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gamekids-firewolf · 2 years

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ANYWAY, since I'm still locked out of internet on my desktop, it took me a while to get to posting this here.

Aglaé is a great character he is such a bitch and I love him.

When your teachers told you that your drawings weren't representative of the 'real' you, whatever that meant, you should have known then that the world wasn't as kind to beasts like you as you'd been led to believe.

Your sister is a wonderful beast. Both of your parents love you for all the skeletal shadow creatures you draw. (They praise you for your likeness to the Vicario boy, another phrase you don't really understand but sounds much more positive than your teachers' gentle but patronising remarks.) And since your sister understands what you mean when you say, without hesitation, that you would marry the satyr most of the other kids called "scary" or "gross" in that movie everyone wad afraid of but you found captivating, you decide that it's not really you who's the problem.

The only one to understand you, outside of your family, is Damon.

He's bright and charming. You love watching him discuss his plans with Niculaie and your sister; there's so much excitement to every single one of his movements. He has a glow about him, a zest for life, you reason, that's so appealing. It's irresistible.

Even when you learn that he's already made his proposal to Niculaie (it makes sense, of course. The two of them have been inseparable since before they were school age; you tell yourself this again and again as you're sobbing into your pillow, your tiny little heart broken over this indisputable fact), you can't tear yourself away from him. Your sister is fond of him, and Niculaie isn't that bad really, and Damon exists at the centre of the whole world, it seems.

"I'm going to be the King of Hell." He tells you once while you're on the playground together, him climbing the jungle gym and you sitting in the sand and mushing together formless shapes. You look at him in earnest then as he continues like it's a declaration, like it's something he's got to get out there in the world as often as possible. "I'm the son of the devil. That's what the Rabbit and the Queen have told me. Nanny says it makes me a king, so one day I'm going to rule over all of Hell."

You watch him swing about from bar to bar, looping around so he can stand atop the thing. He does look very kingly. "I'll vote for you." You tell him.

He laughs because it's ridiculous. You don't understand what makes a king a king, but you know that it involves voting. You've heard your parents talking about it, how they've been undefeated in the polls as the heads of the French branch company for years. Even knowing this isn't how it works, though, Damon tells you, with a bright and wide smile, "Thanks. You can be my secretary if you want. A good king always has a great secretary."

(His teeth were crooked then. You can't recall exactly when he returned one day from a trip to Italy and his teeth were perfectly straightened out, but you know he had crooked teeth for a long time.)

(You know a lot of his looks were crooked for a longer time than he likes admitting.)

Once Abraham gets enveloped into your little fold, you finally feel like you might have a chance. Niculaie was never interested in being the Queen of Hell, as Damon kept referring to him, but he's very invested in being the bride to a Huntsman. Even if Abraham wasn't pretty cool and a lot of fun to play made up games with, this fact alone would make you happy with him regardless of anything else. You've been reading every book you can get your hands on (horror are your favourites, though they all end in disappointment, as the monster is usually slain at the end instead of married off or otherwise alive and happily its monster self) and you know you're adequately prepared for any such courtship ritual.

Unfortunately, you hit a snag; Damon loves both Niculaie and Abraham in equal measures.

Damon isn't interested in marrying a lowly secretary.

"You are not just some lowly secretary." Damon tells you when you ask what worth being his secretary actually has one night.

This sleepover has been trying enough, from Abraham getting into a full-on brawl with your sister (for the fun of it, of course, but it still led to a lot of bandaids and bruises) to Niculaie insisting you not watch the very fun and bloody vampire movie you had picked out, but this was the last straw and so you spilled your guts to him when it was just the two of you who were awake. He confessed to you that he considered both Niculaie and Abraham as marriage candidates ("The King of Hell can have two brides!" He proclaimed) and you just broke.

"The secretary is the one who's really in charge." He tells you quite confidently despite the clear contradiction he's painting with his words. "They're always the one making the schedules, deciding what's worth a king's time, and all that."

"But you wanted to be king." You point out.

"I trust you with my whole life, Aglaé." He tells you with a huge grin. (He tells you without realising how much he's manipulating you with that charm of his.) "That's why I want you to stick by my side. You're so smart, you can help us make sure nothing gets in our way."

He's too earnest. You're absolutely putty in his hands.

And so you agree and leave matters at that. It doesn't solve the underlying issue, that you want to be his bride and he won't even consider you for that position, but you suppose, in the end, it's for the best. A self-proclaimed King of Hell doesn't really promise to be a faithful husband, anyway. You continue being his friend and train yourself out of that biting jealousy that rears up every time he grows too lovesick over Niculaie and Abraham.

Abraham is a great actor. He plays around with you and your sister as if you're all taking part in the most dire of situations, then he'll have both of you laughing until your sides split as he pivots suddenly to the ridiculous. He's wild and untamed and you can see why Niculaie and Damon love him as much as they do, even if he's not really your type.

The three of them take theatre classes together and perform in all the school plays. You and your sister attend every single one. Damon is captivating, of course, but whenever Niculaie and Abraham are playing off one another, they hold all of the crowd's attention.

(They're the perfect couple, really. So what if Abraham's dad holds some stupid grudge against Niculaie's dad? The two are just so perfect with each other that you aren't surprised when they start acting closer than simple friends.)

("If you thought you were doing a good job of hiding it, you really weren't." You told them when they finally admitted to you that they had decided to become official boyfriends. You stayed with Damon that night as he gushed and lamented in equal measures over the happiness of his friends.)

You weren't invited on their camping trip the summer before they entered the Boarding School. It was totally a spur of the moment thing, to be fair, but neither you nor Gaëlle were invited. They're only out in the mountains for three days before they're brought back much against their wills and you don't see Abraham again until school starts proper.

It's undeniable that Abraham has come back wrong. He no longer recognises you, Damon, or Niculaie as friends; he snaps at all of you, proclaims that he'll hunt you all down as a Huntsman rightly should. And, this time, it's not just an act he's putting on for fun. He really means it.

(There's something different about his eyes. You tend to notice the way light catches on certain parts due to staring at Damon all the time; his eyes are sharpened past believable reality, too. His teeth are too perfectly straight. His face is sculpted to a maximum charm that never seems one hundred percent genuine. And now it's Abraham and his eyes and how there's something not quite real about them.)

(You remember that brief time in your childhood when Damon wore glasses. He needed them to even see past his own face, but then he returned from one of those trips and suddenly his eyesight was all better. He hated those glasses anyway. Even Gaëlle noticed that one.)

Niculaie absolutely breaks. And Damon does his best to catch all the pieces, but there's no way to mend a heart so shattered.

"Abe's dad did something to him." Damon tells you one day as he and Niculaie are hanging out after classes.

Gaëlle and their new friend, a surly looking boy named Jonathan who keeps to himself, sit around the table as well, all of you pondering what went wrong with Abraham after the distraction of the boardgame didn't work. It sits woefully to the side now, in the middle of Damon's turn. You ask, "Do you know that for certain?"

"Who else could have brainwashed him like this?" Niculaie asks in return, voice quiet and venemous. It's not aimed at you, the guy is much too gentle to ever aim so much vitriol towards his friends. He's always hated Abraham's father, however. All of you do, for very good reasons.

"He's never been to Italy, has he?" Gaëlle asks, looking pointedly at Damon.

Damon shakes his head. "It was just me and Nicu who got to go. Abe logged in over here somewhere."

"Why would going to Italy change anything?" Niculaie asks, sinking down against the table in his distress. "It was just a silly little game we played. Abe even made up most of the rules for it."

Damon's expression twists in distaste. "Yeah. Just a game." He agrees.

(You've heard him complain about the Vicario boy. He never wins against the kid who's younger than him, younger than you, and so scared that he's usually crying every time they play. But Damon can't win against him and it drives him crazy.)

(You think it's a good thing. Even a King needs to be humbled sometimes. You'll even tell him that to his face when he gets too annoying about it.)

"Can't change his mind now, since he's brainwashed or whatever." Jonathan points out. He reaches past Damon and moves his piece on the board, taking an illegal turn for the hell of it, it seems. "If he snaps out of it and comes to his senses, then great. If he doesn't, though, nothing to do about it besides move on and keep living."

His positive nihilism doesn't settle Damon or Niculaie's nerves. You and your sister, however, accept this readily. "Well said." You praise him, leaning forward to move your own piece in an illegal turn.

"We'll support you, Nicu." Gaëlle says, taking her (illegal) turn after you. Her smile is always gentler with him; she regrets showing off all her teeth and making him cry when you were younger. It restrains her beauty, but that never seems to matter to anyone else.

Niculaie and Damon agree with this as well, and in the end you continue your game from where you left off. The rest of the year is filled with reports on just how drastic Abraham's changes turn out to be (you share a good laugh with Damon over the fact that he literally tried chasing down the car Niculaie was carried home in once; what even was he planning to do if he managed to catch it?) and getting better acquainted with this Jonathan fellow.

"What'cha reading this time?" He asks you one evening as the two of you settle in for a loud night of partying.

Damon's parties are always over the top and crowded, it comes with being the Kingpin of wherever he attends, but it's nice to have solidarity with one other person now. It's nice to see someone else just as aggravated by the popularity when it was never within your nature to begin with. You're a secretary, after all, meant to pull the strings from behind the scenes. "It's a romance this time." You tell Jonathan as you show him the title on the cover: 'The One from Caracossa'. You'd show him the pages, but it's in French since you're still working your way through this author's catalogue. "It's about a roommate from another world coming to live in an unsuspecting human's home and claiming it for their own."

Jonathan nods along appreciatively. "Sounds interesting. Surprised you already finished 'The Witch's Tower'."

He remembers the titles you tell him. It's what mostly cemented him within your good graces. (That, and he's always polite to your sister, even if he's disinterested in females in general.) "That was a shorter story." You say with a smile. "Next up on my list is 'The Ivies'."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Jonathan says with a little chuckle. He gives you the time to yourself as he pores over his own notebook, filled with all sorts of incomprehensible scribbles and chemical formula.

He's a scientist through and through, you've read enough over his shoulder to know this, but it still strikes you as an odd sticking point about him. He's hiding something more than his lack of interest in heteronormativity, you just can't place your finger on what.

He does, though, leave you to read until Damon strides his way over to get you involved in some silly party game, so you never look further into it. Jonathan is allowed his own secrets just as you're allowed yours.

It is ridiculous, of course, how adamant Jonathan is about his friendship with William Ernest (his roommate) being purely intellectual. Everyone else never bothers to question him on it either, however, so you hold your tongue and allow him his deniability while he can still claim it.

The year you enter the Boarding School, several new elements are introduced. One of them is that Damon gains himself a new crush in a fantastic manner. (You can't help but replay the scene in your mind from time to time; him going up to her so confidently and her punching him in the face for even daring to speak to her. If you weren't so convinced you'd be punched next, you'd love to shake hands with this legendary Paige Philips.) Another element is that this interest in a girl who has no interest in returning the sentiment brings her roommate, one Natasha Zima, crashing into your life. (And it is a crash. The way she wiggles right in-between you and your sister as if she's been your middle sibling this whole time, it's baffling. None of your unkind remarks or active disinterest dissuade her from her endeavours. She's here to stay and proud of it and in the end you can't help but admire that type of commitment.)

The final element is, of course, your introduction to the Wolf.

Petel Vitayev is an intriguing beast. You watch them bite and snarl as if they themself are flesh and blood the wolf they claim to be. You see the way they growl when raising their hackles and wonder, quite dementedly, what it might be like to ruffle them up purposely.

(It has nothing to do with jealousy. You rid yourself of most of that back when you made peace with Damon's inability to settle for a single love interest, after all. The way he hangs off this wolf, the way he drags them into your established group of friends like they absolutely have to belong by decree of the King, don't factor in at all to how much you wish to see this wolf bite and make it bleed.)

(Perhaps you've done away with the pretense of the whole thing by this point. You've been called beautiful to a nauseating degree and the only ones who see the true sharpness to your teeth are this gang Damon's drawn together, so you stopped playing polite and showed those fangs to those who refuse to respect them.)

Either way, you and Vitayev butt heads more often than you'd like to admit.

Worse still, Damon always, always, sticks up for the Wolf's defence.

"They're capable of fighting for themself, you know." You tell him one day as the two of you sit in his house. He's invited you over to study a few things for the upcoming History exam and you needed the refresher anyway. "They're a wolf. Untamed and beastly."

"You tend to go for the throat when you choose to battle." Damon says in reply, looking up from his papers and equally annoyed as you are about this. "Your cuts are always deepest and I'm sure he takes that as a challenge."

You wrinkle your nose in even stronger distaste. "I can fight my own battles, too." You stress.

"There shouldn't be any fighting in the first place." Damon sighs, as if this whole thing is more troublesome than it is personally offending. "I wanted to carve out a place of understanding and welcome for monsters like us, not create an even more hostile working environment."

He doesn't quite understand. He never will, you suppose. He's flawless and beauty and shined to an unnatural sheen and still, and still, and still, he insists he's a monster.

He's most like you in that sense; all roses on the outside, nothing but thorns on the inside.

"You're a snake." You tell him.

It's not ridicule. It's not really fondness, either. It's just a fact. He still frowns at you funny, unsure of exactly what you're communicating when you tell him this. "Is there something wrong with that?" He asks in the end.

You want to grab his face and kiss him. You want to punch him out just the same as Philips did. Perhaps then he'll understand what effect this endlessly oozing charm he has takes on others. "It's just a fact." You say in the end.

Petel doesn't stay with your group, too enamoured with Philips and her rebellion against the Kingpin. You see it as a battle of egos; her style of ruling is just more appealing to an unruly wolf like them. You've lived with Damon for so long now that you're not sure how you might deal with someone else trying to usurp his position.

A year passes and you continue your stalemate with this flaring emotion burning inside you. Damon enjoys his time at the top, Natasha keeps acting more familiar than she has any right to, and Abraham continues to be an asshole.

The arrival of the Vicario boy is what tips the scales. You're sure of it.

Suddenly, Damon has trouble keeping his cool and collected demeanour. His face slips often enough that it's surprising no one else comments on it; perhaps they're all too afraid by this point. (Or maybe you're the only one actually paying attention enough to see it.) The way he squints at the boy as if it's hard to see him, the slight show of his teeth still being a little crooked at the tops; maybe you're the one seeing things that aren't really there? Abraham's eyes, too, tend to act up in the vicinity of the Vicario boy, a reminder that there's something wrong with him every time you see him around the school. Vicario can't help but scream at every little thing that so much as makes too loud a noise or slips by too quickly, which is just…odd.

He's so different than the kid you'd built up in your head. Surely, you said to yourself, the one whom Damon could never defeat would have much more intimidating a presence. Surely, there's no way Damon lost again and again and again (enough to make him hate this poor kid to the point of actively encouraging Fiamma and Charon to fuck with him like they do) when he's the meekest little thing you've ever seen.

There's some sort of trick to it, you reason. There has to be.

But whenever you get the chance to interact with him, he flees as soon as he possibly can. Like he's nothing but the personification of fear.

(It doesn't help that, when you do manage to exist in his vicinity for even a minute, that beastliness flares up inside you. Vicario seems attached more so than the others to Petel and you're still dying to poke the wolf until they burst from that flesh prison of theirs. You poke and prod Vicario in that stead and nothing comes of it because he always flees.)

(There's clearly something wrong about him. You just can't figure out what it is until the game is activated.)

Right, the game. That's the other reason why you're convinced Vicario tipped the scales with his arrival.

Damon never paid the rumour of the towers any mind before this. "They just hold a bunch of boring janitorial stuff." He said to all of you consistently every time one of you brought it up. "Ain't nothing in there that'll shut the school down or whatever. Besides, they're always locked for a reason."

He dismissed it every time.

But now that Vicario's arrived, all of a sudden he wants to break into them and expose what's inside.

"Why are you fixated on this?" You ask him at lunch one day, after another one of his attempts to rally your whole gang into action. "What's in there can't be that damning."

"Especially not for such a high profile kid like Vicario." Jonathan agrees.

Damon shakes his head at the two of you, already upset about his whims going unanswered for a whole month. "It's not just about destroying Vicario." He assures you, lying through his (perfectly straight) teeth as he does so. "It's about having fun with it. You'll see one we get in there. It's gonna be more than just a little bit of petty revenge on my part."

(Maybe that's why you get stuck with the Thief instead of the Prince. It was just bad timing, just Damon's zealousness to get there first. Really, though, it was just karmic retribution for his own animosity towards Vicario himself.)

(You imagine sometimes what it might be like were your gang to handle the other one instead. What it might be like bouncing off his incompetence and wide-eyed wonder instead of dealing with her viciousness and lack of all other thoughts. She's as fixated on her goal for destruction as Damon and it's fitting for that reason, but you can't help but wonder about a softer fate.)

"How can it even be revenge? You said there's just a bunch of janitorial equipment in there." You say to Damon at the time.

His expression goes a bit weird. Like there's something he wants to say, but is blocked from doing so. "You'll get it when you see what's inside." He says.

You do not, in fact, get it once you see the scanners and the computer. But that all falls by the wayside once Jonathan manages to pull out one Vektoria Ketxiah and upends all of your perceptions about what this was supposed to be.

Vektoria is a whole different beast from anything you're used to. She's the thing you were most afraid of; she struts in like she owns the place and immediately starts dishing out orders, as if you're all indebted to her somehow. As if she's the new ruler of the school and all of you just so happen to be her willing peons.

"You agreed to assist me in my endeavours the moment you stopped me from completing my goals." She tells all of you later at lunch, after she's been formally introduced as a new transfer and has declared all of you as her gang members. (No one is pleased about it.) "You stopped me from deleting that Prince and settling our score, therefore you have to take retribution by helping me get back to his Kingdom to delete that instead."

"Can't you delete it from the level select hub if you really wanted?" Natasha asks, hesitant to do so.

It's a valid point. One you've thought of before, too. Vektoria's black eyes glint with an unobstructed malice as she says, "The chase is the fun part. Besides, what sort of Thief would I be if I didn't steal victory right out from under him when he least expects it?"

Damon sighs and says, "Video game logic."

"I don't think you should really be deleting a whole level of the game in the first place, let alone one of the main characters." Niculaie points out meekly.

Vektoria scoffs at him. "Him, a main character? He's more a footnote than anything so grand."

"He's a Prince, though." Jonathan points out.

"Won't deleting important data make the system go all screwy?" Natasha tries next.

Vektoria goes right back to that malice in her grin. "I'm counting on it." She tells all of you.

So there's one instance of intended murder you can jot down on your list. You're surprised you even need one, but you suppose that's how your life has been trending anyway with each escalation. You go back to your book and mumble an aggravated, "Don't expect us to be of much help, then."

Her whole attitude really doesn't gel that great with the cohesion your group has built up. Damon is the uncontested leader. Even Ian and Nick understand this. Yet she barges right in and expects all of you to follow her every command with zero explanation or building of any good faith.

(For what, for what, for what? You keep screaming it in your head, you can't understand what drives her to be this at odds. Is it contrariness for the sake of it? Misplaced rebellion? For what does she parade around and act like the most important player in the world for? For what is she expecting to accomplish by destroying the most interesting thing to happen to you so far at this Boarding School? For what??)

Needless to say, your ventures into the actual game are ruled by just as much chaos as expected.

"Our path lies ahead." Vektoria announces while you, Natasha, Niculaie, and Damon are all too busy taking in the sights of the white foliage, the depth of field, the inmersiveness of this game, to properly listen. Vektoria's outfit is more that of a fencer than a thief, though that might be what her hood (or is it a scarf?) is for. "Try to keep up, now. We've got a long road ahead of us."

She takes off into the forest, faster than any of you can hope to follow.

That day, you all end up getting kicked by two mishandled Tigers. Jonathan can't even help all that much, the system being as incomprehensible as it is.

As she storms out of her centre scanner ("Only I'm allowed to use this one." She told you as you entered for the evening. "It was built for me."), she screeches, "Why didn't any of you follow my lead?"

She tries her best to stay on her feet, but the momentum is too much. She skids to stop and instantly collapses to the floor in a heap. One hissing, miserable heap of a computer program. (She's just a program, you have to remind yourself; being as infuriating as she is seems to be enough of a trick to make you think she's just another person.) Jonathan sits back from the computer and says to her, "You didn't exactly make for an easy to follow target."

"We got swarmed by enemies!" Natasha points out next.

"How come you didn't head back and help us out?" Damon asks, tutting. "That's bad form for a leader."

"I'm the one you need to worry about keeping safe." She huffs in reply, managing to at least sit up so as not to be in a heap anymore. "I'm your guide through this experience. If I jump into a fight and get kicked out, then there'll be no progressing until the next day."

It's the excuse she'll parade around every single time and you hate it a little more with each instance. She refuses to help you during battles, leaving things mostly to you and Damon (it takes Natasha a few tries to get used to her wings and Niculaie has no arms at all for some reason) and the both of you are too close range to avoid getting away with some of the crazy manoeuvres you do.

The first time Niculaie goes Berserk, you end up getting taken out first.

"This is fucked up." You declare as you sit with Jonathan, Natasha, and Damon, waiting for AIR to do something about your friend who is still very much trapped inside this game.

(Vektoria couldn't wait. Of course she couldn't. That girl can hardly sit still for her classes, let alone wait for someone she doesn't see as more than an asset to be used for her own gain.)

(Even now, the thought of her ruling style makes you want to drag your claws down something fleshy and make it bleed.)

"They've only ever considered him a vampire." Damon says, equally as upset as you are.

Natasha asks, "Why is he a vampire, anyway? He hates being cast as one."

Jonathan grimaces, understanding the lack of control any of you have in your inheritances. Damon is the King of Hell, you're the Secretary to the King, Niculaie is a Vampire, and Jonathan is the duplicitous lawyer. You say to Natasha, "Why are you a bat girl?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. I've always thought bats were cool, I guess?"

"Our builds were predetermined." Damon points out again, doing his best to fight this misconception Natasha's built up.

She huffs at him, hands to her hips. "Paige says that Petel's a wolf and Hammy's a hunter, though. Those are exactly what they wanted to be."

Intrigued, you ask, "What about Vicario?"

"He's a fire." Damon answers.

Jonathan cranks up his sarcasm as he says, "And Frank's a necromancer or a doctor or something like that. Perfect sense."

It doesn't really answer much of anything, but you suppose it doesn't really have to. It's a weird game with weird rules in a weird place. (It's just something you have to deal with now in order to get rid of Vektoria.) Damon won't come right out and say anything about it, but you've realised that there's a block on his ability to do so and as such you refrain from prying too hard.

(All the answers he could give aren't desirable anyway. Part of you knows this so inherently that it's so much easier to pretend like this game has no deeper meanings that you kinda even forget about it in the first place.)

It takes another hour for this game to finally spit Niculaie out. You and Damon carry him home and Damon even walks him right up to the door. You stand outside the gates and wonder just what happened to make him hate his legacy so much. Besides the obvious, that is.

Abraham has a great reason to hate everything to do with his father. Well, he did before this sudden change he went through, at least. Niculaie, however, is descended from vampires and that's cool as shit. You just can't understand his reluctance towards it.

When you meet up with the other half of this gaming squad, you don't really agree with Damon's assessment. Vicario isn't fire so much as he's surrounded by fire. It isn't until the final stretch of the White Forest do you actually understand just how literal it is, when you're bouncing off his raised wall and backing away as fast as possible.

"That took a real chunk outta your health." Jonathan reports from above as you're swearing behind your teeth. Natasha is the next one to encounter these flames as they crash down on top of her like a wave from the ocean. "Whatever that is, be careful with it."

You don't get a chance to reply with something sarcastic, as a little chat between you, Natasha, Frank, and Petel leads you to racing the wolf to the end of the Forest.

It's probably the most fun you've had so far in this miserable experience. It reminds you of the games you used to play with Abraham and your sister. Back when you, Damon, Niculaie, and them were all you cared about in this world. The end of the level isn't anything spectacular, but it is a definitive end and you stand there staring out into its abyss with Petel and Frank until Vektoria comes crashing through.

Watching Vicario wall her off and ultimately defeat her is so, so satisfying. Especially after she attacked you and Natasha for no good reason.

Less satisfying is the news that Vicario destroyed Damon again, but you understand why now. Vicario is, indeed, fire in person form.

"We had a good run of it, don't you think?" Natasha asks as she, Niculaie, and you make the trek back to your last checkpoint because Jonathan can't be bothered to pull you out from where you are.

"We'll just have to try again later." Niculaie agrees.

You nod along, saying, "They're done, so only AIR can stop us now."

"And Vektoria." Jonathan says in aggravation.

Natasha laughs while you and Niculaie groan. Even Niculaie can't find it in himself to tolerate her. That's the level at which you all find yourselves with this computer program. Damon is similarly unenthused over all this, though for completely separate reasons.

Niculaie, Damon, and you all have to walk home in the dark of the evening, snow falling gently all around you. It's never really struck you before how the chill can bite to the bone, but having clashed with a wall of fire makes that disparity in temperature stand out more than ever.

"I get it now." You say to the air, to the cloudy and dark skies above, to the space around Damon instead of at him directly. It's a delicate topic. You might as well respect that for once. "How Vicario is strong enough to best all of us."

Niculaie nods along, growing despondent. "He can't lose." Niculaie says. "He was always very clear about that."

"He's a damn menace is what he is." Damon grumbles, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "All that power, and for what? A miserable little coward like him?"

"Fear is a great motivator." You counter. "It's what's kept humans alive for centuries."

Niculaie pauses to give it some thought, though Damon waves dismissively. "What's he trying to prove, anyway? That he's able to survive? Fat lot of good it's doing him."

"Why do any of us survive?" Niculaie asks. The sincerity in his tone gets Damon to stop dead in his tracks. When he turns to look back at Niculaie, his red eyes are blown wide with actual fear. Niculaie's are full of something menacing. A knowledge of something too painful to speak aloud in no uncertain terms. "We've all been through the process. Vicario may be the only one so personally acquainted with it, but we'd all be better off forfeiting our lives than continuing as we are."

Damon surges forward and grabs onto Niculaie's arm. "I'm not losing you." He says. He's desperate. It makes his form quiver, the uncertainty disrupting that perfection almost to the point of shattering.

Niculaie says in an affirmation of sorts, "You won't. Not yet."

You can't help but be fascinated as you watch. (You can't help but be disgusted.) "If persisting is the only thing left, no wonder you can't understand." You say, breaking their moment with one another and forcing them to look at you. "You reside upon a throne of privilege. He's been cast from the good graces of his peers. You may come from similar places, but you are far from the same."

You wonder if they can see the depths of your displeasure as they stare at you. You wonder if you've managed to convey even a fraction of your devotion through that alone. Damon releases Niculaie and backs away a step with a soft, "Sorry. Just. I don't want you to shatter again."

Niculaie says, "I'll be stronger." He smiles and looks your way, surprisingly. "We both have wonderful friends to put things in perspective when we stumble."

"He just called me a privileged twat, though."

Damon runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. The trick of the darkness makes you see sharper nails there than he actually has. You think about his less perfect appearance in the game (crooked teeth, crooked horns, red fur and hooved feet, that beauty mark taking up half his face and nearly crossing out both his eyes) and close the distance between the three of you in order to hook your fingers into his coat pockets. "A King needs humbling at his most prideful." You remind him.

Niculaie laughs and Damon rolls his eyes, but the two next envelop you into a warm hug. You're not really one for physical contact, preferring to share that only with your sister, but you think this is nice. You could get used to this.

They're both friends of yours. You would fight to protect their bared claws and unruly fangs.

It's what a great secretary might do for their King of Hell.

#Game Kids #Game Kids need their own tag #Aglaé Desrosier #Damon Asheford #Niculaie Vladimirescu #Jonathan Wallace #Gaëlle Desrosier #Vektoria Ketxiah #Natasha Zima #Abraham van Helsing IV #my writing #Spoilers #Fire and Wolf #Fire and Wolf: Game Kids Book 1

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metaphor-cheese · 2 years

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Ok but…can we talk about how doofs first reaction to making a work of art he was really proud of was to go get roger? He doesnt even look like he wants to rub it in his face or anything in that flashback he looks like he genuinely just wanted to show his brother something. My heart….

#do you think the reason roger felt so bad about ruining it he spent 20 years restoring it was because this was the only time his brother had #ever tried to share something with him?#doof cant really be faulted for not wanting much to do with roger since he was a child and couldnt recognise his parents favouritsm wasnt #rogers fault #but still roger was also a kid and likely not able to really understand for much of his life why he didnt have a relationship with his bro #so to have his brother come to him in a moment of excitement like that genuinely wanting to share something that made him happy…#idk i think it meant a lot #he clearly felt VERY bad about ruining it #and even as he aged and started being a dickhead to doof when he was old enough yo fully comprehend what he was doing he still continued the #restoration #oh god i just had a hesrtbreaking thought #what if instead of this being a single moment doof and roger actually had a phase in early adulthood of trying to be real brothers #like roger had just gotten out of his home and they both genuinely tried and doof actually put aside his resentment #and thats why he ran to him because for a short time they actually got along and then this wad what ruined it #help #EDIT: WAIT I JUST REALISED. DOOF KNEW ROGERS EXACT FAVOURITE LUNCH DOWN TO EVERY LITTLE THING #SUPPORTING THAT THEY WERE ACTUALLY GETTING ALONG BRIEFLY OH NO

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sovtwords · 3 years

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the shape - sawamura daichi

pairing: sawamura daichi x reader warnings: 18+, dubcon, loss of virginity, stalking, hunter/prey dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, referenced abstinence, public sex , rough sex, knives, unprotected sex, implied/referenced character death, porn making/videos w/c: 6.8k a/n: welcome to chapter 6 of thirteen nights of whorror! please read the tags before proceeding - if you think i am missing anything let me know and i'll fix it. this chapter is inspired by michael myers from the halloween series, though i changed it up a bit - instead of stalking solely on halloween night, he has been stalking reader for around a month. enjoy! feedback is appreciated! - ao3 link - Thirteen Nights of Whorror MASTERLIST

Somebody is following you. Of this, you have no doubt in your mind.

You can’t pinpoint when exactly it started, or how long it has been going on for, but you know exactly when you came to this realisation, and with it came the sinking of your stomach like a stone in the water.

Maybe the pinpricks of paranoia had always played at the back of your mind when you were out and about; buying groceries, shopping in boutiques, taking your dog for a walk in the local park. You had put it down to just the internal conditioning a woman possesses when being cautious outside, always alert for the dangers that lurk. But it had never been so apparent to you until a month ago after taking on a babysitting job for some extra college cash.

Every night you spend with the kids is pretty routine - you arrive in the evening while the parents go out doing whatever, you cook their dinner, you get their teeth brushed and you dress them for bed, where they’ll eventually fall asleep while you stay on the couch reading the latest book and wait for the parents to stumble in the door, hand you a wad of cash and send you on your way.

It’s easy money and exactly why you took the job. Routine was welcome.

But one hitch in the routine was enough to make it fall apart at the seams, one little thread at a time.

When one of the younger ones vomited all over your pretty blue blouse, arguably your Sunday Best if you’re being honest, you had no intention of sitting in a sour smelling shirt until you could go home. That meant sneaking your blouse into the washing machine while the kids were asleep and you could afford to walk around in just your bra for a bit until it was dry.

But as if fate had willed it, as if the gods themselves had graced you with a sign, you tilted your head upwards at just the right moment to look out of the window and into the darkness of the night as you tossed your top into the dryer.

And it was then, you saw him.

You hadn’t thought anything of it at first glance, eyes barely flickering over the shroud of night in the backyard. Yet as your eyes kept returning to that one spot like a magnet, a few seconds of staring revealed that no, that was not garden decorations you were staring at right now, but it was in fact a face, or better yet, a mask, staring back at you from just beyond the garden fence.

It was a dull white, and just about the only thing that stood out in the dim lighting the garden lights could provide. But it unsettled you greatly, made all the hairs on your body stand up in fright, made you physically recoil away from the window, made you sweat all over despite the chill that had coursed through you.

Yet as you grabbed the closest knife you could to defend yourself as you planned a way to get to the phone and call the police as fast as you could, it was gone when your eyes returned to the spot you had seen it, and a further hour of standing there, peering at the dark, sick to your stomach with anxiety and fear, wondering if he’ll come back and hurt you or the kids, proved that he had in fact disappeared, and he never came back that night.

You weren’t sure at the time whether that was a good or bad thing.

And with just one chance meeting, your entire life was turned upside down as you were doused in fear like it was gasoline and that stranger was the one with the lit match, ready to set you alight and watch you burn with the stoicism befitting the evil of his kind.

You couldn’t relax while babysitting the kids on any other day, almost considering leaving the job and focusing on your mental health after everyone brushed your concerns aside and treated them as the hallucinations of a college girl who had one too many all nighters recently. No matter how many times you’d talked to them, even showing them reports on the news of a man who had escaped a nearby sanitarium and was on the loose for weeks, unable to be found, they just wouldn’t hear you out. It was just a lack of sleep, they said. You were furious, ready to walk out the door forever, but two fat stacks shoved into your trembling hands and a pay increase had you staying with great reluctance.

But you cannot ever shake the feeling that you are being watched, that the white mask has come for you, to chop you up into tiny pieces and eat you for breakfast.

You feel it when you change in the morning, hastily running to close every blind and window in your room but still feeling an itch on your skin. You feel it on your commute to college, walking with hunched shoulders and eying the bushes in the sweet neighbourhoods as though he was lying in wait, eyes zoned in on your skirt through the green bushel and red azalea flowers that every seems to have nowadays, littering the sidewalk with petals that remind you of little droplets of blood. You feel it even when you’re surrounded by crowds, feeling the pinprick of a singular set of eyes tingling at the back of your neck and making you want to curl up into a ball and fade away into the noise.

You’re losing sleep, you’re losing your sanity.

And no one will believe you.

You’ve tried telling everyone you could, even going so far as bringing it to the police, but they brushed away your concerns like it was dirt on their shoulders. ‘You’re just imagining things, miss. This is a nice town - nobody does that kind of stuff here! Ain’t no boogeyman out to get ya!’

It made you want to tear your hair out in frustration. And it even made you question your own mind. It was the month of October - lots of spooky things happen around now, right? It wouldn’t be uncommon to see people getting into the spirit of things early and wearing costumes, or even just supernatural things happening out of the blue. Maybe you were just going crazy, sipped too many Cokes, balanced too much work on your shoulders, stayed up reading too many magazines or sneaking in reruns of Charlie’s Angels and wishing you were as beautiful as Farrah Fawcett.

That was until Halloween night, and all of your fears were confirmed exactly as you had thought.

Falling asleep in a public library while studying was not ideal, having to walk home late and alone was even less so. It was nearing twelve, and the streets were mostly clear of any trick or treaters or crowds, save for a few drunken stragglers coming back from parties or rowdy teens smoking behind sheds. You were, more or less, on your own until you made it back home.

Every mask made you jump, every noise made you twitch, until you were nearly sprinting down the road in an effort to make it to your home faster, before someone just up ahead walked out from behind a tall hedge to stand directly in your path like a road block.

Someone tall and well built, wearing dark mechanics overalls, and an expressionless white mask.

There was no mistaking it. This wasn’t some random person dressing up.

It was him.

The chill sent up your spine is proof enough.

You’re frozen in fear, locked in a standstill as he stares you down, not moving an inch, like he was a statue, a man made of pure stone (he certainly looks it, you think stupidly, he’s nearly bursting through those overalls), and notice rather belatedly the knife he grips in a white knuckled fist.

It was as though someone slapped some sense into you, for you took off into the nearby woods hidden just behind the suburbs after seeing the knife like an idiot, thinking you were safer in a dark and dense forest rather than knocking on some nearby houses for help.

Adrenaline makes you do dumb things, apparently.

You don't dare look back to see if he is following. You just run and run and run, deeper into the woods, away from civilisation, until your legs burn from exertion and your chest fights for air, and then you run some more. You can only hope that he has no interest in chasing some girl into the woods, preferring to target the drunkard dressed as a cat lying in some bushes.

After what seems like hours you finally stumble to a stop and collapse against a tree, legs weak and like jelly, hands struggling to grip onto the wood as you inhale as much oxygen as you can yet still feeling like it'll never be enough.

You hazard a look at your surroundings. The trees look dark and wicked, nearly stripped of all their leaves and reaching out to you like inky black fingers, hoping to snatch you up and keep you trapped here forever. You can't even see any lights from the town - you're too far away and the forest is much too dense now.

After a few minutes of frantically looking out for the man in the mask, you take a deep, stuttering breath, and begin to cry.

It's cold, you're lost, and you're afraid. You are torn between deciding whether to try and head back, thinking he might have found interest somewhere else, and staying here until it gets brighter, hoping you can find your way back home with the light of dawn guiding your way.

Both are arguably terrible options, and so you just sit here and cry, scrambling to gather your thoughts and think more clearly despite the fear pumping through your body.

Your temporary safety was short lived, however.

Over the sounds of your cries, you hear, rather closely, the sound of something snapping. A branch, perhaps, breaking under the weight of something stepping on it. Anyone would argue that it was a wild animal trekking through the woods, and you might be inclined to believe them, were it not for the combat boot standing directly on top of said twig, crushing it to pieces in the mud.

Your eyes trail slowly and reluctantly up his frame, from a pair of black boots, up long thick legs that you spot despite the baggy overalls he wears, a bulky chest that rises and falls steadily and makes the top button strain with his size, and finally that damned mask that has stained your dreams for the past few weeks, like a ghost haunting you.

You whimper like a pathetic dog as he stares you down, unfeeling, daunting, like a statue, staring down at you with eyes that hide a myriad of thoughts or none at all. You can’t tell. Because he just stares, knife poised in his thick hand, unmoving with his horrible judgement.

"Help! Somebody, please - help me!"

The only answer you receive is the hum of nature, laughing at the silly little rabbit who allowed herself to be caught in the maws of a wolf.

“W-What do y-you want from me?” you stutter through sobs.

He does nothing.

“P-Please! Why did you follow me?! Why me?!”

He says nothing.

“Don’t h-hurt me, I’m begging you!”

Nothing.

The terribly long silence, awaiting your doom, makes you feel as though you are about to vomit your heart out onto the grass, beating sadly as he’ll crush it with his boot until it explodes in an array of blood and gore. It drives you mad, steals the air from your lungs, and the longer it goes on the less you can take it.

Your eyes zip around his broad frame, looking for an escape, and your feet seem to move before you even will them into action as you bolt up from your crouched position and dodge underneath a branch poking out of a tree, sprinting past him in a craze without looking back.

That is until your foot gets lodged underneath the roots of another tree, and with a shrill cry of pain and panic you fall to the ground as your ankle twists, a sickening crunch sound followed by a hot bloom of pain swelling in your leg letting you know that it’s definitely broken.

He’s already standing over you when you look up with blurry, frightened eyes, neck craned all the way back to view your tormentor who stands above you, evil incarnate.

“Please,” you sob woefully, shaking into the wet grass. “D-Don’t kill me.”

A pregnant pause as you wait for the knife to tear into your flesh.

He bends down and you flinch, only to feel the roots trapping your foot lift and tear from the ground, and you’re stupefied at this man's strength as he breaks them away to free your foot. There’s a pulsing ache in your ankle, and you know running away is useless - you won’t get very far. How cruel of him to dangle freedom in your face, knowing you’ll never get it. Another moment of quiet staring. You break first.

“What are you going to d-do to m-me?”

You can feel the eyes that hide the mask burning into your skin. He tilts his head upwards only once, and it takes you a moment to realise that he wants you to stand. It’s sad, really, how you fumble in your attempts to stand like a newborn fawn, using the tree for stability, hugging it like those hippies from the communes you’d seen on the news. He doesn’t help at all. Only watches like he’s always done.

The man in the mask stares at you. You stare back.

He lifts the hand wielding his knife, and a scream gets caught in your throat as he points it at your chest. You can’t bear to look at it for long, shutting your eyes tightly to push away the sight of the blood splatters painting the knife in crimson, away from staring into nothingness as he steals your life away from you.

This is it. This is where you’ll die. And nobody will ever find your body. You are going to fade into the earth, buried beneath twigs only to become little flowers that will wither and be forgotten.

There is the sound of something tearing, but it isn’t your skin.

Your shirt is roughly ripped asunder, a flick of the knife shredding the silky fabric of your blouse to bits as he shreds it from your body. You can barely move in your shock as he destroys your clothing, skirt joining your top on the forest floor, and soon your bra and underwear too, until you are completely naked before him, except for the frilly white socks you wear with your Mary Janes.

The cold nips at your skin, and any attempts at covering yourself up are futile, because whatever you hide with your hands just isn’t enough as he openly stares at the flesh laid bare, a wolf to a rabbit. You tremble, both from the cold and the mask, and the rough hand slapping your arm away where it’s pressed over your chest makes you yelp.

You try to fight back, preserve your modesty, but he grabs your wrists in a tight grip and pins them above your head, effectively pushing out your chest for his scrutiny. His hand is big as it covers a breast, squeezing awkwardly, tweaking your nipples with interest, as though he isn’t sure exactly what it is he should be doing with them. He’s rough as he experiments with your chest, and you grimace with every rough tug of your buds, with every second he simply holds your tit in his palm like he’s weighing it.

His hand suddenly drifts lower, palming and playing with the flesh of your stomach, and you hold your breath as it goes lower still. His hand feels surprisingly warm as it cups your mound, as his fingers press directly to your slit and rub so lightly. You make a noise of surprise and jerk your hips, but accidentally move too hard as your clit grazes the heel of his hand. You bite your lip to hide the whine building in your chest, but it’s too late, as the white mask looks up from where he was openly staring at your cunt to stare into your face. Shame floods every corner of your body as much as fear has - this man has been stalking you for days! You can’t get off to this!

But apparently, he wants you to.

The man’s hand grinds against your clit in a steady rhythm, and while you fight it as hard as you can, the cold air doesn’t bother you as much as your body grows warmer with each clumsy touch to your nub, as something builds up in your gut the longer he pays attention to your sex.

Calloused fingers spread the lips of your pussy, and you’re embarrassed at a lot of things in that moment - at the whimper you emit when he lifts his hand to eye level in curiosity, at your slick sticking to his fingers and connected by little strings when his spreads his fingers, at the fact that you’re still terrified for your life right now and expecting to be stabbed at any moment in time, but your inexperienced body, so pure and virginal and saving yourself for marriage, is reacting so positively to the attention despite your mind screaming at you to get a grip and run at the first opportunity.

But God, does it feel so good when he brings thick fingers back to your sex, teasing your entrance to gather your juices and rubbing them in circles around your clitoris. You gasp, loathing the way you buck into his hand, at war with yourself internally as he brings you closer and closer to something you’ve only experienced once in your life with your doors closed and your own dainty fingers.

This feels so good...

He’s going to kill me!

Might as well enjoy it before I die, right?

This is insane, why am I even thinking this way?!

“F-Faster!” you grit.

You feel like you’re lacking something, though, as you’re brought higher and higher to heaven, feeling it rise when his fingers press more firmly, move even quicker. You clench around nothing, juices leaking out onto your thighs, craving and preparing for something to move inside of you, and the thought of the man in the mask, the menace hovering over you and hiding you from the world, putting his cock inside of your weeping hole both excites you and frightens you. You’ve been raised on the idea that you should savour it for your wedding night, not have your purity stolen by college boys and older men.

To possibly be ruined by this man…

You hate the moan that falls from your lips at the thought.

You are certainly tainted by madness, it seems.

"Don't stop, please! I don't- what's happening-"

His fingers move even faster now, flicking from side to side with a speed that has you gasping. You can feel it, you can feel it coming, that special feeling that seemed like a myth only told in forbidden romance novels, it’s-

Your moan of pleasure is trapped in your chest as you fall over the edge of ecstasy, cumming hard on his hand, wishing you had something to hold onto for balance but he still keeps a bruising, painful grip on your wrists. You writhe in his hold, blind to the bark of the tree cutting the skin of your back as you ride out your high; shaking, moaning, sighing through waves of pleasure, head falling against the trunk of the tree.

Your breathing sounds loud in the silence that follows, drowning out the sounds of nature with each inhale of chilly, October air. He’s staring into your face once more, so silent, solemn, and you can’t possibly even begin to guess what kind of thoughts he has right now.

You shift uncomfortably, wanting to go home to safety, yet also letting a sick, demented part of you enjoy the attention and pleasure he’s giving you, and that’s when you brush against something hard, poking at your belly.

Your heart stills, assuming it’s a hammer he’s brandishing to deliver blows to your skull, but it doesn’t seem to be coming from his pockets at all when you squirm again. Instead it’s between his legs, and it isn’t until you hear a noise so faint, so alien, do you realise that the mask emitted a small grunt as you touched that hard thing again. And then it clicks.

You blush furiously as the weight of arousal bores down on you, the heaviness of realisation that someone wants you so badly.

You test the waters, try another press to his bulge. It earns you another strangled moan, and so you do it over and over until he’s rutting into your abdomen, the slacks of his overalls chafing the skin of your belly as he gets progressively rougher. He lets go of your wrists suddenly and you let them fall limply to your sides with a dull ache, unsure of what to do now that they’re free.

He regards you silently, as always, and try as you might to see into the eyes behind the mask, you just can’t. They’re hidden, lost. Dead.

There is a glint in the moonlight, a flash of silver as your attention is brought back to the knife on his waist, and it seems as though you only have one option if you had any hope of surviving tonight.

With shaking hands you reach up to the top button of his overalls, fiddling with the button, struggling to will your hands to stop their trembling before it pops open. You can see bare skin underneath, tanned, a dusting of chest hair, and it almost seems odd; to see such normal features on the monster that has haunted you for weeks. You look at him with uncertainty, unsure if you should continue or if the knife will zip across your neck. He makes no move to stop you. So you keep going.

It takes far longer than you would have liked to reveal the built chest underneath the overalls as the top half of the suit dangles over his waist, torso left only in a white vest that looks ready to tear at the seams over all of his muscles. He’s big, bigger than you could have imagined with the suit in the way, and on top of a new layer of fear, images of him snapping your neck with no effort at all, it comes with a wave of arousal that floods your senses as you trail delicate fingers over his biceps, his collarbones, to the edge of the mask he wears.

Before you can even think about pulling off the mask to look at the beast underneath, he’s stepping back to lower his overalls down his hips, enough so that his erection springs free. Your walls flutter at the sight - a cock nearly as thick as your fist, with throbbing veins decorating the flushed shaft leading down to his balls. You suddenly think to yourself how you want it inside you, how you want it to fill you up, the missing link that you were craving, to take your purity away with a single push.

The man in the mask grabs your hips abruptly. He lifts you up with an ease that could rival Hercules, and pins you against the tree with his broad chest, wrapping your legs around his waist. On instinct you lock your ankles regardless of the flare of pain and scramble to find purchase on his wide shoulders, digging into his skin, but he voices no complaint. It dawns on you that this is a very big moment, as the tip of his cock teases the lips of your sex. This is the moment where you become a woman, according to your mother - who had enforced years of abstinence on you to fit in with good, traditional family values and to avoid staining the family name. Oh if only she could see you now, about to lose all virtue in the arms of a man that terrifies you to no end. Your mind screams at you to stun him, run while you can, protect your life and your innocence, but your body tells you to allow yourself to fall into ruin, for how bad could it be if it feels this good?

There is no saving you after tonight. You can only pray that you see the morning rise.

He enters without warning, and you screech to the night sky above like a banshee.

Your vision is blurred with tears, staring at the starry sky as though they were flashing lights, trails of white zooming across the night sky as you move your head around weakly, trying to comprehend the breach of your walls, the loss of your virginity to the boogeyman.

"S-Stop! Be gentle, ah-"

It's useless. He isn't listening.

The stretch is painful, and you think that no amount of preparation could have ever prepared you for him. He sits thick and hot inside of you, stretching well past the point of comfort, a stinging in your groin growing more prominent as he pushes himself all the way in until your hips are pressed flush to his. You often wondered how it would feel with your future husband; if he would treat you kindly, if he would prepare you like your friend said her boyfriend had done when she lost her virginity, if he would take it slow and steady for you so it could feel just as good for you as it would for him.

But you suppose it is pointless pondering on such thoughts, on what could have been, as the man in the mask barely gives you a moment to adjust before he starts pounding into your tight hole. You had every opportunity to make a run for it, to risk your life and get away from him. But you stayed and let him touch you, desecrate your body, bring you a taste of sinful pleasure so that you hunger for it some more like the greedy soul you were. Now you just have to deal with it.

Your teeth bruise your lips, biting harshly on the plump flesh as he fucks into you without care, slapping his hips into yours, crude and loud. Whimpering and crying in his arms, his grip on your ass tight as he kneads the flesh and spreads you apart for him, you fight to find some pleasure in the entire ordeal, the same kind he had shown you moments ago when he rubbed your clit ferociously. You feel something, the occasional brush of his toned abdomen against your bud, his warm body pressed to your chest and grazing your nipples with every jerk of his body, but you crave more.

You sneak a hand downwards with a grimace of discomfort, trying to slip in between how close your bodies are, and sigh with relief when the first touch of your fingers immediately scratch at the itch, begin to soothe the pain and switch it out for pleasure as you circle it lightly. Arm wrapped around the man's neck you focus on the pleasure you’re gaining from touching yourself paired with the pistoning of his cock inside of you, getting lost in the fire spreading in your limbs. You don’t even realise how loud and frequent your moans have become as you screw your eyes shut, but he certainly noticed. He feels it in the sporadic tightening of your cunt, the pretty gasps and whines in his ear, the ones that still hold an edge of fear, whether it be from the ecstasy building or the man himself.

You thought you were imagining it at first, mistook it for a sound from the world around the bubble you’ve inadvertently created with this killer, but you’re suddenly aware of the heady grunts from behind the white, lifeless face. They sound broken, desperate, as his pace gets more and more erratic and wild. It shouldn’t surprise you considering he’s getting his dick wet with a purpose, but it does. You suppose it adds some sort of humanity to him - that he’s just as affected as you are. But you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Without giving it much thought, through the haze of pleasure that’s now overtaking your every sense, you use this moment of weakness to reach up with your free hand, trusting him to still hold onto your body as he is (using it more like a hole to fuck than treating you like a human being), and rip off the sinister mask in one quick movement, throwing it carelessly to the ground next to your tattered clothes.

Your eyes nearly fall out of their sockets.

You expected a monster; an unsightly beast from the depths of hell who preys on pretty girls when they’re alone. You may have even expected an older man, given his large, terrifying build, paired with the reports of the escapee from the sanitarium that you now assume to be him. But neither of those theories were true.

Instead you’re faced with a young man; tanned skin, thick brown hair, dark eyes. He is, by most definitions, a very handsome man, one whose smiles you reckon could steal hearts and whose eyes could turn heads. You even think, with a certain level of trauma induced insanity, that you may have fallen head over heels for him if you had met him in one of your college classes, or may have even gotten married to him if the circumstances were different, more opportune than they were now.

He looks like a normal guy.

But his face - his face is so terribly cold, impersonal, like his soul had never been there inside of him at all. It feels as though you had not even ripped the mask off to begin with, like you’re still staring at the same faceless, white mask as he looks directly into your eyes while his thrusting turns almost violent, moving with pure animal instinct.

You're looking at him, but all you see is pure evil.

"O-Oh my…"

You feel like you can't catch your breath, the force of his cock stealing it away, thoughts swimming to the surface of how this was a terrible idea, that you should scream and kick and run now that you've seen the face of the man who wants to ruin you.

But you feel it building again, orgasm steadily rising, heat pooling in your gut, it makes you lock your legs around his waist even tighter, the dainty frills on your socks tickling his muscled back. Sweat builds at your brow, you're on fire, fighting to stay grounded but everything just feels so good.

The man angles his hips and you whimper at the feeling as he fills you up even more, rutting into you like a sex driven demon. You don't know what to do anymore except let him do as he pleases, trying to figure out where to put your hands, what to do with them as you now feel like it might be impossible to start touching yourself again with how tightly pressed his body is to yours, like he was trying to merge his entire being with you.

But he seems to know what to do with his hands. He grabs a fistful of your hair, cranes your neck back to look you dead in the eyes, and holds you there. Try as you might to look away you just can't - caught in a twisted trance, falling deeper into pools of malevolence.

Baby blue painted nails bite into the tough skin of his shoulders, his neck, his hair, hoping that you could give him a taste of the agony he’s bringing you, but he makes no sound of pain - only pleasured grunts and groans, mute but crystal clear to your ears from the close proximity. Your scalps stings and there’s a muscle pulling in your neck, but it all fades away with your orgasm fast approaching.

“Please, I-I’m so close! Keep...keep going-”

You’re not even sure why you’re begging for him to keep going. Something tells you he was going to do that anyway. But it gives your voice something to do, other than let loose unfiltered, pathetic moaning and panting, high pitched innocent whimpers that would make you cringe if you had heard it when passing one of those adult movie theatres.

The man’s hips begin to lose what little pace they already had. His thrusts are unpredictable, fast and even crueler than before, and now you’re really at breaking point, knowing he is about to reach his end too. There’s no point in crying about pregnancy and abstinence, not when you’ve already fallen this far.You are pretty sure he isn’t going to stick around to pay child support anyhow. It strikes a new cord of fear in you, but you have no time to dwell on it as you come to the edge of your orgasm.

“Oh! Oh God, I’m gonna...hmm, I’m there!”

Feeling like there’s one thing missing before you succumb to ecstasy, you boldly take his stoic face in your hands, let madness control your limbs, and plant your lips in top of his, letting him swallow up your screams as you cum around his member, clenching and unclenching, reaching a boiling point and feeling damnably hot.

He doesn’t kiss you back. The man behind the mask just groans quietly against your lips, lets you move and lick at his lips all you want, but doesn’t show you an inkling of affection that you had deluded yourself into thinking he would grant you. His hands on your rear tighten, and you feel hot spurts of his cum shoot into your cunt and filling you up endlessly, cumming and cumming until finally he stops, leaning his weight on top of you with a chest moving up and down quickly as his forehead rests on the tree behind you.

As the bliss from your orgasm fades, clarity rushes in like an unwanted guest, and you’re all too aware of the world around you and the man in front of you; the torn clothes on the ground, the fingers pulling at your hair, the distance between you and the safety of the busy neighbourhoods. A shiver runs through you, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the cold air settling back onto your cooling skin.

“Are you g-going to...k-kill me now?” you stutter lamely, afraid to even breathe now that his time with your body is up, he got what he wanted. As expected, he says nothing as he raises his head to look at you again, a miniscule furrow to his brow telling you that he thinks of you as nothing more than a mere bug he’s toying with before he’ll grow bored and crush it in a splatter of body chunks and blood.

“What do you want from me?” you question in despair. He stares. “I don’t want you to h-hurt me. L-Let me go home, I won't tell anyone I saw you, I s-swear!”

When you attempt to move your body, squirm out of his hold and take off naked into the city with globs of his cum running down your thighs like you can feel already happening, he leans even more heavily into your body until it feels like your lungs are being crushed.

And then you feel it - he’s still hard inside of you.

The man removes his hand from your hair to grab the knife dangling at his waist, pressing the sharp side of the blade to the smooth skin of your neck. You swallow harshly, and it pierces the skin, causing rivulets of blood to make their way down to your heaving chest, over your nipples, staining the white vest he wears like blooms of red flowers. Silly you for thinking you could get out of this alive. He’s going to have his wicked way with you and leave you here to rot for eternity.

His hips pull back, and then forwards, repeating that motion again and building to a faster rhythm as he begins round two, this time with the knife touching your neck for good, threatening to slice and stab if you misbehave. Something tells you he might even continue if he kills you this way by accident.

It’s only then do you allow yourself to start crying again, no longer feeling any sort of pleasure in this.

You are going to die tonight.

Of this, you have no doubt.

“Stop, please be gentle,” you give an exaggerated whine, finding it hard to concentrate on what little dialogue you had written in your script over how good fucking Daichi feels, when suddenly his movement stops, and you no longer feeling the delicious brushing of his dick in your walls, lightly teasing your g-spot with every thrust.

“Oh- oh fuck!” Daichi swears as he tears off his mask, and a broad palm is brought up to cradle the side of your face with such gentleness it could make you cry if you were a lesser woman. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you, shit.”

You blink. “Wha- no. Daichi, it’s part of the script! You don’t have to keep apologising when I say something like that.”

Daichi’s eyebrows raise to his hairline, and then an embarrassed look scrunches up his face, flushing a bright pink as realisation dawns on him.

“A-Ahh, yeah I...I forgot for a second,” he winces, still holding onto your body tightly, determined not to let you fall. “...I’m sorry for messing up another take.”

You smile kindly. Daichi was such a sweetheart, putting others above himself. “It’s ok, we can still use some of that footage and just try again.”

“I feel like you probably picked the wrong guy for this,” he laughs, but it sounds uneasy, lacking confidence that you usually know he possesses - a sturdy, reliable confidence that brings up the people around him. Like a leader. “I’m not very good at this. It’s my first time filming anything related to...sex.”

“Could have fooled me. I think you’re a natural in front of the camera. And a great fit for Myers.”

You pause when Daichi narrows his eyes a tad. “Well, you know. A great fit but without all the murder and creepiness, of course. You’re both tall, muscly and handsome!”

Daichi shifts you higher in his arms so you can sit comfortably on his forearms while the crew get ready to shoot another take. “How do you know he’s handsome?” he scoffs. “He wears a creepy mask all the time.”

You shake your head resolutely, delivering a few tsk’s and a kiss to his nose. It makes him smile, and your chest flutters at how pretty it looks on him. Damn. you should have written his character smiling at least once in the script. It’s too good not to share.

“Ah - ahh. Beauty comes from within, after all. I think the scariness and hot bod overpower the ugly mask anyway. So does having a mask kink.”

A thick bow is arched in bemusement. “...You’re strange,” he settles for saying as your crew calls for the actors to get back into position. His words make you laugh cheekily.

“I know. But it’s why you like me and agreed to do this. Congrats on your porn debut, hotshot!”

Daichi rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in his actions, in the thumb that rubs soothing circles into your scratched up body. Note to self; avoid filming sex in public - bark is not good for skin.

“Gee. Thanks.” He laughs deeply, and his grin turns soft. “...really. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Muscles.”

Daichi pushes his cock back into your entrance in preparation for the next take, and you both sigh pleasantly at the sensations on both ends. He licks his lips, gazes at you shyly.

“....Please don’t tell Suga I keep messing up. He’s going to use that as fuel to make fun of me.”

“I’m sorry Daichi but I can guarantee you he already knows about this and is making a powerpoint presentation about it to show the rest of the house so they can tease you, too.”

Daichi sighs, a sound too old for his young body.

“My suffering is never ending.”

#thirteen nights of whorror #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu!!#haikyuu smut #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! fanfiction #hq smut #sawamura daichi #daichi x reader #daichi hcs #daichi imagine #daichi x y/n #daichi x you #daichi scenario #daichi smut #daichi fluff #daichi sawamura

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dearcat1 · 3 years

Note

Hi there! I absolutely adore Xanxu's parenting adventures, but I could only find 8 & 9. Is there a tag I can check out for the others? Sorry for the bother, super excited to read it! Thank you for writing it!

Screw it hahaha that tag is not working no matter what I do about it. I'm just going to post everything that's already published here. So: sorry about the long post.

And for anybody who's interested in reading it, I'm putting the next ones under "parenting adventures au". That should be a better tag.

I hope you like it! I meant for it to be cute.

[Xanxus’s terrible bad day]

Part 1 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus does not, in any way shape or form, appreciate mad scientists. He spits out the blood, cleaning up the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The other hand keeping a tight grip on his remaining x-gun. Irritated, he just keeps glaring at the toddler whimpering in front of him.

Seriously?

What the fuck!

How is this even his life, Xanxus doesn't know but he demands a fucking raise. And all the goddam alcohol. All of it. Every single fucking drop.

This is ridiculous. The enemy is dead and even Xanxus feels a little uncomfortable with the amount of blood and dead bodies surrounding a two-year-old. Or what looks like a two-year-old, in Xanxus rather uninformed opinion.

Brat picks himself up, eyes still watery and then… oh no, oh no, no, no. He makes grabby hands at Xanxus. Xanxus sneers, uncomfortable but the newly miniaturized Sawada just pouts stubbornly, stumbling on wet sticky blood as he tries to make his way to the older Sky.

Xanxus's reaction is pure instinct. He lunges forward, grabs the kid by the back of his overly large hoodie and pulls him up. Brat settles on Xanxus's hip, tiny face hidden against Xanxus's shoulder and the Wrath stands there, feeling more than a little awkward.

Alright, then, he thinks. Fuck it. So an armful of mini-mini-Sawada in one arm, a gun in the other hand. Base full of dead people who are either already dead or soon to be. Because Xanxus is through like that.

Clearing his throat, Xanxus hoists the brat up a little more and stalks out of the room. Cleaning up the base is easy enough, finding Byakuran's little note on the desk should be more of a surprise than it is.

"Have fun on your vacation! You can bond now ~ :3"

Right, Xanxus needs a raise, all the alcohol, and a marshmallow enthusiast killing season.

[Cabin by the sea]

Part 2 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Finding the little cabin by the sea is easy enough with the handy map the marshmallow freak left for them. Mini-mini-Sawada is a surprisingly obedient toddler so Xanxus is still uncomfortable but at least he isn't deaf from crying fits.

The only time the brat had cried, it had been silent sad tears that managed to make Xanxus feel like an ass when the brat confessed to being hungry.

Note to self: brats need food.

So Xanxus had settled in in the little cabin, laid the brat down on the smaller bed for the night and thrown himself to his own bed, intent on waiting this shit out.

Except that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a toddler sneaking into his bed and now Xanxus can't sleep because mini-mini-Sawada is tiny. As in smaller than Xanxus's chest tiny and Xanxus is not a good man, he's not a kind man.

But there's a toddler sleeping on his chest, all trust and far too delicate limbs and Xanxus finds himself terrified of falling asleep because what if when he does, he moves and crushes the little brat under him? Then the brat would suffocate and die.

And yes, Xanxus could, potentially, just pick up the brat and return him to his own bed. But what if he doesn't wake up the next time the brat sneaks in? Because if Xanxus has learned something these last couple of days is that mini-mini-Sawada might be mellow but he also has a stubborn bone that won't be reasoned with.

In the end, Xanxus ends up staying awake all night, staring at the ceiling with a hand keeping the toddler in place, just in case he rolls over and falls to his death or something. He waits until the hour changes from absolutely ridiculous to marginally decent to leave the bed.

Doing stuff with a toddler on his arm is easier now that he has practice, his morning routine is no different. It's just when he reaches the point of taking a shower that he finds himself at a loss. They stink, they need to wash. Xanxus has no idea how to clean a brat and he's pretty sure that toddlers don't wash themselves.

Xanxus looks longingly at his phone and snarls, ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi stirring in his arm. "Fucking dimension without YouTube. What the fuck."

[Watery warfare]

Part 3 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Xanxus decides on the bathtub for practicality. It seems like a bath would be easier to handle with a toddler than a shower. Especially a sleepy, clingy toddler. Except that the second Xanxus set the brat down, brat went absolutely fucking insane.

Watching bemusedly as the brat slaps the water around, Xanxus ignores the mess it's making on the floor and chuckles. "Yeah? Show it who's the boss, shitty brat."

Tsunayoshi just screams louder, cackling like a maniac.

"Yeah, yeah." Shrugging, Xanxus sits down on the tub, ready to wash himself. He'll clean up mini-mini-Sawada after.

Mini-mini-Sawada has other ideas, however. As soon as Xanxus settles down, the toddler reaches for him and Xanxus helps him sit beside him, lest he falls down and drowns. "What? I thought you were in the middle of a war, trash. Can't just abandon that, you know?"

The toddler just sticks his fingers in the shampoo Xanxus has just poured into his hand.

"No, that's not for you." Xanxus rolls his eyes, scrubbing his hair and ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi watching him curiously. Ok, so maybe Xanxus might be developing a bit of a soft spot for the toddler. Maybe. It's just… the brat's flames might still be dormant at this age but that doesn't change the fact that whatever is still there… it resonates with Xanxus.

And that's a relief. It is, because it means that Xanxus might not be Timoteo's but he's still Vongola enough for this. Besides, the resonance helped Xanxus get over his initial 'ew, baby' aversion and is probably the reason the brat was so quick to trust Xanxus.

He wonders if it'll translate to the grown Sawada, once he returns.

There's just something about mini-mini-Sawada, so small, so breakable and so trusting, that makes Xanxus feel a little protective.

[Shopping trip]

Part 4 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

It takes Xanxus about a week to concede that this won't be a quick matter. Which means that they need clothes. Xanxus could, in theory, keep washing his uniform daily and it wouldn't be a problem. Except he's fucking tired of doing laundry and the brat can't keep wearing the same oversized hoodie for days on end.

He turns to look at mini-mini-Sawada, who is curled up in Bester's flank, fast asleep, and sighs. It seems they're going shopping.

Which is easier said than done. Unearthing the wad of cash and credit card the marshmallow freak left behind is easy enough, taking mini-mini-Sawada is easy as well. As long as Xanxus doesn't put him down, they're alright.

No, the issue comes from the clerk who is watching Xanxus like he's wondering whether he should seek the police on him for kidnapping. But Xanxus is still a Sky, no matter that he doesn't do the polite charming shit that Tsunayoshi and Cavallone are so fond of.

"We had a little accident," Xanxus shrugs, gruff. "He needs clothes."

Still, the clerk seems unsure until mini-mini-Sawada straightens in Xanxus's hold to point at something in the store. "Ansus! Beste! Look, Beste!"

Bester, Xanxus knows, is back in his box but he turns to look all the same. He takes a good look at the white cat plushie and laughs. "Yeah, that's Bester alright."

Ignoring the now bemused clerk, Xanxus makes his way to that rack and offers Mini-Tsunayoshi the plushie. The toddler grabs it instantly, cuddling it to his chest and Xanxus snorts, catching a look at bath toys down the ail. Well, fuck it. They're spending Byakuran's money anyway, might as well treat themselves.

"Come on, you need ammunition for your next bath."

It is entirely possible that Xanxus got a little shopping happy but he gives about zero shits, the tiny shirt with a printed 'Mini-Boss' on it is Xanxus's absolute favourite.

He buys his own clothes quickly and makes a bee-line for the cabin, mini-mini-Sawada cheerfully waving goodbye to the shopping mall.

[Nap]

Part 5 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

What the fuck, Xanxus thinks, bemusedly. It should have been fine. The weather had been nice and the cabin has a nice piece of beach right there so Xanxus had taken the brat out and yes, maybe, Xanxus took advantage of the nice weather to take a nice nap.

But it should have been fine, Bester had been napping with the brat. Covered by the shade. And the brat never wanders off anyway. Bester would have woken Xanxus up if something had happened or handled it himself.

And yet, here they are.

Xanxus wakes up to find Tsunayoshi sitting next to a hole, definitely of Bester’s making and lapping the water from it?

He has questions, Xanxus has so many questions.

First, how did they get water inside the hole? Where does this water come from? Also, why? Bester looks too damn proud of himself, Xanxus adores him but right now, he’s not sure he trusts the liger. Tsunayoshi laps the water again, makes a disgusted face and repeats. “What the fuck?”

Laughing helplessly, Xanxus stands up, patting the sand off of his clothes. “What are you doing, you little shit?” He picks mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling him on his hip.

The brat tries to reach for Bester, “juice?”

“No,” Xanxus chortles, gesturing for Bester to follow. “That’s not juice, trash. That’s seawater at best. What the fuck.”

“Fuck!”

“Shit,” Xanxus picks up their stuff with their other hand and makes his way back inside the cabin to hunt down some juice. “Your parents are going to lose their shit over that, aren’t they?” Toddlers usually don’t use curse words, he knows that much. Then, he remembers that the father in question is fucking Iemitsu and shrugs it off.

[Tuna-fishy]

Part 6 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

They get returned to their original universe about 4 months in, to them at least. It looks like they’ve been gone for barely a week on their own. Xanxus doesn’t care about that, he’s more concentrated on the strained little smile Byakuran is sending to mini-mini-Sawada.

“What!?” Xanxus snaps, ignoring the toddler’s face hidden against his neck. Brat is shy, that’s all.

“Aaah, yes,” Byakuran shifts uncomfortably, sending a bemused look Xanxus’s way before looking back down to Sawada. “That wasn’t part of the plan?”

“Are you fucking asking?” Xanxus ignores mini-mini-Sawada trying to share his crumpled snack and twitches, debating the virtues of calling Bester or seeking his elements on this moron.

Iemitsu, apparently, decides that’s his moment to shine. Bastard has been starry-eyed since the second he caught sight of the toddler in Xanxus’s arms. And no, Xanxus is, in no way, shape or form, annoyed by this. The consigliere steps forward, big goofy smile on his face, “Tuna-fishy! Come to papa!”

And mini-Tsunayoshi loses his shit, loses it completely. As in loud screams and tears and a grip hard enough on Xanxus’s shirt that the Wrath wonders for a second whether he’ll rip it. Xanxus reacts on instinct because he’s been looking after this tiny brat for months now.

He shifts his weight to put distance between his toddler and the idiotic blonde and points his gun directly between the asshole’s eyes. His elements react with him, of course, and Xanxus finds himself bracketed between Squalo and Lussuria, all traces of humour lost.

“What the fuck, trash?” The question is met with silence but all of them saw the way the toddler’s mostly dormant flames recoiled from the man.

Byakuran steps forward, hands up in placation. “Now, now, no need for this.” He lays a restraining hand on Sawada’s shoulder, “I do believe it might be sweet Tsuna’s nap time?”

Xanxus takes the out, pivoting from his spot but not holstering his gun until he makes it all the way to the car. The brat is still making his best impression of a limpet and Xanxus sighs, cleaning some of the tears off the kid’s face.

“Fuck, Ansus,” the brat mutters sadly into the fabric of his plushie.

“Yeah, yeah, what the fuck.”

Somewhere in the background, Lussuria coos.

[Apple Slices]

Part 7 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures.

Xanxus wakes up with a tiny brat nestled on his stomach and Bester stretched out by his side. Right. He starts the morning routine without thinking much about it before he remembers that they’re not in the little cabin by the beach anymore.

And by remembers, he means he gets forcibly reminded by Squalo breaking down his door with a “voi! Wake up, shitty boss!” Lusurria trailing happily after the swordsman with breakfast in hand.

“You trash!” Xanxus growls quietly, “if you wake up the little brat, you’re dealing with the pouting!”

Luckily for all of them, the toddler has migrated to Bester’s flank while Xanxus went around preparing the things needed for the bad and is now busy sleeping away, face buried in his plushie.

“And get more napkins,” at Lussuria's odd look he adds, "brat's a messy eater."

Though now it seems like they'll be eating before bathing which is actually more practical. Why hadn't he thought of that? Doesn't really matter, this is how they will do things now. He picks up his own plate and eats quietly, ignoring Squalo's attempts to get Xanxus to do paperwork with the ease of long practice. Only once he's done he goes to pick mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling the sleepy toddler on his lap.

Tsunayoshi is more asleep than awake but he’s docile enough. “Juice?”

Xanxus’s mouth twitches up, “yeah, sure.”

Lussuria squeals, offering him a glass and Xanxus just knows, with one look, that shit is going to get messy. He accepts the apple slice being shoved into his mouth and says nothing. Luss can deal with this shit. "It's good," Xanxus approves, giving the brat another.

Mini-Mini-Sawada bites half of it off and then promptly falls asleep, slumping bonelessly to the side. Xanxus catches him before he can fall off, caught between incredulity and laughter. "The fuck?"

(Juice)

Part 8 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus stalks into his office with mini-mini-Sawada on his hip. The Varia as a whole are smart enough to know that if he has one arm tied up in keeping the toddler in place, it means he still has one hand free to shoot them dead. “You trash,” he growls at the closest grunt, “bring me my wine!”

“Juice!” Mini-mini-Sawada adds, waving happily.

“And juice,” Xanxus adds, patting mini-mini-Sawada’s head agreeably. He lets the brat down on the floor inside his office, eyeing the paperwork. Fuck that thing, honestly.

By mini-mini-Sawada’s side, Bester chuffs gently, picking the toddler up by the back of his shirt and settling him between his paws. Mini-Tsunayoshi turns to hug the liger as best he can, happily waving his stuffed toy around and babbling up whatever comes through his head.

Toys, Xanxus decides, they're going to need those. Is two years old too young for a toy gun? Hmm… Well now he has google, doesn't he? Oh look, Timoteo's weekly ridiculous requests. He picks them up with a snort, fishing for some pencils in the drawer. "Here," Xanxus offers them to his brat, "this is your portion."

Mini-Mini-Sawada has taken to imitating everything Xanxus does. If Xanxus indulges him, it's simply because it makes things easier and no other reason whatsoever. He ignores the happy little squeal, smirking at his paperwork. When Squalo comes to pick up their finished piles, he makes a face at the brat's handiwork.

Xanxus glares, absent-mindedly cleaning the toddler's face after their snack.

Squalo just huffs, irritably pushing his hair out of his face. "Voi, FINE! Don't complain to me if they bitch!"

"Fuck that trash," Xanxus doesn't care about what they want.

"Trash!" His toddler smashes his juice box in agreement. Xanxus lips twitch. Ok, so he's a little fond.

(Strategy)

Part 9 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Timoteo knows something is going on the moment that the door opens for the Varia's scheduled paperwork drop and it's not only Squalo coming through it but also Mammon and Lussuria. He has half of the Varia in his office when it usually takes months of cajoling to get so much as one other than Squalo. And even then, for this very same dropoff.

But the Varia are a lot like cats, there's no use in pushing them too much. You have to dangle the bribe and wait for them to come to you. So Timoteo doesn't show hesitation, he simply settles in to give their paperwork a quick check. There's never any blood but he does get a kick out of seeing the progressively more ridiculous fake signatures over the line with his son's name.

This time, it's a toddler’s handprint in ink so strong that some of the text is no longer legible. Timoteo blinks once, twice and then looks up at the gleeful faces of the Varia Officers. "What is this?"

"The mini-boss," Mammon begins, smug and greedy, "is living up to his name,"

Oh, Timoteo realizes, thumbing through the paperwork with new eyes and finding the sort of drawings he hasn't seen in over a decade. Iemitsu had been over yesterday, Timoteo had listened to his ramblings with half an ear but now it's starting to make sense. It hadn't been Iemitsu's usual delusions, Tsunayoshi really is a toddler now. Carefully, Timoteo picks the drawings from the rest of the papers. "Name your price."

Squalo smirks, "vacation. One week, full expenses covered, anywhere we want."

"Done," Timoteo stretches his hand, waiting patiently while Squalo looks inside his bag and comes up with a little plate. Tsunayoshi's small palm is etched on it, colourful kid's drawing decorating the outer sides, under it, in Xanxus's elegant writing, it's Tsunayoshi's name in perfect japanese.

"It's perfect."

"Whatever," Squalo snorts. "Voi, nice doing business with you." Squalo turns on his heel and walks out the door, his two tag-alongs following behind him.

#fanfiction #khr #katekyo hitman reborn #xanxus #sawada tsunayoshi #ask #anon #parenting adventures au

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caswellprmanager · 3 years

Text

drawbridge

read it on ao3

Ship: Ricky Bowen/EJ Caswell

Summary: Snippets of EJ Caswell's life leading up to the mystery that is Ricky Bowen.

Notes: Hello. I decided to bite the bullet and post something here! This technically is in my Trans!EJ and Genderqueer!Ricky AU but I haven't properly written anything for it yet so consider this one to be the first official fic within that universe. Feel free to send some asks or other headcanons in my inbox about the AU! I'd love to hear what people think (but don't be unnecessarily mean. I will delete that very quickly.)

Disclaimer: I'm not an expert in all things transgender or genderqueer. I am writing from my own experience within the spectrum however so it's truthful to what I have been through, but will not represent everyone else's experiences. I also have friends within the spectrum who have given me great advice on how to go about these things but once again, it won't be accurate to everyone's experiences.

Warnings: Mentions of gender dysphoria, transphobia, and neglectful parents

People always told EJ that he had the picture perfect family.

His mom and dad were successful corporate lawyers, they lived in the wealthiest suburb in all of Salt Lake City, and he was the kind of child other parents would compare their own children to saying, "why can't you be more like EJ?"

But EJ knows that's farthest from the truth.

He doesn't have the picture perfect life or the paragon of White American families that people think they do. His parents are affectionate and supportive only when there are people around to comment on it. Most of the time, they're not even at home, leaving all of the child raising to their maids and other house servants. EJ spends more time at Ashlyn's house than he does at home because at least his aunt and uncle actually treat him like a son.

Because there are days his parents would forget they have a son. Sometimes they'd slip and call him their daughter, which makes EJ want to disappear from this world altogether. He supposes he should be grateful that they even bothered to pay for all the things he asked for — binders, testosterone shots, and regular visits to the doctor to check up on him throughout his transition. And he is grateful. He knows so many kids like him that can't even afford a decent sized binder without going bankrupt. He used to be that kid until he gathered up all his courage to come out to his parents.

But what they told him?

"Well, if you're gonna be our son, you will have to work twice as hard to make us proud now."

Yeah. It's a lot to process when you're 12 years old and scared shitless that you'd be disowned for "disrupting the natural order." But he figures things could be worse. So he sucks it up and vows to become the kind of son that his parents could truly brag about.

When EJ was a kid, he loved mysteries. His parents were the greatest mystery of them all. He's spent so much of his time trying to figure out what makes them happy, or angry, or sad. He's put the clues together and has a cork board of pictures and red string at the forefront of his mind whenever he so much as tries to interact with them. Soon, he sort of figured out what makes his parents smile at him — when EJ is excellent.

So, he became excellent at all kinds of sports, took up piano lessons, studied until his eyeballs burned with the lowlight of his desk lamp — all so that he could maybe get a pat on the back from his dad and a small smile from his mom. Their versions of "good job" or "keep it up." He drank that all in, craved it even, and worked his whole life until now to get even an iota of his parents' affection.

So, when he meets Ricky Bowen, the lanky and extremely clumsy skater who seems to live in the detention room, he was met with a brand new mystery to solve.

"Who's that?" EJ whispers into Nini's ear, who just seems to be irritated by the new person's presence.

"That's Ricky," she says with the barest hint of affection but with a whole lot of irritation. "My ex."

"Huh," He says, intrigued by the way Ricky's movements stutter like a half-finished stop motion film and how their wide doe eyes scan the room like — unironically — a deer in headlights. They looked nervous, confused, and all around terrified and EJ wants to reach out to them and tell them that this was a safe space. That they could be whoever they wanted to be in the theater.

He glances at Nini when Ricky starts singing a song that she seems to recognize. The immediate tensing of her shoulders and the way she subconsciously reaches out for EJ's hand for support tells him that this song... means something. Or meant something. EJ's not quite sure but he squeezes Nini's hand in silent reassurance, bringing himself to half-glare at the guitar playing skater just a few feet before him.

He met Nini during theater camp. A firecracker of talent with a voice that could melt the heart of even the coldest man on earth. She was beautiful in the spotlight and even more ethereal beneath the stars. She was kind, gentle, and a mystery that EJ solved quickly enough. She wore her heart on her sleeve despite it being broken because she believes that broken hearts can be mended with time and patience.

Nini was patient with him. She was patient with him when he took her up the little hill next to the campsite just to watch the stars on an old picnic blanket he stole from the camp counselors. She was patient with him when he couldn't keep up with the dance steps. Her hand was warm in his own and the flush of her palm by his neck was a grounding force that kept his head from going in the clouds.

She was especially patient with him when he took her to an empty tent and told her about his life. Nini was kind. Nini was patient. Nini was safe. And if she were to walk away and tell him that she wanted nothing to do with him after what he told her, he would have understood and learned to not associate kind brown eyes and ukulele calloused fingers to what could be barely described as home.

But she held his hand in her tinier ones, a smile on her face that radiated warmth that seeped into the depths of his soul, and told him that she was proud of him.

It was the first time that someone was proud of him... for just being him.

He cried into her arms that night, knowing he's got a lifelong friend within the kind brown eyes and ukulele calloused fingers of one Nini Salazar-Roberts.

"She thinks I'm a Chad?" He asks, less incredulously and more with a burning curiosity.

Nini rubs his arm comfortingly but he keeps staring at the cast list like it was going to burst into flames any second. "You're still a Troy understudy! You could still go on as him in one of the shows."

"Shows only run for three nights, Nini." He says with barely concealed frustration. Great. If he can't even get the role he was technically destined to play, how the hell is he going to explain himself to his parents?

You're not the lead? Oh, then we won't watch. If you're not onstage the whole time, why be there?

EJ grits his teeth and slowly brings his gaze to the person who has just taken away one more way for him to prove himself to his parents. Ricky Fucking Bowen, who stands there once again with their enormous brown eyes, gaping like a fish. EJ wants to deck them in the face. But Nini's hold on his arm grounds him back to reality and he lets out a long breath through his nose.

This is gonna be a long next few months.

"Look, I'm just trying to make the best out of a bad situation."

"Don't try," He ends up saying, still wiping at the blood caused by the basketball Ricky hit him with only moments ago. "It's painful to watch you do something you clearly don't want to do."

"What makes you think I don't want to do this?" Ricky asks with furrowed brows and EJ throws the wadded up tissue paper stained with his blood into the trash.

"You hated musicals before you auditioned. You landed the part of Troy without even fucking trying. And now you think you can get through rehearsals without fucking trying? It's tiring to work with someone who couldn't give two shits about this musical in the first place!" He says, every sentence rising in volume as he steps closer and closer to Ricky. "You also need to stay the fuck away from Nini."

Ricky scoffs then. "Why? Cause you're her boyfriend?"

"What? And you are?" He retaliates, which effectively makes Ricky click their mouth shut. EJ smirks. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"Nini can choose whoever she wants to talk to." Ricky ends up saying with tense shoulders and a glare that could murder if EJ weren't already a person who doesn't fear death. "You can't tell me what to do."

"Well someone has to!" EJ throws his hands up in frustration, grabbing his jacket and zipping it up angrily. "Because you don't listen to Nini though, do you? Have you ever listened to her? Do you listen to anybody?"

"EJ I—"

"You better listen to me right now Ricky Bowen," he laces every syllable of Ricky's name with venom. "Stop trying to make things right. Stop trying to become a person you're not. If you actually cared about Nini or – god forbid – the musical, you'd stop trying and just get your shit together."

EJ doesn't even bother to look back at Ricky as he exits the bathroom, unaware of the look in Ricky's eyes when he walked away.

It isn't until Ricky approaches him one day after rehearsals that EJ was finally starting to unravel the mystery that was Ricky Bowen.

"Hey... EJ?" Ricky asks, looking at anywhere but at him and EJ would have been annoyed if it weren't for the way Ricky was holding themselves in front of him. They were tense, eyes glassy and unfocused whenever EJ caught a glance, and their fingers were gripping their bag straps so tightly that he was afraid Ricky was going to rip it apart if they weren't careful.

"Hey Ricky," He says with a softer voice than he's ever used with Ricky. "Is there something you need?"

Ricky's eyes dart around the still full rehearsal room, at the dangerously close proximity Miss Jenn was, at the stage managers that were just behind EJ who were reviewing the blocking notes, and finally at Nini who was engaged in a conversation with Carlos and Seb. Ricky's eyes lingered on Nini for a bit before they reluctantly settled on EJ's pristine white sneakers. "I would have normally asked Nini for this but – and you can say no by the way I'd completely understand – it's just..."

Ricky looks around again before leaning closer to EJ and shakily whispering, "Do you have any tampons?"

And just like that, the walls that were built around a certain Ricky Bowen were starting to crack. And EJ was allowed to see the smallest snippet of the kind of vulnerability that Ricky was capable of.

And it was the kind of vulnerability that he could relate to completely.

"My emergency stash is in my locker," He says, hastily packing up the rest of his things while Ricky continues to stand there dumbfounded. When EJ turns back to him with his own bag over his shoulder, he could see that there are a few unshed tears shining in Ricky's eyes. EJ softens for a second, knowing how difficult it must have been for Ricky to come to him for something so private.

"Come on. I'll even guard the bathroom for you." Ricky eventually follows him after a few seconds of just staring at his back and they fall in step around the corner. Ricky stays silent, fingers all fidgety and eyes still darting around like they'll be caught any second. EJ, instinctually, wraps a comforting arm around Ricky's shoulders. Ricky doesn't relax immediately but they do lean a little closer, somehow finding the weight of EJ's arm around them safe.

They eventually reach EJ's locker and Ricky smiles a bit because it's directly across from Sharpay's famous pink lockers. "Did you choose this spot specifically for Sharpay's lockers?"

EJ glances behind him and chuckles, rummaging through his stuff. "Oh yeah. If you say Ashley Tisdale three times in a row while touching her locker, you're guaranteed good fortune for at least a week."

Ricky looks at him with a smirk. "Have you tried that before?"

"Every year during finals week. I'm telling you, that shit works."

"Or maybe you're just really smart."

"Maybe," EJ says, finally locating his emergency stash of period essentials. "Or maybe it's just Ashley Tisdale bopping me to the top."

That's when Ricky lets out a laugh — an honest to god booming belly laugh that makes EJ pause just to stare at him. They look... nice like this. Without the worry lines and longing gazes at a girl who won't give them the time of day. They look just like a little kid, carefree and alive despite the world crumbling all around them, and EJ feels a weird surge of pride at being the person who made Ricky laugh like that.

He wants Ricky to laugh like that more. He wants to be the person who makes Ricky laugh like that more.

And so the walls around Ricky crack a little further, and the drawbridge is opened for one weary traveler to come in.

EJ doesn't notice the cracks on his own walls, nor the knowing little princess who watches from the east tower, smiling.

"Hey, what are your pronouns?"

Ricky doesn't look up from their practice skateboard, concentrating hard on their balance. "I don't have any. I'm just Ricky." They look up though, giving EJ a warm smile. "But go ahead and use any pronouns with me. I don't mind if it's you."

"So would you mind if I call you your majesty?"

EJ doesn't miss the flush on Ricky's cheeks at that and definitely doesn't miss the way they say "I'd like that very much." with the barest hint of embarrassment.

"Okay," EJ says with his chin propped up in his hands. "Your majesty."

Ricky falls off of their practice skateboard then, soon glaring up at a cackling EJ still with a blushing face.

EJ forgot his binder today.

And his body loved reminding him every time he took a step.

Thankfully, there wasn't going to be water polo practice today and he could get away with wearing multiple layers to school. But even with the sports bra, the t-shirt, the sweatshirt, and the letterman jacket doing a good job at making his chest look flat, he still felt his skin crawl looking at the mirror. His jeans hugged him a little too tightly, forcing him to notice the still feminine curve of his hips. His sports bra was a tad smaller than the last time he wore it, so the pinch at his chest doubled in size.

EJ resolved that he was not going to have a good day today.

But today was tech rehearsals and he couldn't ditch that. He was starting to really enjoy rehearsals now that he and Ricky are on good terms. Even the stage managers ask him to hang out with them time to time outside of rehearsals. EJ actually felt like... he really belonged somewhere now. And he wasn't going to let this ruin it for him. Not today.

"Hey EJ," He heard Nini say to him as he got out of his car. "What's with all the layers? It's pretty hot today."

"It's one of those days, Neens." He says with a heavy sigh and Nini just grabs his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Ricky rolls up to them two seconds later, their head suspiciously missing a helmet.

"How many times do I have to tell you to wear a helmet when you're skateboarding, Ricky?" EJ tries to scold the junior despite this weirdly overwhelming fondness growing inside of him every time he even looks at Ricky now.

"Haven't gotten into an accident yet," Ricky shrugs, smiling politely at Nini and changing it into a cocky little smirk the second they look at EJ.

"Yet being the operative word here," EJ rolls his eyes and opens his trunk for Ricky to stash his board in for later. "I won't drive you to the hospital if you end up getting a concussion for not wearing a helmet."

"Yes you will." Ricky says, knocking their shoulders together. "You love me!"

EJ freezes for a bit but before he could even respond, Ricky is already catching up to Big Red and Gina, waving back at EJ and Nini with a wide grin. EJ stares at him for a few seconds, not quite sure how to process the last few moments, until Nini waves a hand in front of his face.

"Hello? Earth to EJ?"

"Huh?"

"Care to share with the class what's going on?" The little smirk on her lips says it all and EJ was not going to fall for that.

"Nope. There's nothing to share."

"Mhm," She says, looping her arm around EJ as soon as he closed his trunk. "Of course there isn't, EJ." Nini pretends not to see EJ staring at Ricky as they walk into school. EJ pretends to not notice that she's pretending to not see EJ pretending to not overtly stare at Ricky.

Besides, EJ has gotten pretty good at pretending.

Aaaannndd that's it for now. I hope you guys liked that! I really enjoyed exploring trans!ej and genderqueer!ricky through this au and it means a lot to me. Maybe next time I'll write something in ricky's pov but for now thanks for reading !!

#ej caswell #ricky bowen #nini salazar roberts #rj #hsmtmts #trans!ej #genderqueer!ricky #tw: gender dysphoria #tw: transphobia #tw: neglectful parents #cloud's writing now #hsmtmts fanfiction #they're not really together yet here but #ej is Definitely pining at the end tho #and nini is the best i will not tolerate nini slander in my blog #caswen #ricky x ej #ej x ricky

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chickwiththepurpleguitar · 3 years

Note

may i request flarrie fake dating part 2 :)

Yes you may! Hope you enjoy, my friend!

read on ao3 here:

Carrie's dad opens the door and grins shyly at them.

Flynn tries to smile back. She was never as close to Trevor Wilson as Julie was, nor do they fully understand the weird co-parenting thing he seemed to have going on with Ray and Rose Molina back when Julie and Carrie were growing up. But he was always kind to Flynn when she’d come over to the Wilson Mansion for sleepovers or dance practice, and his music is… pretty good, they guess (although it’s hard to listen to much of it now, now that they know his whole first album was actually written by Julie’s rockstar ghost crush).

All this to say—Flynn has nothing against Trevor, inherently (even Luke and the guys have more or less forgiven him), and if Carrie says this whole fake dating thing is just as much for her dad as it is for her, then that’s good enough for Flynn. Annoying Carrie and getting fifty bucks and some peace of mind for Julie out of the deal is just a bonus.

So they smile, and hold Carrie’s hand a little tighter, and say, “Hi, Mr. Wilson, it’s so nice to see you!”

“You, too, Flynn, it's been a while.” Trevor glances from her to Carrie, who’s standing stock still, every muscle tense, her face screwed up in discomfort so that she almost looks constipated.

Flynn nudges her, raising their eyebrows meaningfully when Carrie snaps her gaze over to them.

“Can we just get this over with, Dad?” Carrie says quickly, plastering on a Barbie plastic smile. “Flynn and I have… plans later. Girlfriend stuff, you know how it is.”

Flynn resists the urge to roll their eyes. Could Carrie be any worse at this? And if Carrie blows their cover before they’ve even started, does Flynn still get her fifty bucks?

But Trevor Wilson is either gullible as all hell or has just decided to humor his daughter, because he says, “Of course! Of course, you’re absolutely right, what are we doing standing here in the doorway? Come in, come in!”

He ushers them both into the front hallway and leads them through the mansion to a big conference room at the back of the house. In the comfort of her own home, Carrie relaxes a little, but she drops Flynn’s hand the second her dad isn’t looking and stalks ahead, her fancy heels clacking obnoxiously on the marble floors.

This time, Flynn rolls their eyes. But she made a commitment here, so she obediently follows behind.

The actual meeting takes about eight minutes. Trevor’s lawyers are a scarily efficient team; they leave no time for chitchat or distractions. The forms they slide across the table to Flynn are standard non-disclosures, the same kind Flynn’s parents signed on her behalf when they first started hanging out with Carrie as a kid—legal bullshit about not going to the press with any of of Carrie and Trevor’s dark secrets (not that Flynn would; she hasn’t told anyone about the Sunset Curve songs, after all, and they highly doubt the Wilsons have any secrets darker than that). For a second, Flynn wonders if there will be any repercussions for signing something as Carrie’s girlfriend when she’s not actually Carrie’s girlfriend. But the form’s only specifications about their relationship status are that the agreement still stands if she and Carrie break up, and that they’ll have to sign a new one if they get back together (“We had to add that clause because Nick and Carrie were on and off for so long,” Trevor explains, to which Carrie squawks, “Dad!”).

Once the legal stuff is over, though, the lawyers file out, and Trevor takes the seat just across from Flynn and Carrie, grinning like the proud, if confused, father he is.

“So!” he says, looking from Carrie to Flynn and back again. “Flynn, I’m so glad you’re here with us, but, uh… Carrie, baby, did I miss the part where you came out to me?”

Carrie’s mouth drops open. Flynn claps a hand over their mouth, stifling a snort. “Dad!” Carrie exclaims again. “Oh my god!”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Trevor hastens to assure her, though Flynn doubts that would ever be Carrie’s concern here. “You know, I had my own share of homosexual relationships in high school, they can be very fulfilling—”

Flynn cackles. Carrie covers her ears, face red and glare sharp, and begs her father, “Stop, please!”

Trevor’s brows knit together. “I didn’t—I just meant, I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”

“And she appreciates it,” Flynn says quickly, grabbing Carrie’s hand and squeezing it hard, a silent warning to chill the fuck out. “We both do. Really, Mr. Wilson, Carrie and I—we’re really happy, and your approval means the world.”

Trevor relaxes, a smile calming his features. “Oh. Well, good.”

Flynn can feel Carrie’s eyes on her, sharp and intense, but they don’t look back.

Twenty minutes later, she’s back on the front porch again, Carrie hovering in the doorway to say goodbye. She won’t look Flynn in the eye as she pulls out her wallet and hands over a wad of bills.

“Keep it,” Flynn says, surprising them both. Carrie looks up, frowning, and Flynn blushes and shrugs. “Look, Carrie, I… I had a good time. And I’m glad I could help you out. Your dad looked really happy for you.”

“He was,” Carrie says, her voice small. “Flynn—”

But Flynn turns and walks away before Carrie can thank them.

Taglist: @whenweremarried @sunsethimb0s @pink-flame @penguin0613 @fighttoshine @sunsetcurvecuddles @teenagedirtbag-dot-jpeg @brightattheorpheum @queenmolina @jandthephantoms @lexilucacia @sapphossidechick @acnhaddict @shrimp-colours @sunset-bobby @lenacarstairspotterstewart @conversationaltreestump @burntchromas @molinapattersons @julieandthequeers @joyandthephantoms @it-tastes-like-lizard @jatpfs

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #jatp fanfiction #fanfiction #my fics #prompt fill #500 followers aaaah!!!#flynn nolastname #carrie wilson #flynn jatp #trevor wilson

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hawkinshellfire · 3 years

Text

Right Where You Left Me

Chapter 1 - Willow

Wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark Show me the places where the others gave you scars

Leaning back in his chair, Hopper stretches his arms up over his head and peers to the far side of the classroom. Two rows behind him, on the left, one of his best friends, Joyce Horowitz, was scribbling down a note furiously, her brow furrowed as she focused on what their science teacher was explaining up at the blackboard.

He extends his left arm and hurls a wad of paper in her direction, smirking when it hits her in the side of the head and forces her to look at him. She brushes the note to the side of her desk and shakes her head, choosing to ignore him rather than give in to the childish game he loved to play in this class.

As expected, Hopper balls up another wad of paper and tosses it at Joyce; this time it hits her on the cheek before falling onto her notebook. Reluctantly, she looks over at him and cocks her head while she mouths, “cut it out.”

Hopper holds his hand to his ear and mouths back, “what was that?” Adding fuel to the fire, he lobs a third piece of paper at her.

“I said cut it out!” she exclaims far louder than intended. The rest of the class turns to stare and Mr. Benson stops speaking, folds his arms over his chest and marches over to her.

“Something you wanted to share with the class?” he asks.

“No sir,” she whispers, gaze locked on the notebook in front of her.

“Very well. Mr. Hopper, please leave Ms. Horowitz alone. Save your antics for when you’re outside my classroom.”

“Yes sir,” Hopper replies.

They sit through the rest of the class and listen to the biology lesson, but as soon as the class is dismissed Joyce runs up to Hopper and scolds him with a swift smack on the forearm.

“Why do you have to cause problems? Mr. Benson is going to think I don’t take his class seriously.”

She waits as he gathers up his books and trails behind him as they begin to make their way down the hall.

“Oh c’mon Joycie, you know I’m just teasing you. Loosen up, have a little fun,” he smirks down at her.

“I have plenty of fun,” she protests.

They walk down the hall side by side and Hopper tells Joyce his after school practice is cancelled and that he can drive her home. He’d been driving her home ever since he received his license and his parents gifted him a car, but football season often meant he had to stay late and Joyce had to either walk home or take the bus.

Hopper waves to a few people as they continue down the hall, and fistbumps a tall dark-haired senior that brushes past them. She’s telling him about the latest book she’s devoured and while she knows he’s listening to every word, she can’t help but notice that he has the attention of several of their peers and he could just as easily brush her off to greet them.

She and Hopper had been friends since they were kids. Having met on one of the first days of school, they formed a quick bond that had yet to be severed. Joyce didn't get along very well with many other girls and had a difficult time making friends due to her introverted nature, but something about Hopper drew on her extroverted instincts and she found herself comfortable and open with him.

Sometimes, she envied the way everything came so naturally for Hopper. He got decent grades without studying, was a member of the Hawkins High football team and constantly had a slew of girls desperate for his attention. In addition to that, he seemed to know just about everyone. While Joyce could count the number of friends she had on a single hand, Hopper was always saying hello to strangers and other students she’d never seen before, and she was sometimes left wondering if he knew them or if he was just being polite.

There are times when his popularity feels overwhelming to her. Moments at parties where he runs off to greet someone new and she’s left feeling insecure about not knowing many others, or moments like this when despite knowing he cares about what she’s telling him, she can’t help but notice others noticing him.

She always wondered how their classmates perceived their friendship. She wasn’t exactly the most popular member of the junior class while Hopper practically ruled the school and she knew that seeing them together must be odd. Sometimes she wondered if Hopper felt obligated to remain her friend, but that fear went away the moment she caught his eye while she spoke and she can tell he cares about what she has to say.

They reach the cafeteria and part ways, Hopper, to join some of his teammates, Joyce to a few of her friends from her photography club.

“See you after school?” he smiles.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” she smirks back.

He sits down with a group of boys at a table along the far wall and is immediately pulled into a conversation with the two students next to him while he unwraps his lunch. Joyce makes her way across the room and settles at her usual table, where Josie and Eli are already seated and eating. Each of them looks up and greets her with a smile, and Joyce plops herself down and pulls out a book and her lunch. She begins reading while she eats her peanut butter sandwich, enjoying the silence amongst her group. One of the things she liked most about this group was that there was no pressure to socialize. Sometimes they would spend the lunch hour having heated debates, sometimes they talked about their classes or latest projects, and some days, like today, they all sat in silence, immersed in their own little universes.

In Joyce’s case, that universe was contained within a 256-page paperback. Turning the page, she glances across the room and catches Hopper’s eye. He smiles at her and nods before returning to the rowdy group of boys bustling around the table.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insanely short,” Hopper smirks as he approaches his car. Joyce is leaning against the passenger side door, leather-clad arms folded over her chest.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insanely tall?” she fires back.

“At least once a day,” he remarks with a shit-eating grin.

“Are you going to unlock the car or are we just going to stand out here and chit-chat?”

“You hate my company so much, huh? ” he grins as he teases her and rounds the car. Once he opens the driver's side door, he lunges across the cabin of the car and flips the lock open on her door. Joyce tosses her book bag onto the floor and climbs in, fastening her seatbelt at the same time as she pulls the door shut.

“You really should just fix the locks,” she complains.

“Do you have a spare few hundred dollars lying around?”

“You don’t know that I don’t.”

“Yes I do,” he remarks. He puts the keys in the ignition and they listen as the car roars to life. “You’re forgetting I know everything about you, Joycie.”

And he did. He knew just about everything there was to know about her.

“I hate that nickname,” she reminds him.

“That’s why I use it.”

“How would you like it if I started calling you Jimmy?” she teases, rolling down her window and allowing her armrest in the vacancy as he backs out of the parking lot.

“You’d sound like my mom. Please don’t.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, it has kind of a nice ring to it.”

“Do you have any plans later?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Just some homework, why?”

“Are we still on for tonight?”

“Only if I can call you Jimmy,” she beams. Joyce loved teasing Hopper. He did this thing where he scrunched his eyebrows and his cheeks turned a bright pink shade that made doing it all the more fun, and so she often pushed until he got flustered. She wasn’t single-handedly to blame for the teasing that occurred in their friendship, Hopper enjoyed pushing her buttons right back and as a result, most of their conversations began as quick-witted jabs and teasing remarks.

“You’re not going to drop that anytime soon, are you?”

“Absolutely not. You’re cute when you’re bothered.”

“I’m not cute , Joyce.” His cheeks darken and he does his best to stay focused on the road signs ahead.

She knew he hated being called cute so she called him cute often.

“Right, sorry. You’re very manly.” Her response is mocking and said with a chuckle but it seems to relax him all the same and she shakes her head. “Speaking of manly things, why was practice cancelled today?”

“The coach is out. Something about his son being sick. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“So what are your plans for the evening? You can come over to study if you want?”

“Can’t. I told Benny we could work out at his place before grabbing something to eat. Want me to bring you anything?”

“I’m alright. We’re supposed to be having pasta.”

Hopper grimaces but does his best not to outwardly show his reaction. He can’t remember the last time Joyce’s mom actually provided dinner for her daughter. The few times he’d stayed for supper, he and Joyce were the ones to prepare the meal from the limited supplies in the pantry. It wasn’t that her mother couldn’t cook, she was just hardly ever home. Joyce’s father, a character if Jim had ever seen one, tended to take out his anger in unconventional ways and as a result, Joyce’s mother often offered to work extra hours, leaving Joyce to fend for herself.

“You sure? I could grab a burger.”

“It’s fine Hop.” She places her palm on his wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze, something she’d done since they were kids when she was trying to reassure him that she really was alright.

They reach her house and Hopper pulls the car into the driveway before she unbuckles and reaches for her bag.

“Thanks for the ride, see you later?”

“See you later.”

He waits until she’s inside before backing out of the driveway and heading to Bennys.

“28… 29… 30.”

It’s a chant he does over and over again in his head as he pumps his arms up and down, hosting his body weight from the cool hard pavement lining Benny’s garage. The two boys were nearing the end of their workout but Hopper refused to slow down. He needed to be in his prime for the upcoming home game if he wanted to impress the coach and be made the quarterback in his senior year.

After wrapping up with the weights and rinsing off, Hopper and Benny head to the local diner, a favourite hangout among their friends and meet up with a few more teammates for burgers.

“Hey, Hopper, who are you taking to prom?” The question is directed at him from across the table by one of the junior linebackers named Mitchell and it catches him off guard.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he shrugs. He bites into his burger and continues to speak with his mouth full, “someone hot .”

The group erupts in a chorus of hollers and begins talking about one of the seniors who’d recently been caught with a student from a rival school beneath the school bleachers. Not one for dramatic gossip, Hopper finishes his burger and flags down the waitress to place an order to go. Once the takeout container is ready, he stands and slips into his letterman jacket.

“Where are you going so early, you got a hot date or something?” one of the boys calls at Hopper.

“Sorry guys, I’ve got plans,” he says. He grabs the food and slips his keys from his pocket, weaving through the crowded diner towards the exit. He can hear his teammates calling out after him, vague things about using protection on his “date” but he tunes them out. He balances the food on the roof of his car while he fumbles to unlock it, the dimly lit parking lot only covered by the faint neon lights lining the diner window after sunset. He knows he may be early, but there’s only so much team bonding he can handle and tonight, all he wants to do is unwind with his best friend.

As he approaches Joyce’s house he knows that he’s early. The porch light is still on, illuminating the driveway so he lingers near the cul de sac across the way and wishes he ordered himself a shake while he waited.

They had this routine, he and Joyce. Her parents insisted on Joyce having an early curfew, so he’d begun coming by after her father turned off the porch lights, indicating that he’d gone to bed. Hopper would usually wait a few minutes before pulling into the driveway and flashing the headlights. Joyce’s bedroom was the only one at the front of the house, therefore she was the only one who would see Hopper’s headlights.

Once she knew he was parked outside, she would pop the screen off her window and shimmy out onto the roof over the porch, where she climbed down the trellis at the side of the house and down to his car.

They’d been safely sneaking Joyce in and out for months, but each time they did it part of Hopper panicked that her dad would catch them and he’s certain the metallic taste that takes over his tongue will never go away as long as she was sneaking out of her father’s home. She always insisted that things would be fine and they wouldn’t be caught, but his pulse raced every single time they did this.

Tonight, he waits five minutes after the porch light is switched off before he pulls into the vacant driveway and flashes his headlights. While waiting for Joyce, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums to himself. When she finally appears in the window, she’s wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of baggy pants, her hair swept into a messy ponytail, situated on the top of her head. He watches with bated breath as she maneuvers down the side of the house and reaches over to unlock her door before she gets to the car.

“Where to?” she asks.

“Let’s go to the lake.”

“How was dinner?” he asks as they back out of her driveway.

“She ended up staying at work late.”

“Joyce.”

“It’s fine Hop, I made some scrambled eggs for us.” He knows the “us” she’s referring to is her and her father and he cringes at her grouping them together in the same term.

“Reach behind you,” he instructs. “I got you something.”

She does as she’s told and reaches around the seat, where her hand finds a white doggy bag. She grabs it and places it in her lap while turning to give him a look.

“Before you yell at me, it’s your favourite.”

Joyce debates lecturing him on how she can handle things on her own and doesn’t need his help, but the smell wafting out of the bag demands her attention and she resigns and decides it’s best to say thank you and enjoy the food.

“With the extra sauce?” she asks slowly.

“Exactly how you like it,” he nods.

She reaches into the bag and pulls out a foil-wrapped burger that she immediately begins to unwrap and snack on. She didn’t need Hopper to look out for her, but who was she to say no to one of her favourite snacks on a late-night drive? She would yell at him for trying to be a hero, tomorrow.

When they arrive at the lake, Hopper pulls into his usual spot on the lawn just in front of where the shallow water meets the shore. He cuts the engine and flips the headlights on, allowing the fog to dance among the white shadows that lead a dim path to the lake.

It’s a clear evening, but the warm mist rising off the lake creates a haze that makes the area feel like it’s secluded from the rest of the town. Hopper reaches into the back seat and fishes out a blanket that he lays down in front of the car and motions for Joyce to join him. She does, sitting opposite him on the small plaid square with her legs crossed, the dewy droplets from the fog illuminating her face in a way he would describe as perfect in the headlights. He wasn’t blind to the fact that his best friend was beautiful, but he wasn’t vocal about it either.

“It’s so peaceful here.” It’s an observation she makes every time they come out to the lake, but her relaxed facial features and dropped shoulders are one of the reasons he so often selected the lake as their late night drive destination. It was rare to see Joyce so relaxed and he would do just about anything to allow her to be in a comfortable state of mind like this all the time.

“How was your workout with Benny?” she asks.

“Good. Not at good as a real practice would have been but I think it did the trick. How was homework?”

“Oh you know, an English essay can only be so thrilling.”

“You love writing essays,” he reminds her. “You used to help me with mine, remember.”

“I remember,” she smiles softly. She goes quiet for a moment, lost in a memory; a large oak desk and pre-teen Hopper anxiously chewing on the end of his pencil while she worked on outlining his history essay. They were in his family office after school. It was one of the first times she’d been invited over to his house, as they usually hung out outside. She remembers thinking their friendship wouldn’t last. Hopper had recently taken a huge interest in sports, hence her helping with his essay, and he was bound to outgrow their friendship in the coming years.

He never did, and now here they were years later, sprawled out on a picnic blanket beside Lovers Lake, still best friends.

Joyce watches as Hopper shifts himself closer to her and mirrors her stance by folding one leg beneath the other. The light from the vehicle reflects in his eyes and for a brief moment, she’s lost in a sea of blue and emerald. She knew he was attractive. Hell, there was a reason half the senior girls were after him. But in small moments like this, she found it was easy to forget that she told herself her childhood crush on Hopper was long gone. She would never tell him this, but in the quietest of moments, while he sat and listened to her speak, she found herself drawn to him in a magnetic sense that made her question her own feelings.

Tonight, she swallows that thought and forces herself to focus on the moon's reflection across the still water.

She couldn’t have feelings for her best friend. It would complicate and ruin everything.

“Hand,” he demands. His voice grounds Joyce and she forgets about her wild train of thoughts and focuses on the boy in front of her.

She extends her palm to him and angles her body so that her torso is perpendicular to his.

He hooks his thumb, much rougher from the years of helping his father cut wood, around hers and joins their hands. This was a “game” they’d been playing together for years and Joyce was no stranger to how it worked. It was another die-hard habit they’d picked up as kids. When one of them had had a long day, they would sit down in the grass on Hopper’s lawn and link their thumbs, fiddling them back and forth like a relaxed thumb restless match while they asked each other questions designed to distract them from the real world.

“Current favourite song?” she asks.

“Lame, you know the answer.”

He moves his thumb to the left of hers, then back to the right.

“It changes every five seconds!”

“Fine, it’s Back in the USA.”

“I knew it,” she boasts.

“Favourite sentence from your essay?” he asks.

“Ou,” she takes a moment to think it over. “Alright, I’ve got it. ‘Though men may have a predetermined fate, we can not, by any means, move through life as if our actions are so predetermined that they do not matter’.”

“You wrote that?”

“I did,” she says proudly. “I liked the essay topic.”

“What would you want your last meal to be?”

“A nice steak,” he nods.

“Tell me your biggest fear,” he says softly, thumb narrowly avoiding hers as they continue the pointless thumb wrestling match between them.

“That’s a loaded question. I asked you what you would want your last meal to be, those two things aren’t even on the same playing field.”

“You could’ve asked something harder.”

“Being alone,” she admits quietly.

He locks eyes with her and instead of moving his thumb in the usual to and fro pattern, he hooks it around her hand and presses down.

“Joyce.”

A silent conversation passes. She’ll always have him. He’s told her thousands of times. She believes him, for the most part. Though, her deepest fear is that after school he’ll move on to a bigger and better life and she’ll be left on her own to fight against the scariest thing she knew, life.

“I know,” she smiles.

Hopper was the only person she let herself be vulnerable like this with. At school, she came off as tough and uncaring. She liked it that way. She liked that she wasn’t perceived as someone who needed anyone .

Hopper releases her hand and lays back on the blanket to look up at the sky. It’s cloud-filled and unclear, but something about the darkness calms him.

“The guys asked who I’m planning on taking to prom,” he tells her.

“And? What did you tell them?”

“That I wasn’t going.”

“Yeah. Right, ” she smirks and rolls over to face him. “Jim Hopper, one of the most popular kids in school isn’t going to prom. I think the world would end.”

“You’re so dramatic,” he groans, pulling himself up so that he’s seated with his back to the lake. He wraps an arm around his knees and drops his head in her direction. “Besides, I didn’t really tell them that, I told them I was taking you.”

A smirk breaks out across his face at her initial panic but she recovers quickly and begins to laugh. “Get out of here, you know I wouldn’t be caught dead at prom.”

“Not even with me?”

There’s a serious undertone in his voice that makes her wonder if he’s still joking around, but she quickly forces herself to dismiss the thought and smiles at him. “Not even with you, Jim Hopper.”

“What if I asked you in some ridiculous way? You’d have to agree to go with me.”

“I wouldn’t go to prom if you paid me,” she reassures him.

“You’re telling me that if I did something crazy, say,” he scampers to his feet and steps towards the parked car, “climbed up on the hood of the car…” He’s standing on the hood of his car now, arms outstretched while she watches with an amused expression.

“And yelled, ‘Joyce, will you go to prom with me?’ that you’d turn me down.”

“I’d turn you down before you even had a chance to hop up on the car. Now get down before you hurt yourself and your coach wants to kill me.”

She reaches up and takes his hand while he effortlessly jumps down and rejoins her on the blanket.

“You’re a heartbreaker, you know that Horowitz?”

“And you’re insane.”

“You should come to prom,” he says.

“Why? It’s not like I’ll know anyone there besides you and I’m sure you’ll have your hands full with your date.”

“It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“I don’t think so Hop, maybe next year.”

“At least think about coming? For me? It’ll be so much more fun with you there.”

“I’ll think about it, but I’m not making any promises.”

Eventually, the cold begins to seep through Joyce’s jacket and Hopper offers to drive her home. She watches as he packs up the blanket, rolling it together and tossing it into the back seat of his car, and she thinks about what he said about prom.

She hadn’t any interest in going. It wasn’t like she had many friends and the few she did have wouldn’t be caught dead at a school dance. Even though she knows he was joking, she finds herself wondering what it would be like to go with Hopper. People would stare, probably whisper and she’s sure she would hate it. What she wouldn’t hate, she dares to let herself think, is being in his arms while they shared a dance. She’s quick to rain-in and dismiss the thought, but it still popped into her mind and a vision of them, wearing ridiculous outfits while they danced to a jazz band version of a trashy song, doesn’t displease her.

She shivers, the overwhelming sensation that normal people didn’t daydream about their best friend rippling through her tiny body.

“Cold?” he asks, noticing her quivering next to the passenger side door.

“Yeah,” she replies automatically. Cursing at herself for getting carried away with an unrealistic, absurd fantasy, she climbs into the car and folds her arms across her chest.

As Hopper begins to drive back to her place, she finds herself fascinated by the way the moonlight paints him in a faint shade of yellow. He catches her staring and smiles. “What?”

“Huh?” she replies, tearing her gaze away as quickly as possible.

“You’re staring.”

“Oh nothing,” she sighs, “just tired.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to drive around some more?”

“I never said that.”

They drive around for another hour, talking about everything and nothing. On a particular stretch of abandoned road that lies between the edge of the town and the woods, Hopper even lets Joyce drive his car. He’d taught her to drive years prior, but she hated to when other cars were on the road and so she reserved practice for late nights like this, with Hopper in the passenger seat and the moon being the only other light aside from the headlights.

When Joyce begins to yawn, Hopper drives her home. She lingers in the warm cabin of the car, laughing at a story he’s telling about Benny. Her hand falls to his arm as she laughs, and rests there until the cold evening air crashes through the open car door and she announces that she should get going.

She waves from the porch before climbing the trellis and back towards the window she escaped from hours prior.

Hopper smiles to himself, watching as she moves silently against the night sky and waits until she’s safe inside before he begins his own journey back home.

I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans

#jopper #stranger things #highschool AU #multichapter

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songfell-ut · 4 years

Text

Chapter 16 ha ha help

These are getting more and more tiring, but we’re finally getting somewhere! Ha ha seriously send help @lostmypotatoes or anyone else whose contributions made (some parts of) this a lot of fun to do. Chapter is here.

Just like Sans’ discovery of her “stripes,” Frisk only found out she could make barriers because of Papyrus.

They were playing in Snowdin, as they did almost every day. That evening, it was just her, Papyrus, and Asriel; Sans was nowhere in sight, which meant he was off napping somewhere. He did that a lot.

Someone had thrown a ball and gotten it stuck high up in the town Christmas tree, and the three of them were taking turns trying to get it down. The Prince was being very careful, flicking little fire-wads to hit the ball without burning it; Papyrus was in much better control of his bone-throwing than Frisk would have guessed, able to tap the ball in any direction with near-perfect accuracy. Of course, he could have used blue magic, but where was the fun in that?

It became evident after a few tries that the ball was almost loose already, so Papyrus proposed instead that they see how many times they could hit it without knocking it down. Frisk put her rocks aside, watching the skeleton and the young boss monster nudge the ball back and forth on its perch. It nearly fell so often that the child was soon standing right against the tree, trying to look straight up through the branches.

“Come away from there, Kris,” Asriel said after his next turn. “In fact, it’s time to head back now. Mama’s got another pie in the oven. Would you like some, Papyrus?”

The skeleton perked up. “OF COURSE, YOUR MAJESTY!”

“Wonderful! Come along.” Asriel held his hand out, and the little human skipped over to take it.

Then they heard the fateful cry: “ONE MOMENT, NYEH!” Papyrus threw one more bone to get the ball down, but in his haste, he aimed too high. It struck just below the decorations atop the tree, knocking down a great shower of powdery snow…and the heavy, pointed star.

The crack of breaking wood made them look up, and they glimpsed the star falling just before the snow hit their faces. Asriel could have moved them away in time, but the cold flakes in his eyes distracted him for one crucial second, and Frisk knew the star was going to hit them. Asriel was going to get hurt! She felt something strange burning in her chest, and she yelled at the top of her lungs, wishing with all her might that they’d be safe—

The star went plink off something, and Asriel’s grip tightened much too hard as the rest of the snowflakes settled to the ground. The ball came tumbling down a moment later, bouncing off Asriel’s shoulder.

“KRIS! YOUR MAJESTY!” Papyrus’ hands were clapped to his skull. “OH MY GOD! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!”

“Yes,” said Asriel. But then Frisk whimpered, and the boss monster released her, aghast. “Oh, no—Kris, I’m so sorry! Did I—”

Frisk couldn’t help a little sob. Asriel had almost crushed her hand!

Papyrus was also near tears. “I…I DIDN’T MEAN—IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN—”

The Prince suddenly looked stern. “Never mind,” he said curtly. “It was an accident. Kris will be fine.” He held out his hand, which glowed a familiar green. “Here.”

Frisk grabbed at the light, wiping her face on her sleeve as the pain eased into a twinge, then nothing at all. Why was Asriel—

“PLEASE GO ON WITHOUT ME,” Papyrus said wretchedly. “I DON’T DESERVE PIE.”

“It was an accident,” Asriel repeated. “But it was a very easily avoided one. I think it’d be best if you stayed here while I have a talk with Kris.”

The skeleton nodded so hard that Frisk wondered how his skull stayed attached to his spine. “YES, PRINCE ASRIEL, YOU ARE COMPLETELY RIGHT. I WILL DO LAPS AND THINK ABOUT WHAT I’VE DONE.”

Puzzled, Frisk looked up at Asriel. “But it wasn’t his—”

“Thank you, Papyrus. That will be all,” the Prince said over her.

The moment Papyrus had jogged out of sight, Asriel squatted and seized her by the shoulders. “Do you know what you just did?” he demanded.

Frisk felt her eyes welling up again. “I…I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” she whispered. What had she done wrong? Why was Asriel letting Papyrus think he was the one who’d hurt her? And why was he looking at her like a total stranger? Frisk sniffled again, more tears sliding down her cheeks. If Asriel hated her now, she didn’t know what she’d do!

The Prince let out a long sigh, head drooping. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Come here.”

The child threw herself into his outstretched arms. “It’s all right, Kris. You did nothing wrong,” he murmured, patting her hair. “In fact…”

Something about the way he said it made Frisk’s spine prickle. But when he gave her one last pat and released her, he was smiling again. “Would you like a ride?” he asked cheerfully.

Frisk nodded, and the young boss monster swung her up to sit on his shoulders, mindful of his horns. He let her grasp them in each hand, then turned his whole body to look around. Luckily, it was late enough that no one was out and about; even if they had been, the fallen snow had blotted out the flash of gold. Off they went, Frisk enjoying the view and their brisk pace.

The ferry wasn’t there yet, and no one else was waiting. “So,” Asriel said, stopping on the riverbank. “You didn’t know you could do that, did you?”

Frisk shook her head. “What did I do?” Remembering his reaction, she said, “I hope it wasn’t something bad. I’m sorry if it was bad.”

She felt him sigh again. “No, Kris, it wasn’t bad. You protected us both with a barrier.”

“A barrier?” After a couple of weeks Underground, she’d gotten the impression that barriers were an extremely bad thing. “But…aren’t they—”

“It’s true that we monsters are afraid of them. That’s why I squashed you,” he said sadly. “Again, I am very sorry for that. I won’t do it again, even if you make more barriers.”

She’d scared him? Frisk hadn’t been prepared to hear that, ever. “But how did I do that? Don’t you have to have magic first?”

He chuckled. “Yes, you do, which means you have magic.”

Frisk wound her forearms around his horns, resting her cheek on the downy fur atop his head. He smelled like soap, and…perfume? She didn’t realize what it was yet: she was too distracted by the idea that she – dumb, boring Frisk – could do magic. That was for grand sorcerers and sorceresses, not grimy little kids who scrubbed pots all day and slept on the floor. If she had that kind of power, wouldn’t she have noticed by now? Couldn’t she have made her back stop hurting, or lit Cook on fire to stop her from beating the other kids?

“It’s a very special gift,” Asriel said solemnly. “Not many humans have their own magic anymore, and you have enough to make barriers! Nowdays, humans with that much power tend to be…” He trailed off.

There was that funny voice again. Frisk didn’t like it at all. “Tend to be what? Am I in trouble?” she asked anxiously.

“Of course not,” he answered. “But it’s important to know that you can do it.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, you need training.” The Prince tapped her leg. “If you’ve never used it before, you should have a lot of power saved up. Also, did you know that it’s easier to use magic Underground than on the surface? That may be why it hasn’t happened till now.”

“Do…” Frisk squirmed until Asriel put a steadying hand on her back. “Do you think…could I stay here and learn?” she asked in a rush. “Monsters are good with magic, so…”

She couldn’t see Asriel’s expression, and didn’t know why he was quiet for so long. “No one here knows how to make barriers,” he finally said, “and I’ll be honest with you, Kris. I think you’d better not tell any other monsters about this.”

Disappointment rose up and nearly choked her. Not only did she have the one kind of magic monsters couldn’t teach her to use, it was the kind they were so scared of that even Asriel panicked when he saw it! Frisk pressed her face into the back of his head, sniffling.

“I’m so sorry,” the Prince said quietly, and she couldn’t hold it back anymore.

The ferry still wasn’t there. Asriel swayed from side to side, patting her leg softly, and she soon calmed down, trying not to get any more snot in his fur. “There may be something we can do,” the boss monster said, his tone so resolute that Frisk sat up straight. He reached up and put her back on the ground, staying at her level. “Who are your parents?” he asked.

Frisk blinked. “M-my mama’s name is Rosa. She works in the castle. My father is dead.”

Asriel grimaced, but not in a sad way—more like he didn’t believe her. “It’s true!” she insisted.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” he reassured her, lowering his voice as a couple of other monsters came up to wait for the ferry. “I’m just not sure that the grownups have been telling you the truth.”

She frowned. “But…why would they lie to me?”

“Why indeed,” murmured Asriel. Then the ferry rounded the corner of the riverbend, and the conversation was over for now. Everyone stood aside for Asriel, the Royal Guards bowing as he greeted them and Frisk took her favorite place at the very front. This time, though, she couldn’t enjoy the breeze in her face or the water splashing around the boat. It was too much to think about—she had magic, monsters would hate her if they knew, people might have lied to her about her parents…

Why did he think she had other parents? Was it something to do with her magic? Did this mean she had a real mama and papa somewhere waiting for her?

Asriel was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice her staring at him for several seconds. When he did, he tried to smile, but she wasn’t fooled. Something was wrong, or at least different, something very important. If only Papyrus hadn’t knocked that star down! They wouldn’t have found out she had magic, and Asriel wouldn’t be so worried or say these strange, sad things.

Frisk was already tired of thinking about it. She’d just be careful not to get scared and use a barrier again. She wasn’t going to tell anyone, and she trusted Asriel not to tell any of the other monsters. She’d be fine. Everything would be okay. It had to be.

“…isk. Frisk! FRISK! Hey—”

Two voices went “Shhhush!” and “P-please be quiet!” at nearly the same time.

“What?! She’s just standing there like—”

“Maybe she needs to just stand there like that,” retorted Alphys, uncharacteristically firm.

“Yes, I agree,” said Toriel. “Let’s leave her alone for now. Will you ladies please assist me in setting the table?”

Undyne muttered something very unladylike, but followed the boss monster out of the room, letting Alphys shut the door quietly behind her.

It was Frisk’s own fault. Upon arriving, she had gone looking for the bathroom and opened the door of the guest bedroom by mistake; the moment she turned on the light, she was confronted with a sort of shrine to Toriel’s children. Old toys and books lined the walls, the closet was half open, and miniature portraits showing Chara and Asriel in various poses were arranged around one large family painting on the bureau. Frisk had told herself that it would be hard to see the room they’d played in when she was little – mostly jumping on the beds, with a generous helping of The Floor Is Lava – but she hadn’t been prepared to see everything exactly where it had been, and especially not the pictures smiling up at her like that.

The others had found her staring at the bureau, a hand to her mouth. Frisk was profoundly grateful to be left alone: she sat down on a bed, grabbed Asriel’s old pillow, and buried her face in it to cry for a long, long time. Every time she started to slow down, she thought again of riding on his shoulders, or of him pretending to be scared when he discovered her in the golden flowers, and the pain was as fresh as it had been the first time she’d remembered him, just a few hours after reclaiming her memories.

What if she had listened to her instincts back then and told the Queen about her magic? Toriel would’ve known what to do. At the very least, she could’ve negotiated something on Frisk’s behalf with the other humans; Frisk would still have been forced to leave, but she would’ve had the comfort of knowing she had friends Underground, and that she could visit them on holidays or even have them come to see her. Instead…

Poor Asriel. Frisk had been able to keep from thinking of him by staying busy, and with the company of her giant apprentice, basking in his cranky, awkward, completely wonderful affection; now she couldn’t calm down, no matter how hard she tried to get up and turn away from the pictures.

A little voice kept nagging her to say something to Toriel now about the things she’d remembered. The whole tragedy might have been avoided in the first place if she had just talked to the Queen…but no, that was different. If Frisk, the would-be ambassador to the monster race, were to say, “I have a solid idea of whose fault the accident was, but no details whatsoever,” what would that do for her mission?

It would reignite the debate over what had happened, with enough new information to destroy any trust the monsters might have in her, but not enough to bring anyone closure. She’d be better off going straight to Asgore and announcing that she and Sans were planning to create the world’s first human-monster hybrid! She might as well, the way Sans was behaving…

Frisk looked again at Asriel’s pictures, the white fur of his cheeks and his golden eyes, just like his mother’s. It had taken her a while to figure out that he only had those scary facial stripes and black sclera when he was prepared for a fight; they’d faded by the time they met Toriel on their way out of the flower cavern. Frisk glanced at the picture next to it, an older one of Asriel with his arm around Chara, and reached over to turn it around.

Footsteps in the hall. Frisk snatched her hand back, ducking her head as the door opened. Someone sat next to her on the bed, and a huge, gentle hand stroked Frisk’s hair out of her eyes. She looked up, expecting to see Sans, and started a little as Toriel smiled at her. “I know, dear,” the boss monster whispered. “It never gets easier.” She drew Frisk against her, squeezing tight. “You…you learn to live with it.” Frisk felt her swallow hard. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Frisk was getting so tired of crying! She shook her head, ignoring another stab of guilt as she wrapped her arms around the former Queen. Now was the time to say something about the past, or the future, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. For once in her adult life, she wanted to be taken care of and told everything would be all right, and eat homemade pie, and have her first-ever real slumber party, dammit! Besides, it was only the second night of her visit. So she allowed Toriel to pet her hair until her sobs had quieted, resolving to have a nice time for a single stupid night.

When Frisk was more or less calm, Toriel produced a handkerchief from somewhere. “Stop using your sleeve. Here, blow your nose,” the boss monster instructed, and the human did so. “There we are, my child.” Like a true mother, Toriel folded the handkerchief up and put it right back in her robe. Frisk tried to hide her disgust, but Toriel just chuckled. “I meant to ask sooner—aren’t those Sans’ old clothes?”

Frisk had to smile as she sniffled again. “Yes, ma’am. Papyrus spilled spaghetti sauce on my last clean dress. He had this in the back of his closet, so…”

“I see. I can’t believe Sans was ever so small,” murmured Toriel, tugging down the blue jacket. “Would you like to borrow something else to wear?” She brightened. “I still have Chara’s things. She was much taller than you, but her old dresses are—”

“No! No, thank you,” Frisk said, a little too quickly. “I…” She looked at the bureau again, then at the closet. Everything smelled clean, but not as if Toriel had come in and given it a quick once-over before their arrival; the room seemed eerily well-kept, like people still lived in it. “I forgot how comfortable boys’ clothes are. Could I please keep these on, or maybe wear something of Asriel’s?” Toriel looked disapproving, so Frisk added, “I promise I won’t let my tail stick out.”

The boss monster laughed so loudly that she had to cover her mouth. “Oh, dear. I cannot believe I’d forgotten about that!”

Early in her visit, Frisk had noticed how Asriel’s tail showed through a slit in his robe, but she didn’t realize that his parents kept theirs hidden until one family dinner when Asriel sat down the wrong way and nearly hit the roof. It turned out Asriel had insisted as a teenager that it was better to have one’s tail out; even as a young adult, and after several instances of getting it bent or grabbed or sat upon, he’d stubbornly refused to let his mother sew his clothes back up.

“Really, Lady Toriel,” Frisk said once their giggling had died down, “I’m fine for tonight. These are basically pajamas anyway.”

Toriel snorted. “Yes, they certainly are.” Sigh. “All right, my child, just for tonight. We’ll pick out something else for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much.” Frisk hugged her again. “I need to wash my face,” she said, freeing herself from the goat monster’s embrace, “and then I’d love to have some pie. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Toriel smiled sadly. “Of course, Frisk. We’ll be waiting.”

The priestess’ hands were shaking a little as she fetched her gray bag from the entryway. How often did Toriel change the sheets on those beds, as if expecting someone to sleep there? How much time did she spend alone in her empty house, staring at pictures of her dead children? How was the poor woman still sane at all?

Damn everything! Why hadn’t she told them about her magic when she first discovered it? Why had she let Asriel talk her into trusting someone she knew was a bad person? How much of what had happened was her fault, and how much of her memory was even accurate?

To hell with it, she thought, turning from her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Time for pie.

Luckily, when Frisk came out to the living room, her thoughts were diverted by the sight of Undyne and Alphys sitting in front of the fire with their heads together. “Er,” said the priestess, and Alphys nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Hey there. Feeling better?” asked Undyne, completely unperturbed.

“Uh…yes, thank you.” Bemused, Frisk glanced at Alphys’ bright-pink scales. She’d always wondered how that worked—monsters didn’t even have blood. “Let’s eat now. It smells fantastic,” she said, smiling as the royal scientist made a beeline for the table.

At Toriel’s behest, and in keeping with what they assured Frisk to be sacred slumber-party tradition, the others had already changed into their nightclothes; the next step was enjoying the pie Toriel had baked before coming to get them. “This is amazing, Your Majesty,” Undyne said around a huge mouthful. “Thanks for having us over.”

“Yes, thank you f-for inviting me,” Alphys said to the table at large, adjusting her borrowed robe.

“Of course,” Frisk replied. “You still have a few things to open. You, too, Lady Toriel.”

The former Queen had been staring at her plate, and glanced up a moment later. “I…I’m sorry, dear. What was that?”

The Captain blinked, adjusting her pajama-wear eyepatch. “Uh…the pie is good?”

The boss monster nodded vaguely, and the three younger women glanced at each other. Toriel had been quiet and distracted the whole evening, ever since she and Sans arrived at the brothers’ house; Sans had opened the front door and teleported straight into the kitchen, leaving the goat monster looking as though someone had smacked her in the face and run away.

Every one of their questions thus far had been answered with the insistence that nothing was wrong, but Alphys tried again: “A-are you sure you’re all right, Lady Toriel?”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you. I…” She sighed, shaking her head and fluttering her long ears. “Forgive me. Where are my manners? Here I am with such wonderful guests, and I’m wasting time wool-gathering!” She grabbed the pie tin and dished out new slices to Frisk and Undyne, who had finished theirs, and then to Alphys, who was still halfway through hers and had to pick up the remainder to make room on her plate.

“So,” said Undyne, stealing the half-slice out of the scientist’s hand and cramming it into her own mouth. “Whaff our day loo’ like humorro’?” Catching Toriel’s glare, the fish monster swallowed the entirety in one gulp. “I mean, for tomorrow, what do we need to do? Finish giving stuff out, stop by Alphys’ lab, then go see that creepy metal jerk?” When Toriel looked puzzled, Undyne explained, “He took Frisk’s laundry with him so he could get that stain out, and he wants to measure her for more clothes. If we go there first, we’ll be there all friggin’ day.”

Toriel clapped her hands with a poofy sound of fur on fur. “My goodness, that’s right! We should go shopping for Frisk! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“It w-would,” agreed Alphys. “We don’t have to spend a lot of time studying y-your magic yet, Frisk. You might as well have some fun first.”

Frisk glanced at Undyne, half expecting an objection, but the Captain’s eye was alight. “That’s right! We’ve missed twelve birthdays and Gyftmases since you left!” She sprang to her feet, fists clenched. “And now you’ve brought us all this cool crap, and we haven’t given you anything!” Undyne grinned again, eye narrowing. “Fuhuhuhu! We’re gonna get you so much stuff. You’d better be ready!”

Alphys smiled fondly, looking down at her pie. “What?” Frisk asked.

“Things have been so t-tense with Sans gone. It’s been too long since she did her evil laugh,” the royal scientist almost whispered. Her smile widened. “I really missed it.”

Toriel chuckled as Undyne sat down abruptly, scales tinted purple, stuffing more pie in her mouth. “Indeed. I am so very glad you are here, Frisk,” the boss monster said softly.

That was Frisk’s cue to say that she didn’t need anything, being here with everyone was gift enough…but she didn’t, because it would be fun to go shopping, dang it. Besides, she’d given the monsters so much stuff that it would make them feel better to buy her a few things in return. “Technically, it’s closer to thirteen,” she pointed out cheekily. “My birthday is in just a few weeks, not long before Christmas. Or Gyftmas.”

“Really? That’s perfect!” Undyne gave the table a dish-rattling thump. “What day?”

“Uh…” Crud. Frisk tried to remember which date she usually used, but her mind was tired and mushy. It’d be easier to tell the truth, especially with people who wouldn’t judge her. “I actually don’t know the exact day,” she confessed. Maybe just one lie by omission: “My real mother is dead, and my foster mother wasn’t sure exactly how many weeks old I was when she got me. She could only narrow it down to late autumn.”

“Oh, my poor child,” said Toriel, her distress echoed by the others’ shocked expressions. “Can’t you check your birth certificate? Or ask your father, if he is still alive?”

Frisk winced. “I don’t think my father knew I existed until I was about ten. It’s funny you should mention my birth certificate—I’ve tried to track it down, but the only copies I’ve found were from people trying to sell me forgeries. None of the prints ever matched mine.” She snorted. “Rosa couldn’t even tell me which part of the city I was born in.”

Alphys looked ready to cry. Undyne patted her with one hand, and pounded the table again with the other. “Man, humans are the worst! Of all people, you’d think the frickin’ King would be held responsible for his own damn kids! How much did that jerk get around, anyway?! I can’t believe—” She suddenly stopped mid-rant. “Are you okay, Your Majesty?”

Toriel was staring at Frisk, almost looking through her. The boss monster’s hand had clenched into a fist, bending her fork into a strange shape. “Your father is King Stephin?” she inquired, sounding distant. “Are you certain, my child?”

“Yes, Lady Toriel,” said Frisk, hoping to get this over with. “He had fifteen illegitimate children, including me, and he started taking an interest in us when I was about ten. As soon as the delegation got back safely, he had me packed off to St. Brigid’s.” She was not going to let herself get weepy again! “Do you remember me telling you how I had my memories removed? It was partly because he came to see me and asked them to do it.”

Toriel gave her a long, hard look. “Do you mean that you were ten years old when you visited us?”

Where had that come from? “I…yes, ma’am. Why do you—”

“So you’ll be turning twenty-three this year, whenever the date may be?”

“Yes,” Frisk said again. What was going on, and why was Alphys staring at both of them like that? “Lady Toriel, what—”

The tension was broken by Undyne giving the table a two-fisted whack. “Let’s just pick a date and throw you a party! Mettaton’s doing that stupid ball thing before you leave, but we can do another shindig later! We’ve gotta make up for lost time!” She nudged Alphys, nearly knocking her out of her chair. “Right?!”

The scientist clambered back up, and said breathlessly, “Right. We could all use a little more f-fun.”

“…I like the way you girls think.” Toriel forced a smile. “What’s this about Mettaton and a ball?”

“He wants to celebrate Frisk’s visit with a dance,” Alphys answered. “So…”

“So he’ll make you do all the work, and take all the credit,” Undyne muttered. “That’s why I hate that guy. I’m telling you, the next time he tries to pull that crap, you should just send him to me!”

“That settles it,” said Toriel, sounding nearly normal. “Tomorrow, we’re going to pick up something nice for all of us to wear, especially Frisk.” She put down her mangled fork. “Dr. Alphys, it looks like we each have three gifts left. Shall we open them before bed?”

Minutes later, the living room looked as though someone had stuck a firecracker in a Christmas tree: paper was strewn everywhere, boxes thrown aside and ribbons collected into colorful heaps for reuse. At everyone’s insistence, Alphys went first; Frisk directed her to the biggest box, and they ended up having to politely take the figurines away from the royal scientist in order for her to finish opening the others. The second box was a stack of romance- and slightly-action-oriented comics, which Undyne immediately confiscated until Alphys opened the third package: the last two novels in her beloved Adventure Lady series.

It took quite a while to work through all of the lizard monster’s squeals, dancing-about, and hugging of boxes – and Frisk – but she eventually wore herself out, and she was persuaded not to start on the novels yet; instead, she and Undyne each selected a comic and not-very-surreptitiously started flipping through them while Toriel opened her presents.

Frisk prided herself on her gift-giving acumen, and sure enough, Toriel was overjoyed to receive a copy of Educational Principles and Practice, Vol. 1; they both laughed about how it should be “Principals,” to blank stares and a mutter of “Nerds” from the floor. Next came a boss-monster-sized lambswool shawl, which she immediately draped over her shoulders as she tore open the last box. “How lovely!” the goat monster exclaimed, lifting out each of the little bottles in turn. “I ran out of bubble bath years ago! Thank you so much, my child!”

“I made the moisturizer myself,” Frisk said, and was rewarded with a giant hug. She stepped back and actually pinched herself to confirm that she was awake, reminding herself to stop questioning her happiness and just enjoy it. And speaking of reminders— “I have one more thing for you, Lady Toriel,” she said, shoving down her apprehensions. “One moment.”

All three monsters watched her retrieve her satchel and pull out a folder, selecting a single sheet of paper. “Here,” Frisk said shyly, holding it out.

Toriel took it, putting her reading glasses on and tilting the paper toward the fire. “Sheet music?” The boss monster squinted at the title – “Home” – then examined the notations as Frisk held her breath. “I…” Toriel cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Frisk, but I cannot read music.”

“Oh.” Frisk deflated a little. “I’m sorry. I thought you could.”

“Nah, that’s me,” Undyne said, flipping a comic page. “Remember how you used to sit on the piano while I played it?”

Frisk did remember now. “Yes. I’m sorry,” she said again.

“That’s all right, dear.” Toriel gave Frisk a big, eye-crinkling smile that reminded her too much of Asgore. Misinterpreting the human’s expression, the goat monster raised a finger. “I’ll tell you what, my child. When we visit Hotland tomorrow, we can bring this and ask someone to play or sing it for us. Is it a tune I know, or would you like it to remain a surprise?”

“Er…I guess it can be a surprise.” Frisk took the paper and stuffed it back in the folder. Maybe that was for the best…

“Well! Thank you again, Frisk.” Toriel nodded as the others murmured agreement. “I believe it’s time to settle down for the night.” The boss monster stood and surveyed the room, hands on hips. “Let’s clean up, girls. We don’t have enough beds, so would you all like to sleep in here?” They nodded so enthusiastically that Toriel’s smile broadened. “Wonderful! I’ll be right back. Put all the gifts on the table, and the wrapping paper can go in the kitchen for now.”

As the boss monster bustled off down the hall and they began picking things up, Alphys lowered her voice: “F-Frisk, do you know why she was asking about your b-birthday? Asgore asked the exact s-same thing about you being ten years old.”

Frisk thought about it, and hesitated, and made herself say, “I don’t know. We’ll see if she asks me anything else strange.”

“What I can’t believe is you being as strong as a boss monster,” Undyne declared, wadding all the paper into a fist-sized ball. “That’s crazy! I mean, I didn’t think humans could have that much magic!” She gave her toothiest grin. “So, basically, you and Sans are—”

“Perfect,” Toriel said briskly, striding back into the living room and setting down a huge stack of linens. “We have just enough for three pallets! Claim your spots, ladies, and we’ll get you comfortable. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. Can I invite you back here for tomorrow night, Doctor?”

The lizard monster was delighted to accept, but Frisk wasn’t so sure. It was nice to see Alphys and Undyne so happy, but…did Toriel expect them to stay here every night of her visit?

As they arranged the blankets and sheets into makeshift sleeping bags, Toriel chattered about all the “campouts” Chara and Asriel used to have in the living room, but Frisk didn’t hear much of it; she was lost in thought about Sans. Toriel didn’t seem to suspect anything, but they had to tell her sometime very soon. Frisk didn’t know how they were going to convince the former Queen that maybe one human with magic and determination could successfully pair off with a monster—maybe they could appeal to Toriel’s concern for Sans’ welfare, not to mention that Frisk was literally his only option?

…Ouch. She rubbed her temple, trying to shove that thought back down where it belonged. Hadn’t she just scolded Sans last night for “joking” that she was only interested in him because some weirdo in a robe said she’d get pregnant soon? If he was really just interested in her SOUL, then he’d have shown some interest much sooner, wouldn’t he?

…Like…like getting flustered when she offered him that stupid fork during their very first real conversation…or agreeing to stay in the first place…or ignoring the opportunity to escape when she was sick from teleporting back to her rooms. Or all the odd looks she’d noticed, especially at her damn feet. Or him being so irate when she showed him her proposals, or the noise he made when she came out in her skin-tight All Souls dress, or being upset that everyone was going to see it, or his instant willingness to pose as her husband for the festival, or—

Frisk bit the inside of her cheek. She knew Sans cared for her. What was making her think like this?

As if in reply, cold prickled over her scalp and down her back. She glanced at the hallway, almost expecting to see—

“Hey!” Undyne snapped her fingers for the third time, startling Frisk out of her reverie. “Did you hear Her Majesty?”

“Ah…no. I’m sorry.” Frisk smoothed out her pallet and stood up to accept a plate with the last slice of pie. “Thank you, Lady Toriel.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear.” The goat monster bent over to renew the magic inside the fireplace, then smoothed the hair out of Frisk’s eyes again, surprising the human with a light kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Frisk. Good night, Undyne, and good night, Alphys. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

Frisk smiled as the others bade Toriel good night. Was this what being a normal person felt like, having a mother and friends?

Undyne could barely wait for Frisk to finish her pie before she sat down on her pallet and leaned in to ask, “So, what do the humans think of you and Sans? Are they okay with it, or are you important enough to get away with it?”

The human sighed, getting up to put her dishes in the sink. “They don’t think anything is going on,” she said. “He’s a skeleton, and that’s that.”

Alphys squinted at her in disbelief, and Undyne said, “Wait a damn second. You mean to tell us he spent all that time with you, in your room, and no one even thought something could be going on? Do they have any idea how much magic a boss monster has to work with?!”

“Really, I thought h-humans had more imagination than that,” Alphys remarked.

“Yeah! You’re all supposed to be a bunch of perverts!” Undyne shook her head in disgust. “Can’t you guys do anything right?”

Frisk had to laugh as she settled back onto her pallet. “Humans have no idea how monster reproduction works,” she explained. “I barely know anything myself.”

“Then listen up!” Before Frisk could stop her, Undyne leapt onto the armchair. “Here’s the facts of life, kid, and I’m not gonna hold anything back! You ready? It goes like—”

“Instinct,” Alphys said hastily. “You decide to be parents, and you combine your m-magic, and then you have a baby. Or an egg, or a cub. It d-depends.”

The priestess thought about it as Undyne grumbled at the interruption. “Sans implied that you need a male and a female to reproduce,” she said. “Is that true?”

“Pffffft! Are you kidding?” Undyne gesticulated so wildly that the armchair pitched back and fell over, the fish monster gracefully shifting to stay atop it. “That’s just for bosses!”

“It’s true,” said Alphys. “Lady Toriel had to incubate Prince Asriel like a human because there was s-so much magic involved.” She squirmed, claws twisting into her blanket. “O-otherwise, any two monsters can decide to h-have a b-b-baby.”

“Any monsters?” Frisk repeated. “Two men, two women—”

Alphys turned a remarkable shade of orange-red, actually quite pretty to look at, and Undyne nodded so emphatically that she somersaulted onto the floor. “With enough magic, you can do anything,” she said proudly, folding her legs and leaning forward. “If you want a kid, the first thing you do is tell Asgore, and he gives you both a big hug and writes you…I guess humans would call it a birth certificate, except the kid’s not there yet.” Shrug. “Anyway, you both rest up and eat a lot, and then you decide where you’re gonna do it.” Undyne pointed at the floor. “It can be anywhere, but most people like to go somewhere special.” She smiled at Alphys. “Where’d we go if it was the two of us? I’d say the garbage dump.”

The scientist paused, made a series of incoherent noises, and dove under her pallet, only her tail sticking out. “Why the garbage dump?” Frisk asked curiously.

“Duh! It’s where we met!” The fish monster cackled, slapping her leg. “Look at her, all cute ‘n lumpy under th—” Snort. “Oh my God, Frisk, we still have to tell her about that! And Alphys, you’ve gotta tell us what happened with Sans and Asgore!”

Frisk heartily agreed; it was as good a time as any to get everyone on the same page. They coaxed Alphys into sticking her head out long enough to tell them about Sans’ conversation with the King, which seemed to have gone about as well as could be expected; then it was Undyne’s turn to relate the scene at Grillby’s, and how fun and easy it’d been to screw with Sans.

Of course, she also had to mention Gerson’s revelation about boss-monster attraction. “Frisk really is that strong, then?” the scientist asked, incredulous. “Sans said she was j-just like a boss monster, but…”

“That’s what Gerson said,” the Captain replied with an air of finality. “Anyway, Sans was trying to convince everyone he thinks humans are all gross, and you know what that goofy bastard said?”

Once the story was finished and they were done laughing – nervously, on Frisk’s part – Undyne resumed her lecture: “So, when you’re ready to have your kid, you go wherever you decided, and everyone knows to leave you alone so you can concentrate.” She held her hands up and spread her webbed fingers to indicate a large oval between her and Frisk. “You both decide on a size and shape to aim for, and then you combine your magic to start forming it. How long it takes depends how powerful you both are, and what you want your kid to be—anywhere from a few hours to a whole day. When the baby’s done growing, you all go home, eat something, and get someone to watch the kid so you can sleep for a couple days. Boom! You’re parents!”

“What do you mean, ‘combine your magic’?” Frisk demanded, too curious to care if she was being rude. “What does that entail, exactly?”

Undyne cocked her head, scratching behind her fin. “Whaddya mean?” she asked. “You just do it. Think of what you want and why you’re doing it with that person, swap your magic with them, and focus it together for a really long time.”

“But when you ‘swap’ your magic, how do you actually do it?” Frisk persisted. “Do you have to be physically touching each other?”

The scaly monsters exchanged glances, more confused than embarrassed. “You just do it,” Undyne said again. “I mean, did anyone ever teach you how to sneeze? Once you’re ready, it just happens.”

“It’s completely unique to each couple,” explained Alphys. “The important thing is your intentions, and your f-feelings—trusting your m-mate enough to have your magic directly connected with theirs, and wanting a ch-child badly enough to expend all your power. It can be through touch, or purely magical, though I think it’s usually b-both, depending on your individual preferences. It mostly operates on instinct.” Squirm. “At least I th-think so. People don’t r-really talk about it that much.”

“Exactly! That’s my smart lady.” Undyne ruffled the spikes on Alphys’ crest, smirking as the scientist retreated again.

Frisk supposed that made sense; if Sans were to partner with, say, another skeleton, he probably wouldn’t bother to imitate any human parts. But if she was a human who essentially qualified as a boss monster – still a strange thought, however gratifying – then it’d have to be done the human way, which meant…improvising.

“I don’t get how you don’t get it,” the Captain said to Frisk. “Isn’t it the same for you guys? At least a little?”

The priestess sighed. “No. For one thing, only a male and a female can make a child, and it always has to grow inside the female. We instinctively crave physical contact, but that’s about it. We have to be taught how to do it, or else the whole race would probably die out.”

That was an exaggeration, but not much, judging by the questions Frisk remembered the other girls asking in their class, and the things she had believed at that age. For example, she once overheard an older girl referring to a boy having “popped a boner” and concluded that the male organ must function like a jack-in-the-box, which seemed impractical at best, and potentially quite dangerous.

“What you’re saying, then,” Frisk continued, “is that monsters only do it when they’ve made a serious, loving commitment to being parents?” She shook her head. “That’s the exact opposite of most humans. There’s no magic to invest, and usually not much forethought.”

The monsters looked as horrified as Sans had been when he and Frisk conversed on the subject. “Is that how your dad has so many kids?” Undyne asked. “You just…”

“I’d say ninety-nine times out of—no, more like nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand, it’s purely recreational. There’s a huge demand for medicines that prevent pregnancy,” replied Frisk. “And a lot of humans – especially young women – think it’s more romantic to ‘follow their heart’ and just hope they don’t get pregnant. If they do, and it’s out of wedlock, the man is only held responsible based on social status and his own morals.” She stared into the fire,

the magic flames flickering in orderly patterns. “Powerful men can do almost anything they want. I was lucky that my father acknowledged me at all.”

Shocked silence. “No, I’m not joking,” Frisk muttered. Completely against her will, she thought again of Chara railing at Asgore and Toriel— “If they get someone pregnant, they don’t have to deal with the consequences, do they?”

It was hard to keep from scowling, or feeling queasy. Everything came back to Chara, didn’t it?

“Well,” Undyne said in disgust. “That’s total crap. We’ve gotta get everything straightened out peace-wise so you can marry Sans and stay here.”

Alphys nodded eagerly, but Frisk felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. Undyne leaned down to peer into her face. “What?” demanded the Captain. She glanced at Alphys. “A couple weeks ago, Frisk talked to some guy who’s never wrong, and he said that if she got her memories back, she’d have a baby within a year. Then she comes here, and I find out Sans has been gnawing on her—”

“Undyne!” snapped Frisk, cheeks aflame.

“Well, it’s true! I know you’re not like other humans, so…” Undyne raked her loose hair out of her eye. “I’m assuming the best here. I mean, don’t you wanna get married?”

“Of course I do!” Frisk almost shouted. “I love him, and I hate that we have to hide it like this! It’s illegal with humans because they think of monsters as a cross between animals and public utilities, and I can’t do anything here because the last human who lived here was a spoiled, manipulative piece of—”

She stopped at the sight of tiny golden sparks crackling in the air. Both monsters had recoiled as far back as they could, Undyne against the capsized armchair and Alphys up against the low bookshelf. “Sorry,” Frisk said hastily, and the sparks vanished. Where had those come from? She hadn’t put up a barrier—was she just that angry?

Wait. It was easier to use magic in the Underground than on the surface, and her barriers always got more fizzy when she was upset…was her magic more reactive to her emotions down here? She hoped not, or else she’d have to be very careful to avoid scaring any more monsters.

Undyne scooted forward. “Yeah, I think we’re done for now,” she said. “We should get to bed. Gonna have a busy day tomorrow, and you’re probably pretty tired.”

“Yes, very.” Frisk rubbed between her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you, or…”

“That’s all right,” Alphys said, offering a timid smile that made Frisk feel exponentially worse. “Um…y-you know, you can talk about it with us, if you w-want. But you don’t have to.”

“Yeah! We’re your friends,” Undyne said stoutly. “Yell, scream, throw things—that’s what friends do!”

The priestess chuckled. “Thank you.” She rose on her knees and hugged Undyne around the middle, then Alphys. “Thank you both so much. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Alphys was pink again. Undyne grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s be good and get to sleep.”

Frisk slid under the blankets, letting warmth sweep over her and wash away the bitterness. On impulse, she said, “Who wants a lullaby?”

“Oh. D-do you sing?” asked Alphys.

Frisk didn’t think of Chara. She just took a breath, and the monsters blinked at each other in pleasant surprise as humming filled the room. It was Sans’ favorite song, light and sweet, and Undyne could barely mumble something complimentary before her eye drifted shut, Alphys following a few seconds later. Frisk had to let it taper it off soon after; it was so nice to think of Sans, but she couldn’t stay awake any longer. At least she’d see him tomorrow…

Back a third time: in bed with her husband, she let him tip her head back so he could run his teeth and tongue over her throat. She remembered now how busy she’d been with work this week; they’d barely seen each other, much less been intimate. No wonder he was so eager, or that she couldn’t stay mad at him for waking her. Frisk sighed as his hand ran down her side, thumb stroking the delicate skin of her hip before it slid underneath for an appreciative squeeze. He nuzzled her cheek, then looked up enough to lock eyes before he kissed her.

Frisk pulled him closer, glorying in the slight pain of his ribs grinding against hers; not only was it the feeling of being close to him, she knew from experience how much Sans loved her softness. She was a little bemused when he sat up after only a minute or so, but he was breathing so hard and fumbling so awkwardly with his shorts that she had to recognize it as a compliment. Her body warmed in anticipation as he moved her legs aside to—

Sans almost never cursed, but he muttered something very impolite as the doorknob rattled. “Daddy?” Rattle, rattle. “I’m hungry.”

“it’s after midnight, kiddo,” the skeleton said irritably. “go back to bed before you wake your mom. she’s gotta be up in a few hours.”

A token whine; sullen footsteps trudged back to their room, the door of which was nearly slammed shut.

Frisk sighed. “How does she do that?” she mumbled. “I swear I—”

Her only warning was a glint in his socket and a sharp movement forward—her hands latched onto his shirt, jaws clenched to keep from crying out. “Sans! That’s…” Frisk bit back a moan as he leaned over her. “That’s cheating,” she whispered furiously.

Sans chuckled. “not if i’m doin’ it with my wife.” His hips moved slowly. “get it?” He ground his teeth as she retaliated by rubbing her calves along his pelvis. “it’s…y-yeah.”

Frisk smirked. He was so aroused that he couldn’t even come up with a followup joke! That was gratifying. So was…well, everything else he was doing. She leaned up to pull him in for another kiss, but he buried his face in her neck instead, gripping the sheets for better leverage as his pace quickened.

There was nothing for it. Frisk hung onto him for dear life, dimly aware that she was getting louder, no longer caring if either of the kids heard them. It didn’t last very long, but that was fine: for the first time in a long while, Sans had to bite her shoulder as he shuddered to a stop, which was enough for her a moment later, leaving them both a panting, sticky mess—in other words, perfect.

On one hand, she did actually have to get up in…crap, only four hours? Frisk glared at the alarm clock, then closed her eyes, stroking her husband’s skull as he caught his breath. Sans mumbled into her ear, and Frisk smiled, whispering back. At least she wouldn’t have any trouble getting back to sleep!

Sans didn’t make a conscious decision to get up and go find Frisk right now; he just woke up and, a moment later, found himself standing in the dark entryway of Toriel’s house. Magic raced through his bones so hard and fast that he had to get ahold of himself long enough to adjust his vision. The colossal skeleton moved cautiously to his right, where the bedrooms were, then paused at a sound from the living room. A little snore, rustling…snickering?

Right. The slumber party. Against his better judgment – any judgment at all, really – Sans crept down the hall and peered around the corner of the living room, where two people lay fast asleep; a third person was crouched over one of the sleepers, chortling to herself.

�� The boss monster kept a tight rein on his urge to walk over, grab Frisk, and take her straight back with him to his cold, smelly, bedless room. At the very least, he wanted to ask Undyne what the hell she was doing to his human.

He didn’t get the chance: a silent presence behind him made him gulp. “Hey, Tori,” he mumbled, half-turning.

Toriel was in her normal clothes, looking tired and extremely unhappy to see him. “What are you doing here at this hour?” she asked coldly.

His bullshitting reflex saved him as webby feet padded over from the living room and Undyne joined the goat monster in glaring at him. “I was thinkin’ about that big load of food we need ta pick up, and who all should be goin’,” he said. “Frisk probably wants me to bring her an’ maybe you, Undyne, but I think it’s too dangerous fer her. I wanted ta grab some papers from ‘er and jus’ go take care of it by myself.”

“All by yourself?” repeated Undyne, and Toriel asked, “Right this moment?”

“Yeah. I can shortcut everything home way easier if it’s just me.” Sans jerked his thumb at the living room. “All I need are the invoices out of ‘er bag, and I can take care of the whole thing while you guys are doin’ whatever.” He shrugged. “I don’t want ‘er wastin’ her time in the Underground with that crap. She never hangs out with other girls, so this’ll be good for ‘er.”

“How considerate of you,” Toriel said warmly. “I know how much magic you possess, Sans, but surely you won’t attempt to take yourself and all that cargo back here single-handed? What if you can only come partway and get caught out in the open?” The goat monster looked around Sans. “Would you consider going with him, Captain?”

“Nah, she can stay here,” the skeleton answered. “I’ll get a room in the village if I need ta rest up. And if I really wanna keep myself in shape…” He didn’t have to fake a shudder. “Pap’s got plenty’a food in the fridge.”

The women were silent for a moment. Undyne came forward slowly to clap him on the back ribs. “Sans,” she said gravely. “I salute you.”

Toriel sighed. “I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. If your mind is made up, I will not stop you. Undyne, would you get the papers from Frisk’s bag, please?”

And so it was that Sans found himself committed to the biggest solo grocery run imaginable, all because of a sex dream. It was good to know that he could still lie as long as Frisk wasn’t in the room, but he wished he could’ve found out in a more convenient way. Eh, whatever; it was true that she needed girl time, and that she’d be in danger if they ran out of magic and were discovered by poachers. He had his disguise, but she was way too cute to pass as anything but herself.

So Sans accepted the folder, flipped through for the most boring-looking, number-filled papers, and helped himself, taking note of the sheet music – ha – without giving it much thought. “Welp, ‘m off,” he said to the other monsters. “Tell ‘er ta have fun, ‘n I’ll be back soon.”

“Of course, Sans. Please, be careful, and don’t take any foolish risks,” Toriel urged him. “We will send out a search party if you’re not back within forty-eight hours.”

“And Frisk’ll probably insist on coming,” Undyne added pointedly. “Don’t get captured or die, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The giant skeleton waved the papers at them. “I’m gonna say bye to Pap, and then I’m off. Toodles.”

True to his word, Sans went back to the house, woke his brother, and apologized in advance for eating all the spaghetti, explaining that he needed the energy in order to go get another load of food for everyone. Papyrus was two-thirds ecstatic and one-third fretful. “I CAN SEE YOU ARE ALSO SICK WITH WORRY,” the younger skeleton murmured as Sans choked down the last plateful. He wasn’t stupid enough to have his tongue out, but there was just something about Pap’s cooking that transcended texture or flavor. “ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN DO THIS ALONE?”

“Yeah,” Sans said feebly, reminding himself that the stuff basically counted as food. “I’ll be fine, Pap. I’m gonna be really careful.”

Papyrus put his hands on his fake-armored hips. “HMM. I HOPE THAT MEANS NO HUNTING.”

Sans tapped his fork on the plate. He had wondered if his brother was going to say anything about that. “Nah, bro. No hunting. No animals, not anythin’. I’m just gonna get the stuff Frisk ordered and come right back. I promise.”

The smaller skeleton – Sans was never going to get used to that – nodded, only looking a little skeptical. “NYEH! WE’LL WAIT FOR YOU, THEN. DON’T TAKE TOO LONG, BUT MOSTLY, TAKE CARE.”

“Sure thing.” Sans rolled the papers up loosely, tucked them into an outside pocket, and gave Papyrus a brief, manly embrace. “Take care of ‘er. I’ll see ya later.”

“OF COURSE! I WILL ALSO SEE YOU, NYEH-HEH!” Papyrus held his smile as Sans winked out of sight. Then he sighed, his whole body drooping. “…I HOPE.”

Frisk woke to the sounds of laughter, voices, and a door closing. For a moment between rubbing her eyes and raising her head, the priestess had no idea where she was, or what she was hearing—was Sans making breakfast for the kids? Had she overslept? Why was the bed so hard?

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and saw the living room of Toriel’s house, blankets and pillows heaped around the cooling fireplace. Right; they’d had a slumber party. Frisk yawned, sitting up for a deeply contented stretch. She could hardly comprehend it: they had stayed up late talking about girl stuff, and she had no responsibilities for today except to go shopping! Maybe she really should stay at Toriel’s for the rest of the trip…

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Toriel said, with an odd quaver in her voice. “Would you like some breakfast?”

Frisk scratched her forehead. Then she scratched it again, checking under her nails, and decided she was imagining things. “Yes, please. I hope you’re not using your pie ingredients.”

“Why not? I have butter, eggs, and salt, and three hungry houseguests.” Toriel waggled a finger to spread the fire magic more evenly beneath the skillet. Her shoulders hunched a little as Frisk got up and wandered into the kitchen. “Would you please set the table for me?” she asked without turning.

“Certainly.” The human went to fetch four plates and glasses from the cabinet. “Where are Alphys and Undyne?”

“Reading those silly comic books in the guest room,” the goat monster said tolerantly. “I’ve never seen grown monsters who loved those things so much.”

The priestess found the silverware drawer and set out forks and napkins. “You seem to be feeling better,” she commented. “We were a little worried last night.”

“Yes, of course…and speaking of last night, Sans stopped by very early this morning.” Toriel transferred the scrambled eggs to a serving bowl. “He’ll be busy today with a few errands, so we won’t be seeing him, but he said to have fun with the girls.”

Frisk mumbled acknowledgment, her face growing hot. Had he had the same dream, or memory, or whatever it was? Was he avoiding her?

Toriel was quiet for another moment. Then: “I hate to gossip, dear, but… when Sans was apprenticing under you at the castle, did he seem…fond of anyone? I mean, has he grown attached to any humans beside yourself?”

Frisk felt the hairs on her arms standing straight up. “Er…may I ask why? Did he say something last night?” she asked, sounding only mildly curious.

The boss monster shook her head. “Please, Frisk. I’d rather not discuss it until you’ve answered my question.”

Frisk wanted to tell the truth so badly that she had to bite her lip before she answered, “I don’t know. We didn’t talk much with any one person. The only people he really interacted with were the sorcerers in charge of developing the solar panels.”

“Ah, yes, humans don’t have them yet.” In one motion, Toriel cracked two more eggs into the skillet, incinerated the shells, and flicked the ashes into the sink. “By ‘sorcerers,’ you mean men and women with considerable amounts of magic?” A drop of egg splashed the stovetop as Toriel stirred the mixture, raising a little plume of steam. “Forgive me for asking, my child, but are any of them particularly strong? Perhaps one of your siblings?”

Frisk stared at the table. Time to stop dancing around the subject, or at least come a little closer. “I think I know why you’re asking, Lady Toriel. Yesterday at Grillby’s, Gerson told us that boss monsters are only attracted to other boss monsters, or someone equally powerful,” the priestess said quietly. “Is that true?”

An embarrassed pause. “That old—” Crack went another egg. “Yes, it is true.” Crack. “May I ask how the subject came up?”

Well, Sans had obviously said something, or Toriel had otherwise figured out there was a human involved…but she still didn’t seem to know who he meant. “Undyne was teasing him about liking humans. Gerson explained that it was basically impossible, but Sans acted as though it’d already happened,” said Frisk, trying to stay calm. “I won’t ask whether Sans told you anything in confidence, but…yes, he has met several extremely gifted humans.” When there was no response, the priestess turned to face the stove, where the former Queen stood rigid. “Toriel, please, tell me honestly—what’s the worst that could happen if Sans were to marry a human?”

Crack. “He could not.” Crack. “It is not my personal opinion. It is fact.” More egg splashed the stovetop as Toriel stirred the mixture. “Neither humans nor monsters would recognize their union. She would be an outcast among humans, and we would not trust her enough to let her live here.” Crack. “Asgore would suspect Sans of collusion with humanity, or even treason, especially if he chose someone related to the King. Everyone in the Underground but myself and Papyrus would think likewise.” A giant sigh. “The best-case scenario is that Sans would have no home but what he and his wife could make for themselves, and he would have her for only a few decades at most before she withered and died. I don’t even know if they could have a child, but if they did, Asgore would feel threatened by—”

“What if we changed any or all of that?” Frisk took a few steps into the kitchen. “Why couldn’t monsters learn to trust at least one human? Why can’t we try to convince Asgore that he doesn’t have to fear and hate everyone, and Sans isn’t a threat?” She couldn’t keep her voice from rising: “Why not give Sans a chance to have a few years with someone he loves, instead of making him live forever in abject misery?”

Silence. Toriel turned the skillet to scrape more eggs into the serving bowl, mixing them all together. “You may be in a position of authority, my child,” she said, so gently that Frisk’s hackles rose, “but there are many things you do not understand yet.”

Frisk took a calming breath. “I understand that when someone says that,” she said politely, “they’re either hiding something, or trying to end an argument where they know they’re wrong.”

Toriel stopped moving. The ring of fire on the stovetop flared so high that Frisk had to control the impulse to turn and run. “Listen to me, child. I know that Sans is your friend, and that you are concerned for him,” the boss monster said to the flames, deadly quiet. “I feel the same way. If it were possible to allow him to be happy with someone, anyone, I would be overjoyed. But I will reiterate: the things I have said to you are not a product of my own narrow-mindedness. They. Are. Facts.”

Frisk’s chest burned. “Facts can be changed, Lady Toriel,” she murmured. “I’m not claiming anything will be quick or easy, only that it may be possible. It stays impossible if we do not try.”

The flames on the stove winked out. Toriel went to the refrigerator and took out a fresh jug of milk. “Go get the other girls, please, my child. Breakfast is ready,” she said brightly.

So be it. “Yes, ma’am,” the priestess replied.

“Uh…” Undyne’s awkward voice made Frisk turn to face the hallway. The Captain and the royal scientist were glancing around, clearly afraid to interrupt. Undyne looked up solemnly. “Frisk, I just wanted to saaaHAHAHAHAHA!” The fish monster nearly collapsed, staggering into the wall as she howled with completely unexpected laughter, raising a shaking finger toward the human.

Bewildered, Frisk looked at Alphys. The latter tried to cover her mouth, but as her eyes met Frisk’s, the lizard snorted so hard that her glasses fell most of the way off. Another look, and Alphys was wheezing, sitting down hard. Undyne was already gasping for breath, but every time she looked up at Frisk, she nearly screamed. “Oh my—oh my gaaaaahahahaha!”

Frisk whirled around and glared at Toriel, who was still facing away from her, but whose head was bowed and shoulders shaking as her laugh finally burst forth in great, rolling peals, forcing the goat monster to lean against the counter and gradually start slithering to the floor. She risked a peek at Frisk and clutched her gut as the human down stared at her. “My…my ch—” She shook her head, falling onto her side to giggle helplessly on the kitchen floor.

What in the—Frisk shoved past her debilitated friends and ran to the bathroom mirror. That was why Toriel had sounded so strange at first, and why she hadn’t turned around: in giant black letters on Frisk’s forehead and across the bridge of her nose, someone had written SHARKY WUZ HERE.

She knew her skin had felt itchy! What the hell was it written with? Indelible ink?! The priestess was so angry that…she…actually…had to admit it was pretty damn funny. She glared at her reflection, but it was no use: Frisk buried her head in her hands and allowed herself to laugh silently for nearly a full minute.

Out in the kitchen and living room, the monsters were starting to run out of steam, amusement fading gradually into concern as the human remained silent. “F…Frisk?” Undyne managed. She tried to get up, but the best she could do was a half-crouch against the wall. “Hey, Frisk? You okay?”

There was a distinct sniffle as Frisk emerged from the bathroom. Toriel wiped her face on her sleeve, sitting up against the cabinets. “My child? Are you all right?” she called.

Frisk came shuffling down the hall, her head hanging. She walked past the concerned monsters and sat down on her pallet, giving another noisy sniff.

Undyne grimaced. “Hey, come on. It was just a dumb joke.” The Captain hobbled into the living room and bent over Frisk. “It’s a tradition to—”

Whap went Frisk’s pillow, square in the fish monster’s face. Undyne fell flat on her back as Frisk burst out laughing. “This had better come off, Sharky,” she said, trying to sound very angry and absolutely failing.

Undyne smacked the floor, giving another shout of laughter. “Who…who said it was me?! Why would you think that was my nickname?” She grabbed her own pillow and sat up for a swipe at Frisk, mindful of her much greater strength. “It was probably Her Majesty!”

“Oh, really? Is that how it is?” Toriel got to her feet with difficulty. “I…” She had to pause for a few more giggles before she could say, “I suppose I’ll just comfort myself by eating this entire breakfast by myself.”

At that, Alphys got up and tried to creep around the fringes of the now-full-blown pillow fight, but Undyne grabbed her ankle. “Hold on, Doctor! This is a question of honor, and you’ve gotta help me settle it once and for all! I—” She stopped as Frisk tried to catch her unawares. “HEY! Knock it off, you damn cheating human!”

“Never!” Frisk had gone for her blind side, and ducked behind her pillow to avoid retaliation. “Alphys, help me!”

“Mmm! This is wonderful,” Toriel said loudly, sparing the scientist from having to choose sides. “I’m so glad I have it all to myself!”

Undyne dropped her pillow, but before she could stand up, Frisk said, more seriously, “Wait a moment, please. I need help getting this off my face.” She crooked her finger at Undyne. “We’ll be right back.”

The Captain followed her to the bathroom. “Yeah, I have no idea how to get that stuff off,” she admitted. “I used one of the really nice pens out of Toriel’s desk.”

“Splendid.” Frisk opened the medicine cabinet as Undyne closed the door. “That could’ve gone better,” she said quietly.

“What?! That was fun as—oh. Right.” The fish monster sat down on the edge of the tub. “Yeah, so…Her Majesty knows something is going on with a human, but she doesn’t even suspect it’s you? I mean, you’re powerful enough to be High Priestess, you spent way more time with Sans than anyone else, and he really cares about you. How is she not putting that together?”

Frisk sighed, selected a bottle of baby oil, and began rubbing it on her nose and forehead. “Toriel’s been alone for much too long. Now that I’m back, she still wants to think of me as a little girl, and being involved with Sans doesn’t fit that image.” The human dumped most of the bottle out and slathered it on. “It’s convenient for now, but when she finds out…”

“Hmm.” The Captain gave her a hard, squinty stare. “That’s not gonna stop you, is it?” she demanded.

“Hell no,” Frisk said. She was smiling, but she had never been more serious in her life…or at least she would be, once she got the damn ink off.

It was now late afternoon. Sans was standing at the counter of a large grain clearinghouse in human form, hands in his pockets, waiting on someone who’d run off to find someone else who could assist him. He glanced around for the fifth time, but there wasn’t much point. There were shelves lined with burlap sacks that reminded him of his old shirt, wood floors, brick walls, and nothing else. At least if he’d brought Frisk with him, he would’ve had something to look at!

If he’d brought Frisk along on this stupid impulse trip, he also wouldn’t be waiting for these dickwads to take their sweet friggin’ time tracking his stuff down; she would have done her scary thing at them and gotten their fleshy butts moving. He was doing his best to look intimidating, but it wasn’t the same with his disguise on.

…But if he’d brought Frisk along, he’d be thinking nonstop of that damn dream, and his entire day would’ve been a frustrating waste. As it was, he was only thinking mostly of that damn dream, and the day had otherwise been really boring. This was the third place Sans had been, and according to the invoices, there were a couple more to go; he didn’t know why he’d assumed that everything they’d ordered would be sitting around in one place, ready to go, because holy shit, it wasn’t.

At least the nice lady at the first warehouse had convinced him not to try getting everything together and heading back out tonight. She’d seen that he was completely clueless and given him some advice on what to actually do: show the invoices today so they could get it ready for tomorrow, then rent a couple of carts in the morning, bring them to each warehouse, inspect the cargo for damage, sign the bill of lading, make sure it got loaded safely, and head to the next damn place to do it again until everything was ready to go. Then he could worry about getting home.

All these stupid, tiny, essential details—was this what Frisk’s life was like, running around arranging crap for everyone? No wonder she was so damn tired all the time! It was like being pinched to death!

He was profoundly grateful to exit the last warehouse, even if the sun’s dying light was right in his eyes as he stepped out. Sans squinted his way down the street and selected the first okay-looking pub he saw. The place was noisy and crowded, but warm enough that he decided to sit down at a table near the door.

It was seriously weird to be by himself among all these people. With nothing better to do and the servers too busy to notice him yet, Sans relaxed as best he could, half listening to the humans’ chatter.

“That’s seriously the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” someone was saying loudly at the next table. “I don’t care how all-powerful it’s supposed to be, it’s a skeleton.”

Sans turned his full attention to that table as the guy’s friends murmured agreement. “Yeah, if that’s the worst thing they can come up with, it’s pretty damn stupid,” one said.

“You wanna know what I heard that’s actually true?” The first speaker’s voice dropped just enough to sound impressive. “If the whole monster thing works out, the King’s gonna legally adopt her—new title, next in line for the throne after the Prince, the works.”

This did impress his friends, who were thoughtfully silent. “Nuh-uh,” someone finally said, and they laughed.

“I’m not kidding! My brother-in-law just got back from the city a couple hours ago. The sorcerers did a big demonstration of those…those panel things, whatever the fuck you call ‘em, and they actually worked. The King was there, and a bunch of people said he couldn’t stop talking about everything the High Priestess was doing.”

“So how’d you get from ‘the thing works like she said’ to ‘huzzah for Her Majesty’?” asked a skeptic.

The knowledgeable human smirked. “He was asking for all kinds of paperwork when they got back to the castle, including adoption stuff. The Prince isn’t doing too good—” He paused, nodding agreement with their sympathetic murmurs. “I know. Poor little man. But—”

“Good evening, sir!” A smiling, apple-cheeked waitress was between Sans and the other table. “What’ll you have?”

“Water.” When she opened her mouth again, he said, “Just bring me whatever’s at the top of the menu.”

The waitress blinked. “Yes, sir. Can I interest you in—”

“Bye,” he snapped, and the woman moved on, trying to hide a scowl.

To his irritation, the humans were now talking about sheep or something. Sans stared at the back of one man’s head, his thoughts buzzing like flies. Had he jinxed it somehow? Just yesterday, he’d been thinking what a great ruler Frisk would be, and now, if these random assholes were to be believed—

Someone had made a dirty joke about a guy spending too much time with his sheep, and the table was getting so loud that Sans contemplated moving somewhere else, or leaving entirely. If he stayed at a decent inn, he could get food there just as easily.

“You’d better watch out. They thought my cousin was doin’ that, and he had to sell his whole farm to pay the fine,” said the grossest-looking human.

This revelation was met with even louder derision. “That wasn’t a sheep, stupid,” the talkative guy commented. “He was gettin’ cozy with a monster. Remember, the little one they were using for the mill?”

Sans’ entire body locked up. Dimly, he knew he had to make his legs move—he had to get out of here before he heard anything worse than—

“He didn’t actually do anything,” the gross guy insisted. “They just found him in the pen.”

Another round of merriment. “Yeah, drunk off his ass! If I was her, I’d’ve knocked him out, too! He got charged with attempted bestiality and letting her escape!”

“Nah, not bestiality,” someone said. “It’s…what’s that fancy word?”

“Miscegenation,” said the gross guy. “Fuckin’ a monster. He got lucky they didn’t throw him in jail. He just had to sell everything he owned and go work for someone.”

Sans stared down at his table’s cracked, beer-mug-stained surface. He was no longer listening to the group. So, it was actually against the law? That meant…

The noisy table gradually ceased talking and turned to look at Sans, who had started sniggering, then laughing to himself, and gotten so loud that the humans around him were edging away. “You okay there?” someone asked cautiously.

“It’s a fucking crime,” Sans said, distantly aware that it was in fact a deeply messed-up and unfunny issue. “Get it?” He got up, shaking his head, a hand to his side. With an incoherent sound, the disguised monster ignored the waitress’ approach with his food and staggered out the door. He could eat later; right now, he just needed to stop laughing at the sheer, ridiculous number of reasons why he should never ever see Frisk again, much less spend the rest of his life with her. At this point, what else could even happen?!

In a way, it didn’t matter: it was about infinity too late to decide that they’d better just be friends. Whatever happened, they could handle it between them, he told himself, and very nearly believed it.

It wasn’t a sex dream this time, but the first thing he saw after falling asleep that night was Frisk, so he’d take it. “Heya,” said Sans, extending a bony hand. They were in Toriel’s living room, Frisk lounging in the armchair. “Come here often?”

She smiled at him as he pulled her to her feet. “Not often enough,” she said, squeezing his metacarpals. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Yeah?” For a moment, Sans thought she’d grown way taller; then he realized that he was his normal shape, but human height. He opened his arms, and Frisk came right in to snuggle against him, sighing as he pulled her closer. “How was yer day?” he mumbled, running his phalanges through the ends of her hair.

Her body rumbled as she laughed a little, and his SOUL almost purred with sheer happiness. How was he supposed to ever stop hugging her when it felt like this? “It was wonderful,” she said into his chest. “We had our slumber party, and then Papyrus came by in the morning to say hello, so we took him around to give out the rest of the gifts, and he came shopping with us.” Another giggle. “He’s actually got a great eye for color coordination.”

“Yeah?” Sans ignored the tiniest pinprick of jealousy. “Thanks fer includin’ him.”

“Of course!” The human squeezed him for emphasis. “I’ll spare you the full fashion show when you get back, but some of the things we got are really cute. I can’t wait to wear something that’s not black or gray.”

“Or purple?” he teased her.

“Or…” Frisk stopped, then thumped him in the ribs as he snickered. “You know I hate that stupid dress! I might as well go out wearing nothing but body paint!”

“Okay,” Sans said agreeably.

That earned him another thump. “So,” Frisk said, very dignified, “then we went to see Mettaton.” She wriggled a little in excitement. “He’s already started teaching me a few different dance steps. The only time I’ve ever danced was when I was here, and it was so much fun! We’re going back tomorrow so I can practice.”

Sans tried to envision his normal, giant self dancing her around, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Glad ya liked it. Are you all back at Tori’s tonight?”

Frisk nodded. “We played cards until Undyne got carried away.” Snrk. “I bought some waterproof eyeliner while we were out today. I can’t wait for her to wake up tomorrow.”

That didn’t mean much to Sans, who figured he might as well ask, “Did they tell you what I’ve been doin’, where I am now?”

He felt her tense up. “Eventually, yes.” Frisk pulled back enough to glare at him. “What were you thinking? You should’ve waited for us!”

Sans let his head drift downward till his forehead was resting on hers. Was she wearing makeup, or were her lashes always this long? “I was thinkin’ of that dream from last night,” he said casually, “an’ then I wasn’t thinkin’. Tori caught me comin’ in to say hi.”

Frisk’s eyes widened, face flushing. “Sans! You can’t do that! What were you even going to do with everyone else right there?!”

Sans paused. “Hold on a sec.” He didn’t know if it’d work in a dream, but just in case, he released her, pulled the silver chain from his coat pocket, and slipped on his disguise. Frisk jumped back as he wriggled his human hands. “There we go! Now I can feel stuff, and now—” He reached down to run his fingers through her hair, his other arm pulling her close again. “I don’t have all those damn teeth in the way,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her.

To his hurt surprise, she pushed him away, turning her face aside. “Hold on a second,” she protested. “I…” Frisk saw his expression and sighed. Her arms came up around his neck, and Sans had to try very hard to focus on anything else besides her softest parts smushed up against him. “You have to warn me before you do that,” she chided him. “I’ve only ever seen you like this a handful of times, and you startled me. That’s all.” She placed her palm on his cheek, and he wasn’t embarrassed to put his hand up to hold it there. “All right,” she said after a long moment. “Now you—”

The rest of the sentence was lost to history: his mouth was on hers, arms almost crushing her. Frisk made a sound deep in her throat, and he ran his hands down her back and up her sides as her lips parted again. It was so much better not to have to worry about biting the crap out of her! Their teeth could still knock together a bit too hard or catch each other’s lips, but that was a tiny annoyance compared to the feeling of her breath on him, how he could ease his tongue into her mouth and let her explore him right back without snagging anything on his fangs.

That also meant he could pull her hair back to expose her neck and bury his face in it, his other hand free to roam over her backside. It was a struggle to formulate anything coherent, much less to ask her if her physical limitations applied to dreams, or if they could lie down and pick up where they’d left off a couple nights ago.

Frisk’s throat moved. He thought she was encouraging him to start biting again, until she said, “I’m going to try to speak with Asgore tomorrow.”

Sans’ fingers dug into her waist. “Why.”

“Because I have to show him that I’m not afraid of him. Don’t worry, he likely won’t agree to see me yet. It’s just important to try.” Her hands tightened, almost trembling. “And I have to talk to him about…”

It came back to him in a flash, everything Grillby had said— “About Chara?”

Frisk’s hands were definitely trembling. “I don’t think Toriel could handle it. Not yet. But I can’t hide it much longer.” She swallowed hard. “Can I tell you about it when you get back?”

Sans frowned, resting his cheek where her neck met her shoulder. “Of course. Whatever ya need.” He paused, playing with her hair. “So, no offense, sweetheart, but…why are we talkin’ right now instead of makin’ out?”

“Because Undyne saw what I did to her face, and she’s hitting me with a p—”

Just like that, Frisk was gone. Sans stared at the empty space his arms were grasping, and allowed himself to slowly pitch forward until he fell into the armchair. He scooted and twisted around to face forward. Well, just because Undyne had ruined his chance to screw around completely consequence-free with the woman he loved and wanted with every fiber of his being, that was no reason to pout, was it? Except that it completely was! Fuckin’ Undyne!

Sans exhaled, closing his sockets. His real self was so tired that he might as well stick around here for a minute, where no one else could bother—

Something moved, so quiet that it wasn’t really a sound so much as a disturbance in the air. It didn’t feel hostile, but the giant skeleton felt a stab of foreboding. He peeked upward, and immediately felt his sockets grow wide. His mouth moved, but there was no sound. All it could do was shape the words Prince Asriel?

The figure nodded slowly. Sans watched in awe as it knelt, golden eyes dark and solemn in the firelight. There came the soft, deep, courteous voice Sans remembered: “Tell her I’m sorry.”

Sans shook his head. “Sorry for—wait!” Asriel was standing, stepping back with a shake of his head. “Prince Asriel! Hold on! Come—”

It was no use. Just like in real life, the Prince was gone.

#songfell #why u do this formatting #first rule of slumber parties #fall asleep last and wake up first

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violet-knox · 4 years

Text

Returning Home

Part 2 of Conflict of Interest

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader

Summary: You head back to Hogwarts to fight for the Order during the battle and find Severus to get answers to your questions.

Warnings: Angst... with a capital A 👉👈👉👈 Death, Blood, Voldemort and more angst

Word Count: 8386

A/N: This takes place a few months after part 1 in the middle of the war. I’ve pasted a few quotes from the book which I’ll mention at the bottom to avoid spoilers and obviously the credit for that goes to JKR.

Obviously I've been writing too much fluff lately soooooo...... I'M NOT SORRY!

Part 1

Everything was in ruins. The castle in a worse state than the night you’d left, abandoning your home, the responsibility you had to the students that now lay dead on the floors of the one place they were supposed to be safe, the place their parents had put their faith in when they agreed to send them back in September. You’d abandoned your love, your life, everything you’d held dear. A job that gave you everything yet left you feeling so unfulfilled. But what choice did you have? Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, your partner and thought to be soulmate had done exactly what you’d feared and led the once great school into war. And where was he now? Hiding away somewhere to save his skin? Or perhaps he truly was the Death Eater everyone but you believed him to be, gone to stand by his Master’s side. Oh how the great have fallen, crashing and burning to the ground with nothing to show for but betrayal and loss. What would he say to you now that your nightmares had all come true? All that hope you’d carried for him gone. How could he possibly explain this chaos and exonerate himself from the horror he’d caused?

Every corner you turned you were greeted by more bloodshed. Innocents dead, Death Eaters throwing every type of Dark Magic left and right. Not a single stone in Hogwarts walls was left undamaged; some chipped or torn out from its place and most others displaying the blood of students, staff members, Aurors… your friends, ex-colleagues and peers. The sight made you wish you’d both arrived sooner and never shown up at the same time. It made you wish you’d done more than the petty hunting you’d taken part in these last few months. What good were a few caught Death Eaters now that they’d all gathered and attacked the school, destroying the place you’d left to protect?

Heading down to the end of the corridor, you turned towards the loudest of the three halls the castle offered you, filled with nothing but chaos and found a few Aurors, some you recognized, others you thought were too young to enter such a racking fight, defending themselves against a bundle of Death Eaters. You quickly joined them, throwing curse after curse, standing by their side, holding your own against the Dark Magic thrown your way.

You’d barely begun defending the school when suddenly, the wall behind the Death Eaters you fought exploded outwards, sending rockets of stone their way. You quickly shielded yourself, casting protego and watched as the school defended itself. Every Death Eater was thrown off their feet, some greeting death as soon as they hit the ground and others finding themselves not so lucky, facing wounds that would defeat even the best Healer in the world before facing down the end of an Auror’s wand.

Holding your wand up stead, you made your way towards the rubble, casting the killing curse towards a Death Eater the second you saw them twitch and stepped over the broken wall to a sight even worse than that you’d previously been greeted with. Groups of students lay dead as others ran down the corridor only to fall at the hand of another Death Eater. You couldn’t stand the sight and your anger grew the more you thought about how insignificant your helping hand really was these last few months. You were only one person, what could you possibly do to truly help these poor kids?

Making your way down the hall, you did what you could, saving as many students as possible until you heard the familiar sound of a voice you could have sworn could only belong to man of the hour himself, the Chosen One; Harry Potter. But it was him, it had to be, who else would be so bold as to use the name of you-know-who so openly, especially at a time like this?

"You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry- look inside him!" You couldn’t recognize the girl's voice at first, the fear hidden in her tone masking her usual confidence, but of course it had to be Miss. Granger.

Silence fell a while and you edged closer towards them, still hiding behind the broken wall, keeping your presence scarce.

"He's in the Shrieking Shack,” Harry finally spoke. “The snake's with him, it's got some sort of magical protection around it. He's just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape."

Your heart nearly stopped at the mere mention of Severus. So, it was true. It was all true and you’d been too blinded by love, convincing yourself his words were enough to believe when they were nothing more than lies. Your vision blurred as you placed a hand over your mouth, trying to keep from falling apart, tears running down your cheeks. You slumped to the ground and all the noise, all the chaos around you disappeared as you spiraled down the rabbit hole of grief. There was no need for a spy now, no need to pretend during this wad and if Harry’s words were true, that left you with one obvious conclusion; Severus Snape was a Death Eater.

"He's not-he's not even FIGHTING?" Hermione had never sounded so outraged before, her risen voice snapping your mind back to reality. Your head pounded, fighting your heart which begged to find another explanation for Severus, anything to prove what you had with him wasn’t a lie. You wanted so badly to believe you’d hallucinated this conversation, that Harry had made up what he said was true but the more they spoke, the more your hope faded along with your dreams of a pleasant reunion.

"He doesn't think he needs to fight," said Harry. "He thinks I'm going to go to him."

You closed your eyes, unable to hear anymore. Your head felt like it was about to implode from rejecting the fact that Severus had lied to you, telling you he was fighting, spying for Dumbledore when he’d double crossed the Order, he’d double crossed you. Placing your face in your hands, you brought your knees up to your chest, taking deep breaths as you tried to clear your mind. Now was not the time to panic. Now wasn’t the time to feel resentful. A war had broken out and you were in the midst of it. The important thing right now was to fight and win this battle before all was lost to the darkness that had enveloped your love.

But if Severus had been truthful to you, the one person in his life you knew he trusted more than anyone, then perhaps there was something going on greater than these attacks. Something you were unaware of. Why was Harry Potter looking for that snake and why was it so heavily protected? If anyone knew, it would be Severus, and if Potter and his friends were planning to make their way to the Shrieking Shack then it was only logical for you to go with them. Even if Severus had betrayed you, even if there was no deeper plot, you could still do your part and protect the boy who lived. He was supposed to be the key to winning this war after all, so the best thing you could do for the sake of the Wizarding World was find the truth and protect him.

Just when you’d finally made a decision and jumped back up to your feet, you heard two Death Eaters shouting for Potter, approaching him with their drawn wands. But Miss. Granger had beaten you to the punch, attacking them before making a break for it. With the sudden chaos that ensued, you could no longer spot them. You honestly weren’t sure if they’d decided on their next move, but you knew at least one of them would head to the Shrieking Shack which meant they would all do what they could to assist.

You quickly sprinted towards the Entrance Hall, encountering Death Eater after Death Eater on your way, but finally you’d found yourself outside the castle doors, spotting Potter and his friends running out of range of a giant screaming ‘Hagger’. You couldn’t even stop to question the giant and his eagerness. Time was of the essence. You watched them sprint towards the Whomping Willow and remembered the story Severus had told you about the time he’d caught Sirius Black.

He’d told you about how he’d found him in the Shrieking Shack by following Potter into a secret tunnel under the Whomping Willow. He’d never told you how he knew about the tunnel, but at the time, you hadn’t thought to question it, enticed by Severus’ bravery and ambition instead. Whatever the case may be, his story clearly had some truth to it and could help you find your own way to the Shrieking Shack after those kids who suddenly seemed to have disappeared.

No matter, you knew exactly where they were heading, and they couldn’t be too far ahead of you. Soon enough, you’d managed to make your way to the tree that had begun aggressively swinging its branches in every direction. You quickly found a nearby branch and made your way to the knot under its trunk, immobilizing it as soon as you hit it, just as Severus had described. Ducking into the opening under the tree, you found yourself completely in the dark with nothing but silence accompanying you. Taking out your wand, you cast lumos and began making your way down the seemingly endless tunnel.

Eventually, the end came near and you felt your heart pound aggressively against your chest, your adrenaline beginning to wear as the fear of what you might encounter on the other side of this trap door ensued. You’d come all this way, there was no going back now, no backing down. This is what you’d come for, what you’d left Severus for; the chance to help end this war.

You summoned up every last ounce of bravery you had to spare and pushed aside your doubt along with the trap door, climbing into the Shrieking Shack and immediately found yourself met with an agonizing scream coming from the room next door. You slowly edged your way to the exit, staying with your back pressed against the wall, wand at the ready and found Potter, Granger and Weasley all crouched down, listening in on whatever was happening in the next room. When the commotion settled and you heard he-who-must-not-be-named leave the room, you watched the trio walk in with a lack of defensive precaution.

To say you were baffled by their motions would be an understatement. Clearly there was still someone in there and to head in acting as if they’d been called for dinner without their wands at the ready was completely absurd. You quickly moved forward gripping your own wand tightly, ready for whatever it was you were about to walk into as you followed them into the unknown room. But no amount of precaution or training could have prepared you for the sight you saw as soon as you turned that corner.

“Severus,” you whispered in complete and utter shock. He was lying there with his throat cut out, his hands desperately grasping at Potter as the floor was painted red with his blood. You felt your heart collapse, your head spin in agony as you rushed forward, pushing past Granger and Weasley, throwing yourself on the ground beside Severus. You’d never felt so helpless, so useless before in your life. You wanted to help, you wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how.

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise suddenly issued from Severus’ throat and your attention was brought up to watch his eyes desperately begging Potter for something you could never begin to even imagine.

"Take...it...Take...it..."

Memories oozed out of his mouth, eyes and ears but you couldn’t be bothered to wonder what he was doing, you couldn’t accept this. He can’t die, he can’t. He hasn’t explained himself to you yet. He hasn’t told you how wrong everyone was to call him a Death Eater, how he truly was fighting for the light, how he was simply doing as he was told standing by the side of you-know-who as Dumbledore had asked. He hasn’t told you how much he loved you.

You looked down at your wand and blinked away your tears. This can’t be it, it simply can’t. This is not the end, it just can’t be. Hovering your wand over his neck, you began muttering every healing charm you could think of, holding on to the hope that one of them would work despite the fact that you knew deep down those marks on his neck indicated snake venom was running through his veins, poisoning him and ripping out any smidge of life he had left to give.

You didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop until you felt those familiar slim fingers graze your hand. Severus had motioned for you to halt your motions, but you couldn’t accept that, shaking your head as your eyes filled with tears, looking into his. His hand felt so weak, so cold, colder than usual and his face was so pale. He was dying and you couldn’t do anything but beg and plead for him to stay.

“Please… please don’t leave me,” you whispered, leaning as close to him as you could, placing your hand above him as you dropped your wand.

Severus kept his eyes glued to yours, a few more memories escaping his lips as he focused on your touch, the delicate features of your face, your hair. He’d missed you so much these last few months; they were torture without you and he knew he’d only made it as far as he did with this mission because you’d been by his side. Even when you’d left, it was the thought of seeing your face once this was all over that kept him going. How poetic must it be for your face to be the last he’d see now.

"Look...at....me..." he whispered, bringing your attention from the second flask Granger had used to capture the last set of memories he’d given up and back to him. Your eyes met one last time before that twinkle behind his black orbs vanished, his hand slipping between yours and thudded to the ground.

“No.” The word stumbled out of your mouth as you desperately went to reach for his hand, grasping it tightly with your own and bringing it up to your chest. Your swallowed screams came out as incoherent whines as you tried searching his eyes, finding nothing but emptiness. He was gone.

You’d barely had two seconds to process what just happened when suddenly, the voice of he-who-must-not-be-named echoed through your ears, filling your mind with vile thoughts of anger and fear atop the grief you’d felt for your lost love.

"You have fought," said the high, cold voice, "valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery."

You closed your eyes, somehow hoping that would shut him out, that it would shut out the world to leave you be or wake you from this hellish nightmare you were living. But you were given no such luck as he continued to speak, his voice resonating the agony and despair you felt.

"Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured."

Dispose of your dead. He spoke as if the lives lost during this war were nothing more than trash to him and why would he care? He who never learned to love, never cared for someone as you had Severus. You couldn’t bear looking at his eyes anymore knowing they’d never look back at you. His hand lifeless in yours, never to hold you again. Placing two fingers over his eyelids, you closed them and placed his hand over his chest before reaching into his robes where you knew he stashed his wand to retrieve it.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you.” His voice still rang in your ears and you finally remembered you weren’t alone. There was still a battle to be won, a war to end, lives to save. “You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"Don't listen to him," said Weasley.

"It'll be all right." Granger’s sudden wild tone threw you back and you felt yourself go stiff under all the stress and grief this war had brought. "Let's-- let's get back to the castle, if he's gone to the forest we'll need to think of a new plan--"

The trio all stood to make their way out, but you couldn’t move a muscle. Eyes closed, you hung your head and planted your palms on the ground. You had to wake up, this couldn’t be real. These last few months, they must have been a dream. You’d dreamt it all and you were back in bed with Severus in his chambers at Hogwarts sleeping next to him after making up. It was the only reasonable scenario because this simply can’t be real, it can’t.

“Professor.” But Granger’s voice had just proved you wrong. This was your reality and it was too much for you to withstand. You wanted to stay with Severus no matter what it may bring, yet you knew you couldn’t. You had to protect the children, the students and help the Order fight against that monster.

You took in a deep breath and shoved your grief into a cupboard in the depths of your mind, locking it shut before jumping to your feet, griping hold of your wand along with Severus’ and the flask of memories Granger had left for you. You followed Potter and his friends back through the tunnel from which you came, nothing but silence passed between the four of you as you tried to wrap your head around the events that just occurred.

You couldn’t think straight. It was all just too much. You wanted answers, you wanted to help and that was supposed to be the point in your trip to the Shrieking Shack but instead of having your questions answered, you’d been shown nothing but what you’d lost and could never regain.

The darkness accompanied you out of the tunnel as you exited out of the Whomping Willow and dragged yourself to the Great Hall, following the others. You felt unhinged, like this reality wasn’t your own and perhaps it wasn’t. It was the cruel reality of fate, rejected by those who’d stood over their love’s empty vessels.

You somehow felt yourself envious of those mourning the ones they lost in the Great Hall because at least they could mourn knowing they were loved, hugging those still present in the land of the living. Walking down the room, you gazed upon the students, Aurors and staff members lost in the war, the survivors huddled in groups where the house tables used to stand. Nothing more than hardship and devastation passed from one person to the next.

Fresh tears streamed down your face at the thought of Severus lying there alone in the shack where you’d left him. He should be here. You should both be huddled in the corner alongside the others thanking Merlin you’d survived this long instead of this loneliness you felt accompanying you as you found your way to the nearest wall, throwing your back up against it and sinking down to the ground.

You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, instantly rocking back and forth in an attempt to comfort yourself. You’d never felt such a cascading rush of emotions before, thoughts of anger and resentment replaced by agony and remorse the second you saw Severus on the ground. In that moment, it didn’t matter to you what side he was on. He was your heart, your soul, your everything and he was gone.

You could never speak to him again, never see him or touch him. It wasn’t fair. You’d never gotten the closure you needed after you’d left and now you felt like you never would. You’d hoped the end of this war would give you the means to find the closure you needed, whether that be accepting Severus as the Death Eater he was or the brilliant and brave man you’d come to know him as. You’d never thought of the possibility you’d be faced with his death instead because he’d always seemed so invincible to you. He was an amazing Wizard with skills you were sure would have rivaled Dumbledore at his best. The possibility of his death seemed laughable back then. Even now as you sat there, playing back what you’d seen, what you’d heard, you weren’t sure what had happened, why he-who-must-not-be-named would kill him when he’d gained his favour last year, becoming his most trusted follower after killing Dumbledore.

Questions upon questions piled up in your mind and suddenly it became clear to you what you had to do next. The war no longer mattered to you, the battle felt like it had taken place eons ago. You needed answers and the flask Granger had handed you may very well be the only thing you had to provide you with what you needed most.

Quickly standing to your feet, you began making your way to the Headmaster’s office, your pace fastening the second that gargoyle came into your line of sight. You were about to mutter ‘Dumbledore’, hoping Severus hadn’t changed the password since you’d left when the gargoyle spun open with none other than Harry Potter stepping out of it. Your eyes met and you both froze in place, each one aware why the other was there. It was you who’d moved first, taking a step toward the open door before you heard him speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice small and shriveled. “I didn’t know.”

You looked back at him and watched as he handed you his flask, unsure of what he meant. You took it regardless and gave him one last look before making your way into the office. You’d spent many nights here, speaking with Severus, watching him take orders from Dumbledore’s portrait. You’d resented the place honestly, feeling it too crowded, too grand. You much preferred his old office next to the potions classroom, but with the way he looked when he first entered the room, clearly ecstatic about it all had you keeping your opinion to yourself, letting him enjoy the bit of luxury he’d been given.

Your eyes finally met with the pensieve, unsurprisingly pulled out of its place. Slowly, you made your way towards it and looked down at the two flasks in your hand. Without a second thought, you put away the one Harry had given you, opening the second one and poured its contents into the pensieve. The blue and silver looked beautiful swirling around in the water and you only hoped the memories you’d see as you dunked your head in would be just as alluring a sight.

The room spun and you felt yourself falling into darkness until a clear image of Diagon Alley rolled into view. You looked around and noticed the lack of people roaming the streets. It didn’t take long for you to spot Severus in his oversized robes, making headway towards Flourish and Blotts. I remember this night, you thought, smiling to yourself as you quickly followed him into the shop.

Severus made his way straight for the academic section of the shop knowing exactly where to look as you let your eyes roam around the store searching for…

“Hello.” Ah, there you were. “Do you need any help?” Your cheeks burned red, feeling awkward at how innocently young you looked back then. You were so clueless back then and it almost hurt to watch you interact with Severus. Though despite the clear lack of love between you both, at least your past self had the pleasure of speaking to him at all. It was more than you could ever hope to do now.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Severus looked you up and down, seemingly unimpressed with you but looking at him now, you realized he’d hidden a small smirk behind his ‘better than life’ attitude.

“That obvious?” You’d cracked a smile at him, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Yes, you could remember this day very clearly now; he was the first customer to have actually struck up a conversation with you while working here and it made you nervous.

“No,” he replied, looking down at the book he had in his hands. Leaning in closer, you realized he’d done that thing he always did when he was nervous and let his hair fall in his face to hide his growing smirk before composing himself and looking back at you. “I shop here every few months and this is the first I’m seeing you.”

“Ah, a regular. Perhaps I should get to know your name then,” you said, pushing yourself to do as you’d been told and show the customers nothing but a willingness to help as you offered him your hand. Severus looked down at your open palm, hesitating before firmly grasping it.

“Severus Snape,” he said, looking into your eyes and shaking your hand. You could almost feel his slim, dry fingers grazing the inside of your palm just looking at the figures you knew were just memories. But you couldn’t help the tears that gathered in your eyes, it was so good to see him so full of life again.

“Well, Severus Snape, do you always shop in the boring section or do you ever explore the rest of the store?”

You chuckled at your own joke, whipping away your tears and immediately looked at Severus, watching him scuff in response before the memory washed away, snatched from you just when you felt yourself reconnecting to him.

“No!” You shouted into the nothingness surrounding you, turning in your place as colour began to settle into place revealing the empty streets of Hogsmeade with Severus standing in the middle of the road, looking as though he was contemplating doing something regrettable.

You ran up to him, standing before him and examined the look on his face. All you wanted to do was cup his cheeks, wait until his eyes met yours and ask him what was wrong, but it was just a memory. You knew if you reached out, you wouldn’t feel a thing. He’d pass right through you and you just couldn’t handle that disappointment. So you held back, waiting for him to make a move instead.

After taking a few more moments, he finally began to walk down the street, stopping right in front of The Three Broomsticks as if he was afraid he’d run into someone undesirable the second he walked in. He paused once more as soon as he’d stepped inside, looking around before making his way to the bar. You followed his lead and walked with him as you searched the practically empty pub; the few people who were present all seemed to be minding their own business, nothing out of the ordinary really.

You watched him slump into a seat, clearly nervous about being here for reasons you didn’t understand. You’d come to this pub with him multiple times and he’d never acted this way. Unless, perhaps, this was the first time he’d stepped foot in Hogsmeade since the night he was thrown out The Hogshead, that would definitely explain his nerves.

Severus suddenly went completely stiff and as you followed his line of sight, you realized why.

“What can I get you Severus.” Your younger self had immersed once again, this time as a bartender. The shocked look on Severus’ face amused you. He’d never looked so confundled before he’d met you for the second time.

“Are you following me?” He shamelessly let out.

“Me?! I’d do nothing of the sort,” You placed a hand on your chest adding a bit of sarcasm to your tone, acting as though he’d offended you to the highest degree while offering him a small smile. Severus eyed you a moment and you laughed at the interaction, realizing now how silly it looked from an outsider's perspective.

“Firewhiskey,” he finally said, adjusting himself in his seat to get comfortable. “Double.”

You looked over to the bar and watched as you reached for a clean glass and a bottle of Firewhiskey. “So, what brings you to Hogsmeade?”

This was the second time fate had brought you together and you remembered thinking it had to be some sort of sign, that coincidence couldn’t possibly explain this encounter when you’d done nothing but think about finding him again after you left your old job. You were nervous that night when you saw him again, wondering if you should go as far as to get to know him a little.

“I work at Hogwarts,” he said, watching you pour his drink before pulling out a second glass and doing the same for yourself. “What are you doing in Hogsmeade?”

You tore your eyes away from the drinks your past self was pouring and looked at Severus to find an oddly curious look on his face. He seemed intrigued rather than skeptical as the tone in his voice perceived.

“Fate,” you said, smiling to yourself, keeping your gaze on the bottle you had in your hand as you sealed it and went to put it back on the shelf behind you. “I got let go at Flourish and Blotts. Said they didn’t need me after the school rush anymore, so here I am.”

You picked up both glasses and offered him one. Watching the interaction had you suddenly feeling the aftertaste of the Firewhiskey on your tongue as your own image take a sip. At this point, you remembered wanting to know more about Severus. He was intriguing to you, different than those you’d met in England thus far. He seemed to have lived a long life despite looking to be in his late twenties. Looking back at Severus, you began to wonder what he thought of you the first time you’d met.

“So, what do you do at that mysterious school?”

“I’m the school’s Potion’s Master,” he replied before taking a large sip of his own. “Have you never been to Hogwarts?”

He rose a brow at you and you could see his curiosity peek. You’d never noticed it before, but knowing Severus now, he must have thought of you as something special if he’d shown you any sort of interest.

“Nope,” you replied with a little too much enthusiasm. “I was sent to Beauxbatons because my parents thought it was more conservative.”

You shook your head, blushing at the sight of yourself speaking of your upbringing. Keeping your eyes on Severus instead, you began examining his expression, trying to memorize every detail of his face. But once again, the image before you began to vanish, and you found yourself in the darkness once again. It seemed as though fate also had a cruel sense of humour, taking away the thing you love just when you felt yourself ready to grab hold of it again.

Spinning around, you tried searching for the new image that should have formed around you by now, but you could only make out a few lights to your left and you’d begun to think something had gone wrong until you realized you were in the dungeons of Hogwarts. You were standing in Severus’ old chambers, before he’d become Headmaster. All you could make out was the pale tone of his face reflecting the yellow candlelight and his hands which were held up close to his neck.

Walking closer to him, you realized he was standing in front of his mirror, tying his ascot, looking nervous once again. You smiled and simply admired him as he looked his reflection up and down, obviously unhappy with what he saw, but you couldn’t say you felt the same. He looked perfect to you, even his hair which he couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with.

You’d never seen him like this before, so worried about his appearance, unable to stand in place. Finally, he walked away from the mirror, whisking away into the sitting room where he began pacing, debating something you could see he was on edge about. You bit your tongue, wanting to ask what was wrong until you realized how stupid that was. He wasn’t really here, this wasn’t really him and you’d clearly been shifting through these memories long enough to forget that.

You frowned, just standing there waiting in anticipation for him to make his next move. Eventually, he composed himself enough to open the door to his chambers and make his way out towards the Entrance Hall where you finally remembered what night this was; your first date.

This was the first time you’d seen him out of his teaching robes, all dressed up in his navy-blue formal attire. You’d been waiting on the other side of the doors he’d opened, probably more nervous than him. He’d visited you many times at the Three Broomsticks after your first encounter there, finally offering you a tour of Hogwarts months later when the students had all left for the holidays.

You watched yourself step inside from the cold, shivering with your arms wrapped around yourself. You let out a giggle as you realized how nervous his first date with you had made him. It was adorable, though you knew what Severus would say if he’d caught you using that word to describe him. ‘Kittens are adorable (Y/N), I am not.’ Though you would respectfully disagree of course.

“I trust you weren’t waiting too long?” He said as he closed the doors. Your younger self was busy brushing snow off your jacket, but you could see the concern in his eyes. You knew that look and it saddened you to see him wear it so early in your relationship. How had you not noticed before his worry over disappointing you had started before you’d even officially began to date?

“Not at all. You’re just on time,” you replied, meeting his gaze with a warm smile. “This school is huge! Will we have time to see it all today?”

“No, but I thought I’d show you the more grand parts of the castle before dinner,” he said, accompanying you down the hall.

“So, does that include your classroom?”

You followed the figures, watching Severus closely, his eyes beginning to soft as he grew comfortable with you. It was an amazing first date and you were happy to relive it.

“If you wish.”

The figures suddenly disappeared as they walked down the hall and you found yourself standing in the dungeons again, this time outside of the Potions classroom where Severus was hesitantly leading you. You remembered this part of the tour; the best part of the castle, unable to help yourself from imagining him teaching a classroom full of students, but it was clear Severus didn’t feel the same way. His nerves were back and he looked unsettled as he opened the door to let you into the room.

“Wow,” your younger self said under your breath and you just couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You were exaggerating your interest and it made you wish the next memory would appear already to relieve you of this embarrassment. But you held out and kept watching if only to remember the lust you knew would blossom between the two figures in the memory.

Ignoring your weak attempt at flirting, you instead resumed your admiration for Severus, trying to read his thoughts through his expression, but all you could see was the unsettlement he’d shown back in his chambers when he was preparing for your date. His eyes darted back and forth from one table to the next, analyzing it as if he was searching for a reason to punish some non-existent students. Was he nervous about the state of the room? Is that why he’d hesitated when you begged to see his classroom earlier that evening?

“So, is this where you work? This is your desk?” You spun around at the sound of your own voice, following Severus’ line of sight to watch you run your fingers over his desk at the head of the class.

“Indeed, it is,” he said cautiously walking up to you. You followed along and watched him approach you as you leaned on the edge of the desk, smiling as if you were about to do something devious. A moment of silence passed, both figures exchanging looks before you spoke again.

“Thank you for today Severus. I enjoyed the tour,” you bit your bottom lip and pushed yourself up so you were standing but a small grasp away from him. There it is.

You sighed out of sheer joy when you saw Severus’ breath hitch as your figure leaned in, placing both hands on his shoulder and pressed your lips to his. He went stiff and you could feel his lips press against yours as you watched, your fingers instinctively hovering over your mouth at the loss of contact you felt.

Your smile grew and tears formed under your eyes when he began kissing back, wrapping his own arms around you, pulling you in tightly before your image quickly pulled them both back a step, enough so that you could jump onto the desk without ever parting from him. The kiss quickly became heated as you wrapped your legs around him, his hands slowly making their way up the desk as he leaned forward, your back pressing against the wood of the desk. Your first kiss looked so normal from here, but at the time, you felt it to be the most magical moment you’d ever experienced. He was amazing the first few months you’d spent together, you could relive every second of it and you only wished you could. It was nice to see this moment again, but you wanted more. You wanted to feel him, to feel the emotions you felt when you were with him back then, not just observe the faint memories of you both falling in love with one another.

“No,” you whispered as the classroom behind the two on the desk began to fade. “Not again, please!”

You begged the nothingness that gobbled up one of your happiest memories, but it was too late. They were gone and you found yourself in yet another memory, a more recent one by the looks of it. You were in your shared chamber; the Headmaster’s chambers. You heard the door slam shut and began looking around, trying to find your figure along with Severus.

“No,” you said when you spotted him, realizing what memory this was. “No, Severus please. Why would you show me this night?”

You spoke to the figure as if he could hear you but of course, he ignored you and slumped into his armchair, the light from the dying fireplace illuminating his outline enough for you to kneel right before him, looking desperately into his heavy eyes, tears forming, threatening to fall down your cheeks as they did his. This was the night you’d left, the night you regretted full heartedly and it hurt to see the aftermath of your fight; the broken man that sat before you.

“I’m sorry Sev, please, I shouldn’t have left, I’m sorry,” you said desperately before giving into the one urge you’d been fighting during this trip down memory lane and tried to place your hand over his only to have it pass right through. You couldn’t bear the pain anymore and felt yourself break down as the memory kept playing. You placed your face in your hands and let your heartbreak escape through the tears you shed.

You’d do anything to take it all back if you were given the chance. If you had a time turner to spare, you’d sit there spinning it until you went back to the right moment to fix things, no matter how long it took. If you’d stayed with him, you could have helped save him, you should have stayed to convince him to fight for the Order. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You never should have left!

Was this your punishment? To be reminded of what you could have had with him? What you’d lost after making the biggest mistake of your life? You kept your head in your hands until you heard Severus shifting in his spot and you opened your eyes just in time to watch him pull out a box from his robes. You looked down at it, focusing your vision to watch him fiddle with the box, the same nervous and disappointed look you saw from your first date, the first time you met now scribbled all over his face once again.

“Oh Sev,” you whispered as you peered inside the box he was slowly opening, revealing a small, but elegant engagement ring. Your vision blurred again as fresh tears formed at the realization of what you’d done. You wanted to scream, to cry until time reversed itself and gave you the chance to rewrite history. He loved you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you and you’d slammed the door in his face, rejecting him before he could even ask, all because you let this battle, this damn war cloud your judgment of him.

Severus suddenly stood and you instantly rose, staying as close to him as you could while he walked over to the fireplace, picking up the clock you’d given him for Christmas the same year you’d begun dating and popping out its bottom. He slid the ring inside the clock and reassembled it.

“Oh Sev, I wish you’d asked,” you said through tears despite the fact that you likely wouldn’t have given the same answer back then as you would now. It was true what they said; you really didn’t know what you had until you lost it, and it took losing Severus to know that what you had with him was real and true. It took losing him, knowing you could never speak again to realize how much he meant to you, no matter which side of the war he stood.

Looking back at the clock, you watched it disappear along with the fireplace.

“No, no not another one, please I can’t take anymore,” you pleaded, but it was no use, Severus was gone and once again the scene around you changed and you were back in the Headmaster’s office. For a second, you thought it to be over, that you’d been freedom from your ward, but when you looked to the side of the room, you saw the pensieve was put away and all the figures in the portrait present, which meant this was yet another memory. You let out a defeated sigh, feeling as though this truly was a punishment you weren’t sure you could bear any longer.

“Severus, you made a promise.” You spun around when you heard Dumbledore’s voice, trying to search for his figure, but it was Severus you’d found instead, standing in front of a portrait, looking as broken as he did in the last memory. “You must stay by Lord Voldemort’s side until the time is right. You’re the only one that can do it.”

“You should have picked someone else,” he said looking as miserable as ever. You’d in fact never seen him like this in all the years you’d known him; broken, hollow, left with no ambition, nothing left to live for. “(Y/N) left yesterday. I’ve lost everything to this war.”

You walked closer to him, realizing what he was saying, what he was asking to do. He wanted to come after you, to abandon his post, the position he’d worked too hard to gain, killing Dumbledore, betraying everyone he cared for, all to become he-who-must-not-be-named most trusted follower. He was ready to throw it all away for you.

“You said-”

“I know what I said! I was wrong!” He spat at the portrait. You took another step towards him, ready to make the same mistake you’d made earlier and attempt to hug the memory only for it all to disappear before you. This time, instead of a new memory replacing the darkness, you felt yourself being grasped and pulled out into the real world.

You feel back onto the floor, losing your balance when you came out of the pensieve. All those memories, everything you’d just learned was all too much. Severus hadn’t betrayed you after all, he wasn’t a Death Eater, he was a hero and he’d died just that. You should have gotten up, returned to the battle that was sure to resume any moment now, but you couldn’t. Your body couldn’t handle any more. You couldn’t do anything but lay there on the floor, crying until you had no tears left to shed.

It all felt so meaningless now; winning the war, defending the school. What was the point when you felt like you’d already lost? The hour was up but the chaos had yet to resume. You barely had the energy to drag yourself up and recollect all of Severus’ memories let alone join the others and see what would become of Hogwarts.

Closing your eyes, you took in a trembling breath, trying not to think about the breakdown you felt was on the verge of exploding out of you and gathered yourself enough to leave the office. Standing there as the gargoyle closed, you looked down the hall that led to his chambers. You weren’t ready to revisit the place where it all fell apart yet that’s where your feet were taking you.

Everything was right where you’d remembered it, nothing had changed, not even the picture you'd taken together at the Yule Ball, still propped up on the coffee table beside the armchair. It still smelled just like him, the closet in the bedroom still full of clothes; yours on the left, his on the right. He hadn’t bothered to throw a single thing away, your comb, your toothbrush, your journal still sitting exactly where you left them, nothing had changed.

Waking over to the bed, you picked up his pillow and pressed it to your nose as you closed your eyes and slumped down onto the mattress. Hugging his pillow with the upper half of your body pressed against the black silk covering the bed was the closest thing you felt you’d ever get to feeling his touch, smelling his hair or finding comfort in his arms. Still it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough.

You missed him so much, more so now than you had the last few months you’d been apart. Your body shock but you had no more tears left to shed. Your mind searched for memories of Severus, but you couldn’t find any more left to mourn over except the last moments you had with him. His eyes slowly glazing over with darkness as his soul escaped your world, leaving you behind.

He’d spent his last breath sharing all of himself with you and you had to honour that. He died so that the Wizarding World may prevail, and you couldn’t let that go in vain. You composed yourself the best you could, thinking of the victory you had to win for him and dragged yourself back to the sitting room.

You looked over the bleak outlines of the furniture you’d spent hours sitting in with Severus before making your way to the fireplace. Picking up the clock, remembering that Christmas morning you shared together, you turned it over, popping out the bottom to find the ring he’d hidden still sitting there, waiting to be worn. You removed it and placed the clock back in its place, shifting the ring around between your fingers to reveal text engraved on the inside of the band: ‘Always and forever yours’.

It was a beautiful ring, small, but you were never one for theatrics and he knew that. The diamond in the middle was crystal clear, pure as he’d once described you to be. Beside it, two small emerald stones were placed on either side, signifying his promise to you; that he will always be with you no matter what the future held. Looking at it now, the memory of him holding it in this exact spot where you stood, you could almost feel his presence around you, as if he’d just proposed and you’d abruptly accepted like you so desperately wanted.

You quickly whipped away the single tear running down your cheek and slowly slid the ring on the ring finger of your right hand, symbolizing what should have been but never was. He was gone yes but his legacy would live on, you would make sure of that.

Before heading out, you searched your pockets and removed the flasks carrying the last memories of your lost love and placed it next to the clock on the fireplace, removing his wand from your person as well, carefully laying it before the clock.

“You can rest now Severus,” you whispered, hoping that by some miracle, he’d hear you from the afterlife. “I love you so much, I hope you knew that.”

And with that, you slowly backed away from the fireplace and withdrew your wand, ready to fight for the good of the Wizarding World, for Hogwarts, for love, for Severus Snape and everything he stood for.

A/N: Ok, I'm sorry 😭😭😭😭

Scenes taken (and edited) from the books: Harry looking into Voldemort’s find to find his location and the heartbreaking shrieking shack scene.

@marvelschriss @bush-viper-cutie @moonie-writes

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softboywriting · 4 years

Text

Christmas Kiss | Shawn Mendes

Summary: You and Shawn have been friends since you were kids. You never meant to fall in love with him, his life and job now make a relationship hard. This Christmas you decide to tell him how you feel, there is only one problem, you’re sick with a cold and you don’t think you’ll get to see him. [fluff] [Christmas themed] [sick/cold] [non au] [friends to lovers]

Word Count: 2.6k

|Masterlist In Bio|

Being sick when Shawn comes home from tour for Christmas is not ideal. You felt the cold coming on two days before he was scheduled to land in Toronto. You had plans, big plans with Shawn. It's been ages since he's been able to hang out in person, and you finally have the courage to admit to him that you want to be more than friends. This week was supposed to be a huge life changing event, a Christmas to remember. You did everything you could to stop the onslaught of runny nose and puffy watery eyes; medicine, orange juice, supplements, but to no avail. You are undoubtedly, irrevocably, sick.

Monday morning you wake up to the doorbell for your apartment buzzing non stop. The world feels heavy. You sit up in slow motion it seems and there is nothing you can do but focus on breathing for a moment while you gain your bearings and listen to that awful tinny buzzing from someone wanting into your building. You crawl out of bed and drag yourself to the door, dragging your feet like they're in sticky mud.

"Hello?" You ask, finger on the call button for the front door. Your voice is completely wrecked, absolutely destroyed from coughing. "Hello? Anybody there?"

"It's Shawn."

"Shawn?" You glance at the clock over your couch a few feet away. It's just after nine. "What're you doing here?"

"I got you some stuff. Let me in, it's cold out here." He laughs and you press the door button to let him in.

Moments later he is pushing open the door to your apartment and carrying in bags of stuff. You wrap a blanket off the couch around your shoulders and watch as he unloads bag after bag onto your kitchen island.

"What's this?"

"Medicine, food, gifts." Shawn starts unpacking and setting aside Oreos and some ramen cups. "I stopped by the store for you on my way over with your Christmas gifts."

You shuffle forward and look at the bags. They're full of more groceries than you would usually buy in two weeks. How much does the guy think you eat? And what is with all the junk food? You tug the corner of a bag down and see a bottle of whiskey. "What's this?" You pull out a fifth of Canadian whiskey and give Shawn a look.

"That's for us." He puts away the Oreos and some mac and cheese into a cupboard. "Hot toddies are good for making you sweat out a cold."

"Uh huh. You said “us”? You're not staying."

"The hell I’m not."

"Shawn, you can't get sick. You're a rockstar, you have to sing. You...you have responsibilities."

"Yeah and right now," he pauses and hands you a box of tissues. "My responsibility is my best friend."

Best friend. That packs a punch you didn't expect. A haunting reminder of how he thinks of you, at least, how he presents that he thinks of you. It's hard and it's getting harder, that courage you built up the last few months is withering now like ice in the hot sun. It's just turning to steam before your very eyes. Shit.

"What if you get sick?"

"So what? I've been sick before and I'll be sick again." Shawn wads up the last of the grocery bags and sets aside a bunch of wrapped boxes on the counter. "I've waited four months to be here and to see you. I'm not letting some stupid runny nose stop me."

"I'm not going to be any fun." You sniff, eyes watering heavily. "I'm just going to sleep and be miserable."

Shawn rolls his eyes. "I know you. You'll want to watch Lion King and drink peppermint tea until you're so tired you pass out. I'm prepared for that."

"Wow. Just read me like a book why don't you?"

He grins. "Go sit down. I'll make some tea and we'll talk and catch up."

"We talk everyday."

"But it's different when we're together."

"Yeah but..." You chew on your lip and he lays his hand on your shoulder. "Never mind. Thank you for coming over."

"You'd do the same for me." He cups your cheek and you turn your eyes up at him, sure that you must look terrible. "You're welcome."

His soft gaze breaks you. You step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face to his chest. Your fingers curl tight into his shirt and he holds your head with both hands.

"I missed you," he says, fingers working into your hair and scratching at your scalp with his blunt fingertips. "Things aren't the same without you."

"I missed you too." You murmur, eyes closed and you can almost, just barely, smell his cologne. Maybe your one nostril is unblocked. Maybe...just maybe you just want to be immersed in that familiar scent so bad it's appearing in your mind.

_____________________

Shawn spends the rest of the day with you. He makes you tea and warm whiskey spiked drinks. You watch the Lion King, Mulan and Moana. Just after six the sun starts to slip behind the horizon, your living room becoming dark. Shawn's arm finds its way around your shoulders and he leans his head on your head. You want to tell him. You need to tell him how you feel.

"Tomorrow is Christmas."

You nod slightly. "Sure is."

"My parents are in Barbados." Shawn chuckles. "It was a gift for their anniversary, but the cruise got rescheduled. I was surprised when they said they'd be gone for Christmas. It's not like mom to miss it."

"Maybe they just really needed a vacation."

Shawn sits up and runs a hand over his unruly long hair. "Probably. I know mom's been having a hell of a time finding clients for work. And dad...dad is always working hard, a hundred and fifty percent everyday." He sighs. "I'm glad they taught me a good work ethic y'know, but I wish they'd take it easy. It's not like it was when Aaliyah and I were kids. They don't have to try so hard."

You lay your hand on Shawn's and he turns it over, threading his fingers between yours and rubbing absentmindedly with his thumb. "I suppose parents always want to provide for their kids, even if they are rockstars." You giggle and he gives you a look.

He hates when you call him rockstar. He says it feels like it cheapens things, makes you less than him. He doesn't want you to think of him as a rockstar but as your best friend.

"Are you parents flying in for the holiday?"

You shake your head. "No, they couldn't afford it this year."

"Why'd they move to Florida again?"

"Mom wanted to live on the beach." You roll your eyes and he squeezes your hand. "Dad also got a job down there with the construction company he works for."

"Ah. So, do you want to spend Christmas together?"

"I figured that was the plan." You look to the window where it's snowing heavily outside. "I didn't think you'd want to drive home across Toronto in this weather."

"I don't." Shawn pulls his hand away to brush his hair back with it while he reaches for his drink. "I don't mind taking the couch."

"You know what you need?" You say, getting up and going over to the kitchen. You grab a few hair ties out of the bowl that holds your keys. "These."

"Ponytails?"

"Yeah. Your hair is ridiculous and you keep pushing it out of your face every two minutes." You stand in front of him and he leans forward for you. Skillfully you gather up the top of his hair into two little pig tails on the top of his head. He looks outrageous and you can't help the ugly laugh that burbles out.

"I look stupid don't I?" Shawn asks, half laughing at your reaction. He stands and looks in the decorative mirror beside the TV. "Ohmygod. This is my new look." He turns to look at you where you've collapsed on the couch laughing and struggling to breath through your clogged nose. "Goodbye headbands, hello pigtails."

"Stop! Shawn I'm gonna die!"

"Nope. You did this." He poses, peace sign over his face while making duck lips. "High fashion baby."

You start coughing, laughter quickly succumbing to a wheezing fit and hacking. You down the rest of your tea, just warm from sitting on the table too long, and take a few deep breaths.

Shawn drops to his knees beside you, hand on your chest. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I made you laugh too hard, I'm so sorry. What can I do? How do I help?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." You cough a few more times and grab Shawn's mug, downing his drink. "I just laughed too hard. It's alright. I'm okay, just a little tired now."

"Come on, let's settle back down on the couch." Shawn grabs your arms and sits you up right on the sofa. "I'll grab some extra blankets and we'll sleep out here."

"But-"

"No buts. I'll be right back."

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the cushions. You're dying. Sickness is wreaking havoc on your body. Shawn's wreaking havoc on your heart, and you're absolutely destroying your mental capacity with liquor and cough medicine. You can't wait. You have to tell Shawn. It's now or never. Balls to the wall. You just have to-

"Are you okay?" Shawn's voice breaks through your thoughts and you open your eyes. "You look a little out of it."

"I love you."

"I love you too?" He says sinking down on the couch and flopping the blankets he was carrying over your lap. "What's with the sudden affection?"

"No, I mean-" You hold your head as it throbs. Maybe whiskey and NyQuil don't mix. In fact, you know they don't. "I am in love with you."

"I know."

"W-what?"

Shawn brushes your hair back off your clammy face and looks at you with those soft hazel brown eyes you adore. "I've known for a long time.”

“I-I Wha-”

“It's okay, don’t panic. I'm in love with you too. I know I always said that when the time comes I'll know, and I can't pinpoint the moment it happened but one day I woke up and I realized my whole world is waiting for me in a tiny apartment in Toronto." He chuckles. "I've been working on a way to tell you, a way to make it work with my job. I haven't found that way yet, and I hoped you would wait for me, though I didn't expect that. So I never told you. I couldn't- I won't hurt someone like that, especially not you."

"I-I don't know what to say." You stare at him, unsure of your reality as your head swims. Is this real? Did you fall asleep? Are you in some kind of cold medicine induced mini coma? "I'm asleep aren’t I?"

"You're not." Shawn presses his hand to your forehead. "You've got a fever though."

"This isn't real. You're not even here. I'm going crazy." You slump over and Shawn covers you with blankets. "I'm just coping aren't I? Stressed myself out so far that I'm dreaming of telling you the truth."

"You're awfully self aware for a dream."

"That's just what dream Shawn would say."

He chuckles. "I'm getting you some Advil. Relax and I'll be right back with a very real glass of water and two very real pain relievers."

You close your eyes once more and quickly you begin to drift off to sleep. You vaguely remember Shawn sitting your head up to take the Advil and water. But after that everything is a blur of sleep and muddled nonsense dreams.

_____________________

Christmas morning you wake up on the couch. Your body is stiff, achy from sickness and the unsupportive couch cushions. Beside you is a glass of water and some cold medicine on the coffee table. There is a lump of blankets by the other end of the couch and you can see a mop of hair sticking out, two pigtails very visible.

Then reality hits you. If you're waking up now with Shawn asleep in your living room that means last night was very real. It means...you confessed your feelings and Shawn, well, he confessed them back. Excitement, hope and terror are quite a cocktail of emotions. They make your stomach lurch, your heart flutter and your hands shake. What happens now? Where do things go from here?

"Hey," Shawn's groans, peeking over his blankets at you. "How's the fever?"

"Good? I think? I just woke up."

"Mmm." He sits up and stretches. "It's Christmas."

"Yeah." You look over to the tree in the corner where there are boxes from your parents, your sister and Shawn all waiting to be unwrapped. "I can wait though."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be the only one to unwrap gifts."

Shawn laughs and grabs a few of the boxes from under the tree. "I brought my gifts too, the ones my parents and Aaliyah left for me at my apartment."

"Oh. I thought you brought all of those for me, I thought it was a lot but I didn't want to say anything."

"No." Shawn passes you a box with your name on it. "You definitely deserve this many, but I didn't go crazy."

"You've been crazy." You smile and he gives you a look that turns into a smirk. "Did...did you mean what you said last night?"

"Every word of it." Shawn sits across from you on the couch with his box in his lap. He picks at the paper a bit. "It's okay, like if you don't want to do anything right now. I know my life is insane and yours isn't anywhere near as hectic." He chews his lower lip. "I couldn't ever ask you to commit to my life and the distance and-"

"Shawn."

"Yes?"

"We'll figure it out."

His eyes light up and he stares at you, seemingly bewildered. "You want to try? You want to be in a relationship? With me? I-I'm- you're sure?"

"Shawn I haven't wanted anything more in the last year. We already make the distance work as friends. What's the difference in doing it as a couple?" You sniff and wipe your eyes that are watering from your clogged sinuses. "I think the distance has only made us stronger friends and-"

Shawn leans in to kiss you, hands on your legs and you stop him at the last second with your fingers against his lips. "Please?" he murmurs.

"You're so dumb."

"Because I'm going to kissing you and you're sick?"

"Yes."

He grins and grabs your face, pressing his forehead against yours. "I guess we'll just have to be the couple that shares everything."

"This is not what that means."

"I don't care." He tries to kiss you again and you groan, stopping him. "Shawn, you're gonna get sick."

"I don't care." Another attempted kiss. "I've waited a long time for this."

You cup his face and push him back a bit so he will stop trying to infect himself. “I have too but I'm not going to kiss you and get you sick. And when you've got this cold I will not kiss you then either."

"Yeah you will. Don't lie."

"I won't." You giggle and he pushes forward, leaning you back until you're laying against the arm of the couch with his body covering yours. "Is this for real?"

"Very real." He kisses your nose. "I don't want to wait." He kisses your head. "I've been alone for a long while this feels...it feels so right. Please let me kiss you."

"Alright." You close your eyes and he presses his lips to yours. It's soft, sweet and everything you ever imagined. "Happy?"

"Yes," he whispers, smiling against your lips. "Merry Christmas darling."

You giggle at the pet name. He knows it's one of your favourites. "Merry Christmas Shawn."

End

______________________

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed this and reblog to support and encourage myself and fellow writers. - A

*****Note: none of my works should be posted anywhere outside of my linked accounts. I do not give permission to repost with or without credit to my accounts. Please notify me of any reposted fics.*****

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes non au #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes story #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes storites #shawn mendes christmas fic #shawn peter raul mendes

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frankchurchillsaysrelax · 4 years

Text

Malex week day four: free day

Missed opportunities are woven in the tight stitches of an unworn sweatshirt buried in the back of a drawer; the black unfaded, the red just as bright as the future once looked, a tangible reminder of what might have been, kept out of sight but close enough to remember because forgetting means repeating.

“Guerin! Mail for ya.”

Michael sets down the wrench he’d been using to fix Mrs. Valenti’s’ car and chases Sanders’ voice into the front office. The old man had let him use the auto shop’s address for the last couple of years to keep greedy foster parents’ hands off his stuff.

The thick white envelope with the UNM emblem in the corner stares at him harshly from the counter. Rejections don’t come in thick envelopes, everyone knows this, but with his luck, he wouldn’t discount the possibility.

“It’s not gonna bite ya kid.” Sanders’ gruff words spring him into action and with one tear he’s holding the thick, cream-colored paper bearing his future in his grease streaked hands.

Dear Mr. Guerin,

I am pleased to inform you,

A large white paper bag lands on the counter startling Michael from his reading. Sanders just grunts when Michael looks to him expectantly. Wiping his hands on a spare rag he opens the bag and tips its contents out. The sweatshirt is soft. Cherry red letters matching those on the front of the envelope stare up at him.

“How did you know I’d get in?” Michael asks in wonder. This is the first brand new piece of clothing anyone but Isobel has given him. He wishes his hands were cleaner, worthier, to be handling something so precious.

Sanders grunts again as he heads back to sit at his desk. “You’re too smart for such stupid questions.”

Michael laughs, bright and happy, running the fabric between his fingers one more time before placing the hoodie back in the bag and heading back to work, eager to finish so he can share his news with Max and Isobel.

-:-

Hope grows and dies between each breath easily matched to his. One heartbeat, steady and sure, promises to stay while the next races with the threat of running; the back and forth more dizzying than any kiss or touch could inspire.

Michael wakes the morning after Alex tells him he’s enlisted to find the space beside him cold and empty. He brushes the abandonment off as he does most things, rising to get ready for the day ahead of him.

He’s distracted all day, trying to convince himself he hadn’t imagined the night before. He keeps his head down, does his job, but each car pulling onto the lot sounds like his. Every hour that passes brings him closer to a night where he doesn’t know what to expect.

And then he’s there.

Michael is laying in the bed of his truck parked at Foster’s Ranch where he’s taken to spending his nights watching the stars. Alex doesn’t say anything as he climbs over the tailgate and into Michael’s lap. He doesn’t say anything except in the language they’ve perfected over the past few months, lips meeting over and over again until Michael forgets why he was worried in the first place. Together they write a record that will loop for years to come.

-:-

Regret lives in a bar tab that often exceeds the bank account meant to cover it. A loathsome feeling that stings more than the broken skin of knuckles not yet healed from the last attempt at distraction. Fighting is all there is when you can’t dig your way out of drowning.

The newly printed license hits the bar a second after his ass hits the stool.

“A beer please, Deluca.” Michael takes the hat off his head, his right hand running through his flattened curls. He keeps his gaze on anything besides the woman behind the bar, unable as usual to look anyone close to Rosa in the eye.

“Nice try, Guerin, but we went to school together remember?” Maria slides the plastic card back toward him without even looking. “I know you’re not old enough, so get out before I call Sherriff Valenti.”

“Not according to the state of New Mexico.” He slides it back, smirk fixed to his face as she finally picks it up. One perk of not remembering the first part of your life is they get to guess your age. “As of yesterday, I am officially twenty-one, so again, one beer please.”

Maria takes the card, scrutinizing it shrewdly. Michael would be offended if he didn’t have two fake IDs burning a hole in his glove compartment. After holding the card up to the light and bending the edges, Maria tosses it back to him and goes to grab him a beer. Michael hands over a couple of wadded up bills as soon as she sets the bottle in front of him.

“Better get used to me Deluca,” he says, mouth pressed against the cold glass lip. “I think you’ll be seeing a lot of me around here.”

-:-

Old fears are found between every sharp word, every sarcastic comment, every spiteful barb used to build defenses around a heart laid open, the beating organ exposed to the world, abandoned halfway through being taken. Then one day the hands you’d offered it to return to finish the job, cutting through your barricades like paper.

“And you’re still so good at giving them to me.”

He watches Alex leave not for the first time but possibly the last. Like two celestial bodies orbiting each other, they always find their way back to this thing they have. It may take time but it’s inevitable.

Something feels different this time like the world’s been knocked off its axis; like their paths have diverged irreparably and things are never going to be the same again.

“Michael? What’s wrong?” Isobel stands beside his truck, worry covering her still slightly pale face. “Are you still upset about earlier? I told you--”

“No, no Is,” he tries to reassure. He pushes off the back of his truck and steps closer. “You’re fine. I, uh, I think I get what you were saying earlier.” He glances back in the direction Alex had wandered off not too long before, his pathetic lovelorn heart shedding all attempts at self-preservation. “It’s not just a high school crush.”

Isobel looks surprised and a little confused. He can read the beginning of an interrogation in the raise of her eyebrow and moves quickly in distraction, opening the passenger door for her and offering her a ride home.

-:-

Nostalgia rides on waves of vibrating frequencies bathing the world in their sound. Protests, screams, pleas for someone to listen, to give him a choice, to listen. It seeps into skin and bone, making dead nerves twitch to life until all goes silent.

Max is dead. Max is dead and the last thought Michael had spared him was that he hated him for fixing his hand. Max is dead and it was his stupid god complex that made him so.

Michael wants to be angry, to say it serves him right. He wanted to play hero and apparently no one ever told him that the hero dies in the end. Or maybe they did. Maybe Max knew exactly what he was doing and just didn’t care about the rest of them. Max made his choice and left Michael to deal with the consequences.

He drops Isobel off at her house, listens when she tells him to leave even though he doesn’t want to, even though he needs her. He walks away from his best friend and her ghosts and tries to understand what comes next. He can’t go back to the Pony, back to quiet and peace and normalcy. Max took those with him when he died.

After a quick stop at the liquor store, he winds up back at old Foster’s Ranch. He parks far enough from whatever the military is doing with his old spot and tries to draw strength from the stars. He lays in the back of his truck, the metal against his back still warm from the sun, and tries to block everything else out the way he did when he was a teenager sneaking onto this same land to get drunk and call out to whoever might be out there waiting for him.

So much has changed. Max is dead. His mother was alive and then dead in the space of an hour. The dull ache in his hand is gone. The one constant in his life is gone, taken away as quickly as it came; Max’s hands doing the same damage as a hammer but leaving none of the pain.

Everything is changed but the anger is still there only twisted into something larger than himself, stronger and deeper like a monster that’s sunk its claws into his soul threatening to tear him to shreds. He appeases it with a long pull straight from the bottle.

His phone buzzes. He only checks it in the hope that it’s Isobel. It’s not.

Alex: I’m sorry I couldn’t wait longer this morning. Something came up.

The monster’s claws sink deeper. He can’t talk to Alex now, maybe not ever. Nothing is the same. He’s not the same person who promised to come back last night.

Alex: I’m back at the airstream. Where are you?

Max is dead. His mother is dead. The pain in his hand is gone. Those truths are the only company he needs as he loses himself in booze and stars.

#malexweek20 #malex20 #my fic #malex fic #malex #roswell new mexico #the parts in italics i wrote over a year ago as some kind of poem/verse thing #which of course got titled 'what the fuck is this???' in my drafts #thanks to malex week for kicking me in the butt to turn it into something #no read mores sorry #malex week 2020

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brideofcthulhu10 · 4 years

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Hey guys I'm gonna be out and about today but before I go out to town I thought I leave you with some little Laddie Headcanons! A special thank you to my co-writer @imlostinsantacarla !

Laddie Headcanons

Unfortunately, Laddie was a part of a home in which a divorce was in the process of being filed. There was an immense amount of tension in the family dynamic whilst his father and mother sought to gain custody of him individually as they were in the midst of a messy breakup. The young child’s grandparents were aiding his father in filing for custody over him as his mother was hell bent on having sole custody without any visitation rights.

It’s well known that Laddie’s face was on a milk carton in the movie, with the word ‘MISSING’ written above it. This is just primarily speculation, of course. However, why else would two parents who didn't care about their child put up missing person’s posters everywhere? It’s certainly obvious that his parents were deeply troubled and affected by their son going missing, in conjunction with being apprehensive over his safety as they had no idea where he was.

Whilst his father was attempting to gain custody of him with his grandparents' help, Laddie’s mother lost him one night whilst on the BoardWalk too busy getting drunk at a bar, which is how and where the boys found him. He was all on his lonesome, wandering the BoardWalk terrified. The sight sincerely pulled on their heart strings. Seeing a little kid lost in the dead of night searching for his mother desperately just did not sit well with them.

Armed with the knowledge that their fellow sister Star was having second thoughts over their lifestyle, David immediately took the initiative to coax Laddie into drinking his blood and turning into one of them. This was not only to provide the child with a home, but also a strategy put in place to keep Star close and have her fully commit to their way of life as vampires. After all, girls love kids, don’t they? Surely her maternal or big sisterly instincts would kick in and provide her with the drive to become a caring figure for the young boy whilst solidifying her place in their group. She’d already agreed to the terms, there was no backing out now!

The other boys come to a conclusion of agreement that this is the best option as they cared about Star immensely, least enough to put up a fight when she was considering leaving, and they could not just let a poor boy stay out on the streets with nothing. There was a high likelihood of him getting kidnapped, murdered or something far, far worse whilst he was out there on his own. So they made the collective decision to take him under their wings and into their home, promising him that he would always remain safe with them.

Graciously, as if it were a match truly made in Heaven, Laddie and Star got on swell. The wee boy clung onto her desperately as she truly did remind him of his own mother and how she once was when she was with his dad. Star also bears a resemblance to his mother physically, ensuring that Laddie would bond with her much easier. The boys could not have been more happier and celebrated their success.

And thus it was settled! The boys took Laddie to the hotel and turned him, buttering him up a little in order over the next several to gain his trust and comfort.

"So, Laddie, you like it here?” David smirked at the young boy sat on the edge of the fountain in the hotel.

“Yeah it’s super cool!” He beamed enthusiastically, dangling his little legs off the edge and swinging them back and forth, they barely even hit the ground.

"Would you stay forever?" David pressed further, blonde brow quirked up in intrigue.

"Can I?!" Laddie exclaimed with an enormous grin plastered on his childish countenance.

"Hell yeah little dude! We even have a pretty, cool big sister for you!" Paul interjected just as happily, patting the tiny guy on the shoulder.

"Really?!"

"Mhm," Dwayne added, "and you can play every night."

"And you can eat as much as you want without getting sick, dude!" Marko declared.

"So, Laddie, what do you say?" David asked, head cocked to the side as he watched the little runts eyes float from face to face.

He sits still for a moment... "Hell yeah!"

The guys cheered excitedly, Marko handing David some fancy looking bottle, who in turn passed it to Laddie. "All you gotta do now, is drink this."

"It smells funny. What is it?"

"Old grape juice."

All the while, when Laddie is missing, his mother is struck with excruciating bouts of grief and shame, and attempts to get herself into a better space. Overcoming the worry and guilt that she feels over losing her son through alcohol, drugs, whatever it was that had caused her to lose her son on the BoardWalk that night, is an incredible challenge. She felt she had let her son down as well as her previous marriage. It only spurs on Laddie’s father to find him and gain total custody of the boy.

Living with four rambunctious teenage boys is a handful in itself, so it’s not a wonder that Laddie swears like a sailor, a terrible habit he picked up from the boys. Yet his one sister attempted profusely to set a better example for him. David and Paul find it hilarious that Laddie has a filthy potty mouth, whereas Dwayne and Star aren’t a fan of his newfound language.

“Hey, watch your language, bud.” Dwayne states sternly, chocolate orbs glowering into Laddie’s smaller ones.

“Pussy!” Paul bursts out in between a false coughing fit.

Laddie truly adores reading comic books frequently. In fact, the Frog brothers knew Laddie far before they knew the Emerson’s, they just didn’t acknowledge the kid all that much since he was far younger than them. This was especially since they were far too engrossed in blabbering about vampires, their investment in their own stuff made it impossible for them to give an ounce of attention to him. In their eyes he was always just the little twerp that stood on his tiptoes at the counter in their parents store, sprinkling dollar bills on top of a fat stack of mad magazine, Batman, and secretly some horror comics stuffed underneath the other ones he’d picked out.

“ 'Scuse me, can I get these," Laddie inquired politely, his eyes peering up at the two brothers behind the counter arguing over what the best way to waste a vampire was.

“Uh, yeah sure kid, whatever.” Alan stated fervently, his eyes still plastered on his brother's brooding gaze.

Edgar stuffed them into a plastic bag without sparing the kid a glance. “$15.75.”

“Okay.” Laddie stated in defeat before scooting over a wadded up ball of a $20 bill onto the counter before collecting his change and leaving with his head hung low.

Laddie is still a sucker for comics and wants new ones on a constant basis, it’s certainly something that aids him in passing the time at the hotel. Yet Paul’s adamant that he isn’t going to pay those dorks at the comic book store a single cent from his pocket. And David is a master at mental illusions, so there is one hell of a team to concoct a way to steal comic books. Neither Paul nor David feel any shame in it. David will create the illusion that Paul is walking by the store, only to actually be stealing a stack of comics to keep the poor kid happy.

Star and her inability to part with her human nature and high morals, is never too thrilled about the entire ordeal of stealing comics for Laddie. Laddie sees nothing wrong with it and only responds with utter enthusiasm at how awesome Paul is because Paul can do whatever he wants! This leads to Laddie following in the footsteps of the other boys, believing that he can both take and have whatever he wants, whenever he wants it no matter if there’s real life consequences involved because he can use his gifts (with training from David) to acquire all of his desires.

It’s also a common occurrence for Laddie to experience homesickness; after all, he misses his parents dearly because even though they weren’t the most astounding or perfection parents, they were still his parents. When this occurs, he’ll often seek out Dwayne or Star for comfort, sitting beside them, perched into their sides. They will attentively listen to him, reminding him of how much they themselves and the other boys love him and how they aren’t going anywhere. They all will be together forever. They’d even let him know that his parents and grandparents still love him too, even if he has a new family now.

Laddie unfortunately had to learn the hard way not to go to David about this specific predicament, because whenever he did, David would unintentionally guilt trip the kid about missing his parents. It wasn’t something he meant to do, it was just that David had never really had a home or a family that cared about him, his world before being a vampire was a dog eat dog world. You had to fend for yourself and choose your family. Even then he’d seen people get chewed out for trusting the wrong folks. So there’s a huge disconnection between the pair when it comes to familial things.

Whereas Marko and Paul will do things that will take Laddie’s mind right off of the down parts of being a missing child. They’ll happily play with him, get him his favorite food, read comics with him, steal said comics from the comic book store, maybe even let him help them tinker on their bikes, blast some gnarly music, you name it! They’re prepared to go all out in helping him feel happier where he is in the present and understand that he has a place with them.

Now, as for Laddie’s tantrums… well, every child has them. Usually they tend to be pretty humorous to Paul, Marko and David- that is until something happens to their precious stuff. To be fair he is an eight year old boy, of course he wants to mess with Paul’s Walkman or Marko’s bike keys! Paul nearly had an aneurysm when he saw Laddie accidentally ripped his mint condition 1965 Playboy Magazine.

"Dude who the fuck- my fuckin- WHAT THE FUCK MAN?!"

Laddie, who had been a bit spoilt from months of pampering from a group of enabling teenagers, showed minimal signs of remorse. "They were ugly anyway, she hand on granny panties or something."

Dwayne had to step in and hold Paul back from wringing the kids neck out like a wet dish towel! "Dude, Paul he's a kid"

"I will eat you, you little turd!"

Once again, David cracks up frequently until Laddie begins to delve into his stuff also. It all began when he wanted to go for a ride and David being the more lazy member of the group had turned him down, especially in a much firmer tone the second time around. So what did the little shit do? Hide all of their keys to their bikes.

"Dude, where are my fuckin' keys," Paul hissed, digging through the cave like a tornado went through the damn thing.

"Yours too?" Marko exclaimed his question, settling down the couch he had lifted onto the ground. “Mine vanished.”

David chuckled to himself, that was until he patted his pocket where his precious motorcycle keys had suddenly proved to be void of its contents. "Alright which one of you assholes stole my keys?!"

However that confrontation ignited an inferno of a tantrum from the small boy, who was so used to suddenly getting his way and now he was faced with the harsh reality of being told no. The boys should have really thought twice of enabling an eight year old boy! A fit from a kid can get ugly real quick, yet it’s a whole different story when that kid is an emotional half vampire that flips tables and screams at such a volume and octave that glass cracks. Star tends to primarily be a softer disciplinarian, she isn’t fond of the idea of yelling or smacking him, she’s much too gentle for that. Dwayne on the other hand, while preferring to approach things along the placid route, feels that sometimes it’s a necessary evil- while David just straight up thinks that a good smack on the mouth ought to settle him down.

Laddie is a thorn in their asses when he’s bored out of his mind, and the boys learned rather harshly and swiftly that having a little brother was not as fun as the Brady Bunch had it appear. This kid got into all their stuff, no matter how fool proof they made it, the kid always found a way! He would follow them excessively around the cave like a lost puppy, tell them the same story for HOURS on end, ask far too many questions that Marko would just blank the kid out with his music, only for Laddie to talk even louder! It was more than evident that the child had little concern over the fact that they were killers, he’d still happily pester them until they vamped out. In fact, he went out of his way to do that! The crazy little shit…

Laddie would climb on top of one of the many dust caked couches in the hotel right next to where David was reading and peek over his shoulder to get a noseful of whatever he was focused on. "Whatcha reading?" Laddie asked innocently, chin resting on the blonde vampires shoulder.

"....War and peace." David grumbled irately.

"What's that? It's big! It looks boring! Why are the words so tiny? What's it about? Who's the hero? Who's your favorite hero? Mine's batman! Well, I like Iron Man too but Batman has all the gadgets and stuff, and I like his cape but I guess you don't need a cape to be cool, but I like the cape anyway- I like Superman's cuz it's red, red's my favorite color. What's your favorite color? Well I mean red's super cool- oh but black! Black is really cool, i guess you probably like black too huh? I mean you wear it all the time, but really maybe it's cuz-" he had blabbered all of that out in one go without so much as a breath in between his sentences! And David selfishly wondered what the repercussions were on if he flew the kid onto a random cliff and left him there for several hours. He knew it probably couldn’t be good, but it was worth a try if he was ever going to catch a break and get this book finished! Not to mention the countless times that Paul’s thrown into the mix of things, David can’t stomach it and leaves the room because he can’t handle two obnoxious chatter boxes all at once. Star yelled at him once for hypnotizing Laddie to fall asleep because he wouldn't stop talking about Batman and Robin.

It’s obvious that Laddie tends to ride with Dwayne, and it’s because Dwayne is capable of ensuring that Laddie stays in one piece. If the kid had his way and rode with Paul… let’s just say that Laddie would be smeared road kill! And frankly, none of the other vampires trust Paul with the kid. Last time he rode with Paul, he was nearly flung forward when he went off of a steep ramp. Star almost slapped the smirk straight off of Paul’s face! Even Marko thought it was a bad move of Paul’s. So, it was a collective decision - minus Paul’s whining and bitching, in conjunction with Laddie’s pouting - that Laddie rode with Dwayne from now on.

When the boys were killed off one by one, Laddie was the only one who was saddened by this, because he had formed genuine bonds with his older brothers and even though they weren’t perfect, they’d kept their word to him and kept him safe. He was going to miss Paul and Marko playing with him and teaching him cool stuff about bikes and rock n’ roll. He’d even miss David and the way the man got irritated whenever he flitted about him. But the one he was surely going to miss the most was obviously Dwayne. Dwayne was like the older brother that Laddie had dreamed of ever since he was a kid. Dwayne had taken him under his wing and ensured that no one messed with him. He listened to him whenever he was homesick and was always super patient with him and just all around compassionate. Out of all of the boys, Laddie related to him the most. And now he was gone. Though each boy held a special place in his heart. As he left the Emmerson residence, he didn’t have the stomach to look at their dead bodies as he sniffled on his way out, tears streaming down his face. Although they hadn’t been the best to Star and sometimes weren’t the kindest to him, he knew that they had loved the pair of them and deep down, Laddie would always love them.

After the entire ordeal, Laddie decided he’d set foot on finding his parents again and sadly left Star behind. She reminded him a lot of the boys and she would always have a special place in his heart. Before he left he hugged the life out of her, staining her gypsy purple skirt with his tears as he thanked her for loving him and taking such good care of him. He promised her that he’d never forget her and he hoped she never would forget him. Star was heartbroken but also knew that it was best for Laddie to return to his parents and live his life out normally. She hoped he’d grow up to be everything wonderful in life and she assured him that he would remain important and ever present in her gentle heart. A long way down the line they met each other again and embraced like close siblings that hadn’t seen each other in centuries. They were much older now and wiser.

But back to the present, Laddie stumbled upon his mother on the BoardWalk that night, as though it were a miracle. The woman looked strikingly similar to Star, she was the woman that he had remembered from earlier on in his childhood, and he was truly overcome with joy. He got to see his father again which made him happy also. Although his parents couldn’t work things out, they managed to come to a steady agreement that they would have equal joint custody of Laddie, which was something that made things easier on him to adjust back to ordinary life. However, whilst he was missing, his beloved grandparents passed away, never having lost hope in Laddie being alive and returning home someday. Laddie missed them dearly but he adjusted as best as he could to his brand new life. He was never really the same after being with the boys and Star and losing them all, his parents were aware of the change but Laddie never discussed what had happened to him, only responding in vague statements or exclamations.

Somehow though, he found a way to keep in touch with Star, Michael, Lucy, Sam and the Frog brothers. They were all connected through these twisted and sad chain of events, and his bonds with them only deepened as he got older. Even Though they had remained adrift in life, Star, Sam, Lucy and Michael showed up for Laddie's graduation when he finally got through high school. Even still he remained in Santa Carla up until his graduation dinner out with the Emmersons, Star and even the Frog Brothers had shown up. Wandering for a moment on his own, his pace slowed until he came to a haunting stop.

Just beyond the tilt-a whirl, outside the arcade, he swore, parked on the boardwalk he could see a group of biker boys. As the 80s peeled away into the wild teenage rebellion of the 90s, their styles had altered. A blonde still sported a wild lion's mane, another had messy curls grown out. The platinum blonde one was the first to alert the other three of Laddie's gaze. The four grunge rockers sported bizarrely skeletal motorcycles, laughing with each other, now carrying mischievous smiles. Before he could even confirm the haunting visage of said familiar faces they vanished in a flurry of roaring engines. The last to leave looked at him with dark, haunting brown eyes. He could see under the guy's leather jacket and torn up Nirvana t-shirt jagged scar tissue around each of his limbs faded into bronze skin. They just looked at each other for what felt like a lifetime, and a wave of chills trickled down his back. The raven haired biker smirked at him, no malice in his grin. Only a soft farewell, proud even. And then he was gone. Laddie managed to take a deep breath in, silently turning on his heel to return to Star and Michael at the diner. When he got home he was applying to a few out of city colleges, somewhere away from his past.

#the lost boys #lost boys 1987 #lost boys imagine #lost boys #lost boys fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction writing #fanfic #80s movies #lost boys david #lost boys paul #lost boys dwayne #lost boys star #lost boys laddie #laddie thompson #vampire #lost boys vampires #headcanon #lost boys head canon

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