his own shit.” Diego growls.
“Okay.” Vanya says, and of course she’s alone, she’s always been alone in this fucking family -
“Where are you going.” Diego asks, jogging up to her, “I don’t know what the fuck he’s gotten himself into, but you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Then I guess I’ll get to see Klaus either way.” Vanya bites out, “And the family will have rid itself of another problem, huh? Win win all around.”
Diego swipes a hand over his face and swears, “Fuck just, fuck. Okay. Okay, fine. We’ll go drag Klaus’s ass out of the fire. And then you are going to explain exactly what the fuck happened to my car.”
“Deal.” Vanya says, already in the passenger seat and buckling in with determination.
Safety first, bitch.
So they go to the hotel. They bust in. They manage to get away. And Klaus manages to get his hands on the briefcase.
“Klaus, wait - no!” Five screams, and Klaus opens the suitcase and vanishes.
(But Five was touching Klaus, was trying to grab his arm to pull him away, terrified and incapable of helping because he’s intangible. Five gets to go with on this side trip to Vietnam.)
And then a light flashes, and there’s Klaus, and Five, and - some random dude.
“I thought you were joking.” Dave hollers, staggering backwards and staring at the suitcase like it’s going to jump up and bite him.
(Five is impatient, and irritable, and wants to get home to take care of things and stop the end of the world. Klaus falls head over heels for a soldier, but in the past few days... he’s gotten awfully fond of Vanya. He wants to help her.
By our powers combined, we have a Klaus who is motivated to go home, but also motivated to convince Dave to come with. We end up with... alive Dave.)
(Wow this is one of the few aus I have with alive Dave. Go me.)
“Vanya, Diego, Ben.” Klaus says, beaming, “Meet my boyfriend, Dave!”
“Klaus, I say this with the utmost sincerity.” Vanya deadpans. “But what the fuck.”
“Ben?” Diego demands.
Vanya and Klaus turn to Diego with contemplative looks.
“Oh yeah, forgot about that.” Vanya says.
“In my defense I’ve been gone for like, months.” Klaus says. And then pauses meaningfully. “Wait a second, does that mean - ”
A pebble flies and hits Klaus in the face. This does not stop him.
“I’m the oldest sibling!” Klaus yells, preening like a peacock, “Behold, infants! It is I, your eldest brother!”
“Absolutely not.” Diego growls, as Klaus points at thin air.
“Am so. Physically, I am older than everyone else. Yeah, it’s on technicality. Suck it, Casper.”
“Klaus, stop messing with Five.” Vanya sighs, sounding like this is something she has said before. “You know he can probably kill you.”
“Five?” Diego squawks.
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” Dave asks, already looking like he’s accepted his fate and life might as well be this weird.
“The world is ending in five days. Welcome to team apocalypse.” Vanya tells him sympathetically.
“The world is what.” Diego hollers.
“Oh yeah.” Klaus muses, “Forgot to mention that as well.”
“What is going on!” Diego howls.
“Don’t we all want to know.” Klaus flutters in sympathy.
After that, they decide to convene at Vanya’s apartment and go over what they know, and what they’ve learned.
Team apocalypse gains two (2) members! Welcome to the team, Diego and Dave.
(Diego didn’t complain to Patch about a missing sibling because he doesn’t know Five is around. Patch doesn’t find a ransom note, because Hazel and Cha-Cha didn’t leave one. Patch doesn’t die, and Diego has no reason to go tearing off in grief and anger and vengeance.)
And that’s more on team apocalypse trying to stop the apocalypse lmao
#unviable au#the umbrella academy#tua#tua au#five hargreeves#number five#vanya hargreeves#klaus hargreeves#diego hargreeves#dave katz#dave lives in this au#long post#far tua long#klaus and vanya get proper sibling time#diego and dave join the team#five is a little shit#ben loves his little shit brother#leonard peabody is frustrated as all fuck because he keeps trying to meet vanya and getting brushed off#vanya has SHIT TO DO sir#she already called all her students and informed them that she's taking the week off#in all fairness her dad just died#she is entitled to grief leave#circumstances mean that leonard isn't able to get close#Anonymous
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Carry On Redux
Series finale redone. Script format.
I haven’t been part of the Supernatural fandom for a few years, but just hearing about that series finale chafed.
I literally wrote this in, like, 2 hours. Want better formatting? Find Carry On Redux by Eruden on AO3.
----
FADE IN
INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM
Sunlight shines through sheer curtains on a large window. It’s a comfortable room with a mixture of modern and rustic decor. Family pictures hang on the walls and litter just about every flat surface. Most photos depict Sam Winchester and a blonde woman; then the two with a dog; then with children, growing older. Holidays, graduation, school photos, marriage, grandbaby photos.
YOUNG MAN sits on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. He wears jeans, a green flannel shirt, and a jacket. His hazel eyes wide and attention rapt.
YOUNG MAN
So, what happened after that?
The question is posited to OLD SAM, sitting across a coffee table, in a recliner. He’s still relatively fit, but his hair has greyed and he now sports a bushy beard, reminiscent of Bobby’s. Laugh lines and crows’ feet crease his face.
OLD SAM
Well, once Cas sacrificed himself, Dean grieved for awhile.
He didn’t eat or drink. Wouldn’t even come out of his room for pie!
At that, Sam chuckles, half-sad and half-amused.
INT - MEN OF WORDS BUNKER - LIBRARY
Sam sits at a table, eyes on a book and brow furrowed. Beside him, a notebook is open to scrawled notes. Not much can be made out, but words such as The Empty, Angel, Retrieve can be made out. Strewn around him are empty cans and food containers.
Dean enters, slapping his phone onto the table with a loud CLATTER. Sam jumps, eyes snapping to Dean’s face.
DEAN
Found us a job.
Sam looks down at the phone. A news article is splayed on the front about a trucker, found dead with his heart ripped out.
Sam looks back up at Dean with worry and consternation.
Dean returns the look with unwavering seriousness.
OLD SAM
(voiceover)
Just like that, we were back in the family business.
MONTAGE - VARIOUS
EXT - DARK FOREST
Sam and Dean, back to back and holding guns. Trees ring around them, dark and shadowed.
Things seem to be moving between the trees.
One of the brothers shoots. An ungodly SHRIEK echoes.
OLD SAM
(voiceover)
Hunting things that went bump in the night.
INT - ABANDONED PLACE
Dean is stabbing stakes into vampires.
Sam aids a couple sobbing victims, wrapping wounds and ushering them out.
Through boarded up windows, daylight can be seen streaming in.
OLD SAM
(voiceover)
Nothing as remarkable as stopping the apocalypse
or reuniting God with his sister.
EXT - CEMETERY
Sam and Dean digging up a grave. They pour gasoline into the hole and toss in a match.
OLD SAM
(voiceover)
But we did whatever needed doing.
INTERIOR - SUBURBAN LIVING ROOM
The Young Man is still sitting with rapt attention on the couch.
Old Sam sighs, shaking his head to and fro.
OLD SAM
That went on for… oh, about five or so years.
YOUNG MAN
And then?
Old Sam sadly smiled.
OLD SAM
Then Dean died.
INT - PENTHOUSE SUITE
Everything indicates wealth and luxury with rich mahogany wood and deep red palette. A plethora of worldly objects fill the abode: old looking vases, invaluable art, antique guns, a sword on a fireplace mantle.
A nighttime cityscape can be seen through the large windows; the tops of other buildings can be seen from the vantage point, indicating a great height.
But there are indications of trouble. Broken pieces of furniture strewn about. One of the large windows is cracked. A broken aquarium, tropical fish flopping on the wet carpet. On a table, a corpse lays, stomach ripped out.
Sam and Dean each struggle against two black-eyed, sharp-toothed creatures that hiss and shriek. The creatures wear tattered clothing.
Dean gets thrown into a table, wood splintering and pricey knickknacks shattering. He’s dazed for a beat, before realizing his opponent is baring down on him, jaws inhumanly wide. His hand curls around a broken table leg, shoving it up and into the creature’s mouth.
A sickening SQUISH is heard as the sharpened end of the legs skewers through the monster’s head. Black blood splashes across Dean and he gags. He quickly hefts the dead creature aside.
When he gets to his feet, he looks around wildly.
The creature fighting Sam has gotten the upper hand. They cackle, before opening their jaws spread. Row after row of sharp teeth fill their maw. They jerk forward, intent on ripping out Sam’s throat.
DEAN
No!
Suddenly, Dean is there, slamming into the creature’s side. The sword from the fireplace slicing through the creature’s chest.
Dean and the creature slam into the already cracked window. The sword pierces through the glass.
SAM
Dean!
The creature lies still. For half a beat, there’s silence. Then Dean’s shoulders ease and he laughs, half-turning to smile at his younger brother.
Sam eases, too. Though he still looks worried.
Suddenly, the creature SHRIEKS, biting down on Dean’s shoulder. The window CREAKS.
Dean and the creature fall through the shattered glass. Dean is still half-turned to Sam. They share a look.
Sam rushes forward, hand outstretched.
SAM
No!
Time seems to slow. Dean smiles. The night sky is his backdrop.
DEAN
It’s okay, Sammy.
Sam stares, eyes wide. Almost disbelieving.
The shatter window stands empty, framing the night and city. A distant IMPACT is heard, as glass continues to TINKLE.
OLD SAM
(voiceover)
In the end, he got what he wanted. A hunter’s death.
INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM
QUIET settles over the room. The Young Man still leans on his knees, somber.
OLD SAM
Once Dean died, I did a few more hunts.
Met Laura during one.
Old Sam nods to a photo of himself and the blonde woman.
OLD SAM
Got a dog together. Had kids. Grew old.
He indicates more photos. One of himself and Laura with a dog. Multiple family photos. Photos of the family as they grew.
OLD SAM
Got just about everything I wanted.
Young Man tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing.
YOUNG MAN
Just about?
Old Sam smiles fondly.
OLD SAM
As much of an ass as he was, I still miss my brother.
I wish he could’ve been here to share my happiness.
To be my best man, an uncle, a great uncle.
YOUNG MAN
I think he would’ve liked that.
Old Sam gives a sad laugh and looks to the large window. Through the curtains, an obscured view of his street is seen. It’s idyllic and peaceful.
The front door’s lock CLICKS and the door is pushed open. LAURA enters, a bag in the crook of her arm. She’s older than her photos, with grey in her hair and laugh lines at the corners of her mouth.
LAURA
Hey, hon. Mary couldn’t stay
and visit, but she sends her love.
She walks from the door to the adjoining dining room, crossing the living room right in front of Sam.
INT - DINING ROOM
Laura puts her shopping bag and purse on the dining room table.
LAURA
While I was out, I ran into Debbie. She picked up
some antique thingamajig and thinks it’s haunted.
She turns to face the living room.
LAURA
If you don’t mind, do you think you can-
The easy smile on her face falters.
LAURA
Sam?
She takes a step forward.
INTERIOR - LIVING ROOM
Laura traverses into the living room. Sam sits in his chair, head bowed and eyes closed. A photo album sits in his lap. Across the room from him, television QUIETLY PLAYS. The Young Man is nowhere to be seen.
LAURA
Honey?
She reaches a hand out to his.
Her hand slaps over her lips with a gasp. Her eyes are wide and teary.
Slightly translucent, Old Sam appears beside her. He tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers quietly in her ear. Too quiet to be heard. Then, he presses his lips to her cheek.
Laura gasps, turning to face her dead husband. Her hand hovers on her cheek, where his lips touched her. Stunned, blinking back tears, Laura seems to know he’s there.
LAURA
(whispers)
Love you, too.
EXT - SAM’S HOME
Old Sam and the Young Man stand on the sidewalk, in front of Sam’s home. The sun shines down, the street is quiet. In the distance, AMBULANCE SIRENS can be heard.
OLD SAM
(staring at the house)
Thank you for waiting.
The Young Man scuffs his shoes on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets.
YOUNG MAN
No worries. Got to honor my baby brother’s last wish, right?
Sam’s attention suddenly snaps to the Young Man. Sam is no longer old.
In the Young Man’s place, Dean stands. He wears similar clothing as the Young Man and a halfcocked smile.
SAM
(stunned)
Dean? But… how?
DEAN
Let’s say Death did me a solid,
everything considered.
SAM
I guess you two do have a past.
Dean laughs and turns toward the street. The Impala is there, shiny and pristine. Dean motions for Sam to follow him with a jerk of his head.
Behind Sam, the ambulance has arrived.
DEAN
I’ll tell you all about it along the way.
Sam starts forward as Dean opens the driver side door. In the background, a stretcher is being rolled out from his home, a white sheet around the body.
SAM
Along the way?
Sam skirts around the car and opens the passenger side door, settling in.
INT - THE IMPALA
Sam briefly looks around. Inside, Baby looks as it always has. Nothing out of place, nothing rotting.
Sam reaches for his seat belt.
CAS
Good to see you, Sam.
Sam startles, turning to find the angel sitting in the back seat.
SAM
(shocked)
Cas? I thought you were in The Empty. Like forever.
The angel gives a slight smile and nod.
Dean pats Cas on the hand, giving the angel an exasperated look. As if to say ‘you were supposed to let me handle this.’
Cas dips his head in apology.
Sam turns to Dean, eyebrows raised. He obviously has questions.
DEAN
(sheepish grin)
I’ll tell you about that on the way, too.
Dean turns a key in the ignition, the engine purrs to life. He shifts into gear as they pull away from Sam’s home, where a curious crowd has gathered.
DEAN
But right now, we’ve got hunting to do.
SAM
You can’t be serious.
The two brothers share a look. Sam obviously displeased and Dean straight-faced.
Dean can’t hold the look for long and his expression melts into a smile. He turns his eyes to the road.
DEAN
Nah, I’m pulling your leg. We got some friends waiting for us.
SAM
Really? Who?
DEAN
Ah, y’know, Bobby, Jack, Kevin, Charlie, Adam.
Some others. Heard Jess is gonna be there, too.
That causes Sam to sit up straighter.
SAM
Jess? (eyebrows raise) Like, my Jess?
DEAN
So she says.
Sam sits back in his chair, staring ahead. Conflicted expressions play across his face.
He stares outside his window. Outside, the road passes, but a white mist - or perhaps clouds - is slowly consuming the view.
Dean glances at Sam, slightly concerned.
DEAN
You okay, Sammy?
SAM
Yeah. I just… This is a lot to take in.
DEAN
(laughs)
Yeah? Well, wait til you hear what I’ve been up to,
Mr. Two-And-A-Half-Kids-And-A-Picket-Fence.
Sam turns to Dean, an amused smile on his lips.
SAM
Is this going to be a long story?
DEAN
Nah. Not too long. If it was a show,
I’d say… oh… about fifteen seasons.
Sam groans.
EXT - THE IMPALA
The Impala glides over a road, lined with a forest. The cloud-mist has just about obscured everything.
DEAN
(offscreen)
Hey, I listened to your boring ass life story!
SAM
(offscreen)
Which reminds me, why did you even disguise yourself?
DEAN
(offscreen)
I had my reasons.
CAS
(offscreen)
He wanted to hear what you said about him and if you missed him.
SAM
(offscreen)
Seriously, Dean?
DEAN
(offscreen)
Do you want to hear how I saved Cas from The Empty or not?
RADIO STATIC buzzes on. “Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas” overtakes the static.
DEAN
(offscreen)
Oh, come on!
CUT TO SUPERNATURAL END CARD
#supernatural#spn#destiel#supernatural finale#spn finale#I'm usually a monster lover writer#so this is highly ironic#lol#But seriously I wrote this really quickly and if the actually paid writers of spn can't do better#then they aren't paying attention to the fans#or actively hate the fans#also available on ao3
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And They Were Roommates - Vampire AU!
Pre-Roman/Patton, Suggested Janus/Remus
Warnings: Mild Vampire-typical violence
Vampire!Roman, Vampire!Remus, Vampire!Janus, Human!Patton (victims!Logan and Virgil...)
W/count: c/4500 (too long for tumblr but I couldn’t resist)
Roman has two main problems in life. The first is that his adorable roommate is human and he is not. The second is that Remus is his brother. Both issues combine quite spectacularly when Remus invites himself over and Roman isn't there to stop him. He didn't know what he hoped for when he pictured Patton finding out he was a vampire but it wasn't this.
Roman had a problem. And yes, it might be one of those “regular” problems that came with being a member of the undead but it was still a problem.
“Roman can you get some more milk when you’re out? I thought I got some the day before but there’s none left.”
That wasn’t the problem. Well, it was a problem; he’d realised last night that it had been a while since he’d “eaten” some of the food bought in during the week and in his defence it had been a long time since he’d had to use milk with anything. He couldn’t quite remember what was and was not an appropriate amount to get through in one sitting but that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that he was living with it. Him. He was living with him. He had a human roommate. An unbelievably adorable, funny, cheery, happy human roommate and Roman was in love with him.
Patton poked his head out of the kitchen when he didn’t get a response, smiling in that unobtrusive yet quietly concerned way he did when he wanted to make sure Roman was alright and Roman wondered if still hearts could skip a beat. He noticed the little smile on his own face about a split-second after Patton did and while his cheeks couldn’t heat themselves without a meal he felt them burn nonetheless. With a spin that was almost too fast to be human he turned away and busied himself with his sports bag, pretending to check his belongings before actually checking for his wallet and slinging it up on his shoulder.
“Of course! No friend of mine shall go without because of my own selfish actions.” He announced, loud to deflect attention from how awkward his own actions had been as he heard Patton step into the sitting room. He turned to face him with a more intentional smile and added, at a normal volume, “I won’t be long.”
Patton had gotten used to Roman’s late-night ventures out to town, “to the gym” he had told him early on in their friendship, and yet every night before he left, he stopped him in the doorway for a hug.
“Be careful, ok?” He insisted as he always did, the most testing part of Roman’s day and the most dangerous part of Patton’s as he stepped into Roman’s space and looped his arms around his midriff. Roman pressed his cheek to Patton’s shoulder, facing away from his neck as his scent sunk deep into his lungs. It begged him to turn his head, to press his face to his skin, to breathe in deep, to kiss, to bite.
“Of course I will.” Roman answered, pulling away from the hug and gripping tight to his bag straps with an easy, close-mouthed smile, lips straining against his fangs. “I’ll be home soon.” He repeated and stood smiling in the doorway. A beat passed. And another, until Patton’s eyes naturally flicked to the hall and Roman remembered that yes. Leaving actually involved leaving. He cleared his throat with a wave and was gone, Patton’s quiet laugh behind him reigniting his ongoing debate if he could have a soul so full of love for one person and be the biggest risk to them at the same time. It was something he tried not to think about as he hunted through the streets for a meal, for a victim since Remus had gone quiet on him.
His brother was a complicated man and as such they had a complicated relationship. Just about the only thing he could be counted on for, until now of course, was a supply. He had “friends.” He had Janus. He had ways of getting blood that didn’t result in death which they both knew he only did so Roman would keep talking to him. Remus had a steady yet undoubtably illegal supply of blood to support them both; and Janus (Roman didn’t need or want to know what his brother’s relationship was with the human) seemed willing enough to step in as a donor when the need arose. Yesterday however Remus hadn’t answered his phone. He also hadn’t answered any of Roman’s texts or subsequent calls despite having clearly seen them, and so he was forced to hunt.
It didn’t take long to find someone who met his requirements. Young enough, healthy, not too strong, alone: all things that gave them a better chance of recovering. Years of disuse had left his ability to compel his victims shaky at best but he’d found that the faster he could subdue them, the fewer memories he needed to alter. He ignored his phone vibrating in his pocket as he drank from a student he’d caught on his way home from the library, his bookbag heavy enough to help Roman overbalance him and force him to sleep. It buzzed again as he was propping the boy up against the wall, hidden from the main street. Grumbling about impatient texters, Roman carefully set the boy’s glasses right on his face and gently woke him up.
It was easier when they were dazed, he acknowledged, guilt pulling horribly at his heart as he instructed the boy to get up, to continue home and forget this ever happening. As he watched the boy leave he pulled out his phone, keeping half an eye on him to make sure he was steady on his feet as he checked his messages.
Remus: whr r u I hv th stff
It was sent alongside a series of squirting and heart emojis and Roman was filled with the same regret for texting first that he always had when he got a reply from his brother. He knew Remus made his texts as unreadable as possible on purpose, he’d seen him fighting with autocorrect more than once when it tried to fix them. Over the years, however, he’d gotten not only used to them but good at reading them so it only took a moment for the second text to drain the blood from his newly flushed cheeks.
Remus: nvrmnd il mt u at ur plc
I’ll meet you at your place. Roman was texting back so fast the display on his screen was warping.
Roman: Don’t I’m not home!
Roman: Seriously don’t I’m out
Roman: Remus!
Roman: I’m not home don’t go there
“Shit!” He swore, throwing his phone into his back and tearing home, praying that Remus was bluffing, that he was just ignoring him to be a pain, that he would get there before his brother did.
He didn’t.
Patton opened the door to what might have been the silliest knock he had ever heard. He maybe shouldn’t have; it was pretty late at night and he wasn’t expecting anyone but someone from the street couldn’t get in unless they knew the code for the main door so he figured it was likely a neighbour in need or a lost guest. What he wasn’t expecting was a doppelganger of his roommate grinning in his face.
“O-oh!” The exclamation was about all he could manage as he took in the person in front of him. The cartoonish moustache would have been cute if it wasn’t poised above a too-sharp grin, and the familiarity of Roman’s eyes set into the foreign face made their proximity a little unsettling. It had to be Roman’s brother, there was no other explanation for the similarities, but that knowledge didn’t really make him feel better. Roman barely ever spoke about him, Patton wasn’t even too sure of his name, but what he did say was rarely complimentary.
Still, he put on a Patton-ted smile and did his best to look welcoming. He was greeting a guest after all, though Remus beat him to the introductions.
“Hi! You must be the roommate Roman won’t let me meet.” Remus announced, his grin looking a little more charming now that his face was moving.
“And I take it you must be the brother.” Patton replied with a slightly easier smile, holding his hand out to shake. “I’m Patton.”
“Remus.”
If Patton noticed the flirty purr he didn’t mention it, just like he didn’t mention the fact that Remus had the same icy cold hands that Roman was so self-conscious about. He just took a step back from the door, determined as ever to take as much care of the person in front of him in the limited time they had. Step number one was warming this boy up!
“Roman isn’t here right now, did you want to come in and wait? He probably won’t be too long but I can text him if you like?” He offered and Remus took him up on it immediately, throwing his body into the flat with a kind of reckless abandon as he started nosying around looking for the secrets of this hidden part of his brother’s life. The only thing he seemed to be careful with was the bag he was carrying, the same kind that Roman had left with, which he was taking care not to swing as he scurried around.
“Oh, I already texted him,” Remus informed, smirking to himself as he ceased his search and turned his attention back to Patton. “He should be here really soon.”
“Well that's good.” Patton smiled back, a little uneasy again now that Remus was inside and being so ominous but he gestured him towards the couch anyway and waited as he took a seat and set his bag to the side. After a moment’s hesitation he joined him, his face flushing uncomfortably as his guest watched him every step of the way. Remus must have been able to tell he was beginning to feel awkward because he leaned away as he settled down and Patton used that space to take a steadying breath before smiling again, determined to hold his own and make his guest feel at home.
Remus was honestly impressed with the little blood-bag. He was cute, there was no denying that, and clearly had balls if he was this happy to sit beside a vampire he technically didn't know who was clearly ready for his next meal. It was a constant source of amusement for him how often Roman needed to feed, a running joke that his brother didn’t appreciate, but if Patton always sat this close, was so quick to blush all the time, and smelled this good then it was no wonder. It wouldn’t really be fair to use Patton all the time so filling up on Remus’s supplies was starting to make sense, but he was really taking this “consideration of others” thing a bit far if he was getting through so much as well as his roommate. Either that or he really couldn’t resist the boy and that was something Remus was very curious to learn more about.
“I’m getting an idea of why Roman’s been keeping you all secreted away.” He told him with a wink, breathing in deep as Patton blushed beside him. “You really are something special.” He added and sighed out happily, enjoying the sound and smell of excited, rushing blood in such close proximity.
“I don’t know about that.” Patton deflected. He couldn't remember the last time a stranger made him blush this much. Remus’s compliments were strange, sure, but there was something about them coming from such a familiar face that was really flustering him. It wasn't Roman saying it, though. Worse than that, he was Roman’s brother, and he was eager to move the conversation along. “Um, do you want something to eat while you wait?”
Remus’s surprise was clear in his expression and his eyes flicked down to Patton’s neck before checking his face again. There was nothing there to suggest he wasn't being genuine, and his heartbeat was steady (considering how flustered he had been a moment ago) so he likely wasn't lying. Roman would be so pissed. “I will if you’re offering.” He answered anyway, and that seemed to be the right thing to say because Patton lit up, happy to be useful.
“Of course! You’re Roman’s brother.” Patton insisted, angling towards him as he thought of what he had in the fridge that he could heat quickly. He must be starving! And being so surprised to be fed just wouldn’t do. “What would you-” His words died in his throat as Remus moved in, his mouth latching on to his neck and he found himself being pinned to the couch, lying on his back as Remus settled over him and bit down. He lay still for a moment, shock locking his body in place until he felt the first pull of blood leaving his neck. Eyes wide, his hands shot up and struck Remus's body but he didn’t move. He clung to his shirt when pushing yielded no results and as Remus hummed soothingly against his neck he thought he could hear Roman calling his name.
Remus's attack was surprising short lived and Patton soon felt his teeth leave his neck and a tongue swipe over the wound, followed by a quick peck. “There! All cleaned up.”
He could hear Roman again, shouting in the hall, and sure enough his roommate burst through the door just as Remus turned his head to face it, making no move to get off of him as Patton followed his line of sight to the doorway. Face pale, he gave a little wave, spooked and confused as Roman marched towards them.
“You godless fiend!” Roman screamed, pulling Remus off of him with more strength than Patton, as dazed as he was, thought he could gain from his trips to the gym. The only reason Remus wasn't sent flying to the ground was from his own matched ability to take that much pressure on one leg as he landed easily near the door.
“Your roommate is a wonderful host, bro-ski.” Remus crooned as if he hadn't just been thrown across the room; as if Roman wasn’t now stalking towards him. “He offered and I couldn't refuse, he's very tempting. I see why you've been keeping him to yourse-” He choked before he could finish, Roman had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to the hall and up to the roof before he could say another word.
There were tears in Roman's eye when he finally unhanded his brother. Remus wanted to laugh, he wanted to find the humour in the situation and rub Roman’s face in it but he was confused.
“Why are you being such a baby about this? He offered! And you’ve drank from Janus before so you can hardly get all territorial about this one.” He huffed, making no move to straighten out his clothes or hair as Roman stalked around the roof.
“He doesn’t know, Remus!” Roman wailed, pulling at his hair as he spun away, staring at the door back into the building as if Patton would appear there, kitted out with a cross and stake to tell him never to come back. Remus was quiet behind him for a moment before opening his mouth with a pop.
“I think he might have an idea now.” He quipped and Roman wanted to throw him off the roof. “Speaking of Janus-”
“I don’t want to hear about Janus!” Roman yelled back, turning on his brother who looked too unfazed for someone who had been dragged by the neck up three flights of stairs, for someone who had attacked his roommate, for someone who had so completely destroyed his life. “You’ve ruined everything! How can he trust me now? How can he possibly like me after this?”
Remus gave a careless shrug in response and Roman had him by the shirt once again, angling him dangerously over the edge of the roof and Remus continued to speak like this happened every day. It was Remus, it was entirely possible that was true. That or he didn’t think Roman had it in him.
“I’d imagine just the same as he always did. You did rush in to ‘save him’ just now.” He answered, lifting his arms to do the bunny-ears before dropping them back down to his sides, letting them dangle and swing behind him as he relaxed into the angle he was being held at. “Nothing’s really changed, just his world-view.”
“Just his world-view?” Roman seethed, fists tightening in Remus’s shirt before he turned and threw him back onto the roof, watching as he bounced along to an ungraceful halt.
“Yeah! I mean, what else has changed?” Remus asked, looking defensive for the first time since the confrontation started but not angry. “You’re still you, he’s still him, he didn’t really know me so he’s really only learned who I am. And now he’s got a fun new fact about you too!”
“That I’m awful.” Roman despaired though his anger swiftly reappeared when Remus just kissed his fingers and blew it in his direction.
“Exactly! And I think you’ll be fine, just as long as he knows that you’re no more awful than you were yesterday. Just remember, if you’ve really blown it, he probably would’ve died soon anyway!” Remus didn’t wait around to witness the full performance that was Roman’s outrage and skipped instead over to the roof’s edge. “Well! This has been fun, or it was before you showed up. Keep the blood, I’m going home. Don’t bother coming to tell me when this is all inevitably fine and you’ve freaked out for nothing. Tell me if it goes horribly wrong. I’ll let my sources know there’s a new donor on the market.” Remus jumped off the roof before his brother could react or retaliate.
And then Roman was alone. Standing on the roof at nearly midnight while Patton…
Patton!
He turned and threw himself down the stairs, taking them far too many at a time to be human until he was standing once again in the doorway to his flat, staring at Patton on the couch. His roommate had managed to sit himself up and was cradling his hand against his neck, fingers gently searching for proof of what had just happened over his unblemished neck.
He looked up when Roman appeared at the door and his heart clenched in fear before he realised who he was looking at. Patton sunk back into the couch, feeling a little too weak to stay tense, and gave an awkward smile.
“Hi Roman.” He greeted, just like this was any other day but he had to clear his throat when his voice came out a bit too scratchy to be normal. He looked tired and confused, dazed, but he was still smiling at him as though he wasn’t the worst person in the world. “Your brother’s certainly… interesting.”
Roman felt his heart break. He hurried over but stopped short of truly reaching him, hovering by the end of the couch before dropping to his knees. He didn’t want him to be scared, he didn’t want any of this to have happened, and yet here they were.
“Patton, I’m so sorry.” The apology felt like bile in his mouth, choking back everything he wanted to say and not knowing any words that could express it. He didn’t expect Patton to accept it, but more than that, he didn’t expect Patton to brush it off, shaking his head as he reached a hand over to comfort him. Roman could add it to the list of things he hated about himself in that moment as he took it, giving in to the selfish urge and clinging on as tight as he dared.
“No, it's my fault. I should've…” Patton tried to excuse but that was enough for Roman to find his voice. He never was speechless for long.
“What should you have done? Known? Known that vampires exist? That I would let him find you?” He despaired, the angry tears welling up in his eyes setting Patton off too until they were both crying. “I hid this from you and you got hurt. It’s all my fault.”
“I'm not hurt.” It was an empty comfort, not helped at all by the tears, and Roman shook his head in disbelief.
“Remus drank from you!”
“It was ok.” He flushed at Roman’s incredulous stare and elaborated. “I mean, it wasn’t my favourite thing but it only stung a little. He was nice about it, I think?”
They both squirmed for a moment under Patton’s embarrassment, and Roman took his hand back to both put some distance between them and to wipe his face free of tears. Patton soon copied the action, rubbing self-consciously at his neck again as the quiet of the room swirled around them. There was rarely so little noise in the flat for the natural sounds of a building to make themselves known. In the absence of chatter, singing, music and movement the sitting room was like a stranger’s. Trying to ignore the awkward energy that buzzed low and sporadic between them was like trying not to look at a spider on the wall while never letting it leave your sight, allowing it to become bigger and bigger in your mind until you couldn’t help but be so very aware of it.
“There's nothing about him that's nice.” Roman eventually said, his uncharacteristically quiet voice interrupting the atmosphere if not quite managing to clear it.
Patton didn’t reach for his hand again, something that Roman tried really hard to feel grateful for and did his best not to start crying again. He’d been caught in too many tear loops with Patton over the years and he didn’t deserve to start one now.
The quiet, at least, gave Patton a moment to actually reflect on what had just happened. Roman’s brother had bitten him. He had come to his home and bitten him because he was a vampire. A vampire. Because they were real now. And Roman’s brother was one.
“So…” He tentatively broached, looking down at Roman who was still kneeling beside him on the floor. “Is it just him who’s… y’know?”
“No... I am too.” Roman confessed, dropping his gaze down to the ground as he felt the pain of that secret finally being aired dig deep into his torso instead of lifting off of his shoulders like it should.
“Is this why you won't eat my cookies?” A confused, strangled laugh hit the back of Roman’s throat like he was choking on his own tongue.
“That's what you're worried about?” He spluttered and a quick look up at Patton showed he had reacted just the way Patton had wanted. His eyes searched that reassuring grin for any trace of malice or discomfort and found none. This boy was something else.
“I mean, I was starting to get offended.” Patton joked, unable to sit any longer with his friend looking so sad. Fixing that was easier to focus on but even he couldn’t ignore an issue this big.
“Yeah, it's why I wouldn't eat, well, anything you gave me.” Roman clarified, needing to give the information over regardless of how small a question it had been. Patton deserved this and any other answers he needed; he’d kept them from him for too long.
Patton was glad that Roman had answered him properly. It gave him some confidence to jump from the higher springboard.
“Why didn't you tell me?” And that really was the big question, wasn’t it, even if he could guess at the answer. He didn’t want to feel so hurt for not being trusted but it was a pretty big secret to keep hidden from him. Then again, it was a pretty big secret to need to hide.
“I didn't know how.” Roman admitted, shame in his eyes as he hoped Patton would understand. “I was scared you would be scared, that you would want me to leave. I know I shouldn’t have kept that decision from you and I’m so sorry I did.” Again, Patton was quiet, giving the answer the time it deserved to digest despite knowing his answer.
“Well I'm not scared. And I don’t want you to leave.” He told him, knowing that it didn’t settle everything but wanting to put them on the right track. Still, he couldn’t help but stumble over his next question. “How long have you been a- vampire?”
“A while.” It was an awkward confession to make; he wasn’t entirely sure and he didn’t know if “not that long for a vampire” would fly when he wasn’t really even sure if he’d been forgiven. Patton just nodded knowingly.
“Gotcha. I've seen Twilight.”
Roman was spluttering again and really, it was starting to become unbecoming.
“I am not like Twilight!” He defended, calmed only by how genuine Patton’s laugh was when he inevitably burst into giggles.
“I don't know you've got the pretty and brooding thing down.”
“I do not!” And what was he meant to do in response to that but blush? Curse his timing because of course he couldn’t have made a comment like that before he ate. As much as he appreciated Patton’s attempts to lighten the mood, however, he had to be sure of where they stood. “Are you sure that doesn't hurt?”
“I'll be fine, I'm more surprised than anything. It wasn’t quite what I expected when I offered to feed him.” Patton admitted with a sheepish smile.
“I'm sorry.” Roman apologised again and Patton took his hand with a reassuring squeeze.
“I forgive you. Just… maybe let me know next time your brother is visiting.”
“Can I hug you? Is that ok right now?” Just as always the answer to that was a resounding ‘yes’ and Patton had pulled Roman up into his arms before he could get another word in. Roman smiled into his shoulder, tears once again wetting his eyes as he mumbled into Patton’s shirt. “Remus is never coming over here again.”
“He might need to to get his bag.”
“…I’d not look in there if I were you.”
---
Across town, Remus arrived home with all the grace of a deflated and oddly damp balloon, kicking up into the air to land on the couch, flat on his back, with his head nestled uncomfortably in Janus’s lap.
“I bit Roman’s roommate today.” He announced without preamble, doing little to help as Janus repositioned himself underneath him so that Remus wasn’t digging into his legs. It left Remus’s neck bent pretty out of place but he didn’t bother correcting it further. It gave him a nice angle to look up from and that was good by him.
“Oh? The one who didn’t know he was a vampire?” Janus enquired, similarly uncaring as he scrolled through his phone with one hand as the other dropped down to play with Remus’s hair.
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“Because I’ve met your brother and your brother’s an idiot.”
Remus tsk-ed in annoyance like he’d gotten an easy question wrong on a pub quiz. “I never think of that.”
“It’s admirable to think so highly of him,” Janus drawled in response, finally looking down from his phone to smirk at the man in his lap, “but there’s a good reason you keep me around.”
He moved to pet his hair again but Remus caught his hand before he could reach and pulled it down enough for him to inspect his wrist. The bite mark there was deep but healing well, he noted, pressing a kiss to the skin he knew would do nothing to speed it up. The turning bite could only heal on it’s own; whatever it was that ran through Remus and allowed him to heal was just starting to build up in Janus’s own body. The wound would heal when it was ready.
“Did you tell him?” Janus asked, letting his arm be manipulated long enough for Remus to swipe an impatient tongue over the mark before wriggling himself free to wipe the spit in Remus’s hair, his petting forgotten as he checked his phone again.
“Nah, he was too busy yelling at me. He’ll figure it out when he needs his next meal.” He frowned up at Janus as he made to get up, the new strength of the newly turned vampire making it difficult drag out cuddle sessions.
“Speaking of meals.” Janus purred just as their doorbell rang and Remus perked up, petulance forgotten as he watched him move to answer it. “I ordered takeaway.”
The surly kid on the other side of the door did nothing to lessen Remus’s excitement as he grinned, watching from the couch.
Roman really didn’t need to know about this.
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finding the videos | telling lux | thunder
content warning: referenced/implied noncon.
Four safehouses in as many hours. They’re hard to find, impossible to get into. But for Lux, Emory would do the impossible.
He’s brought a few things for the search. An extra hoodie for Lux, clean and dry, big enough to hide away in. A picture of them together. A little plastic orb that glows with no batteries, and hangs itself in the air without hanging from a string - enchanted to hang in their bedroom by the ceiling like a little moon.
He hasn’t been able to convince many magic users with the enchanted object that he’s a warlock. A few have let him into their safehouses, kept an eye on him - but when he starts asking questions, they get paranoid quick. It reminds him of how much Lux doubts, how he asks hesitant questions, doesn’t believe things that are right before his eyes. Like they’ve all been tricked before.
“Have you seen him?” Emory asks, holding up the picture. In it, Lux’s arms are draped around him, and they’re both beaming, the sun shining behind them and making orange light peek through Lux’s curls.
“No way,” Mutters the witch who takes the photo from his hand. She turns it to see it better in the light from the cracked window - no electricity in here - and laughs out loud. “It’s the vet!”
“The vet? Like, veterinarian? Has he been healing animals?”
“What? He can heal?” He fingers tighten on the edge of the picture, eyes hard and calculating. “Fucker can heal?” At Emory’s watching her in return, outwardly guarded but secretly panicked at his slip-up, she continues, handing it back to him. “No. Vet, like veteran. New to most, but a few of us recognized him. From years ago. And he’s got the…” She smiles, shrugs, waves her hands vaguely; Emory watches her movement like any second she’ll cast a spell to send him flying out of the safehouse he doesn’t belong in. “You know. He acts like he’s seen some shit. Shifty eyes, always tense, sticks to corners, doesn’t sleep. Smart to be that way when big shit goes down. Not so smart for all the time. Guy’s gonna crash hard, sleep for a whole day, get himself swept up by cops or something.”
Emory waves the picture impatiently, gesturing for her to give him something to work with. Her eyes flick down to catch the colorful image again.
“He looks happy in that,” The witch muses curiously. “Didn’t know he could smile. You tryna find him to make him happy like that? Or to wipe him out? Warlocks that get searched for don’t usually end up alive.”
“I want him safe. I want him home.”
Her eyes glint, head tipping back. “Ohhhh. I get it. Well, listen. He’s not yours anymore. You don’t have magic, guy, and he’s with his kind now. I don’t know what shit you’re into, but you don’t own him anymore.”
Dark brown eyes flash with anger. “What? Own him? He’s my-”
“Boy toy, warlock pet, good boy. I know. New trend, you’ve obviously heard. Pick a witch or warlock off the street, beat the hell out of them, twist their head all up ‘til they’re tamed. ‘s fucked up. But, hey, whatever does it for you, you know? Long as no one tries something with me, I don’t care. We’re all fucked either way.”
“I’m not some fucking - I didn’t do that. He’s my boyfriend. God, you’re sick.”
“It’s a sick fucking world, dude.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” A near-glare finds its way onto his face, hours of frustration adding up to something that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He’s only been met with poverty and violence and paranoia and, god, he thinks some part of him might hate magic users. Or hate how they have to live. The injustice of it is clashing with how much it’s torn at him today, and he just wants to get back to his part of town, to his nice house, with Lux safe and clean so he can pretend that warlocks can live normal lives.
“Boyfriend, then. Didn’t know Vet was a-”
“Watch it,” Growls Emory, and the witch’s eyes flicker with something as she takes a half-step back. He knows that she’s a little bit scared now. He doesn’t like that, but he’s not really in the mood to comfort a witch after the day he’s had.
“He’s not here.” She wants Emory gone, that’s clear. Wants it bad enough to lie?
“Mind if I look?”
Magic crackles in the hallway they stand in, red and restrained. The witch raises a hand, eyes locked on the threat before her. “Yeah, I do. Vet’s not here. Go look somewhere else.”
Emory’s just a little pissed at how this has gone, but as he decides how to react, he notices that it’s been quiet since he walked in. No warlocks sitting against the wall cradling injuries, nobody cursing or laughing drunkenly or using magic. This witch might be alone in this safehouse. He wonders what happened to the others.
“Alright. Fine. Just, if you see him, tell him to come home.”
~
Two more safehouses searched, and Emory has a new limp. Temporary, not like the one that crops back up for Lux sometimes. It’s nothing as bad as poor Curls’ once-dislocated hip, just bruises around his knee and down his shin. Those kicks were meant to break something so he couldn’t get away or put up a fight. Warlocks fight dirty.
For one of the first times in his life, Emory begged. He can’t fight as well as they could, so he begged, pulling the crumpled picture of Lux out of his pocket, swearing that he was just looking for the man he loves, not trying to hunt anyone down or get warlocks killed.
His hand shook as he raised the photo to show them, and they laughed at him for it. One of those moments where he thought he might be getting a glimpse into what it’s like to be Lux. It still makes him dizzy with humiliation, thinking about it hours later.
This safehouse doesn’t look as rundown as the others. The windows are securely boarded up, the stairs climbable, the front door sporting a lock that looks like it actually works.
Emory knocks like the magicless, hilariously out-of-place guy that he is.
There’s shuffling. Movement. Emory cradles his ribs sorely, waiting for the beating that comes with barging in somewhere he doesn’t belong.
The door creaks open, amber eyes taking stock of him instantly. Emory holds still.
“Whadda you want?” The magic user asks tersely.
Emory raises the photo. He’s too tired to beat around the bush. “Him. Curly hair, quiet, nervous. My name’s-”
“Emory,” The guy guesses, then pulls the door further open. “Yeah, he cries about you in his sleep. You gonna get him outta here? He pisses me off.”
Heart absolutely fluttering with relief, Emory steps inside. It’s good to hear that Lux has at least slept. “Why’s he piss you off?”
“Uh, ‘cause he’s a spineless crybaby that just gives you big scared eyes if you come near him? Vet or not, he’s annoying as shit. He likes you. You hit him? Listen, he’ll get over it, you just gotta hit somewhere no one can see the bruises. Trust me, he’ll stay.”
The words make Emory feel ill, but he doesn’t lash out. From this whole search, and even just from being with Lux, he knows to listen to more than words. If he had to guess, he’d say this amber-eyed fugitive is speaking from the experience of being the one who was hit, not the one who did the hitting, even if the warlock is still smirking. He’s guarded like all the others.
He leads Emory inside, flicking either hand this way and that to take down some of the wards that keep non-warlocks out. Leads the way into a big room that looks like it was made by tearing down one wall between a sitting room and a kitchen. There’s a card game going where warlocks and witches sit on the floor, a pile of random things in the middle of the circle.
And there, over on the couch, is Lux. The warlock is halfway curled up, knees up by his chest where he sits, head lying on couch cushion at his side, eyes closed. It looks like he fell asleep sitting folded up there, shoved into the corner of the couch, far from the others with his back to the wall.
There are bruises on his face, and near his throat, and peeking out from under his ratty sleeves. Dirt is streaked across his skin. There’s blood staining the couch, but Emory can’t tell if that’s normal here, or if it’s from Lux.
“Curls,” He whispers as he sits gingerly on the couch. “Lux, honey?”
Lux doesn’t stir. When’s the last time that he slept? Two days ago? More?
The amber-eyed warlock scoffs and steps forward while Emory leans closer, raising a hand to place it gently on his boyfriend’s arm. Emory’s prepared for Lux to react badly, to be startled and then emotional.
But the other warlock grabs a fistful of Lux’s shirt and hauls him up off the couch to punch him square in the jaw. Lux jerks awake, gasping, scrabbling to get his legs under him. His hands shake and push against the guy holding him upright.
“Morning, sunshine,” Amber eyes mocks and lets Lux stumble back with a shove. “You’ve got a visitor.”
Lux’s eyes find Emory, and his legs give out just in time for him to fall back down onto the couch. A sleepy, shuddering breath huffs out of him. “Em?” As sleep fades he gets more tense. “Em, wha-at, what’re you doing here? F’ck’off,” He growls at the warlock who lingers to watch how the reunion goes. Amber eyes stalks away.
“I was looking for you. To bring you home. You can come home, Lux, just come back with me. I messed up, I know, I’m sorry-”
“You didn’t. Em, look, it’s - this is where I belong. If you ever wanted to let me go and have a life that’s, that’s not sad and stressful and, and if you want a boyfriend who doesn’t - who isn’t me, this is your chance. Just let me go.” Lux is hugging himself, speaking to his knees, like he’s been practicing this in his head for days, resigning himself to it. There is exhaustion in every inch of his posture.
“You don’t belong here, honey.”
“I do, I… don’t belong where you live.” He’s curling in on himself, hiding from Emory’s support and entreaties. Only when his head is tucked down does he continue. “‘m messed up. Dirty. Not, not someone you wanna be close to, wanna touch. Hnn.” A soft, involuntary frightened sound escapes him at the very concept of touch. It’s been less than a day since, since the last one. He hasn’t even been out of the house, away from Emory, for long. He’s already been pressed into the ground and left barely able to limp more than two times (three? Four? He lost consciousness, and the days melted together, so he can’t be sure).
Emory touches Lux’s shoulders, lightly, lovingly, and the warlock draws a shuddering breath. “Curls. If you don’t belong there, then I don’t either. I just want to be with you. Even if it has to be here. I wanna watch your back, keep you safe, let you get some sleep. Help with your shoulders. Keep the nightmares away.” Lux takes a tumultuous breath that sounds like it could peak and crash into a sob. “I just love you so much, Lux, you’re all I want.”
“I-I, I’m bro-oken, Em, ‘m used, you don’t want…”
“I do want you. Your voice, your mind, your heart. You’re a whole world, honey, you’re so beautiful to me. What’s happened to you doesn’t change that.” The videos. Lux thinks he’s too dirty, too used up to be good to anyone. “Lux, when… when you kiss me. When you lay next to me. When I wake up and you smile because you were waiting for me. It just makes me so happy. It feels right. You’re the one I want forever, Lux, I want to be at your side forever. You’re the boy I wanna marry, Curls. Please come home.”
“I, hnnn, it’s…” Tremors crawl from his spine to his fingers. “O-o-okay. I, I wanna go ho-ome.” Emory’s fingers on his shoulders are massaging relief into the aching joints. “Wanna go home.”
~
It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done, pulling Lux up to his feet to go. It’s a sad, tired, tender moment that sits lodged in space, time slowing to a stop like it’s so wrong for Lux to be so worn down that the universe is lingering to watch and mourn. Pulling Lux up to his feet puts a strain on his shoulders that pulls a new sound out of him, a choked-back whimper that makes the other magic users perk up. They listen, feigning disinterest, to gauge whether Emory’s hurting Lux, whether there’s a threat among them.
Up on his feet, Lux sways, lines etched into his face from the pain of standing, all the color drained out of him. His fingers are wrapped tightly around Emory’s arms for balance and it’s barely keeping him from falling like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Do you want me to carry you, Curls?” Asks Emory, wishing he could sweep his love up, kiss his cheek, bury his face in those curls and just listen to his boyfriend’s breathing.
“I can walk.” The others are watching. Listening. Lux doesn’t feel safe showing how badly he needs help. Emory won’t push it.
So they attempt a smooth, careful walk toward the door. Lux limps stiffly and makes soft sounds, cheeks flushed with humiliation, tremors running through his legs. If he fell, Emory would catch him and pick him up. It would be easier. But Lux stays upright. They make it to the door, and outside, the warlock taking short, shallow breaths and faltering in his pained steps.
“What’s wrong, Curls?”
The warlock squints into the natural light as he peers out to flick his gaze over everything that moves. “Outside. ‘s not safe.”
Emory’s brow furrows slightly. No, he guesses it’s not, judging by the state of his boyfriend. “Not when you’re alone.”
Lux shudders, ducking his head down, but he doesn’t apologize as if he’s scared that he pissed Emory off. He’s more closed off than that right now. Emory rubs circles between his shoulder blades for a moment before getting them moving again. “It’s okay, Curls. I got you. Don’t gotta watch for danger anymore, or be tough. You can relax.”
“N-nnh, not until we’re back,” Pants Lux, taking halting, agonizing steps down from the porch to the sidewalk. “N’t ‘til we’re back home.” His stamina is fading fast. Making it to the car is starting to seem like too high a demand. “Even, th-, hhh, then. I dunno, if. If it’s, sa-a-, -afe… nnnh…”
The warlock makes an airy sound as his legs fold under him, eyes fluttering closed. Emory cries out as he kneels to follow the momentum, arms wrapping around the warlock’s middle to keep him from flopping over and hitting his head on the pavement. “Curls, honey, are you -” Lux isn’t responding, isn’t tense in his arms. He’s floppy, not even eking out a whimper. Passed out.
#whump#drabble#lux#emory#angst#rape tw#referenced or implied noncon#losing consciousness#flinching#shaking#pain#mine
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Ok hi, I love your stuff! I was wondering if you could write a fic where teen Dean is being protective of little Sam (no incest!). Like, Sam came back to the hotel that they were staying at after school and he was all sad and stuff, and Dean managed get him to tell him why, and Sam told him it was stupid, but Sam admits that some kids were messing with him. John thinks that it's a normal part of life and laughs. But Dean got mad and protective. I would also love if you'd put some fluff in there!
Hi, and thank you, both for the compliment and the prompt! Also agreed, incest is not my shtick. Hope you enjoy!
It had been a long day. Sometimes Dean regretted dropping out of school; it wasn’t that he didn’t like learning, but dealing with all the normal people and watching them live out their lives completely oblivious to what was out there took it’s toll. It got worse after his stint in the boy’s home, when John abandoned him there. Leaving was hard, but he couldn’t let Sammy grow up with their dad alone.
Now that he wasn’t in school anymore though, John would either drag him around hunting or leave him to babysit Sam. The latter usually meant he was at the library, staring at books until the words floated off the page – and then a little bit more.
At least at school he got breaks in his reading.
By the time Dean got back to the motel John had chosen for the boys he was bone tired and wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, drink some stolen beer, and pass out. Before he could do any of those things, however, the motel room door opened and Sam slipped in. His backpack thunked to the floor and he shuffled into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge.
“Hey Sammy,” Dean greeted, immediately putting on a smile for his younger brother.
“Hey,” Sam grunted.
“How was school? Did you pass your test?”
Sam dragged a soda and leftover mac ‘n cheese from the fridge and shrugged. “We won’t get them back until Friday.”
Dean’s alarm bells started going off. Sam was refusing to make eye contact, instead staring at the floor while he heated up his dinner and kicked off his shoes. Rather than tuck them under the table he left them sitting in the middle of the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked, dropping onto the couch next to Sam.
“Nothing,” Sam said.
The older Winchester nudged him. “C’mon, Sammy. I know something’s up. Did you miss an assignment or something?”
Sam shook his head.
Dean waited another moment before poking him. “C’mon,” he urged.
Sam wavered for another moment before slumping back. “Some kids at school were giving me a hard time. It’s not really a big deal though. I can handle it.”
“What, were they hitting on you? You know how to fight.”
“No,” Sam said, still not looking up.
“What was it?”
Sam stayed quiet, poking at his food and twitching one shoulder. “They were just saying some stuff. It’s stupid. I’ll be okay.”
“You know you can tell me,” Dean hedged, but Sam finally looked up only to glare at him.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I can deal with it.”
Dean held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. But if you want to, you can talk to me.”
“I know,” Sam said. He turned the TV on and sat back to eat his dinner in sullen silence while Scooby Doo played in the background.
His own day now far from his mind, Dean made an excuse and slipped outside to find a payphone.
“Hello?” John’s gruff voice answered after the second ring.
“Hey Dad,” Dean said, relieved their father had answered for once.
His voice instantly tightened. “What’s wrong? Do you need me to come back?”
“No, we’re okay, it’s just-”
“You know not to call unless it’s an emergency, Dean,” John scolded, and Dean flinched even though his father wasn’t there. “I’m trying to work.”
“I know, Dad, but Sam-”
“Is he okay?”
Irritation prickled up Dean’s spine. He wanted to snap that if John would let him finish his damn sentence he would find out so much sooner, but years of drilling obedience and respect shut that thought down. “He’s having some trouble with kids at school.”
“He knows how to fight. He can take care of himself.”
“They didn’t beat him up; they’re picking on him. He won’t tell me what they said but he’s pretty upset.”
John snorted. “You called me for a couple of middle school bullies? Dean, bullies are part of growing up. Sam’s fine.”
“But-”
“Enough, Dean,” John said, voice returning to drill-sergeant mode. “Don’t call me again unless somebody’s dying.”
The line went dead and Dean grumpily slammed the phone back on the hook. “Not like you’d pick up if we were,” he muttered.
Sam was at the tiny desk scribbling in a workbook when Dean got back.
“I got ice cream,” Dean held up a grocery bag. “Your favorite!”
Sam glanced up and offered him a weak smile. “Thanks.”
Dean peeled the lid off and snagged a pair of spoons before leaning against the wall by the desk and offering his brother the carton and a spoon. Sam accepted, and the pair shared the ice cream in silence for a while.
“I was thinking maybe I can walk you to school tomorrow,” Dean said, going for nonchalant. “I could use the break from research, and-”
“I don’t need you to look after me, Dean,” Sam said irritably without looking up from his homework.
“’Course you don’t,” Dean said, “but I’m still going to.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Hey,” Dean lightly thumped the side of his brother’s head with his spoon. “Don’t give me that attitude. I’m your brother. It’s my job.”
“Yeah yeah,” Sam leaned back in his chair with a sigh and met Dean’s gaze. “I’m just being stupid. I can deal with it.”
The brothers stared at each other for a few more moments before Dean shrugged and dropped his spoon on the table. “If you say so.” He pushed off the wall, ruffled Sam’s hair around the younger boy’s attempts to ward him off, and headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and go to bed. Wake me up before you leave.”
“Yeah. Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, Sammy.”
----------
Dean waited just long enough for Sam to get around the corner before throwing on the first set of clothes he could find and following him. He was careful not to let his little brother catch wind of him, but close enough to hear Sam saying good morning to a little old lady sitting at a bus stop.
“Hey!”
Dean flung himself against a brick building, hiding behind a trash can, but the voice wasn’t talking to him.
“I said hey! Samantha!”
Dean ground his teeth and forced himself to wait. He peeked around the garbage and saw Sam at the far corner of the building, shoulders hunched and head down as he picked up his pace. Three kids surrounded him, coming from the side of the building Dean couldn’t see.
“Where’s your mommy, Samantha?” One of the boys taunted, jabbing him in the ribs.
Sam said nothing.
“Don’t you know?” another boy, the one who’d called out first, sneered.
Sam still didn’t reply.
“Bet his daddy’s downtown getting’ drunk while she’s off screwing an entire-” the kid didn’t get to finish his sentence, since Sam’s fist got in the way.
There was suddenly a lot of shouting and scrambling and Sam’s backpack ended up in the middle of the street while the first boy pinned Sam against the sidewalk and the other two started kicking him.
“Hey!” Dean shouted, sprinting down the sidewalk.
The kids scrambled back before he even got there, their leader kicking Sam once more in the head as a parting blow.
Dean managed to catch him and twisted his arm behind his back so he couldn’t escape while he helped Sam up. “You okay Sammy?”
“Sammy?” one of the other boys, who were both standing a safe distance down the sidewalk, snickered.
Dean pulled his captive’s arm a little tighter and the boy cried out.
“I’m fine,” Sam sniffed, wiping blood off his face and avoiding his older brother’s gaze.
“What are you kids doing ganging up on my brother?” Dean asked his captive, twisting his arm.
“Ow ow ow!” he shrieked, standing on tip-toe and leaning forward to try and escape.
“I said,” Dean pressed harder and the kid screamed, “why are you picking on my brother?”
“He started it!” the boy wailed.
“Try again.”
“Let him go!” one of the other boys shouted, taking a brave few steps back towards them.
Dean only had to shoot him a glare to quell the moment of bravado and the kid shrank back.
“Mighty brave of you, taking on a small kid three vs one,” Dean said. “Don’t think you can beat him on your own?”
The kid squirmed. “I can take him with my eyes shut!”
Dean surveyed the group. All three bullies were sporting bloody faces and it looked like the first one Sam punched had a broken nose. He smirked.
“Let him go, Dean,” Sam pleaded. “We’re going to be late for school.”
“No,” Dean said. “I have a better idea.”
He spun his captive around and shoved him towards Sam. “You can take him with your eyes shut, huh? Go ahead and do it, then. Just you two.”
The boy rubbed his arm, glaring at Dean and his brother. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Prove it then.”
“Dean…” Sam said.
Dean took his brother’s backpack. “They’ve gotta learn not to mess with you,” he said.
Sam grimaced but lifted his hands into a half-hearted fighting stance.
The bully snickered and lunged forward. Sam danced to the side and caught the other boy in the shin. He yelped but spun around and swung a fist at Sam’s head. Sam easily blocked it and landed a firm blow to the kid’s ribs. Dean heard a distinct crack.
The boy’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he doubled over, wheezing and cursing.
“Bryan!” One of the other boys shouted. “Kick his ass!”
Sam looked up at Dean, who shrugged. This was up to the kid now.
“Get over here and help me!” the bully Bryan snarled.
The other two boys charged, and Dean folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Sam smoothly ducked around their attack, tripping one and sending the other careening into his downed friend. They bounced up and came again. Sam’s face set in determination, and within a few swift jabs and no small amount of crying, the bullies were backing off, trying to catch their breath and one holding the side of his face.
“Freak,” Bryan called over his shoulder as they ducked around the corner and vanished.
Sam slumped. “I’m going to get in trouble,” he said as he shook out his hand.
“Let me see that,” Dean said instead, snagging his brother’s hand and examining his knuckles. One had split and was oozing blood. “Not bad,” he smiled. “Why didn’t you lead with moves like that?”
The younger Winchester tugged his hand out of his brother’s grip. “They insulted Mom,” he said.
“I heard.”
“The school is going to be mad.”
“Why? We’re not on school property, are we?”
Sam shook his head.
“Then they can suck it. Dad will be back soon and we can move again. Besides, those kids had it coming.”
“Yeah.” Sam picked up his backpack and brushed it off. “I gotta go.”
“Hey,” Dean grabbed his brother’s shoulder. “You did good, Sammy. I’m proud of you.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Sam’s lips. “Thanks Dean.”
Dean pulled Sam into a hug. “Any time, Sammy. See you tonight.”
“Yeah,” Sam said again, waiting one more moment before pulling away and waving as he ran off.
“Love you kid,” Dean murmured as he watched him go, then headed off to find those kids and teach them a lesson of his own.
AO3
#Supernatural#Writing Prompt#Anon#Protective Dean#John Winchester is a terrible dad#standing up to bullies#fanific#fanfiction#Teenage Dean#Middle School Sam#Fistfighting#askflywolfwriting
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The McCarty Twins:
Inspired by @emmettmccartycullen 's post!
"B."
"Em."
"Edward went hunting with Jas and Ali."
"I'm aware."
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Almost exclusively."
They roll up to school in Rosalie's flashiest car which they spent an hour convincing her to drive them in.
They are both hanging out of the convertable top like labradors.
Emmett screams "PARKOUR" at the top of his lungs and they both take off running just slightly too fast to be human, but not fast enough to expose them.
After a series of gravity-defying stunts that causes half of the student body to applaud and the rest to feel the first genuine fright they've ever experienced they end up in their joint homeroom.
They answer for each other during roll and then spend the entire class period making crude carvings in the desks with their nails.
At break they make their way up to the roof.
Rosalie's sitting with Ness at the lunch table when they hear a loud thump. They both know it was Bella and Emmett. They both keep their expressions deeply innocent.
(The only reason Ness isn't with them is because Edward told her he'd let her fly out for a visit with the Amazons if she stayed out of trouble and she really wants to go.)
There is a noticeable dent in the lawn where they landed. It is actually four foot-sized dents inside a larger dent.
They burst into the cafeteria with armloads of McDonald's bags and just start throwing them to the students. Emmett is shouting like Oprah.
"You get a burger! You get a McChicken! Everybody gets heart diseeeeeeease!!!"
"Who wants to bet five bucks that I can take the quarterback in an arm-wrestling match?!"
Bella is extra keen on this because last week he called Alice "sweetheart" and told her to smile more.
He steps up and slaps a twenty on the table, laughing all the while.
"Let's do this, princess."
Emmett is visibly straining to hold in his laughter.
She beats him, naturally, in about .67 seconds.
Emmett hoists her onto his shoulders
"Anyone else man enough to take on my lil sis?!"
The cafeteria is buzzing with gossip and idle praise.
Four distinct ringtones ("Sexy Back", "I Am Woman", R2-D2 screaming, and the Friends theme) all go off to alert the owners of a text.
Three turn off as they look at the group message, but the Friends theme keeps playing because Emmett refuses to check.
"I. Saw. Everything. 👀" it says.
"Fuck."
"Welp, I can just kiss the rainforest goodbye, can't I?"
"I knew you were going to get in trouble."
"We're not in trouble until they get back! And you, RC, have another parent who can send you to the Amazon."
"Oh yeah."
"Now, let's keep going."
Emmett holds out his pinky to Bella, who locks hers with his.
"McCarty party?"
"McCarty party!"
Miraculously the entire lawn gets forked ("get it sis?! FORKS!") in the span of five minutes while a teacher visits the bathroom. No one has any idea how it could have gotten done so quickly.
Bella puts on Emmett's clothes and attends his geometry class and Emmett dons Bella's flannel and leggings and goes to her French class.
The worst part for the teachers is that despite the other not being enrolled in that subject at all, they both know all the answers.
They hold a moonwalk contest in PE because "C'mon teach! Basketball is so blasé! Let's do a REAL sport."
It is unclear how they keep getting the teachers to go along with everything but they just... do. Even the teachers in question can not recall why they allowed it.
After school they pop the trunk on Rosalie's car and reveal two coolers full of sodas.
They start passing them out and then they start a giant game of "Concentration" in which the students are all sitting in a giant circle in the middle of the parking lot.
Bella catches a whiff of Edward's scent approaching and shouts "SHIT. FIVE-OH!"
They take off running far too fast for humans, leaving Rosalie and Ness to take the car home
When they get there Bella and Emmett are sitting on the couch with branches stuck to their clothes and hair.
They're both giggling like idiots and trying to school their faces into expressions of innocence.
"Shut UP, you're going to blow this for us!"
"Me?! What about you, Mr. Giggle Pants?!"
In the end, it's decided that they don't have to move away, but that McCarty Parties are strictly prohibited from school grounds.
Good thing they didn't say anything about the empty field where the kegger is happening.
That would have been a real buzzkill.
#twilight#twilight saga#bella swan#twilight renaissance#my writing#twilight fic#emmett cullen#rosalie hale#emmett mccarty#the mccarty twins#ness rc cullen
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You Are My Muse - Chapter 3
Chapter 3 is here! We find out where Thomas got his inspiration for Enveloped Love and I am really looking forward to posting the next chapter!! As always, feedback is welcome! Thanks everyone for reading!! Word count is 1,915.
Tags: @pb-boeboe @alleksa16 @zeniamiii @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @marycarrillo21 @choicesmakemychoices @ajayismybae
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.
I bite my lip and look at the floor. My first day of shooting for Enveloped Love was not going well at all. Thomas has cut filming so many times that I’ve lost count.
“Stephanie, what is it about Alexis that is troubling you?” He has composed himself enough that it doesn’t look like he’s about murder someone.
I look at him, now on the verge of tears. “Everything?”
He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “Let’s take a break,” he looks at his watch, “we’ll resume in an hour.”
Matt pats me on the back sympathetically before he joins the rest of the crew by the catering table.
Feeling like my eyes were about to turn the faucet on, I hurried out of the studio to my trailer.
As soon as I slammed the door shut on my trailer, I fell on the couch burying my face in a pillow. The tears come pouring out and I begin to doubt everything.
I shouldn’t have taken this job. Obviously I’m not cut out for this role and even though I want this so bad, I can’t seem to find myself in Alexis Lively.
I’m failing Thomas, and Matt, and the rest of the crew. They’re going to have to find another female lead because I can’t get my head wrapped around my character.
A knock interrupts my wallowing in self pity.
“Just a second!” I quickly wipe my face and glance in my mirror.
I wipe under my eyes, clearing streaks of mascara and fix the tangles in my hair.
As soon as I look, somewhat presentable, I open my door to find Thomas with two cups in his hands.
He looks me up and down before he frowns slightly.
“I’m fine.” I move to the side, “Come on in.”
He cautiously walks in. I close the door behind him and retreat to the couch once again. He sits next to me, holding out one of the cups.
I take it and raise an eyebrow questionably.
“Vanilla chai tea latte.” He takes a sip from his cup before he leans back against the cushions.
I take a sip and smile at the warmth that goes through my whole body. “Thank you.” I relax and sink further into the couch.
“Stephanie-”
I cut him off before he can say anything else.
“Thomas wait, I think,” I pause. I’m not sure that I want to say this, I mean I’m giving up on something that I fought so hard to get. But, in the grand scheme of things, it’s probably best for everyone. “I think you should find a new Alexis.”
His eyes widen and he sits up straight. “Why would you ever think such a thing?”
My jaw drops, “How can you not think such a thing? We can’t even get through one scene without me screwing something up! I can’t get into her head, I can’t find myself in Alexis Lively. And if I can’t do that, then how am I supposed bring her to life in this movie?”
He sighs and reaches out to take my hand. Even though I feel like complete garbage right now, his touch sets my skin on fire.
“Stephanie, I should have informed you sooner, it would have saved you from all of this frustration.”
My heart starts beating faster. “Informed me of what?”
He looks away, but squeezes my hand. “You are Alexis Lively.”
I furrow my eyebrows. Now I’m completely lost.
He looks back at me, seeing the confusion he continues, “You are my muse, Stephanie. You were my inspiration for Alexis. You are so confident and, forgive me for saying so, a bit headstrong. I just assumed it would be natural for you to take this character and dive right in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I look into his eyes; he looks apologetically at me and squeezes my hand again. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it. Ugh, I’m an idiot.”
I shake my head ruefully. It feels like the whole world has been lifted off my chest.
“You are not an idiot. I am the idiot for not telling you.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “Stephanie, you lit a fire inside of me the first time I saw you come on the screen in Tender Nothing’s. You reminded me what it looks like to have the passion this industry so desperately needs and once I met you, I knew I had to work with you. You have rekindled a desire inside of me to write and revise scripts again, something that I lost for quite some time. You truly are my muse and my inspiration, and I love you with all of my heart.”
He kisses the back of my hand and I feel tears welling up in my eyes, again.
“Thomas, you mean the world to me, and to know that you feel that way about me, it–thank you.” I’m speechless, to have Thomas Hunt say that about me means so much. “You and I have been through so much together these past four months, but I always feel safe with you and somehow I always know that we’ll make it through whatever gets thrown at us.”
He squeezes my hand again and smiles at me. “You have taken so much flak from the media about our relationship but your confidence never wavers and if anything, your love for me only increases. I often feel like I am unworthy of you and I know you deserve better.”
I roll my eyes.
“If anything, I don’t deserve you. You have been my rock and protector. You have taught me so much Thomas, and you’re always there when I need you.” I smile at him.
A single tear rolls down my cheek. He releases my hand and wipes it away.
“I must thank you for being the light of my world, Ms. Park.” His hand caresses my cheek.
I place my cup on the side table and curl my legs under me on the couch. Thomas sets his drink aside, too. I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me and I lay my head against his chest.
“Would you still like me to find a different Alexis?”
His teasing makes me laugh.
“I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it.”
He chuckles and runs a hand through my hair.
“Perhaps I could, persuade you?”
I look up to see a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leans down, our lips are nearly touching.
“It will take a lot of persuading.” I pucker my lips up so they are touching his. “I mean, there isn’t much going for this movie. The director is a hard a–”
He cuts me off. His lips finally devour mine. We fall back on the couch completely, with me on top of him. He pulls back and trails kisses down my neck, something he knows that I love. I tilt my head to give him full access and I feel him smile against my skin. He pauses for a moment, so I take the opportunity to pepper his jaw with kisses. I reach his lips again and smile into the kiss.
“I love you, Thomas Hunt.”
“I love you, too, Stephanie Park.”
***
The next month of filming went great. After Thomas and I had our heart to heart, I have been able to be Alexis and bring her to life on the screen.
Away from the studio, the media finally got wind that I took Apricott’s place after she quit. Of course, they accused me of forcing Apricott out so I could get the role, but thankfully she backed me again. Now, Leland St. James wants Thomas and I to do an interview. A segment about Enveloped Love and my relationship with Thomas.
“Is it necessary for us to do this?” Thomas scowled as he slipped a jet black jacket over a crisp white shirt.
Today he wasn’t sporting a tie or his usual vest, and if it’s possible, I find him even more attractive.
“Well, Leland is a friendly host and I actually enjoy going on his show. So, if you love me, you will do it.” I smile at him while I put some diamond earrings on. I glance around the, now empty, dressing room that we are in.
“Fine. But I am only doing this for you.”
I grab my necklace off the makeup table and unclasp it. He notices and walks over to me.
“Allow me.” He moves behind me, so close that I can feel his chest against my back.
I pull my hair off to the side. “You know I love any chance to show you off to the world, so you should be flattered.”
He secures the necklace around my neck and places his hands on my exposed shoulders. I feel his lips on the back of my neck.
“Perhaps I would rather just stay at home, with you, instead of being thronged by the public.”
I laugh. “Thronged? Stop being so dramatic.”
“We can still sneak out. I believe I saw an exit right outside this dressing room.”
“Thomas, why are you so worried about this interview? It’s not like you’ve never been on t.v. before.”
He scoffs. “I am not worried.”
I turn around to face him. I narrow my eyes when I see his face. He actually looks nervous, his cheeks are flushed and he averts his gaze away from mine.
“You realize that I can read you like a book right?” I reach up and kiss his neck.
He sighs and rests a hand on my hip. “You know that I am a private person, especially when it comes to my personal relationships. I will never feel comfortable speaking to the whole world about us.”
I look up at him. His dark brown eyes are full of worry.
“It’s not like we are going to tell everyone, everything. We’ve been together for almost six months, you had to know that eventually people would start asking questions.”
He smiles at me and moves his hand from my hip to my cheek. His thumb traces my cheekbone while he speaks. “I find it hard to believe that it has been almost six months. Time has gone by much faster than I expected.”
I smile back at him. “Agreed.”
He kisses me softly and tangles a hand in my hair.
A knock makes us break apart.
“Show starts in five minutes!”
I grab Thomas’ hand and intertwine my fingers with his.
“We can do this.” I give his hand a squeeze as he opens the door for me.
Once we were standing behind the stage waiting for Leland to call us out, Thomas looks down at me, tenderly brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
He leans down and brushes a kiss on my cheek.
“I want you all to give Thomas Hunt and Stephanie Park a warm welcome!” Leland’s chipper voice rings out.
I see out of the corner of my eye Thomas take a deep breath.
I reach up and kiss his cheek.
“I love you and we’re doing this together.”
“I love you more.” He pushes the curtain to the side and holds his arm out.
I rest my hand in the crook of his arm and we walk onto the stage to a roaring applause.
#thomas hunt#thomas hunt fanfiction#thomas orson hunt#mc x thomas hunt#hunt x mc#professor hunt#red carper diaries#rcd#choices rcd#playchoices#choices
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Gate Keeper part five
Masterlist
Summary: Some say it’s not the journey that matters, but the destination. The destination justifies the journey. However, for him, the hunt was much more pleasurable than the meal.
A/N: Y’ALL I NEED JESUS. I’m sorry for any typos. It was well passed midnight when I posted this. I will edit later today!
Word count: 2936
Warnings: kissing, sexual tension, touching, smut (not saying exactly what), language.
Pairings: Tom Hiddleston x reader
(Tags at the end)
If you want to be added to the tag list, drop by my ask!
You woke up to the smell of coffee, the rich smell disturbing the sweet sleep you’d drifted into. Sun rays cracked through your lids as you turned in bed, feeling the plush pillow under your head. When you opened your eyes completely, you stared at the grey curtains and the white walls, the unfamiliar bed which you were laying in. With a groan, you sat up, the chilly air hitting your bare upper body. You slowly covered yourself with the grey sheet, looking side to side.
You remembered suddenly where you were and why you were here. Your brows rose slowly, a sly smile stretching on your lips. Oh.
A coffee mug was awaiting you on the nightstand. Again, a warm smile spread on your lips as your brought the warm cup up to your lips, inhaling the rich and mouthwatering scent of coffee. You took a sip, indulging in the taste, letting it warm your insides. As you sipped on your coffee, you noticed the black bath robe carefully placed at the foot of the bed.
When you got to your feet, the chilly air made goosebumps rise on your bare skin. You wrapped the silky robe around your shoulders, tying it at the waist. The was a sour feeling at the back of your mind, in which you wondered who this robe belonged to. It was obviously a feminine robe, and fit you almost perfectly.
You realized you’d never thought about Tom’s past or what he did when he wasn’t at work. You never gave a thought to what you were to him. There were possibilities that he was married, or he had a girlfriend. There were possibilities so endless that you didn’t want to dwell on them, because you knew that the more you thought about it, the more it would make you uneasy. Yet it was something you needed to discuss.
You wondered into the living room, holding the coffee cup to your chest. Tom was sitting on the couch with his back to you, reading the newspaper. He cocked his head to the side when he sensed your presence, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth.
“Morning, darling,” he rasped, returning to stare at the newspaper. You padded across the cold wooden floor to come sit on the lazy boy on his left. You fidgeted with the lose fabric on the hand rest, unable to meet his eye. When you did finally take a peak at him, he was smiling, staring at the newspaper like the funniest joke was written on the paper. He was wearing a black dress shirt and a red tie, the contrast being quite shocking to you.
“Thanks for the coffee,” you mumbled, taking the last sip of it and placing the empty mug on the coffee table.
“Did you sleep comfortably?” he asked, his blue gaze finding yours. You slept like a rock, unable to remember a thing about your sleep.
“I did.”
He got up suddenly, folding the newspaper and smoothing down his tie. You opened your mouth to ask him something about his life, something personal that could give you something to go on. Yet he beat you to it. “I’ve dry cleaned your clothes and I will drive you to school,” he said, heading to the kitchen with your empty mug. “You should get dressed. You’ll be late for school.”
True to his word, he drove you to school in utter silence. Your bravery to ask him some questions had vanished with the tension in the car. He was almost white-knuckling the wheel, his jaw clenched. You kept your hands between your knees, your eyes on the road. When his SUV rolled into the parking lot of your college, you all but ran out of the car. Before you could close the door, he turned to give you a small smile.
“Can I pick you up tonight?” he asked, his brows raising slightly on his forehead. You bit your lip, nodding slowly, unable to read the emotions written on his features.
Your day passed in a blur. All you could think of was Tom and his stupid face when he asked you to meet again tonight. Your stomach was in a twist, your thoughts shambles and broken pieces of assuming this and assuming that. Classes went by without you noticing, your notepad staying empty, your eyes staring out the window in wonder. You wanted to know more about him, to know where this was going, and if you should be preparing for some pain later tonight.
You went home straight after school, your dorm feeling empty and unused, bathing and changing into jeans and a black shirt. Planning to do homework, you opened some books and your computer, but everything remained empty. Thoughts pushed and stumbled in your brain, your mind constantly occupied with Tom. Even after you basically yelled at yourself to do homework, you found yourself staring out the window, deep in thought.
Somewhere around eight, you heard a horn outside your window. You all but rushed to the window, your heart jolting in your chest. Sure enough, it was Tom’s black SUV waiting for you by the entrance of your dorm. Picking up some extra clothes in case you stayed the night again, you jumped down the stairs until you were standing in the chilly air of the night, your hair in a tousle, your mouth parted.
The window slid down to reveal Tom, who was sporting a sly smirk, in the same black blouse and red tie. He was looking incredibly good, his hair crazy and his eyes alight with something you’d never seen before. “Get in,” he said. You crept into the car slowly, sceptic about his sudden burst of happiness.
You found yourself back at his condo in no time, standing in the familiar grey and white kitchen. You stood beside the island in the kitchen, watching him pour two cups of steaming tea. He’d remained silent during the car ride, but now his stares were daring you to speak first, to ask the questions that had burned you this morning.
“Tom I-“
“I know you have questions,” he interrupted, offering you a cup of tea, his face falling into a serious expression. “You can ask them. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
You gulped, not expecting that response at all. Staring at him with wide eyes, a lump in your throat, you sipped on your tea. “Tell me where this is going, Tom,” you said.
He winced very visibly, and your heart fell. “Y/N, I have no idea,” he mumbled, his eyes searching yours for any type of emotion. “I’m hoping we can figure this out along the way.”
As you took another sip, he rounded the counter, his eyes never leaving your face. “Do you have any other women in your life at the moment?” The crucial question that had burned you all day. You could feel your face getting warm, the embarrassment clear in your eyes.
“Are you worried that you have to share me, Y/N?” he asked, a hint of a smile in his voice. He stepped a little closer, setting his half-drunk tea mug on the counter.
“I just want to know, Tom,” you insisted.
He reached for your waist, his hands gentle as he turned you to face him. His eyes were hard, irises blown, his lips red and waiting. “I’m yours, Y/N,” he whispered. He leaned in extremely slow, his eyes asking silent permission. Then his lips brushed yours gently, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, sending fire along your flesh.
You could feel your heart swelling in your chest. “I’m yours and you are mine,” he murmured against your lips. You let him ravage your mouth once again, his tongue dancing with yours intimately.
He took the cup from your hands and set it on the counter, his lips still moving against yours, his hands finding home on your waist. He dragged you along with him, nipping at your mouth, moving his lips down to your jaw, making soft moans escape your throat. “Do you want me to make you feel good?” he asked, his lips trailing down your throat, leaving a trail of wetness.
“Uh-huh.” You whined against his mouth when he returned his lips to yours, his hands tangling in your hair.
Once again, you found yourselves in his room, lips and bodies crushed to one another. Hands splayed under your shirt, lifting it over your shoulders until you were bare to him. His burning gaze found your bare breasts, his eyes marveling at the creamy flesh, fingers skimming over your pebbled nipples. His eyes found yours, breathing heavily, a beautiful smile stretching his lips.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he breathed catching your lips with his once again. Your hands found his tie, pulling until you could unbutton his blouse and swiftly slide it over his shoulders. Your name tumbled from his lips as you knelt with courage you didn’t know you possessed. You looked up, Tom’s mouth parted, breathing heavily. Passing a hand along his erection through his pants, smiling when a guttural moan ripped from his mouth. You began to work quickly on his belt, and pulled down his dress pants until he could step out of them.
He was straining against his boxers, a tiny wet spot on the fabric signaling he was more than ready. You took him out of his boxers, the warmth of his shaft burning against your hand. The tip of his cock was glistening, red with want and need, a prominent vein under his shaft. You gave him a couple pumps of your hand, spreading precum along the tip, until you wrapped your lips around it and sucked. A hiss passed through his lips, his hands gripping your hair painfully. He was resisting the urge to thrust himself into your mouth, his hands shaking in your hair.
You took him in further, hollowing in your cheeks ad humming, the vibration making curses tumble from his mouth. You bobbed your head once, twice, three times until he was completely groaning your name, his lips parted, his hands gripping the roots of your hair. He was starting to near the back of your throat, his hips moving on their own, jerking whenever you swiped your tongue along his shaft.
“Get up,” he breathed, using his grip on your hair to draw himself out of your mouth with a wet pop.
You obeyed, getting to your feet, your eyes meeting his. Your lips were blood red, glistening with his arousal, your chest was heaving. He spun you around until you were falling backwards onto the bed, giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Behave,” he grumbled, his hands jerking your pants until they were sliding down your calves and onto the floor. Your panties were soaking wet, just from listening to him groan, having his thick shaft sliding against your lips. He hadn’t even touched you yet and there was already a dark, wet spot on your panties. When his eyes made contact with your dripping crotch, he looked up at you and smirked mischievously.
He slid the damp material of your panties down your thighs, his eyes still staring at you, mouth parted in anticipation. Now you were completely bare. “Be a good girl, now, Y/N,” he said, kissing the inside of your ankle, dragging his lips along your flesh until he reached your knee. He knelt so he was now face to face with your cunt, your ass hanging slightly off the edge of the bed. His breath was warming your dripping skin, his teasing making you wiggle your hips slightly.
He pressed soft kisses on the gentle skin of your thighs until he reached your wet skin, flicking his tongue on the sensitive nub of your clit. A whine left your lips, your hands finding home in his tangled hair. He gripped your hips to keep you in place, using his tongue to spread you open, licking your arousal into his mouth. You were a moaning and whining mess by the time his mouth began sucking on your clit, his index teasing your entrance.
“Fuck me, Tom,” you breathed, back arching off the bed when he glided his finger inside of you, curving it to hit the spot inside of you that made you almost scream.
“Not until you cum for me, baby,” he murmured against you, returning his wet and warm tongue to your clit, his finger pumping in and out at a steady pace. You could feel the warmth in the pit of your abdomen grow, his tongue and his finger getting you there pretty quickly. You were moaning his name, gripping the roots of his hair, back arching off the bed. His tongue was swirling and suckling on your clit, as he added a second finger, the feeling of being full bringing you closer to the edge.
“Tom!” you whined, your legs squeezing around his head, his hand pushing against your left thigh to keep it spread.
Stars exploded behind your lids, a loud moan echoing in the quite room. Pleasure tingled along your flesh, Tom riding out your orgasm with his mouth, his fingers still pumping in and out of you. You came hard on his mouth, clenching around his fingers, his name tumbling from your mouth with a strain of curses. When you were a complete mess, eyes closed and whining lowly in your throat, Tom got to his feet.
“Up on the bed, baby,” he rasped, climbing on top of you as you both wiggled higher into the bed. He settled comfortably between your thighs, the tip of his cock poking at your sensitive core. His hand reached for your cheek, his thumb rubbing your jaw. When you opened your eyes, he was frowning slightly, concern written on his features. You reached for him and crushed you lips to his, simultaneously tasting yourself on his mouth. This seemed to make him relax, his unknown burst of concern vanishing.
He dragged the tip of his cock along your wet folds, enticing a whine from your lips. He grabbed your left leg and pushed it against your chest, giving him more access, as he slid into your heat. You both let out guttural moans, his girth stretching you out like you’d never been stretched out before. His free hand tangled in your hair, his face falling into the crook of your shoulder. “Fuck, Y/N,” he moaned, hips rolling until he had sunken into you to the hilt.
He settled into a steady rhythm, snapping his hips to yours, plunging into you until he’d bottomed out. Your moans echoed in his ear, nails raking the skin of his back. You could feel the start of another orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, your legs wrapped around his waist, enticing him to go deeper and hitting the spot inside of you that could make you scream.
He was suddenly flipping you onto your stomach, your legs spread wide, ass up and offered to his for the taking. He gave your ass a quick and sharp smack, holding you down by pressing his hand on your middle back, plunging back into you. In this position, with your head hidden in the pillow, he was hitting a much more pleasurable spot inside you. Using your hip as leverage, he was slamming into you, the snug feeling of your cunt clenching around him making him groan. “You’re taking me so well, baby,” he groaned, snapping his hips until he was stretching you out completely. “You’re so fucking good.”
He was driving you closer and closer to your second orgasm, your moans muffled by the pillow, your hands fisted in the sheets. Your name tumbled from his mouth endlessly, as he chased his own end, gripping your hip to slam into you. “Do you want to cum, baby?” he breathed, slowing down ever the slightest to catch your response, which was a breathy whine. “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice husky. You looked back, rising on your elbows, watching as his lust blown eyes widened, his mouth parted.
“Tom,” you whined, feeling your end coming, clenching around his cock, legs trembling on the bed. He fucked you until you were screaming into the pillow, until stars erupted behind your lids. He slammed into you until you were cumming hard on his cock, clenching tightly around him, back arching and moans falling from your lips. He continued to pump into you until you were shaking, your cunt sensitive and tight, clenching around him until your name fell from his lips in a groan, and you felt hot cum coat your walls.
He was breathing hard, still gripping your hips, his chest glistening with sweat. You were peaking at him between strands of hair, the beauty of his after-sex look blowing your mind. He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, the low light coming from the window reflecting on his chest.
You were shy almost as you leaned over, still on your stomach and elbows, and pecked his mouth. He chuckled lowly in his chest, the sound warming your stomach. He kissed you back, his hand reaching for the back of your neck to pull you closer.
“Does this satisfy you, darling?” he breathed, tangling his hand in the mess of your hair. You frowned, biting your lower lip in contemplation. “Does this prove to you that I am yours and you are mine?”
You preferred not to trust your voice. Instead you crushed your lips to his, holding him close.
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i know you [i walked with you once upon a dream]: five
Post-1x16 canon divergence. When Lucy Preston, a history professor at Stanford University, is visited by a strange man who tells her that her entire world is a lie, she is drawn into a mystery more dangerous than she could have dreamed, and a hunt for a past she can’t remember. But who, or what, is she going to find – or lose – along the way?
chapter four/AO3
Wyatt Logan’s first impression of the place is that it looks like a huge blue aquarium with the water drained out, walls of glass for the crowds to press in and gawk, the trained whales doing tricks for their captors and everyone hoping you don’t spend too long thinking about whether this is, strictly speaking, entirely ethical. He’s been rousted out of bed (well, the couch, with the TV still on and droning SportsCenter) and driven here, while the person on the other end of the phone had that harried sound to their voice that usually means a VIP was shot or a building blown up. They said they needed him, and they said they needed him ASAP. He might be on leave, but he’s still Delta Force. No choice but to pull on his pants, grab a Red Bull, and go.
Now, as Wyatt’s shown into the conference room and shakes hands with a lot of identity-badged government types, surreptitiously checking his breath to make sure it doesn’t smell too much like alcohol and biting his tongue on the questions that he knows won’t get an answer. Yet, at any rate. This has all the hallmarks of a rapid-response mission debrief, and while it might be good to get his head back in the game, Wyatt can’t help but wonder why they picked him. His last review with the Pendleton brass ended with the gentle but pointed recommendation that he could use some time away from the service. They know the thing with Jessica has been hard. (Hah. They know it’s been hard.) So he’s been doing – not a whole hell of a lot. Sports talk shows. Cheap beer. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the wall. Maybe a mission is just what he needs.
The rest of the government types make their entrance, along with Connor Mason, the smarmy British CEO of the company whose premises Homeland Security seems to have swiped. Wyatt’s heard of these guys. They were just in the paper for some big cutting-edge engineering project. He glances at Mason’s assistant or techie or whatever he is, who he vaguely remembers in the haze of hurried introductions as Rufus, Rufus Carlin. Wyatt has a momentarily impulse to wave to him. He clenches his fist until it goes away.
The security shades are lowered, and the briefing starts. As Wyatt guessed, it’s indeed a mission, and moreover, they are quite insistent on it being him who does it. He charitably holds back from the obvious objections this raises, but when they get to the main problem, he can’t. “What? Are you serious? You’re trying to apprehend a terrorist suspect, and your big plan is to send an untrained woman, an unarmed civilian, in with just a GPS tracker by herself? No wonder she got kidnapped! I’m shocked she didn’t get killed!”
“Mr. Logan, given the intelligence available, and the particularity of the situation, we considered the options and decided it was the best available.”
Wyatt whistles. “Wow. I really don’t want to know what the others were then, do I? Chickens on fire? A big sign telling any terrorists to stand with their hands up until the cops got there?”
“We realize that on face value, this was a risk.” The agent looks cool, as if they’re not going to sit here and be questioned by him. “However – ”
“I’m not asking all of you to think like special ops – and for that matter, I would have been raked over the coals and booted out on the spot if I’d suggested that plan to a superior with a straight face. I am not even asking you to be highly trained risk managers. I’m asking whether it ever occurred to you for one fucking second that this was like giving an angry baboon a Tommy gun: that the outcome was both terrible and idiotically avoidable.”
“Mr. Logan, we made a decision – ”
“Stupid,” Wyatt says. “Let’s be clear. You made a stupid decision.”
Rufus Carlin coughs. It sounds as if it might be intended to conceal a laugh. Whatever, Wyatt didn’t come here to be the Jon Stewart of late-night security crises, but he’s really not in the mood for this. It almost sounds like a bad joke, since surely no credible intelligence agency would have made that decision with a straight face. It would only remotely have a chance of working if there was a personal connection of some sort between the suspect and the victim, if they could set it up as a sting. But if this woman knows terrorists on enough of a familiar basis to make her an option to catch one, why haven’t they –
“Do I even get to know who she is?” Wyatt asks. “This woman that you clowns decided to dangle out for bait?”
Glances are exchanged. They seem to be debating it. Then one says, “Her name is Dr. Lucy Preston. She’s a history professor at Stanford.”
Wyatt’s heart inexplicably skips a beat. They click a photo up onto the screen, and yes, it’s her, the brunette he met the other night, being hassled by more of these award-winning geniuses. Or at least, he thinks it might have been them, since all the sunglasses-and-suits types look alike. He did flash them his Army ID card, so that might be backfiring on him now, if they are having their revenge by making him clean up their messes. Damned if he knows how that works, but still. For some reason he wasn’t prepared for and doesn’t understand, this catches him off guard. If it’s Lucy – Dr. Preston – who’s been snatched by this weirdo, Wyatt isn’t quite as disinterested in the whole clusterfuck as he was a moment ago. Hell if he knows why.
“Ah,” he says, doing his best to sound neutral. “And who has her?”
“His name,” says the lead agent, the beefy, bearded one who Wyatt recalls as Neville, Jake Neville, “is Flynn.”
Wyatt, for an even more baffling instant, is convinced he knows exactly who that is. Has an odd memory of sitting in an apartment, talking to a woman, telling her that the man was a Russian spy – only for him to see Flynn (was it Flynn?) outside, jabbing something into a boy’s arm. He thought it was poison, some kind of drug or other malicious substance, but it turned out to be epinephrine. Saved the kid from dying of an allergic reaction to the bee sting, said something to the woman, and jumped off the balcony. Wyatt got a few shots off at him, but he managed to drive away. Car. Black car. Kind of vintage-looking. Why does this memory feel – not quite present? Aside from the fact that it’s not even a memory, seeing as it never happened, and it’s strong enough to make Wyatt rub his eyes and briefly wonder if he fell asleep, had some kind of intense and localized dream. What the hell.
“And,” he says after a moment, realizing they’re looking at him, “you want me to go after him. Again. By myself. Because either you don’t have enough of a budget to pay for more than one operative on your exfil missions, or there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Would you say you’re familiar with Mr. Flynn? Or Dr. Preston?”
Wyatt opens his mouth to say no, of course he isn’t, but something stops him. It’s at the least unfair to Lucy (Dr. Preston, he reminds himself again, he doesn’t know the woman) to let her suffer for the total incompetence of the feds, and he’d kind of like to have a clear shot at this jackoff himself, even if he doesn’t know why. And while they’d again be sending only one person to deal with a clearly dangerous man, a trained Delta Force operative is not the same as an unarmed academic when it comes to such things. Wyatt can’t believe he’s considering it, when thirty minutes ago this sounded like the worst idea he’d ever heard, but. . .
“So what?” he says abruptly. “I get on the plane to Paris, you drop me in, I find these two, I rescue her – what are my orders in regard to him?”
More glances. Then Agent Neville says, “Frankly, Mr. Logan, we would normally issue kill-on-sight instructions for this man. What he has done, and what he will do – there’s no room for any wishy-washy hand-wringing about it. He deserves to die. But as it happens, we need him alive.”
“Questioning?” That one’s pretty obvious. “You really think you’re gonna make him talk?”
Neville smiles, a bit unpleasantly. “Oh, I think we could, if we put our minds to it.”
Wyatt looks away. He has captured suspects before with the implicit knowledge that they’ll be submitted to “extraordinary rendition” or “enhanced interrogation” or whatever Orwellian gobbledygook they’re calling it these days, and he also knows that as a soldier, you don’t enlist because you think you’ll always have the luxury of accepting missions that you are personally morally comfortable with. Flynn is clearly dangerous, he’s on the run in Paris with Lucy (Wyatt gives up trying to call her Dr. Preston in his head) and frankly, right now, if the brass says jump, Wyatt has to ask how high. He can tell this is a test. They’re sending him, and only him, because if he fails, they’ll have all the excuse they need to chuck him out permanently. Dishonorable discharge, no pension. Good luck getting a civilian job after over fifteen years in the service, training for classified missions and serving in conflict zones. And something more. Something else. Whatever is happening when he had those bizarre flashes of non-memory, and his conviction that he knows these people – knows both of them – better than he understands.
Wyatt takes a moment to consider all this. He’s not in a huge rush to accept, but he also can tell that it’s going to get finicky for him, fast, if he refuses. What exactly does he have to go back to? A sagging sofa crumbled with corn chips and more bad dreams about Jessica? At least this way he’s doing something. At least this way he doesn’t feel completely and irredeemably useless.
They look at him. They seem to be waiting on his answer.
Wyatt blows out a breath. There are still any number of sardonic comments to be made about him saving their asses from their own breathtaking stupidity, but he also senses that they aren’t going to help him very much. Lucy is probably tied up in some squalid basement with a lunatic. He gets her safe. Then he worries about Flynn.
“Fine,” he says. Shrugs. “Bonjour, Paris.”
--------------
Lucy is, in fact, sitting on a narrow bed in a garret that looks like a poet or three definitely died of consumption here in the nineteenth century, waiting for Flynn to get back with dinner – she ordered him that if he was going to haul her off, he was at least going to feed her. He gave her a black look, but complied, and has been gone for the last thirty minutes in search of takeout. She wonders if he’s been captured; they have to have put out an alert for him across the city. She isn’t sure if she wants that to have happened or not.
She wanders to the grimy window, judging the possibility of opening it and escaping across the rooftops, but it’s three stories down to the alley below, she doesn’t want to take chances climbing out as she is known to not be the most graceful or coordinated person in the world, and she isn’t sure where she’d go even if she did. Besides, she hasn’t endured this much hassle, most of it caused by him, to just turn and leave when potential answers might finally be in her grasp. It’s possible he is in fact going to hurt her, but for better or worse, she doesn’t get that sense. Hurt everyone else, yes, and gladly. Not her. This doesn’t make him a good man, or a safe one. But at the moment, he is the best, and possibly the only, choice she has.
Just to be sure, she checks the door. It is assuredly still locked. She isn’t planning on hanging around if he turns rabid, but she’ll have to think of a good plan later. Instead she stands by the window, affecting casualness, as the city gets dark outside and the lights come on. It’d be beautiful, if she wasn’t, you know. Where she was.
At last, the key finally rattles, the door bumps and creaks open with a shower of dust, and Flynn ducks through, slamming it behind him. When he’s ensured it’s locked, he throws a bag at her, which Lucy just manages to catch. “There,” he says, sounding put-upon. “Dinner.”
“Can’t just kidnap a woman in peace, can you?” Lucy says coldly. It smells delicious, but she doesn’t want to tear into it too quickly, even though she’s starving. “This is such an inconvenience for you, isn’t it?”
He actually looks surprised, and for a moment, slightly ashamed. Then he shrugs. “You aren’t a prisoner, Lucy. As I told you ninety years ago in this same city. You’re welcome to leave if you want. But I don’t think you will.”
“Ninety years ago – ?”
He shrugs again, jimmying the ancient light switch until it pops on. “1927. We were here. You talked me into letting Charles Lindbergh live, see if he could change. He still ended up being a dick. So in case you were wondering, you were wrong about that.”
Lucy stares at him. Any possible response to this statement – well, there really isn’t any possible response to that statement. “Yeah,” she says at last. “I spent a lot of time wondering if I talked you out of murdering Charles Lindbergh in 1927.”
Flynn sits down on the creaky chair across from her. He’s so tall that they’re still almost eye to eye, and she folds her arms involuntarily, wanting some air of authority, however feigned. “You really didn’t read the file?”
“Was I supposed to have time while you were stealing a scooter, breaking into a bakery, and shooting at government agents?” Lucy finally sits as well, back on the bed, opening the bag and pulling out whatever savory-smelling item is inside. “Or didn’t that come until later?”
Flynn has the grace to look slightly chagrined, though that isn’t very much. “Have you figured it out?” he says instead. “Smart woman like you?”
“Maybe.” Lucy looks at him stonily. “You not only think we know each other, you think we’re some sort of – I don’t know what. A bit like. . . time travelers.”
“Actually,” Flynn says, with the air of someone commenting on the weather. “Exactly like time travelers.”
Lucy blinks. “And you just – what? Tell people that?”
“You’re the one interested in preserving your precious past, Lucy. Not me.”
“It’s not my precious past!” Good god, this man is the most confounding and frustrating person she has ever met, which she is swiftly remembering (and regretting) after her decision to try to get information out of him. “It’s just. . . history!”
“History,” Flynn says, “can be changed.”
“How?”
He eyes her, as if wondering how much trouble he is actually going to go to in order to explain this. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few folded sheets of paper – which, when Lucy opens it, proves to be a photocopy of some kind of handwritten book. Some kind of handwritten book that looks like. . . her handwriting.
“The journal itself doesn’t exist any more,” Flynn says, by way of apparent (non)-explanation. “You never had any reason to write it. But I copied some of it before I went, and. . . that’s the basic gist of it. Are you going to tell me that none of it is at all familiar?”
Lucy stares at it. She can’t deny that it does look like her handwriting, and he is watching her impatiently, as if they’ve done this already once before and he wants to just skip to the part where she believes him. Names leap out at her from the page. Mason Industries. Mothership. Lifeboat. Garcia Flynn. Wyatt Logan. Rufus Carlin.
Rittenhouse.
“So,” she says at last, when she’s reasonably confident her voice will be level. “That’s your big story. That Mason Industries invented a time machine – two time machines, actually. You stole one of them – why doesn’t that part surprise me? – and Wyatt Logan, Rufus Carlin, and I used the other one to try to stop you from taking down all of history.”
“Not history,” Flynn says flatly. “Rittenhouse.”
“Right. Creepy secret society. Your mortal enemy.” Lucy looks at him with that same flatness. “I’ll admit,” she says at last, “that if you were going to make up that story, you’d probably put a more favourable spin on it for yourself. But you have to know this sounds utterly deranged.”
“I’m not interested in arguing about whether it’s true, Lucy. It is. You know the part in the stories when magic starts happening, where the token rational character insists that there’s some normal explanation for what’s going on, that there’s nothing out of the ordinary? That everyone else is just making things up? You know how that character is always wrong?” His eyes are dark as two pits, depthless. “How about we just agree that you skip that part?”
“But – ”
“Let me guess,” Flynn says. “You’ve been having strange memories about Houston,1969. About thinking you were there, that you had something to do with the moon landing, even as that scholar’s brain of yours tells you that you hadn’t. And either 1754 or 1934. Maybe, at a stretch, 1972 or 1893.”
Lucy stares at him again. “How did you – ”
“Because that’s where it’s started to split.” He considers her, weighing his words. “In the middle. I destroyed the Mothership, as you said I could. It turns out that this was a bad idea on both our parts. It reset it to the timeline where none of this had technically happened, but it built in so much paradox that it’s starting to happen anyway. The changes we made are bursting back into existence randomly, like cluster bombs. We can’t be sure when or where they’ll hit – or who. And if you care about your sister, you’re going to help me find a way to stop it.”
Lucy’s spine stiffens. “If you’re threatening Amy – ”
“I’m not threatening her!” Flynn looks completely exasperated. “I’m warning you that in the new existence, the one that came about as the result of our meddling, she was gone! She was never born, and my wife and daughter were dead! You already said that Lorena vanished. It could be that she’s already just. . . gone, and there’s no getting her back.” A muscle works in his cheek. He does look genuinely frantic. “If the timeline remembered that she was supposed to be dead – don’t you see? Your sister could be the next to go! Just like that.”
Lucy is thoroughly rattled. She likewise should have a logical answer for this, but she doesn’t. “But my. . .” she says at last, faintly. “My sister exists. She’s a person, she’s real, she’s here. How can she just. . . not?”
“I don’t know.” Flynn stares at the ceiling, bleak and drained. “But it happened before. She was gone. And the only thing you wanted was to get her back, the same way I wanted nothing more than to save my wife and child. If you wait until she’s gone again this time, it’ll be too late.”
Lucy has absolutely nothing to say to that. So this is what he wants: for them to join forces to stop their respective loved ones from vanishing in a puff of unsustainable spatial-temporal paradox, thanks to changes to history that they themselves made with the aid of a time machine. Cracked, of course, does not begin to cover it. And it would be difficult enough if they were ordinary people. Wanted fugitives from God knows how many federal agencies, with the added complication of whoever he thinks these Rittenhouse people are. . . Lucy can’t think of any feasible way to pull it off. As well, she’s a historian, not a quantum physicist. She can advise on the general facts of the past, but for putting up the hood and tinkering with the engine. . . yeah, she’s lost on that. There’s still no scrap of proof for his story, either, and she represses the academic’s urge to ask for it, for a citation, for empirical, verifiable evidence. She’s scrawled it on her students’ papers all the time. Show me where the text supports this argument.
They remain staring at each other for an excruciating moment longer. She again has to concede that she doesn’t know why he would make this up. It does look like her handwriting in the photocopy, and everything he’s known about the unreality of her reality. . . that nagging feeling that something is out of place, that things are out of order and memories can’t be counted on. It does exactly match the version she got from Lorena, about what Flynn told her, so if he is a delusional liar, at least he’s a consistent one. Agent Christopher did use the word “unprecedented” when talking about whatever he wants to do.
What the hell.
Lucy remains irresolute a split second more. Then at last, she looks at him straight. “Fine,” she says quietly. “What do we do?”
Given Flynn’s apparent predilection for kidnapping and grand theft larceny, she shouldn’t be too surprised that the answer involves this, and it also doesn’t, to her ears, sound like much of a plan. He says that one of the rules of time travel (cool, Lucy thinks, good to know there are rules) is that you can’t travel on your own timeline, go back to anywhere you’ve already been, so you have to be indirect about changing things. Can’t just pop back five minutes before and get a do-over on that bad day or anything else. He’s confident, however, that a scientist of sufficient genius, if given a sufficient incentive, could create a one-time loophole to circumvent this. All he needs to do is reverse the decision to destroy the Mothership, so reality is allowed to proceed more or less as it was, with the possibility for the changes to exist harmoniously with the new timeline. That way, they still have their loved ones, but they don’t put so much stress on the space-time continuum that it threatens to snap at any moment and erase them. Everyone wins.
“Really?” Lucy repeats skeptically. “Which scientist?”
“Rufus.” Flynn looks at her as if it’s surprising she needs to ask.
“And what? How do we get him?”
“I grab him, of course!”
“What? No!” Lucy glares at him. “I did not agree to help you hurt people!”
“I wouldn’t hurt him. Just borrow him until he figures it out.”
“Your kind of borrowing is known as kidnapping!” Lucy puts her hands on her hips. “After you caused enough of a mess fiddling around with reality and the Mothership and putting strain on the timeline, as well as kidnapping people, your solution is to – put more strain on the timeline and kidnap more people? No!”
“You agreed to help me, Lucy.” His voice is low, almost a growl. “Help me.”
“Not like this.” Lucy regards him defiantly. “Think of a better plan.”
Flynn is inordinately frustrated by this principled stance, wheeling away with a curse. “It’s going to be dangerous enough if we bring the Mothership back. Or – ”
“Or what?” Lucy flashes back. “You’ll steal it again?”
Flynn looks as if he is very much regretting buying her dinner earlier. Good. She hopes he’s regretting a whole lot. “I am,” he says after a moment, clearly doing his best to keep his voice level, “trying to think of something that will do what we need to, as efficiently as possible. There’s still the Lifeboat, even if it doesn’t currently work. Get Rufus to create enough of a loophole for us to use it to reverse the decision to destroy the Mothership. This time we’ll just blow its controls and CPU, so it’s useless, rather than eradicate it entirely. Nobody even has to die this time. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Nobody has to die this time?” Lucy repeats. “As opposed to what, all the other times?”
Flynn waves a hand impatiently. “Nobody anyone would miss.”
“I’m not sure you get to make that call.”
“What, and you do?” He paces to the window, peers out, and pulls his gun from his jacket, checking that it’s loaded, which is not the most comforting action for a still-probably-crazy man holding you technically captive to undertake. Even if Lucy doesn’t think he’ll use it on her, that doesn’t rule it out on anyone who might try to interrupt. Someone has to be looking for her. You’d hope so, at least. That after all the fuss and furor and the fact that Flynn snatched her when she was supposed to be the reason they snatched him, there has to be some beating of feet involved to get her back. The question, though, is whether she’s going to let them.
Lucy can’t believe she’s actually, genuinely thinking about helping Flynn, but it’s clear enough that something is going on, Lorena did vanish, and she’d rather not take chances. She thinks wryly that it might be far easier for her to suggest non-murdery alternatives if she knew for a fact that this was actually real and not just his extensive fantasy, but still.
“Tell me,” he says after a moment. “Aren’t you a little bit curious?”
“About what?”
“The past.” His teeth flash in a sardonic grin. “Being there. Seeing it.”
“By the sounds of things, I didn’t have much time to sightsee,” Lucy says coolly. “Not if you were acting like this.”
Flynn absorbs that with an obnoxiously unruffled shrug. It’s true that they seem to have fallen into a kind of familiarity, almost without meaning to, if she’s prodding him about things they’ve done which she can’t, strictly speaking, remember. She returns to the bed and finishes her dinner, which has been somewhat interrupted by all this revelation, and has a moment to wonder if they’re planning to stay here tonight. Flynn isn’t the sort of person who’s going to stay long in one place, with a mission in mind and a manhunt on his tail, and they’ll probably try to sneak out once he’s sure it’s full dark and they’re not being observed. Lucy should likely try to get a few winks while she can, as she hasn’t slept since the plane ride to Dubrovnik and she’s starting to see double with exhaustion. She crawls onto the bed, curling up on her side. World in danger of ending or not, she needs a damn nap.
As she closes her eyes, she catches the quickest glimpse of a strange expression on Flynn’s face, as if it’s caught him off guard that she trusts him at least enough to fall asleep in his presence, to think that he won’t hurt her or otherwise let her come to harm. If she’s wrong, she’s wrong, but so be it. Later.
Lucy must indeed sleep, because she’s jerked out of a strange dream some interminable time later. It’s very dark. Flynn is sitting on the floor next to the bed, which can’t be very comfortable, drowsing with a hand inside his jacket – or at least he was. Whatever has roused her has caught his attention as well, and he gets stealthily to his feet, pulling his gun. Crosses the floorboards without a creak, waiting by the door, as there is another faint thump on the stairs outside. A click, and a clunk. The handle moves quietly. Someone’s trying to get in.
Lucy goes tense, drawing her legs up and tempted to dive behind the bed in case gunfire breaks out, as the latch works and saws back and forth. Flynn remains tense as a diver on the edge of the high board, waiting, waiting. Then the lock gives, the door opens, and he pounces like a jaguar.
There’s a muffled yell, a crash, the sound of something – it doesn’t take an expert to guess that it’s a gun – flying out of someone’s hand, and the further sound of a silent and furious struggle, grunting and huffing and swearing, as Flynn tackles someone on the landing outside. There is the distinct noise of fists hitting flesh, struggling bodies, a thump, a bang, and general semi-silent pandemonium as they roll inside the room, still whaling on each other. Then Lucy jumps up, dives for the light switch, and lays hold of it just in time to discover Flynn busily engaging in beating the daylights out of someone. Someone who is, impossibly, familiar.
The name bursts to her lips before she can stop it.
“Wyatt?”
He twists his head sharply to stare at her, which isn’t a good idea, as Flynn promptly punches it while he’s distracted. He flails back, landing a glancing blow, as Lucy pulls Flynn off and there are several further moments of general confusion until the chaos subsides. Wyatt sits up spitting blood and swearing, seems inclined to reach for his gun, and in the interests of preventing a full-blown firefight from breaking out, Lucy jumps in the middle. “What are you – ” Yes, he was the one who rescued her from the goons the other night, but he’s also supposed to be the one – of two, at any rate – who was her time-traveling teammate. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you.” Wyatt wipes his mouth and grimaces. “Though this wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Yes,” Flynn growls. “I know what you were expecting.”
“You.” Wyatt regards him coldly. “They definitely got the dick part right.”
“Lucy’s fine. You can toddle along. Typical. Always interfering even when you can’t remember.” Flynn is no slacker in the baleful-stare department himself. “Or is it that you – ”
Wyatt completely ignores him. “You all right, ma’ – Lucy?”
She considers for a long moment. She’s not about to stay blindly beholden to Flynn on his insane crusade, but she isn’t going to abandon him flat-out either, and if the story’s true, Wyatt was her ally – her friend. Whatever both of them are supposed to remember, he doesn’t, and before any decisions are made in haste, he should at least be aware of what’s at stake.
She pauses, then reaches for the photocopied pages, ignoring Flynn’s hiss of disapproval. If these belong to some mythical journal she was supposed to have written once upon a time, she gets to decide who sees them, and this feels instinctively right in a way she can’t define or explain, to do this. With that, as Wyatt is still looking utterly baffled, she holds them out to him.
“Here,” she says quietly. “I think there’s something you should know.”
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In Order to Reach For the Sun- Chapter Two
As I open my eyes I notice two things: I am in a hospital room, and two all of BTS is here. They all sit in different places: on the couch, on a chair, on the nasty floor. They do not notice that I am awake yet. I shift my head to try to get a better view. The last thing that i remember is drifting off to sleep in the ambulance. Suga was with me. I stare at each of them, suga of course is asleep with Jin and V. Rap MOn and Jhope are on their phones biding the time. JImin and jungkook are quetly talking to each other. It is too quiet to make out what they are saying. I look back at Rap MOn what he is doing, but i am met with eyes staring back at me. He stands up from the couch and sits on the edge of my bed. The beat of the heart moniter increasing for a second.
"how do you feel?" He asks quetly looking at me in the bed. Jimin Jungkook and Jhope hear Rap Mon and know that im awake now as well.
"like shit," i reply rolling my head to the other side to emphasize. RM smirks. "no duh. The nurse said two to three days in here and then youll be free,"
"you all dont have to stay with me," i reply turning back to them.
"we will amber, unless our schedule doesnt allow us. Last night was our last night and that song was our last song, and it kind of went well," his voice rising to a question. Smirking i reply, "till i ruined it by getting stabbed." Rm laughs picking at the hem of my blanket. the room quiets.
"amber, who was that man. And why did he stab you?" the question on everyones lips floats in the air. sighing, after a second i reply, "He, rather his gang is hunting me after they killed-," the sentence sticks in my throat. Unwanted tears prick my eyes. "-after he killed, my-," i struggle breaking into a sob.
after a few minutes of trying to control myself, i sniff, gathering myself agian.
"the night i came to your concert, i was trying to get away from home. My family was killed by this gang called the Heathens." the memory of that day flashes in my mind causing me to gasp. I break down in sobs once more. i cant do this i scream inwardly holding my stomach. Jimin and jungkook have ceased their conversation to listen to mine. Thier faces reflect curiosity as well as worry.
"he wants something from me, either to kill me or give him information." i finish sniffling. RM nods. "i think you should rest now. We can deal with that another time." nodding, i shuffle down to rest, and rest i do.
***
I wake up to the clammer of people talking. The clock on the wall shows 10:00 am. We arrived at the hospital around 11:30 pm last night. Rm, Jhope, Jimin, and Jungkook are the only members here this time. Jungkook is finishing off his breakfast while Jimin is on his phone. Jhope is asleep and Rm is talking to the nurse outside the room.
I try to shift my position slowly because of my wound. I don't want them to know I'm awake, I've bothered them enough.
It fails as a sharp pain erupts in my side causing me to cry out.
Jimin looks up from his seat on the couch. He stands up, placing his phone down on the chair arm.
"Did you enjoy the concert?" He smirks standing next to my bed.
"I did until I got stabbed," I reply holding onto my injured side. He laughs at me, "you look pretty bad. I assume he had a reason for doing that or it was a crazed fan," Jimin says biting his lip in thought.
"I don't want you guys to be behind schedule because of me, you can leave-"
"No," Jimin cuts me off, "you stay, we stay. You are not a burden to us." He pauses a few minutes before saying, "I'll be on the couch if you need me." He smiles at me, causing me to smile back. I like jimins fun bubbly personality.
If I said I didn't have a favorite, I would be lying, but I love each one so much. But Jhope definitely calls to me. His infectious happy personality makes me love him. Plus he sold me with the No More Dream mask. I have a thing for bad boys.
Rm has finished talking to the nurse and I walking towards me now.
"The nurse said you should probably shower," he says sitting on my bed.
"How?" I ask.
"With help, not from me obviously but from her if you want,"
I think about it for a second. I do want to shower to get the last few days grub off of me. But I know I don't need help.
"I'll shower, but I think I can do it by myself," I inform rm. realizing I need special care for my wound I ask him how I need to take care of it.
Rm tells me that the nurse will come and wrap it so it is water tight.
Nodding, I look down at my wound covered by my shirt. I'm wearing a loose tank top and baggy black joggers. The hospital let me change into my clothes instead of wearing those horrid gowns.
I life my shirt up to reveal my three inch gash that has been neatly stitched up. The skin around the wound is bruised and raw. I hiss thinking about how it got that way in the first place.
A soft knock sounds as the nurse is ready to wrap my wound. Dropping my shirt I slowly stand up. She walks beside me as we travel to the opposite end of the room where the bathroom is.
She closes he door softly as I start to take my shirt off. I have a sports bra underneath, short enough to wrap my wound.
"You ready?" She asks placing the gauze, bandages, ointment, and sterilizer down. I nod to her as she pulls gloves on.
Sitting up straight she starts by rubbing some sterilizer gently on it. It stings, a good sign I guess. Once done, she waits till it dries before applying the ointment over the area. This feels good to my raw skin. Making sure the gauze covers the whole area, she lastly covers the whole site with tegaderm.
"You're all set!" She says pulling her gloves off and throwing them in the trash along with her other used supplies.
"Thank you,"
"Just make sure to dry it well once you get out."
I nod in understanding. She quietly leaves, and I hear her inform the boys I'm good to go as she gently shuts the bathroom door.
Carefully, I stand and turn the shower on waiting for it to get hot.
I did myself of my clothes and step into the shower, making sure no water gets into my wound site, even though it is sealed tight.
As the hot water envelops my body, flash backs occur from the past few days. I've been through so much in such a small amount of time.
Death of all my family, moving not only to a new place, but a new country, being hunted, and now injured. Hopefully now with BTS I'll be protected. Although it won't change what has already happened.
The memory of my family causes tears to come into my eyes. They're gone. And I didn't even get to say goodbye. Grief overwhelms me and I sob uncontrollably, placing a hand on the wall for support. My side burns as I cry, by tears mixing with the shower water. I've been holding in my pain for so long.
I cry for a few more minutes before I am drained of my emotions. Sighing I turn the water off. It's not the situation itself that matters, it's what choices you make that matter. My mom once told me.
I miss you mom.
Stepping out of the shower, I carefully dry my injury site first, making sure no water got in. It did not.
I pull on my new pair of black joggers Jimin handed to me, and now a black tank top with black sports bra. Simple and loose.
I open the door and have a rush of cold air hit me. Was it that hot?
Walking to my bed, I slide in, sitting cross legged. My face must show my emotions because rm asks if I am okay. Struggling I nod, but it's not convincing.
"It's okay amber, it will be okay," he reassures me. I'm not sure he understands.
"Will it though?" I ask through bleary eyes. My emotions come back and hit me full force. I gasp as a sob racks my body.
The boys' attention is on me. They're worried. Jhope is the one who gets up and sits next to me on the bed holding me in a hug. I'm grateful for his act of kindness.
After a few minutes I calm down, resolved to sniffles here and there.
"Would you like some food?" Suga asks breaking the silence.
"Yes," I nod, "I'm starving," I say letting go on my hold on Jhope. Looking I see there is a block of tear stains. "Sorry," I mutter to him.
"It'll wash out," he reassures me brushing it a few times.
"Thank you," I say to him. His eyes reflect sincerity. "You're welcome. Any time,"
I think in their own way each of them understands. They definitely have been through so much to get to where they are now. Each of them had dealt with tough times, loss, depression, and pain.
Suga pulls out small take out containers of food they ordered for lunch. Taking the chopsticks he hands to me I open a dark container first. It has black bean noodles in it. So delicious.
"Can I eat the rest of this?" I ask around the noodles.
"Yeah go ahead, we have already eaten our fill,"
Yeah! I rejoice as I swallow the scrumptious food. I go through each of the small containers eating the food inside. There were only a few that were a little too spicy for me to eat. I'll save those for the boys later.
Once I'm finished, I clean up, throwing my chopsticks away as well as the empty food containers.
"Thank you," I say to them as I wipe the corner of my mouth. Rm nods and continues reading his book.
"Now you're full, you should rest," Jhope informs. Nodding I look around for my phone.
"Do you know where my phone is?" I ask feeling around on my bed.
"Oh I have it," Jimin pipes up rummaging in his jacket pocket. He hands it to me and I lay back plugging in my earbuds to listen to some music.
I settle on listening to My Time by Jungkook as his voice is beautiful. And with that I fall asleep.
***
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Devil May Cry 3’s Switch Port Pulls My Devil Trigger
February 20, 2020 8:00 AM EST
Devil May Cry 3 on Switch is a solid port of one of the greatest action games ever made and now sports a few tweaks that will allow fans and veterans to push their capabilities even further. SSStylish!
Devil May Cry 3 on Switch is fantastic. Of course, that was true of the game for its original PS2 release and has remained true regardless of what system or version you’re playing on. As such, it’s nice to see that the Switch port is no exception to that rule.
While some could make a case for last year’s excellent Devil May Cry 5 being the pinnacle of the series, that crown unquestionably went to DMC3 previously. Playing it once again now with the new tweaks that the Switch port brings? It is clear as ever to see why it’s still at the zenith of action games even after 15 years. Few other games of its style can match the enjoyment it can provide for those willing to put in the time to master it.
It wasn’t an easy ride for Capcom to get to this point, though. The original Devil May Cry started life as a PlayStation 2 installment of Resident Evil, but the shift in style and tone was evident enough that it was then transitioned into its own title. Action became the heavier focus in combat and mechanics, and the project was given a new name and life as DMC. Dante’s demon hunting adventures and light-hearted, devil-may-care attitude (how fitting!) were well received.
By contrast… the 2003 sequel was anything but. Hideaki Itsuno was brought on to replace the unknown director and try to salvage the game, but it was a little too late. Mercifully, the mistake that is Devil May Cry 2 did not spell the end of the series. With Itsuno leading from the outset, DMC3 returned to many of the established factors that had made the first a success.
“Devil May Cry 3 on Switch is fantastic.”
Devil May Cry 3 serves as a prequel to the previous games, presenting a younger and more arrogant Dante at the beginning of his demon hunting career. From the first introduction to the player character, he’s flipping chairs before sitting on them, mocking his opponents, then charging headfirst into the fray with a smirk and a one-liner.
What follows is a game that presents a grim and serious gothic horror facade, only to completely slice it apart with its own sense of style. Dante traverses a demonic tower and the areas around it, exploring and seeking upgrades or secrets within as he climbs higher. But the bulk of the gameplay is the action. Demons and monsters are scattered all throughout, which you have to kick the crap out. You’ll get new skills and weapons as you go, but even from the outset, Dante feels like a stylish badass.
And style is crucial here! It’s entirely possible to run through the game and not really embrace the systems on offer. There’s a fun, challenging, and ultimately solid and complete action game here for anyone who wishes to partake. You’ll probably get something out of Devil May Cry 3 even if you’re the one-and-done sort of player. However! The game is at its best not when you’re playing just to finish it, but to absolutely style on it.
During combat sequences, you’ll have a style meter that grows depending on how long you can keep a combo going without taking damage or falling into too much repetition. Watching that rank rise from D all the way to SSS is addictive and I constantly found myself trying to push it further. I’m far from a perfectionist, but there were times where I’d want to just replay a mission or try again to get a better score. It definitely invokes that old school arcade mentality of pushing oneself to new heights.
At the end of every mission, you’re awarded ranks depending on how much time and damage you took, or how stylish you were. Doing well and looking badass gives you more currency to play with, and thus more moves to unlock and tools to utilize. The feedback loop of doing well in order to have more moves to do even better with is intoxicating. Further, there’s multiple difficulties to select for those wishing to challenge themselves or replay the game.
In fact, DMC3 is somewhat legendary for only unlocking Easy mode after you’ve died three times. This happened to me in one of the first major boss fights, and it really spurred me to grit my teeth and push on through. How could I take that lying down? The subsequent victory was all the more satisfying for it.
“The game is at its best not when you’re playing just to finish it, but to absolutely style on it.”
Dante has four different Styles that you can select from, each giving you different offensive and defensive options. Trickster focuses on dodging, Royal Guard on defense and parries, Swordmaster on melee weapons, and Gunslinger on ranged. Defeating enemies with a style equipped grants it experience, with level-ups furthering what you can do with them. Additionally, you’ll collect new weapons and guns as you progress, each with their own moves, gimmicks, and purchasable upgrades or skills. Since style points are awarded for minimizing repeated moves, you’ll frequently be switching up what you’ve got equipped and changing weapons on the fly.
This is where the new additions to the Switch port segue in nicely. On starting a new game, you can select between Original and Free Style. The original version lets you select a single Style, two melee weapons, and two guns that you can switch between on the fly, which can be changed during mission select or at Divinity statues. Free Style, on the other hand, lets you swap out your arsenal or styles at any time, even in combat. For those really wishing to push themselves and master the systems on offer, the wealth of options this provides is significant, and a welcome feature!
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Even so, should you never choose to engage in this at all, Devil May Cry 3 is still a solid game from beginning to end. All the inclusions from previous Special Edition updates and ports are present here, also. You’ve got a playable Vergil mode after you beat the game, the Bloody Palace survival mode is available after the first mission (and now features fully supported couch co-op for the Switch version, built up further than the Doppelganger mode), and the gallery is fully stacked from the outset.
As for the performance on Switch, it’s perfectly fine. Yes, it’s a PS2 game from 2005, so that’s to be expected. Despite a few minor touch-ups, this isn’t a remaster or overhaul. Don’t go in expecting something with the graphical fidelity of, say, Devil May Cry 5. Nonetheless, the game ran smoothly and without errors for me on both handheld and docked. The controls are responsive and fully customizable for any configuration of Joy-Con or Pro Controller. I personally had no trouble seeing and reading things on the handheld screen — aside from needing to turn the brightness up slightly. That said, I don’t tend to experience the difficulties of reading small text that some users have reported for other Switch games, so your mileage may vary.
“The very best games in this stylish subgenre of action titles always aspire to and rarely achieve the level of quality that DMC3 attained.”
With all that in mind, should you pick up Devil May Cry 3 on Switch? For returning players, it’s hard to say. The new additions are largely extensions of the combat system potential, bringing additions from Devil May Cry 5 back to its predecessor. If you’re already well acquainted with the game, then it might not be worth going to grab a second copy. That said, if you’re a combo technician looking to take your DMC3 sessions to the next level? This is the version for you. Those looking to take a favourite game for a spin on a portable system will also not be disappointed.
If you’ve never played Devil May Cry 3 before though, I would absolutely encourage getting into it. Itsuno and his team approached development with a go for broke attitude, and the results speak for themselves. The very best games in this stylish subgenre of action titles always aspire and rarely achieve the level of quality that DMC3 attained. DMC4 and 5 may be great games for series veterans, but Devil May Cry 3 is likely why those veterans are fans in the first place. The sheer ridiculousness of the action and Dante’s antics are a sight to behold, whether you’re just planning to see it once or want to become a master. You deserve to see Dante at his best.
February 20, 2020 8:00 AM EST
from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/02/devil-may-cry-3s-switch-port-pulls-my-devil-trigger/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=devil-may-cry-3s-switch-port-pulls-my-devil-trigger
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chapter draft - E (modern sports)
E
(chapter discussing Modern Sports - in particular football and racing)
Get home, blah blah - short intro (150-300 words max)
Can’t wait to see the missus, things have been really good lately. Absence makes the heart grow fonder I guess. She always looks so beautiful when I see her after a break of whatever kind. But as I get home at half-past two in the afternoon I get home to an empty house. It’s so quiet where we live. It’s still the city but quite far out north – Green Lanes/Turnpike Lane area. It has everything you need so apart from occasionally having to go to the office for a pickup I come and go as i please. It’s so quiet not being onsite or living on top of between four and eight other lads. I sit down. My knee twinges really badly and I exhale in pain. Fuck, I forgot I got smacked with a table just before we left the last job. My leg. My fucking leg. I put both legs up on the couch and turn on the TV. It’s on one of her channels, the ones with the reality shows, talent contests and soap operas. and turn instead to my favourite channel – the best channel – SkySports News. I press the red button so I can watch the football stuff. I love football. Always loved football. Only ever loved football. Only ever wanted to be a football player. But now, with my knee, there’s no chance. The missus, she says i’m lucky because i’m not stupid like most of the lads still playing and I should go into management or Sports Science. I hate sports science, sports science is the reason all our games are shit and all our players are machines.
On the news there is a horse trainer talking about his runners in the upcoming derby and the changes in, he calls it, “horse rehabilitation therapy”. post-training session and post-race hydrotherapy in particular. Behind him is a doughnut shaped moat with a footbridge and access channel leading to it. How long the channel is, is unclear as it leads off screen. The moat is about 1.5 metres wide; the whole loop maybe 5 metres in diameter. As the interview unfolds, the footbridge is raised and a girl with a horse swimming up the access channel comes into shot. I stop listening to what the man is saying and just stare at the horse, swimming in circles, being worked quite hard by the trainer/therapist leading it around. The horse doesn’t look like a very good swimmer. The horse does several laps being pulled along by its face before the bridge comes up once more and it swims out of shot. I drift back into the interview and the trainer is saying how important this is for the horses as it means they can be raced more often – and more races means more money. That isn’t to say these horses aren’t well looked after. No way, these horses – so long as they keep winning they keep breathing – and in some pretty nice accommodation. I don’t like horse racing as a so-called sport. Racing as a whole is kind of unique, and horse racing even more so due to the vehicle being a living, breathing, thing. the jockey, although important is just sorta along for the ride. He beats the horse when it needs it and stops it running when it wants to bolt, but basically the jockey is little more than a glory hunting parasite holding onto a magnificent beast for grim death as it competes with a group of similarly fantastic animals to see who can run fastest for the longest. They don’t really care who crosses what line first. All they care about is knowing between themselves who is the biggest strongest baddest horse. It’s a bit like boxing versus fighting: Boxers, they need wins in a row; they need career wins and losses; they need form… But a fighter? all a fighter needs is to know they are the baddest thing on the planet and they need to know anyone standing in their way needs to go because, well, that’s all really. A fighter doesn’t need a referee or judges or fans. All a fighter needs is the blood, the adrenaline, the sweat. All he chases is the win, by whatever means necessary, to beat the challengers to his invisible crown. now animals…
…visions of that day flood my memory. the early morning. wet. butterflies in my stomach ahead of the game. the BIG game. the game to get me out of here. away from him. away from them. away from what they make me do. the game where they would be looking for the next big thing. watching. writing. the straightness of the trees we passed. rough coach seats. the music it was pop hits on a radio station called Heart. motorway service stations. the smell of petrol. boots on tiles. cold locker doors. stale sweat. kit bags. ball bags. food bags. vaseline and deep heat. legs jumping whenever i tried to sit down. our manager. the psych-up. pacing back and forth. heel-to-toe. heel-to-toe. lining up. hands on shoulder. one final roar before we go. the tunnel. nerves. the pitch. the daylight. cold air. take your positions, gentlemen as the captains do their thing…
Animals. they don’t think like we do. Animals. they don’t care about pride or cowardice. All an animal cares about is whether or not that animal will live to breathe another day suffering as little injury as possible because in the wild injury is the thing that will most probably kill you.
Skysports jumps from story to story and i’m so tired I keep drifting in and out of my own mind and back into the scheduling list when something catches my eye - a story on Sports Science and developments in football! i can’t resist and i skip to the story. the story has a physiotherapist from one of the big London clubs, and a sports scientist currently working with them at the junior level. the level i got to before… i still find it hard to form it in my mind. i notice i actually physically take in a sharp breath after each word, trying to see them as a phrase rather than single unconnected words that just happen to be falling out of my mouth. the strain, i can actually feel it. just 3 words. six syllables:
before. the. accident.
before the accident.
before the accident.
before the accident.
i take this opportunity to try and force myself to realise where i am now. in this job, it’s easy to forget why you are here and where you actually want to be. always so tired all you can think of is sleep. or there is no work and all you can think of is money, because now you have more pressing problems like how to pay the rent…
…the whistle. and we are off. the ball floats around ahead of me down field. pulling socks up, blowing into my hands. cold. the ball comes in high. i jump with my opposite number and i win the header. falling and landing on my knee. mud. blood. wipe it off and carry on. small crowd shouts and cheers. manager is screaming. run. jump. tackle. down the wing. throw in and i pick up the ball. headers forward and backwards. no one winning yet. finding rhythm. nerves swell up, i can see them making notes, the ones that matter. blades of grass. patches of mud where the content is always most fierce…
i have missed the whole intro to the piece but i got the basics and they are talking about bone density. it’s almost like they are talking about me as i watch. the story unfolds, and on of the main, newest, most interesting developments has to do with bones (and in particular bone density). the story goes on: there are many, many, junior players now on significant salaries with a conversion rate to professional footballer at the same team or level as their junior team is so horrendously low that the percentage isn't even worth remembering. if you need a ball park figure think below 0.5%. quite a way below in fact. the conversion rate from big club (top 5 English Premiership) junior player to much smaller (scottish second division or below kinda thing) is higher, but who cares about them? the chances in the modern English game of getting back into the big leagues from there are real slim, if possible at all. but back to the story on the television - bone density. the “scientist” starts talking very excitedly about how they can now take two equal players and separate them if by nothing else, by the density of their bones. this allows them, the scientist continues, to deduce the likelihood of a player suffering broken bones or a related injury in, for example, a hard tackle. a hard tackle for example. that could put a player out for a long time. there was a single theme running throughout the piece, a theme that no one really wanted to mention, but was alluded to constantly. the theme?
money.
you see, all these kids on five- or six-figure contracts, they cost a lot of money. they can’t be kept for a single minute longer than they are needed. sure they might be able to sell or trade a player but not really. and even the ones who make it - the investment in each of these players is huge and the club needs to re-coup it’s investment. the wages they command alone - to have a player out for however long, plus all the medical costs, insurance premiums, rehabilitation therapy, the fact the player could potentially never be the same again… all these things and more are presented as justifiable reasoning to destroy a child’s dream just because his bones aren't dense enough and ignore the reality that he might be special in some other sense. all this lead me to realise that as i sat watching these people talk about my favourite game, all they were producing from here on in would be money making machines, built rather than born, for the single purpose of making as much money as possible by abusing something normal people loved for no other reason than a love of the game. to talk about the corporate takeover of football in this country are almost redundant at this point. but to include science as a factor at this level means we are unlikely to ever see the prodigious but flawed talent that came before. talent that is capable of turning the tide of a match with a single touch. talent as capable of a 1 star performance as a 10. talent that although unpredictable is exciting and gives people a reason to watch if only to see what happens next. whether that is a hat-trick in the last 6 minutes or a red card inside the first 30 seconds. whether they get so drunk they can’t play or get so drunk their play is sublime. that’s why we watch other people do what we wish we were capable of. not because they did it a million times until it was perfect with a pass conversion rate of consistently over 80%, but because they flicked it over the back of their head and lobbed the goalkeeper. because the made seven professional footballers look like toddlers when they dribbled the ball all the way from the halfway line to putting the ball in the top left corner. but maybe thats the problem. when it comes down to potentially a single loss being the difference between winning the premier league and coming second is many millions of pounds. ultimately a price was put on natural ability and that price is now too high and those players have gone from rare to endangered to extinct. and all within my 30-year existence.
…back and forth. back and forth. every player too nervous to commit. neither team wants to make the first mistake by taking a chance. we string four passes together. they get five. no one gets any closer to the goal. 10 minutes pass with nothing. 20 minutes. 30. if something doesn't happen soon. the men, they are still writing. scribbling. maybe they aren't even writing at all. have to stand out. have to push. forward. i play at the back, but i start to travel up the pitch. push the back line up. take their space. take their air. stop them breathing. more aggressive. win every ball. win every tackle. commit. 110%. all your life. all your life has been for this one single moment. in this one single game…
the piece ends talking about how much money this will save and how that money can be put to such better use but all i can think about is how similar the horses and the players have become. the animal racing industry as a whole never had anything to do with sport. a sport is something that would continue to exist without people betting large sums of money on it and all the finances generated around that. no one would race horses for fun. if you banned betting tomorrow almost all of those beautiful horses people love so much would be shot. why breed pedigrees if they aren't going to run? where’s the profit in that? normal horse enthusiasts - they are rarely willing to take on a pedigree race horse, amazing beasts though they are. ask someone who rides. they aren't like normal horses.
…how at my first team. how coach patted me for scoring. how he did it like that. how i was doing a good job. how i was special. how we should keep it all between us. what happens here. how no one would believe me anyway. how i get to ride home in a warm car with him. don't have to walk in the cold. how that must be worth something, right? how i can do it now for him. how likes that. how sitting on him felt kind of safe. how playing well got me to a new team with a different coach after the important man at the games with the pad spoke to my father. how he didn't care what i did so long as it didn't affect him. how the man liked that. how he told me he could get me to better clubs if i helped him. how i did help him. how he told me to. how i scored and scored and passed and passed and i went to the next club like he promised and it was a good one. how he sold me to one of the best ones. how it was different here, now. how i wouldn't have to do anything like that anymore. except…
they used to race dogs in the UK in a big way. Greyhounds. now that they shut most of the tracks greyhound breeding has dramatically fallen. people don't want greyhounds anymore. not really. not like they used to. like back when these “dog lovers” would dispose of dogs by selling them to research laboratories, abandoning them, or most commonly killing them. The Environment, Food and Rural Affairs Committee give numbers of between 1,000 and 3,700 dogs as “unaccounted for” every year
but no figures exist for the killing of dogs no longer able to run. most dogs would run from about 18 months to the age of three, four or maybe five. rarely some run until they are six. and its a global event. in the USA, with so few dogs being retired and so many new dogs coming in to race each year, the “ideal” scenario for a dog trainer is to sell them for research to vivisection laboratories, chemical research labs, universities. why? up to 40 cents per pound of weight. researchers love Greyhounds. they are so easy to work with. they are docile, calm, submissive creatures that don't even bark. they also have a universal blood type, no fur or fat, a large strong heart, and a unique skeletal system. lastly, they have a very high level of pain tolerance. which is especially useful.
…toot-toot-toot of the whistle and it’s halftime. heads down. tired. thirsty. sore. manager shouting. captain shaking. coach’s hand on his shoulders. occasionally he whispers in his ear thinking no one can see. i do. i know what happens. we all know what happens. when he’s alone. we go back out and it’s their turn. we chase. they chase. i win, win, win, every challenge harder. every challenge until he comes in with both feet, legs completely straight. no intention of getting the ball…
none of this sounds like any part of a sport. and increasingly the similarities between football and racing seem to outweigh the differences. as pundits and former players discuss various aspects of the last round of games i find myself thinking about several things at once. i put this down to exhaustion related confusion and try to push the conflicting thoughts down but i end up drifting into one memory that keeps persisting the harder i push it back and i lose major interest. instead, flicking through everything i have missed away working, i see a pattern - the main aspect of modern day sports now seems to revolve around drugs, cheating and money. and it isn't just the horses and the dogs.
boxing. athletics. MMA. tennis. rugby union. pole-vaulting, cycling. running. swimming. weightlifting. Australian rules football. cricket. American football. all car racing. (provide drug/cheating examples for each)
there are always going to be bad elements willing to do anything to win, but this isn't what is happening. this is everywhere and everything. i wonder if anyone ever won anything without some sort of technically-not-illegal-at-the-time chemical edge. all your heroes - they were high on drugs as you cheered them on. they were high and/or the opposition had been sexually abused, drugged or bribed. that’s it. that is modern sports.
…i can taste the mud when i bite down. wincing. pain. blinding. hot. cold. flashing white shards in my eyes. can’t hear. so far away suddenly. everything green. he gets up. brushes off. laughing. turns to the referee with arms open claiming total innocence. all i can do is hold my leg. screaming now. my foot. it’s facing the wrong way. i can feel the wind inside my bones. it hurts so badly it is almost numb. the referee runs over. whistle toot-toot-tooting away. stretcher comes. men with pads, they scribble. but it’s all over…
when i tune back in to what’s happening on the screen i notice the headline streaming across the bottom that will never go away now. another coach has been found guilty of child abuse. there are so many cases now that the legal system is clogged and some of these guys may never see trial. the abuse that runs through the whole game, mirroring the same abuse of children in the entertainment industry. as i look at my life long love. my sport i hold above all others. and all i see are the burning ruins of clubs and socially destitute stadiums. locker rooms filled with predators. enablers. drugs. match fixing. cheating. really, son, you have to see the bigger picture:
just look at how much money!
i stare at the screen in a sort of disbelief as much at myself as the illusion of honour and camaraderie i have helped to maintain. i am exhausted. i feel like so many people. so many lives. compressed into a single time line, sharing a single body. i love football? it is - it was - my life. i love sports? Sky Sports is the best channel ever. but the more i watch the more questions i have and they all lead back to the same place: drugs & money. how long have i been away? where have i been? where do we go when we are sleeping? some nights my dreams they are too real. with this job, i don't even sleep at night, necessarily. as often as not, unless i am here, at home - which is rare - i sleep whenever the opportunity arises.
when i wake up, she is there and i smile. it never seems as bad with her here. her, who has been here through it all and her biggest complaint is that she never sees me. i keep money coming in, in the way that the crew provides, but that isn't it. i still don't know what happened in the games… whenever it was now. she says:
“hey”
“hi”
“you hungry?”
“yeah”
i turn off Sky Sports.
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