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skzsauce01 · 4 years

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Ruin My Life

Synopsis: Six times you and Minho “ruin” each other’s lives, and the one time you almost actually did ruin his.

Warning: none

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: fem!reader x Lee Minho; friends to lovers

one

Minho always looks like trouble, but he especially looks the part when he dresses as a greaser for Halloween. The entire hallway looks his way when he enters the building even though the low 7:30 AM sunlight blinds their eyes when he opens the door. He has a lollipop in his mouth in place of a cigarette, and when he gives a curt “Good morning” nod in your direction, the girl beside you pretends to swoon.

“Hello, Danny,” she mutters to herself, mimicking an Australian twang. She’s conveniently dressed like Sandy in a poodle skirt and cardigan. “I’d let you ruin my life.”

When you tell Minho about what you heard after school, he laughs so hard he almost falls off the wall he’s sitting on. “Seriously?”

You take a bag of pretzels from the shared pile of treats between you two and rip it open. “Yes! I can give you her name if you’re interested,” you say, half-hoping that he doesn’t actually want it. “What a weird thing to say though.”

He shakes his head and holds his hand out for a pretzel. “No thanks to the name. I think Chan’s supposed to be Danny, so I’m not her summer fling that don’t mean a thing.” He waits for you to drop three in his open palm and, with complete mockery, says, “But I’d let you ruin my life.”

You shoot him a disgusted look, and he laughs.

“Aren’t you glad I made you watch Grease?” you transition. “So who are you? A T-bird? Someone from The Outsiders? Just a generic greaser?”

“Generic greaser, I guess. What are you?”

You point at the pointy, black hat perched on your head and say in disbelief, “I’m a witch!”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and you know you have just walked into a trap. “No, I meant your Halloween costume.”

“Get bent, you jerk,” you roll your eyes.

However, the pretzel you throw at him doesn’t stop him from chortling at his own joke.

two

You agree to feed Minho’s three cats the following weekend while he and his family have a last-minute emergency out of town. You show up to his doorstep on a late Thursday afternoon to say your regards, but everyone in the Lee household is in pandemonium. You slink past his mother to Minho’s room where Soonie and Dori are lying on his bed. Minho himself is packing a duffel bag.

You knock on his already open door to alert him of your presence. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies, looking up. “Sorry about this. I would have asked someone who lived closer, but my mom doesn’t trust anyone else with the house key.”

“It’s okay. I like playing with Dori.” You’re still standing at the threshold, feeling too shy to enter now that you’re both older, and you crane your neck to see farther inside. “Where’s Doongie?”

“Under the desk. You can come in.”

“Right.”

You settle into his desk chair and pick up Doongie to pet. There’s nothing else to do, and you scan his walls for something to look at. Your eyes land on his calendar where there are reminders for the biology exam next week and the dance competition at the end of the month. You want to ask if everything’s alright, but it feels insensitive to pry.

“My mom made you dinner,” he says. “To thank you. It’s on the dining table.”

You smile as you remember all the times you stayed over for dinner at Minho’s when you were younger. His mom made the best japchae. “Tell her thanks for me.”

“Will do.”

“Minho!” you hear his mom shout. “We’re leaving!”

Minho heaves his bag over his shoulder and gives you a small smile. “Thanks for doing this. My offer of letting you ruin my life still stands, by the way.”

You snort at the comment, which makes Doongie jump off your lap, which makes you and Minho burst into laughter. “Yeah, well, what are best friends for? I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah. Key’s on the coffee table, by the way. And you know where the cat food is right?”

“I got it. I’ll be the best cat sitter ever.” You stand up and give him a hug. “Everything’s going to be okay, Minho.”

He holds you a little longer, and you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. It’s surprisingly erratic, and yours begins to match in tempo.

“Thanks,” he repeats, finally pulling away.

You stand awkwardly at the foot of his bed and give him another smile as he starts to leave.

His foot has just stepped into the hallway when his mom yells again, “Lee Minho!”

“Coming!” he shouts back. He turns back to you, like he wants to say one more thing. “Don’t forget to eat or else she’ll think I didn’t tell you and get mad. And send me pictures of the cats!”

He disappears before you can even nod, and you hear the front door swing shut. You sit back down and idly spin in his chair, enjoying its cushiness. You’re not hungry yet, so you reach for Dori, who eagerly snuggles into your arms, and snap a picture to send to Minho.

Dori loves me more. Consider your life ruined.

three

The day before the biology exam you’re back at Minho’s house. Two open textbooks and an array of different colored pens decorate the dining table surface while two lazy cats lie on the floor beneath. You flip through your notes for the lesson from two days ago. In the meantime, Minho is frantically shuffling through your flashcards.

He abruptly groans after turning a card around and slumps back into his chair. “I’m so screwed. My test average is already bad, so this is just gonna make it worse. I barely remember what we covered today.”

Minho’s version of bad is everyone’s above average, but it’s unlike him to complain about his scores because he knows it. “Is everything alright?” you ask. “You don’t have to answer, but you seem off.”

“You remember that emergency last week?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you try to arrange your facial expression into something less obvious. “Yeah?”

“Well, it’s not about that.” He looks over to see you caught between relief and annoyance. He grins for a few seconds and then turns slightly more serious. “Dance team stuff. Someone got injured, so we have to fix the routine.”

You nod sagely. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, but my bio grade doesn’t have to.” With a newfound sense of energy, he straightens up and dives back into reading flashcards. “Thanks for letting me borrow your notes. I’d let you ruin my life.”

He says it with the same joking manner as last time, but you don’t answer in the same way. “I don’t think you need any help with that,” you say as you hold up his quiz from a few days ago. There’s a big, red 79% circled at the top and ugly slashes through the numbers of incorrectly answered questions.

He shrinks and makes a face at the low score. “In my defense, I was busy with dance, and it’s at least passing.”

“Well, your 90% test average is suffering.” You shut the textbooks and motion for him to put down the cards. “Tell me about lysosomes.”

“92, but alright. Lysosomes—”

When the tests are passed back another week later, you and Minho gather around your locker after school to compare scores.

He counts down, and you steadily lean in closer in anticipation. “Okay. 3… 2… 1!”

“95!” “95%!”

There’s a brief second where the two of you process each other’s grades before both of you burst into cheers about not only having matching scores but also good matching scores.

“Yogurt place or cafe?” you ask. It’s been a longstanding tradition between you and Minho to get celebratory desserts for receiving scores over 90. “I have a coupon for the new froyo place.”

Minho shakes his head dejectedly, and your heart sinks. You rarely have an excuse to hang out with him outside of school nowadays.

“I’ve got practice in” — he checks his phone — “in fifteen minutes. Raincheck or I’ll bring you coffee tomorrow morning?”

You brighten up at the prospect of Minho-delivered coffee. “Coffee. Definitely coffee.”

He nods and waves goodbye to you. “See you then.”

“Don’t be late tomorrow!”

four

Because you knew that you were getting coffee delivered to you, you didn’t have any before heading to school and are currently fighting the urge to fall asleep standing up. The bright sunlight that comes in whenever anyone walks into the building greatly helps.

“Morning,” Minho greets, a cardboard cup carrier in his hand.

You spot your drink and eagerly snatch out of its place. “I’d let you ruin my life,” you sigh, too happy to snap at Minho’s smirk at the use of the phrase. You notice the red and gold label wrapped around the cup. “You went to the expensive cafe too? Goodness, how much does this cost?”

“10,000 won.”

“There’s no way it was that expensive!” you argue.

“Delivery fee.” He sips on his own coffee while he waits for you to hand him his money.

You pull out your wallet and give him half of what he wants. “There’s no way it was more than 5,000.”

He smiles and pockets the money. “4,000 actually.” Before you can demand your change, he looks at an invisible watch around his wrist and says, “Can’t be late. See you.”

He takes off before you can protest, and you moodily drink your coffee instead. At least it’s good and full of caffeine.

Lia, the one who dressed as Sandy for Halloween and the person who just witnessed highway robbery, steps closer and asks, “Was that your boyfriend?”

At the word ‘boyfriend,’ you heat up. You snort and shake your head. “Boyfriends don’t overcharge their girlfriends for a drink. He’s my friend.”

“He seems sweet,” she says.

You’re about to correct her when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out and smile when you see the notification on your lockscreen.

Lee Minho paid you ₩1,000 - delivery fee has been revoked

“He’s sweet, I guess.”

Lee Minho requests ₩1,000 - jk

“Never mind.”

five

You can’t believe you let Minho talk you into attending one of his dance competitions. It’s not that you’re not supportive of him and his extracurriculars, but none of your friends are free this weekend, so you have to sit in the audience by yourself. You’re not exactly lonely, but you certainly feel out of place. It’s also not fun once you remember that you have a stack of homework waiting on your desk.

When they announce your school’s team to the stage, you join the applause and shout your friend’s name as loud as you can. Minho somehow manages to pick you out of the crowd and nods at you in acknowledgement. Even though you know he can’t clearly see it, you mouth, “Good luck,” to him.

When the spectacular performance is over, you clap and shout his name again. It’s the last performance, and you anxiously wait while the judges deliberate the winner. You text some votes of confidence to Minho in the meantime. Soon all the teams gather in the room. The feedback from the head judge’s microphone quickly silences the whispers.

They’re not third.

Or second.

Or first.

They’re fifth.

You look over at Minho, who is patting his team members on a job well done. He’s smiling goodnaturedly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You grab the bouquet of flowers you bought for him and head down to the ground floor like many others are doing.

Heart thumping, you tap him on the shoulder and hold the bouquet out to him. “Hey. Congrats on making top five,” you joke in an attempt to cheer him up.

“Thanks, I guess. It went better than we expected, but you know, first is ideal,” he shrugs. He points at the flowers in your hands, melancholy nearly gone. “Did you buy those from the supermarket?”

“Would it be better if I said I stole them from the neighbor’s garden?”

“Did you really?”

“No.”

“Lame.” He takes them anyway. “I didn’t think you would actually come.”

You again think back to the stack of homework you have and the amount of studying and procrastinating you had planned to do at home. “Me neither.”

“Thanks for coming though.” He pauses for a bit, and you already know what the next line he says will be. “I’d let you ruin my life.”

“You’re already ruining mine.”

Like you’re both in kindergarten again, he shoves you in retaliation — lightly though because he doesn’t actually want to hurt you — and knowing you can’t push him as easily, you stick your tongue at him. He is soon called away for a group photo, and he volunteers you to take it. You do so, and after, with the help of a team member, you and Minho get a picture together with the fifth place trophy. You both smile at the camera, but you’re gently elbowing each other in the ribs all the while.

A minute later, he shows you his phone screen, and you see his post of the recent picture.

being number five and ruining lives, reads the caption.

You like the post anyway and end up setting that photo as your lockscreen.

six

“I hate this,” Minho mumbles to you, his breath making clouds in the winter air. “Why do they do this to us?”

You walk alongside him, trudging at the same snail’s pace as he is. “I know,” you reply. “C’mon, let’s just get it over with so we can leave.”

You drag him by the arm to the front of the giant Christmas tree. He puts an arm around your shoulder and you an arm around his waist. The two of you plaster wide grins on each of your faces while your respective mothers snap photos of their children in matching outfits. The fathers have learned to disappear once they have arrived at the outdoor mall, and you wish you and Minho decided to slip away before the current situation.

“I hate this tradition,” you say through your teeth. You wince when someone’s flash goes off, the light blinding in the night.

“Me too. This vest looks so stupid.”

“The bow around my neck agrees.”

It happens every year, but you and Minho never grow tired of complaining. Your mothers, best friends themselves, insist on documenting the friendship of their children, so you and Minho are subjected to ridiculous Christmas Eve photos in front of the same tree every year. For whatever reason, neither of you have ever rebelled and refused. Darn people-pleasing personalities.

When your parents are satisfied with the results, you and Minho rush to partially get rid of your outfits. Minho unbuttons his vest, cursing at his cold fingers, and you fumble with the knotted ribbon around your frilly shirt collar. Of course you decide to cut your nails the day before.

“Y/N?” someone says. “Is that you?”

You look up from your ribbon and see it's one of your classmates. “Oh, hey, Lia,” you greet. You point at her bags. “Last minute shopping?”

She sheepishly nods. “I like your dress, by the way.” You don’t miss the way her eyes flicker back and forth from you to Minho. “Do you guys know you’re matching?”

“It’s a stupid tradition,” Minho interjects. His vest is draped over one arm and the other is busy loosening his tie. He looks at the limp bow around your neck. “Do you need help?”

“Yes.”

Lia shoots you a knowing smile and starts turning away. “I gotta go, but it was nice seeing you guys. I’ll see you after break. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” you say back, more concerned with getting the cursed ribbon off than goodbyes. Minho echoes the sentiment.

You tilt your chin up and let Minho take a stab at the knot. Whenever his cold hands accidentally brush against your neck, you flinch and your pulse jumps. You hear him swearing under his breath over how tight the knot is, and you meekly apologize and feel yourself grow warm. Everyone’s staring at the spectacle, but you want the stupid thing so badly you don’t care.

“Why did tie it so tightly?” he mutters, finally managing to pull it apart. “I think my hands are cramping.”

“I’d let you ruin my life,” you mockingly say before dropping the act. “But thanks for real.”

“Only for you.” He smirks. “You have to get the dads though.”

You groan. He really does want to ruin your life. You and Minho’s dads are notoriously hard to convince to leave the mall once they’ve found a nice spot to eat and chat. “Anything else,” you plead.

He shakes his head. “No. I did it last year too.”

You take his hand and drag him with you, despite his protests. His fingers are still chilly, but his palms are surprisingly warm. He mutters about your own cold hands at the same time, but you’re too preoccupied with scanning the mall for your fathers to say something witty back. You accompanied him last year, and he would do the same to you this year.

As expected, Minho gives you dirty looks while you spend fifteen minutes begging and waiting for the dads to hurry up. You innocently smile back all the while.

seven

You spent a good portion of your winter break at Minho’s house, playing with his cats, eating his mom’s delicious japchae, and lamenting about school starting up again. School is in session now, and you wait for your first period teacher to open the door as you scroll through your phone outside in the hallway. Minho stops by to return the scarf you left at his house, and to your delight, there’s free coffee that comes with it. He puts the emphasis on ‘free.’

“I’d let you ruin my life,” you say, taking it from him. It’s from the expensive cafe again. “Wow, what’s the special occasion?”

“Just ‘cause,” he replies. “See you after school.”

“See you.”

What a weird way to begin the day. You wonder if Minho’s done anything to the drink; no way he would give you something for free. However, when you cautiously taste it, there’s nothing out of the ordinary. You swirl it to further check, but there’s still nothing.

Even though he said it was free, you still send him the money anyway.

A few minutes later, Lia shows up and says good morning. The two of you idly discuss winter break, and you both find out that neither of you did anything interesting.

“Are you going to go?” Lia asks. She points at the giant poster advertising winter formal tickets.

You shrug and sip on your Minho-delivered coffee. It still tastes normal, and you’re not sure what to make of it. “I don’t know. I don’t have anyone to go with.”

“Aren’t you dating that guy I saw you matching outfits with at Christmas? I don’t know if I already told you, but those were cute outfits.”

“Nope. He’s still my friend.”

“Is that disappointment I hear?” she teases. At your stuttering attempts to retort, she laughs. “I’m kidding. But he is cute.”

“Do you still want him to ruin your life?”

“You heard that?” she groans. “Oh my goodness, that’s embarrassing.”

When you tell Minho what happened after school, he doesn’t laugh. It’s not particularly funny anyway, but he usually smiles a little. Today he’s stony. “So is that your answer?”

“My answer to what?” you bewilderedly ask. You think back to morning and even when you were last back at his house only to come up blank with what he can be referring to. “What did you ask?”

Realization hits him. “You didn’t read the coffee label, did you?”

The cup has long been tossed into the trash by now. “Was I supposed to be? What did you ask?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he quickly brushes off. He hops down off the wall. “I gotta go to practice.”

“Wait!” you call after him but he runs off.

A few minutes later, you find yourself digging through the trash can you threw your empty cup in earlier. Luckily, it’s mostly filled with paper cuttings and other coffee cups. However, the latex gloves you borrowed from your biology teacher don’t lessen your disgust, especially when leftover liquid drips out. Your teacher watches on in amusement as you scrutinize every one.

“This must be a very important piece of trash,” she remarks.

“It is. Oh! It’s this one!”

The label is stained with coffee, and you can just barely make out Minho’s handwriting in black ink. Why did he have to write it so small? No wonder why you didn’t notice it earlier. You hold up the cup higher to the light, and your eyes grow wide as you read the message.

want to ruin my life forever and be more than friends? will you go to winter formal with me?

You nearly drop it in your surprise. Oh goodness. You really, really messed up.

Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage, and every part of you is buzzing with adrenaline. Minho likes you in that special way, and you…

You…

You kind of feel the same?

Yes?

Wait, no?

No!

You definitely feel the same.

You hurriedly thank your teacher for her help and rush out of the classroom with Minho’s cup in your hand. You have to fix this now. You burst into the dance practice area, out of breath, and everyone looks at you in confusion.

“Yes! The answer is yes, Minho!” you shout and triumphantly hold out the cup.

The dance captain looks back and forth between your panting frame and Minho’s frozen figure. “Let’s take a five minute break?” he says, more of a suggestion than an order.

You walk over to Minho while everyone else disperses. He meets you halfway. His mouth is open, like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

You smile at him and thrust the cup into his hands. “Hi. The answer is yes to both questions.”

“But you said you told Lia we were just friends,” he breathlessly says, like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Well, we were just friends ten hours ago. I didn’t realize I wanted to be more than your best friend until I read your note.”

A hesitant smile creeps up onto his face. “I didn’t think you would actually take me up on my offer of ruining my life. I thought I screwed it all up by even asking.”

“No! I really like you,” you blurt out. “Like really, really. And I think I have for a long time now. It just… took awhile for me to find out.”

“I like you too, life ruiner.”

You try to playfully push him, but he wraps you in a hug before you can even touch him. You squirm in his grasp and giggle when he holds you even tighter.

“Life ruiner, life ruiner,” he chants in your ear. “And you’re all mine now.”

~ ad.gray

#stray kids #skz #lee know #lee minho #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fluff #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz fluff #lee know fluff #lee minho fluff #friends to lovers #20201024

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anntoldst0ries · 3 years

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shinrin-yoku (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr Noelle Valentine) Word Count/Rating: ~1.7k, PG Summary: When life's difficulties hit, Noelle navigates her way through them by turning to the nature. Category: Hurt & Comfort Warnings: mentions of trauma

A/N: May is a Mental Health Awareness month and here in the UK the theme is nature. My MC, just like me, runs to the woods when things get tough. It helps her clear her head and reconnect with inner strength.

I struggle with mental health myself and it’s important for me to speak up and address the subject. There is nothing worse than shaming or discrediting someone’s difficult feelings. It’s fine not to be fine.

If you struggle alone, please don’t. My inbox will welcome you with open arms. Two heads are better than one, even if we just complain, at least we can complain together 💜

For @choicesmaychallenge2021 Day 13 - Mental Health

SHINRIN-YOKU - A Japanese term for ‘forest bathing’ or the sense of well-being you experience while in nature.

It all starts with a seed. This tiny element which, without aid, is sentenced to certain death. But give it the right soil. Give it water, sun. And it can grow. Into something big. Powerful. Scary.

She is five years old.

They live in a townhouse, a classy Victorian era building. Undistinguished, one of many merging into the background of a typical London street. The colors are also very standard, dirty white married to ivory beige, bar for the deep green door - their rebel child.

For the random passerby, it’s nothing special. But for her, the walls of a storey house encapsulate the whole world.

The garden behind the house is neat and clean, visibly well taken care of. She doesn’t remember exact details anymore, but she remembers begging her parents to go camping in the garden with her brother. The ticklish feeling of long and slim blades of grass on her tiny feet. Looking at the stars with pure awe and delight, that only the unspoiled mind of a child is capable of.

The plot of land that the house has been built on borders a beautiful forest. A wooden fence separates the two.

To her, it’s a passage to a magical world.

A world without any particular order, living its own life, unconstricted by rules. Not in the slightest does it resemble the garden on her side of the fence, where things grow according to the rules laid out by the adults.

There is a feeling inside her that she’s too young to name, to throw it in lingual context. It’s not until years later that she realized what it had been. Freedom. To grow however you please. To be what you want to be.

Robust, effuse trees tower over her, making her feel so small. As if she hasn’t already been feeling small enough, living in a world full of giants.

But they mean something else too. They bring a secret and a promise. Promise of a bigger world out there, far from the confines of the place she calls home.

The forest draws her, singing a melody that only her heart can understand. One day, she will be a part of it.

She lives the teenage dream life.

That’s what everyone says.

She doesn’t have any real problems. She’s lucky not having to worry about money. She’s got friends. Her family is great. She just needs to stop whining. Her life is perfect.

Their words, not hers.

None of them know what happens behind closed doors.

The childhood forest is a cloudy memory. Her home is now thousands of miles away, in a city with a giant red bridge, which for some bizarre reason has ‘golden’ in its name.

But the call from nature doesn’t care about distance. It can find you about anywhere. It’s different and yet the same.

Because nature beats in one rhythm and speaks in the same language, everywhere.

The morning is chilly and humid. She’s wearing a wooly coat, carelessly threw on a pair of PJs hiding underneath.

Her steps are brisk, breathing short and heartbeat elevated. Something’s bothering her blanched face.

The voice, again.

When it first appeared, she thought it had her best interest at heart. Used to give her advice and like a good friend, ream her out when she did something bad.

Over time, things took a turn for the worse.

Snarky comments. Casually mentioned wrongdoings. Feedback on what she could have done better, differently.

Noelle hoped the voice would go away on its own.

It hasn’t.

Not only did the voice not go away, but it was actually growing stronger with each passing day. Became more vocal. Judgmental. Openly hostile.

It fed on her fears.

It’s your fault - it told her - that your parents are getting divorced.

You are not good enough.

Even a lie, repeated enough times, will finally become the truth. And so it did for her, to the point where she couldn’t distinguish her own voice from the voice of the tormentor. Sounds faded into one.

Whoever said words can cut like a knife was right. But those who knew thoughts could leave scars that are much deeper, were truly wise.

The young, beautiful girl who never hurt a soul, became a hostage. A prisoner locked in the jail of her own head.

A giant tear rolled down her face. Made of all the words her heart couldn’t say.

She hugged the tree tightly and inhaled the woodsy aroma, the scent filling her lungs fully.

It’s sensuous.

Just like that, she is small again.

She’s got all that she ever wanted.

Degree from one of the best medical schools. Graduating with honors and glowing recommendations from even the strictest professors, who kept assuring her that her future in medicine is so bright it’s actually blinding. Then, a dreamy residency in one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country.

Pretty impressive, right? Even a fool could see that. But the only fool whose opinion she cared about, couldn’t. All these things were clearly not good enough for Ethan Ramsey to stay.

She wasn’t good enough for him to stay.

Not longer than a year ago he was just a concept, an ideal without a face, body and voice. To her, he was a celebrity, a hero, someone whom mortals don’t have access to.

It was preposterous to consider for even a second Dr Ramsey could actually see something in an intern.

Standing among the moss-covered trees, every fiber of her being was filled with the thought of him.

Did the Amazonian forest remind him of her, just like every forest around reminded her of him?

Just when she won the battle for her career, she lost another. Because life had to be a zero-sum game.

As painful as that would have been, she wished she had something to hold onto. A scene she could replay in her mind. An image of him walking away. Or saying goodbye.

But he left without a word.

That was the pattern. That was history repeating itself.

She took her shoes off and stepped on the soil frosted with morning dew. It’s cold and wet. It’s refreshing. She is grounding. Reconnecting with Earth.

Tunes in with the rivers of grass, towers of trees, fences of bushes.

If the trees could speak, they’d tell stories not many people would believe in.

Tales of heartbreaks. Parables of spirits.

They are all nature’s poems.

Hauntingly beautiful. Riveting. Written without a single word.

Because nature speaks its very own language that only the soul, not the mind, can understand.

Pain is ripping her apart. But it reminds her that she’s alive. And this, in itself, is a miracle.

She doesn’t know who she is anymore.

Some people call her a survivor. But it doesn’t feel like the right word. So many things in her died. So much was lost.

The attack took a lot from her. Danny. Bobby. Sense of security. Identity. Direction.

Right and wrong, good and bad, righteous and vicious. These are all just words. Someone needs to come and teach her the meaning of them anew. Draw lines, mark out frontiers. Save her from herself.

The ground is soaked. Torrential rain turned the soil into soft mud, warm and easily slipping through her fingers. She falls on her knees, praying for the ground to consume her.

Fill every part of her. Silence the internal cacophony. To sink into oblivion.

Not many people knew about the panic attacks and recurring nightmares. They’re always the same.

She’s standing in the middle of a swamp. Danny and Bobby are drowning, their arms reaching out for her. She knows she can only save one of them. She runs out of time trying to figure out how to save both. As a result, they both die. Time stands still and yet everything is spinning, moving, racing. The reality is a riot of overbright colours.

Suddenly, a ring breaks the silence. A polyphonic intruder. She looks at the screen through hooded eyes and notices the caller’s name. It’s him. He’s petrified. Worried to death. Asks her to stay where she is.

Some time later, maybe 10 minutes, maybe an hour - who knows? - he emerges from the gathering of stocky oaks.

The moment he catches the sight of her, he starts running. She notices a lab coat underneath the jacket. He’s soaking wet.

Even though he is so close, he doesn’t slow down. Crashing into her, he scoops her in his arms. Catches her in the tightest of embraces.

Asks her if she’s fine. No. Not that question again. She’s tired of people fussing over her and gets angry.

Had it not been for the attack, would he even be here? The voice asks mockingly. It doesn’t matter to her. He’s there now.

Deep baritone is gentle and full of concern. It’s not like that. It’s not his intention to fuss. He’s simply worried. Because she is the most important thing to him in the whole world. Yes, he wasted so much time. That’s why he refuses to lose even one more second.

A dam breaks within her. Eliciting a quiet sob. She clutches his shirt, holds onto him for dear life. Moments later, she’s screaming at the top of her lungs. Singing her poignant birdsong.

How is she supposed to cope? Will things ever go back to normal? What is normal anyway?

In the confines of the infamous patient room she never felt more scared in her life. But here, out in the open, she feels so safe. As if she’s had a silent agreement with nature, which vouched to protect her at all costs.

And this time, nature had an ally. Because Ethan will protect her, even if it’s the last thing he does. Holding onto each other, they stand in the nothingness.

It keeps them grounded. Connected to their roots. Turning over new leaves. Bending before they break. Growing.

They get lost. Mother Nature has a reward for those who do. They have a chance to find themselves. Over and over again.

~~~

If you made it this far - thank you & you're awesome 🥰

Tag list: @genevievemd @gryffindordaughterofathena @terrm9@starrystarrytrouble @the-pale-goddess @jamespotterthefirst @lisha1valecha @writer-ish @maurine07 @drakewalkerfantasy@iemcpbchoices @liaromancewriter @lem-20 @lucy-268 @oldminniemcg @queencarb @qrkowna @mercury84choices @lsvdw-blog @utterlyinevitable @stygianflood @udishaman @romewritingshop @romereadingshop @alina-yol-ramsey @stateofgracious @xxsugarplumfluffsxx @binny1985 @tsrookie @fayeswiftie @archxxronrookie @tinkertailorsoldierspy @schnitzelbutterfingers @wingedhairstylemusicweasel @theinvisibledreamergirl @custaroonie @irisofpurple @chasingrobbie @ethandaddyramseyx @quixoticdreamer16 @coffeeheartaddict @takemyopenheart @aworldoffandoms @potionsprefect @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

#open heart #Ethan Ramsey x mc #choices fic writers creations #fics of the week #mental health awareness

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whumpasaurus101 · 3 years

Text

More Broken Glass

So this.. I don't even know how this even came into my head.. I was just like.. Broken glass, yes. Scared Asher, yessss. So uhm, here it is!!! hyujfgukfj.

A big thank you to @heathenwhump for helping me at the start!!!!! Here is a balloon for you teehee 🎈

CW: oki umm, broken glass.. Heheh / forced to kneel on broken sharp object / slight dehumanization / knocked out / just... a very scared whumpee ngl dhjgkf / (if I left anything out lmk!! :)

Asher froze the minute the glass connected with the tiles of the kitchen. The sound of glass breaking echoed through the whole house. His breathing started picking up as he heard the television pause in the other room. Heavy footsteps plodded down the hallway. Asher didn't dare turn around. He could hear his heartbeat rapidly thumping in his ears. He felt nauseous. Was he about to collapse? Could he-

“Care to explain yourself?” Rodger asked in a calm voice that sent shudders down Asher’s back.

Rodger stood at the door frame, arms folded.

“I-” Asher was panting at this stage, “I just- it- it- it ….fell.”

“It just… fell?”

Asher nodded quickly. “Y-Yeah, I was uhm, I was over there.”

Anxiously pointing to the corner of the kitchen, Asher continued, “And then the uh- the …...glass, yes, the glass just uhm, it just fell.”

“So you're telling me, that you were over in the complete other side of the room, then a big ‘ghost’ came along and smashed the glass, and now you're being framed for it?”

Asher cleared his throat, “I mean… when you put it that way, it just sounds ridiculous.” He tried to laugh but stopped the minute he was met with Rodger’s same cold face.

Asher huffed, “Alight, fine. I dropped it, okay? I didn't mean to!” Rodger ground his teeth. “That's alr-” No, wait. No. It wasn't alright. Rodger had been going so soft on him recently, “Oh you're in big trouble now.” Asher’s eyebrows furrowed, “Dude, it was just a fucking glass, chill out.”

“Chill- Chill out?! Asher, all I have done recently is let you get away with things. But now it's over. You need to learn your place again. Kneel.” Asher laughed, “What?”

“Are you fucking deaf? I said `kneel’.” When Asher didn't move, Rodger didn't hesitate to storm over and roughly pushed Asher to his knees, right on top of the glass. Asher let out a cry, “AAAAAGHH! Rodger, R-Rodger!!! Please!!!!!”

“I don't want to fucking hear it, I have had enough of your whining ass, you need to learn whats right and whats wrong,” He pushed Asher’s shoulders further down as Asher tried to stand, forcing the glass further into his skin. Asher’s hands desperately fought Rodger’s but nothing worked.

“Say it,” Rodger spat. “Say fucking what!?” Rodger pushed Asher's shoulders down again. “AGH! S-say what?!?” He was desperate, his voice sounded desperate. He heaved in breaths as tears started to fall. His body hopelessly fought for any kind of relief.

“Say that you know your place.”

“I know my place!!! Jesus Christ!” “And what is your place?”

Asher gulped, “Wh-what?”

“Your hearing seems to be getting bad Asher,” Rodger sneered in a fake caring way.

“It's not my hearing you dumbass, you're just making no sense.”

Rodger let go of one of Asher’s shoulders and quickly backhanded him, “Tell me your fucking place if you're so confident you know it!”

“Oh my god, will you just lay off it?! Let me get up you fucker!”

Rodger’s head was almost numb from frustration, Asher wasn't cooperating and Rodger was running out of threats. He quickly grabbed another glass that was on the table and smashed it over Asher’s head. There was a sudden silence and Asher collapsed to the ground with a groan. He was still conscious. Which was unfortunate for Asher.

Rodger's eyes widened as an idea struck him. He fished in his pockets for his phone, “Stay here, I'm gonna make a call and when I get back here, you better be in the exact same position you are in right now Do, not, move.”

Oh, Asher wasn't planning to. Oh no no no. He couldn't move. His body was full of fire. His knees stung as blood continued to fall. He was ashamed as he whimpered, but that was better than crying...well, that's what he told himself.

He heard talking in the next room. He tried to crawl closer to the room so he could make out what was being said but it was useless. He groaned and tried his best to stand up but quickly fell back to the ground as a wave of nausea hit him.

Just as he closed his eyes, Rodger returned, making Asher groan, “Fuck offffffffff, just leave me alone for two fuckung min-” He wheezed as Rodger’s boot was firmly placed on his back, knocking the air out of him. “Shut it. Now, we have a guest coming in an hour. I would normally tell you to get washed, but I think I want him to see what mess you've gotten yourself into.”

‘Him’. “Antonio?” Rodger chuckled, “Oh no no, worse. Much worse.” Asher gulped, he tried to think of who could be possible who- No!

Rodger must’ve seen the pure shock and terror in Asher’s face when he chuckled. “N-n-no PLEASE! I’ll- I’ll do anything!” Rodger snickered, “Oh Ashy, it's too late for that.” Asher let out a mute cry.

An hour later, the doorbell rang. Asher felt as if he was about to get sick. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, this was just a nightmare… this wasn't real… this can't be happening. No. He can't do this. How could Rodger be so cruel? It was the voice that made Asher lose it. His brain screamed at him to run but the restraints which kept him kneeling but the table, hands tied to the coffee table’s leg.

“Aiden! Thank you so much for coming in such short notice!!!” “Oh, of course!!! I’d do anything for my Danny boy.”

Asher felt physical chills down his back as he shuddered in disgust. Footsteps grew louder and Asher tried to kick himself away. As far away from the monster as possible. No use. Aiden laughed his booming laugh as he stopped at the door frame, taking in the site in front of him, “Well, well, well. Looks like you’ve got yourself into a little… pickle.” Asher heaved in breaths, “G-go away. Leave me the fuck alone!”

Aiden was fully taken back at the cursing, “Well now Danny, that's not very nice of you! Here I was, missing you so much over the months, and this is what I get in response?? Well, I'm glad Rodger called me, I can finally put you back into your place.”

“Wh-where’s Rodger?” Asher asked, refusing to believe that he heard a car’s tires against the driveway. “Oh, oh he’s gone. He thought that it would be best if he left. You know, finally have a break from you!” Asher shook his head, “Pl-please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” He cried. “You see?? Listen to yourself!! I have been here for not even five minutes and you're starting to come back!!! Now just think about it if I stay with you for the rest of the day!” Then he gasped, “And maybe even tomorrow!!!” Another gasp, “What if I brought you back to the house tomorrow so you can.. Catch up with your friends!”

Asher hated how Aiden was getting so… excited about this. He shook his head again, not too violent so his vision wouldn't spin anymore than how much it was right now. Now, you stay there for a moment while I sus out the place, especially downstairs!!!” Aiden clapped, excited.

Asher curled in on himself. It’s a dream. FUCK, please show me it's a dream. I can't, I can't do this. I can't face this. I can’t face him!

But deep down. He knew full well it was not a dream. He tried to think of happy things, happy memories. But all that came into his head were memories from Aiden’s house. All the pain. All the hurt. He couldn't. He can't. He had to.

---

Taglist:

@likeit-or-whumpit @milk-carton-whump @yesthisiswhump @as-a-matter-of-whump @appy-polly-loggies @happy-whumper @myst-in-the-mirror @tears-and-lilies

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Blood, Freely Given

CW: Blood, vampirism, referenced dissoci@ted identities, vague referenced severe childhood trauma, brief noncon refs, brief torture references

The automatic double-doors slide open, and their bare feet move over the scratchy mat just inside, smearing mud across the black nylon.

Water drips down from their hair, running in rivulets over the line of their throat, dipping beneath their soaked-through tank top, dripping with a soft pat pat pat pat onto the tile. They move as if floating past the welcome desk at the hospital.

Shadows, thick and velvet, swallow them whole. The shadows feel like arms holding them tight, like the grasp of a lover, like being loved.

When the admin assistant working the welcome desk looks up, light glinting off his nametag, to see who has come in through the door, he blinks as the lights flicker overhead, and for just a second he sees a flash of green hair stained reddish-brown and caked with drying dirt, a haunted blank face and empty glowing eyes… and then there’s no one there.

“Weird,” He mutters, staring as the doors slowly slide closed again. “Fucking weird.”

Outside, lightning flashes and thunder booms right on its heels, a deafening roar of sound that seems to rattle even the solidity of the hospital. The admin swallows, hard, staring out into the total blackness of the storm raging outside the safety of the brick and stone walls that surround them.

He’s already forgotten the half-second of sight, and thinks now only about the thunder and lightning. Water drips along the floor as they walk, ignoring him.

He doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters but finding Ryan.

The shadows move around them, twist and dance around their feet like spirits, like animals, like children who never leave them. People look at the water on the floor and wonder why it hasn’t dried, find themselves baffled at the sight of mud dissolving into the puddles, but they don’t see the feet that make the puddles, they don’t see the drip of water from green hair, off of wrinkled fingertips.

They don’t see Ora Collins, because Ora Collins does not want to be seen.

Their cheekbones are pronounced, gaunt in their face. Hazel eyes glow, set into the lines of their face. Their hair hasn’t grown since the last day in the farmhouse, since the moment Ryan’s teeth pierced their skin. A broken fingernail has never regrown. A cut on one leg doesn’t heal, but it doesn’t hurt, either.

There’s a bruise that is now a permanent fixture on their left arm, a memory that might as well be a tattoo.

Dead and not-dead, they follow a heartbeat that pulses in perfect rhythm with their own. He’s upstairs, they know that. Waiting for them, knowing they’re coming. He feels them as strongly as they feel him.

We feel our own. We always feel our own.

Ora’s eyes flutter shut, and they see through his, the sight of the redheaded man covered in bandages and on the bed, the way blue eyes stare with emptiness into nothing, accepting the pain the way someone else has always stepped up when it became too much to bear.

Ora swallows, their throat moving, seeing on Danny’s body now the ghostly marks of times he has cried in the night.

They see, in that breath, that it began as a child used to feed his own mother, a little boy bled to sickness and then allowed to heal and then bled again. They see the fracture in him, how he hid from the reality in order to forget it, not to know. They see how he lost nights and days and no one believed him when he wondered why.

They see a shimmer of him where he lays in the bed, three sets of fingers, three pairs of wide blue eyes, three reasons to scream. They see how he is only alive because Abraham Denner didn’t know until later that he had someone who would step forward to take the worst of it so the others could survive.

Funny, how much more you know when you’re dead.

Ora rolls their head around, small cracks in their spine releasing tension that will build again, and again, and again. Their mouth waters. This place is full of life, and it is their way now to take it.

Nothing matters but blood.

The shadows move, as a woman heavy in her pregnancy walks past them - stops, and turns to look at the presence she just felt nearby - and sees nothing.

Nothing but the flicker of lights overhead, and a spot of red in a droplet of water on a white tile floor.

The woman shudders against instinctive unease and keeps walking, heading for the double-doors, for the storm that pounds rain into pavement, the dim headlights barely visible through a curtain of rain.

Ora can smell the woman’s blood, and knows in an instant that she is seven months pregnant, and her husband is here for a problem with his kidneys, and she will go home to three other children and cry, that the oldest child will hold her and they will tell each other it’ll be okay and neither one will believe it.

They know also that the husband will recover, and come home, and then the future is murkier, more uncertain. But Ora can see the happy day he sleeps in his own bed again.

They pause, and turn, watching the woman’s back as she walks.

They mouth the words, you’ll be okay, and the baby will be fine. He will come home to you. They make no sound, and yet something in the woman’s shoulders relaxes, and she opens her umbrella and steps out into the night with a new confidence that, however terrifying the moment, everything will be alright in the end.

They might be dead, but they can soothe the restless fear of life as easily as they can feed them. They don’t have to be wicked, they don’t have to be evil, they don’t-

They don’t have to be Ashley.

They will not kill like Ashley did, they will not take captives, they will not delight in torture and fear and they will not feed on screaming.

They don’t have to be Ashley.

That is all that matters.

Ora turns back to look ahead of themself, the soft neon lights of the food court on their right, conference rooms and offices on the left.

Ahead, the elevators.

A man waiting for the elevator is suddenly distracted by feeling like a gust of wind hit his back. He drops his coffee cup, spilling it all over the floor. Lights above him flicker as he drops to a crouch, cursing, pulling out napkins to wipe up the spill. While he’s distracted, the elevator doors open, water drops inside in a soft pitter-patter, and they close again.

He looks up in time to see a flash of glowing eyes and green hair, a torn and mud-stained tank top and shorts, spots dried reddish-brown that can’t be anything but blood. He sees a hint of mud-covered bare feet.

He stares, and Ora looks back at him.

He doesn’t matter.

“Look away,” They say in a croaking voice, cracked from disuse. “Look away.”

The man looks down and forgets about everything but his coffee and his sense that something is very, very wrong.

They press the button for the sixth floor and the elevator lurches into motion, shakily. Lights flicker and power drops and jumps back up around them. They don’t care.

Ryan is waiting.

The elevator doors slide open on the sixth floor and three people sitting in a small lobby look up to see an empty box, with a puddle of water on the floor. The doors slide shut again, and the elevator heads back to the first floor.

A bit of rainwater runs down Ora’s cheek like the tears they no longer cry.

Dead people don’t cry.

Nothing matters enough to be worth weeping over.

Ora thinks of Danny’s eyes in the bed, water gathering over the empty places, running down to pool in the shell of his ear and dampen his dirty unwashed hair. They think of Ryan sobbing next to his bed in the first days when a tube down Danny’s throat breathed so he didn’t have to breathe for himself. They think of Nathaniel Vandrum’s hand silently laid on his back as he leaned over, and the two men meeting in the middle, dropping as always their loathing of each other for their love for a man who has had to make the choice to live too many times.

A doctor walking past brushes against Ora’s shoulder and they shiver at the beat of her heart, her pulse, the hint of her blood they can taste in the air.

A nurse comes too close and Ora’s teeth are sharp, begging to bury in soft skin, pull out the life inside, and hand it over to the darkness that made them. Ora moves with the shadows, and the shadows bay for blood.

But this nurse has done nothing but try her best to save the lives of people who don’t know her, who she will never truly know, and Ora turns away.

They will not be Ashley Denner.

That is what matters.

They find the room without hurrying, taking each step slowly. The tile floor is cold, they know this, but they don’t feel it.

Ryan has life beating in his blood alongside the death. He is made of green hills and murder in the darkness. He is made of eyes open to delight in flowers and of eyes slowly closing from a wasting disease that can’t be explained.

Ora doesn’t have the life, anymore.

They wasted theirs, anyway.

All they are is death.

Is this a second chance? Could they start again? They haven’t thought about it. They walked to Tennessee - walked and rode in the back of trucks and cars, shredding the people who tried to hurt them thinking they were weak and leaving the kind ones unharmed, and drove until the car ran out of gas and then found another ride again - and then returned.

The cold silver-colored door handle turns easily under their hand, and when they step into the room Nate Vandrum is asleep on a sort of couch, a thin blanket thrown over him, the light of the machines in the room lining his face.

Lightning flashes through the closed blinds, and thunder rolls.

Ora is a creature made of rainy seasons, lurking in stagnant pools of water, waiting for their chance to slip underneath protective nets and clothes and glide around candles. They are a heavy death, a slow death, but-

They don’t have to cause death at all.

They will not.

Daniel Michaelson, laid out on the hospital bed, flickers his eyes open and turns to look at them. They see what he sees, eyes that glow in the darkness, a pounding hunger that must be satisfied.

“Mom,” He whispers, voice trembling, and Ora tilts their head, wet hair sticking to their cheekbones, mouth watering at the beat of his heart, the hint of his blood. “Mom, no, please-... God, no-”

“It’s alright, Dan. They’re not Mom,” Ryan says, standing in the open doorway to the small bathroom attached to this private hospital room. He’s just come from a shower and heat mists off his skin, his black curls hang over his forehead and stick to the nape of his neck. His eyes glow, a soft gleaming yellow in the shadows, match Ora’s hazel for strength and more. All their heartbeats led them back to him. “And that won’t happen to you again. I promise. I’ll never, ever let anyone take from you again.”

“Ryan-” Danny’s eyes are impossibly wide, as always, and the darkness deepens the scars on his face until they are canyons cut into a plateau, the aftermath of a volcanic eruption, the lines of glaciers tearing up earth and turning flatlands into valleys. His voice is weak, and Nate Vandrum stirs, on the couch, called close to waking by the fear in Danny. “Help me, please, Mom’s h-hungry-”

“It’s okay, Danny,” Ryan says, soft and loving. He moves to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, to tuck a bit of hair behind one ear. “Go back to sleep. They’re not here for you.” His eyes stay on Ora’s as he says, with a shiver of something running underneath him, utterly inhuman and his birthright and hidden from him for too many years, “Calm, if you are living.”

Danny’s eyes flutter shut, and his breathing settles, deep and even. A machine over his shoulder beeps slowly as he settles. Nate, on the couch, breathes out in a long slow sigh, and Ora watches his right hand, curled into a painful fist, relax.

“Can I do that?” They ask, hoarsely.

“No,” Ryan says, with a hint of warmth, watching his brother’s eyes move under his eyelids. “That’s from my father, not my mother.”

“Oh.”

Ryan looks back at Ora, relaxing now that his brother is soothed. “You walked a long way. Is she at rest?”

“Ashley? I ate her heart.” Their voice is flat, decayed, like the taste of Ashley’s black heart on their tongue.

“No… your girlfriend. From before.”

Ora looks down at their hands, the dirt pressed into the lines until it seems like they will never be clean. “I buried Penny like she deserved,” They say, voice low, twining around the sound of the machines. Only Ryan can hear them.

“Good. That’s the last thing they took from us, then, made right.” Ora moves closer to him, and he watches them move. They watch him swallow, the movement of his throat. “Are you hungry?”

He’s beautiful, always. He’s so beautiful, even at his worst. Even tied to Bram’s bed he was beautiful, even screaming for mercy he was beautiful, even now, a predator set free, he is so beautiful.

He tilts his head to the side, and Ora hitches in breath they don’t need at the way the thin light from the machines moves over his skin. The flutter of his pulse.

Their only heartbeat is his.

They want it.

“Yes,” They breathe. “I’m so hungry, Ryan.”

Ryan smiles at them, in the darkness, and reaches out. They take his hand and he pulls them close, sliding his other hand up into their hair, uncaring about it being wet, about the water that soaks him as well when he pulls them close. He pressed the back of their head to move them forward until their lips touch the heat of his neck. He’s so warm.

He’s so warm, and they’re so-

“If you’re hungry,” He whispers, “Then feed. I made you - I owe this, and more, for helping me save my brother.”

Ora buries their teeth in his throat and takes the blood like a sacrament. Blood, freely given and offered, blood that won’t kill, blood that won’t cause harm. Blood that won’t take a life and leave the grieving behind. Blood that won’t run from wrists or backs or legs.

Blood, given to them openly and with love.

They will not be Ashley Denner.

That’s all that matters.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary, @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain, @whump-tr0pes| @wildfaewhump

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yellowocaballero · 3 years

Text

Hunt!Tim: Five Times He Murdered Someone And One Time He Loved them <3

Just kidding. This is a fic set in my Roleswap AU, acting as a character study over the course of the series into...whatever the fuck was going on with that guy. I spent so much time and energy actually figuring out his arc and character that when I finished Solitaire I hadn’t said everything I wanted to say, so that’s why this exists. It’s...not funny at all. Tim takes himself far too seriously. I’m very sorry, there are almost no jokes in this. It just doesn’t work.

Content warning for story typical issues; but more explicit depiction of suicidal ideation, kidnapping and physical assault, just in general a very fucked up little dude, and gendered violence that is more explicitly discussed as a possible precursor to further violence. Rest under the cut.

“I’m going to fucking kill them!”

“Well,” Sasha said, tapping away relentlessly on her phone as she sat primly on his couch. During work hours she was always doing something mysterious on her laptop, and after work it was on her phone. She had once alluded to being the moderator of an improbable number of forums. She liked the power. “We could probably make that happen. It’s the Magnus Institute, it’s suspicious if nobody's dying. But four people at once may not be prudent.”

“I don’t care!” Tim yelled. He paced his living room in tight lines, turning sharply on his heel at the end of the room. It felt like he was bursting with pent-up energy and rage, sending his heartbeat thumping in his ears like a war drum. “They’re obstructing justice, withholding evidence from an investigation, probably acting as an accomplice -”

“I’m going to fucking kill them!”

Sasha’s head snapped up, eyes glinting at him behind the big glasses that she always hid behind. “So you do think they were involved in Gertrude’s death?”

“Who cares. They did something, they’re obviously guilty of whatever. Every one of them have rap sheets.” Everyone but that blonde woman, which seemed a little counter-intuitive. “We just have to find something.”

Sasha hesitated, just momentarily, and she carefully put her phone down. “You’re angry, Tim. It’s affecting your judgement. Remember when we talked about that? Deep breaths. Come on, in one and out two. ”

Tim grimaced, but Sasha was right. He stopped pacing, and at Sasha’s encouraging look he resentfully took a few deep breaths. It did make him feel better. His heart wasn’t thumping in his ears anymore. She was so good at calming him down. She was just so wonderful in every way.

Thinking about how great Sasha was effective in clearing his head, but it just highlighted how terrible those women were in comparison. No respect. It was disgusting.

“Thanks,” Tim said gruffly, eliciting a beautiful smile. He collapsed on the couch next to her, disgusted and frustrated. “We’re never going to solve this Robinson case so long as those women are in the way. I won’t tolerate any obstacles in getting justice.”

“I know, and that’s what’s brave about you,” Sasha soothed, clasping his shoulder gently. Her thumb worked into his shoulder, gentle and soothing. “But we have to do it quietly. We don’t just need them out of the way, we need information. I’ll work on the technological side. You can dig up an entire life online, trust me. But if they know any of the secrets about the Institute and the Archives, we have to press them. That’s your strength, Tim. You can get anything out of anyone, because you never give up.”

Tim turned his head and smiled weakly at her. “And your strength is that you’re always there for me.” Her eyebrow ticked, but Tim hardly noticed. “I’ll keep pressing. They can’t stonewall me forever. I have their boss’ address, I’ll just show up there.”

“He’s going to ask for a warrant -”

“Oh, who gives a shit, nobody cares.” Tim snorted. “He’s a pussy if he’s hiding behind those women, anyway.” At Sasha’s carefully arched eyebrow, Tim quickly added, “Coward, I meant coward.”

“So you do remember our conversation about being PC,” Sasha said, making Tim snort. Please. Those sensitivity training the department was always forcing on them was a joke. Tim laughed with the other guys about it afterwards. He didn’t know why Sasha was complaining; she laughed just as mockingly as the rest of them. But she just readjusted her glasses now, a sign she was a little nervous. “Tim, about what you said just before we left -”

“What about it?” Tim said sharply.

Sasha was silent for a minute, before adjusting her glasses again. “Nothing. Just - be careful, okay? People who get too close to the Magnus Institute end up dead.”

If only they would. But Tim grinned at her, bright and sharp, and Sasha hesitantly smiled back too. Tim’s conviction, his bravery, always seemed to make her feel better. Sasha thought too much. She rarely second guessed herself - that was why Tim liked her - but sometimes she just thought herself into twists. She needed someone like him to cut that Gordian Knot. “Don’t worry, Sash. The good guys always prevail.”

Tim would kill them. All he needed was a reason.

ii.

Tim had nightmares, now.

Not full ones. Strange, fragmented dreams that were quickly forgotten after he woke up. Most of the time. But not always. And they were so strangely vivid - as if he was really living that moment over and over again.

It was of that construction site. And of Danny, watching those murders and the corpses with a sick, fascinated smile. And of Tim, defenseless and powerless and trembling and weak, watching it all happen.

Sometimes there would be a man. Just once or twice. The man, who would always be wearing really stupid pyjamas that contrasted wildly with how attractive he was, would frown at Tim.

‘Hey’, Sims said, ‘aren’t you that prick?’.

And Tim would wake up, heart beating fast, thumping in his ears, afraid in exactly that same poisonous metallic way that he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

Tim was going to kill that monster.

****

On a Monday afternoon, Tim sat in the driver’s seat of his car, checking his gun.

Gun, check. Rope, check. Shovel, check. Lighter and gasoline, check. Axe with belt, check, just in case things went really south. Gag, check. Tim had no idea how many secret powers that thing had, he wasn’t taking any chances.

Monday was the only night that they all went home alone. It took two frustrating weeks of stake-outs to realize that. Since he had cornered that bitch Melanie she even walked home with Daisy, who apparently lived close by. It was worth it, though. She was finally feeding him useful information, even though Tim knew that she thought she was giving irrelevant information about what they really wanted. He gave most of it straight to Sasha, who was salivating over all of the puzzle pieces Melanie was casually dumping on them as if they were meaningless. Whatever. That was Sasha’s job.

She had been worried about him lately. Probably. Tim hadn’t really noticed. He was focused on the case. Tim was a perfectionist like that.

Finally, at 5:20, Tim saw the monster - Jon, whatever, he wasn’t scared of him - round the corner. He was a little hard to distinguish in the darkness, but that was why Tim had left the headlights on.

His heart was thumping, roaring in his ears. Tim was giddy with excitement and anticipation and thirst. Catching them wasn’t the best part, but this would feel so good. He had been vividly imagining the look of fear on the thing’s face for the past month, ever since he assaulted Tim. He just couldn’t decide how he wanted to kill him - he brought his nightstick just in case he wanted to bash his face in, but fire was practical and incredibly painful.

Showtime, Tim thought, as he opened his car door and stepped out. After Tim took care of this, he and Sasha would be safe. That was the important thing. He was protecting Sasha from that thing. That was why he did it, all of it.

Jon startled a little when he saw him, but his face was backlit from the headlights and his features were probably obscured. It wasn’t until Tim stepped forward, easily and casually, that Jon began the slight speedwalk of a pedestrian encountering a persistent panhandler on the street.

“Stop right there.”

Jon froze. Not as stupid as he looks, then. Still pretty stupid.

Tim walked forward until he was standing at Jon’s back, already silently drawing out his handcuffs with one hand.

“Detective Stoker,” Jon said, and Tim almost respected the way his voice didn’t shake. “I wish this was more of a surprise.”

Normally Tim appreciated a good intimidating monologue, but he could be more efficient right now. Besides, there was time for that later. Jon turned his head backwards slightly, trying to see his face - perfect - and Tim waited until he could see his expression before he jammed the barrel of his gun on Jon’s throat.

There it was. The expression that few people besides Tim had ever seen, that secret face of man that each person felt so few times in their lives if they felt it at all. The face of a man who knew he was about to die.

It was Tim’s little secret.

“Why -”

Tim bashed it over the head with the barrel of the gun, and it dropped on the gun like a lanky puppet with its strings cut. No use letting it finish a question.

Handcuffs, rope, trunk. Carefully just under the speed limit, barrelling out of London into the cold and emotionless woods. Turning on the stereo - some mindless Amy Winehouse song. Tim found himself whistling along with it, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

It wasn’t that Tim liked killing people, or even things that looked and begged and cried like people. But it was just something you had to do. Tim shouldered that burden, so innocent people wouldn’t have to. As a police officer, he had sworn to be the wolf that protects the sheep. That was Tim - that loyal and heroic wolf.

The thrill was overwhelming. That was why people had sex in public - that excited thrill over possibly getting caught. Not that he would, and even if he did Tim basically had carte blanche to handle his cases how he wanted, but he could. His skin was prickling, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. Saliva was pooling in his mouth, which he wiped off with one hand. Adrenaline did weird things. When he looked at the rear mirror inside the car to check on Jo - the monster, he saw the light of the headlights glinting strangely against his eyes, but in another second it was gone.

Tim didn’t have a ‘spot’ because that was fucking idiotic, but all of his dumping places had basically the same characteristics. You had to drive a while to get something really private. It took an hour, but they got to Chiltern hills eventually, and Tim was forced to squint at Google Maps to find the GPS coordinates he had planned out. It felt a little ridiculous to use Google Maps to find a burial spot for somebody but - well, life was weird.

When he stopped, he carefully took out the gag, the axe, the shovel, his own hunting knife, and dumped them in the spot he had picked out. He held the gag and holstered the hunting knife before carefully popping open the trunk.

Jo - the monster was awake. Which was fortunate; there was no fight when they were unconscious. He stared up at Tim with big brown eyes, all innocent and pleading, and Tim rolled his eyes before bending down to securely jam the gag in his mouth before grabbing him by his tied hands and dragging him out. The thing made a bunch of sad noises, and from the sounds of it he had wrenched a shoulder, but that wouldn’t be an issue in a few minutes.

The thing’s legs had clearly fallen asleep, and he stumbled onto the ground the minute Tim let go of him. He kept his eyes on Tim almost frantically, as if he could brainwash him by his eyes alone - could he? Could he? His eyes were fucking freaky.

Jesus. What if he could. Fuck, Tim barely knew anything about his freaky powers. But if he could brainwash via eye contact, couldn’t he -

No. Tim shook himself. That was the fear talking. Which shouldn’t exist. The fear should be gone. He had the thing bound and gagged at his feet, terrified out of its life, he couldn’t possibly still be scared of it. Fucking stupid. He was just cautious. That was caution. Tim was a cautious person.

Time for his favorite part, then.

Tim grinned lazily down at the thing, letting his white teeth flash in the lit headlights of the car. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night, writing all of this out in his mind. “Not so great on the other side, huh?”

The monster’s eyes widened.

Tim dragged him away from the car, not bothering to be gentle. He kicked and pushed on the ground, and although he was bony as hell the guy was tall and desperate, and Tim was forced to kick him down on the ground and draw his gun. He hadn’t wanted to draw the gun - they never fought and kicked and snarled and bit with the gun - but he wasn’t taking any chances here.

“I want you to know,” Tim said, friendly and warm, “that I’m doing this because I made a promise. On my badge and on my life, I protect the innocent from predators. I defend society from threats. There’s a corruption in the world, a sick and rotting infection, and it’s my job to tear it out. But I get no joy from this, okay?” He didn’t know why it was important that the monster knew that. It wasn’t like he was going to hold a grudge. The monster tried to sit up, but Tim kicked him again until he hit the ground again. Tim hated how he was shorter than him when they both were standing. He wanted to look down on him for once.

The monster was always looking down on him. With his little girl gang and his bestest buddies. With that - that moral superiority. He thought he was so smart and popular. Just because he could rip someone’s deepest secrets out of someone, he thought he was better. Just because he knew Tim’s worst fear, he thought that he had power over Tim.

Nobody did. Nobody had power over Tim. Not anymore.

“But you,” Tim hissed, “you, out of everyone I’ve ever killed - I’m going to enjoy you. You’ve crept into the lives of all those humans. You even got fucking Sasha telling me you’re not all bad. Is that what you do? Convince everybody around you that you’re a good person, when you’re a piece of shit inside?” His hand was trembling on his gun - that wasn’t in the script. Why was that happening? “Well, guess what. No matter how great you think you are, you will always be a monster.”

The handle of Tim’s gun was coated in sweat, making his trembling hand slide. Why? The gasoline and lighter were standing by his feet, ready to burn the body. His heart was thumping in his chest, not from anticipation and thrill - why? Why? Why?

“Tim, no!”

Tim, so focused on what he was doing, jerked so hard he almost fired the gun. He whipped around to the source of the voice, and found to his shock a familiar car and a familiar woman standing by it, face set in a fierce determination.

It was Sasha. Somehow, the sight of her was deeply wrong to Tim. She shouldn’t be here. Sasha should never see this. She knew, she had helped - always the finger pointing in the direction to unleash Tim - but she shouldn’t see it. He knew it wasn’t real to her, what he did.

“Sash,” Tim said weakly, hand drooping.

Jon screamed from behind his gag. He might have been calling for help.

“Put the gun down,” Sasha said coldly. She was just dressed in jeans and a messy t-shirt, as if she had come here in a great hurry. How had she kno - okay, Sasha knew everything, it was no surprise.

“Why? Sasha, what are you doing here?” Tim cried, in genuine confusion. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that Jon is innocent of everything!” Sasha yelled, and Tim almost flinched back. “He didn’t kill Gertrude, he doesn’t know anything about what’s going on! Trust me, Jon and his team have nothing to do with any of this!”

“He’s a fucking demon, Sash,” Tim said incredulously. How could she take his side? How? “Don’t you remember what he did to me? How can you forgive that?”

“You’re not a saint either!” Sasha screamed - the first time Tim had ever heard her scream at him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. How had he lost control of the situation so badly? “If you kill him you will break his team.”

As if a single coworker nobody dying will upset anybody. “And how long until he attacks or kills his team?” Tim asked furiously. “They’re the biggest bitches I’ve ever met, but they’re human. Monsters hurt humans, Sasha. It’s in their nature. How long until he hurts someone else? How long until he hurts you?”

“If you kill him,” Sasha said, quiet and strangled and hurt, “I will never forgive you.”

Nobody had power over him - nobody, perhaps, save Sasha. She held his heart in his hands, ready at a moment’s cue to crush it or rip it out of him. He couldn’t bear her disapproving face, her quiet disappointment. If she didn’t love him, if she took that away - he wouldn’t have anything. Nothing would be left. He had to protect that love, protect her.

“Sasha,” Tim said weakly, “out of everybody, I thought you would understand.”

“I do. I’m the only one who will ever understand. That’s why you have to trust me.”

Maye that was the problem. Tim did. She was the only person he had ever trusted.

Tim flicked the safety, and dropped the gun.

Just to make himself feel better, he bent his leg back to kick Jon, but - but, for some reason, he didn’t. It just seemed so tiresome. What was the point? What was the point of any of this?

The point had always been to protect humans from the monsters. To protect Sasha. But Sasha didn’t want his help. What did he have now?

“Take him back to his house,” Tim said dully. He glared fiercely at Jon, whose face was falling in relief. “If you tell the police about this, nobody will believe you and nobody will care. If you tell anybody else about this, I’ll find you again and beat you half to death. Got it?”

Jon nodded fervently.

After that, it was all a blur. Sasha helped him up, took him to her car, and he saw her cut through his restraints once he was safely inside. Tim just gathered up his materials and dumped them in the trunk of his car, sliding into the driver’s seat and gunning the engine.

He drove home in a depressed haze, feeling worthless, feeling powerless, feeling exactly like Jon always made him feel.

His hands clenched on the steering wheel. If Jon didn’t know shit about what was going on - and Tim believed that, guy was fucking stupid - then who did? If Jon hadn’t turned into a monster on purpose, then who had turned him into a monster?

Elias Bouchard always gave Tim a bad feeling.

He’d collect some evidence. Give it a few weeks, then confront him. Bouchard would bend and crack. Then Tim would be free. Free of the Magnus Institute, free of how it made him feel.

He roared towards home, unsatisfied and angry, still afraid.

iii.

“Can you pass the rice?”

Tim silently passed Mom the bowl, staring intently at his own plate and silently shovelling potatoes in his mouth. Dad was doing his usual thing and just kind of squinting at his plate and chewing like a cow with cud. Danny was, from the outside, eating food like a normal person. Tim knew that he was vibrating with anticipation.

“So,” Mom continued, faux-brightly, “it’s been a while since you boys came home. Too good for your old folks, huh?”

The passive aggressive route - deal with the criticism, but if you bit back then it was ‘just a joke’. Favored tactic of Ha-eun Stoker.

“Sorry, Mom,” Danny said, one arm thrown over the back of his chair, utterly unrepentant, “work’s been hell lately. Big case came in, and if I want to be promoted to junior partner…”

Sure enough, Mom brightened right up. “Really! Tell us all about your case, Danny!”

Then they were off. Tim zoned out, blankly spooning gamja jorim into his mouth as Danny endlessly rattled off about his accomplishments and Mom cooed and aah’d relentlessly. Dad just chewed, occasionally grunting in satisfaction and approval.

Wow, the coveted paternal approval. Way to make them all jump through hoops for it. Tim rolled his eyes.

Unfortunately, he was caught. Mom turned her piercing gaze on him, smiling pleasantly with perfect teeth. Of course they were perfect; she had work done. All of the other women in the neighborhood do it, Tim, we should fit in. Oh, this necklace is just so in style, I saw Ms. Wallace down the street wearing it. Fucking lemming.

“What about you, Tim?” Mom asked. “How’s work going? Normally you’d be telling us all about your big arrests.”

Ah. The reason why Tim had done everything possible to avoid family dinner. They had this once a month, the only time they could all be assed to talk to each other, and Tim had jumped through hoops to try and escape.

Danny didn’t let him. This was way too entertaining to him.

He knew. Tim didn’t know how, but that was irrelevant. Danny always knew. He couldn’t lie and make up some case. Tim took a careful sip of his dak gomtang, stalling.

Finally, he said, “I took a new job, actually.”

Dad looked up from his plate. Mom’s jaw dropped.

“But you loved your job,” Mom said, for all appearances broken-hearted. “What happened?”

Danny leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, grinning. “Yeah, brother. You loved that job, you’d never quit. What happened?”

“My work partner was caught and forced to sign an employment contract by a middle management stoner, blackmailing me into working with her so I wouldn’t get arrested by the police for my dozen murders.”

Everybody stared at him. Tim sipped some water.

“That isn’t very funny, Timothy,” Mom said.

God, these people were so serious. In the stupidest second of his entire stupid life, he missed the Archive team just a little bit. At least they had a sense of humor. He’d never known those bitches to take anything seriously. But even when they were literally engaging in cult-level shunning of him and Sasha, they were always together. What was with homos and that gay found family shit?

“Kidding. I don’t know, Mom, I was just going stir-crazy. Being a copper just felt like such a dead-end job.”

“But you said you were on track for Lieutenant,” Mom gasped. “How could you throw that away?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” Danny said, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “I don’t think Tim would quit his job voluntarily.”

Mom’s jaw dropped. “You were fired?”

Tim was too dead inside for this. “Sure. I’m a librarian now. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Mom positively screeched. “What am I supposed to tell Mrs. Walker now? That my son’s not on track to Lieutenant, that he was fired? I’ve never been so ashamed of you. You’re going to make me a laughingstock, Tim. In all my life, you’ve never once cared about how your actions affected me. Let me tell you right now that this is disgraceful. You’re a grown man, and you’re still acting like a child who blah blah blah. Tim’s a disappointment and we hate him blah blah. How could I have raised such a lazy yammer yammer yammer. I only pay attention to you when I’m yelling at you and I’m totally in the right because Rachel Granger said that yada yada -”

“Well, this was fun,” Tim said pleasantly, wiping his mouth with a napkin before balling it and tossing on the table. He put his chopsticks down and stood up, dusting off his hands. “Great to see all of you again, so much fun, but I have a cat to go iron.”

But Dad was staring at him, even when Mom was fuming in rage. In Korean, he said, “You’re disrespecting your mother, Ji-hoon.”

“For god’s sake, Richard, we speak English in this house. His name’s Timothy,” Mom snapped. Danny rolled his eyes.

“Why not?” Tim asked in Korean, just to piss off Mom. Basira would have sneered at her respectability politics. Melanie would have lost her temper an hour - no, thirty years ago. Why were they stronger than Tim? “You don’t respect her.”

Almost silently, Danny whistled.

“Timothy,” Mother started, scandalized, “listen to your -”

“Why? What can she say to me, besides the same shit I’ve been hearing my entire life? She’s not saying anything interesting.” Tim smiled brightly at his family, flashing all of his teeth. “You know what? In comparison with my life lately, you three are pretty fucking boring. Bye.”

That was when his mother burst into tears, and his father started yelling at him at the top of his voice and thumping the table until the dishes rattled, and when Danny started laughing. If they did anything else, if Dad was about to get out of his chair and smack him, if Mom was going to disown him, Tim didn’t wait around to see it. He grabbed his bomber jacket and stalked out the door, letting it fall behind him.

He breathed heavily on the pretty little sidewalk in front of their pretty little house. The pretty little roses in the pretty little garden bloomed perfectly, and their thorns were all cut off. Down the street pretty little houses made of ticky tacky loomed, and they were all within HOA compliance in their gated little community. Nobody in. Nobody out.

When he was fifteen, Tim hated it because his parents were always trying to impose normalacy on him and he had never fucking measured up. When he was a young adult, he had hated it because he had fancied himself a gritty, street-wise cop who grappled with the dregs of society and always came out victorious. The perfect little families here thought that their gates could protect them from the cold and hard outside world - but the monsters in the world lived and breeded in their backyards, and they were too busy trimming their lawns to notice.

He should go home. It was late, and he had his ridiculous, evil, gloriously imperfect job tomorrow. God, Melanie would hate this place. She would sneer at him for ever having lived here, chalking it up with his infinite list of sins. All you pigs are the same, she would nag, privileged and sheltered. Bitch. Why was she always right?

But Tim just couldn’t work up the energy to drive all the way home. His heart felt scooped out with a grapefruit spoon. Instead he stumbled into the little alley next to the house, where the garbage trucks and the alley cats roamed, and he collapsed into a little patch of scrubby grass. This had been his favorite place to sulk as a child. Or hide from Danny. Danny always found him, of course, but it was the principle of the matter -

“Man, I can’t believe I got that show for free. You should have charged, Ji-hoon.”

“Fuck off, Danny,” Tim said, tone dull with how rote the phrase was.

When he glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Danny was dappled in night. The only light was from the streetlights, and the lights of their porch. In the dim lighting, Danny was lit by a bright aura but his features were hidden in the dark. Like an angel, Danny shone, and like a devil, Tim hid in the shadows. Hidden in the corner, like a powerless child.

“It’s a compliment! Normally you’re the most boring, predictable bitch alive. Wind your key and watch you go. But not even I could have predicted the shit you pulled today. Fantastic.” Danny grinned, a slash of the mouth. “You’re dead disowned, buddy. You crossed a line. They’ll never forgive you.”

“Fuck off, Danny.”

“I’m looking forward to being an only child,” Danny mused. “Mom and Dad were always so obsessed with you, it’ll be nice to have them all to myself. When I make junior partner, do you think Dad will clap me on the back? Give me a hug?” He affected a sad look, pulling his face into a mockery of tragedy. “I’m really going to miss you. You always lowered the bar for me.”

“Fuck off, Danny.”

Apparently that was one ‘fuck off’ too many, because Danny kicked Tim in the ribs. He always knew exactly where to hit - right in an old scar in the ribs, a bullet wound that he had never told him about. Tim wheezed, but he didn’t move. No point.

In a brief, strange flash of memory, Tim remembered bending his knee back to kick Jon in the stomach. Jon hadn’t flinched. Had there been no point?

“I know you spent your entire sad little childhood thinking I ruined your life. That’s bullshit and you know it. You didn’t need anyone else to ruin your life, Timbo. You’ve always been good enough at that yourself.” He pulled a faux-surprised face. Every expression Danny ever had was fake. Everything was a mask, plastic and fake. “Even your relationships, right? How’s that Mexican bird you got following you around? She still refusing to fuck you? I should pick her up, I bet she’s real easy -”

Tim saw red.

It was easy, in the end. Maybe too easy. He leapt up, in one easy and smooth motion, and tackled Danny to the ground. Tim had always been bigger but Danny had always been stronger, no matter how long Tim spent at the gym, but that didn’t matter now. Tim was faintly aware he was snarling as Danny hit the ground hard, head bouncing on the grass.

There was no time for him to recover. Tim punched him in the face, keeping him down, before punching him again. He felt bone break under his fist. A nose.

He didn’t remember anything after that. Everything fuzzed out a little, trapped in the swirling of his rage and the thump of his heartbeat. It wasn’t Martin’s anger, it wasn’t Sasha’s cold chase. It was just hatred.

It wasn’t that - that thing inside Tim, the thing he had spent years denying. It was just Tim. Or maybe Tim was that thing, and that thing was Tim.

He was faintly aware that somebody was grabbing him by the elbows, pulling him off. There was screaming. Wailing. He couldn’t really tell. Tim was dizzy, hands wet and sticky. Someone was crying - the nauseatingly familiar sound of his mother sobbing.

Just boys roughhousing, Tim wanted to say. That was a good line, snappy and sarcastic. Just boys being boys, the same line he had heard time after time after time when Danny coated his entire torso in bruises. Monsters, acting like monsters. Men, doing what men always do.

Tim left the scene. He wouldn’t be back. Never return to the scene of the crime, ha ha ha. He wouldn’t be welcome back. It should have felt crushing, isolating, terrifying.

But instead, Tim just felt free. As if a crushing weight had fallen off his shoulders, and he no longer felt suffocated by endless picking and prodding and pushing. It...he didn’t feel scared.

Tim walked down the street, taking the long way home, whistling happily. He hated himself a little bit less than usual tonight. Things were looking up.

iv.

Tim stared at Melanie as she slept.

It wasn’t hard. They kept the lights on, although after a few days Melanie had started to use a sleeping mask. She had recovered from what happened fairly quickly. She still let him keep his arm on her.

It tingled, just a little, where it touched her. She was warm and soft, breathing softly in a gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her face was slack with sleep. No nightmares. Melanie only looked gentle when she was asleep: any other time, her face was screwed up in intent thought or a mean comment or an exaggerated face made behind someone’s back.

It was the first time Tim had slept in the same bed as a woman without sleeping with her. At Sasha’s, he always slept on the couch. It was a little weird. It was really weird. He kept on telling himself to pull away, to rebuild that bridge that had been so effortless with Sasha, to act normal and stop being desperate and needy.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Every time he let go of her, he was alone. No matter how many people surrounded them, no matter how big the room or busy the sprawling London streets, when she was out of the room it felt as if she would never come back.

He hated the way he felt. It was disgusting, crawling in his gut and heart like rot. He hated himself for feeling it, he hated the world for doing it to him, and he hated Melanie for making him feel this way.

He didn’t know love could be this painful.

***

Did he love her?

Tim was fairly sure he couldn’t love anybody. Whatever he felt for Sasha, it couldn’t be love. It could only be a selfish, disgusting poison. Or maybe he really did love her, and love really was poison - if it was the kind of love Tim felt for other people, if it was all he could give.

But Tim knew Sasha, down to her soul. He knew her dark secrets, every skeleton in her closet. He knew what she was running from, why she had landed in England and never left, why she felt just as passionately for Tim’s crusade for justice as he did.

Justice. What a joke.

But Melanie wasn’t like that. She was rough and bitchy and meddling and willfully idiotic, but if you scratched that surface she was perfect. Kind, understanding, forgiving, patient, supportive - the kind of girl Tim had always wanted. Not that Sasha hadn’t been - but Sasha was somebody he should probably stay away from, for her own good.

Melanie had saved him. Melanie was trying to fix him, and she wouldn’t stop until she did. She wouldn’t give up - she never gave up on anything or anyone. Even Tim. Maybe, if it was her, Tim could be fixed.

He squinted at her in the soft lights keeping away the dark lingering in the small windows. Did he want to kiss her? He should, right? Any emotion this strong, anything that made him feel so vulnerable and desperate and insane had to come with wanting to be with her. Not that she could ever like him that way back…

The idea was oddly nice. Men and women couldn’t be friends. But maybe Tim and Melanie could - Melanie, who would never love him in that way, freeing Tim of the obligation to reciprocate.

He settled a little bit more, tucking her a little bit closer under him until he could no longer see her face. The idea was heady - that she was letting him do that, that she could be open and vulnerable in front of him too. That Tim had never really protected anybody, that Melanie was the first person to ever protect him, and that maybe he could pay that back.

Maybe she could fix him. Give him love that was pure instead of corrupted; selfless instead of selfish. Tim needed her.

He tried not to hate it.

***

That night, Tim had a dream that he was fucking Melanie in his old bed in his old flat. Danny was there, somehow, constantly mocking Tim on how badly he was doing, and every time Tim would yell at him to get out he would just laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh -

***

Melanie dragged him to work with her the next morning, as Tim chugged a shitton of coffee and considered braining himself with a hammer so he could forget the dream he had last night. He would literally prefer the construction site nightmares. He could barely meet her eyes, and lived in relentless paranoia that somehow she knew and was going to call him disgusting which would be fair and true and -

“Do you think the old man in Home Alone is a Jesus allegory?”

Tim blinked blearily at her, still chugging his coffee. They had gotten his car keys and car back from Sasha - she still had everything he ever owned, but he didn’t want to deal with that - but Melanie was driving, since Tim’s reaction time wasn’t that good anymore and he tended to zone out. They would take the tube and avoid London traffic except, well…

“I have no opinions on Home Alone,” Tim said blankly. He had been reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra on his phone. So far he had several points of disagreement, his largest was the man’s weird obsession with atheism. Granted, it was hard to be a nihilist and be religious, but Tim had insider information on the nature of the universe and he was working on a thesis - anyway. Anyway. “Why?”

“It’s a good movie, right? We should watch it for movie night tonight.”

“I thought you wanted to watch T2 today.”

“Aw, fuck, right.” Melanie slightly slapped the steering wheel. They didn’t move - traffic was really hell. “I am a slut for fictionalized violence. Isn’t Sarah Connor the most badass action hero ever?”

“She’s awesome,” Tim agreed warmly. “But Schwarzenneger in that movie is just peak. Have you ever seen Predator? It was his best role.”

Melanie snorted. “Predator was so boring. Just a lot of oiled up men flexing at each other.”

Typical. Tim rolled his eyes, propping an elbow below the window, but he found himself smiling anyway. “What do you want me to watch instead, Blue is the Warmest Color?”

“Laugh all you want, idiot. You’re getting the whole rota of required watching for gay people. First on the list is the Birdcage, then right after that Paris is Burning -”

Tim groaned theatrically, drowning her out, but all that did was hit him with the musk of his small, battered car. The smell of Melanie hit him like a truck - her Melon shampoo, her 24 hour deodorant, the dust of the Archives, something unique to her that he just couldn’t place.

To Tim’s horror, the scent pulled at that deep pit in his stomach. Don’t think about it. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t let them know - except for Sasha, who always knew. It made him want to do - stuff that he didn’t want to do. Not really. Tim didn’t want that. Whoever Tim was.

Counterintuitively, the hunger made it easier to keep that fake smile and forced manic energy when they got to the office. He wasn’t really up to it today - some days were easier than others - but that didn’t really matter when he had to aggressively convince everybody that he was fine. The alternative was everybody giving him sad and pitying looks, which was a thousand times worse than any infernal hell torture.

It wasn’t. But he still didn’t want to deal with it.

So he kicked the door open, yelled something meaningless about how the bitch was back, and let Basira ignore him and Martin roll his eyes and Sasha very pointedly ignore him. He noted that Daisy wasn’t in this morning - ever since their planning session, she had been dropping by more frequently to flirt obnoxiously with Basira, but she obviously couldn’t spend all of her time here if she wanted to keep up the pretense with Peter Lukas.

Which was...somewhat of a relief.

Tim collapsed in what used to be Daisy’s chair at her desk, which was for far more important reasons than just because he didn’t want to sit next to Sasha. The upside is that Melanie sat diagonal from him, across from Basira, who didn’t give a shit what he did if she wasn’t using him as a meaningless sounding board for her constant venting. It wasn’t all bad, if he didn’t look too hard at whatever the fuck Martin was doing at any given time.

So he swiveled in his chair as Melanie, Basira, and Sasha disappeared into the library. He stood up to go with her, but Melanie made a gesture that sent him sitting down again. Martin, who was writing something ornate in his journal, snickered.

Six months ago Tim would have snapped at him, but instead he just leaned back in his chair and squeezed his grip trainer. The grind never stopped. “Writing love poetry, buddy? In the Romantic tradition or the...fuck, I don’t know any other poets.”

Martin silently held up his journal. The only thing written was ‘murder kill murder’, repeatedly, up and down two pages.

Well. That was enough teasing Martin for one day. He really had no idea how Melanie was brave enough to get Martin to listen to listen to her - or, worse, why he did.

After an hour or so, spent reading Plato and disagreeing with a great deal, Jon slunk out of his office and blinked owlishly at both Tim and Martin, who had been politely minding their own business.

Tim realized - in the same way that, whenever he saw Jon, he was inescapably reminded that he knew what he looked like when he was about to die - that the room was filled with two guys who had tried repeatedly to kill him. Fuck, he was probably uncomfortable. Good job, Tim. Way to keep terrorizing people. But he really wasn’t capable of doing anything else, so it was hardly a surprise -

“Hullo, Martin. I’m picking up some food from the vending machine, do you want anything?”

Oh. They were going for ‘disturbingly banal’ today. Martin smiled shyly at Jon, who blushed in response. “Surprise me. Thanks, Jon.”

“Want any razor blades in the apples?”

“You know that’s a myth, Jon,” Martin said disapprovingly. Or maybe not.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“You are the sexiest guy I’ve ever met,” Martin whispered.

Then Jon flushed, and leaned casually in what he probably thought was a hot pose and unfortunately totally was against Martin’s desk, and Tim was subjected to their absolutely fucking atrocious flirting for the next ten minutes. At that point, Tim found his breaking point and left the Archives, the terror of being in semi-public outweighed by the terror of Jonmartin. That was what Basira and Melanie kept calling it. He really didn’t know what that meant, but whatever.

But after fifteen minutes of standing in front of the vending machine himself, quietly overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of choices and colors and flavors and sugar, he heard someone else approaching. He snapped his head to the left to see a gawky, hunched scarecrow slouch down the hall, raising a hand apologetically. That man put no effort into his appearance, how as he still that hot -

Maybe Jon and Martin were normal, Tim secretly wondered, and Tim just didn’t understand gay courting rituals. He had to find out, right? How do you flirt with guys? It wasn’t as if he could practice with the two guys in the office. Especially Martin. Tim had never really paid a lot of attention to him before he came back to life, writing him off as a beta male - which ended up being so hilariously incorrect it forced Tim to sit down and reconsider his entire framework of alpha and beta males. Melanie had given him a sticker.

“Uh. Hey.”

Tim stared at him blankly.

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “How...are you?”

Tim blinked at him.

“Well. I would, er, enjoy using the vending machine.”

Oh. Obviously. Tim stepped aside, cheeks burning, and silently let Jon punch in the code for a Mars Bar (for Martin, probably) and a granola bar (because an alarm went off on his desk if he didn’t eat a snack at 3pm).

It wasn’t their first time being alone together since he came back, but as Tim had been more or less catatonic at that period in time he was inclined not to count that. Jon hadn’t seemed scared, anyway. Probably. Tim hadn’t paid much attention.

He should do this. He had to do it. It was all about making up for the shit he did, right? He had to face this. Then Jon would forgive him, not that he had to, and - and something vaguely good would happen. He would find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and the hunger would go away, and the intrusive thoughts would be all gone. Melanie would give him another sticker. Or something.

“You can go for it, you know.”

Jon whipped his head around, shocked at Tim addressing him directly for the first time in a very long time. “What?”

Idiot. If this guy had been in a single fight in his life, he’d eat his hat. From what Jon had seen of his childhood friend, Georgie’s girlfriend who he hated for absolutely no reason, she had probably defended him from every bully. It was almost cute.

“You can get a good one in,” Tim repeated slowly. He turned his cheek. “Promise I won’t punch back or anything.”

“I - do you mean punch you?” The Mars Bar rattled down the machine, dropping heavily into the tray. “Why would I do that?”

Jesus, the guy was thick. “Do you remember when I kidnapped and tried to kill you, or is that just me?”

Jon blinked owlishly at him. “Lots of people try to kill me.”

“Don’t you want to?” Tim cried, a little bit higher and a little bit louder than he intended. “Come on, as if you’ve never wanted to do it? Wouldn’t it help? You got in a week of being a passive aggressive asshole, that isn’t enough. It doesn’t make up for anything. This would.”

“How would that fix anything?”

Tim’s breath hitched. But Jon was just staring, as if he could see right through him. Maybe he could. “What?”

“How would hurting you make me feel better?” Jon repeated slowly. “It won’t change what happened. Punching you wouldn’t change what you did to me. All it would do is make you feel better, as if that fixes it. It doesn’t. Is that how you solve all of your problems? That explains a lot.”

His breath was coming faster, hitching again. He couldn’t control it. “I’m trying to do you a favor, asshole.”

“No, you’re trying to make yourself feel better.” Jon smiled politely and, before Tim could jerk away, clapped him on the shoulder. “I forgave you a long time ago. Not because of you. But I just didn’t want it hanging over me. I gave myself closure and moved on. Sometimes bad things happen to us, and we have to get up the next day and go to work anyway. My friends helped. My family did too. I’m sorry you don’t have that, Tim. You’ll get closure one day.” Jon looked thoughtful for a second. “I mean, getting closure about being almost killed one time must be a lot easier than dealing with the fact that you killed fifteen people in your life? Twice that supernatural people, I think. You know you’re technically a serial killer? I won’t judge, this is a safe space, but I thought you ought to know.”

Somehow, inanely, all Tim could think of to say was, “It’s not serial killing if it’s part of your job.”

“Which is why I’m sure you took that job,” Jon said brightly. “Let’s get back to the office before Martin decides to amuse himself.”

For a second, just for a second - or two, or ten, or a minute - Tim vividly imagined himself ripping Jon’s throat out. Killing him properly this time, putting that look on his face again. It had felt so good, and - and it had made him feel so bad, but that felt good too, and he still didn’t know why, and he wanted to eat Jon so bad. Jon, who was innocent in everything, gentle and kind. Nothing like Tim. That was why everybody liked Jon and hated Tim.

From what he had heard, while Tim was going insane hyperfixating on the chase a few years ago, the girls had spent ages talking Jon down from a breakdown and steering him away from the same path that Tim had barrelled down. Who had done that for him? Sasha made a big show of keeping his head level, but she had used him just as ruthlessly as he had used her. She never had an investment in keeping him sane; just functional.

If somebody had done that for him, would he still be cruel?

They went back to the office, and Tim pretending that the hunger swirling in his gut was just self-hatred. But, then again, they really were the same thing.

When Melanie came out of the library with Basira and Sasha on her heels, talking quietly about some new scheme they were cooking up, Tim found himself reaching out to her. Melanie smiled and squeezed his hand, before gently heckling his choice in literature.

Some stupid part of him - maybe even a large part - thought that once he was clasping Melanie’s hand again, the hunger would quiet down. It had protected him underground, it felt as if it should protect him in the world above.

But it didn’t, and it didn’t solve anything, and Tim tried not to think about the fact that he was slowly unwinding, and that he didn’t want to see what was inside him when everything that was Tim Stoker fell away.

***

A short yet tumultuous time later, Tim was called into Jon’s office.

He hadn’t wanted to come to work. But the alternative of stewing at home - Melanie’s flat - was much worse, and Basira had reported that too many skip days made them all way too sick. Might as well come in. Melanie had spent the night at Georgie’s - like she had the past two days, what a fucking coincidence - so he didn’t have to worry about that awkwardness.

After too long memorizing the face after too many sleepless nights, Tim could imagine it vividly. Soft, uncreased, innocent of how hard the world could be. Tim couldn’t bear it. He had to ruin it. He just couldn’t bear it.

He was the first one in the office, so it was easy to see the poisonous death glare Basira shot him when she walked in. So Melanie had told them - of course she fucking told them, she hadn’t done anything wrong, she wasn’t obliged to lie. Daisy was hot on her heels, and she actually properly snarled at him before Basira pulled her back while somehow giving the full impression that she wanted to do the same thing.

He should probably go hide in the library before Martin came in. He couldn’t decide whether or not this was worse than the shunning. The shunning had driven him absolutely crazy, but at least he hadn’t been legitimately afraid that Martin would stab him and that nobody would stop him.

There was the faint sound of raised voices in the cowpen. Tim knew that they were arguing about him. He already knew what they would decide - wait for Melanie’s verdict. But are you sure she isn’t too close to this? No, she knows the fucker better than anybody else, she would judge if they needed to do anything. What are we going to tell Sasha? The truth, fucking obviously.

Sasha. Tim wanted her to be surprised. He knew she wouldn’t be. That hurt more.

After what felt like an infinite amount of time but he knew was only a few hours, pouring over Sasha’s collection of Vast and Spiral Statements, he heard the library door open. It was Jon, standing at the threshold, and all Tim could think was - oh, man, here we go.

It was a regular walk of shame into Jon’s office, and he couldn’t miss the way everybody’s heads snapped to look at him. Sasha, just as he thought, looked resigned. Melanie was frowning.

Jon’s office was the same as ever, not that Jon went in too frequently. The only strange thing about it was that Jon locked the door behind him. Tim didn’t know what that boded, but it wasn’t good.

Well, might as well take control of the situation. He collapsed on the chair in front of his desk and propped his boots on Jon’s desk, wishing he had a drink to obnoxiously sip. “Is this the part where you threaten me?” He affected a fake baritone, somehow still not even hitting Jon’s register. “ ‘Touch her again and you’ll answer to me’. ‘Stay away from her or you’ll face the consequences’. Come on, I’ve read a thousand creeps the same riot act. Get it over with.”

Jon sat down heavily in his office chair. The office had chipped in to buy him a new one as a birthday gift, much more comfortable than the old one. But he was leaning forward now, arms folded on the desk.

“Would that make you feel better?”

Great, this again. “Yeah, it evokes the emotionally absent father I was raised with,” Tim snarked. “If you aren’t going to say it, what am I in here for?”

He was afraid to know what he was in here for. Melanie had told him that if he did it again, she’d sic Jon on him. And Tim knew what it looked like when Jon was sicced on someone. This wasn’t it.

“Tim,” Jon said seriously, and he was somehow kind about it. “You know what this looks like, right?”

Something ugly and ashamed twisted in Tim’s gut. He fought the urge to sink in his seat. “Yeah.”

“You know why we’re worried now.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tim looked fixedly at the wall, unwilling to meet Jon’s eyes. “I - I’m not going to do it again. I swear. And - and it wasn’t like that. I promise. I’m not - I’m not a creep, okay? Ask Sasha. I’ve never - I’ve killed people, but that’s not nearly as bad as - I’m not going to do it again. It was a mistake.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Tim’s head snapped back to Jon, and before he could think about it he found himself half-rising from the chair. Jon’s cold stare had him sitting back down again, but his heart was thumping a drum in his chest. “Then what do you want?” Tim just barely restrained himself from yelling, knowing that the girls were probably listening at the door anyway. “What can I do to convince you that’d rather chop off my own hand than hurt her?”

“You can give your permission to let me ask you some questions.”

Tim faltered. “What? Just questions?”

“Uh.” Jon waved his hand in a circle in the air, as if that meant anything. “You know. Questions. I haven’t really done it since - since I think I did it to you? But I think I can do it on command now. I don’t like to.” His eyes sharpened, and for a second Tim could have sworn that they glimmered. “But I can’t take a chance. Not on this.”

It was like he was falling again, through that infinite void that was the last taste of freedom he had thought he would ever have. It was like he was suffocating again, a mile of dirt piled on his chest, banging incessantly at the lid of the coffin. Nobody saved him, until she did. He was distantly aware that he was barely holding back hyperventilating, but all Tim could feel was dissociated horror.

“You - you can’t. Jon, I - I won’t do it again, you can’t.”

Jon’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I won’t if you give me a flat no. I don’t like doing it.” That was a lie and they both fucking knew it. “But if you don’t, we can’t trust you again. We’d convince Melanie to let you stay with Martin. We wouldn’t leave you in the same room together. You’re not stable, Tim. It’s obvious. We thought it was harmless - or, at least, the only person you were hurting was yourself - but it’s not anymore. We’re all scared. I don’t want to hurt you just because we’re scared, but Melanie is the only one here who couldn’t really defend herself if you decided to do anything else to her.” He grimaced slightly. “Not that she admits it. She always puts herself between us and any enemy. But we have to pay that back. I know you understand.”

He did.

Hate burned in his stomach. What a hypocrite. Giving all of that big talk about choice and options. He knew that there was no option, not if they were going to rip him apart from the one person who he felt safe with.

The one person who wasn’t safe with him.

Tim deserved this. Even if it had been his worst fear a year ago - well, Tim had experienced much worse than that since then.

When you did shit to other people, you make up for it. You make sure that you can’t hurt anybody else again. Jon was right - gestures didn’t mean anything. He had to commit. He had to improve, be better. Otherwise he’d be sent straight back down to that place when he died, and there would be no saving him.

“Yeah,” Tim said, mouth dry, “you can do it. But - but no personal questions this time, okay? Just stick to the subject.”

“They seem to always end up a bit personal,” Jon said apologetically, “but I’ll try.”

Deep within Jon, inside of the unassuming and kind and gentle man, the subject of Tim’s nightmares rose. His eyes flashed green, then shined with a bright and sickly radioactive green. His hair strained against its bun and fuzzed at the end, but it didn’t break free.

“What’s your name, Tim?”

The worst part about the compelling, Tim had decided long ago, was that you didn’t feel brainwashed.

You felt exactly as if you were talking normally, that there was nothing strange about Jon or you. His words didn’t ring with a mysterious power. If you had entered it thinking you were talking of your own volition, you probably wouldn’t notice. But if you knew what was happening, the curtain was lifted, and you were deathly aware of the way the words were ripped out of you with fishhooks. It left Tim gasping, straining for air.

“Timothy Ji-hoon Stoker,” Tim said, and it was almost as if he wanted to. “My dad just calls me Ji-hoon though. So do my grandparents. My last name’s made up as fuck - I think Mom just saw a book at the airport and picked it out from the cover. Kind of ironic, considering everything.”

“Oh, really? Daisy says that she got Tonner because her English wasn’t great and she misheard someone at the airport asking her for a tenner - right, right.” Jon coughed. Wait, was the reason why Daisy barely talked when he first met her was because her English was bad? “On topic. Tim, do you want to attack Melanie again?”

“Of course not,” Tim burst out, and these words, at least, came easy. “I love her. I hate hurting her, I hate how I’m constantly fucking up and doing it anyway. I’m just violent and I don’t know how not to be violent. It’s the only way I deal with things, being violent, and I know it’s eating me up inside but I just can’t stop it. But if there’s one person who can help me stop, it’s Melanie. She’s going to fix me, I know it.”

The words were unbelievably humiliating, the kind of thing that Tim had never wanted to admit, but Jon’s expression didn’t change. Tim wanted to look away, to pretend that this was just an internal narration and that he wasn’t telling this his fucking coworker, but he found himself incapable. Their gazes locked, and Tim couldn’t pull away.

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I was scared, and I hate being scared so much. It’s what I always do, ever since I was a kid - I would get scared, and I would try to hurt something or someone about it. I did it to you, I was so scared of you that I obsessed about killing you and covered it up with some bullshit about justice or Sasha. It was just about me, it’s always been selfish. But - but- but -” The words were sticking in his throat, coagulating on the wound ripped open by Jon and his fishhooks. “But I hate her. I hate that I care, and I hate that I need her, and - and I don’t think I did it just because I was scared. I think I did it because I was scared, and I love her, and I hate her, and I’m beginning to think I have some kind of weird complex about women because of my mother’s overly dependent narcissistic personality and my father’s emotional detachment -”

“You just now figured that out?” Jon asked incredulously. “Sorry, you just now started realizing that your toxic masculinity controls your entire justification for your actions?”

“I’ve known for a while but I’ve been repressing it,” Tim said hurriedly, forced to answer that one despite Jon probably intending it as a rhetorical question.

Jon stared at him for a second silently, giving Tim time to catch his breath and try to control his breathing. He was one bad step away from a panic attack, and his hold was still clenched on this throat like a fist. Danny had done that to him one time, the son of a bitch, and he had never forgotten. Should he tell Jon that? Does he have to?

“Tim,” Jon said finally. He looked very uncomfortable, but also resolute. As if he didn’t want to ask, or maybe he just didn’t want to know, but he felt as if he had to. “Are you in love with Melanie?”

Tim opened his mouth to answer him, and found that he couldn’t.

The strange and evil magic didn’t like that. Whatever Tim wanted to say, if there was anything to say, it caught in his throat and made him gag. It choked him. He was well acquainted with the feeling, but it sent him into a panic anyway. His breath started shuddering and heaving, his vision swimming, and he kept on answering his mouth to answer because you have to answer but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t, he didn’t know how -

“Forget it! Forget it, Tim, don’t worry about it! Tim, what’s your favorite color? Tim, your favorite color! Answer me!”

“Grey!” Tim cried out. “Grey, it’s grey!”

He didn’t so much stand up from his chair as fall out of it. He didn’t so much let himself sit on the ground as found himself incapable of moving. He just breathed, waiting and waiting to spit up dirt and grime and rocks, but nothing happened. It was just a panic attack, because his hell was within him, and there was no escape.

No escape. There was no escape. Not from what he’d done in his past, not from how badly he’d hurt Melanie and Sasha, not from how he would inevitably hurt them in the future.

You had to cut out the evil things in this world. One bad apple spoils the bunch. When criminals are left to run wild, they corrupt and destroy society. Evil had to be eliminated. Evil people shouldn’t exist.

Evil people shouldn’t exist. It wasn’t a new thought for him. Neither was the thought after that. It was a thought he’d had for a very long time - before he even met Melanie, before he even admitted it.

“Tim, are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

After a few heart-wrenching seconds, Tim found himself calming down enough to answer. “You meant to. You just didn’t want to. I made you do this.” One bad apple spoils the bunch. “Is - is that enough? I can answer more -”

“No, that’s enough,” Jon said quickly. “It’s - it’s not my place to pass judgement on you, Tim. And your, uh, disturbed thinking. Melanie - anyway, we’ll work on it.” He smiled weakly, placatingly. “I’ve been there. The others helped. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be - I don’t know where I’d be, but I’d be a lot worse off. We can help you too. If you let us. I know it’s scary, but it’s worth it. I promise.”

“Right,” Tim said. “Can I go now?”

When he left Jon’s office, everybody was at their desks. He knew what the guilty expressions when they all pretended they hadn’t been eavesdropping, but they weren’t wearing them now. Maybe everybody had grown up a bit recently.

Tim slunk into the library, and for good measure locked it behind him. He pulled out a thick stack of books, a teetering pile of Statements. He needed to research. There was a decision he had to make, and he needed as much proof as possible and a well-laid plan. It wasn’t quite a hunt, but it was close. It wasn’t quite the apocalypse, but it was his own.

But, of course, it was a lie. Tim had made his decision a few minutes ago. He had made it a long time ago. He kept making it, every time. Everything else was just justification.

It wouldn’t fix anything - but it’d make him feel better.

#my writing #the magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #hunt!tim #timothy stoker #melanie king #sasha james #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #this one's a roughie try not to read it if you're in a bad place right now #danny stoker #also keep in mind that tim absolutely one of the most unreliable narrators ive ever written if not the most #it was incredibly fun #anyway enjoy

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oliveiraveiro · 4 years

Text

Control

Open Heart, Rafael Aveiro x F!MC

Additional Rafael scene after the events of Book 2, Chapter 12 in which Casey seeks comfort from Rafael after the funeral.

rating: teen & up / words: 2117

note: a great day to raf stans only <3 this is my offering so we can all pretend ohsy doesn’t exist

Casey could swear she can hear her own heartbeat as she waited for someone to answer the door. Throughout the memorial, as well as in the past few days, she has done really well in putting up a brave face.

But after today… after Jackie, the strongest person she knew, broke down crying in front of her and fell asleep listening to her breathing… the gravity of losing two good people who were her friends finally hit her. And when she thinks about how she almost died too, how he almost died… she cannot help but to want to scream and cry and punch something all at the same time.

It is late at night, and she knows at the back of her mind that knocking at Juliana’s door at this time is too impolite. But she must see him. She just needs a reminder too that he is alive and breathing, that although she lost him before, he is not gone like Danny and Bobby.

Before she can focus on feeling like something is gripping her heart again as she thinks about them, Juliana finally opens the door. Her doubts about coming tonight completely turn into regret as she sees her looking sleepy in her nightgown, but before she can apologize and attempt to just leave, the older woman gives her a kind, sad smile and immediately motions her to come inside.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t wake me. Raf couldn’t sleep either.” Juliana thankfully says before she can fumble with her words. She is relieved that she is awake, but to hear that Rafael also was… Casey swallows the lump in her throat, willing herself not to tear up. “The room on the right upstairs.”

Casey simply gives her a grateful smile before she goes without hugging her or speaking a word because she knows she only needs one comforting touch for the dam holding back her tears to give out and break. She quietly runs up the stairs, then softly knocks at the familiar door of Rafael’s childhood room. A second passes then she hears an invitation to come in.

With a deep breath she opens the door, steps inside the room, then closes it behind her. She gives Rafael time to take in that she was here. She watches her own hand at the doorknob for another second before she turns and finally meets his gaze.

Rafael is sat up on his bed in a white T-shirt and gray sweats. Apart from looking like he recently woke up from a coma, it was very obvious that he had been crying. Casey watches him set something down on the side table as she walks towards him, and as soon as she realized it was the photobooth picture of them along with Sienna and Danny from the carnival, there was no stopping the dam from breaking.

She reaches for the photo but fails to take it as she falls to her knees after a violent sob. Casey cries, a hand holding onto Rafael’s knee for support as she lets out all that she has been keeping deep inside.

He quickly joins her on the floor, pulling her close to him so she can cry on his chest. He stopped crying almost half an hour ago, already thinking that there were probably no tears left in him, but the agony in Casey’s sobs has tears streaming down his face yet again.

To think that she was feeling the same torment as him. The same guilt, the same mourning, the same feeling of absolute helplessness. He holds her tight, wishing he can shield her from all the pain. But sadly, and extremely ironically, the way for them to process their grief is to first drown in it.

And so that is what they do. Like being near death’s doorstep hand by hand, they do it together.

For the first time, Casey lets herself feel. She lets herself feel beyond terrified thinking about what happened to them. She wallows in her grief for Danny and Bobby. She accepts the anger she has for Travis, for Senator Farrugia, for this unfair, cruel world. She lets her love for Sienna overwhelm her. The same with her love for Rafael. She takes in the guilt that she is relieved that he did not die too. That she did not. She lets all of it overcome her because Rafael is here to pull her back up to the surface.

Rafael also lets himself sink to the deepest end of his sorrow. He lets himself realize that all he can do right now is accept things as they are. That while he might be heroic, he is not a superhero who can and will save everyone all the time. And as terrifying this fact is, sometimes all he can do is save himself.

It did not seem like either of them could stop crying, but after maybe an hour Rafael was relieved to realize that sobs no longer wracked Casey’s body. He moves one of his arms, starting to gently rub her back.

Casey moves after another minute, wiping her face and sniffing, sitting next to Rafael so he could also change his position.

He looked even more of a mess now, and judging his ruined shirt, she knows she only looked worse. “Raf…” Casey starts, but was unable to continue without her lips trembling once again.

Rafael gives her hand a squeeze, pressing a gentle kiss on her lips, then another that lingers a second longer. “I know, Casey.” He answers softly before getting the both of them up and making her sit on the bed. He gets her some tissues and a glass of water from his desk and later they both lay on their backs on his bed, both comfortable and comforted by silence and each other’s presence.

Rafael was now just thinking about how warm his fresh shirt was, but Casey’s thoughts are still far away from the room.

“They’re gone, Raf. They’re really gone.” Casey finally speaks a sentence. “When we go back to Edenbrook, Bobby and Danny won’t be there.”

She spoke with such finality that Rafael feels like his face has been splashed with ice cold water. He struggles to take in a full breath of air, but he finds her hands and again he gives it a squeeze, their fingers interlocking. “They’re gone,” he agrees.

Casey looks over at Rafael, and he meets her gaze almost immediately. “But we’re still here.”

“We are.” This time Rafael answers without missing a beat. “And we’re gonna make it count. If not for ourselves, for the people who love us.”

“And Danny and Bobby?”

“Especially them.” Rafael agrees again, turning on his side to face Casey, and she follows suit.

She looks up into his eyes, then steals a glance at his lips. He smiles a little and slowly leans in to meet her lips with his, and they share a gentle, comforting kiss.

They pull away after a while, Rafael pressing another kiss on top of Casey’s head, and he pulls her close to him again.

“Did Sora ever come to visit?” Casey asks almost immediately, and despite being emotionally spent, Rafael finds it in him to laugh softly.

“Really? Right after our great kiss?” He gives her a small grin, to which she only smiles sheepishly. “She visited right after I was discharged.”

“What did she say?” Casey wraps an arm around his torso, cuddling closer. Despite now feeling numb with all that has happened, her heart flutters at how much she missed being this close to him and how safe it feels in his arms.

“She apologized for breaking up with me when she did.” Rafael lightly massages Casey’s shoulder with one hand.

“Did she want to take you back?” Casey was worried to ask despite being laid next to him in his bed right now.

“No. I think we both finally realized we both rushed into something we didn’t really want.” He sighs. “If I could just go back…” He starts, but then trails off. If the past few days and their recent crying session taught him something, it is that this kind of thinking is not going to help him or anyone.

“Listen, Casey, I know I can’t go back and change anything that already happened. But I just want you to know that I’m gonna do all that I can to make it up to you.”

Casey blinks slowly, biting on her lip. She was already in so much pain; she did not need to revisit how it felt like when Rafael left her. Granted, it already felt like forever ago, with all that has happened. But still… she has to know why he left.

“Why did you do it, Raf?” She asks, voice small. “I… I know we weren’t officially together, but we were dating. It was special-- at least I thought it was. Why did you leave me?”

Rafael takes a deep breath. “You’re gonna hate me.” He does not even need to look to know that Casey already had a frown, but he continues. “I didn’t really have a real reason. It’s like… something made me get back together with Sora. As soon as she got back to Boston she came here to visit Juliana when I was also over. When I opened the door and saw her, my childhood sweetheart, visiting my vovo at the same time I did, it felt like… fate, if you will. I just-- I had this voice in my mind telling me I should pursue her again.”

Casey still furrowed her eyebrows. Rafael, like always, is too honest, but after months of second-guessing herself, she finally knew the truth. She is conflicted if it was comforting or infuriating that it was not even about her.

“You didn’t… it wasn’t- about me? Or about us?” Her shaky voice told the both of them what she really felt.

“I’m sorry, Casey.” Rafael clenched his jaw. “If I could take it back, if I could somehow go back and make myself realize how much I loved you before I ended things between us…” he sighed deeply. “Up to this day I still regret that I only realized how very important you were to me when I already lost you. God, after I left you.”

She swallows, letting herself take a moment to process that. There was too much to unpack: suddenly she knows Rafael loved her and thought she was very important to him.

“What is this now, Raf? What are we doing here?” After a long moment, Casey asks.

“If you just need someone to lean on, Casey, I’m the perfect person. Not only because I’ve been through what you’ve been through… it’s the least I can do and want to do for you.” He starts. “If you just want that… that’s okay, and I’m here for you no matter what. But if you’ll still have me, Case, despite what I did and my reason for it… I want to give us another chance. We both lost so much, and I think it’s only fitting we start building our lives again together.”

Casey plays with her bottom lip, again taking a minute to let that sink in. Exhaustion is finally taking over her, and judging Raf’s sleepy voice despite his declaration of feelings, he is obviously tired as well. Casey pulled away a little so she can look up at Rafael, only able to ask, “You don’t have another childhood sweetheart I have to worry about? Because I swear I won’t be so nice the next time you leave me for no reason.”

He chuckles. “I won’t be living that down any time soon, am I?”

“You won’t be living it down, ever.” Casey grins.

“Well… as long as you take me back, I really won’t be in the position to complain.” Rafael holds Casey’s face with one hand, rubbing her cheek gently and smiling, eyes fluttering sleepily.

How absolutely adorable and lovable he looked made her kiss him again. It was way too gentle than their usual kisses, but right now it was perfect. Innocent, honest, genuine. “Get some sleep, my boyfriend who absolutely cannot break up with me for an ex-girlfriend from high school.” She presses another soft kiss on his lips once more.

“You won’t leave before I wake up?” Raf asks, pulling Casey’s body close to him again.

“I won’t if you promise not to break up with me for an ex partner from college or from work either.”

Again he laughs softly, eyes fluttering close. “I promise, Casey. I’ll love you and make you feel loved each day. I promise.” He whispers goodnight.

#rafael aveiro #rafael aveiro x mc #rafael x mc #open heart fanfiction #open heart #choices open heart #choices #choices stories you play #playchoices

37 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

The Parent Trap, Chapter 8 (Biadore) - Henny

WELL WELL WELL I hope you bitches are ready!

Hello, my loves!

Did you miss me? That was a loOOooooOoNg hiatus, almost *holds up three fingers* this many,I think. I have no excuses, I really just lacked the passion to continue this one. But, I’ve been lurking on Tumblr too long and I’m just so ready to get back into this. I have most of it plotted out already. I won’t promise a regular update, but I’m sure I’d get to finish this one way or another.

ALSO, I don’t want to get clocked or whatever, but I know when it comes to IVF and basic biology (I guess) The twins aren’t going to be identical since they’re from two separate sperm cells?? BUT, LIKE ALSO, I DON’T CARE?? It’s fanfiction, not fact. SO LET’S JUST SAY THESE GIRLS ARE IDENTICAL, BUT ONE OF EM IS DANNY’S AND ONE OF EM ROY’S (BUT YOU WON’T REALLY FIND OUT). Just please don’t make me think about science-y stuff. Sorry, STEM Majors!

Another thing, assume AS2 didn’t happen, okey?

All the love, Hennies!

xx Henny

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“Well… well… well… I hope you bitches are ready… “ Nerissa smiles, excited to meet Portia’s favorite. And when the screen shows her a face that is all too familiar and a voice that hits a little too close to home,

“I’m Bianca Del Rio, I’m thirty-seven years old…”

She pales.

Portia notices the quick change of mood. She reaches out to press the spacebar to pause the video, a little upset with the fact that they won’t get to finish the episode. The other girl is silent as she moves from Portia’s bed to her own, and something within Portia knew that Nerissa was in her head, deeply in her head. Not wanting to force the girl into anything she wasn’t comfortable with, Portia fiddles with the edge of her laptop with her head down.

Nerissa can feel the blood draining from her face. Some things were clicking into place. Her dad was a drag queen. Was Riz surprised? Not really. She has seen her dad put makeup on some models, not full-drag, but glam nonetheless. The dresses? Obviously. But, why didn’t HE tell HER? Anger rises in her system, she wanted to scream but something was holding her back. Her and her dad were always so close, and she’d like to believe that he didn’t have any secrets from her. Except that one room in their home. HMMM.

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A memory unlocks in her head. Age 7, finally mustering up the courage to rebel against her dad’s instructions,specifically about the one room in their apartment her dad said to never go in. It was always kept locked, except Uncle Shane accidentally left it unlocked that fruitful day. Nerissa remembers sneaking in, both adults thinking she was taking a nap. When she turned the lights on, her eyes were met with different colors. Sparkly, colorful, sequined dresses; Tall boots and heels; wigs of blacks, browns, and reds neatly perched on mannequin heads. It was beautiful and excitement bubbled up in her tummy. She walked over to a wall that was filled with picture frames; some people in them she knew, the others she didn’t.

One thing that struck her the most was a portrait that was nearly as big as her then-7-year-old body in the middle of the wall, the chandelier breaking the light in a myriad of colors on the photograph. The picture was of two beautiful queens, a little heavy handed on the makeup, now that she thinks about it. The two ladies wore beautiful black gowns, she would even assume that it was cut from the same fabric. The one with black hair wore a giant crown on her head, smiling a dimpled smile with her face to the spotlight. The other had fire red hair; she looked like she was screaming with joy as she lifted a sparkly scepter up in the air. They had one arm around the other’s waist and they looked very happy. She didn’t think much about it then, but…

“That was Bianca… and oh my god– that was Adore.” Nerissa says out of the blue, catching Portia’s attention from the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry what?” Portia asks, leaning closer to indicate that she was listening carefully now and that Riz had her full attention.

“Back in New York, my dad… he always kept this room locked. I only went there once, but he got really mad when he caught me.”

Portia moves to sit on Nerissa’s bed. “Yeah, okay… but you said something about my dad. What about Adore?”

“In that room,” Nerissa licks her lips, speaking slowly to help her rationalize her story in her head better. “… and I’m not sure if it’s still there. There was a picture of my dad as Bianca, and I think Adore. My dad wore a crown and Adore was holding the scepter.” She says thoughtfully. “Wow, spoiler alert. Ha!” She tries to joke, but now Portia looks at her with a shocked face.

“Wait, YOUR DAD IS BIANCA DEL RIO?! LIKE YOU’RE NERISSA HAYLOCK?? HAYLOCK?!?! AS IN ROY HAYLOCK?”

Nerissa blinks. “I thought you knew – how many Haylocks do you know?”

Portia blanches. “I DIDN’T WANT TO ASSUME! Roy Haylock has always been very hush-hush about you. You don’t even appear on social media, so you can’t really blame me. And my hatred for you, then, really blinded me. Sorry again, by the way. WAIT, LET ME JUST FANGIRL FOR A MINUTE.” Portia grabs a pillow and lets out a giddy scream.

Nerissa lets out a soft laugh before rolling her eyes playfully. “ANYWAY! FOCUS!! So, as I was saying, my dad has a picture of Bianca and Adore during, what I assume was, the coronation in his super secret closet.”

“Wait… but– No… no… that can’t be.” Portia says once she gets to calm her erratic heartbeat. “Bianca won season 6, I don’t think a photo like that photo exists– unless–” She stops talking abruptly and runs to her laptop. Nerissa watches her type furiously, obviously looking for something. When Portia finds it, she makes her way back to her position earlier.

“Look, see” Portia redirects Nerissa’s attention to the laptop’s screen. It was under a folder called “conspiracy theories” and from Riz’s point-of-view it was nothing but screenshots from Tumblr or twitter. “Back then, during their time, it was rumored that Bianca and Adore had filmed an ending where they both won–like they shared it. “

“Did you really search this about your dad?”

“YES! Now, pay attention” Portia huffs, brushing her hair back. “I don’t have more proof though because apparently the receipts back then were trashed when people started losing interest in Season 6 because we’re like in its, I don’t know like, 1000th season now. Then suddenly, when Bianca said she was quitting drag for good, more people deleted stuff about Bianca to respect her wishes then full-blast supported Roy in his fashion career.”

“Wait– wait, Bianca quit drag? Why?”

“Well, people started speculating that it was probably for his daugh–” Portia stops mid sentence, looking at Nerissa’s sudden sad face sheepishly. “Hey, don’t feel bad!”

“He was so happy, Porsche! I may not remember the picture’s every detail, but he was so happy being Bianca. Did you see the way she smiled the minute she walked in the werkroom? You mean to tell me I did that??”

“No, that’s just one of the speculations, really.”

“What were the others?”

“Retirement, boredom… to name a few. One thing I found interesting, but I highly doubt is that people said it was because of Adore.” Portia snorts as she mindlessly scrolls to her photos on her laptop. Nerissa observes her for a bit, before asking;

“How come?”

“If you’re talking about why people thought Adore was involved; that’s because before Bianca quit drag, her and Adore were really close. As in, super close, they were always seen or spotted together. When Bianca did quit, there was complete radio silence from Adore. They cut all communications on social media. Then people saw that they unfollowed each other and whatnot, PLUS they also found it odd that Roy was still talking to Courtney and would go to support local drag scenes, but would completely cop out if Adore was in any shape/form involved.” Portia explains, and Nerissa notes the hints of sadness in her voice.

“Makes sense to me, so then why do you doubt it?” Nerissa’s head tilts slightly as she watches Portia put her laptop on the bed. Her eyes then drift to the mirror that’s adjacent to the side of her bed and stares intently at their reflection.

“Well, for starters, if it ever happened, my dad would tell me. He knows that I absolutely adore Bianca, so I think if they ever had a relationship; he would let me know. It is weird though how he doesn’t really like talking about her. He’d just smile and shrug, so maybe there was a falling out or a fight.” Portia narrates, her sadness becoming a little more apparent.

Nerissa hums, in deep thought. A pregnant pause lingers in the air. With her curiosity getting the best of her, Nerissa asks out of the blue;

“Hey, Portia?”

“Yeah?"

"Did your dad adopt you?"

Portia looks at Nerissa as if she’s grown another head, which coming from her is ironic in itself.

"Well, no, but it’s kind of complicated. My dad was actually married in the past. He would tell me that they tried both fertilized eggs and hoped for the best. Nine months later, I was born and up until today, he doesn’t know if I was his or his ex’s biological baby, but he loves me nonetheless.”

“But won’t you look predominantly like one though?”

“Yeah, I look like my egg donor who looks eerily like my dad.” Portia pauses, head tilted.

“Aren’t you a little curious which one’s your biological dad?” Nerissa continues to probe. If things lined up correctly, Nerissa knew the both of them were going to be thrown into a loop. Portia thinks for a while, considering the idea, before her face contorts with distaste.

“Nah, he never really cared for me in the beginning, so why should I bother now? Even if I was his biologically, he didn’t raise me. He’s just a sperm donor to me, if ever. Why’d you ask anyway?“

"Because I refuse to play stupid when it’s so obvious that we’re twins.” Nerissa exclaims with such vigor, Portia nearly fell over the bed in surprise. ”Can’t you see how identical we look?"

"But…”

“No, no! Don’t try to deny it. I know there’s this whole theory about at least 5 people in the world looking like you–but not like this! Especially not when we basically have the same story growing up!” Nerissa is shaking as she stands to retrieve a picture in her bag; the very same frame she showed her friends her first day in the camp. She traced the edges of the frame before following the lines of her sleeping dad’s face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?' She thinks inwardly, willing the man in the photo for an answer.

“Riz, I think this is too much of a stretch. Our dads would’ve told us if it was something this serious. And our childhood couldn’t be that similar! And, even if–IF we were siblings; I wasn’t born a twin.”

“Oh yeah? When’s your birthday?”

“January 12.”

“Same here. I’m turning 11, you’re turning 11, too, right?. I’m telling you… It makes sense! My dad ALSO said he had a partner a long time ago and like you; I don’t know who my biological father is because I could be my dad’s or his ex! And, to be honest, I really don’t care to know at this point, but it all lines up!” Riz gets flustered now, there’s a funny feeling in her tummy as Portia still looks at her with an unreadable expression on her face.

“And my dad said I looked mostly egg donor too, but he always says that he can see the things that remind him that I’m his or his partner’s– ex partner .” Nerissa finishes, plopping down to sit beside Portia who was still silent. “Well… what do you think? Say something!” She urges, almost pleadingly.

“So… you mean to tell me…”

“Yeah?” Nerissa prompts, watching the girl add things up in her head and the growing realization dawn on her face.

“BIADORE WAS REAL?!?!” Portia screeches with excitement before Nerissa hits her with a pillow.

“UGhhhhhhH!” Nerissa groans, “Can you stop thinking about drag race? This is bigger than us now. BUT, IN HINDSIGHT, YES! I genuinely believe that my dad and your dad used to be together, and they were probably the “ex” in our birth stories.”

“How are we twins with different dads though?” Portia asks once she calms down again.

“It’s possible. I read about it once, it’s like what happened with Neil Patrick Harris and his partner. They had a surrogate accept both eggs, so they had twins. Theirs was fraternal though, and seeing how identical we are– I’m guessing we’re a pretty special case of science and sheer luck.” Nerissa sighs, then sadly adds “It’s kinda annoying how they didn’t tell us. It’s one thing to divorce each other, but to raise kids and hiding a part of their truth? I think it’s cruel.”

“No… It kinda makes sense to me.” Portia says after a few minutes of silence and letting the question linger in the air. “My dad didn’t tell me about you… about how I was a twin because he knew…” she continues to say, breath slow and soft, almost wavering. Tears slowly fill her eyes as she looks at her twin in front of her, “He knew if he told me about you, I would go looking for you. I- I would’ve done everything to meet my sister because I’ve always wanted a sister.” She sniffles, her hand reaching out to grasp the other girl’s hand. “And now I have one” Portia pulls Nerissa in for a hug.

They let the tears flow; tears of confusion, anger, frustration, joy, and love. They murmured their “sorry”; “it’s okay”; “I’ll still fight you when it comes to boys though”; and “Nah, don’t worry, I don’t even like boys…”

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When sobs turned to sniffles and feelings were pacified by food and other words of affirmation, they found themselves nestled on the ground between their bed frames with their mattress and heaps of pillows and blankets surrounding them.

“We still have a few weeks in here, what do you want to do till then?” Portia asks as she stuffs another cookie down her throat. Nerissa lifts a leg up nonchalantly in the air before dramatically dropping it to Portia’s side of the bed.

“Well, I still have more episodes of season 6 to go, right?” She proposes, making Portia smile with excitement. Portia, then, scrambles to get her laptop and plop back down to their little nest.

“Ready to see my dad kick your dad’s ass?” Portia taunts as she hovers to play Episode 2 from where the left off.

“Yeah, as if…”

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Los Angeles, California. 9PM.

Adore sat in front of the mirror, already cinched and dressed, 30 minutes before she was supposed to go on. She had arrived at least an hour before call time, something she had picked up when her and Bianca used to go to gigs together. She rolls her eyes at the memory, mostly due to her annoyance with herself. She knew deep down that she should’ve moved on; it’s been years. But, can you really blame her? You never forget your greatest love and your most painful heartbreak; it was rare for both storylines to be the same person. Because, who in their right mind let’s their greatest love go? Adore did; Danny did. She lets out a few lip thrills to recompose herself and blinks away at the tears threatening to ruin her makeup.

Her phone rings; without looking at the contact, she answers it with a few sniffles.

“Hello?” Adore drawls while grabbing a tissue across the table and dab it slowly under her eyes and her nose.

“Adore, darling!” Ru’s voice rings loudly across the speakers. Adore can hear him talk to someone in the background, but their conversation couldn’t be heard from her end.

“Hi, Ru…” She tries to mask the surprise in her voice. She knew the RuPaul didn’t make social calls UNLESS it was a big social event. If there’s one reason, one reason at all, Ru could be calling it’s…

“Hey, baby, I just wanted to call you myself since this might be a big favor to ask you…”

–that.

“Of course, Mama, what is it?” Adore was barely listening at this point, trying to come up with excuses already.

“Well, would you be interested in joining the first all-stars: battle of the winners in place of Bianca?”

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PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

TAGS Biadore, Bianca Del Rio, Adore Delano, Courtney Act, Parent Trap AU, Henny, Family, Slowburn

WELL WELL WELL I hope you bitches are ready!

Hello, my loves!

ALSO, I don’t want to get clocked or whatever, but I know when it comes to IVF and basic biology (Iguess) The twins aren’t going to be identical since they’re from two separate sperm cells?? BUT, LIKE ALSO, I DON’T CARE?? It’s fanfiction, not fact. SO LET’S JUST SAY THESE GIRLS ARE IDENTICAL, BUT ONE OF EM IS DANNY’S AND ONE OF EM ROY’S (BUT YOU WON’T REALLY FIND OUT). Just please don’t make me think about science-y stuff. Sorry, STEM Majors!

Another thing, assume AS2 didn’t happen, okey?

All the love, Hennies!

Xxx Henny

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“I’m Bianca Del Rio, I’m thirty-seven years old…”

She pales.

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“That was Bianca… and oh my god– that was Adore.” Nerissa says out of the blue, catching Portia’s attention from the other side of the room.

“I’m sorry what?” Portia asks, leaning closer to indicate that she was listening carefully now and that Riz had her full attention.

“Back in New York, my dad… he always kept this room locked. I only went there once, but he got really mad when he caught me.”

Portia moves to sit on Nerissa’s bed. “Yeah, okay… but you said something about my dad. What about Adore?”

“Wait, YOUR DAD IS BIANCA DEL RIO?! LIKE YOU’RE NERISSA HAYLOCK?? HAYLOCK?!?! AS IN ROY HAYLOCK?”

Nerissa blinks. “I thought you knew – how many Haylocks do you know?”

“Did you really search this about your dad?”

“Wait– wait, Bianca quit drag? Why?”

“Well, people started speculating that it was probably for his daugh–” Portia stops mid sentence, looking at Nerissa’s sudden sad face sheepishly. “Hey, don’t feel bad!”

“No, that’s just one of the speculations, really.”

“What were the others?”

“How come?”

Nerissa hums, in deep thought. A pregnant pause lingers in the air. With her curiosity getting the best of her, Nerissa asks out of the blue;

"Hey, Portia?”

“Yeah?"

"Did your dad adopt you?"

Portia looks at Nerissa as if she’s grown another head, which coming from her is ironic in itself.

"Well, no, but it’s kind of complicated. My dad was actually married in the past. He would tell me that they tried both fertilized eggs and hoped for the best. Nine months later, I was born and up until today he doesn’t know if I was his or his ex’s biological baby, but he loves me nonetheless.”

“But won’t you look predominantly like one though?”

“Yeah, I look like my egg donor who looks eerily like my dad.” Portia pauses, head tilted.

“Nah, he never really cared for me in the beginning, so why should I bother now? Even if I was his, biologically, he didn’t raise me. He’s just a sperm donor to me, if ever. Why’d you ask anyway?“

"But…”

“No, no! Don’t try to deny it. I know there’s this whole theory about at least 5 people in the world looking like you–but not like this! Especially not when we basically have the same story growing up!” Nerissa is shaking as she stands to retrieve a picture in her bag;the very same frame she showed her friends her first day in the camp. She traced the edges of the frame before following the lines of her sleeping dad’s face. 'Why didn’t you tell me?' She thinks inwardly, willing the man in the photo for an answer.

“Oh yeah? When’s your birthday?”

“January 12.”

“Same here. I’m turning 11, you’re turning 11. I’m telling you… It makes sense! My dad ALSO said he had a partner a long time ago and like you; I don’t know who my biological father is because I could be my dad’s or his ex! And, to be honest, I really don’t care to know at this point, but it all lines up!” Riz gets flustered now, there’s a funny feeling in her tummy as Portia still looks at her with an unreadable expression on her face.

“So… you mean to tell me…”

“Yeah?” Nerissa prompts, watching the girl add things up in her head and the growing realization dawn on her face.

“BIADORE WAS REAL?!?!” Portia screeches with excitement before Nerissa hits her with a pillow.

“How are we twins with different dads though?” Portia asks once she calms down again.

“It’s possible. I read about it once, it’s like what happened with Neil Patrick Harris and his partner. They had a surrogate accept both eggs, so they had twins. Theirs was fraternal though, and seeing how identical we are– I’m guessing we’re a pretty special case of science and sheer luck.” Nerissa sighs, “It’s kinda annoying how they didn’t tell us though. It’s one thing to divorce each other, but to raise kids and hiding a part of their truth? I think it’s cruel.”

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“Well, I still have more episodes of season 6 to go, right?” She proposes, making Portia smile with excitement. Portia, then, scrambles to get her laptop and plop back down to their little nest.

“Ready to see my dad kick your dad’s ass?” Portia taunts as she hovers to play Episode 2 from where the left off.

“Yeah, as if…”

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Los Angeles, California. 9PM.

Her phone rings; without looking at the contact, she answers it with a few sniffles.

“Hello?” Adore drawls while grabbing a tissue across the table and dab it slowly under her eyes and her nose.

“Adore, darling!” Ru’s voice rings loudly across the speakers. Adore can hear him talk to someone in the background, but their conversation couldn’t be heard from her end.

“Hey, baby, I just wanted to call you myself since this might be a big favor to ask you…”

–that.

“Of course, Mama, what is it?” Adore was barely listening at this point, trying to come up with excuses already.

“Well, would you be interested in joining the first all-stars: battle of the winners in place of Bianca?”

#rpdr fanfiction #biadore #bianca del rio #adore delano #original child characters #canon compliant #parenting au #parent trap au #the parent trap #henny

12 notes · View notes

soda-drabbles · 4 years

Text

Lil' Bit of Spoonin' | EgoBang Fic

Request : “A cute and fluffy big spoon/small spoon moment, inspired by the Super Bunny man series? I would die 😟❤”

Pairing : EgoBang (Dan x Arin)

Type : Fluffy

A/N : Thanks to the lovely @alex-trefying for requesting this! I honestly love me some good ol cuddle fics so I hope you enjoy.

Added note : this turned out to be a little bit longer than expected. I hope you can still enjoy though 🥺

Arin was more than excited, especially today. Today was a very special day, after all. It had been months since he last saw the singer who had packed up and gone on tour. Arin was used to this and knew how much energy touring took out of them, but that didn't stop the absence of his long time friend to get to him.

It was so quiet without Dan. The quiet was something that, no matter how long was the touring had become a routine, he couldn't get used to. His laugh, which rang like the sweetest and softest of bells. His soft voice that caressed anyone's ears. The soft humming that he'd hear sometimes. The ghost of it all was still there.

With all these things, it was the touch he missed most. How sometimes Dan would come around with spontaneous hugs, how Arin got used to the warmth of Dan's arm around him and the random amounts of affection that Dan delivered. He missed that tingling warmth the most.

He was touch starved.

Honestly the thought of Dan coming back shouldn't have gotten him too excited. Yet here he was, waiting for that text or call anxiously. Ready to instantly welcome the man as soon as he walked through that door.

Speaking of texts, he got one. The vibration of the phone that rested on his thigh nearly brought him to his feet at once, hand instantly jerked to grab the phone and check the texts instantly.

Like expected, it was from the man himself. The text told him he'd be here soon, as they just got back. He'd be there in about fifteen minutes.

Of course, he couldn't help but smile. His foot fidgeted some, heels bouncing on edge pretty much. Butterflies welled in his stomach as the thought of Dan walking through the door only made him smile more. That’s when he realized ‘Fifteen minutes. Oh shit.’ Right, he couldn’t just wait for Dan like some lonely puppy who’s owner went to the store. He had to make something to welcome him home at least. Like the domestic Chef he is, he settled on a nice batch of lemon cakes. Nothing like some sweet and sour treats that says ‘welcome home’.

He eagerly watched as the cakes themselves baked and rose in the heat of the oven, foot still tapping quickly in anticipation. His eyes kept switching from the phone on the counter to the baking cakes in the oven. Dan would be here any minute now.

A soft ding brought him away from his thoughts and quickly he jumped up to grab the oven mitts. He grabbed the pan of baked goods once he slipped on the mitts and placed the lemony treats on the counter. It’d probably take them five or so minutes to cool. Arin tossed the oven mitts to the side, dusting off his flour decorated apron. Just then, a steady three knocks sounded at the door that nearly made Arin’s heart leap out of his chest.

“I’m coming!” He said quickly. He knew it had to be Dan unless if he had unplanned visitors or something. He struggled to get the apron off and eventually just said ‘fuck it’, answering the door with said apron on.

His heartbeat thundered away at his chest as his shaky hand caught the doorknob and pushed the door open. There stood a the tall form of an exhausted Dan through the door, who offered a tired smile. The two of them looked absolutely breathless. Dan then simply let himself go and let himself fall into the arms of chef Arin. Of course, Arin caught him with a soft ‘woah’ leaving his lips.

“Either I’m dreaming or you’re wearing a pink ass apron.” Arin’s skin was prickled by the soft breath and soft voice of Dan that caressed his ear like it’s done many times before. The chuckle itself made things feel like home again.

Arin smiled. “It was going to be a surprise, but I made a quick something before you came.”

Dan smiled against the skin of Arin’s neck, “Thoughtful as always, huh, Big Cat?” There goes that name again. The name that he only heard through several phone calls and saw through text. The feeling he got from hearing it in person once again was enough to get him all fuzzy inside.

Heat decorated Arin’s cheeks. He offered a soft shrug in response. “It’s not that special, I mean. Well..when you say it like that I guess it is kind of thoughtful.” He laughed in defeat. As Dan rested in his neck with arms around him, Arin then remembered that Dan must’ve been tired. “You don’t gotta eat them right now or anything. I can always put them up for later. Plus, you do seem tired.”

Speaking of tired, Dan let out a soft yawn and leaned into Arin more. “Yeah..I’ll have to get to those tomorrow. Thank you, seriously.” Arin could feel Dan smile again.

With a blink, Arin shifted some. “Do you want to sleep on the bed or the couch?”

“The couch is closer, yeah.” answered Dan. Arin then nodded and redirected them to the couch that was nearby. He then helped the sleepy man onto the couch and grabbed the nearby blanket. He made sure to tuck him in well. “Goodnight.” Arin said. Just before he got up, Dan’s arms were linked around his neck again.

Arin tilted his head down to find Dan, who both looked tired and needy. “Can I help you?”

“You actually can, Smartass. Come sleep with me.”

In an effort to hide the flustering feelings, Arin grinned. “Danny~ Not on the couch of all places.” He joked.

Dan rolled his eyes tiredly, “You know what I mean. Now cuddle next to Daddy.”

Arin then laughed, before he moved to remove his apron and toss it to the side. He then joined the other man on the bed, Arin being the little spoon and Dan being the bigger spoon.

The comforting warmth of Dan’s arm wrapped around him and the tingly feeling of his chin nuzzled into the crook of his neck made things feel like home again. There were many times he could recall cuddling just like this after a sleepy grumps session or on the weekends when they were able to relax. It felt so good to have Dan next to him after many nights of being stuck alone in the bed by himself.

“Goodnight.” Dan’s voice chuckled sweetly yet sleepily in his ear. “I love you, Arin.”

Arin yawned and turned around, now bringing his own arms around Dan who eagerly welcomed the new position. Nuzzling into his chest, he smiled warmly.

“I love you too, Dan.”

#shipgrumps #ninja ship party #polygrumps #egobang #egoflapbang #arin x dan #dan x arin #my fic #fan fic #lgbt

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cinebration · 4 years

Text

The Darkest Shine (Dan Torrance x Reader) [Part 3]

At the Overlook.

Warnings: none

Gif Source: genekellys

The Overlook was in jagged, warped pieces. The main section of the hotel had burnt to the ground, the roof having caved in spectacularly. The wings, though nothing but skeletal frames, remained standing precariously, husks of their former selves.

A cold wind blew over the wood, soughing eerily through the hollow structure. The headlights skewed shadows through the charred detritus.

You didn’t feel the chill. Wearing only a light jacket, you emerged from the car, killing the engine and the headlights.

The hood pinged as it began cooling down in the preternatural silence.

Moonlight bathed the dead place in white. The shadows became deeper, more ominous. The collapsed face yawned wide, a broken maw asking someone to walk through and be swallowed whole.

Dan stood beside you, mixed feelings churning in his chest. Burning the hotel down had brought him peace, one predicated on the knowledge the hotel could do no more harm, couldn’t haunt him anymore. For the second time in his life, he had believed he would never come back to the Overlook.

You could smell the place as though it had only burned down that morning rather than months earlier. You weren’t even in the remains yet and the damn place was calling to you. It had the same kind of susurrus to it as did the silky voice that lurked inside your head.

Where the Overlook had drawn Shiners in its life, it pulled at you in its death.

You strode toward it—consciously? or was it controlling you?—stepping onto the rotted bones of the hotel. They snapped and creaked and groaned beneath your steps, the sound snatched away by the wind.

Dan called your name quietly. “What are you doing?”

“It’s part of my process,” you answered, your voice too low for him to hear, your attention sinking into the frame of the Overlook.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled, that sensation sliding down your scalp and between your shoulder blades. The wind ceased.

Dead silence reigned.

Dan watched as you stopped in the center of the broken structure. Your back was turned to him, shoulders slightly hunched.

He felt it, the sudden stillness, suspended between heartbeats, like the final exhaled death rattle and the eternal silence that followed it.

The Overlook worked itself under your skin. You tasted its fear the night it had burned, the screams as its bones twisted and disintegrated. It reached out to suck on life to save itself.

Dan.

Dan in the boiler room, bleeding out.

Triumphant as the flames started.

Sinking to his knees.

Dan.

No, Danny.

His mother. Wendy.

Crouched among the flames.

Fear dying with them.

Peace.

You slammed to your knees, a sob tearing from your chest.

Jack Torrance on the stairs. No, Dan. With the axe.

Shouts in your ears. “Danny! DANNY!”

The limping figure hobbling through the hotel. Dan, Jack. Jack, Dan.

Palpable fear on your tongue, bitter.

Trapped, trapped beneath the fallen beams of this burnt husk.

Let me have your Shine, the Overlook cried.

An ear-piercing scream.

Your eyes snapped open. You found yourself on your hands and knees, fingers twisted in the wreckage. Staggering to your feet, you glanced at your palms.

Streaked with the black blood of the hotel’s bones.

Dan hadn’t crossed the threshold. Something had arrested him in place. He had watched helplessly as you convulsed, falling to your knees and clutching your skull, hearing voices he couldn’t. You screamed. For one fraught moment, he had thought the Overlook wasn’t dead, that it was sucking the life out of you.

You faced him and strode back through the wreckage. “There was still a piece of you here,” you whispered shakily, wiping the tears from your eyes.

You had that part clutched tight within you. Reaching out, you touched his shoulder and let it go.

Dan gasped, overwhelmed by the contact. He felt something click within himself, a missing piece locking into place. He stared down into your strained face. His chest constricted.

The wind snapped back around you. You pulled away from him, wiped the sweat from your temples.

Feeling Dan’s eyes on you, you turned your back on him, hiding your face. Your eyes darted toward the darkened east wing of the hotel. The deep shadows there beckoned you.

You didn’t have to squint to know they looked curiously like a man.

“We’re done here,” you croaked.

Dan stepped around you so he could see your face. “Are you alright?”

He concern in his voice made your throat tighten. “You can leave now, but…I’d like it if you stayed with me on the drive back.”

Dan nodded gravely.

You dragged your feet to the car, dropped into the driver’s seat. You stared at the thick shadows gathered along the east wing. Your fingers turned the key in the ignition.

The headlights shone, banishing the shadows.

Nothing.

But always there, a voice hummed in your skull.

Ten minutes later, Dan dared to speak, sensing the depth of your silence was lessening. “When I burned it down, the Overlook lost its power.”

“Over you and Abra and anyone else who Shines normally,” you managed to say.

“What about you?”

You shook your head. “It’s like Crow Daddy. Alive, the hotel wouldn’t have touched me. But dead…I have a particular flavor.”

The sounds of the tires formed a susurrus beneath the sedan.

You had known Crow Daddy had died for good the night it happened. Far away, in your single-storey house in the deserts of California, you had opened your eyes from a dead sleep, sensing his presence in the room.

“Hello, Darkling,” he had murmured. He sat at your feet.

You sat up and regarded him in silence.

“Will the others come?” he asked. The question was flat, no hope in it.

“None of them touched me.”

He glanced at you, dark eyes bottomless. “Did you mark me that day?”

You shook your head. His hand tightened around your ankle, but you weren’t afraid.

“You’re still marked,” he muttered. “Has he not come for you yet?”

“He has,” you had answered. “But it wasn’t the final time yet.”

Dan’s voice called you distantly. Centering yourself in the present, you focused on the road.

“Does that happen often?” he asked, referring to your trances.

“Only when I’m working,” you answered.

The digital clock approached one AM.

“Killing the hotel didn’t kill its residents,” you suddenly informed Dan. “Has Abra told you she’s been locking up the ghosts?”

Dan looked at you sharply. “They’re still here?”

“You let them out.”

“But the hotel—”

“Even if they had been in those boxes in your head, they wouldn’t have stayed in them after you died.”

Dan felt helpless again. His sacrifice had been in vain, then. The ghosts in his head had been leased upon the world, haunting Abra and God knows who else.

“Is that why you’re here?”

You nodded but didn’t elaborate.

#Dan Torrance x Reader #Dan Torrance imagine #Dan Torrance #Ewan McGregor #Ewan McGregor imagine #Doctor Sleep #The Shining #Crow Daddy

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moon-writings13 · 4 years

Text

Hold On (Stiles x Reader)

By: @moon-writings13

Author's Note: This is based on the song 'Hold On' by Chord Overstreet and my own dark mind.

WARNING: THIS IS EXTREMELY DARK AND EXPLICITLY GOES INTO SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND HAS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT!!! If this triggers you DO NOT READ IT.

It's also open ended and not beta read, no one but me has read the entire thing. Tell me if I missed anything and I will gladly go back and edit the warnings. Also there is no planned sequel but if it's asked enough I may just write one.

*3 person point of view*

He couldn't believe what she was saying, he thought they were friends, he thought she understood that this had to be kept secret.

"You're not listening to me Stiles! I'm just saying that Danny and Lydia deserve to know the truth, at least part of it. They're wrapped in this mess too, poor Lydia thinks she's going insane and Danny their friend." She paced around the table as she spoke." If something happened to me and I thought I was crazy but you knew I wasn't and you didn't tell me Stiles I'd be broken. And if Scott and I weren't telling you about something that was hurting us, you would do everything in your power to find out."

"That's different-"

"How is that different Stiles-" She stood still and glared at him-" tell me how is that different from us?"

She took a breath, stood up and gathered her things, she tugged her purse over her shoulder and zipped up her hoodie.

"Y/n" He reached for her, and she stepped back.

"I'll see you tomorrow Stiles, I think we both need to cool down, clear our heads a and talk with Scott, Deaton and maybe even Derek." She kissed his cheek and walked to the door, her y/e/c shining with sadness and anger. "We've been through a lot these past few weeks, we need a break before someone says something they'll regret."

Come the next day Stiles was looking everywhere in school for y/n, he couldn't find her anywhere, sure she was often sick but he had a sick feeling in his stomach. Every time she was out it felt wrong, who else did he have to talk about Star Wars, geek out and have his hoodies stolen from, he didn't know what he would do without her and her shy smile.

"Don't worry Stiles, she probably was a migraine and will be back tomorrow." Scott patted Stiles' back as they walked down the hall.

"I don't know Scott, something feels off-"

"Why don't we visit y/n after school, that way we make sure she's fine and there's nothing to worry about."

*Reader's Pov*

You were curled up in a ball, clutching your head in your hands. "Why can't this all just stop? It hurts so much, I can't do this any more! Just make it stop-" you sunk onto your knees hoping the pressure will make your head stop exploding-"there's nothing left for me, no one needs me, I'm not wanted here. I'm not good enough."

You went into your bathroom, locked the door and gazed into the large vanity mirror, then leaned against the door, curling up again.

'No one wants you-' her mind screams- 'Stiles only pretends to put up with you, Scott forgets you exist half the time the rest he just ignores you. You never had lasting friends before them, why should that end now? Face it you're just a waste of space, you're a dumb, annoying, ugly, awkward, useless waste of space. No one cares if you live or die, so why don't you just die y/n, you're not wanted or needed just die and you won't feel the pain any longer.'

You get up from the bathroom floor against the door and rummage around the drawers and find a blade. Slowly but deeply, you cut your wrist. 'Maybe now it will all be over'

You black out for a while, you don't know how much time has passed when you hear your front door open, when you hear them, you know what they are going to do, try and save what had been broken long before you met them. Hopefully it was too late for help.

You hear them faintly from upstairs, "Stiles, ...I smell blood, it's fresh, Y/N?!?!"

"Blood?!?! HOLD ON Y/N WE'RE COMING!"

You heard them run up the steps, you heard a faint in 'here', likely from Scott. You just wanted it all to be over with the pain, your emotions, everything.

When the door burst open you knew they came too fast to stop to you, even as you were blacking out. Your body felt cold against the tile when one of them pulled you in, why would either of them do that? Scott can hear a heartbeat in your house no matter where he was, and Stiles knew that, so why would either of them do that.

"PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME Y/N! Please don't leave me." Stiles was, crying? Why was he crying, there's nothing to be sad about.

'It's almost over, finally.' You thought, a small smile etched on your lips.

"Come back y/n, I still want you, I still need you, just comeback sweetheart." Stiles grabs your hand, while Scott finishes his 911 call. Scott grabs your other hand, both are putting pressure on your bleeding wrists.

"I swear y/n, we'll make this right, you're my little sister. The one I've always wanted so come back." Scott was choked up from the sound of his voice, but you knew it wasn't the truth this was his way of lessening his guilt and trying to make you feel wanted.

You heard sirens approaching, you couldn't even move to react. Then you heard a whisper you had always wanted to hear, but knew you never would. "I love you y/n, I've loved you since the day I met you, hold on y/n. I still need you."

\\ Time Skip 1 month later //

You looked at the unconscious form next to you, it felt wrong to see Stiles so silent and still. You drove down the highway towards the hospital, hoping that Stiles' condition wouldn't worsen before you could get him help. You felt chilled to the bone after the fight you just witnessed, Gerrard was a sick bastard. Torturing Stiles, Boyd and Erica, while you were slumped on the floor only able to get them all out and into a car after he left. You got the betas' into your room and texted Derek their location telling him they were hurt. Now you had to focus on getting Stiles to a hospital.

The drive seemed to be too slow, you needed to be there already. You drove to the emergency entrance and yelled for help. "HELP! MY FRIEND HAS BEEN SERIOUSLY INJURED AND IS UNCONSCIOUS."

A nurse approached me, "Please ma'am he's in my passenger seat just help him, please."

I watched helplessly as he was put on a stretcher and paced as they checked his vitals.

"Please don't leave me Stiles, I can't make it with out you. Come on Stiles, hold on, I still need you. You can't leave me, I swore I'm going to love you all my life, hold on still I need you." You curl up in the waiting room chair knowing they won't let you follow him.

You knew you can't let Stiles die, he had become your anchor since you woke up in the hospital. Without him you had no strength left, you just wanted to hear him say what he said the day you were discharged from the hospital 'Come on baby let's go home. Come on I'll take you.' You needed Stiles to live, you didn't want to live without him.

Tagglist: @samslave @grimreaperlover11 @bluetree76 @bisexualmage @dylinski @writingsbychlo

Tentative adds: @helllucifer @dream-in-charming

#stiles stilinski #stiles teen wolf #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles x reader #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #moon writes #dylan o'brien #dylan o brien #dylan obrien #dylan o'brian imagine #x reader #//suicide #//self harm

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 5 years

Text

A Met Gala one-shot

somewhere, someone in the world wanted to kill us for leaving these clothes on the floor of a college recreation facility.

4.5k of flirty, well-dressed, smut

***

Okay, so maybe I did feel a little bit out of my element. I mean, style was never my thing. Fashion was never my thing. That’s why, after 6 years of really trying to make it, I was selling music--not the hottest trends.

“You’re going to be fine,” Jenna said behind me, her smile big and bright as I stared out the window as the car rolled to a stop.

The weather was beautiful--and I was lucky. Early May in New York City didn’t exactly always lend itself to warmth and sun. And the feathery, pink dress/cape combo I was wearing didn’t exactly lend itself to the most confidence.

I knew the drill. Jenna and Britney had run through things twice already in the short ride from the hotel. I’d get out, wait in line, walk the carpet, greet the co-chairs, head inside. I’d eat some food, mingle with some people, and enjoy the night.

I knew a few people who’d be there. Sophie Turner, Zendaya, even Hailey Baldwin (Bieber? Still not clear on that.) So I’d be fine. I’d be nice and social and it would be fine. That’s what I kept repeating to myself as I heard the door on the other side of the car open and shut quickly.

Britney, my amazing manager and time-keeper for all things Met Gala, seemed to be opening my door before I could even process it. There were chirps of excitement from people gathered nearby, but no camera flashes yet--which was appreciated.

I’d walked red carpets before. In fact, I tripped and caught myself on Saiorse Ronan’s shoulder only six months earlier--so I figured tonight couldn’t be that bad. I stepped out, gaining more noise from the fans who’d gathered to catch glimpses, but I didn’t expect for some screams to break out the way they had.

I was new, after all. My debut album had dropped in the fall, I was still in the middle of my first headlining tour. I wasn’t exactly A-list yet. I was surprised when I even got the invitation in the first place.

And when Moschino offered to dress me, I was even more surprised that I was popping up on people’s radars. And not just people--fashion people.

“Stella Mayfield--walking,” I heard a voice next to me, a woman in a black gown was apparently communicating with whoever (and whatever) was inside the giant tent opening straight ahead. Jenna could sense my nerves--she reached over to rub my shoulder and offer a smile. Thank god I had the two of them, plus Danny, my one and only security guard.

Danny’s job was more of a precaution, I think. I’d yet to be in a situation where people were really rowdy or wild. I mean, there’d be fans gathered outside my hotel on tour and people outside of the venues. But I’d never seen Danny had to launch into action. I mean, I’d never been mobbed or anything.

So I had a buffer. I had Britney and Jenna and Danny all night. We could leave when we pleased, I reminded them. Which I think was more of an out for me if I got too nervous or overwhelmed by all of the fancy clothes and money in one room.

We waited in line, I watched as the photographers and reporters on the side of the big steps would scream people’s names, hoping to get a glimpse or a wave or an answer to a question.

Soon enough, the woman in black--who’d escorted us all the way in--spoke my name into her walkie-talkie and gave me a shove forward. So much for a warning.

I smiled immediately, thankful that people seemed to know who I was (and care), and I posed at the bottom of the stairs for the group of photographers who seemed to be giving me the nicest directions.

“Can you turn this way, Stella?”

“It’s great to see you, Stella, are you excited to be here?”

I chose the woman with the short blonde hair to talk with--she seemed the most approachable and most interested in actually hearing from me. I told her that yes, I was excited to be here, no, I wasn’t bringing a date. Yes, I was dressed in Moschino, and no, I wouldn’t be leaving with anyone.

I did my best to make eye contact with a few of them, Britney had always given that advice for big events like these. She said that when you’re trying to still make a name for yourself, it was good to give answers and be friendly and make them write about you.

I was pulled up the steps, though, by Britney, who gave me some easy directions to pose in two different spots on the stairs. And soon, when I neared the top, I saw the co-chairs--undoubtedly, the people I was most nervous to see.

It wasn’t that they were worlds more famous than me (that didn’t help), it was more that they were the ones who ultimately decided who got to come. Anna Wintour approved the invite list and somehow, I’d been cool enough to not get cut.

My heartbeat was steadily rising, and when I met the final step, Lady Gaga gave me the biggest smile I’d ever been greeted with.

“Stella!” She beamed at me, opening her arms wide to give me a hug. Jenna, Britney, and Danny seemed to stay back. “I’m so glad you’re here! We were so hoping you’d come!”

“It’s so nice to meet you!” I smiled, letting her embrace me. Someone--who I didn’t recognize--was in front of me and schmoozing with Serena Williams. “Thank you so much for having me.”

“Are you kidding me?” She pulled back, apparently surprised by my graciousness. “You’re the hottest thing right now, live it up! It can be weird, I know. Big event, big names. Enjoy yourself tonight. You’re a star!”

I was shocked, really--not just by her beauty and her gown and her niceness, but by the fact that she seemed to say exactly what I needed to hear.

“Darling, so good to meet you,” Anna Wintour greeted me, reaching a hand forward to tug at my long brown hair. “Absolutely love your gown!”

I was getting pushed along--the line behind me was apparently longer than I’d realized and people were eager to get inside. Serena Williams and Alessandro Michele seemed to be caught up with someone (extravagant makeup and a blonde wig made it hard to tell who it was), so I looked up at Britney, who gave me a shrug when she saw that I was stuck, and I sidestepped the mystery guest.

Harry Styles, clad in a black get up, offered me a small smile and leaned in to hug me, speaking over the crowd as his lips grazed my ear. “Great to meet you, you look beautiful,” he said.

I pulled back slightly, a flush rising on my cheeks as I cursed myself for being starstruck at an event where my main job was to just act like I belonged.

“You do too,” I offered back, immediately wondering if he’d appreciate being called beautiful. Was my 24-year-old girl showing too much? He smiled back and I moved on. We’d met in passing once before, I knew Niall a little bit better after writing a song with him in 2018, but we’d never actually spoken.

“Your album is amazing, it’s seriously been the soundtrack to my life lately. Listen to it all the time, really,” he nodded, his eyes sweeping over my face.

“Seriously? I’m so flattered, thank you!”

He pulled his eyes away from me then, smiling at the person behind me, who clearly wasn’t appreciative of my loitering. A pang of disappointment washed over me, but he brought his eyes back down. “We’ll talk later, yeah? Find me inside, or I’ll find you!”

“Sure, yeah!” I nodded, getting shoved away from him by the moving line before I could even give him another hug.

I let out a breath, happy to have more space from other bodies and thankful for the fact that Jenna, Britney, and Danny were once again by my side.

“You did it,” Britney smiled, clapping her hands together. “Walked your first Met Gala stairs. And you shined,” she said.

The first thing I did inside was get a drink. Not only because I needed one, but also because they were free. Not just your typical open bar free--these were top-shelf, well-made, served with a smile cocktails that had these pretty pink straws that poked out of the top.

Whatever Jenna had ordered for me tasted like lemon. I wasn’t mad.

The dinner was delicious--I was seated with people I barely knew, but I was fine enough once I’d had some liquor and some food. I’d popped by the table in the back--where everyone’s entourage was seated--to visit my three staff and make sure they were fine.

But just as I’d expected, they were more than entertained by the food, the drink, and the company. So when I walked back to my seat and spotted Harry incredibly close to my table, I sipped the end of my drink (strong, not well mixed at the bottom), and took a deep breath.

“Hi,” I said quickly, offering him a smile as he pulled his eyes from his current conversation partner and brought them to meet mine. In a typical situation, I’d feel sorry for interrupting and might have even avoided it altogether, but something pulled me towards talking to Harry again.

Maybe because he was the only person (aside from Lady Gaga) who’d made me feel completely comfortable all night.

He said his goodbyes to the man in the red suit before opening his arms to hug me again. “You’re alive still!”

“I am!” I laughed a little, mainly because I was surprised I’d lasted this long. Parties (especially with this many famous people) were exhausting. I wasn’t sure if he’d had four redbulls already or was just filled with adrenaline, but he seemed awake and excited and like he was having the time of his life.

“Me too, I’m also alive, which is good.” He nodded seriously, stepped a bit closer to me to let someone pass by us.

The lights were dim--we were in the strange space between dinner and dessert. There were dancers on stage and music that played along to their movements, but the entertainment hadn’t yet truly started.

“You must be exhausted,” I said, extremely aware of the fact that his arm brushed against mine.

He let out a laugh and shrugged his shoulders. “Long day, but it’s fine. I can sleep tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked, pulling my head back in confusion. I was under the impression that I’d be home and in bed by 1am. At least, that was the limit I’d subconsciously set for myself.

“There’s a few after parties,” he nodded. “I’m hosting one with Gucci at The Fleur Room. You’ll have to come!”

I felt stupid for a second, stupid for not realizing that of course there’d be after parties and of course I should go. I mean, in all honesty, this was work. I needed to mingle and network and meet celebrities and get my name out there.

“Right,” I said, trying to play it cool. “Of course, I’d love to!”

“I’d love to see you there,” he said, letting his eyes pause on mine for a second longer than usual. “Your album is seriously amazing. Where’d you record?”

“Mostly L.A.,” I said. “I’ve been working a lot with Ricky Reeves, he produced most of it.”

“You did a song with Tom Hull, too, right? He did a song on my album!”

“I did!” I smiled, I’d completely forgotten that we had that in common. Tom Hull--Kid Harpoon--had worked with a slew of amazing artists. When he reached out and asked if I wanted to work on something with him, I was touched.

“He’s a genius,” Harry said simply. “Total genius with lyrics.”

“I know--I swear to God the song we wrote took us like ten minutes and it’s one of my favorites.”

“Try For It, right?”

I nodded--trying to mask my excitement that he knew the name of my song. I knew he’d said he liked my album, but everyone says that when you release your first major-label project. A part of me wondered if he’d really been listening to it as much as he said.

“I have to say, though, I think Break Me is my favorite.”

I laughed, once again completely flattered that not only did he know my album, but apparently, he had favorites. I leaned up to speak into his ear--the music was louder and people were cheering for the dancers on stage. “It’s my favorite, too, but don’t tell anyone. Kinda ruins the whole songwriter I love all of my songs equally thing.”

Around 11pm I needed a break. I dipped out of the main ballroom and headed down a hallway, thankful that Danny was distracted by Jenna and Britney to give me some space.

My heels on the floor echoed as I walked--I didn’t know where I was headed, but I wasn’t worried about finding my way back. I turned down another hallway, which left me in an empty exhibit room.

But that’s when I heard a laugh.

I peered around some sort of statue (again, music was my thing, not other forms of art), and saw Harry, slumped against a wall with a phone pressed up to his ear.

He looked up and met my eyes, offering a wave as he informed the person on the other end that he had to go. I tried to motion at him that I was sorry for walking in, but he pulled the phone from his ear, pressed a button, and shoved it back in his pocket.

He’d changed--his top was now white and a big, almost goofy looking bow-tie adorned his neck.

“Hi, sorry, I was just,” I motioned back down the hall that I came from. “Trying to get some air.”

He let out a laugh. “My thoughts exactly.”

I was quiet for a second, still feeling guilty for walking in and hoping that he didn’t think I’d purposely followed him back here. But he spoke again before I could voice any of those thoughts.

“This is your first Met Gala, right?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, but I didn’t say more. I could tell he was thinking.

“Mine too--pretty busy. That was my mum, asking if it was going alright. She just woke up back home.”

He kept his eyes focused on something past me--I could tell he was thinking more to himself than he was saying out loud.

“Were you nervous for today?” I asked suddenly, my voice still quiet so as to not echo throughout the room.

He brought his eyes back to me at this and a grin overtook his face. “Are you kidding? I was practically in the fetal position before the carpet.”

“Are you serious?” I laughed in response. “You seem so,” I searched for the right words. “Put together and calm and used to it.” I didn’t mention that he looked so attractive, was so talented, and I was practically on cloud nine due to the amount of conversing we’d done.

“You’ll get used to it,” he nodded, his smile smaller now but just as genuine. He gave me a look as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Am I cut out for this type of stuff?

“I’m somewhat used to it,” he said slowly, but he looked down at his high waisted pants. “Still getting used to this type of thing, though,” he plucked at the waistband, his eyebrows furrowed together to get a laugh out of me.

“I’ll get used to it,” I nodded my head, appreciative of his humor and his groundedness.

“And until then, you’re doing a great job of faking it.”

I was chatting and laughing and drinking with Alexa Chung in the corner of the big athletic complex when Harry sidled up beside me.

“What’re you drinking?” He asked, leaning in closer to me so I could hear him--once more--over the music. Alexa watched with a smile as I held my drink up to him, offering a taste.

He took it from me, and I watched as his lips pressed against the same place that mine had just been. He scrunched his nose to more accurately judge, and when he handed it back to me, he smiled.

“Whatever it is, I want one, and it looks like you could use another.”

He found me afterwards, two identical drinks in his hands and a smile on his face as he pulled me aside to cheers to a successful night for the two of us. And we drank the drinks together, admittedly faster than we probably planned. And then we had another.

And then I danced beside him as Mark Ronson played different songs and we took stupid selfies with people who popped over to say hello. I’d lost Danny long before--though I assumed I was in his sight--when Britney and Jenna said goodnight. They told me to have fun, enjoy myself, and most of all, don’t end up naked or black out or anything that would end up on the internet tomorrow (this) morning.

But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t that type of person.

“Do you need a break for a minute?” Harry asked, his arm snaking around my waist as I smiled up at Alexa as she said something about Cher’s performance earlier.

I looked up at him quickly, his face was close to mine and his lips brushed against the side of my temple again when he spoke. “I could use a break, is what I should say.”

Alexa seemed to not mind at all, in fact, I could have sworn that she gave him a playful wink as he draped his arm over my shoulder and I started to head away from the commotion.

“A water, a snack, all of it sounds nice,” he laughed, bringing his eyes down to me as we climbed down the stairs from the DJ booth. “And maybe one more of those lemon things.”

“I have no idea what’s in them,” I laughed. “So if we’re ridiculously hungover, don’t blame me.”

“I would never,” he laughed, letting his hip bump into mine somewhat as we made our way for the door.

A man in a suit--not Danny, but who looked like he might have been Harry’s version of Danny--opened the door for us right as we approached, leading us into a hallway with bright yellow chairs that lined the wall. Celebrity guests were seated all along, drinking and chatting and taking obnoxious pictures in their best-attempt at Camp.

It was then that I caught sight of Danny, who said something to the man who’d been holding the door open, and gave me a subtle wave as Harry withdrew his arm from around my shoulders.

I waved to Joe Jonas (who seemed to smile when he saw me) and felt, for the first time all night, like I actually was starting to belong.

“Still a little crowded,” he said, looking each direction down the hall. One way was towards the entrance--cocktail tables lined with flashy tablecloths and extraordinary floral arrangements. He looked to his right, nodded his head in that direction, and then looked down at me again.

He walked away from me, and I turned back to give Danny some kind of please don’t follow me look before falling into step beside him.

“What’s down here?” I asked, a laugh escaping my lips as we headed farther down the dark hallway.

“No idea,” he shook his head, a smile on his face as he licked his lips. “But somewhere to sit and take this bow-tie off and just talk for a second would be nice.”

And so we found a room that had a desk and a blackboard and Harry decided to write our names in chalk in big, obnoxious, somewhat drunk handwriting.

He sat on the desk then, loosened his bow-tie, and smirked. “It’s been nice to get to know you tonight.”

I smiled, hoping that if my cheeks looked red, I could blame it on the alcohol. “Thanks for making me feel so welcome,” I said.

He smiled, holding the red fabric in his hands. “I should say the same--I was definitely freaked out to be here and be co-chairing, but I would say it’s been successful.”

“Me too,” I nodded assuredly, thankful that I’d long turned in my feathery pink ensemble for a gold and shimmery gown--one that showed just enough cleavage and was markedly more convenient to dance in.

I wouldn’t have done what I did next if he didn’t look up at me with an innocent--yet somehow completely daring--smile. In two steps, I was stood between his legs, my hands on his face, and my lips against his.

And in half a second, his hands were around my waist, pulling me closer to him. We stayed like that for a minute, but soon he stood, stepped me backwards, and flipped our positions. Now I was against the desk, he worked one hand at the back zipper of my dress, and my hands were fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.

My thoughts were racing and my pulse was too. He deepened the kiss and I shrugged out of the top of my dress. When I felt the fabric of his shirt against my chest, I was reminded, ever so timely, that I’d opted to be braless all night.

Harry didn’t seem to mind, however, because soon his hand was around my breast. I made a noise when we connected, which must have turned him on even more, because he suddenly started working at removing his own shirt to be less fabric between us.

His lips were warm and soft and something about the possibility of being walked in on made me terrified and excited all at once. He made me nervous and unsure and hyperaware, but he also made me feel comfortable and like I fit in.

I kissed him harder--thankful for the fact that he seemed to be handling his pants on his own. They looked extremely difficult to get on, so getting them off was sure to be quite the task. I tried not to worry, though, and it didn’t take much to distract me because he pulled away from me for a second.

“You’ve looked beautiful all night and this is not normally what I do,” he said, his brows dipped inward as he tried to explain himself.

In all honesty, I wasn’t really worried and I wasn’t even thinking about how many times he’d done this before. But now I was.

He must have seen the look on my face, because he moved his head to get a better look at my face. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

“No,” I said, probably too quickly. “It’s fine--I just, I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

He let out a laugh, his eyes scanning over my face once more. “I’d be so honored,” he teased.

He kissed me again, this time, his hands were searching my body, searching for skin and searching for connection. I let them wander, finding the hem of my dress before pulling it away from my skin. I pulled my mouth away from his for a second--a dip in his brows told me he didn’t appreciate that--to slide his pants down from his hips.

I could feel his erection against me as he worked at the final buttons of his shirt, and I let my hands find it as he kept his lips connected to mine. He let out a sharp exhale at that, making a noise of pleasure as I palmed him over the fabric of his boxer briefs.

He pulled away from me quickly, taking me by the hands to stand me up. His fingers tugged at the fabric of my dress--somewhere, someone in the world wanted to kill us for leaving these clothes on the floor of a college recreation facility.

I didn’t have much time to think about that, though, because after Harry shed his shoes and his undershirt, he picked me up and set me back on the table, nodding his head in direction to lay back.

His mouth was against me in seconds, his fingers pulling away the thin strap of my thong as his tongue worked against my center. It was jarring, really--not just because of the sensation, but because of how quick he had my back arched and his name floating from my lips.

He seemed to like that, though, as he inserted two fingers to pump in and out of me while his tongue drew abstract circles.

“Yeah, baby?” his voice was deep and throaty. “Feel good?”

I let out a moan once more, reaching a hand down to grab at his hair, keeping his tongue pressed against me. He let out a cheeky laugh, my dependence on him seemed to feed his ego.

I let my own hand wander to my chest, playing with my own nipple. When he saw this, he muttered under his breath. “Shit, Stella.”

He pulled away quickly, pulling his boxers down to reveal what I’d been waiting for. I sat up on the desk, scooching closer to the edge to give him better access. He held his own hand around his shaft, and he smiled up at me before letting his tip enter slowly.

He immediately let out a moan, his hands reaching around to make contact with my butt--pulling me closer to the edge so he could go deeper inside of me.

“Fuck, Stella, you’re so wet for me,” he breathed into my ear.

Maybe it was the fact that we were in some sort of athletic office--maybe it was the fact that I could get in so much trouble for this. But whatever it was made it even more sensual to feel his cock up against my clit as he moaned in my ear.

“As soon as we got here I knew I wanted my night to end with you,” he said--which struck me as sweet and incredibly sexy at the same time.

I reached my arms up to his neck, holding him close to me as he rocked in and out. “You feel so good,” I told him.

“Yeah?” He said, a smirk on his face again as he leaned in to press a kiss to my lips. “You’re so fucking tight, baby.”

He started to go faster, his hands still keeping my butt close enough that he could hit the right angle. “I want to fucking fill you up, Stella,” he said, his voice lower and deeper than before. “You feel so fucking good all around me.”

“Fuck me, then, Harry,” I told him, and the direction seemed to get him even more excited. He pumped faster, the desk beneath us started to squeak, which caused laughter on both parts, and soon, he moaned into my ear as I felt him come inside of me.

He kissed me again, deep and genuine, and then pulled away and laughed. “Fucking someone in a school office where we might get caught. That’s pretty camp.”

#harry styles #harry styles met gala #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles drabble

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i-write-about-anything · 5 years

Text

Abandoned Part 8

Prompt: Dean is forced to be a single father after the reader left them. Three years later she shows up out of no where. (bc there’s always fics of girls being single mothers to Dean’s kids and bc i saw this episode again and thought of it overnight lol)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Daddy!Dean (let’s face it, it’s a damn warning.)

PARTS:

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Mason’s had been beaming with happiness the entire day. His constant talk about his mother only made his friends roll their eyes. They had thought that Mason was nothing but a liar, there was no way his mother was real, but seeing her there and then made them feel bad for the kid, teachers included. They had known Mason’s mother wasn’t in the picture, the crying attack he had on Mother's Day made them feel horrible. He hadn’t had a mother to make a card for, so they suggested to make it out to his father, Dean, who cried that night, sad that his son didn’t have a mother like the rest of the kids. Mason’s happiness was disturbed when Danny told him his mother didn’t love him, that she’d leave once more. Tears streamed down his face as Danny and the rest of the kids in his grade called him a cry baby, Danny’s finger poking at Mason’s chest. That’s when Dean and (y/n) saw him, his small hands covering his face as the asshole of a kid poked at his chest, the rest of the kids laughing at him. They both ran to him, Dean being the one to clear his throat. “What’s going on here?” Dean’s stern voice caught the attention of all the kids, their laughter dying down as they looked at him, Mason looking up, his face lighting up for a second before tears started to roll out of his eyes once more.

“Daddy.” He shouted as he ran straight to Dean’s arms. Dean had seen him like this months ago, making his heart break once more. Dean picked him up, Mason’s arms wrapping around Dean’s neck as he shoves his face against Dean’s chest. (Y/N) frowned at the sight, feeling useless at the moment.

“Come on Danny.” Diane’s voice rang from behind them as the boy ran to his mother, a smirk on his face as he passed Dean. “Oh no, Dean, what happened?” Her voice was fake, she was fake and both (y/n) and Dean could see that.

“Look Diane, I suggest you teach your son some manners otherwise I’m going to teach my son how to fight back and you’re not going to like that." Dean was angry, and so was (y/n). Dean walked away before Diane could say another word but (y/n) stayed behind, her eyes digging daggers into Diane’s, she wanted to smack the smirk off her face, she hadn’t lost touch of her fighting skills, she could easily take her and she knew that but this was neither the time nor the place for that. “Honey.” Dean’s voice snapped her out of her own thoughts before she walked past Diane, her shoulder shoving her backwards before (y/n) followed Dean to his Impala. “It’s okay.” Dean sighed as he tried his best to calm the crying boy in his arms, Mason’s eyes landing on his mothers.

“Mommy.” His arms stretched out towards her, Dean handing his son to (y/n) who hugged him close only making him sob even louder causing both their hearts to break.

“Hey, it’s okay, we’re not going to let him hurt you again.” Her voice soothed him for a second before his grip around her tightened. “Did he say something to you?” (Y/N)’s eyes met Deans who was looking right back at her, he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she looked with their son in her arms, she was born to be a mother, he had always told her that.

“Are you leaving again?” Mason’s head lifted from her shoulder as his eyes met hers, her heart breaking once more, he was crying because of her, not because of Danny’s little devil self.

“Of course not.” She whispered, her own eyes forming tears she couldn’t hold anymore. Mason was only four but he was mature for his age, the same way Dean and Sam had been at an early age. “I’m not leaving you, not if I can help it, okay?” Her voice was a whisper, Mason nodding before he shoved his head back into the crook of her neck, his tears sliding down her neck as her eyes closed pulling him a little closer. She hated herself, how could she not, she had given her own son a reason to second guess her presence.

“Let’s get going, yeah?” Dean cleared his throat as he looked around the small parking lot, parents looking at the pair with confusion, Dean hated people in their business. They drove to Dean’s home in silence, (y/n) in the backseat with Mason’s small hand in hers as he tried his best to stop crying. The small sniffs echoing through the impala, nothing else. Once at Dean’s home they all made their way into Mason’s room, his small hand holding onto his mothers, scared that if he let go, she’d be gone in seconds. He dragged her to his bed, sitting at the edge as he finally let go of her hand just to take his backpack off, his shoes too. Dean leaned against the door frame, watching as Mason looked up at his mother, his hands reaching up for her to pick him up which she did before sitting on his small bed. She sat him down on her lap and he rested his head on her chest. The image engraving into Dean’s brain.

“Don’t ever listen to anything Danny says, okay?” (Y/N)’s voice cut through the silence. “He’s a bully and bullies are nothing but liars.” She spoke as her hand rubbed small circled on his back, something she did with Dean, earning the same relaxation as his father. Dean sighed as his arms crossed over his chest, he had barely made up with her, but seeing her there comforting their son he found himself already sinking back into the love they once had. She knew exactly what to say, what to do to make everything better and that’s what both Dean and Mason needed in their lives, that’s what they always needed.

“Why did you leave?” His small voice cut through her heart, he wasn’t crying anymore, but she was.

“I didn’t want to honey, I really didn’t.” She started, her eyes redirecting to Dean who gave her a reassuring smile, she didn’t know how he ever forgave her but she was glad he did. “But I had to protect you and daddy and I know it might have been hard without me, but daddy did a really good job at raising you, you’re really smart, did you know that?” She felt Mason’s head nod and she smiled. “I know you’re scared that you’re going to wake up one day and not see me again but I’m not going anywhere, okay?” She looked at Dean, speaking mostly to him but to her son as well. Dean bit his lip before he sighed, moving towards the small bed as he squatted down, his forehead resting on (y/n)’s before he gave her a swift kiss on the lips only making the tears in her eyes flow even faster. Dean sat next to her on the small bed, his arm wrapping around her shoulder before pulling her in.

“Okay.” Dean whispered into her ear, (y/n) closed her eyes as she continued to rub small circles on Mason’s back. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, no matter how much Dean had hated (y/n) for leaving, having her here, having Mason in her arms felt perfect to him. He hated himself for hating her, after all she left to protect him and their son, something he would have done in a heartbeat, something she would have never hated him for. “Stay.” Dean’s voice was low. (Y/N) looked at him, a smile on her face, that’s all she wanted to do, stay here with the both boys she loved so dearly. “I mean, stay here, home.” Dean sighed out as his green eyes looked into hers.

“Dean.” She whispered out and he shook his head taking her hand in his, stopping the soothing circles on the small boys back.

“We have a guest room, you can stay there, you don’t have to stay in our old room, I know it’s too soon.” Dean spoke and (y/n) cracked a smile. “Please.” He whispered.

“Yeah mommy, stay?” Mason’s voice caught her attention as she looked down at the identical green eyes, her eyes shifting between both Mason’s and Dean’s eyes. “Please?” Mason’s small voice tugged a string in her heart. How could she ever say no to him? How could she ever say no to the both of them.

“Okay.” She let out a deep breath, when the both boys hugged her, she hadn’t expected this, not after the morning her and Dean had shared, the bruise on her arm clearly visible from his attack, she found herself astonished on how a mere of hours of communication had changed everything between her and the boy she loved so dearly.

_____________

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story tags; @king4thesirens@the-nonsenseblog@heythereamigodude@parksandrecmyass@alexwinchester23@calaofnoldor@isapapertime@lizblinder@spnfamily-thewinchesters@sasbb23@supernaturalidjitjess@spellbinding10@joannie95@heyyy-hey-babyyy

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural masterlist #supernatural imagine #Sam Winchester #castiel #Jack Kline

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whumpasaurus101 · 3 years

Text

Training

Next piece more than a month later? Psh, nooooo…… shush. XD Better late than never though! Eh?

CW: Speaking of needles- not in tooo much detail / injection in a bit of detail hehe / drugging / cursing… as usual XD

Previous / Masterlist

Asher gulped once Rodger left. His heart picked up and he rolled his shoulder -a tic he had gained not long ago when he got nervous- and cleared his throat. Antonio chuckled, “I missed you Danny.”

“That's not my name,” Asher gritted through a tightly clenched jaw. Antonio chuckled, turning to him with folded arms, “Well, you seemed to have grown a tongue since I have last seen you, haven't ya?!”

Asher grinded his teeth, clenching and unclenching his jaw. This seemed to amuse Anotonio even more, he leant in close and whispered right into Asher’s ear, placing his hands onto Asher’s shoulders and squeezing them tight, “Why all this anger, hm? Why do you keep it bottled up? Why do you feel all these emotions when you’ve had it so easy!”

Asher huffed through his nose, trying to relax himself. “I mean, you were Aiden’s favourite. He handed everything to you. He even offered you your freedom and you-” Asher let out a growl, spun around and threw a punch at Antonio. His wrist was quickly grabbed and he was shoved against the wall.

“Now, now, now, Ashy, let's not go down this road.” Asher let out a yell of anger, “Let go of me!!!”

“I have a challenge for you, I need you to try and not lose your shit and get me off of you.” Asher let out a growl, thrashing in Antonio’s grip.

“Take some deep breaths and-”

“-SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The gym fell silent, scared broken pets cringed and trainers grinned, oh, he was dead. Antonio immediately let go of Asher who spun back around, back pressed flat against the wall. He forced a smirk though, “What? Scared now? I-”

He was quickly cut off as Antonio’s fist drove into his cheek, knocking his face to the side. Asher collapsed to the ground, clutching his face in agony. Blood ran down from Asher’s nose, spreading all across his face and hand. Asher gasped.

He wasn't given a break as Antonio advanced towards him again. He shoved Asher fully on the ground and straddled his hips. One punch was sent, two punches. “Get off you fucker!!!!” Asher yelled, holding up his hands in an attempt to block the assaults. Antonio grabbed his wrists, pinning them above him and with his free hand tightly squeezing against his throat.

Asher let out a raspy wheeze as his airways were cut off, “G-eff, ‘ff.” Antonio chuckled, “I'm sorry, I can't quite hear you!” He squeezed tighter, “Speak up!” Asher struggled in Antonio’s grip, face turning purple, “ ‘lease!” Asher’s feet kicked violently as he could feel his heartbeat in his head.

“Come on Asher! Defence, c’mon. I'm your opponent, you have to get me off." Then it hit Asher, this was part of his test. He closed his eyes and thought of all the possibilities he had. Asher quickly dug his knee into Antonio’s side, expecting the man to get off of him. But all he heard was a chuckle.

“Good thinking, but come on! More power!” Asher let out a growl and shot up his knee once more. Antonio’s grip loosened and Asher yanked his hands back, his elbows colliding with Antonio’s head. Antonio fell backwards and Asher scrambled to his feet and this time he straddled Antonio’s hips. He landed blow after blow, feeling Antonio’s face move as his fist plummeted with Antonio’s face. He landed blow after blow, not caring about the blood coating his fists.

“Alright! S-stop mutt!” Antonio ordered. Asher ignored him. “Pedro! -fuck Pedro, get him the fuck off of me!” Pedro quickly rushed over and began trying to tear Asher off of Antonio. Two trainers came over and grabbed hold of Asher’s shoulders, dragging him backwards. Asher fought against his grip, “Let go off me you fuckers!!!” Antonio stood up and straightened out his clothes, gently brushing off the dust. He wiped the blood from his nose, “Pedro, get me the syringe.” Pedro nodded and ran out, soon returning with a syringe in his hand. The syringe was filled with some sort of clear liquid. This only made Asher struggle more, “Get that thing away from me or I swear I’ll rip your fucking head off!” Antonio chuckled, “Please, try to relax, it will only be a pinch!” Asher growled at how calm Antonio’s voice was, “Just a pinch, my ass!” Antonio chuckled, “Hm, I’ll pass on pinching your ass, mutt. Pedro, go ahead.” Asher fought more and more, “Listen! Just- just get away from me with that thing for a second!”

“Asher, darling, relax. You don't even know what it does!” Asher went to lunge at Antonio but the guards held him back, “No, but I know you! There's going to be some fucked up shit in that!”

Antonio chortled, “Mhmm, wise, very wise. Boys, come on, hold him still.”One of the guards roughly grabbed the back of Asher’s neck, making him tense up and go still, breathing uneasy. Pedro quickly stuck the syringe into Asher’s neck and gently pressed down on the plunger. Asher let out a cry as he felt the liquid travel through his veins.

Asher started to thrash until his body was suddenly starting to feel numb. He went to protest but as he went to step forward, his body sagged in the guards’ grip. Antonio stepped forward, Asher could just hear the smirk on his face which he couldn't see after his neck numbed and forced Asher to look down at the ground.

“Looks like you were wise in not trusting me, buddy.” He ruffled Asher’s hair, “This is a paralyzer, it won't last much longer but it will keep you quiet while I tell you about the rules. First of all, you need to drop that language. Rodger told me all about your cursing. But remember Danny boy, I have seen you broken. I have seen you begging on your knees in front of me.”

Asher was blinded by the anger that shot through him. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't punch him, couldn't clench his jaw, or ball his fists. He tried to growl but he couldn't. Antonio chuckled at his failed attempts, “Second of all, you will never attack me like that again. You only do so to your opponent or anyone I command you to attack. There will be punishments if you lose your match.”

Asher’s stomach churned, there he was hoping he could just not even try and make Rodger mad, but looks like that won’t be happening.

“Now, you have five more minutes left, and that should be worn off by then. Until then, sit tight.” The two other trainers dropped him to the ground and Asher fell to the ground instantly, not able to protect himself.

Antonio sat down beside him, “You know, I prefer you like this, it's a lot more… peaceful. No rage, no temper tantrums!” Asher managed to open his mouth but no words came. Antonio chortled, “You see, it's starting to wear away. Such a pity.”

After Asher could start to move his fingers, he eventually was able to sit up. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, “N’ver again.” Antonio looked at him, “What was that mutt?” Asher heaved in a breath, “Don't give me th’t again.” Antonio let out a laugh, “Are you ordering me? Anyway, it seemed to have controlled your anger! Now, we have half an hour left, let's get into proper training. Up.”

Asher rolled his eyes but quickly obeyed, holding on the wall to steady himself as his legs eventually got feeling back. They walked over to the punching bags. “Alright, pretend this is your opponent, go.” Asher pictured Rodger stupid face on that punching bag.

It went on for a while until Asher was awoken from his trance as finger clicked in front of him, “Hey! You still with me?” Asher looked back at Antonio with a confused look. “Ugh, I swear to god, you are getting on my nerves! That's the third time today!” Asher muttered an apology and went back to the punching bag.

“Jesus christ, your form is just terrible! Punch with a straight arm and punch like you mean it!” Asher was trying, he really was, but it was so hard. His body was still half numb from the paralyzer. But not his brain. Oh no no no, his brain felt like it was running on a treadmill at full speed.

He stopped punching and gave Antonio a tired look, “How much longer?” Antonio sighed and checked his watch, “Five minutes.” He looked Asher up and down and smiled, but this time, it was a nice smile, “C’mon, let’s get you a drink.”

He guided Asher over to a bench, “Stay here, I’ll be back in a second. Pedro, make sure no funny business happens, alright?” Pedro nodded and walked beside Asher, standing right by his side. They stayed there in silence until Antonio came back, paper cup in his hand, “Here ya go!”

Asher blinked multiple times and went to reach out for the cup but felt his mind get distant. He felt his eyes blur but somehow it felt… normal. His eyes focused on the wall to Antonio’s right. Antonio shoved the cup into Asher’s hand and clicked in front of Asher’s face again, making him suddenly drop his cup. He watched as the contents from the cup spilled everywhere.

His head shot up to Antonio, “I- I'm sorry!” Antonio shook his head and sighed, “Fucking hell, what’s wrong with you?! You got adhd or somethin’?!!?!” Asher gave him a confused look. “Ugh, never mind, I’ll talk to Rodger about it later. Pedro, clean up this mess! Asher, cmon, let’s get another cup.”

Asher’s heart suddenly lifted, “Th-thank you!!”

Five minutes later Rodger came back, “Antonio? What the fuck happened to you?!” Antonio chuckled, “It's alright, we all got it sorted, isn't that right, Asher?” Asher quickly nodded, making Rodger chuckle, “Wow, I haven't seen him be so quiet since… ever!” Antonio chortled and patted Asher’s back, pushing him forwards, “I’ll see him again on friday, we have a lot of work to do. Oh, and also, I’ll email his new diet, we need to get muscles on that boy! And lastly, I need to have a chat with you about something, but that can wait until Friday.”

Asher was tied to the front seat of the car and Rodger drove in silence for a while. Asher found himself nodding off and eventually let his eyes close and let his mind relax. Rodger resisted the urge to punch him and wake him with a fright. Asher looked too cute to wake up. No, not cute, relaxed…

The car pulled up outside of the house and Rodger sighed, looking at Asher once more. He quietly got out of the car and lifted Asher, carrying him inside and gently laying him down on his mattress. Rodger placed a blanket over the boy and smiled to himself, so peaceful. He slowly leaned down, swiping a strand of Asher’s hair away from his face and placed a kiss ever so lightly on his forehead, “Sleep tight my darling.”

---

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thank you for reading!!! <3

#whump #whump writing #injection #tw needles #tw drugging #paralyzed #Asher #Antonio #Rodger #Fight dog

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jmeelee · 5 years

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Derek’s not sure what’s more alarming: that he never heard footsteps on the rickety, rusted-out fire escape, or that Stiles Stilinski is lurking in his bedroom in the middle of the night.

His eyes snap open, focusing with pinpoint precision on the intruder, who reaches long, slender fingers toward the vase of drooping daffodils on his nightstand.

“What are you doing?” Derek croaks as Stiles’ hand grazes a soft yellow petal.

He whips the wandering appendage back like he’s been burned, locking startled, bloodshot brown eyes on Derek’s prone form.

“I…” Stiles stops, glances around, eyes falling back to the small, wilting bouquet, the only spot of cheery color in the dark, sparse room. “Really, dude? Flowers? You realize a few blooms won’t cover up the fact that this loft is a shithole?”

Derek sits up, cotton sheet pooling around his waist. Stiles’ eyes rake down his bare chest, a phantom caress leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Did you break in just to insult my apartment?”

“Whoa, rude. Pot, meet kettle.” Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “Besides, your window was wide open. You’re lucky it was only me.”

Derek scrubs a hand down his face. He may not know Stiles well, but he can tell when he’s stalling. “Stiles, what do you want?”

Stiles continues as if Derek never spoke. “I never pictured you as a flower guy. Did a girlfriend give you these? My mom loved daffodils. There used to be a flower sale when I was in elementary school, right around Mother’s Day, and my dad would give me money to buy her a few. I always used the spare change to buy an extra ice cream at lunch. Hate to break it to you man, but fresh air isn’t going to do these suckers any good. They’re past their prime.”

He flicks a cup-shaped corona, spraying a fine sheen of pollen into the balmy night air, and Derek lets loose a low, menacing growl. Stiles’ outstretched hand trembles slightly with his quickening heartbeat, but one deep breath pulls a blanket of composure over his fear. He turns toward the window, shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t… I… Screw this. I’m leaving.”

A hand snaps out, encircling Stiles’ wrist before he can take a step. “What’s wrong?”

The question Derek should ask is what isn’t wrong. In the past few months they’ve faced off against a darach and a nogitsune. And before that, it was a kanima and a homicidal rouge alpha. They’ve all stared hell in the face, but Derek wagers none more so than Stiles. Weakened after his split from the fox demon, Stiles is a shadow of his former frantic self. Dark circles stain the translucent skin under his eyes, and his already-skinny frame is emaciated.

Stiles’ gaze sticks fast to the vase, steady beat of his heart thumping against the pad of Derek’s thumb. “I can’t sleep. I haven’t been sleeping since…” He looks toward Derek, blinking fast. “Everytime I close my eyes, I see Allison’s face.”

Derek speaks many languages, but they all fail him in the face of Stiles’ pain. So he waits for Stiles to inevitably fill the silence, poorly attempting to convey empathy via his eyebrows. His sisters, both living and dead, always told him the expression made him look constipated, but it’s all he knows.

“I can’t go to Scott with this,” Stiles continues, as Derek knew he would. “I don’t want to hurt him—hurt anyone—more than I already have. Lydia is grieving for Aiden, Danny misses Ethan and Jackson, and Malia is… complicated. My father is worried sick and the last thing I want to do is burden him with a crazy son. Again. I don’t…” He shudders on an inhale. “It was stupid to come here, but I have nowhere else to go.”

Silence stretches between them, woeful and taut. Derek wishes, for the hundredth time in a span of seconds, that he’d inherited his mother’s soft, soothing solace, or his father’s confident gestures of comfort. At the rogue thought of his dad, Derek waves toward the sagging daffodils.

“My father was a florist.” Yeah, Derek sucks at this.

Stiles scrunches his nose. “Uh. Okay?”

He marches on. In for a penny, in for a pound. “It’s how he and my mother met. He was a human florist. Ran a shop outside of town. Floriography was his passion, and she’d heard about him, sought him out when her pack needed help with medicinal herbs. They fell in love and she turned him.”

Stiles is soaking up Derek’s tale like a dehydrated man in the desert, so he charges on. “My father had this book my mother gave him called Le Langage des Fleurs.” The French slides off Derek’s tongue like silk. “We used to read it together, but it burned up in the fire.” The with everything and everyone else remains loudly unspoken. “Daffodils symbolize rebirth and new beginnings.”

He slips from the bed, sheet falling to the floor. Thank goodness he wore boxers to bed. Gently, he moves aside the yellow flowers to reveal violet and crimson sweet pea. “These mean thankfulness. It’s a bouquet I arranged after Cora returned. There’s a bunch on her nightstand, too.”

Stiles delicately fingers the petals again. “Why are you telling me this?”

Growing up, his father had filled every room in the house with flowers. On the bad nights, when vivid nightmares rip him from sleep, he swears he can still smell petals burning. “Because, despite everything that’s happened, they help me,” Derek explains. “Flowers make me feel closer to my family, let me express what I’m feeling.”

“I have noticed you’re really bad at that, dude.”

Derek glares. “The point is, you’ve got to find what helps you.” Derek realizes he’s still loosely holding Stiles’ wrist, and quickly drops his hand. Luckily, the awkwardness is broken by the sudden loud complaint of Stiles’ empty stomach.

Stiles laughs, and Derek’s heart breaks a little when he realizes it’s been months since he’s heard the sound. He wraps it around himself like a garland. “Food would help,” Stiles declares.

Derek bends down, grabs a pair of sweatpants off the floor. Stiles mummers something about underwear models under his breath, and Derek flips him off over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s raid the fridge. Cora just went grocery shopping.”

----------

“Derek. Care to explain why I found Stilinski in our pantry this morning, eating Nutella straight from the jar?” Cora crosses her arms over her chest, menacing despite her striped pajamas and bed head.

Derek scowls, bracing for a fight. “He’s struggling, Cora. He didn’t want to be alone, so I told him he could crash on the couch last night. I’ll buy you a new jar next time I’m at Costco.”

She hums, crossing her ankles on top of the coffee table, painted toes almost touching a vase of stargazer lilies. “This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?”

“No.” Derek nips the insinuation in the bud.

It totally becomes a thing.

———-

Derek stills when he enters his room and finds Stiles sitting cross-legged on his bed. He can feel his hackles instinctively rise at the invasion of his personal space, Stiles’ scent already seeping into the mattress. His gym bag thumps to the hardwood floor.

“What do these mean?” Stiles questions, pointing to the fresh purple and white flowers.

“Lavender has lots of meanings, but it’s a healing plant. People have used it for centuries; it calms you down and helps you sleep.” Derek points first to the purple florets on the long, skinny stem, then to the white flowers on the thick green stalks. “And Heather is for luck, protection and making wishes come true.”

“Heather,” Stiles whispers, small smile quickly overtaken by a frown carving deep lines around his generous mouth. He shakes his head like a wet dog, dislodging whatever morose memories have tried to take hold. “So, want to watch a movie or something?”

Derek whips off his white tank top and tosses it in the general direction of the hamper. Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Sure, but I’ve got to shower first. Here,” he chucks his cellphone into Stiles’ lap. “Order us some pizzas, I’m starving.” He heads for the door, speaking over his shoulder. “Get me ham and pineapple.”

“Gross dude!” Stiles yells at his retreating back.

———-

Week three brings horehound and azalea, and a trial run of Claudia Stilinski’s chocolate chip cookie recipe. Derek, Stiles and Cora eat twenty-four cookies between them.

Week four is gardenia, morning glory and blue salvia, and Cora’s thoughtful, “He’s better, more rested. He’s thriving. Don’t you think?”

———

“What was that book called? The one your dad read to you?” Stiles is contemplating camellia, eyebrows drawn.

“Le Langage des Fleurs. The Language of Flowers. He had a first edition from 1819, and handled it like he was holding a newborn.” Derek chuckles, remembering his father’s gentle hands, the memory crisp and sweet as an apple blossom in his mind. “He was ridiculous.”

Two weeks later Derek comes home to hydrangeas, the fading scent of Stiles, and a copy of Le Langage des Fleurs lying on his desk. He picks it up, runs a finger down the spine, and his father bursts into technicolor life before his eyes. It’s not a first edition, but to Derek, it’s priceless.

———

A war rages between Derek’s head and heart, as Stiles peacefully sleeps, belting out an occasional snore and drooling on Derek’s favorite pillow.

It’s your own damn bed. Get in.

You can’t. Not without his permission. Wake him up and tell him to get his ass to the couch.

It’s only sleeping. He won’t mind.

His father might be wondering where he is. Don’t worry the Sheriff or you’ll end up arrested. Again.

“Damnit,” Derek whispers, and crawls into bed, lying down next to Stiles on top of the blankets. As far as truces go, it’s pretty weak.

The movement, though careful, wakes Stiles, and he rolls toward Derek, blinking. “You’re warm,” Stiles mumbles. “Stay.”

Derek does.

_______

“I’m planning on visiting the cemetery Saturday morning,” Derek broaches. “I usually bring some flowers for the graves.” A pregnant pause. “I could gather some for you to take, if you want to come along.”

———

They stop first at Derek’s family plot, and Stiles helps him tend to the zinnias Derek planted around the graves when he first returned to Beacon Hills.

“Ready?” Derek squints in the bright morning light at Stiles’ shadowed face.

A sigh. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Allison’s tombstone is shiny and summer-warm, and Stiles tenderly lays a spray of willow, asphodel lily and wormwood at the base. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. Tears track down Stiles’ cheeks, but he doesn’t swipe them away, letting them evaporate in the sun, leaving behind a tang of salt Derek can taste in the air. “I’m so sorry.”

An entirely different Stiles walks back to the Camaro, a familiar one. The effortless, supernatural confidence of the nogitsune and the quiet, sad stillness of grieving are shed with each step, a much-needed abscission. Rosy cheeks replace a pallid parlor, and fidgety fingers dance along the tops of headstones they pass. The return to normalcy rattles loose a content noise from Derek’s chest.

“What is it, big guy?”

“You’re kind of like a flower, ya know,” Derek replies, before he can internally talk himself out of the confession.

The corners of Stiles’ mouth gradually rise. “If you mean I’m beautiful and smell fantastic, yes, I did know.”

Derek punches him lightly in the arm, and Stiles reels away with a dramatic flailing of limbs. “Some flowers come back year after year, after being buried under snow and ice, and they’re stronger than ever. Take a lotus, for example. It grows in the darkness and mud, but when it reaches the light…” Derek finishes his statement in reverent hush. “It becomes something exquisite.”

“So you’re saying I’m resilient?” Stiles playfully rubs the spot where Derek hit him, but his gaze is shy and tender. Derek refuses to cultivate the seeds that look plants inside his heart, desperately pruning the roots already wrapping around his ribs. “A rose grown in a concrete garden?”

“I’m saying you’re a weed and I can’t get rid of you.”

In slow motion, Stiles reaches out, twines their fingers together like creeping vines, and squeezes once. “I don’t think you want to get rid of me, Derek Hale.”

His mother raised him not to lie, so Derek keeps his mouth shut.

———

He’s roused by the creaking of his bedroom door and Stiles’ shuffling feet. They’d given him a key three weeks ago, when the midnight visits petered off and Stiles started knocking on the front door—in the daylight—like a normal person.

“What time is it?” Derek slurs, fumbling for his phone.

“Three a.m.,” Stiles whispers.

The return to nocturnal visits can’t mean anything good. Derek sits up. “Nightmares?”

Stiles stands at the foot of the bed, worrying the hem of his Lacrosse sweatshirt. “No,” he answers, voice husky. “I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks.”

“Okay. Good.” Stiles shuffles from foot to foot. “Is something… What do you need?” Honeysuckle, wisteria and coriander tickle Derek’s nose.

“You.”

Derek doesn’t hesitate, lifting up the sheets in invitation. “Come on in.”

“Yeah, no.” Stiles shakes his head, eyes bambi-wide. “See, I’m not looking for comfort tonight.”

Derek’s heartbeat trips over itself. He clears his throat, never lowering the blankets. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m shit at comfort anyway.”

“Liar liar, pants on fire,” Stiles whispers, and climbs into bed. Then, “Oh! Look at that. You’re not wearing any pants.”

———-

The doorbell rings at dinnertime, and Derek yells for Stiles to enter, but he remains planted on the hallway doormat, galloping heartbeat beckoning Derek like a siren song.

Derek slides the loft door along the track. “You can come in. You have a key for god’s s—”

The bouquet is bigger than Stiles’ head, bursting with red tulips and yarrow, jonquil and plumeria. Smack in the center is a monstrous sunflower.

“I read the book—well, an English version—before I gave it to you. I hope I didn’t screw this up.” He holds the flowers out to Derek.

Derek accepts them, cradling them to his chest. He plucks out a butter-yellow jonquil, gently offering it back to Stiles with his right hand.

To an outsider, Stiles’ rampant ramblings and Derek’s severe allergy to words would render them incompatible, but Stiles’ smile is so bright it could sustain an entire garden, and Derek knows they’re finally speaking the same language.

“I’m just as much of a mess as you are, Stiles,” Derek warns. “You need healthy soil to grow, and we’re both still healing. Maybe we’ll always be healing. Trees don’t bear fruit on demand.”

Stiles rubs at the back of his neck. “True. But, think about it. All we can do is create the best possible conditions, feed and water the right seeds. I trust nature to take care of the rest. But the parts we have control over? We’ll work on those together.”

Derek grins, and the future unfurls before them, full of potential. He steps back, and Stiles crosses the threshold.

“Together,” Derek agrees. Together.

#sterek #eternalsterek #haleinski #sterekbingo2019 #sbflowers #sterekbingo

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