#but are open gaping wounds when they’re together

[supjello]

I have to REALLY ration out my aubreyad audiobook listening sessions bc without fail I get like 5 minutes in and start pacing and feeling insane

#dil :((( #and I have SO many thoughts about diana and stephen #and JACK #I want to point out and ramble about specifics but I would just end up reciting word for word every conversation and thought that happened #my heart breaks for stephen though. more and more. #this proposal was just. argh. #fuck #him being like i’m painfully aware that im ugly! i know i don’t have the kind of money you want!! #I know people don’t like my person! my birth! my religion! #but I AM offering you happiness! #(which isn’t enough. and he knew that) #(even though he genuinely doesn’t want to cage her in any way. every though she’s so unhappy with the choices she’s made.) #(even though they both find so much life within each other.) #(and so much SUFFERING being apart) #arrrghHhHgHgHh #and it’s so painful to see stephen (who normally doesn’t give a SHIT what other people think or say about him and his appearance) #be so vulnerable and self conscious when confronted by her #I love diana don’t get me wrong #it’s just so interesting to me how they appear so strong when separated #but are open gaping wounds when they’re together #but again. they’re so happy in each others company #and so miserable apart #what a MESS #diana telling stephen he should have married sophie… #when he specifically encouraged sophie and jack’s engagement so that he could be closer with diana…. #paaaaaaaaainnnnnn #sufferinggggggg

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 42

Part 1 Part 41

Steve doesn’t realize they’re not heading toward the Munson’s trailer until they pass the gaudy Loch Nora sign.

Despite what he’d argued, he’s tired – zoning in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. He can still hear the voices bouncing off the lockers in the hallway, echoing after the strange solitude of the Upside-Down. And then the hospital. And then the Munson’s trailer.

His gut writhes as Eddie pulls into his winding driveway, putting the van in park with a world-weary sigh. His bimmer is still parked in the driveway, dusted with fallen leaves slowly turning to mulch on his windshield.

The house looms dark and empty. Just like the last time he’d been here; a mad dash from the Demogorgon. Alone. 

Steve Harrington is always alone.

“What are we doing here?” he asks.

Eddie, having already opened his door and gotten halfway up and out of the van, levers his whole body back into his seat and closes the door behind him.

Eddie looks over at Steve. Steve doesn’t look back. 

“We don’t have to go in.”

Steve sighs, running his hand over his head again, pushing hair back out of his face that he no longer has.

“What are we doing here, man?” he repeats, soul gaping, eyes dead.

Eddie sighs. “I thought you might like some of your stuff.”

Steve looks up at the looming specter of his childhood home. The windows are as dark as they always are. “And then we’re going back to yours?” Steve asks, scratching the back of his head, trying for nonchalance he’s not sure he ever pulled off in Eddie Munson’s presence. 

When he glances over at Eddie, he’s looking up at the house, eyes focused on the dark front windows, porch light off, curtains drawn. His eyebrows are pinched together. Steve wants to smooth it out with a thumb. Doesn’t.

What does he see? Classmates and teachers alike always see it as a blessing – big house, no parents. Eddie’s not like anyone else he’s ever met.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless, looking up at the second floor like it’s haunted. “You hate this house.”

The thing is, Steve does. Always has, since he was small, tottering around after a physically present Mother, but feeling the absence like a wound. 

He saw that wound reflected back at him from Tommy and Carol, dogs  begging for scraps of love.

Maybe it’s in Eddie as well.

Steve gets out of the van, Eddie following his lead, walking at his side close enough that their elbows brush. He digs the hid-a-key out of the bush in the planter by the front door.

“Dude, rich people are so easy to rob,” Eddie says, looking around like he’s casing the joint.

Steve snorts, slotting the key in the lock, turning it left and pushing the door open. The sound rings hollow, like the mouth of a cave swallowing them.

Steve leads the way inside.

Eddie follows him up to his bedroom, grabs his backpack off the where he’d ditched it that last day. Steve grabs his duffel bag from the closet and stuffs clothes in at random. 

Steve grabs the teddy bear off his bed. Tommy had won it for him from a claw machine on his last birthday. It was sky blue and soft. He couldn’t leave it behind, no matter what Munson said.

But he didn’t say anything at all, just stands there patiently as Steve looks around his bedroom, a pit sinking deep at how little he’s taking. How little there is that he wants at all.

He swings the bag across his shoulders, clutches the bear to his chest and walks back down the stairs at a brisk pace, Eddie trotting along at his heels.

On instinct, Steve heads to the pristine kitchen. There’s a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet, a handful of twenties stuck behind it. 

They’d come and gone, and hadn’t noticed he was gone at all. 

Steve plucks the note from the fridge, letting the twenties flutter to the ground, the magnet clattering on the pile loudly. Eddie bends down to gather them up as Steve reads:

Steven,

Your Father and I are off to Berlin, and will be gone for three weeks.

You’re on thin ice with your Father. We were both very disappointed by the state you left the house in. We expect better from you.

It’s left unsigned.

Eddie rips the note out of his hands and shoves it in his mouth, chewing. Steve stares, transfixed as Eddie chews and chews. 

Grimacing around the mouthful, he says, “I don’t know why I thought this would work.” It’s muffled and warbling around the masticated paper on his tongue.

Steve bursts out laughing, watching as Eddie runs to the sink and scrapes the paper mache monstrosity off of his tongue.

“What the fuck?” Steve says, still laughing.

Eddie shoves his mouth over the faucet, lets the water pour onto his tongue messily and dribbles back out.

“10/10, do not recommend,” he says, voice muffled as he scrapes his tongue off with his fingers. “That tasted disgusting, dude!”

There’s something light and airy bursting from him, like the first rays of sun cutting through the darkness. No one’s ever been willing to make a fool of themselves to cheer Steve up. But the bashful slant of Eddie’s smile tells Steve exactly why this newest bit came about.

“You’re such a fucking freak,” he says, fondness leaking out at every seam. 

He wants to hug Eddie, so he does. His arms slot perfectly around Eddie’s waist, pulling the other boy in. He freezes for a moment before wrapping his own arms around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him in tightly. Eddie’s fly-away hair tickles Steve’s nose.

Eddie’s digging his nose into Steve’s shoulder like he’s trying to make a home in there, whiskers scratchy, lips wet. Steve sinks in, breath shuddering out as Eddie takes more and more of his weight.

They stand, wrapped up in each other in Steve’s endlessly quiet kitchen. Together.

Steve Harrington is not alone. And when Eddie asks, “ready to go, sweetheart?” he nods, disentangling reluctantly from Eddie’s arms.

And when they drive back out onto the road from his long, winding driveway, Steve doesn’t look back.

Part 43

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic

[tourettesdog]

DP x DC prompt where Danny is a young adult living in Gotham.

He's 24 and has been Ghost King since turning 18. Danny has been estranged from his parents ever since he destroyed their portal. It was his first act as king.

Danny shares an apartment with Sam and Tucker. Sam works with nonprofits in the city, while Tucker gets involved in WE with his genius programming skills.

Danny makes ice sculptures and sells them around Gotham for fun. He sometimes helps out with crime when he thinks he can do it quietly, but otherwise Danny lets Batman and the police handle it. He has enough work to do in the Ghost Zone as it is.

In his free time Danny likes to explore the Ghost Zone. He’s long-since given up dreams of exploring space. Danny can always fly to space if he wants to, but being able to rip open a portal to the Infinite Realms offers even more exploration opportunities than his child self could have dreamed of.

It’s during one of these explorations into the Ghost Zone that Danny finds a teenager sitting on a floating island. Danny rushes over to investigate, noticing that the kid looks very much alive, but as he draws near the kid’s arm turns invisible and he begins to panic.

Danny quickly realizes he’s faced with another halfa. The kid is a wreck. He looks barely older than Danny was when he died-- hell, he even looks like him with his black hair (with a shock of white) and blue eyes. It’s like looking into a mirror for Danny, and he immediately decides to take the kid under his wing.

It’s slow going at first. The kid, Jason, doesn’t remember much of his life, let alone his death. He’s scared and confused, with far too many questions. It takes Danny showing him his human form for Jason to trust Danny enough to go with him.

Danny takes Jason back to the apartment and introduces him to Sam and Tucker. They don’t pester him for answers, and instead jump at the chance to answer any questions Jason has. They help him understand his situation and learn about his new powers.

Over the next year, Jason becomes their kid. The trio homeschool him, with some help from several of the ghosts in in the GZ. They offer to help Jason figure out who he was, but he asks them not to. All Jason can remember of his death is that it was very violent and he’s hesitant to fill those memories in.

If Jason ever remembers more than that, he doesn’t tell them.

Jason’s a handful, but he’s their handful. He spends a lot of his time in the Ghost Zone (annoying Danny’s ghost friends, his adopted aunts and uncles) while they’re at work. Whenever Dani’s in town, the two are a force to be reckoned with.

Danny spends a lot of time visiting WE to annoy Tucker. He also becomes somewhat well known around town for his little ice sculptures. More than once, Danny finds himself in the accidental company of Bruce Wayne.

Bruce is curious about the strange young man. He has a lot of scars, and Bruce can’t make heads or tails of the strange ice he sells. He starts talking to him-- Danny-- to try and figure out if he’s a meta and/or potentially dangerous.

What Bruce figures out instead is that the kid is surprisingly quick-witted and funny. He’s also apparently a dad, raising a kid with his partners. Bruce still suspects that Danny might secretly be a meta, but he develops a pleasant rapport with him. They commiserate together about raising kids over coffee. Two unlikely friends.

Danny never mention’s Jason’s name. He has about a hundred nicknames for the kid and often calls him Magpie (partly due to his black and white hair, and partly due to his habit of bringing home random shit from the Ghost Zone). He’s very wary of using the kid’s real name around Gotham, in any case. They try to keep a low profile where Jason is concerned.

Bruce also never mentions Jason. His loss is still too much of a gaping wound and he doesn’t want to unload that on his young friend, let alone wallow in those memories.

One day Danny is wandering Gotham with Jason in tow, running some errands. They stop by WE to drop something off for Tucker and he spots Bruce. Danny decides it’s about time he introduced his kid to the man.  

Time seems to stop when Jason and Bruce lock eyes.

#dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #danny phantom #dp #prompt #dpxdc #dogposts #ficlet #dp fanfic #everlasting trio #dogprompts

[iluvnewports]

Canary

An AU one-shot of Butcher from The Boys where years after Becca dies, he finds himself fighting his feelings for you and finally gives in. + fluff & angst

minors dni

—

“You were always like my canary, I suppose.” Butcher breathes out painfully as he looks over to you across the console. “I knew when I couldn’t hear you anymore I had gone too deep.”

You have half a mind to slap him upside his head, gripping his stupid beach shirt by its collar to hoist him up from leaning against the door. “Stop talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re fucking dying.” You place both your hands back on the wheel, making a sharp turn that makes Butcher groan. “You’re going to be fine.” You look over to his blood-soaked pants and his bloodied hands atop it.

“Keep your fucking hands on it, Butcher, Christ.” You look between his hands and the road. You knew it was only a matter of time until his luck ran out and something didn’t go his way. You’re the most wanted criminals in the country for fucks sake, it was only a matter of time. Everyone wants your head.

“Oi, stop fucking shouting, they didn’t shoot my ears out.” Butcher barks at you as you make another hasty turn which causes yet another groan. Serves him right, snapping at you like that, all when you only care about his well-being.

“Just shut up.” You slam on the brakes a little harsher than you should’ve so he lunges forward a little with a pained groan. Pulled up next to the curb, you hastily unbuckle your seatbelt, turning to look at Butcher who’s already staring daggers at you.

“Can’t even let a tender moment stop you from being a cunt, can ya?”

You smile, one corner tugging up further than the other. “There he is.”

You move around to the other side of the car and help the injured man out, escorting him down the steps as he wobbles on his hurt leg. You kick open the door swiftly, though it’s not anything impressive as it is more of a small nudge, heads turning as you two sleuth into the dingy basement.

“Jesus Christ, Butcher!” M.M jumps up from his seat as Hughie looks around panicked, unsure what to do he stands up and grabs the back of his head, mouth hanging open as he stutters.

Kimiko’s brows raise as Frenchie mutters a curse, everyone rushing to their feet to help guide Butcher to the table. He’s practically pulled from your arms and you feel a bit defensive at this, furrowing your brows as you almost pull him straight back into your grip. It’s as if he isn’t as safe unless he’s in your hands.

“What happened?”

“Vought happened.” You murmur, helping Butcher sit down in the chair, his pained groans not particularly worrisome to you until now. You grab his shoulder in comfort, watching as M.M assesses his leg.

“Butcher the bullet is still in there, there’s no exit wound.” He props his leg on another chair, cutting the fabric of his pants around the wound. Blood pools around the wound, his leg hair around it turning slick and red as flesh pokes out around the bullet wound, crimson red flesh peeling like a lotus flower around the gaping hole.

“So, what, you’re going to dig into his leg?” Hughie looks as if he’s breaking out in a cold sweat as he swallows dryly, his voice becoming high-pitched with worry.

“What the hell you want me to do, huh?” M.M raises his arms in question before pointing back to Butcher’s leg. “Just leave it in there?”

“I don’t know—! Shouldn’t we get him to a hospital?”

“No!” You, M.M, Frenchie, and Butcher all say in unison.

“Hughie, go find your nuts, they’re probably hidden beneath your twat, and fuck off,” Butcher says roughly, head thrown back as he winces. M.M is quick to sterilize a pair of forceps, pulling around his spinning chair. He pours alcohol on his leg without warning, causing Butcher to grit his teeth and wail out a “Fuck!”

You grab his hand, your palms clasping together with a squeeze as you cling to his arm as if you’re the one getting a bullet dug out of you. You rub his shoulder gently as your other hand clasps his, watching as M.M digs the forceps into his leg, causing Butcher to jerk and startle. Frenchie grabs his other side, trying to keep him still.

“Be still, Mon Ami.” Frenchie says as delicately as always.

“You wanna swap fucking seats then?” Butcher snaps. He’s always so curt, so rude, and you all just withstand it. Because, hey: that’s just Butcher.

You give his hand a squeeze, signaling him to ease up a little. He only grunts, shooting you a look. He doesn’t say anything, though. M.M continues digging around, tongs deep in his leg as the handle sits at an awkward angle.

“I found it.” He murmurs, squinting his eyes as he pushes the two handles together with a tugging motion.

“Fucking hell!” Butcher curses as his head falls backward, hair falling into his face as sweat beads his chest, which you can see since his top two buttons were popped off. Eyebrows pulled together and eyelids crinkled close, you allow your eyes to wander down his glimmering chest. His pecs are large, which you’ve always loved in a man, even the harsh lamp light making his skin look appealing. He’s just so… rough. In a good way. His body carries stories, tales of the past, tales of how hard his life has been and what he’s carried, what he’s endured.

M.M gives another harsh tug to no avail, causing Butcher to curse again. “Just fucking pull it out!” You yell, feeling nauseated. Not because of the scene, but because it’s him.

“I’m fucking trying, Jesus!” M.M snaps at you, whipping his head up to meet your eyes. “Do you want to try? Since you’re such an expert all of a sudden.”

“I’m just saying—!”

“For fucks sake don’t yell at her.” Butcher defends, which causes M.M to quiet down. Your eyes snap to him, unsure how you feel about it all. He’s always been a bit… defensive over you? It makes you feel almost embarrassed like you can’t handle yourself.

M.M is quiet for a moment as Butcher groans more, shrugging Frenchie off of him with a small “fuck off,” as he stares down the barrel of his leg as M.M grips the handles and slowly pulls out of the wound, presenting a bullet dripping in gore, clanging against the metallic dish he throws it into. The blood flows off the bullet, saline becoming pink as crimson floats upwards in a somewhat beautiful pattern.

M.M is quick to grab his needle and suture as he begins stitching the wound up, murmuring something under his breath as Butcher tilts his head back to look up into your eyes, hazel as beautiful as any moss-covered tree. You feel a chill at your side as your heart warms under his gaze. It’s not completely foreign to you but this time, it’s more intense.

You both pull your hands apart slowly, your touch lingering longer than necessary. You lift your head, noticing M.M looks at your hands and back up to you. He says nothing, shooting a look you can’t exactly decipher, shooting Butcher a look.

Butcher, never one to be the silent type, also says nothing.

“You’re gonna be sore, but you’ll live.” M.M breathes out a murmur, wrapping up his tools into a cloth before discarding the bloodied gauze.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

—

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” Butcher slices his hand through the air firmly, tilting his head and raising his brows as he nods in confirmation. “Right.”

“Butcher, Jesus, it’s just a few days, stop being such a baby.” You collapse onto the dirty couch and tuck your legs beneath you as you curl into the corner. You pat the cushion next to you. “C’mon. That old Translucent movie is up next…” You trail off with a smile. Butcher wobbles closer, groaning as he rolls his eyes.

“I’m glad the old cunt died before he could make a sequel.” Butcher stands nearby, watching the TV. “I feel fine, it don’t even hurt.”

“You’re wobbling, you can hardly walk.” You pat the cushion again, though harsher this time. “C’mon, sit. Even super badass wanted criminals need a day off.”

Butcher groans but eventually walks over and sits beside you, maybe just a few inches away, your legs almost touching. He puts his arm up to rest on the back of the couch almost wrapping around you. The silence is comfortable, endearing.

You turn your head to look at Butcher some minutes into the movie and you can tell he’s deep within his thoughts. A dark place, one you know too well. So you shift your whole body, turning to him as you rest your chin on your arms which rest on the tops of your legs. “Do you remember when we first met?” You ask with a smile.

Butcher leans his head back onto the couch, turning to you with a half-tilted grin. “Like it was yesterday, sweetheart.”

“I really didn’t like you, you know.” You smile softly, looking behind him as you think. “Which is so weird because you’re just so likable.”

Butcher chuckles. “Like you’re some dainty flower yourself?” He scoffs in humor. “Right bloody nerve you must’ve had, throwing a drink in my face. That’s how I knew you had balls.”

“A compliment? Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” You bring the back of your hand to his forehead as if feeling for a fever.

“Oh piss off.” He waves you away, humor laced in his tone even if he doesn’t smile. You laugh and your hand falls to his shoulder, remaining there as you look at one another.

In an instant, all in one fluid motion, grabs you by the back of your head, pulling you into him as he angrily devours you, kissing you harshly as he grips your hair, fingers tangling into your hair as he pushes them along your scalp. His other hand moves to the small of your back as he pulls you into him, still sitting side by side as you kiss.

He bites your lower lip harshly, almost harsh enough to make you bleed, soothing it with the lapping of his tongue before moving to your top lip, moving between the two repeatedly. He’s dominating you already, pulling at you as if he needs you. You couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to. You can feel your lower stomach aching, pulsating for more as warmth bubbles in your abdomen.

He pulls away, breathing heavily as his focus moves across your face. You are beautiful, beyond beautiful, in every state he’s ever seen you. Dirty and tired, bright and happy, pissed off. “I ever tell you how knock-dead you are?”

You get what he’s saying, blushing, but you shrug it off. “You know nobody ever understands what you’re saying.”

He pulls you in closer so you’re flush against his side, holding the back of your neck as he buries his face into the side of it, kissing and nipping at you until he licks up to your ear. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

Your face burns as you chew on your inner cheek. You don’t know what to do with yourself, especially when someone compliments you. And Butcher of all people feels so unfamiliar. You let your head fall to the other side, eyes fluttering close as he licks up your neck and nibbles your ear.

Butcher pulls back and shifts himself so he’s between your legs though not putting his weight on you as he drags his hands from your neck all the way down to the waist of your pants, pausing as he looks up to you. “May I?”

You nod, though a bit hesitant. He immediately removes his hands, backing up a bit. “Are you uncomfortable?” His tone is gentle, something you don’t see often.

“No!” You’re quick to exclaim, shaking your head. “No, no. I want to.”

Butcher smiles cockily, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. “Say it.”

You look at him with furrowed brows in confusion, which he immediately picks up on as he pushes himself back between your legs and leans forward into your lips. “I want you to tell me what you want.” He whispers.

You hesitate, breathing out slowly in embarrassment. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Of course, I will, sweetheart.” He breathes against you as he’s quick to pop the button of your jeans and strip them down your legs so you’re left in your thin cotton underwear. He backs away, looking down at your slightly parted legs, and dives his large, warm hands down between your thighs to spread them wider, craning his neck to the side as he examines you. You sink in on yourself, blushing, the cushion beneath your bare ass is scratchy and you sort of feel bad knowing this is where your friends sit.

You’re wet, leaving a damp spot right center of your underwear. He runs a thumb down over it, making you jerk slightly as he chuckles to himself. “Don’t be shy.” He looks to you as he hooks a finger into your underwear from the side, pulling it away to reveal your glistening slit.

He looks in awe as he stares at you, his lips parting slightly as he absorbs such beauty. He feels hypnotized, wanting nothing more than to fall to his knees and please you for hours until you’re screaming and raw just so he can worship you and his tongue can memorize you, every crevice and curve.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip as he dips his head down and you can’t help it, “What’re you doing?”

“How do you mean?” He looks up at you confused.

“I thought we were just gonna…” You trail off.

Butcher shakes his head slowly, looking at you as if you were crazy. “I’ve been fantasizing this a long time, love.” Truth be told, it gets him off just thinking about making you cum with nothing in return. “And all I really want is your thighs wrapped around my head until you’re hoarse.”

You almost gasp at his forwardness, though you’re not sure what you expected; it’s Butcher, after all. Even his soft side isn’t very soft. You feel a pit in your stomach, you’re sort of scared. What if it’s bad? And then you’ll have to face him, forced to live with him in this shitty basement, knowing that he doesn't particularly know his way around a pussy, despite most of his vocabulary consisting of ‘cunt’ and ‘twat’.

His finger curiously runs up your slit and you shudder, tucking your lips together as you try and quiet yourself. Butcher yanks at your legs so you’re now flat on your back, head resting on the couch as he displays his wet finger with some sort of pride, glistening in the light before pushing them past your lips and pressing down on your tongue. You suck on his finger slowly, a groan falling from his parted lips as he watches you intently.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, pulling the finger from your mouth and grabbing your chin so you’re forced to look up at him. He leans down to kiss you, grinding against you and you can feel the hardness of his bulge against your cotton underwear.

His finger slips down and rubs circles around your clit as he kisses your open, moaning mouth. Your eyes pinch close in agony at the slowness of it all, feeling the way he wants to draw out each and every second of pleasing you. “Look at me darling, come on.” You open your eyes to see him watching you intently. “That’s it, good girl.”

Butcher slips his fingers down your slit and teases your entrance, causing you to gasp slightly, which he reacts to by letting out a deep breath before kissing you deeply again. His touch leaves you needing more and every sense hones in on it as your back arches off of the couch as he slowly draws moans out of you.

As he pushes in and out slowly, he pushes down on your hips with his other hand, ensuring your stillness for him as he works you over and over. Your underwear begins to chafe slightly as you let out a light moan, looking down between the two of you. Lowering his head down between your propped legs, he kisses between your thighs, and his beard scratches against your skin lightly, almost drawing a small smile from you.

He hums into your thigh before dragging his other hand to scoop beneath your thigh, giving you a warm squeeze, fingers spread across your skin. As he kisses down, he begins leaving sloppy kisses that leave your skin wet, nipping you on the way, breathing heavily against you, ready to burst. His head dips down further, though slowly, teasing you as you buck your hips further.

Eventually making contact, his fingers stall as his tongue swipes up your cunt in a long stride before pulling away and savoring the way you taste on his tongue. He chuckles to himself as your hips jolt, going back down to lick up you again, his large, flat tongue trailing slowly as he runs circles on your clit. You gasp out, sitting up halfway and leaning back on your elbows as you look down at him working wonders on your pussy. His hand shoots up to rest on your stomach, pushing you back down onto your back.

His fingers pick back up again, curling up into you as he sucks on your clit, lapping circles against you as you breathe out a string of moans. Butcher grabs the bottoms of your thighs as he pushes your knee back into your face, exposing you further to him, digging nails into your flesh. As you moan again, he moans against you, causing your sensitive skin to vibrate as you dampen his beard. He devours you as you secrete onto his tongue and he finds you oh so sweet.

Your fingers push into his thick dark hair as you pull at him, wanting him closer and closer to you as he curls into your g-spot. Your back arches, one hand moving down to feel his jaw and the way it stretches to mold around you perfectly, moving up and down to lick you raw. Your moans turn into pants as your chest heaves up and down, every movement of his fingers and tongue pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

He notices this, keeping his fingerwork consistent as he pulls his mouth away, wanting nothing more than to watch you fall apart in front of him as he watches.

“That’s it,” he praises, leaning above you as your face contorts in delight, eyelids falling gently as you breathe deeply. “Just like that, gorgeous.”

His praise pushes you over the edge as the bubble in your lower stomach bursts and you’re riding the high of your orgasm, jerking your hips so you’re essentially riding out the high atop his fingers. It’s a good thing he’s as strong as he is, otherwise, you might feel self-conscious.

Butcher plants soft kisses along your collarbone as you heave out another string of moans, coming to the conclusion of your climax as your head spins in a blur. This doesn’t stop the pumping of his fingers, though, the overstimulation of it all causing you to jerk, your eyes flying open as you smack at his shoulder with a cry. “Billy!”

His fingers stall, not yet pulling out, and you almost gasp thinking you went too far, wanting to kick yourself for ruining the moment. You can’t read his face and you’re half-expecting him to curse you as he pulls out of you, leaving you alone and half-naked on the couch.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes forward as he kisses you deeply, passionately, hand cradling your face as he breathes against you, noses touching as he looks down into your eyes. He pulls his fingers between you too, your sweet slick coating his fingers thickly as he inserts them into his mouth to lick them clean.

You can smell yourself on his breath and you push him back, two hands on his chest as you sit up, pushing him down into the couch. You claw at his shirt, ripping it open with such ferocity and desperation that it rips completely, buttons flying off and clanging to the ground. His chest, god how you could stare at it all day, your hands coming up to scoop and grab at his pecs as you dive down to kiss his neck. You can’t get enough of him, quickly diving your head down to kiss his chest as you lick down his torso, leaving wet kisses behind, biting at him. You bring your head back up and kiss along his pecs, close to his nipple, before you’re stopped by a hand laced in your hair, pulling you backward.

Face to face with Butcher, his hand wraps around your cheeks as he squishes your face slightly, chuckling lowly with a head shake. “That’s not how things are gonna play out sweetheart.”

In one fluid movement, he throws you onto your back, towering over you menacingly as he grabs at your throat. “I ain’t half the bitch you must be used to.”

Your pussy clenches at his alpha-male-esque as he shrugs off his ripped button-down, diving down to kiss you as you hungrily kiss back. Attempting to pull your own shirt off your head, he settles to rip your shirt as well, ripping the collar apart as you gasp a startled laugh into his mouth. “This is my favorite shirt, you know.”

“Oh I know love, and you look lovely in it.” Rip. “But you look a lot better out of it.” Riiiiiip. He pulls the loose, torn fabric from beneath you, discarding it on the floor. You sigh slightly, though humorously.

“You rip mine I rip yours.” He shrugs, dipping back and kissing you as he claws at your back with dull nails, unhooking your bra and pulling it off your arms as he goes down to kiss your chest, all the while he unbuckles his belt to give himself a bit of relief from the hardness within his jeans.

Licking down between the valley of your breasts, Butcher pinches your nipple and rolls it between his rough fingers as he nips at you. You arch your back in delight, gasping at the sensation as he takes your other breast in his warm mouth, flicking his tongue over your nipple before sucking on your breast, now rubbing his hand up and down your bare torso.

Your fingers knit in his hair as you throw your head back in a moan. “Fuck, Butcher.” You’re sure not to push your luck by calling him Billy again, which he’s always hated from us for some reason.

Your body breaks out in chills as his fingers lightly graze your skin, clearly more focused on pleasing you than himself. After giving your nipple a nip, which causes you to jump, you push at him and he hovers over you, lips parted as he adjusts himself in his pants. “Tell me you want it.” He groans.

“I want it. You.” His head tilts to the side. Not good enough.

“I want you to fuck me.” You groan in need to which he nods, unbuttoning his pants as he dives his hand down into the front of his jeans.

Pulling himself out, fuck he’s huge, you feel intimidated as he aligns himself with your entrance, running his large tip along your slit which causes you to shiver. Fuck. Your legs are already shaking.

Butcher places a hand on your lower stomach, rubbing slowly. “Relax.” He purrs, tugging at his cock so precut beads over the top. “You’re okay.”

You nod as you take a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he pushes his tip within your entrance, the sudden fullness causing you to gasp as he stretches you out to fit himself snuggly within you. You whine aloud at the sting, shaking your head. “I don’t think it’s gonna—“

“We’ll make it fit.” He whispers a coo, pushing himself in slowly with a slow sway of the hips, moving back and forth in rhythm with what length he’s already accomplished.

You nod, eyes crinkling shut as you push past the burning sensation. It’s odd—it hurts, yet feels so good. Your pussy throbs, a deep ache you never knew had become prevalent, a hunger deep within you igniting as you wish you could swallow him whole. He continues to thrust deeper, laying forward as his chest meets yours, kissing you passionately as he rocks into you, inch by inch stretching your cunt so you’re personally molded for him. He groans into your ear which breaks your skin out into chills, cursing under his breath as he buries his face into your neck, two hands gripping your ass to spread you apart for him and his liking.

His cock hits the sweet spot as he rocks fully into you in a primal need, picking up his pace as he pushes himself above and hikes up your leg against his side, arm scooping beneath to hold it there as he slows himself to a painful pace, cocking his head to look down at your glistening face, sweat beading down between the valley of your breasts as you moan out into the air.

“You were made for me.” He huffs out, throwing his head back with a groan as you tighten around him from his praise. You can feel yourself climbing that same high from earlier, chasing it more ferociously now, his cock ramming into you until the walls of your pussy are raw from the friction. Your other leg shoots up so they’re not hooked around his waist, pulling him into you so you can kiss him because god is he sweet.

You kiss into his open, moaning mouth as you slink your fingers up his rough backside and rip your nails into the flesh, ripping down his back as he slams into you harshly, cursing under his breath. You can feel yourself tightening around his cock, building more and more pressure for the two of you as his hand wands to press down on your lower stomach and the other grips beneath your head, fingers pushing through your hair before bunching it in his fist to tug at as some sort of anchor for himself.

“You’re a fucking succubus, you know that?” He whispers harshly, trying to contain himself as he presses down into your lower stomach, causing your pleasure to tenfold as you moan out, trying to ground yourself as you stab your nails into his back to try and not lose yourself completely.

“Cum for me sweetheart.” He urges, wanting nothing more than to serve you before himself. “I know you’re close.”

You nod, mouth falling slack as you moan out his name, tightening your grip within your legs around his side, feeling his motion and rhythm as if it was your own. You suck in a sharp breath, finally pushed over the edge as he fucks you through your high, filling you with a sort of comfort, playing a game of ping pong with your orgasm; you push onto him, and he only pushes you back. It’s wild and wide, your legs shaking around him as he holds you and fucks you into ecstasy. All you can do is gasp, unable to even speak, feeling as if you are within the heavens themselves. Who knew you could feel so good, especially at the hands of someone so bad?

You feel Butcher’s cock twitching within you as he breeds you, groaning loudly, louder than before, though you can hardly hear him over the ringing in your own ears. He curses a “fuck” and “shit” as he spills himself into you, heaving like a wild animal as he pushes into your with broken thrusts, his cum serving as some sort of slick cushioning from the burn of friction. You can feel his cum spill out of you slightly as he pulls all the way out and pushes back in, both of you breathing heavily as you orgasm together. An unstopping force meets an unmoving object as you two mold into one beautifully, always meant to pass but never meant to stick.

Butcher pulls completely out of you, collapsing onto you as you both breathe as if you had just run a marathon.

You might’ve well have.

“Fucking hell,” Butcher says between breaths to which you nod, heart pounding within your chest as you stare up towards the ceiling, sweat clinging to your naked body feeling tacky and cool as you two gather yourself. Once ready, Butcher lifts himself off of you and pulls his pants up, laying back onto his back as he pulls you into him, resting your cheek on his chest as he rubs your shoulder, body resting between his spread ones.

He kisses your temple, nuzzling his cheek into the top of your head as he runs his hand up and down your arm gently, comforting silence overtaking you two for a moment as you two reflect on what just happened. You crane your neck up so you can look at him.

“You really remember the first time you met me, all those years ago?”

Butcher nods, looking at you and then off into the distance. “Of course I do.”

You adjust your head back so your cheek is to his chest, nodding. “You’re not as heartless as I thought.”

Butcher is silent for a moment, reflecting on your statement. His instinct is to run away from the statement, to retreat and prove you wrong. But this one time, he allows himself to be vulnerable. And while he doesn’t know what to exactly say (he’s never been the best with words), the action of holding you tighter and leaving a long kiss on your temple tells you enough.

“Me neither.”

part two here

#the boys #billy butcher #hughie campbell #butcher x reader #some fluff #oneshot #mothers milk #hurt/comfort #minors dni #Spotify

[mrkis]

punk 00. teaser. (l.jn)

PAIRING: punk!jeno x reader GENRE: smut

SYNOPSIS: you've caught the attention of a certain pink haired drummer boy that's desperate to get you alone with him.

TEASER WORD COUNT: 4k.. don't question it. TEASER WARNINGS: nothing too extreme just flirty jeno, slight indications of what is going to happen, reader's best friend getting ignored lol

A.N: i’ll never get over pink haired jeno and neither will you. but anyways, the actual word count to the full oneshot will probably be around 30k or more so be prepared. this teaser may be lame, but there's a lot more going on.

posted!

“I’m a huge fan of your music” Eunkyung gushes excitedly and you allow her to take control of the conversation, leaning her elbows on the table to lean forwards so her cleavage almost spilling out of the top of her dress purposely. You admire her for her confidence even though you so badly want to tell her she doesn’t have to try so hard to get someone’s attention, she’s gorgeous. “I’ve been to almost every single one of your shows here!!”

“Have you been to any of our shows?” Jeno asks and it takes you a few seconds to realise that he’s talking to you when you notice everyone is staring at you, waiting for a reply. The corner of Jeno’s lip twitches upwards slightly as he tilts his head to the side, “Is this your first time?”

“She’s never been” Eunkyung answers for you and you nod your head to confirm. “She doesn’t even like this type of music. I practically had to force her out of her—”

“Is there something wrong with our music?” Donghyuck mocks offence with his hand pressed against his chest like you actually wounded him and Jaemin tuts with a quick shake of his head, mumbling jokingly about how much of a fake fan you are while Renjun stays silent with a grin, watching everything unfold.

“There’s nothing wrong with your music… it’s just that nobody can top WayV”

“You like Wayv?” Jaemin gapes at you, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline and you nod your head. “I think I might seriously be in love with you right now” The boys laugh at that, teasing Jaemin for his ‘embarrassing’ choice of words while Jeno remains quiet with a small grin on his face, keeping his eyes on you which starts to make you feel a little bit stuffy, especially with how his body is pressed against your side too.

“WayV is incredible” Eunkyung pitches in above the laughter and you smile at her, forever grateful for the time she cleared her schedule to go with you to one of their concerts. You seriously owe her one for that. “Jeno, do you like WayV too?”

“They’re great” Jeno hums, his answer short and to the point. Eunkyung beams excitedly and she opens her mouth to speak again but Jeno’s already beat her to it, “Is this really your first time watching us here?”

“Yeah” You confirm, glancing over at Eunkyung who seems a little defeated and you frown at that, not wanting to see her upset or left out so you point over at her, hoping to bring his attention to her this time. “But, like Eunkyung said, she’s a huge fan of—”

“I think you should let me show you what’s backstage here…” Jeno leans forward to whisper lowly to you, even though it was caught by everyone sitting in the booth. His dark eyes stare at you through his pink bangs, awaiting your answer but you struggle to give him one when everyone is staring at you both. Eunkyung’s in complete and utter shock, mouth hung wide and brows pulling together.

She didn’t look impressed, not one bit, and you honestly couldn’t blame her with the way she has been flirting with Jeno this entire time only for him to ignore all the advances given and ask you if you wanted to see what was backstage. 

But the phrase itself must mean more than what it actually was due to how everyone was reacting. His members look quite impressed, maybe even a little smug too considering how they’re not so subtly nudging each other beneath the table and Jaemin’s wiggling his brows, mouthing the word ‘Jeno Magic’ which you caught after Donghyuck’s quick gasp. Eunkyung seems flabbergasted, unable to form any words even though her mouth opens and closes repeatedly.

“What do you say?” Jeno grabs your attention and you turn to face him as his hand knocks against yours lightly. His hand sneaks in the gap between the table and yours with his palm facing upwards, connecting your hands together by slipping his fingers through the gaps of yours, holding your hand gently in his. The warmth of his hand is a complete contrast to his cold metal rings that nip your skin, but it’s weirdly comforting as you find yourself curling your fingers to intertwine with his. “Let me take you backstage… just me and you, yeah? Come with me”

©mrkis

#nct smut #nct dream smut #jeno lee smut #jeno smut #nct dream jeno smut #oneshot: punk 00

[malarkgirlypop]

MEDIC! Part 11 (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC)

HI Friends! Are you traumatised yet? Sorry it's been so sad lately. In one of the upcoming chapters I had to put a fun bit at the end cause I was just getting into this very depressed mood when writing. It hurts so much to write it but it's for the plot ya'll! I hope you enjoy another sad chapter! But oh god it's gonna get worse before it gets better, so hold onto your hats! I need a hug after writing this! This is based on the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, no hate to anyone involved. Enjoy!

I sit in my foxhole, waiting, watching, freezing. I tip my head back letting the snow land on my face, the cool snowflakes melt when they make contact. Like soft cold kisses. I sigh, I’m tired but I can’t sleep, I’m restless but with nowhere to go, I’m bored but I don’t want to talk to anyone. The sound of engines pulled me from my daze. My eyes searched the trees, smoke puffed from the forest. My jaw clenched. What was coming? My stomach churned. I steadied myself with a deep breath. Silently praying whatever happened that there weren't massive amounts of casualties. Lipton ran past me, “It’s going to get busy Lane.” The tanks came into view, popping out of the trees. I chewed the inside of my cheeks, ripping the flesh with my teeth, a copper tang filled my mouth. I watched as Spina jumped into Gene’s hole, they clambered out together, as voices filled the air. “Medic!” Gene rushed to the scene. I stayed still waiting. Gunfire could be heard over the roaring of the tanks that were steadily making their way towards us. The men called to each other, Lip gave orders to the men to stay low. “MEDIC!” My ears perked to the faint call. I run through the trees to the voice.    

I jump in the screaming man’s hole, he howls with pain, gripping at his bloody leg. I grimace looking at the wound, it gapes open, so deep I can see the muscle. Bullets whizz past our heads, as I work on his leg. He hisses as I pour the sulphur on the wound, gritting his teeth and tilting his head back in pain. I work quickly wrapping the leg and tying the dressing around it tightly. I duck as more bullets rip past, cursing under my breath. The sound of the roaring tanks getting closer. I look around for help but I can’t see anyone else around. Probably all hauled up in their foxholes not wanting to risk coming into the open. I pull the man to his feet. He gives me an unassured look like are you really gonna drag me to safety? I wrap his arm around my shoulder holding onto his waist. He half hops half runs, as we run back from the line. A hot flash sears into my abdomen, I stumbled from the pain shooting through my side, bringing us both to the ground in a heap. The man cries out in pain, as I apologise, getting myself to my feet to help him again. I stop a cry from leaving my lips as I pull him up. I inhale a deep breath. I will check later, I need him to be safe first.

“Hey, I need a jeep.” I yell to anyone, hastily checking around to see if I can spot another person. I see Luz pop his head up from his hole, giving me a thumbs up. I help the man over to the hole where George is, pulling him in to take cover from the onslaught of fire. George mutters into the radio, telling them that we need a jeep. 

“They’re coming!” George says as he puts the radio away. “Need my help.” I nod, not being able to answer as I puff from the effort. We hear a car in the distance, I brace myself to move again. Luz helps the man to his feet. We take a side each, carrying the man. I place him on the stretcher, “take him to the hospital!” I yell to the man driving, “I’m not coming, too busy!”

He doesn’t wait, pulling away with the man attached to the front of the jeep. Luz has disappeared back into his hole. I look down at my side, blood seeps through my jacket, mother fucker! I don’t inspect the wound further, I don’t need to be hit again while trying to look at the wound. I keep low while running, finding an empty foxhole, I jump into it, cursing as I hit the ground, the shockwaves from the jump increasing the pain. I sit down, pulling up the many layers I wear to get a look at the injury. I hiss as I expose my flesh to the biting cold wind. A wound above my right hip oozes blood, not deep enough for it to hit anything important. I’m happy to see an entry and exit of the bullet that has torn through my skin. Weird thing to be happy about but now I don’t have to dig it out, that would be a bitch to do myself. I open my bag searching for supplies. 

“LANE, LANE!” A man cries from ahead of me. Shit. I pull back down my top, tucking it back in. I can wait for now, I’m fine. I move to the voice, not as fast as normal, due to every step sending throbbing pain through my side. I reach the calling voice, it’s Lieb. He grips his arm, pain evident on his face. 

“You good Lieb?” I ask, slipping in beside him, he sends me daggers. I stifle my chuckle. He gives me his hurt arm, pulling his hand back for me to see. A slice through his forearm, a graze from a bullet. I look beside him, Babe watches the line holding his gun, he fires at the approaching tanks. I wrap Lieb’s arm, it’s an easy fix. “Do you want a jeep?” I yell over the noise as he shakes his head, getting back into a position to fire his gun. I duck down as bullets fly past.  

Gathering things back into my bag. I stand quickly, forgetting about my own situation. A dizziness overcomes me, hazing out my vision. I stagger back, trying to regain my balance. Babe and Lieb are both too busy to notice. I shake my head, scrunching my eyes closed. I pause, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass. I take a breath, opening my eyes. I crawl out of their hole making my way back to my own. I haven’t even made it back yet when, “MEDIC! LANE!” I turn around, Lip is waving me over to a hole closer to the front. I dive in barely missing the onslaught of machine gun fire. A man grimaces in pain, holding his shoulder. I rip open his top, entry and exit wound, I like to see it. I rip the sulphur open with my teeth pouring it on the open wounds. “ARGH!” The man groans, I move quickly wrapping his shoulder tying it tightly to help reduce the blood loss. “Can you walk?” Lip asks the man who nods, “Get out of here!” He doesn’t waste any time getting out of the hole and running back to safety. I stand again getting ready to leave myself, but my legs are weak, not supporting me, I fall back, landing on Lip. 

“Lane?” He asked, confused, looking down at me. Stars dance around my vision, I blink, trying to clear them.     

“Haven’t eaten yet today.” Best lie I can manage, I know if I tell him the truth he would fuss. I don’t need to be fussed over, I’ve already caused enough distress. Plus I can handle this on my own. 

“You look pale Em.” Lipton studies my face. 

“No, I'm fine.” I wave my hand, trying to dismiss his concerns. Lip doesn’t look convinced. His eyes scan me, I push myself into a sitting position, trying to not show how dizzy I really am. The trees sway in front of me. I feel like I have just gotten off one of those rides at the fair that spins you around really fast. 

I turn my body subtly moving my injured side out of his eyeline. I don’t want him to notice the blood that has seeped through my clothes. 

“What are you hiding?” Lip questions, raising his eyebrow. I shake my head, going to defend myself. But his hands are on me quicker than I can open my mouth, grabbing at my jacket, his brows furrow, pulling the jacket up to reveal the top I am wearing is covered in blood. Lip’s eyes go wide seeing the crimson stain on my jacket. I look down at it as well, bigger than before. 

“Jesus Em.” Lip gawks, I could lie, say it’s not mine. But Lip is too smart.  

“It’s fine Lip, I was going to fix it later.” I try to brush it off, make it seem like it’s not as bad as it seems. 

“Medic!” Lip yells, I lunge forward, trying to cover his mouth, he fends me off. “Medic!” 

I groan in pain, holding my side, from the quick movement. Spina lands in the hole, looking confused. 

“Everything alright?” He asks, eyeing the both of us. 

“Lane is injured.” Lip informs the man. 

“I can fix it myself!” I protest. Spina notices the blood, pulling up the layers of clothing to find the wound, “Entry and exit, it’s fine Spina, really.” 

“I’ll just do it now while I’m here.” Spina suggests, I sigh, nodding my head. I lean over so that he can see it better. He moves fast pouring sulphur on the wound and then wrapping it, I wince from his prodding. I lower my top, as he nods at me letting me know he’s done. He climbs out of the hole. As I follow after him. Lip stays in his position turning his attention back to the situation at hand. 

I didn't sit down once, we were able to stop the attack but many men got injured. By the time it was all over it was late in the afternoon. The pain from my wound radiated around my whole body, I felt like crying the whole time. I just wanted to rest but it was so busy. I stand in line, dazed, tired, sore. I felt ready to pass out, I couldn’t tell if it was from the blood loss or just from pure exhaustion. I had to change the dressing three times, each one saturated in blood. It had slowed but not stopped. I was thinking about stitching it up, or getting Gene to do it for me. I step forward with my cup collecting the food that Joe handed out. I muttered a thank you before finding somewhere to sit down. I found Malarkey and Penkala standing so I joined them, they spoke quietly while I sipped the soup. 

“You alright Em?” Don turned his attention to me, I felt like I was swaying on my feet. I gave a defeated nod. His brows furrowed, scanning me up and down. 

“You sure?” He doubled down. Penkala is now looking at me too. 

“You look like death.” Penkala said bluntly, I gave a weak chuckle, of course he would give it to me straight. 

“I got a bullet to the side.” I smiled wryly. Pointing at my injured hip. Their eyes widened. 

“I’m fine!” I reassure them before they call for a medic, or something else stupid. “Just tired and sore. Like we all are.” I have no right to complain about my aching bones when everyone’s bones ache, when we are all tired, I’m no different, I do not need special treatment. Malarkey stands closer to me, carefully pulling me into his side. I rest my head on his shoulder, leaning into him. I could fall asleep standing up. He keeps me close, even when Colonel Sink arrives wishing us a merry christmas eve and reading us a letter from one of the General’s. His hand moves up and down my arm as we lean into each other, the comfort I didn’t know I needed. Someone to hug and kiss me better. It makes me happy, fills my heart, better than any pain medication I could take. In his arms nothing hurts, his touch easing my pain, letting me forget all my worries. Just the simple stroke of his fingers against my cheek, I could be convinced I’m elsewhere, not standing in a snow covered forest in the middle of the war. He murmurs in my ear, I listen to him with my eyes still closed, his voice gentle and even, rich in tone, filling my tummy with butterflies.

Night falls again, I was dragged to stay in Don’s foxhole with him, Penkala and Muck. A tight squeeze but no one seemed to mind, happy for the heat of the other. I was ordered to rest, I refused at first, “What if they need me?”

“Then we will wake you!” Muck chimed in before Don could answer, a smile on his lips giving me the see-I-told-you-so look. I huffed agreeing. I nestled into Malarkey’s side once again, wrapping my arms around myself. I fell into a deep sleep, I was so exhausted my brain couldn’t even dream. 

“EM!” I was shaken away, I gasped, looking around confused, trying to get my bearings again, “Em, they're calling for you.” Don said, I could hear the distant yells for a medic. I sat up, hissing at the pain from my side. I move quickly, finding Welsh lying on the floor, Winters hovering over him. I stand looking at the two men, my legs won’t move, my brain won’t work, nothing is processing. 

“LANE!” Winters calls me. I snap out of it, kneeling beside Harry. Winters calls for Gene too. I put pressure on the wound trying to stop the bleeding. I rip open the packet of Sulphur with my teeth pouring it over the laceration. Harry screams in pain as Nixon holds his hand. I look behind me Gene stands still watching, I look over to Winters. “Roe?” He calls to the man, he blinks, coming too. Moving forward to help me. I press the dressing down into the injury while he tourniquets above the wound site. 

“I got morphine in my pocket, give it to him.” He tells Winters.  

“Where do you want it?” Winters asks, fishing the morphine from his pocket.

“Other thigh.” I say, motioning with my head as my hands are full tying the bandage to the leg.

In a quick motion Winters stabs the syrette into Harry’s leg, a sigh of relief leaves his lips as the morphine works quickly. Gene writes in Harry’s blood an M on his head, to let the others know we gave him the medication. The men lift him up and onto the jeep that arrived. Gene and I exchange a glance, I can see the tiredness etched into his face, wary from all that we have seen over the past couple of months. I think we can both say that this time spent in Bastogne has been the hardest. We know we won’t be the same after all of this. I think Winters’ noticed it too, when we both arrived at the scene we did the same thing, froze. Not something you want to see from both of your medics when their job is to act quickly. 

“Eugene, Emily, get yourselves into town and get a hot meal.” Winters kneels beside us talking quietly. We move, running over and getting into the jeep. 

Town is worse than the forest. I kinda wish I had just stayed behind. I look up at the sky, planes fly low overhead as bursts of gunfire fill the dark night. Fires rage in the barely standing buildings that remain. Bombs drop from the sky, exploding onto the surrounding streets. Civilians scramble past us, soldiers doing the same. Screams can be heard over all of the noise. We approach the hospital, but before we do the church explodes, plumes of smoke and fire rise from the windows and doors. I gasp, covering my shocked mouth with my hand. A building in front of us is bombed, firing debris and shrapnel over the street. I duck, covering my face with my arms, flinching away from the blast of heat. The jeep pulls to a stop. Gene and I exit the vehicle. I cough from the smoke, unable to see much in front of me. I walk cautiously. Following behind Gene. Men stagger out of the church, coughing and limping. I watch the scene unfold. Still following behind Gene, as he walks closer to the building. A car swerves into the road on fire, as whistling sounds. Another shell hits the ground sending up a fireball into the sky, I run trying to catch Gene who has moved forward further. A man runs out, warning us to not go into the building. Gene stops bending down and pulling something from the rubble, I approach him, he holds something in his hand. He turns it over, catching the light. My heart stops, I know that blue fabric. It’s Renee’s. Tears slip down my face. Gene turns to face me, shaking his head. I walk to him, he pulls me into a hug. I hold him tightly, he buries his face into my shoulder, we pull away after a moment. I take the blue scarf and tuck it into his pocket, resting my hand on his chest, he squeezes my hand. We share a look of sadness but appreciation for the other. I reach my hand up, wiping away a stray tear from his face. We don’t get any time to mourn, before we are called away to help.

By the time we get back it’s early morning and the sun has risen. We exit the car, I pull Gene in for another hug. We stand in each other’s embrace for a moment, needing the silence of the interaction. I place a gentle kiss on his cheek as we pull away. A sad smile shared between us. He leaves, wandering to the front. I do the same, needing a hug from one of my favourite people. I find Don, Skip and Penkala huddled in a hole. I almost break down from the sight. I leap into the hole pulling them all in for a group hug. They seem surprised at my sudden affection but go along with it anyway. 

“I don’t mean to sound cheesy but I love you guys.” I pull back tears in my eyes as I look at them all, they laugh baffled at my declaration of love. 

“I have a girlfriend!” Skip exclaimed, I shook my head hitting him in the arm as he laughed. 

“We love you too Em!” Penkala smiles, pulling me into his arms. The other men piling on top of us. I grin at the men, feeling better now that I was surrounded with their affection. 

“Aw you guys!” Tears slipped from my eyes but unlike all the other times, they were happy tears.

#band of brothers #donald malarkey #band of brothers fanfic #joe toye #hbo war #bill guarnere #dick winters #fanfic #We're in a dell #I thought I could smell a fire #Are you crazy a fire is not a good idea #proceeds to warm hands on said fire #same as Nixon #Guys didn't we just say fire wasn't a good idea what are you doing?

[rj-jinye]

a study on ghosts for hyyh jihope

(so you are tired by sufjan stevens)

hoseok is a vision of sunlight and smile, a summer hallucination. he conducts false memories and plants them in his own head. he treats himself like a trick of the light. half the time he pretends to be here, he is somewhere else, trapped in vocalizations over the hills and in the ripples the wind makes in humid heat. he still blooms orange in their little group, sun at his core that makes him look like arms wide open to them, splayed and unabashed and glimmering.

jimin and hoseok dance around each other like ghosts. sometimes jimin has a hard time telling which one of them exists. sometimes they are both there, albeit rarely, when hoseok feels solid against the press of jimin’s fingers, or when he really smiles, with his heart on his lips. but most of the time they’re both half-gone, corporeality traded for the poltergeist cities they’ve built in their own brains, brick and mortar derived from old memories. they never make it past the county lines. it’s like orpheus and eurydice; a death for a death. they find each other on the doorstep of eternity, exchanging death like cards. taking turns. there are times jimin almost begs to stay, to be left in the darkness, if only to not have to face the walk up the stairs to life for the millionth time. orpheus and eurydice, one or the other, never together, when neither want to stay and neither have the strength to make the climb. so they remain as ghosts, as translucent as white sterile sheets when they are stroke by sunlight.

jimin walks the coast, feeling himself so fragile the wind would snap him if it tried. he’s never been able to hide his thoughts from his face, thoughts he wanted hoseok to know. it’s impossible. hoseok knows everything, knows every debt, knows every flaw. jimin wonders if he counts them like pills. if he takes them the same way, as a reminder of what he can’t admit, a reminder of what tethers jimin to him. if maybe, in some unfeasible way, he had loved jimin. once, before. although involuntarily, he had loved him. even if it had died long ago on a hospital bed, hooked up to a heart monitor. seized and flatlined.

if there was any possibility, he would have freed hoseok from his binds. he would’ve, he swears, despite what it could meant for him. if he could leave hoseok to his pills and his meandering over hilltops—but he can’t. it’s a singular flaw, one he knows hoseok counts, one he knows he is resented for. the kind that stands out like a gaping wound, ugly and infected and unable to heal. but he still finds himself lingering at the apartment even after hoseok disappears. finds himself being the one hoseok comes home to, when he’s wholly tired of being saved, tired of jimin’s fingers around the neck of a bottle, tired of jimin’s mouth on his collarbone, tired of love. jimin wishes he was hooked up to a monitor. seized and flatlined. but death is death and if he was asked to, he would’ve become orpheus. chosen as orpheus had. made the bargain. left hoseok behind to flicker in his ghost mind, addled and slipping. and at least then hoseok would not be a remnant, if the only thing holding him back had let go. at least his light would become real. at least only one of them would remain a hallucination. a mere conjuring from the memories of what was lost and what would never return.

#hyyh jihope #bangtan #hyyh #bts #bts hyyh #sufjan stevens #javelin #this is so overdue #ghosts #hyyh jimin #hyyh hoseok #writing

[vampylily]

There’s blood on his glasses, Patrick thinks faintly, squinting against the blurry lenses. He wants to wipe them off–they’re his pair for the year and he doesn’t want to damage them so soon–but that means he’ll have to let go of Pete and he can’t let go of Pete because they’ll both drown otherwise. 

It’s Pete’s blood on his glasses. It’s Pete’s blood everywhere, splattered against the cold tiles and soaked into the green jacket his mother had gotten him for Prom. It trails dark over the dirty water like oil and the smell of it, metallic and sharp and putrid, makes him nauseous. 

Patrick spits out the water and blood and takes a strangled gasp. He’s at the edge of the pool and he only has to climb up the three metal steps to get out, something he’d done so easily when Pete would wheedle him into cannon-balling at the dead of night. Now with Pete’s limp body a dead weight in his aching arms, it feels like a herculean task. 

Patrick crawls up onto the cold tiles, splashing water everywhere. His soaked hair sluices water into his eyes, his hat lost somewhere on the desperate dash to the pool, and when he wipes at it, more blood smears against his face. The coarse concrete just past the strip of tile scrapes against his pants as he kneels. He lets it ground him as he strains to pull Pete out. It takes him three tries, three miracles, but he finally drags Pete out of the pool. 

Out of the water, Pete looks worse. The nice black suit jacket is tattered, the red bow-tie lost sometime in the fray, and his white shirt falls open to reveal the gaping wound in his chest. His skin’s gone grey and there’s purple marks under his eyes, webbing into black veins. Blood is smeared around his mouth where the fangs have sprouted inside, and it’s not the inky, slippery thing oozing out of his chest. 

Oh, Patrick blinks down at himself. There’s teeth marks on the side of his thigh where a chunk of flesh is missing, and the blood staining Pete’s mouth, red and human, is all his.

His vision blurs. Patrick sways, and he falls limp before he can notice the wound stitching together on Pete’s chest.

--

It took me an hour and thirty minutes to write 350 words its rough out here😔. This one's dance dance, but the prom-swimming pool scene in jennifer's body except patrick is trying to save pete even though he's the one that's dying.

Feel free to send me a random number out of 100!

#peterick #wip #rpf #vampylily.txt

[lessthanimpressedlesbian]

Irreplaceable

“Are you sure you… want me there?”

Imogen’s eyes widen in shock, dread and anxiety simmering in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

She watches as Laudna looks between herself and FCG, her discomfort evident even to the robit healer. Imogen mentally asks Letters to give them some space, nodding when they tell her they’ll be right outside the door, just in case. 

Once they’re alone, Imogen sits next to Laudna on the bed. She nudges the other woman with her shoulder, silently asking Laudna to continue. 

Laudna refuses to meet her eyes, instead fidgeting with her hair and glancing at the relatively barren room. Fondness tugs at Imogen’s heart at the sight. 

“Well, you know,” Laudna stutters out, her hands even more expressive than usual. “I just don’t know if I’m really the person you want helping you with your dreams, anymore.” Her hands drop to her lap, wringing together as the rest of her body tenses and curls in on itself. 

Imogen grabs one of Laudna’s hands, pulling it to her chest. “Why wouldn’t you be, honey?”

Laudna swallows hard, her eyes panicking as she struggles to get the physical words out. Imogen gently opens their connection, mentally encouraging her to send through whatever thoughts she can’t quite make into words. 

Well, she says hesitantly. Letters was with you in this last nightmare— which I’m very curious to know how— and I know they wrote in my notebook after your nightmare in Bassuras. Laudna tenses, looking ready to pull her hand from Imogen’s grasp. 

Imogen’s heart stutters, regret leaving a bitter taste in the back of her throat. “Oh honey,” she whispers before pulling Laudna into her, wrapping her arms around the other woman as tightly as she dares. “There’s no one else I’d rather have with me than you.” She speaks the words directly in Laudna’s ear, wanting her to hear the weight of them. Imogen pulls back slightly, one hand reaching to cup Laudna’s face and tilt it until she looks once more into Imogen’s eyes. 

“Letters has been casting this spell every night that lets him come into my dreams.” She gently brushes her thumb across Laudna’s cheek. “And I’m so sorry about the journal. I didn’t realize how stupid and selfish I was bein’, and I hope you can forgive me for that.” Imogen looks down in shame, memories of their falling out coming to mind. She shakes them away when Laudna rests a hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. 

You had every right to be upset with me, Laudna thinks clearly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. But I forgive you for the journal. I know it’s difficult for you to write after them. From through their connection, Imogen sees herself gasping awake, her hands shaking so badly she can’t even hold the cup of water Laudna always brings to her. 

Imogen nods, shame still licking at the bottom of her stomach. She lowers her hand from Laudna’s face, instead resting on her shoulder, her fingers playing with some wayward strands of hair. Her dearest friend looks back, her eyes unfocusing for a bit as she gets lost in thought. 

Why was Letters casting that spell every night? How long has that been going on? Laudna chews on her lip, her shoulders curling in again, though perhaps not as much as before. Imogen nealy balks at the question, only steadying herself when she feels the insecurity pulsing through their shared bond. 

 “Just the last few days,” Imogen assures, licking her lips. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping after you- died.” Imogen chokes on the word before swallowing back a sob. “I didn’t wanna be alone if I ever saw you walkin’ into that storm.” Flashes of Laudna laid out on the sandy street— black ichor pouring out from the gaping wound in her chest— escape through the connection, taking with it all the anguish and fear and loss that Imogen never wants to feel again. 

Laudna recoils, her eyes widening in surprise and sorrow. Darling, I’m so sorry. 

Imogen raises a hand, stopping whatever else Laudna wants to say. “Don’t,” she whispers. “I never wanna lose you again, but I don’t think I can talk about that right now.”

Laudna nods, her lips pulling down in a deep frown. Imogen grabs one of Laudna’s hands again, bringing it up to her lips to press a soft kiss against her knuckles. 

“I want you with me in my dreams, honey,” Imogen whispers. “I really do. But I don’t wanna put that on you right now.” She blinks away a few tears. “We just got you back. I don’t want you dealing with my shit after everything Delilah put you through.” Imogen smiles bitterly into Laudna’s hand, finding some modicum of relief from the familiar coolness she almost lost forever. 

The other woman takes Imogen in, her eyes tracing over every feature and leaving Imogen feeling like an exposed nerve. 

While I appreciate the concern, Laudna sends through their connection. I don’t want you to go through this alone, and I don’t particularly like feeling… replaced.

Imogen’s eyes go wide with shock, another crack forming in her heart at the despair she feels, both on her own and through their mental link. “Laudna, no one could ever replace you,” she nearly laughs out, her voice wet with tears. She drops Laudna’s hand, reaching once more to cup the other woman’s face. “You’re my person. Who else’ll bring me water or put on puppet shows for me?” 

Laudna’s body finally relaxes, leaning her cheek into Imogen’s warm palm before turning to kiss it briefly. Tears stream down her face, though Imogen knows these aren’t borne from pain or fear. 

“I love you,” she whispers into Imogen’s palm, her lips smiling against Imogen’s skin. 

Imogen practically beams, pulling Laudna in until their foreheads rest together. “I love you too,” she whispers. “Always.”

#critical role #critical role spoilers #cr spoilers #laudna #imogen temult #imodna #fcg #fresh cut grass #my fic #insecurity fic #this is what I desperately want to happen next episode when they try to sleep again #this was originally meant to be nothing but angst but I needed the fluff #irreplaceable tag #changed name bc i found a better one that matches the fic more #Neba writes

[taizi]

I don't know if requests are open, but I've had this idea for awhile. I've seen a lot of posts about an Ace Lives AU, but I've never seen one been written before. If possible, what about a Smile Again AU where Ace survives instead of Luffy? I feel like he'd have a different way of coping with losing his brother.

i see that we woke up and chose violence on this day 😭😭 i wrote it, but at what cost ? listened to this the entire time haha my heart is in shambles ❤️‍🩹

(its not a smile again au tho, sorry 🥺)

read on ao3

x

Ace is at the epicenter of an inferno. 

He’s burning so hot that his nakama are forced back, and back, and back, and the ground is turning molten beneath his feet, and his flames are no longer the merry orange and red and yellow Marco has grown used to—they’re white and icy blue.

An awakening, he realizes. 

Ace comes down upon Akainu like a Sea King, a gaping maw of fire and teeth, melting absolutely everything he touches. Akainu’s magma isn’t hot enough to save him. He dies, presumably screaming. It’s impossible to hear anything over Ace’s howling. 

It’s not a human sound. It’s raw and animal. 

And it doesn’t stop. Marco is standing nearly at the edge of the wharf by now, his ankles inches away from the drop into the sea, when he realizes Ace isn’t going to stop. 

During his rampage, Marineford itself begins to sink into the sea. Most of the salt-water evaporates before it gets anywhere near him, but the combined Haki of Shanks and Whitebeard is enough to send Ace stumbling backwards, into the powerful surf crashing up the ruined base, and finally his fire begins to flicker out. 

But even now, knee-deep in the ocean, stubborn tongues of white flame lick away from his shoulders. Steam billows from where he’s standing. His chest is heaving, his dark eyes are wild.

There’s nothing but ash and ruin behind him. It pales in comparison to the devastation on his face.

“It’s over now,” Shanks says. Marco doesn’t know the man well, but he knows pain when he hears it. Despite the absolute destruction Ace just wrought, Shanks speaks to him gently. Theirs is a shared grief. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

Whitebeard moves toward his wayward child, and Ace’s lips pull back, baring his teeth. He’s swaying on his feet and he doesn’t even seem to see anything but he still fights it when their father lays his giant hands on him. Marco’s chest twinges as Pops’ palms begin to blacken and blister, but he doesn’t even wince. He just pulls Ace forward against his own wounded chest. 

Behind them, Shanks stoops to pick up a worn straw hat floating in the rubble. The string snapped when Akainu’s blow landed, and the hat itself was so light that it blew clear away. That’s probably the only reason it survived the following destruction.

Shanks just holds it for what feels like a long time. Behind him, the Red-Hair pirates stand at attention, weapons drawn. They each look ready to kill the next person who twitches in a way they disagree with. Most of them are crying.

Finally, Shanks tucks the hat into his shirt, and asks, “His body?” 

His voice, this time, is a warning of clear and present danger. It’s directed toward the shaken Marines, who have all moved as far away from the pirates as they possibly can on a crumbling, slowly collapsing base. 

All but a few: Vice Admiral Garp, who is on his knees and staring vacantly into the middle distance; two young petty officers, a pale blond and a blush pink head bowed together as the boys weep openly; and the pirate empress, whose eyes are black with rage. 

“Unaccounted for,” Sengoku replies. He’s clearly leaning on his years of experience to keep from sounding rattled, but the tight lines around his eyes give him away. 

It reminds Marco of an old saying he once heard from a retired sailor in a shady dive bar, about a man’s first real taste of the brutality of the sea—’seeing the kraken.’

Well, Marco thinks bitterly, we saw it today. 

“Jimbei’s body is gone too, yoi,” he offers. He barely recognizes the sound of his own voice. 

“I see,” Shanks says. He taps his hand against the hilt of his sword. The only sounds for a moment are the steady rush of the wind and water, those two boys’ crying, and the vicious snap-crackle of Ace, still fighting the ocean and the arms of his father, still trying to burn. Then Shanks goes on, “I would like the burials left up to us. For now, we will erect temporary grave-sites until our friends have been recovered. If I find out that you have in any way desecrated their graves or their bodies, then I will make this—” He waves his hand, indicating what is left of Marineford. “—look like a birthday party.”

Not a single soul is brave enough to speak out against a pirate calling the shots. Shanks and his crew look like they’re just waiting for a reason. They look the way Pops did when he found out about Thatch.

All Sengoku says is, “Understood.”

The war is over. 

##

The next few days are a special kind of hell. 

The Ace they brought home from the war isn’t the same person Marco has come to know and love. He isn’t even the same one Whitebeard first dragged into the family kicking and screaming, that angry, guarded boy who wouldn’t know a helping hand if it slapped him in the face. 

The Ace they have now is a different manner of creature altogether. He says nothing. He does nothing. He allows himself to be led from room to room, and he sits wherever he’s planted. He takes the path of least resistance every step of the way. It’s easier to just let the nurses examine him, so he lets them. It’s less work to just eat the food set in front of him, so he eats. It’s not worth the conversation, it’s not worth the fight, it’s not worth anything. 

Sometimes Marco will catch him staring at his own hands, where his brother’s blood coated his palms and fingers like paint, right up until his skin lit up like a torch and burned all of it clean away. He’ll rub them against his pants, or start to itch until the skin peels away. 

Tate noticed, and now his hands are wrapped up in neat bandages that change every day. Ace lets that happen, too. 

The most frightening thing in Marco’s whole life is the idea of what might happen if this version of their Ace is left alone, even just for a minute, and he decides that it would be easier not to survive this after all. 

He lays awake at night, watching the rise and fall of Ace’s chest, counting his breaths. 

##

A sloop gallops toward them at full sail, all bright, bold colors. It bears a lion figurehead and a painfully familiar Jolly Roger. 

Marco’s heart leaps into his throat and stays there. 

“Let them come,” Pops says wearily. 

So they throw their lines, and tie Moby and Sunny together, and brace themselves.

The first Straw Hat to board them is the swordsman. Pirate Hunter, the only supernova without command of his own crew. 

He nods once and that is all the greeting any of them get. In another world, it would smack of disrespect. Right here and now, Marco is surprised they received even that much. Four of Pirate Hunter’s nakama follow him—Black Leg, Devil Child, Cat Burglar, and Cotton Candy. The others stay behind. 

There’s something slightly unsettling about them. Marco isn’t one to give credence to ghost stories, but it’s still the first correlation that springs to his mind. 

“We’re here for the hat,” Pirate Hunter says at length. “We’re taking it with us.”

“With you, yoi,” Marco parrots cautiously. “Where to?”

“To the end,” he replies.

“I’m sure you came to the Grand Line with your own dreams and ambitions.” Whitebeard’s tone isn’t condescending, and it isn’t conversational. It’s as grave as this broken crew deserves, and it’s more than a little concerned. “I followed some of your exploits in the papers. Your captain cared about you. He moved heaven and earth for you. Is this what he would want you to do now?”

“If he has something to say about it, then he should be here to say it,” Black Leg says plainly. Maybe once he was handsome and charming. Now he’s a knife, cool and sharp and made for cutting. The only lively thing about him is the absent way he taps the toe of his right shoe against Moby’s deck, a quick and sturdy knock knock knock. 

“And since he’s not, we’ll do as we please,” Cat Burglar adds. “Hat.”

They’re not asking. Marco would call the look in their eyes manic, if it wasn’t so resolved and self-assured. It’s not so much that they look ready to die, as much as they look like they’re already dead, and all of this is just extra. 

They’re serious. They have a plan. They’re carrying the same conviction that carried their captain all the way through Impel Down.

Marco glances down at the little reindeer. He’s the only one crying, but it’s a silent, steady drip of tears, and his eyes are unfocused. He’s rolling something between his hooves—a little golden ball. It looks like it could be candy. Marco is willing to bet that it isn’t. 

They’re so young, and they’re hurting, and the last thing Marco wants to do is cause them more pain. The hat, by right, should be theirs. 

But there isn’t a single soul among the Whitebeards who would be willing to walk into Ace’s quarters and take it from him. And that’s sort of the impossible deadlock Marco finds himself trapped in. 

He’s about to look to Pops for guidance, when it abruptly becomes unnecessary. 

“Here,” says the last person in the world Marco expected to hear, and he whirls around sharply to find Ace—heartbroken, hollowed Ace—holding the precious article out to them at arm’s length. Marco has no idea when the fuck he got out here, or how much he overheard. 

Cat Burglar moves forward immediately, the heels of her sandals clicking across the deck with each smart step. She takes the hat, and the shape of her fingers around the frayed, tattered brim is familiar and proprietary. This belongs to someone she once belonged to. 

She looks up at Ace. They’re the same sort of haunted. They’re carrying the same sort of wounded love. 

Marco can barely breathe through the sudden tension. Izou and Jozu are frozen on either side of him. They’re all braced for something hateful or hurtful or explosive. Marco can almost hear it—

My captain died for you. He was only there because of you. Was your life really worth his? 

It’s not his place to deny the Straw Hats their grief, however it may manifest in the moment, but Marco can’t just stand by and let Ace shoulder any more pain. He can’t. He doesn’t know how Ace will survive any more. 

If it weren’t for Pops’ silent, steady presence over all the rest of them, Marco might have spoken out of turn. 

As it is, Cat Burglar doesn’t speak at all. Her gaze isn’t even accusatory. She just turns and rejoins her crew, and as simply as that, they prepare to leave. 

“The revenge you’re looking for is impossible to obtain,” Whitebeard says at the last second. Marco darts a glance at him, and then looks away again quickly. He’s never seen his father’s eyes look so old and sad. “The World Government isn’t just a flag you can burn or an island you can demolish. It will take more than hatred to destroy them in any way that matters.”

“We have much more than hatred,” Cat Burglar reassures him. 

“They take and they take,” Devil Child says coldly. “Now they’ve taken too much.”

“Call it one of those hard life lessons,” Black Leg adds. He blows out a plume of cigarette smoke, still knock-knock-knocking his foot against the deck. 

“Impossible or not, it’s what we’re doing,” Pirate Hunter says, as if they’re talking about the weather. “If we have to die to make it happen, then so be it.”

Cotton Candy lingers a beat behind the others. His teary eyes find Ace from across the deck. 

“Luffy paid for your life, so you’re not allowed to waste it,” the reindeer tells him—blunt and bleak and understanding. “Other people make choices and we have to live with them. We have to. You have to at least try.”

The Sunny races away, and Marco watches it go until it’s gone; the first leg of a doomed voyage. Ace sinks slowly to the sun-bleached deck of his ship, his home, and he looks rattled. It’s the most alive he’s looked in a week.

For the first time since he burned the Marineford down, he’s letting himself feel it. He’s letting it hurt. 

##

“I was mean to him,” Ace says abruptly. 

It’s late, and Ace isn’t sleeping, so Marco isn’t sleeping. The two of them are laying in Marco’s bunk, draped in a blanket of moonlight from the porthole. Ace’s earthen tones are all washed out to silver and white, and his eyes are deep and dark. 

He used to talk about his brothers all the time, about how they slept in a little treehouse they built together, and shared pillows and blankets and generally lived all tangled up in each other like a pack of clumsy wolf cubs. 

Marco is not tactile by nature, preferring to roost alone, but he’s learning. If it will coax Ace into resting for a few precious hours, Marco will get downright cuddly. 

“Mean to who?” Marco asks, already knowing the answer.  

“Luffy.” Ace stares up at the ceiling. His bandaged hands are clenched. “When we were little. I treated him like shit. I didn’t want him around. I was so angry all the time and I hated everyone and I took it out on him. It took me a while to get my shit together.”

Marco doesn’t roll over to look at him. He very carefully doesn’t move at all. 

“And I just keep thinking,” Ace goes on, his voice thick and wavering now, pinched right on the edge of tears, “that he deserved so much better than me.”

“You don’t get to decide that, yoi,” Marco says quietly. His heart is breaking all over again. “Besides, that kid adored you. He went to hell and back for you. You must have done something right.”

Ace sobs, a guttural, heaving sound, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, and sobs again. And then he’s crying in earnest, and Marco rolls over to face him after all. When he pulls Ace into his arms, Ace lets himself be gathered there, and clutches at Marco’s shirt. It reminds Marco of how goddamn young he still is. Twenty. Still a baby. And his little brother, the kid whose Wanted posters Ace loved to show off, the kid who was already rattling the world with every step he took, even younger than that. 

It hurts. Marco is afraid he’s going to forget what it felt like to breathe without pain. 

“It should have been me,” Ace chokes out, his face buried in the hollow of Marco’s throat. His skin is too hot to the touch for comfort but Marco would backflip into the ocean and drown before he’d entertain the idea of letting his brother go. “Not him. Not Luffy. He had so many plans. It’s not fair. I promised to take care of him. I can’t be the last of us, I can’t be. It should have been me.”

“Sorry,” Marco says, his own eyes burning. “I’m sorry, yoi. I’m sorry he’s gone. But I’m glad you’re here.”

#one piece #op #opfic #asl bros #portgas d ace #phoenix marco #my writing #quite the keeper of you

[lewis-winters]

WIP tag game

thank you for the tags @sir-mr-dr-roe and @heystovepipeboys!

I dug through my WIPs to find a coherent one that didn't have spoilers for the fic itself. But considering how I always write the more exciting parts first, I have failed. Lmao.

Anyway. Here's an excerpt of the Webgott Magical Realism AU.

David Webster is odd. Joe knows this by virtue of having known him for more than a decade, fought with him for the first three years of that, and loved him for the rest.

But he knows it too by the moments where the veneer slips, and something dark, deep, and old peeks beneath. Web doesn’t seem to be aware of it himself, the churning abyss having been a part of him since the very beginning and therefore not uncommon. But to Joe, whose life has never once strayed from the straight and narrow path until that fateful day he chose to jump out of an airplane for 50 extra dollars, the shadow that clings to Web is clear as day.

The first time he saw it, it sat in his periphery. Eight legged and still. Listening, as Web, one warm Austrian night said; “Webster is my mother’s family name.”

People like to assume otherwise, and Web does himself no favors when he rarely corrects them, but that night it pours out of him like water from a broken flask, gushing from the red of his mouth, gaping like a wound with every word he speaks.

Webster, to modern ears, takes a new form. A book of words and meanings, created from a language taken apart and put back together like jigsaw puzzle pieces poured back into its box. No sense as a whole but its pieces complete in their individuality. Always, at the price of their potential for poetry. “That is what boy Websters are like,” David had said. Though some have the potential to become something, carrying within them a small spark that, if properly cultivated amongst the like-minded, could help bring about a decent flame. But those kinds of boy Websters are few and far between, the last having been born centuries ago, and whose gifts had gotten him killed. Most Webster boys are simply broken shards of a whole– special enough to understand how different they are, but too weak to be anything but useless.

It’s the Webster women that are truly different. They’re all that are left of the old name. Ever-changing, like all things are in the face of time, but strong enough to retain their original shape, still. Adaptable. Malleable. Powerful in ways boy Websters could never be. In times of old, Webster had meant spinner. Crafter. A creature with silk in two of her eight hands, a tapestry of deadly traps adorned with beautiful opportunities falling from their lips. Words, endless. Possibilities, even more so.

Anything Webster women say, the earth bends to listen. The trees repeat. The brooks whisper. The sun rejoices. And once finished, the sky opens to weep.

Web didn’t have to continue for Joe to understand, then; the rest of the story unraveled before him as the gravity of Web’s words finally sunk in.

Every child in the world has heard of the existence of these women. Few have been lucky enough to encounter one, but even more so have been unfortunate enough to get caught in the lies they spin, the endless, glistening realities that pour from their mouths. “Beware,” Joe’s mother had once whispered to them in warning. “They are not your enemies, but to be amongst them is dangerous. Their web stretches far beyond their reach and closes around you, invisible, until you are trapped with no means of escape, even after your death.”

Teller of tales, she had called them. Soothsayers, Priestesses of the Mother of Lies—

“Weavers,” David had confirmed, and the tired finality in which he says it cracked something in Joe’s chest he didn’t know was still whole enough to break. “My mother is a weaver.”

--

tagging: @hellofanidea @ep6bastogne @almost-a-class-act @bobparkhurst @sergeant-spoons and anybody else who wants to do it!

#tag game #webgott #i should finish this at some point #estrella_marie

[estiebestieban]

Ferneste unfinished wip (because if I think too long about it I go insane)

I started writing this a few days after Fernando announced his switch to AM, and I haven’t looked back since. 1500 words, general rating.

Fernando retires at the end of the 2023 season. 

Esteban knows he’s been lucky to have shared a team with the Spaniard for three years. Knows that he has been living on borrowed time with the other ever since their signatures dried underneath the contract back in 2020. He’s always known that their stint together would come to an end. Some things are simply not meant to be, and a dominance soaked in blue and pink is just another temporary matter in this world.

Friend leaves. Loss of a legend cuts like a knife through the paddock, creates a gaping wound that refuses to close. Fernando pulls him aside, a few hours before he makes the announcement to the press. Palm of the other’s hand burns on the small of his back as Fernando hugs him a bit tighter than usual. Esteban is stuck between wishing that it would have lasted forever, and wishing that Fernando disappeared immediately after speaking those cursed words.

The races after the truth has been placed down at his feet are the hardest to stomach. Esteban is forced to watch Fernando from the corner of his eye. Forced to imagine a world in which he’s standing next to another driver. Fernando pulls him a bit closer than before when they’re seated next to one another on the back of a parading car. The touch of a hand on his knee lingers, even after the palm has long since been removed.

Sometimes he swears he can see it when he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. All the ways Fernando has ever touched him staring back at him in the shape of scars and bleeding red marks. Fingers encircled around his wrist, a grasp on his shoulder. Words of advice have settled around the sprinkled birthmarks, to connect the dots between ignorance and softly cradled skill.

One does not drive with a God like Fernando, only to escape without some lasting marks from the battles fought on and off track.

Esteban watches as they strip the number 14 off the walls of the Alpine factory. Watches as all remains of Fernando are scrubbed away. The new generation comes knocking, and suddenly, he is the more experienced one in the team dynamic. He knows he can never be as good of a mentor as Fernando was to him, he doesn’t have the same kindness resting inside of him. There are no whispers about better inside corners passed on to Oscar. There is no hand resting on Oscar’s shoulder when they’re herded out in front of the masses on race day.

It can never be like it was with Fernando. So Esteban doesn’t even try.

They keep in touch whenever they can. Write texts that don’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things. Fernando congratulates him on race results, and Esteban asks how retirement is going, only to be met with a photo from a random pit lane every time. Not even retirement can keep Fernando out of a car.

Silence seeps through the line at the beginning of the 2025 season. Fernando chases after his triple crown with open hands and a kind of determination Esteban has hardly seen before. He’s busy with the Indy 500, and Esteban himself has the first few races of the season to get through. It gets better with Oscar, but it’s still nowhere close to the same. The Alpine liveries no longer scrap between them, no longer battle for the points.

Engineers bring a miracle, get them a few more sporadic podiums scattered across the 23 races of 2024. A few more first place finishes adding to his resume. Oscar tastes champagne before his first season is out. Esteban tries not to be jealous of it, but he finds himself in foreign airports waiting to go to the factory for some more tests, with something venomous itching underneath the skin of his palms.

He stops talking about Fernando somewhere around Monaco, stares out across the track with his hands in the pockets of his jeans as the team follows him around for his track walk. It’s never quite the same after the tip of his tongue finds comfort in the heavy silence of what could have been. At least he no longer tastes blood when he swallows down another story.

“We’re driving for a championship.” how things have changed. A few years ago they were driving for points, bottom step of the podium at most. Now, with a better engine and an even better car, they’re actually chasing for the title. It’s been weeks since he’s heard from Fernando last. The gaping wound left in his absence has not yet closed. If anything, it has started to fester around the edges, where it still remains raw.

More often than not, Esteban does not drink from the champagne that’s handed to him on the podium. He lowers the bottle down towards the waiting hands of the team. His wins are for them, for the ghost that still lingers in the Alpine garage beyond his reach.

He hopes that Fernando will be proud of him. If the Spaniard is even still watching these days.

2026 comes to a close, and he’s second in the standings. Loses to Charles by a handful of points. It’s bitter. Hard to stomach. Yet he still claps as the boy he grew up with accepts his trophy, surrounded by the thousand flashes of just as many cameras.

FROM Fernando Alonso: Bad luck, conejito. That’s all it is. Bad luck.

He saves the message. Even when he doesn’t know exactly why. Stares at it when restlessness makes a home out of him in a strange hotel in a country he should know by now. China the following year brings fireworks, and in Turkey he extends his lead in the championship even further.

Fernando doesn’t win the Indy 500. In his mind, the other was always impossible to defeat. But age must finally be catching up to him, the day which no one thought would ever come has finally arrived, and Fernando steps away from racing for good. The frequency of texts picks up again. Scattered notes left throughout days and nights. When timezones make little sense and the most important thing in the world is a friendship that has refused to wither and die.

It’s good to know that the other still thinks about him. It’s good to know that he’s still wanted in Fernando’s life, even after all these years have gone past.

Esteban needs one more win. One more victory and one more bottle of champagne which will never touch his lips. He always needs one more, just as Fernando did before him. Trembling fingers wrap around the trophy of the Turkish grand prix set aside for the winner, and he knows he’s done it. The child racing on tires his peers threw in the trash raises the newest addition to a collection of victories to the sky, and with such simple movements, claims a title to pin to his chest.

He sees Fernando the moment he leans forward to lower the bottle of champagne. Meets former teammate’s gaze in the same way he’s always envisioned it was to happen in movies.

There is no lightning splitting the sky, no rolling thunder which stops time, and yet, the whole world is shrouded in darkness all the same. Nothing remains. Nothing, except for the wrinkles around Fernando’s eyes and the way his lips are curved up into a smile bright enough to rival the lights around the circuit.

Esteban comes home when he lowers himself from the podium and into the arms of his friend.

He's always wanted too much. Always reached towards the stars with open palms, wishing to be burned by them. Fernando opens his arms, cradles the back of his head with a large hand. Fingertips buried in his hair, a ghost of a stroking thumb against the nape of his neck. Esteban never regretted not drinking the champagne, but he's never been so glad for it as he is at that moment.

It’s not like someone can receive a doctors’ note for a broken heart. It won’t show up on echos and in the results of the wandering hands of health professionals checking him over before every race. A broken heart is one of those few things in life that just is. One of those few things that go by unnoticed, even by Esteban himself, until he rests his cheek against Fernando’s, and he can feel the shattered parts of him slipping back together.

Hands fall, come to rest at the small of his back. Fernando lifts him up as he did when he tasted victory for the first time. Spins him around until there are stars lurking behind his closed eyed and his stomach has been tied up into knots.

Feet leave the ground, and when toes find the steady earth again, he is not the same man he was mere moments before.

“Congratulations.” Fernando kisses his cheeks. First, he places genuine admiration on the left. Next comes something that feels dangerously close to love on the right. “Welcome to the club. Estebanito.”

Esteban has taken a title, and yet, he can’t bring himself to even care about it. Victory would not even have tasted half as sweet as it does now that he gets to share the spoils with Fernando by his side. “There is nowhere I would rather be, Fernanito.”

#this aged badly but it took up space in my wip folder + brain so here it is #Ferneste #writing

[imaginatorcreates]

Which Blessing Are You?

23 June 2022

Summary: Mehr discovers which god made them, with horrible consequences.

Word Count: ~1.4k words

TW: Implied death(?), very vague mention of a corpse

Mehr had no idea which god or gods they were from.

It was a rare exception, as most blessings that they’ve run into in their long existence on the mortal plane usually had some idea from which god they were made in the image of. But when they woke up, they only knew that they existed, and that there was something within them that knew just where to touch someone to heal them or to make them hurt.

So when they felt their exterior start to crack, they stopped fusing with Zenith.

Zenith was the blessing of Una, goddess of the cosmos. Zenith was a blessing of space itself, floating darkness that twinkled with stars and planets and so much space dust. Zenith was framed as if someone decided that the cosmos should walk among the mortals. When the two blessings matched their magical wavelengths and became someone else, it was as if space had found some unknown doll and decided to make it its home.

Mehr loved that it implied that Zenith felt safe around them. Zenith, who existed in a village who only saw them as a way to advance further to the stars. Who destroyed it and left a gaping crater in its wake. Who stayed in a ball of darkness and populated it with the cosmos that the villagers so desperately wanted. Who was found by the goddess that made them and given someone who cared about them, truely.

So it hurt Mehr when Zenith kept reaching out for them with eyes tilted with some semblance of happiness. When they kept rejecting it under the semblance of wanting some alone time — how much alone time did they ask for lately? — and it made their insides clutch at Zenith’s downfallen expression each and every time. So they did their best to not expect anything when the space blessing stopped reaching out to them. But it still hurt, and it became harder to hide it.

It also became harder to hide the cracks.

It started with something that came after running from a large burrowing creature. It had surprised them all, and they all sustained injuries from their lack of preparation. Mehr watched with unblinking eyes as thick, golden fluid flowed from the wounds that Una sustained. “Blood of the gods, equal to only itself,” she said when they chirped at it inquisitively. When they pointed to Zenith’s own cuts from the creature’s jagged claws, what flowed there wasn’t golden blood but instead white speckles intermixed with black. “I think that’s space dust. I was young when I made Zenith and sent them out to the mortal plane, so I’m not entirely sure what they’re made of now.”

So when they pointed to their own cuts that they sustained, nothing really flowed from it. It shone a bright light that was like staring into the sun. “Huh,” was all Una said when she inspected them after dressing her own wounds and helping heal Zenith’s. Nonetheless, she healed the major wounds and dressed the smaller ones. “Maybe this is a clue as to which god made you.”

But Una still had no idea which god made Mehr. Something about her memories still being messed up from her odd trip down to the mortal plane. It made them chirp sadly, but they accepted it nonetheless.

------

The cracks wouldn’t stop growing. What started off as just a few ones from their run in with the burrowing creature soon grew into something more. It spiderwebbed its way across their outer shell and when they couldn’t heal it themself any longer, they ran to Una. But when even Una’s magic couldn’t hold them together, any energy that they devoted to helping out the goddess and her blessing faded away.

------

Zenith knew that they didn’t require sleep. It was something that came with being something special, something that the gods made in order to give the mortal planes a taste of their power. But they still did at times. Even if they didn’t crave sleep, they needed to restore their energy somehow.

So when they opened their eyes and found a third of their crew missing, any chance of recharging their energy was thrown out the window.

They carefully pushed Una’s arm off of their torso and crawled out the window. The cold wind from the desert caused Una to turn in place, but once she quieted down again, Zenith closed the window and set off to find Mehr.

They knew that Mehr had been acting strange as of lately. Ever since they all got hurt, they’ve been avoiding the darker blessing. First with fusing, then altogether. Yes, they understood that they needed space. Everyone needed space at times, but to outright avoid them for this long? The normal Mehr could only bear so much time alone before they craved someone to be with.

Zenith found them on the outskirts of the small town they all decided to stay in. Mehr was standing atop a hill, one where grass grew despite it all. Their posture was hunched. They called out to them, first to let them know of their presence. Their call was met with silence, so they tried again.

Mehr turned around when they called again, this time closer. Their light gold eyes widened at them, and the cracks on their face traveled further. They waved their arms in an ‘X’ motion, and frantic chirps warned them to not get any closer.

Zenith was glad they listened, because soon after, a burst of bright light filled their vision and they hissed because by the gods that hurt! They felt their normally wispy form waver for a moment while they tried to steel themself. They raised their hands to shield their eyes from the light and dared to take a few glances at whatever Mehr had turned into.

They were met with a figure that floated just a few inches above the ground. Their body glowed with a bright light and their eyes shone even brighter. If Zenith dared to look at their feet, they saw glimpses of a humanoid shell. One that wore Mehr’s clothes and scarf and had cracks along the face and eyes so empty — 

Impulse. That was what drove their next action. They closed their eyes and rushed forward. They felt their toe catch on something that felt hard, doll-like — 

(No. Don’t think about it now.)

— and they grasped Mehr’s shoulders. The light seared their dark hands and something primordial within them screamed. Screamed at them to let go, for this power was too much for them.

But they held on.

They forced their eyes open a sliver and saw something that they never thought they would see.

They saw a blessing cry.

Golden tears were rolling down Mehr’s face. Their bright eyes were squeezed shut and their hair — golden, flowing, like a cloud at sunset or sunrise — floated around them like Zenith did with their own. A mouth cracked open and choked out, “Let go.”

Zenith forced their own mouth to form and they hissed out, “No.”

“I’m hurting you.”

“No.”

“I’m being called back.”

Zenith tightened their grip on Mehr. “What kind of god leaves their blessing out here and expects them to — ”

“It’s the Shepherdess.” A breath inward and their shoulders rose to follow it. “I’m her blessing.”

Zenith knew about the Shepherdess. She was almost equal to the Weaver in terms of godhood, and she claimed to be able to heal everything. But she shone so bright that no one could look at her without being blinded by her light. “So your…your body, it’s — ”

“The Weaver’s. I don’t know what’s happening, I…I’m scared.” Mehr’s voice was reduced to a tremble. “I’m sorry.”

Any animosity that Zenith might’ve felt towards Mehr for their odd behavior before faded away. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.” They gently took Mehr’s face in their hands and pressed it against their forehead. It burnt, and it hurt so badly how strong the light was against their darkness, but as soon as they felt Mehr’s own hands rest atop their own it didn’t matter to them.

Mehr knew how to heal with a touch after all.

When Mehr’s hands gripped their own, they dared to open their eyes. They were faced with light so bright yet they couldn’t look away. If they were going blind, then it hasn’t happened yet.

Mehr mouthed something to them, but they couldn’t register what it said before darkness swamped their sight.

------

When they woke, the shell that used to hold Mehr was cold.

#Ima Writes #writing #my writing #original writing #oc #blessings #tw: corpse #tw: implied death

[alecsalamander]

the resa lives au

David dies on a Wednesday.

A tragic accident, says the nice man with the hard eyes, a fault somewhere along the brake line. It could have happened to anyone at any time – these things happen, she’s told, explanations coming where apologies should lie instead. If it helps, they tell her, he most likely didn’t suffer.

They tell her a lot, and all of it is exactly what she needs to hear. She doesn’t believe any of it.

It’s a perfectly normal and logical event: a man drives a car with a good hundred thousand number of miles on it, and the brakes fail. He dies on impact. She knows they’re lying because she knows – knew – David. Ever since she told him she was pregnant he was determined to keep them both safe; he never would have let the brakes in the car get worn like that. Not a car Lacey rode in.

She also knows because she was supposed to be in the car with him, but climbed out of the seat still in their driveway and said, with a kiss to her husband’s cheek, that it didn’t feel right leaving Wendy alone with the baby.

When she gets home that night, she turns on the shower to hide the sounds of her sobbing. She cries for exactly twenty-five minutes until the timer on her watch beeps, and then she throws up twice, and then she goes to sleep.

In the morning, she requests the paperwork for her Chapter 5-8.

When the team had been relisted to reserve, it wasn't the influx of free time or the relaxing of a great number of rules they had lived and breathed for the last five years that had been the greatest appeal – it was the sudden offering of something that felt like permanence. They were no longer required to live on base, or even in the same block; as long as they were within an hour of base, the government didn't much care where they decided to set down roots. She and David had put in an offer on a two-story, three-bedroom brownstone in a historic neighborhood of Boston that first week, and Wendy had gone with them.

(It was one thing to share space when they were required to be in a stricter geographic radius and another entirely when the decision was an active choice, but Resa had known exactly what she was doing. She'd told Lacey about the house in the same breath she'd asked Wendy to move with them, smiling when she'd immediately turned her bright green gaze with a gasped "Uncle Wendy is gonna live with us?" she knew he would never be able to say no to. It ended up being a bigger blessing than any of them could ever have known, because David was dead only a month later and Wendy was already there to keep their family together.)

Her discharge has only just come through when she sits down at the table with a second folder of paperwork. “Wednesday Bishop,” she says calmly. He looks up from his breakfast at the sound of his name, an action mirrored immediately by Lacey; Resa takes all of three seconds to wonder if the toddler even knew her uncle’s full name before now before continuing. “David has called you my partner in crime for years now. Wanna make it literal?”

He chews, and swallows, and meets her stare unblinkingly. And then, with his surety that always makes her think about magic, he agrees. “Absolutely.”

She's already cried for her twenty-five minutes this morning, but feels a few tears leak through the tight walls she keeps around them. The thing is, she knows if she lets herself cry for real she’ll probably never stop – she misses David like she’s forgotten how to breathe, like she’s been cut in half, like some very vital part of her is missing. She misses David in a way she knows is not ever going to get better, not with time or healing or however people talk about grief and the process. In a way she knows will be a bleeding, open wound until the day she dies. But she also knows that Lacey doesn’t understand any of this and probably won’t for years now, and she can’t be a good mother with this gaping, aching hole in her but she can’t be a mother at all if she loses herself to crying. And so she indulges, twenty-five minutes when she first wakes up alone and another before she climbs into a too empty bed, and the rest of the day she’s—

Well. Not fine. Functioning, maybe.

She feels a few tears leak through and she squeezes her eyes shut to stop them, and she tries very hard to smile. “I wanna commit insurance fraud.”

And Wendy just takes it in stride, nodding and chewing and swallowing. “Teresa Williams,” he says in that same calm tone, and this is the magic of certain people, the way they know people and notice everything and just understand without being told. “It would be my absolute honor.”

The thing is, David is dead and so is every part of her heart that isn’t entirely devoted to her daughter, but the rest of the team is not. The condolences came like a tidal wave when the others found out, and the concern hasn’t stopped: is she doing okay, does she need anything, can they help, what about Lacey. And they understood, of course, why she fought so hard for the discharge, but there’s still a good three years of an elaborate lie to uphold.

Lacey is sick, of course, and very terribly chronically so. And she just lost her very good insurance.

“In sickness and health,” Wendy quirks as he signs the necessary forms, and the nice courthouse lady witnesses, and then they’re married.

They’d discussed it, in the three days of lead up, drafting it out like one of their ops. Wendy had plans on top of plans on top of plans, and Resa was hemorrhaging grief and fear and just wanted it to stop - of course they’d discussed it. They were married because she needed to pretend that she needed the insurance, and because she needed his help to keep Lacey safe, and because neither of them had ever bought the story that David’s death was an accident. And because they were a family no matter what, just not a traditional one – they were married but Wendy was still gay and Resa was still so in love with Dave that it was like he was still here sometimes, and neither of those facts would ever change. They were married because they were best friends who loved each other, and loved Lacey even more.

They don’t wear rings and Wendy still lives out of the guest bedroom, and his FCP still has him listed for deployment should the need arise, but they’re married in the eyes of the insurance companies and the United States military, which feels pretty fucking official.

It’s for Lacey. It’s to keep her safe. Neither of them can see it as something they’ll come to regret.

For their first wedding anniversary, and the first anniversary of David’s death, Wendy takes Lacey to spend the weekend with his family up in New York.

Resa turns off all her alarms and allows herself to cry herself unconscious.

The first time Lacey calls Wendy 'Dad,' she thinks it might be the thing that breaks her.

It's not, it turns out – the thing that breaks her, that is.

Lacey greets Wendy at the door with a screech that sounds more like a dinosaur than a child as he tries to kick off his boots in the entryway. "Daddy!" she screeches, delighted, and throws her arms around his legs, "you're home!" The latest hadn't been a deployment, not a proper one at least – he hadn't left the country but he had been gone for almost six days, and while Resa knows he can't officially tell her anything she also knows he'll tell her everything as soon as Lacey is asleep – but she'd missed him all the same. And Wendy, acting on instinct and ingrained habit, scoops her up into a hug before he's fully processed what she's said. "I missed you," she says in her sweet little voice, and Resa watches the exact moment where she loses Wendy to a war they have no hope of winning.

His smile drops, and his face shutters. There was always a coldness to him, when they were on missions together. A detachedness. Something that kept him divorced from all the parts that made him their Wendy, and allowed him to be Thorn's second in command. It's something she knew he had likely developed in his childhood, though he never talks about it, and honed it his time as a sniper.

It's who he becomes now.

He kisses the top of Lacey's head, because there's no part of him that can separate from how much he loves her, and he gently sets her back on her feet. And then, with military precision, he about faces and disappears up the stairs to his room.

She finds him there later, when she's got Lacey fed and settled in for the night, sitting in the dark; he's still in the heavy, non-descript uniform they wear when they're stateside, and he's staring unblinkingly at the top of his dresser. At the framed photo of the three of them from that first tour, before they had Lacey, when they were still a family but hadn't made it official yet. "I'm not replacing him," he says, voice cold and detached and nothing like their Wendy. "I don't want to."

She thinks, in that moment where she looks at the man she considers her brother and doesn't recognize whoever looks back, that she would almost prefer to have found him in his own twenty-five minutes of crying and heaving and mourning.

"Wendy," and he flinches when she touches his arm. "Wes." She kneels on the floor by his feet like she’s in church, praying a little, and bows her head against his leg. “Lacey has loved you from the moment she met you. Losing Dave didn’t change that.”

“I’m not—“ he starts again, and stops. Her father, she thinks he’s going to say, which she thinks might be the worst possible reaction. Wendy is not Lacey’s father except in every way that he is, legally and emotionally and in her very young, very loving eyes. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, just how simple it is to hurt the ones we love most. “Trying to replace him,” he admits quietly, desperately; it’s a battle he’s always going to lose, fighting himself like this. 

What strikes her hardest, right there through the heart on the floor of her best friend’s bedroom, is the way Wendy hates himself for loving their daughter so much. 

“Wednesday Bishop,” she glares up at him as fiercely as she can, wielding his full name like a weapon. He blinks, surprised, and doesn’t look away. “David loved you enough to bring you home to meet Lacey, and enough to make you her godfather. Why would he be mad that you love her just as much as he did?”

Wendy lets out a single, shaky breath and then collapses, curling around her kneeling form, and she feels the sharp sting of tears to match the ones they’re both pretending haven’t made their escape from his eyes. She thinks, maybe, this can count for her twenty-five minutes today, the way they both mourn the fact that Lacey won’t ever remember a time when she called anyone but Wendy ‘Dad.’ She was young when David died, too young, barely three; she’ll know her father because neither of them will let her not, will keep his memory warm and alive in their home, but she’ll never remember him. And if she, in all her now five-year-old capacity for love and logic, chooses to bestow the title on the man who loves her like one, well.

It’s so easy, after all, to hurt the ones we love most.

The next morning, Wendy scoops Lacey up into a second, much happier hug. He kisses each of her smiling cheeks and, when her nose wrinkles in a giggle, the tip of that as well. “I missed you, sweet pea,” he tells her. “Did you look after your mom for me?”

“Daddy,” she tells him seriously. Too seriously for a child her age, and she’s so much like David sometimes that it’s like he’s still here with them. “I’m five. I can't even reach the phone.”

The twins agree to watch Lacey for the evening (and for fifty dollars. Each.) and they go out on their first – not Date Night, because they aren’t dating. They’re married, and have been for years, but it’s something so platonic and forgettable even that it still catches both of them by surprise, the few times it comes up. – child free night since Lacey’s first birthday. Resa drags him to a bar she’d found months ago, some place she’d passed once during a shopping trip and had always wanted to come back to. The vibes were strong, she’d told him then, and again when he’d balked on the sidewalk outside. And it wasn’t like he could argue with her; Wendy knew about magic because it was job to, to know absolutely everything he could, because then he could keep his family safe. But he didn’t know about magic the way Resa did, didn’t feel it, didn’t have it speak to him in whatever language it had chosen for her. They weren’t visions, she explained to him not long after he found out. She didn’t see the future, or even a possibility for it. It was just a feeling in her gut, like what most people thought they had, only hers were always right.

Her gut had told her to trust Wendy, the very first moment they met. It had also told her to get out of the car, and to go back inside and stay with him and Lacey.

Wendy trusted her gut more than he had ever trusted anyone in his life.

And her gut told her that this was a place she wanted to visit, and he trusted it, he did, only—

“This looks like one of those overpriced hipster places,” he tells her mulishly. Through the door is all exposed brick and Edison bulb light fixtures, and too many people. “It’s for the twenty-somethings.”

She stops pulling his wrist long enough to duck back into his space, tipping up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’re a twenty-something,” she reminds him gently. Neither of them ever really remember the fact that Wendy is a decade younger than she is, mostly because he hasn’t been allowed the chance to act any definition of young since he was Lacey’s age. “Come take shots with me out of stupid tiny mason jars.”

The shot glasses are just normal shot glasses, and the bartender looks absolutely disgusted with her when she half-jokingly asks if they have the small jars.

She returns to the same bar a few weeks later, alone this time, because the vibes are still strong and she’s learned to never ignore them. It’s the middle of the week this time, and mid-afternoon; the only people inside are the professional drunks and the bartender from last time, who recognizes her immediately. “Hold on,” he tells the man he’s currently serving, and turns around to disappear into the back. The swinging door marked ‘Employees Only’ slams closed in a way far too loud to be anything but deliberate.

Apparently he had been offended at her joke.

Before she can decide if she’s self-conscious enough to want to leave, gut feelings be damned, the door slams open in the opposite direction and the bartender stomps back out and immediately over to her.

“You disgust me,” he tells her around a smirk that doesn’t seem to match his words, and he sets two very tiny mason jars on the bar in front of her. “How do you feel about whiskey?”

She laughs, loud and unbridled. “I’m more of a tequila drinker,” she tells him honestly, even though it’s not even four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and waits for him to pour them each a shot. He toasts her sarcastically before downing the liquor without flinching, and he would look very unapproachable if he hadn’t somehow procured these two particular glasses since she’d teased him about them. “Teresa,” she doesn’t offer her hand but she does the empty glass back, and he doesn’t take it.

“CJ,” he replies, and deposits the second tiny jar next to hers. “Don’t bring those fucking things back next time. I don’t want management to get any ideas.”

She laughs again, and the feeling in her gut settles.

For their second wedding anniversary, and the second anniversary of David’s death, Wendy and Lacey go north to see his family again.

And Resa, after crying for twenty-five minutes, decides to get spectacularly drunk instead.

She goes to the bar with the vibes, because she’s still feeling a little bit lost and there’s something very safe about the way her gut leads her here, and she finds a seat at the bar without having to fight for it. “I need an entire pint of tequila,” she tells CJ as soon as he notices her, and he shrugs and reaches for one of the glasses normally reserved for beers.

“Where’s your husband?” he asks, because they usually come here together. Not often, maybe once a month or so, but she drops by during the day every other week – Lacey spends a few days a month with Wendy’s sisters, the only socialization she can get outside of school, and Resa spends those days at the bar nursing a single shot and chatting with the bartender, hating the way she’s too scared to even miss her little girl.

“New York,” she tells him honestly. And then, because it feels right, “It’s our anniversary. He took our kid to stay with his parents.”

CJ twists off the pour spout and half-fills the pint glass with tequila with the same uncaring air he seems to do the rest of his actions with – he talks to customers like they’re friends, or enemies, and never seems bound by any sort of convention. But he also still works here, so she guesses it’s either excusable or enough of a gimmick that no one cares enough to complain – and pushes it across to her. “I’ll get you wasted but I won’t fuck you,” he warns her, seriously. “Your husband knows where I work and he’s got that vibe.”

 “That vibe?” she asks.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “There’s something a little fucked up about him. About both of you, but I think you like me too much to come back and kick my ass.”

She laughs – she does like him, and they are both a little fucked up. “We’re not getting a divorce,” she says instead, but takes the glass of too-much alcohol. “They just went to visit family, and I stayed here. I—” It would be easy, she knows from the calm in her stomach, to tell him. That he might even understand. But the feeling in her gut is never as strong as the worry that haunts their household’s every waking moment, and so she falls back into the same spontaneous lies of Lacey’s childhood. The half-truths. Just enough information for someone to feel trusted. “There was a death in the family.”

He hovers for a moment, like maybe he understands more than she thought, but ultimately turns when the next voice demands his attention. “My offer still stands,” he leaves her with. “You know where to find me.”

She doesn’t get drunk that night.

She fucks him instead.

It feels better than crying and mourning, but mostly like she’s cheating on David somehow.

The story is still that David died in an accident.

That first year after his death, she loses contact with several of the witches she grew up with. The casual connections of emails and message boards where they’ve reconnected, or never lost contact to begin with, taper off in conversation like life has simply gotten in the way. They’re of an age now, most of them married and having children if they haven’t already. It doesn’t raise outward suspicion, like they simply have less time online. But then, in the encrypted messaging system that the majority of them use, an entire network that exists right beneath Thorn’s noses, familiar names go silent mid conversation and never speak up again. Over time, the usernames default to offline.

And then, in the second year, she loses even more. The tenuous connections that remain speak of a similar fear, of their numbers dwindling as they watch; she knew, of course, the unspoken directives that lurked behind Thorn’s mission statement. She knew better than anyone, because she had lied her way through acceptance of it in order to survive, to keep herself and her family safe, and had lost her husband anyway. But it had never been this sudden, or this widespread, or—

Well, it had always been overseas before. Acts of war, or arguably enough. It had never been American citizens vanishing from their homes.

She knows David’s death wasn’t an accident because he kept the car as safe as was humanly possible, and also because he kept a thumb drive of the truth in a hidden space in their home. Names and stories of witches who died, and where, and the orders that sent them there. Records of those who had been victims of the fear of magic, and those who had died without ever being proven of magic at all. Years of information damning Thorn and it’s government to the deepest circles of hell, and David had died for it.

One morning, almost three years after losing him, Resa digs out the thumb drive. And, because David is still dead and so now are too many of the witches they’ve known, she borrows Wendy’s laptop and she starts compiling the last few years.

Lacey starts kindergarten, and she and Wendy fight for the first time since they met.

He thinks she should be homeschooled, even offers to handle it himself – there’s too many lies binding her to the confines of their home, a child too sick to meet, for any form of schooling to be safe. She’s also, and much more importantly, still not quite cognizant of the fact that the things she can do – and if there is a limit to her powers they haven’t found it yet, and that scares her most of all, the way that not even their own kind seems to know what to do with anyone of her ability – aren’t normal and shouldn’t be seen or spoken of. There’s no way to explain to a six-year-old that the things that come as naturally to her as breathing or laughing could get her killed.

And Resa gets it, she does. She wants Lacey safe more than anything else, more than logic or rationality. But she’s also a witch, raised by them and around them, and Wendy’s experience is limited by his outsider perspective. Lacey and Resa and David are the first witches he’s ever known. He doesn’t understand that they’ve been hiding in plain sight for centuries, and that Lacey has already had any chance at a normal childhood taken from her just from the sheer bad luck of being born where and when she had been. So Resa argues for a regular normal public school, a place with regular normal kids, where Lacey can hide in a crowd of peers and, for a few precious hours a day, get a form of socialization that doesn’t come from her parents or her aunts or her only remaining grandparents.

Lacey starts kindergarten, at a regular normal school, and Resa and Wendy exist around each other in stony silence for a day or two, and then one day she comes home smiling so brightly that the entire house feels a few degrees warmer, and she tells them that she made a friend.

Something about their six-year-old carefully explaining the concept of what a friend is, because she’s never been exposed to it and thinks that it’s new and strange and exciting, silences Wendy’s argument for her safety. Because Lacey can be safe or she can be happy, but not both.

Not yet.

Their third anniversary, and the third anniversary of David’s death, comes all too quickly.

Wendy packs their bags like usual, ready to take himself and Lacey out of the house so that Resa can fill the space with everything she’s sacrificed, but sits down with her the night before he’d planned to leave. “Do you want to come?” he asks her in the quiet hours after Lacey is in bed, slinging an arm across the back of their couch in invitation. She accepts, curling against his side, and thinks about it.

David’s loss is still a hollow space in her chest, is still raw and aching, but feels more like a deep bruise – it hurts, down to her bones, but it’s no longer a sharp pain. It’s something softer and deeper, more a part of her, like her body found a way to heal around the feeling. She still misses him so much that it’s hard to wake up in the morning, but she also has three years of a life with her – their – family to cushion it. “I,” and she wants to agree, but hesitates. “I don’t know.”

He hmms a quiet, contemplative noise and hugs her closer. “Do you want to fuck the bartender again?” he asks seriously, even though he’d laughed at her for nearly five minutes when she’d told him about it.

There’s no hesitation this time. “Absolutely not.” The worst part about that night had been how they’d become something like friends after, and now she never goes to the bar outside of her once or twice a month with Wendy because she knows CJ’s schedule and meets him for lunch instead.

“Maybe we don’t go see my parents,” he offers. “Maybe we go somewhere, just the three of us.”

It’s a strange new step for them, existing as a family of three off paper and outside their home. So much of their life is built on a series of lies that it’s easy to forget, even for them, the truth at the heart of it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Lacey starts first grade and turns seven and for a very brief year of their lives everything is normal.

Wendy is home more, which Lacey loves (and Resa greets with a cold sort of horror, that his missions are keeping him stateside now), and the three of them are doing more traditional family things together. Vacations, mostly camping trips or small B&Bs in isolated New England, and day outings. They go to art museums because Lacey loves to look at the colors, and natural history museums because she loves to touch things that are older than her. She learns to swim and to ride a bike and to skip rope.

For one brief, shining year of their lives, everything is good.

Everything goes to hell the year Lacey is eight.

The thing is, she was never under any assumptions that this would be a forever thing – she and Wendy (and David. So many of their plans were ones he put into place) bent their entire lives around shielding Lacey from the world, and from notice, but they never once thought it would be permanent. The hope was that they could get her to adulthood, a teenager at least, someone who could understand the importance of keeping hidden. That maybe, before it ever came up, they could change the world for the better. There were plans for it, of course.

Thorn was intimately familiar with their planning.

She’s not sure when the suspicion began. It could have been as early as her birth, as the nebulous timeline they tried so hard to stick to but it was hard, remembering so many lies made up on the spot like that. It could have been much more recent, a niggling of doubt that the last few injuries Wendy came home with seemed to stay there. He tried his best to hide the way Lacey would heal whatever she could see, but some things were impossible to lie about. The way his ribs had healed in under a week, for one. The black eye that washed off in the shower, for another.

She’s not sure when the suspicion began, only that it was far too along before she or Wendy noticed it.

He’s in closed-door meetings, filling in for Adam as they get the briefing for their next deployment; Adam is still injured from the whatever happened on their last mission, the one where Wendy had come home with multiple broken ribs and a haunted expression. It was the first time he refused to tell her what had happened. She’s walking Lacey to school, because that’s a thing she’s into now – it’s not an impossible walk but it is one that’s just a little too long for an everyday event, but Wendy has been gone for five days now and next week is spring break and it’s looking like they’ll have to cancel some of their plans and—

The walk was supposed to be a treat. A little something to cheer Lacey up.

And the thing is, it works. Her sunshine child is bright and beaming after only a few blocks, and practically skipping when they turn onto the street with her school. “Can I do it myself, Mom?” Lacey asks, all wide eyes and a pleading expression that is so much like her own. She means the crosswalk to get onto school grounds, a well-marked street crossing with flashing lights and an attendant (one of the lunch ladies, Lacey said the first time they walked and saw her in her neon vest). It’s her newest mark of independence, crossing by herself. They’ve let her do it a dozen times by now. And she wants to say no, that it’s not safe, only it always has been before. And Lacey has been so sad, missing her dad and perhaps their plans for vacation.

Which is why Resa doesn’t hesitate to let her do it again today. She smiles at her daughter and kisses her goodbye, to have a good day at school, and nods gratefully to the attendant as she moves to escort Lacey across the quiet residential street.

They’re halfway across when the van screeches through, sending the attendant flying. It’s five years away from war that has her hesitating, frozen at the horror of the broken body before her. She blinks, just a heartbeat before seeing Lacey is unharmed before the door of the van wrenches open and she sees the familiar man grab her.

Another blink, a single heartbeat, and they screech away.

She’s running before she even realizes it, her phone pressed against her ear. It rings out once, twice, three times and she hangs up. Calls again. The line rings once and she’s hung up again, redialing. It rings three more times before she slams the phone closed with one hand. The van is two blocks ahead, driving faster than her desperation.

Wendy calls immediately.

“Efnysien stole the cauldron,” she tells him like she used to, when she was a soldier and he was the only authority she swore allegiance too. And then, when the words fall out to trip up her feet, sending her to the pavement, “Oh god, Lacey. Adam took Lacey.”

Whatever Wendy says in response is lost to the noise that punches out of her chest, a noise that doesn’t sound like any words. Any language. Like something far older and more primal than language, something that doesn’t even sound human. It sounds very much like it feels, shattering her ribcage on the way up. She screams and she sobs and she curses and, by the time the first of the bystanders has reached her, she thinks if she looks down she’ll find pieces of herself left behind in the street, broken like the poor crossing attendant.

Instead, she wrestles every part of herself that is a mother away, and she remembers the training from her previous life.

She stands. Shakes off the hands and the questions. Brushes blood and gravel and dirt from her knees. Pockets her phone.

They’d planned for this.

Wendy was over fifty miles away when she’d called him. He’s home in fifteen minutes.

“I called Ronnie,” she greets him at the door, a furtive glance down the street as she moves just enough to hustle him inside. The door is closed and locked behind him, deadbolt and chain. “Felt right.”

He nods. There’s nothing else to say.

Another five minutes and Ronnie is knocking at the door, a series of short and long – alpha charlie. All clear. Wendy opens the door this time with the same level of paranoia, chain and lock and calculating glances left and right before he allows the man to enter. Ronnie shuffles through the too-small gap offered to him and stays in the entryway, looking around with barely disguised interest; they’ve lived here for over five years now and never had anyone over, least of all their team. Resa watches the way his eyes stray to photos of Lacey, the ones they keep at home rather than the ones they send through email and text – the ones where she looks healthy and vibrant and alive. “Aren’t we supposed to be grounded for another two weeks?” is the first thing he asks. Resa hadn’t told him anything except their address and to come over immediately.

“Adam took Lacey,” and there’s that coldness again in Wendy, that battleground steel.

Ronnie blinks, and pauses, and seems to search for his next words very, very carefully. “I can only think of one reason he would do that,” he settles on finally, because he’s the most like Resa and David of the entire team. He’s always been a little bit more one of Wendy’s people than he’s been the government’s. She thinks, if anything, that’s why she called him.

The steel sharpens. He’s still her Wendy, she can see in the way his shoulders relax and he turns his back to the front door, but something has changed in his voice; there’s less of a challenge and more of a conviction. A promise. “I’m not letting him kill my daughter.”

None of them are naïve enough to think he wouldn’t. Theirs is a career of watching him with other people’s daughters (and sons, and parents, and—)

Ronnie’s voice sharpens to match. “Pretty fucking hypocritical, Wes. You’ve never cared who Adam had us killing until it was your daughter.” Resa has never quite known the exact relationship between the two, but she’s suspected for years; in this moment she knows with utter certainty, just as she knows it’s over. “What’s that one quote JFK used, about good men doing nothing? You’re just as guilty as any of us.”

The space between them is quickly widening; it’s not a physical distance, but more the sort that drives people apart.

“Enough!” she snarls at them both, earning their immediate silence. Resa was a wife and a mother, but she was also a soldier. “Enough. Adam has Lacey and we’re taking her back, and we’re blowing the entire thing open after. Which side of that operation do you want to be on?”

Ronnie contemplates her presence, even though he’s known her for almost ten years; it is, she acknowledges, the first time he’s known her as a witch. Takes in her torn jeans and the evidence of a generally happy life. And then his entire body shifts, and he’s at attention but no longer on alert – it’s how they always were before a mission, some mix of calm and keyed up. “You’re blowing Thorn public?”

She thinks about David dying in a crash, and about all the acquaintances she’s lost contact with. She does not think about Lacey. “Wendy hasn’t been doing nothing,” she feels the need to defend him. “He’s been telling me everything, and I’ve been making sure there’s a paper trail. Dave started it. We have everything going back to the 90s, and no matter what happens today it goes to the press in twenty-four hours.” She knows none of them will walk away from this clean – there’s too much blood attached to Thorn’s actions to not cover their hands as well. But she figures there’s a big difference between the ones who pull the trigger and the ones who pull the curtain and, well, she’s willing to risk it.

Wendy is staring at her, calculating; he knows there’s no third person in this plan, not really. Ronnie will be a welcome addition but he’s not written in or out, and she’s all but promising that the world will know about witches and their attempted extinction regardless of their survival. Instead of calling her bluff, he backs it – backs her. “Help us or don’t,” he says without meeting Ronnie’s eyes. They both look over and around the other, but not at. Not anymore. “But it ends tomorrow.”

Ronnie agrees. She knew he would; she’s known from the moment she looked at the phone in her hand and trusted her gut.

She knows CJ works Fridays, and knows he comes in before lunch to nap in the back; usually to sleep off Thursday night in preparation for Friday night. When she doesn’t see him at or behind the bar, she grabs the closest bottle and shatters it against the floor.

“What the fuck,” he calls out before he’s even pushed through the door from the back, and then again when he sees her and what she’s done. “Teresa, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m in a hurry,” she doesn’t explain, and hands him the thumb drive that she’s willing to die for. That David did die for. She gives it to him without hesitation because something brought her here all those years ago and only ever stopped pushing her when she took the time with him; her gut has never been wrong but it has often been vague. She’s not surprised when he takes it and immediately wraps it in a fist, like he also feels the need to protect it. “If I don’t come in by noon tomorrow, I need everything on this to go online. Send it to the news, the police, I don’t care. Get it out there.”

There’s always been something about CJ, about the way he interacts with her – she thinks maybe, right now, she finally gets it. He takes the thumb drive and her half-assed explanation, and his usually uncaring air is replaced with something serious. “My dad,” he tells her, and it’s somehow the most personal information she’s ever gotten from him. CJ tells her his every thought as it happens, a stream of words without a dam to stop them, but they’re just as shallow. She knows who he is on the surface, but never anything more real than that. “He’s a cop, he can get it to the right people.”

“Hopefully I see you soon,” and her gut doesn’t tell her to say goodbye.

In the end, it doesn’t matter who CJ gets the thumb drive to. They blow the whole thing open themselves.

And also two-fifths of the Pentagon.

She and Lacey leave DC before the smoke clears. Wendy gives both of them an exhausted, grateful hug before he gives Resa the car keys and tells her that he’ll handle it from here. She passes the news vans only a block or so away and wants to turn around, wants to wrap him in her arms and press kisses to his cheeks because he is her brother and her best friend and he is stepping into the spotlight to keep Lacey safe, and she is so thankful for him that she has to pull over, just for a minute. “Your dad has to talk to some people,” she tells Lacey, mostly quiet from the ordeal; she had flashed a quick smile of her old self at being allowed to sit in the front seat, but slumped against the window too soon after. “He’ll be home later.”

Lacey doesn’t answer. She hadn’t expected her to.

It’s only a little before noon before she pulls up in front of the bar – the roads had been mostly clear with everyone at home, glued to their televisions. The last sixteen hours had played out across the news stations as first a terrorist attack and then something like a political coup. And then, unexpectedly, as the shattering of lines between fiction and fact. It was a security guard who turned the tides, recognizing Adam at some point and placing him as the one who had killed his brother.

It was easy to forget that magic came from blood, not from books. That if one member of a family was a witch, they all were.

The security guard recognized Adam, and he had put his gun away and thrown out his hands instead, and he had burned. The cameras caught everything. He wasn’t the only one who worked there, either – it was like her argument with Wendy, years before, about kindergarten of all things. Their kind has been hiding in plain sight for centuries. The number was small, but it was enough.

The bar is quiet when she enters, the televisions mounted behind the bar all turned to CNN with the volume on low, subtitles scrolling across in frantic bursts. A few of the dedicated alcoholics of the neighborhood are watching, transfixed. So is CJ. “Hey,” she slides onto an open stool at the bar, and offers a hand to help Lacey climb onto the one next to her. “I owe you one.”

CJ stares at her the same way he had been at the television – a little bit of awe and a whole lot of disbelief – and doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s very obviously brought a child into a bar. “I owe you… a million, probably.”

She can’t help it. She laughs. It’s been the longest day or so of her life, but something about CJ has always felt very ridiculous but very safe. “CJ—”

“Catalin,” he interrupts. For the first time since she’s met him his face is soft and open, and she realizes very suddenly that she’s seeing him when he cares. “My name’s Catalin, I—” and here his mouth opens and closes a few times. His eyes are gold, warm like honey, and he looks incredibly young. “You took down the Witchhunters.”

There’s very few people on earth who know them by that moniker – people on the team, or the witches they hunt. Everything makes sense now. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she grins at him softly, because maybe the entire world knows about them now but it’s hardly safe yet, and however many of their kind remain need as much softness as they can find. “Lacey, baby, meet my friend Catalin.” She strokes her daughter’s hair, grateful that she’s here and healthy, and watches that spark of familiar light come back into her eyes.

“Hi Cat,” she bestows the nickname with her wide toothy grin, and is rewarded with the first real smile Resa has ever seen from the man. “Can I have a beer?”

The smile falls but his eyes are still warm, and he stares at her incredulously. “No the fuck you cannot.”

Lacey sighs and hits him with the wide, pleading eyes she learned from Resa. “I’ve had a long day,” she tells him. “I got kidnapped by Witchhunters and my mom and dad blew up a building, and then I had to sit in the car for like a billion hours.”

“You don’t need a beer, you need to do shots.” He nods and digs out three shot glasses, and he makes three very small Shirley Temples. Lacey looks absolutely delighted. “Alright brat, sănătate,” and he clinks his glass against hers, and then against Resa’s, and he shows her how to do a shot.

Wendy catches up to them two hours later, looking wrung out in a way she can’t even imagine. He slides onto the stool at Lacey’s other side just in time to watch her take another Shirley Temple shot, and he looks at her like she’s hung the moon. “Hey CJ,” he finally greets the bartender. “Any chance I can get one of those?”

Cat laughs. Resa has told him most of the story by now, the way that she and David joined Thorn to try and take it down, the way that Wendy joined them without question. The way that David died, and the way it wasn’t an accident. The way she and Wendy were married but more like siblings, about the insurance fraud and they way they juggled raising a child and a witch at the same time. “Like I told the ladies, your whole fucking family gets whatever they want for free as long as I’m behind the bar,” he says sincerely, and he jerks his head at the television screens. CNN is still discussing Wendy’s interview, the way he confirmed that witchcraft was real and that the government had attempted to obliterate it. His record helped; he was respectable and believable. “We gotta stick together, right?”

Wendy huffs a noise that isn’t a yes, but isn’t a no. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says dryly, “but I’m not actually related to this one.” This one is the way Lacey leans into his side and beams up at him, ivory and gold – she looks mostly like Resa and a little bit like David, and nothing like Wendy. She does, however, take after him in mannerisms.

Resa watches the exchange and tries to get Wendy’s attention across the space between them, because she’s absolutely sure that Cat has noticed that and most other things about Wendy as well.

He grins, soft and crooked; Resa has known him for four years now and considered him a friend for three of those, but she thinks today is the day she truly meets him. The air of uncaring sarcasm is mostly gone, aside from the sharp parts of his humor that she thinks are the most real, and his face seems more open. Eyes more expressive. She understands him better than she ever has before – she feels the same weight lifted from herself. She’s been carrying hers and David’s and Lacey’s for years. “All the more reason for us to stick together. You’re gonna need as many of us as you can get.”

Wendy takes the Shirley Temple shot he’s been offered with a wry, “One of you is more than enough, thanks,” and toasts Lacey before swallowing.

#universe: witchhunters #wednesday bishop #teresa williams #catalin shea #lacey turner bishop #the resa lives au

[kinglyisms]

♚ — @villain-he ;; Artemis & Saint. “Death can't have me. Not yet…”

   NEVER BOTHERED HEALING SOMEONE BEFORE. 

   No–perhaps that is not entirely true. When Eric was little, and he would run around and fall, when he would split wounds open and break arms, Artemis would heal him. And even now, should his son get hurt, Artemis would stitch his wounds back together and pick him up. No matter his mental state, no matter how unhinged or the form he might take that day, Eric mattered more than anything to Artemis. 

   But aside from him–Artemis doesn’t waste the energy and magic. Doesn’t waste his time patching someone up when he would much rather watch them bleed out. Perhaps even help. Dig his fingers into their gaping wounds and tear them open further. Feel the hot, red blood, gush from their body and stain his hands. That is far more worth it and entertaining to him than fixing them up. 

   THIS GUY. Artemis remembers him. They had that weird debate over murder. It had been entertaining and irritating. He had considered in that chaotic form of biting into his neck and tearing his flesh off. Consuming him. Artemis doesn’t normally ingest flesh of trash tasting pieces of shits. He hasn’t entirely figured out what they are, they smell possibly of divinity, and consuming the flesh of another god would be disgusting. 

   Following that thought process–they should be healing too. Maybe they are, maybe they’re fucking with him, maybe they’re being a childish whiny shithead. Or perhaps they’re actually hurt. Artemis isn’t immune either, with enough attempts he can be injured enough he heals slowly. Limbs in particular are irritating to regrow. When his head was lobbed off once, it took a month to grow back. 

   Should he test of it’s the same with them? 

   No. Probably not. The mess would be irritating to clean up if Eric catches him. 

   The looming deity crouches down beside the man, right arm draped over his thigh as his left hand reaches out. He poked the gaping wound in their shoulder, wiped his index finger at a line of trailing blood and then brought that red coated digit over toward his mouth. His tongue pokes out from his mouth, drags across it and tastes the bitter, copper flavor of the blood. He dropped his hand down and blinked at the man. 

   “Not bad. Could be better. You should get some vitamins.” He inclines his head slightly. “I can heal you. Or I can make it worse.”

#♚ — ( resident ) artemis. #♚ — ( inquiries ) answered. #villanhe #( 1000x apologies ) #( he's a freak ) #blood cw #( ??)

[id-rather-be-an-outsider]

My Name is Margaret

summary: born in the Entity’s Realm out of the love of her two mothers, Margaret Yamaoka struggles to ignore the dark voice she hears at the edges of her mind and stay a survivor.

word count: 2105

a/n: hey bestiessss this is my content for this month! hope my lil OC story makes u happy, MegRin shipper til the day I die

Margaret looks in her shattered mirror. It got like that because of a fight she got into with her mom. Well, her other mom. Margaret’s existence is confusing, and at times, exhausting. One day, the Entity brought her mom, Meg Thomas, and her other mom, Rin Yamaoka, together, and in a rare moment of peace, somehow, Margaret was created. Her mom seems to cling onto that moment, because it was the first time she’d been able to talk to her other mom like normal people since coming to the Fog. Margaret’s seen what her other mom is like in trials. She’s nearly dead – her skin is blue, her hair floats, she’s covered in gaping wounds, and jagged glass shards are imbedded in her flesh. It’s a haunting sight.

Margaret looks like the perfect blend between her parents. Flowing, dark brown hair that glints red in the sun and golden-brown eyes. Her facial features are half-and-half of each parent. What’s different, however, is that Margaret is covered in tattoos, from neck to toe. That’s what got her other mom so upset. Rin thinks her daughter shouldn’t cover her body in ink that will only look worse as she ages, and Margaret had the balls to point out that she hasn’t been aging. She’s been twenty-one for a long time now, and there’s no point in any of them pretending like that’s ever going to change. Meg’s heard rumors of people escaping the Entity’s Realm, but Margaret doesn’t stand a chance of ever leaving. She’s part of the Entity. Why would it ever let her go?

She shakes her head. Rin broke her mirror in a fit of rage. Meg says she wasn’t irritable like that before the Fog, but Margaret can tell it worries her. “Margie!” Meg calls from the kitchen.

“Yes?” Margaret calls back.

“I can feel the Entity calling me. Can you finish cooking and clean the dishes before I get back?”

Margaret sighs. “Okay!” She pushes her door open, the rusty hinges creaking. She walks down the hallway and into the kitchen, giving her mom a hug and following her to the front door. “Love you, mom.”

Meg sighs. “I love you too, sweetheart. Say hello to your mother for me?” Margaret looks away indignantly, frowning. Meg brushes her cheek with her hand. “Hey. You know she loves you, right?”

Margaret rolls her eyes, huffing in denial. “Yea, sure.”

Meg takes her hand back, unsure of what to do. She tries, “She just wants what’s best for you. That doesn’t mean she always gets it right, but she’s trying.” She kisses Margaret on the forehead. “Be safe.”

Margaret locks the rickety door after her mom, waving goodbye to her as she walks down the beaten path everyone takes to get to the campfire awaiting a trial. That door and the lock are so flimsy, it couldn’t stop a killer if the Entity decided to send one their way. She walks back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the noodles that are boiling in the pot, and washes the dirty dishes in the sink, setting them in the drying rack. When the noodles look good, she grabs a fork, stabbing one, and popping it in her mouth to taste the texture. They’re done. As she strains the noodles and adds the sauce, she hums to herself, ignoring the wisps of smoke tickling her ankles, then making their way up to her ears.

Whispers. “Margeret,” The Entity says, “Margaret. Aren’t you angry with your mother?”

“Shut up.” Margaret snaps, but it’s to no avail.

“You have your mother’s wrath, Margaret.” It continues. “Don’t you feel grateful that I’ve brought you to life?”

Margaret says, “I said, shut up!” And turns on the overhead fan to wave the smoke away. The Entity dissipates, but deep down, Margaret knows it’s still there. It’s all around her. It’s in the wooden floors. The plaster walls. The chicken wire fence dotting the edge of their property, the grass, the muddy, pebbled path, the ceramic tiles in the bathroom, even her clothes are Entity-generated. Even she is Entity-generated. She isn’t the only one, but she is the only person she knows who isn’t born from two survivors or two killers. Margaret’s determined that she’s not special enough to be the sole person born from a survivor and killer. She’s also determined that she hasn’t a chance of ever meeting them.

She grabs three plates out of the cupboard, plating generous portions of noodles and setting two of them on the table. She gets out two more rusted forks from a drawer, giving one to each plate, puts the leftover noodles in an oven-safe container, placing it in the oven to keep warm in case anyone wants seconds, scrubs the pot, saucepan and strainer clean, and they quickly join the previously washed dishes in the drying rack. She takes the fork she used to test the noodles and scoops up a mouthful from her plate, savoring the cream, tomato and the meat with accompanying spices. Margaret nods to herself, and takes her plate to her room, sitting crisscrossed on her bed with her food and a book. Through her closed door, she can hear Rin phasing into the house.

She’s always known, of course. That she’d never really be able to leave. She was just another device, created for the Entity’s enjoyment, and as some more insurance that Meg and Rin wouldn’t leave. But it still hurts when she wakes up one morning to find both of them gone, complete with a note left by Meg, saying, “We found a way out. Please, join us soon. I love you, my sweet girl, and so does your mother.”

So I’ve been abandoned, Margaret thinks. They can’t truly think she’ll be able to just walk out of the Entity’s realm, not when she’s so connected to it? All the same, Meg had left instructions for her to follow to get her at least part-way there.

And now, she’s sitting in the middle of the woods, having tortured an unsuspecting guest of the Fog, and nothing is happening. Nothing is happening.

She feels a wisp of smoke trickle up her spine, then hears the echoes of the Entity’s laughter. “Margaret,” It drawls, in whispering tones, “You silly thing. You knew you could never leave, yet you still tried. This whole time, if you’d had doubts, you could’ve asked me and saved yourself the trouble.”

“I hate you!” She screams.

“You are me,” The Entity says.

She screams in anguish, lashing out to try and fight it – the very thing torturing her just by letting her exist. “Kill me, then! Kill me so I don’t have to endure this.” Margaret knows better than to ask the Entity for anything – her mother had made a pact with it at the expense of her morality, and her mom had always warned her. Don’t make a lifelong decision in a moment of pain. Most parents meant suicide when they said that, but not Meg. Margaret scoffs at the memory. Her mom had meant to never negotiate with the treacherous being that brought them to the Fog. Now, when Margaret thinks about it, she realizes that Meg must never have thought that Margaret could die.

When she reflects, Margaret sees the truth. The Entity created her. Meg lied to her, set up impossible expectations for the future, and Rin abused her, trying to control her and fit her into a box. Neither of them birthed her, neither of them were really her parents – they were just occupying the house of the doorstep she was dropped on and decided to raise her. But who really raised her? When her parents were gone in trials, and Margaret was left home alone?

The Entity did. As if a floodgate opened, memories of her childhood fill her mind. The Entity, providing food for her to eat, rocking her cradle to quiet her cries as a baby, healing her wounds after her mother took her fury out on her. She looks in her mirror at the tattoos covering her body from head to toe, and realizes that the Entity was even the inspiration for the tendrils of smoke, the vines, fern leaves, the flowing locks and the connective fibers of black lines, all covering the scars left by Rin. Protecting her from the scrutiny of the harsh world around her, despite it being a world the Entity itself created.

Margaret sees this, and the Entity fully materializes. She looks at it and feels nothing but dread, as if the world is going to end. It emanates disaster and destruction, and that destruction is something she craves. She thinks about what the Entity said before. You have your mother’s wrath. She can feel it now, running through her veins. She feels… lied to. Betrayed. Abandoned. Finally, she understands the fury Rin felt, when her father turned the family katana on her, filling her with despair with every slash of that ancient sword.

She also feels… safe. “Why… why did you not stop her?” Margaret asks the Entity.

The Entity gives a shuddering sigh. “I have to follow my own rules sometimes, otherwise people don’t stay complacent. I can’t devour them if they don’t lose their spirit.”

Margaret feels tears rising, and her cheeks heat. “But you– why would you comfort me afterwards?” A few of them leak onto her cheeks, and she feels the wisps of her creator as those tears are quickly wiped away.

“You are me,” The Entity says, “And you are of me. This world I created is desolate because that’s what feeds me, but you do not feed me. You give me… companionship.”

“So you just created me to be a buddy of yours? You put me through all of this for your personal enjoyment?” Margaret scoffs, turning away, but the Entity just reappears in front of her.

“I created you to watch you grow. I let you learn from your experiences, so you would be strong. You have the speed, you have the strength, you have the fire, you have the resilience. Your mothers’ connection was forged on Earth, but the reason I allowed it to continue here…” It swishes closer to her, “Is because their synergy created something greater than the sum of their parts.” The Entity sounds… almost human. Unbearably so, because Margaret craves that. Humanity. She may not look it, but she knows she’s an imposter, borne of ash, mud, and fog. She is a mimicry of the real deal.

“But I don’t want any of that. I want to be a real person, I want to experience life in the real world, like everybody else has. I didn’t ask to be made. I didn’t ask to be some part of your fucked up science experiment. If you really cared, you’d either kill me, or you’d give me what I want.” Margaret says, and she knows she’s treading thin ice.

She feels the ice crack when the Entity says, after a pause, “I will grant you your wish. If… you do something for me.” Margaret looks up at the objects the Entity has brought forth from its void and swallows, her mouth feeling extra full of saliva, yet dry at the same time. She can feel the ever-persistent, ever annoying mucus at the back of her throat, just like this request – the one she’s fought to avoid for so long.

The family katana. But different. The entity has warped it, changed it, shifted it into something with magnificent curves, speckled in glass shards which are coated in dark, coagulated blood, like the thorns on a rose bush, and a black ribbon dangles from the handle with a charm on it. The charm is a perfect copy of Meg’s red sneakers. And a mask. Curling black tendrils that shimmer like an oil slick, iridescent and beautiful despite the destruction it causes, embellished further by more glass shards. “What is this?” Margaret asks, but she already knows the answer.

The Entity seems to know this too. “Kill for me. These are your tools.” It floats the items over to Margaret, letting them settle in her arms, like ink at the bottom of a glass of water. “If you do this… you will get your time on Earth. You will get to live, just like your mothers do.”

At the back of Margaret’s mind, there’s a nagging sensation. That memory. Don’t make a deal with the devil. But the Entity isn’t a devil, and Meg isn’t really Margaret’s mom, and Margaret isn’t really a survivor.

She’s a killer.

#outsider writes #dead by daylight #dbd #fanfic #meg thomas #rin yamaoka #meg x rin #rin x meg #meg thomas x rin yamaoka #OC! Margaret Yamaoka