#it's just pointing out that canon is a mess and double standards suck

[valleygirlmukuroikusaba]

hmmm ive been thinking of introducing the THH/SDR2 cast to the revamped TeSIIIS canon since i've pivoted to entirely detached worldbuilding from v3's original system(because it sucks ass)

since TeSIIIS just kinda runs off a different medium. and systems are used for sporty shit like BEATING EVERYONE UP and dodgeball ig. like so v3 cast are associated with cheating the systems as ive kinda established in previous posts sdr2cast: breaching the systems a system breach for games would def spice things up. esp since nothing rlly goes to plan in TeSIIIS anyways so might as well double down and the extra influx of chaos would encourage people to band together(outside of factions) thhcast: recycling the systems borrowing the systems used for games and even the systems that have designed cheats and with enough combination and ingenuity to build navigation facilities and providing a emergency net

measuring progress used to be purely on the system end where no one can really access it but an alternative tracking method would be available to anyone. free analytics for anyone who cares, pioneered by junko probably

and TeSIIIS will be mostly a unmoderated mess that's more chaotic with almost 0 regard for others in a self-entitled way. but less in a social status way but more in a .

dgaf ur supposed to be irresponsible way its sports ur allowed to beat people up for no reason. bc uh there is no order in TeSIIIS. order are like for some games bc some games run off order. most game's rules are just straight up ignored but only matter for like general direction of how player information and progress is measured

no one rlly enforce rules onto anyone and no one agrees to play fair anyways the system is already pretty exploitable

so theres probably wayyy more cheating and unfair advantageous measures at play. but since games do rely on systems even if theres hardly any agreement amongst players

its more of a matter of not getting caught by the system. players dont actually call each other out for blatantly cheating bc most people are cheaters anyways..?

BUT keebo will still be generally disliked by most because he willingly handicaps himself because the safety of players in TeSIIIS isn't really prioritized particularly but keebo plays by his own standards and he's disliked because he wont be the threat he's actually made out to be.

he's the most interesting and dangerously-equipped player but just didnt want to do the exciting thing that only he'd be able to provide and not giving that satisfaction to anyone. but keebo is extremely pressured over it tbf

but back to the point. being disqualified by the system doesnt mean you stop playing you just wont receive a "win" and the point of TeSIIIS is to gain the upper hand to win.

but if you pull off something crazy destructive it'd be exciting to see if it triggers a new wave of chaos in a game that's pretty consistent with only mild offenses against the system of games .

hence the attention on keebo. he has immense potential he just wont do anything about it

anyways v3 cast are just players who are more trying to form a team mostly out of wanting to be part of a team that isnt. factions negotiation hell.

factions is extremely high-entry barrier and to even get a footing for a new player for factions is to have coordinated usage of cheats because of the in-game resources war.

or be rantaro who's so out of touch with the competition that you can negotiate without caring about any losses. basically rantaro is a bargaining chip and rantaro doesnt rlly gaf.

but with tsumugi around. she kinda tries to remind everyone to respect each other. in a world of pure competition there's never an agreement for anyone come to terms with but at least the familiarity allows for some teambuilding.

and figuring out with a few discussions on how to challenge standards. because the games still run off standards and it's kinda made things rigid where exceptions refuse to account for a multitude of things

as for breaching. probably something that hajime and chiaki could have pulled off.

mostly to borrow stuff from the actual systems themselves but copying code would only be possible by decrypting the security of the systems themselves.

but protection isnt privacy and it's not particularly hard to bypass if there's no anyone in charge of managing the security especially when the potential for breaches adapts and evolves with cheating in general being so widely available

chiaki is kinda contributing to the. making cheats more advanced "issue" but there seems to be at least a bit of coordination on her end with a team that seemingly is well-equipped to handle any blows that might happen with trying to force a system breach. they're the ones with actual safety measures in place, but its more of a team plan than a tangible network

because the actual emergency network is being handled by makoto and while makoto's group isnt actually affiliated with the original esports operation of affairs.

that's confidential information that tsumugi exclusively has. this group is more of a independent analytics group thats trying its hardest to replicate and reverse engineer the esports industry's standards where a more available use of statistics would be available for viewing.

as the industry itself has had a track record of purging data never to be retrieved again and makoto just wants at least some stuff preserved and trying to find traces of anything substantial that might have happened before makoto's team formed.

junko just wants a way into the system itself to send a message. not for any good reason, just it's something thats been incredibly hard to crack into and junko just wants to leave a mark in any capacity and she's part of makoto's team bc theyre mostly up against the same enemy despite their goals being completely different. shrug

[dukeaubergine]

If you object to fic & meta holding Stephanie accountable for actions she canonically took (because the original writers/editors were sexist) and badger your fellow fans over it,

but don’t say anything about all the fanworks where Talia is blamed for things she did not do in canon (example, having it be her idea for Jason to attack Tim), and don’t encourage people to choose the continuities/retcons where she’s canonically not a sexual predator over the ones where she is (thanks, canon, for that double whammy of sexism and racism),

and don’t say anything about all the fanworks where Janet Drake is a worse parent than Jack despite her limited canon page time showing her to at worst be just as neglectful, and in fact more empathetic,

Then I do not, in fact, consider you to be a feminist fan bravely railing against fandom sexism. You’re just a stan of one particular character, who’s picked up some social justice language to harass other fans with.

It’s fine to like Stephanie and wish canon treated her better.

It’s not fine to accuse other fans of sexism just because they don’t stan your favorite.

And it’s downright insulting to claim you’re doing this in the name of feminism when we see you ignoring (or joining in on) how these other female characters are villainized.

[drabbles-of-writing]

Jealousy is not something that Amity naturally seeks

She’s a blight- one of the strongest families under the Emperor’s grasps so she should have no reason to be jealous: she has everything she could ever want

Sometimes though her heart wants something else

She doesn’t tell anybody but growing up she grew jealous of her siblings, their pine green hair, their carefree attitude, their freedom- everytime they got away with another prank she couldn’t help but feel the envy crawl under her skin bubbling hot like her tears as she went off to bed- her mother hadn’t even mentioned her perfect grade in class

Amity never considered herself jealous but that didn’t mean the feelings weren’t there- growing up all she wanted was praise and love, to be hugged and cared for

The only way she knew how to get that love was through test and textbooks- and even then her parents hardly ever looked her way and only ever pointed out her mistakes- she knew her siblings were going though something similar but even still she couldn’t help but be jealous because even after all this hardship they would still have each other

Sometimes she’d take it out on them- tell her parents about how they skipped a class, or another prank gone wrong at school, she knew they were her only lifeline outside this hell hole but even still she couldn’t help but still try to be little miss perfect in front of her parents- try so hard to be a golden child to them

Amity never considered herself jealous. But sometimes she couldn’t help it

:)

inhale.

Canon Emira & Edric are problematic.

HOWEVER

I, too, like the fanon idea of them being good siblings to their sis. So I give them a sort of character development? Hard to explain, but the twins get a big slap to reality every now and again and it feels like a TRUCK.

There’s a sort of mutual jealousy. The twins don’t really got friends, mostly parent-mandated friends. Meanwhile, Amity ditched the friends her parents picked out and chose her own friends, which greatly impressed the two. Don’t even get me started when they saw Amity writing the note to ask Luz to Grom.

They knew Amity didn’t have it easy, it was clear to all of them she wasn’t their parents favorite. But Amity always gave them such a cold exterior that they thought she wasn’t all that bothered by it. She had good friends now, and the Owl House, why would she be bothered?

Then Emira starts to notice. She starts to ask questions. Amity is staying out late with her friends & the Owl House, sometimes not even coming home at all, like she’s avoiding the place all together. They’re curious and try to tag along a few times, but each time Amity is quick to snap at them and threaten to tell their parents about something disgraceful they got away with. Considering how their parents were, Emira found this a very extreme reaction.

She thought Amity might’ve gotten herself in trouble, so, one day, she secretly followed her. It was, well, a normal day. By Owl House standards. Amity hung out at their house, had to chase down and catch a few house-demons, try to binge a movie series, falling asleep on the couch when she & everyone else failed, etc. But that was the thing...Amity had fun. She smiled and laughed and Emira was quick to realize it had been a long, long time since she’d seen Amity look that happy. She reflected and began to wonder...why was she so terrified of her and Ed finding this?

They saw the haunted look Amity returned with when Luz had gotten drugged by vaccines, they saw the way she tiptoed around Gus for a while, they saw how desperate she was to please Lilith, they saw, well, how much she cared about what this little family thought of her.

And they’d heard from her plenty of times how much she despised them causing a mess of everything.  They started to pay more attention at home, too. The quiet seething, the desperation for validation, how she pushed herself to truly be the best. The twins weren’t the best at dealing with things like this. So, they did what they thought was best and just....left her alone.

They actually started trying to do something for themselves. If Amity could make an impact for herself, then how hard could it be? Didn’t go so well. Took a while for them to make a meaningful impact on anyone, and they really stuck to the Double-Track Kids. Troublemakers like them? Score! But alas, the Double-Track Kids were nerds. They didn’t mind, it just threw them for a bit of a loop. And Jerbo,,,bro this kid REALLY didn’t like them. Which was pain on earth for both twins when they got crushes on Viney & Jerbo.

They were like, JUST becoming friends with the Double-Track Kids when they learned that they were friends with Luz. Threw them for another loop, since technically they were part of the Owl House squad. Edric freaked, saying they were trying to leave Amity alone but now they’ve gotten more closer to her mess and she was going to be so mad at them. But she wasn’t. She heard from Luz & the Double-Tracks that they actually,,,put in an effort?? Of course Amity wasn’t keen on having them around, tho. They’d stolen the spotlight enough and she didn’t need it happening in her new family.

So, the twins stayed away. They still hung with the Double-Tracks and occasionally messed with someone in the Owl House if the opportunity presented itself, but other than that, they turned a blind eye. Amity was easily jealous of her siblings, but when they practically left it felt...well, weird. Sure they annoyed her, but she cared about them. She hated how she wanted them to leave her alone for so long but when they finally ignored her she hated that, too. She figured she wanted to be an equal to them, and that was her problem. She wanted to be like her siblings, able to do whatever she wanted but still have someone to lean back on.

The Blight’s were a complicated bunch. And they were messy, and far from perfect. Didn’t help they sucked at communication, too. But family helps each other, don’t they? Even if the family is a bunch of criminals and weirdos, they couldn’t leave ‘em.

[isocrime]

How do you deal with all the Tony hate? I'm new in the fandom and it seems like almost everyone in here hates Tony, it makes me feel like I'm in the wrong to actually like and relate to his character? Not to mention the double standards? It seems like everything Tony does can be twisted while everyone else's actions is ignored. Especially Steve and Bucky?

since i’m mostly in 616/ults/comics etc steve/tony fandom, i don’t have to interact with a ton of tony hate. all of my pals are very fond of him -- we wouldn’t write about steve/tony if we didn’t like both of them a lot. most of the tony stark haters seem to live in the mcu section of fandom, and i can breeze by it like “lmao i don’t even go here”

when i do see tony hate, a big chunk of it is coming from the “eat the rich” crowd. and believe me: i think real life billionaires should pay their taxes and then get hit over the head with a shovel. tony is very, very rich, and it’s easy to hold that up and say “hah! tony is bad!” and feel morally justified in hating him.

my reaction to that is to take a deep breath and remember that tony stark is a necessary fantasy. he represents the desperate wish that there was one fucking ethical capitalist. don’t you sometimes want to scream from frustration that all these rich bastards are so pointlessly awful and want to see even one of them be fucking decent? tony stark fulfills that wish. 

dismantling capitalism is crushing, real world work -- i know this first-hand from union organizing, it sucks the life out of you -- and i don’t want all my media to be about that. i want to escape into a world where it can be fixed by one man being good. tony is good. when 616 tony takes over shield after civil war, employee satisfaction immediately goes through the roof, expenses go down, and he gets rid of the officer’s mess so everyone is treated the same. when fury is trying to force tony to make weapons again, every single one of his engineers walks out of the job to protest in solidarity with him because they believe in him. tony makes a point of funding women’s shelters. he cares. and, yes, he also spends a gazillion dollars on suits that go pew pew, but i’m here for superheroes, okay? a certain amount of suspension of disbelief is required to enjoy superhero comics. if you make tony financially realistic and have him divest from his assets and put them in the hands of a charitable trust, no superhero. no fun.

also, look: sometimes even my pissed off activist ass wants to imagine having a bathtub the size of a swimming pool. i want bespoke suits and meals where i don’t look at the prices on the menu. all the joyless assholes who want to shit on that can get fucked.

another reason i see for hating tony is that he is a filthy weapons manufacturer who glorifies american interventionism in the middle east, to which i say: did you watch iron man 1? have you read a single issue of comics where tony goes fucking nuts because someone has taken his tech and weaponized it? iron man exists because tony refused to make a gun. that’s basic media literacy. more broadly, if you want media where violence isn’t treated as the best solution to all problems, superheroes are not for you.

the last source of tony hate i see a lot is that he makes compromises that have really bad consequences. which -- yeah, he does. sometimes he’s forced to make a planet-killer bomb because the alternative is worse, even though it is VERY BAD to make a planet-killer bomb. one of tony’s flaws is that he thinks he knows better than everyone else and he machinates in secret and sometimes that blows up in his face. i think this is a character flaw that creates interesting narratives and conflict, but if you don’t like characters who make mistakes and have flaws, um -- read unbeatable squirrel girl i guess? it’s pretty awesome while also being morally upstanding.

comparing tony to steve -- that’s a whole ‘nother essay, and i think it’s safe to say that you can tear up either character if you’re determined to do so. there’s always something you can point at and go “hey! no giving sharon orders to do torture, that’s naughty!” there’s so much canon in comics that if you want to pillory any character, you can. which means there’s a certain amount of hypocrisy in picking one to pick on, but hey, haters gonna hate

(i really don’t see a lot of comparisons to bucky in comics fandom because 1) bucky is dead for a huge portion of the important steve/tony canon and 2) steve isn’t generally Like That about bucky in comics. in 616 they met when bucky was like 12, so he and bucky have more of a mentorship thing going on than an emotionally catastrophic codependent tension thing, in ults bucky is old and married to steve’s wartime sweetie, in bullet points he’s just a soldier steve saved from getting squashed by a tank, and in 1872 bucky was married to natasha and also dead the whole time.)

you’re allowed to like tony! i like tony! all my fandom friends like tony! we certainly don’t judge anyone for relating to this alcoholic charismatic self-sacrificing genius fuckup.

if you’re new to steve/tony and haven’t joined up, you can try out the 616 stony discord: you gave me a home! (click the link to go to the server, 18+ only please!) it’s very steve and tony positive and a great place to read comics together!! there’s also an mcu server (put on the suit, 18+) where i’m not very active but as far as i know there’s no tony-bashing there either.

[bellarkevalentines]

Bellarke Secret Valentine 2018

For @whyclarke, from your valentine.

Summary: Clarke gets an infection while on patrol with Bellamy. Her recovery will depends on Abby, a Trikru healer and sheer luck.

Tags: Canon AU, Hurt/Comfort, Worried!Bellamy

Word Count: 7399

A/N: Dear @whyclarke, I hope this meets with your approval. It doesn’t have as much Bellarke hurt/comfort as I wanted as this fic grew out of control. Unfortunately I’m terrible at keeping to a word count. I have no medical training so please forgive any mistakes on that end.

“Hurry up. I wanna get home before they start serving dinner.” Bellamy looked back up the trail at her.

“You must be hungry if you’re craving that slop.” Clarke shook her head, grimacing.

“That and you know how your mom gets when we’re late,” he smirked.

She sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Well if we hadn’t started rationing radios we’d be able to check in and let them know we’re not dead or dying. So they’ll just have to suffer in suspense until we get back.”

They ambled down what had once been an old deer path but was now considerably wider since it became part of the perimeter walk around Arkadia. This of course also meant there was less vegetation and undergrowth to absorb water during the spring rains, turning the trail into sludge and in some places, small ponds.

The pair skirted several of these water hazards, unwilling to test their depths as they checked the trap lines. Thanks to the weather they didn’t have much luck. Rabbits and squirrels were starvation food and obviously would be barely enough to feed the both of them let alone the entire camp. But it was better than nothing so Clarke and Bellamy dutifully collected them, reset the traps and left with what better qualified as snacks bumping on their backs.

At the beginning of Patrol they would trade stories and laugh at what they used to find normal. But as time passed they grew quiet, scanned the woods for movement and kept their guns at the ready. Encounters were unlikely but on occasion Azgeda liked to make incursions towards the border which kept everyone on their toes.

Today was no different apart from the light drizzle that had started, pattering down below the canopy and reducing visibility. The duo exchanged a look as an oncoming storm boomed somewhere beyond them, echoing off the distant hills. As they neared the river, digging their boots into the hill for traction, a curtain of rain advanced towards them.

Their standard issue clothing was another victim that had fallen to rationing in that it wasn’t waterproof. Unwilling to endure being soaked through on the walk back to camp they ducked under a large conifer for shelter.

Bellamy leaned up against the trunk and pushed his back into the wood for a moment, tilting his neck to the side to loosen the twinge in his shoulder. A bad fall a few weeks ago had left him sore and sporting a bruise that covered half his back. Clarke stood beside him, eyes on the opposite river bank. The bridge was miles away which made this a perfect place to cross away from prying eyes.

Ten minutes later with no sign of the rain letting up they didn’t have much choice but to continue. As they pushed off from the tree, Clarke stumbled into him and mumbled an apology as she tucked wet strands of hair out of her eyes. He cocked a brow but she brushed off his concern.

“Just a little tired. Come on. The sooner we get back, the sooner you can chow down on whatever brown goop they’ve serving in the Mess.”

Thunder cracked all around them now as they traveled into the storm.  Rain poured down and soaked them to their skin, seeping past layers meant to keep them warm. Two hours later both had started to shiver.

Bellamy had taken to carrying the squirrels in one hand instead of letting their tails stream water down his back and trickle into his boots. His hair dripped in his eyes and forced him to slick it back from his face. Clarke meanwhile had fallen behind. The sucking sludge of the trail had forced her off into the bushes for ease of travel. Every so often he’d have to wait for her to catch up which only gave him time to remember how hungry he was, his stomach an empty pit carving into his gut.

As she came to stand beside him he looked over. Her cheeks were flushed bright red despite the steady walking pace he’d set and she’d fallen further behind every time he turned back to check on her.

“We should take a break.”

Her brow knit together as she frowned, breathing heavily. “What happened to ‘we’re in a hurry’?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like dinner’s going anywhere.”

“I know but I’d rather get out of the rain and not just duck under a tree for a few minutes.” She leaned over and squeezed water out of her hair, hand shaking.

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m sure Bell I-”

She started coughing; long hacks turned into wheezes as she fought to catch her breath. He put a hand to her shoulder as she doubled over panting, eyes watering.

“We’re taking a break.”

She shuffled off his hand. “I’m fine. Air just, went down the wrong pipe,” she croaked.

Instead of listening he grabbed hold of her arm and pushed her towards a fallen tree. “Sit.”

He set aside her rabbits and gun to crouch down in front of her knees. Two fingers to her wrist failed to detect a pulse. She smirked as he searched for her radial artery, frowning in frustration.

“I guess now when they ask why we’re late I can blame you?”

Again he was silent and put a hand to her forehead. But there was no way of telling whether she had a fever thanks to the chill of the rain pouring down on them. So instead he cupped her cheek. She pulled away until fingers came up to envelop her shoulder and hold her steady.

“What are you-”

“Are you feeling alright?” He used his thumb to pull down her lid to reveal a bloodshot and glassy eye.

She huffed and dug the tip of her boot into the muck. “Yeah never better. Why?”

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist to stop the impromptu examination. That’s when he noticed the large red welt on her hand.

“When did you get this?”

“Get what?”

“This.” He held her hand in front of her face. The webbing between her finger and thumb inflamed with what looked like a tiny puncture wound.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

Without a word he grabbed both her gun and the squirrels, throwing them over his shoulder. “We have to get back to camp. Now.”

She sighed and looked up at him, blinking through the rain. “It might be nothing.”

“Or it could be why you had trouble breathing back there. Come on.” He stomped his feet, trying to work some warmth back into them.

She was about to stand when with no warning and little fanfare, she turned to lean over the log and emptied her stomach, spewing breakfast into the bushes. As she wiped her mouth and the world tilted back into place, she felt his hand on her shoulder. His voice was distant as her ears filled with a loud buzz.

It took several minutes for her to compose herself enough to continue and even then her vision swayed for a moment. A glut of dizziness and nausea washed over her as she slowly walked towards him until they were abreast. Under his supervision they continued at a slower pace in silence. Every step jarred her gut and he would occasionally check that she was still upright and moving. Tired and feeling gross, Clarke simply huddled into her collar as rain dripped from her hair down her neck to soak her clothes.

Why hadn’t she noticed the bite? Normally she catalogued any injury or illness, large or small and started treatment as soon as she could. Experience had taught her how unforgiving Earth was and yet she wouldn’t even have known if Bellamy hadn’t pointed it out. Maybe it was the fact that her hand felt numb. But was that from the bite or the cold? Without finding shelter and warming up she had no way of knowing so instead she just wiggled her fingers to little effect.

There was no measure of time as the sky was already dark with clouds and she had no inkling of how close they were to camp. There was only the endless trail in front of them so she concentrated on walking and not falling over. Every so often she would stop mid-stride and just breathe or at least try to. The wheeze didn’t reappear but her ears started ringing. As she tried to regain her equilibrium she held out her hands for balance. Thankfully sinking a few inches into the muck anchored her pretty well but it made gaining momentum again a colossal task. Every time it happened she took that much longer to recover as she leaned forward and swung her arms around to wrench herself free.

One time in particular she found herself in a massive puddle, stuck and sinking. After observing her struggle for a minute Bellamy stepped in and offered his hand. Grateful and tired she took it and he pulled. They stirred up mud and water sloshed over the top of her boots as they made no progress.

“Those might be a lost cause.”

Panting she tried to picture walking home in her socks, her boots left behind to stand on their own in the puddle. A giggle escaped her lips as a wheeze before she looked up at him, eyes distant and shiny before all the light went out of them. Her shoulders drooped and her head fell back as gravity pulled her to the ground. If not for his quick reflexes she would have landed in the puddle.

“Clarke?”

She was cradled in his arms, hands wrapped around her back, leaving him stuck, bent over straddling her limp body. She was still breathing but when he called her name again she didn’t respond. So instead he ducked down and slowly tilted her over his shoulder. His frozen fingers reached down for the laces on her boots and hooked a finger into a loop. It was a slow process but he extracted her feet, carried her to a clear spot and gently laid her down, hands moving to cradle her head. He laid his hands on either side of her face, her skin overwarm under his palms.

“C’mon Clarke. I’m not the doctor here.”

But he was alone with his thoughts as rain dripped down her flushed face. She didn’t respond when he shook her shoulders or pinched her arm. He watched and waited, eyes flicking from her face to her chest and back. When she started to wheeze again he knew he couldn’t wait.

“Crap.”

It was then that he threw the food onto the trail, pulled her to her feet and onto his back. Without a second thought he started running towards camp. His legs were liquid fire by the time he reached the perimeter, throat raw and heart beating like a loud drum. He stumbled to a knee as he slipped on the wet grass with Clarke’s weight pushing him into the ground.

A guard approached, gun half-raised, eyes narrowed as he left his post and approached them, rain obscuring the figures splayed before him.

“Go get Abby!”

The man looked askance at him before he recognized Blake and stiffened his posture.  

“Tell her it’s Clarke!”

Bellamy tried to pull her back into his arms but his limbs wouldn’t cooperate. So instead he gave her what shelter he could from the rain. Soon enough Abby came bursting through the gate, trailed by a handful of Med Bay staff.

“What happened?” She bent down in front of her daughter, eyes making a quick assessment as her fingers sought a pulse. When she looked up to Bellamy she noticed the dazed look in his eyes, the slight tremor in his shoulders.

“I don’t know but she’s having trouble breathing. I think she was bit by something.” He held up her hand to make sure Abby saw the welt.

A nurse knelt down next to him to lift Clarke out of his arms. The man had a determined look on his face, bushy blonde brows frowning as he curled his hands under her torso. For a moment Bellamy’s fingers tightened around her arms before Abby laid a hand on him.

“We need to get her inside to make sure she’s all right.”

He nodded silently and watched as her limp form was carried through the gates. Abby offered a hand and helped pull him to his feet. The streets of Arkadia were empty thanks to the rain which was handy for Bellamy whose gait had started to weave slightly. Fortunately for everyone things had been quiet so Med Bay was close to empty. Abby hurried to get Clarke hooked up to a variety of machines while Bellamy rested against a wall.

One nurse drew a vial of blood while another brought Clarke’s vitals up. Abby asked for something called “Dexa” and prepped a shot. They moved quickly amongst each other in quiet tones, occasionally conferring in groups. All the while Clarke lay motionless among them.

Bellamy watched it all, ignorant of their actions but unwilling to leave. At least, not until he got the all clear from Abby. Shifting his weight he tried to find a more comfortable position, having slumped against a section of wall with a generous amount of riveting. As he settled back a hand on his shoulder jolted him from his position and he practically fell over. A nervous-looking guard with a crooked collar was trying to relieve him of his gun per the rules set out when Abby had officially opened the Med Bay. Checking the safety he handed it over, grateful to be rid of the extra weight but the motion pulled at his back. He tried to ignore the ache as a nurse covered Clarke in a blanket despite the sweat on her brow.

Twenty minutes passed in relative silence during which time he slowly folded in on himself, relying on the wall to hold him up. The steady beeping of the machines flattened out into a thin hum at the back of his brain and pulled his chin down to his chest.

After making some final adjustments to the drip she put Clarke on, Abby looked up to see Bellamy, arms folded, eyes closed, practically slumped against the wall, his brow pinched. She couldn’t help the quiet smile that came to her lips. A gentle shake soon roused him and this close she could see the bloodshot eyes and feel a tremor through his wet clothes.

“You should rest.”

“Is she all right?” He wiped at his eyes, fighting the urge to yawn even as his jaw threatened to bend unnaturally.

“She’s resting.”

He frowned and stood up from the wall, one whole shoulder all pins and needles. “That’s not an answer.”

“There’s nothing more we can do for her now,” Abby sighed. “Until we know what exactly bit her we can’t start proper treatment. Ideally we’d need more symptoms to surface to narrow down the possible suspects. So why don’t you go change, get some rest and come back in the morning.”

Instead Bellamy just looked over her shoulder to Clarke, unable to discern what the machines were saying apart from that she was still alive. When he made no move to leave Abby put on her best mom face.

“Do I need to sedate you?”

Bellamy paused. “No.”

“Then leave before I decide you do. I promise you she’s not going anywhere.”

He reluctantly left after she practically had to push him out the door. Exhausted, starving and cold he dragged himself over to the Mess for something hot. What he got was a long line up and a loud group from Agriculture in front of him. By the time he got to the front he was able to finagle a cup of soup from cook despite his lack of ration card. He burnt his tongue and throat as he sipped the bland concoction, leaning against the entrance.

He dumped out the rest of the “soup” on the ground and set the cup on the nearest tray. Ducking into the rain he double-timed it back to the cupboard that served as a bedroom and quickly shucked off his clothes into a soggy pile in the corner, muffling his pained groan as he pulled off his shirt and jacket. He made a face at the heap of wet clothes before hanging them up. The value of water hadn’t changed much on the ground and he didn’t have enough rations to justify cleaning clothes that were only muddy.  

Wearing the only other clothes he owned he walked back into Med Bay.

Abby looked up from the chart she was reading. “So you do want to be sedated.”

Instead of responding he knelt down and started untying his boots.

“It’s not a busy night. You have other beds free and if you need mine I’ll use a chair.” He dumped his boots by the bed next to Clarke’s and sat down.

She crossed her arms and raised a brow. “Your bed?”

He shrugged. “I could use a night’s sleep. But I’m not leaving her.”

He sat back in the bed and wrapped himself in the same regulation blanket Clarke was currently swathed in, coarse and scratchy against his bare skin. He tucked the pillow under his head and tried to sleep. Best he could guess it was near sunset which meant Abby would be off shift in a few hours. By then he would hopefully be awake enough to keep watch. He yawned, shivering as he tried to keep his weight off the bad shoulder.

As his eyes slipped closed he found himself back in the forest. This time he was following Clarke. It was raining but he barely noticed. He held out his hand and the droplets fell right through his fingers which explained why he wasn’t cold. The sky above was pitch black without moon or cloud or stars. And yet the trees, the trail, Clarke, all were visible.

“Clarke!” He jogged towards her but wasn’t able to close the distance. She was always ahead of him, no matter if he ran or not. So he stopped and so did she. He walked a step, she walked a step. Every action was mirrored; a jump to the left, crouched, lying down on the ground. A twig chucked at her arm had no effect; neither did a pebble. For a long while he sat against a tree, trying to figure out how he could approach, her face hidden behind her hair.

After digging a rut into the trail with his boot heel he stood, faced away from her and walked. A glance over his shoulder revealed she was following, her head turned to look behind her. A side step off the trail had him keeping an eye out behind him for obstacles. And it wasn’t until he saw a large tree behind Clarke that he started backing up. Soon enough she backed into it and he bumped into her. His hand reached behind him to grab her arm and hold onto her. He whipped around only to nearly lose his grip.

Her eyes, nose and mouth dripped with blood. Her gaze was unfocused, as if she was staring past him instead of at him.

“Clarke?”

He took hold of her shoulders and tried to sit her down. She had no reaction when prompted. Blood spilled onto her shirt in dark splotches. Then her hands started to shake and her head tilted back; tremors migrated up into her body, mouth wide, eyes unseeing. Something screamed behind him, so loud he flinched and let go of her.

Her knees gave way and she fell to the ground, limbs locked, fists clenched, choking. He knelt, grabbed a handful of jacket to pull her to her side. She coughed, followed by a shuddering wheezy inhale, repeating over and over. Blood pooled on the ground, a thread of spit lead up to her lip.

She blindly reached out to grab at his shirt, nails digging into his skin as she yanked him close. He could see her lips moving but heard nothing. As he bent closer he could hear a rasping whisper. Ichor bubbled in her mouth. She gave a stuttered gasp and then was still. Eyes wide open but empty.

“No!”

He grabbed hold of her shoulders. Her head lolled to the side, blonde hair spilling onto his hand. Then her body disintegrated into dust, blown about by a cold breeze that turned into him. Blinded and choking he tried to escape the cloud only to collapse on the forest floor.

His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring up at the corrugated ceiling of Med Bay. Heart pounding he wiped the drool from his mouth and turned to the bed next to him. Clarke was there, still asleep and not dust.

He pulled an arm over his eyes and huffed out a long-held breath. He let time quiet his heart, thumping in his ears, against his chest. As he sat up, the ache in his back twinged and forced him to bite back several colourful swears. Breathing through his teeth he leaned down to struggle with his boots.

Soon enough he walked over to her, uncertain of her condition. Sweat beaded her brow, her face still flushed but her breathing even. A glance at her hand revealed the bite wound had crusted over but now had several subdermal black tendrils spreading out from it up towards her wrist. His eyes widened as he pushed up her sleeve, following the veins up her arm. They disappeared past her elbow.

He approached the closest nurse who looked haggard with stray wisps of hair having escaped her tightly pinched hair. She couldn’t provide any more information than what was on the monitors. Clarke’s temperature was slightly elevated but her blood pressure was steady.

“Is Abby still on shift?”

“Should be. Maybe try the Mess?”

With a glance over his shoulder to ensure the monitors were still in the green he stumbled outside where he had to shade his eyes. Clearly he’d slept longer than expected as a cloudless sky let the sun beat down on him and his tired visage. A trip to the Mess told him he’d missed breakfast and lunch. There was no sign of Abby but he was able to snag a bun from an abandoned tray. He had to stuff it in his pocket and book it when one of the guards turned his way though. The paltry meal was stale but hunger receded as he shuffled over to Housing and found she wasn’t home. Border Security claimed she hadn’t left Arkadia and no one had seen her since yesterday. He scratched at the five o’clock shadow on his chin and did the only other thing he could and swung back to Med Bay and Clarke.

He could only hope Abby was back when he walked inside and stopped dead. Clarke’s bed had a quarantine tent set up around it. Plastic sheeting sealed from floor to ceiling with a double barrier entry and two guards set on either side. There was no sign of Abby but he could make out bright orange figures inside the barrier. It was like staring through a greasy window.

He turned to the closest guard. “What happened?”

“They put up a tent.”

Bellamy rubbed a hand over his face. “I can see that. Do you know where Dr. Griffin is?”

The man shrugged. “I just started shift and I haven’t seen her so…no.”

Bellamy grit his teeth at the indifference. One question to a short nurse with crow’s feet restocking gauze gave him his answer. He found her staring at a pile of papers in what had once been a supply closet, yawning. She looked up at the noise, saw him and held up her hands in placation at the man who was equal bits nervous and angry with a five o’clock shadow and drooping shoulders.

“I know and it’s just a precaution.”

“Why?”

“She developed more symptoms overnight, some of which prompted me to declare a quarantine zone for her protection and ours.”

He had a sinking feeling he knew what she meant. “What kind of symptoms?”

“Something from the bite got into her circulatory system. She started to have trouble breathing this morning and when I gave her another shot of Dexa she started coughing up blood. So far I have two nurses in isolation due to exposure and I’ve sent for a Trikru healer. The blood and tissue samples are due back from the lab in a few hours so hopefully I’ll have a better idea of what I’m dealing with but until then all we can do is wait.”

He nodded absently, his eyes on the ground, unfocused.

“Is she awake?”

Abby shook her head. “She’s been out since you brought her in and it’s probably better if she stays that way.”

Somehow he found his way back to the “tent”. Two nurses transitioned through the plastic barriers, each decontaminating the other. They brought a sour chemical odour with them as they stepped out of the tent. Both slipped out of their bright orange suits and started consulting over the monitors.

Bellamy stood next to the plastic sheeting, unable to make out her blurry form. If he stayed he wouldn’t be of any use but all the same he wanted to. Unfortunately he had training in about forty minutes so he hovered for as long as he could, eyes flicking between the tent and the screens before the guards kicked him out for loitering.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in something of a daze as he went through the motions but wasn’t exactly present. This earned him a bruised cheek when he failed to dodge a punch. It was sore enough that he had to chew on the other side of his mouth at dinner before hurrying back to Med Bay.

The entrance was blocked however, by a large Grounder contingent, mostly warriors standing outside, as if they expected Arkadia to turn on them. Many had no love for Skaikru so he was forced to push his way through. More were inside, still armed, trading glares with the guards stationed at Clarke’s bedside. Indra stood next to Abby, speaking in low tones. He was only able to catch the tail end of their conversation.

“…anything but we will try. This is Varn.”

An old woman with a giant collar of woven leather and shells appeared from between two tall men and shuffled forward. Her gait was uneven and her shoulders stooped. She stopped next to the quarantine tent.

“You can take this down?” Indra looked at Abby.

“It’s meant to protect everyone in case she’s contagious. Standard procedure has anyone going inside suited up. I don’t suppose that’s going to work here though.” She looked down at Varn who was trying to peer through the plastic.

Indra raised a brow at the Skaikru jargon. “To help Clarke she must be able to see Clarke. Remove this,” she frowned at the plastic, “so she might help you.”

“We’re trying to keep anyone else from getting sick.”

“We will be fine. Send your people out if you worry for them.”

Torn between following protocol and taking what help she could find, Abby ushered the nurses out the front door but made no move to follow. Neither did Bellamy. Worst case scenario they would get sick and have to disinfect everything. She only hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She moved to pull down the tent and found the tape stronger than she imagined.

Bellamy silently walked up and started on the opposite side. They struggled for several minutes alone while the Grounders waited silently. As he gathered the sheeting in his arms he looked down to the bed. Her cheeks were still red, her lips chapped, her clothes caked in mud. One look at her arm revealed just how far the infection had progressed. Her shirt had been cut away for easier access and all the veins in her arm were black, tendrils spreading up to her shoulder. The other arm by comparison was clear.

Varn shuffled her way up behind Abby, shells clacking as came to stand beside the bed. She softly picked up Clarke’s arm, holding the dead weight in her wrinkled hands. Her fingers follow the veins; long nails traced a path up the skin before she turned the hand over the hand and brushed her thumb on the inflamed welt. She poked her finger inside Clarke’s ear, pried open her mouth and pulled down her lids to peer at her eyes. All of this was accompanied by unintelligible muttering. The only other sounds were Clark’s vitals on-screen and the creak of leather as Grounders shifted their feet.

“Jogots-wey,” Varn croaked out and patted Clarke’s arm as she laid it back down. A smile creased her face.

“I, I don’t – what is that?” Abby turned to Indra.

“It is a fly that drinks blood. Those bitten usually fall ill, see things, lose their memory. Many die.”

“Is there a cure?”

Bellamy’s eyes flicked down to Clarke.

“No. But she may yet live. Varn has seen others through this. She and her guards will stay.”

Indra turned to leave, taking all but two Grounders and Varn was looking around at all the machines and wrinkling her face in distaste.

“Jackson? Could you take Varn and see what rooms we have available?”

Abby turned back to Clarke and pinched the blanket between her fingers to pull it up over the infection before hearing a small strong voice behind her.

“I will stay here.”

Abby turned to see Varn smile up at her, milky blue eyes and all.  Her guards stood to the side, more akin to statues although their eyes scanned the room from side to side and floor to ceiling.

“Oh. I’m sorry. We don’t have bedrooms here. Jackson can take you to Housing where you can rest and show you the Mess if you’re hungry.”

“I will stay here.” She shuffled over to the bed Bellamy had been using and clambered onto it, her short legs wiggling around as she struggled to right herself. Settled, she spread out her clothes and turned to watch Clarke.

Abby waved Jackson off. “Make sure that you note bed four is occupied.”

Bellamy dragged a chair over and sat down, one eye on Clarke, one eye on Varn. It wasn’t long before the noise of the machines and the murmurings of nurses pulling him into that half sleep before rest.  

An alarm shrieked in his ear and he bolted off the chair in surprise, hand going to where his gun usually was. Heart pounding he relaxed when he realized where he was. Next to him Clarke’s eyes were wide open as she struggled to breathe, the monitors behind her blaring an alarming red. Three nurses crowd past him to check vitals and loom over her.

Abby pushed what he presumed was another shot of Dexa and nervously stroked her daughter’s hair as the minutes passed and her vitals descended back into safe levels.  

Clarke was panting. Her chest hurt and her hand was numb. She recognized Med Bay but couldn’t remember most of the last day. There was a hazy recollection of walking but it could easily have been a dream. When she tried to sit up her arm wouldn’t cooperate, acting more as dead weight than anything. That’s when she looked down to see her arm was covered in black veins traveling up from her wrist.

“What…?”

Her mom put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got an infection from an insect bite. Bellamy brought you in last night.”

She looked over to see him standing next to her bed, wearing stubble and a frown.

“You look terrible.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I’m not the only one.” He fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket while she got a proper checkup. “I’ve got Patrol soon but I’ll come back before night shift starts, see if I can sneak you a sweet roll.” He looked sidelong at Abby who shook her head at the mention of contraband.

“Well you tried.” Clarke waited until her mom turned away before she held up two fingers.

He ducked his head to keep from grinning. “I’m glad you’re awake.” He gave one last glance to Varn who hadn’t wavered in her attention on Wanheda.

Clarke watched him walk off before she looked down to her arm and tried to wiggle her fingers. Abby filled her in on the events occurring after she’d passed out but truly she was only half-listening. Her brain felt fuzzy which she assumed was a side-effect of the drug she was on but her arm also itched like a slow-boiling pot. The feeling was insistent and growing louder by the minute. At one point she sat on her hand to keep from tearing into her skin. She pressed her head back into her pillow, looking for a sensation that would overwhelm the sting. This held for several minutes until she slowly reached over and pressed her nails into her arm in search of relief. But the half-moon marks did little if anything so she slowly scratched four parallel lines up her skin and sighed.

“Don’t scratch Clarke.” Abby looked up from her screen.

“Can you give me something besides the drip then?” She croaked out, lips cracked, tongue dry.

“Normally I would but we don’t know how you’ll react with the infection. I should be getting test results back soon. Can you hold on until then?”

“Sure.” She rolled over and closed her eyes, knowing that sleep was unlikely. All the noises around her blurred into a cacophony: voices, footsteps, electronics.

“Here.” Someone poked her shoulder she and turned over to see a Grounder woman staring back at her, holding a twig in her hand. “Chew.”

“You must be Varn.”

“Yes. Chew.” She poked Clarke with the twig before trying to put it in her good hand.

Brow raised, she gently took the gift.

“For your itch.”

“Oh.” Clarke watched as the woman settled back onto her bed, placed her hands on her stomach and closed her eyes. A look down at the twig in hand wasn’t very reassuring. She took a tentative bite and fought the urge to make a face at the taste, which she imagined was something like dirt but drier. It at least gave her something to focus on and she found the more she chewed, the less she felt like her arm was going to melt off.

“Something in the bark maybe?” She murmured to herself.

Varn cleared her throat to catch Abby’s attention before nodding at Clarke. “You should bleed her.”

Clarke frowned, twig in mouth. “Whar?”

The woman pulled a long thin knife off her belt and rolled the hilt in her fingers, the blade reflecting off the overhead lights. Abby stepped between the beds, mouth a thin line.

“What exactly are you proposing?”

“Bleed her weak and the bite goes weak.”

Abby looked askance at the knife and bit her tongue. The practice of bloodletting had gone out of style hundreds of years ago and was now considered a pseudoscience.

“I thought Indra said there was no cure.”

Varn crossed her arms as shells clacked against her collar and sat up as tall as she could. “I have saved five this way.”

“And how many did you bleed?”

“Many.”

Abby fought to keep from making a face at the mortality rate. “We’re hoping to have better results with our tests.”

Varn shrugged. “If you are a healer you must heal.”

“Yes, well. That’s the plan. I think we’ll pass on the knife.”

“Wanheda?” Varn leaned back to look at Clarke who at least had the sense to look apologetic.

“I’m sorry but I agree with my mom.”

Varn quirked a brow. “You want to live? You must bleed.”

Clarke took the blunt assessment in stride. Soon after she fell back asleep and her dreams were plagued with shadows that crawled across her eyes and burrowed into her brain. As the hours ticked by her temperature slowly rose. When her core crested 100, Abby laid a cool compress on her forehead.

The lab results for the blood and tissue samples had been unsatisfactory. They confirmed Clarke had a viral infection introduced into her bloodstream but since the vector wasn’t in their database they had no pathology to draw upon. She could only run through their remaining store of antiviral medication and test the samples against each one. Indra’s words came back to her as she watched her daughter sleep with an elevated heartbeat.

When she woke sometime after dinner the black veins had reached her throat. She was dizzy lying down and coughed until she was hoarse, fighting for breath and then rolled over, pushed the mass of bodies away from her and vomited straight onto the floor. She used a sleeve to wipe her mouth and made a face at the sour bile on her tongue as a pair of nurses came to clean the mess up.

Another shot of Dexa left her already bruised arm sore but at least she still had feeling on that side. An uncomfortable theory had lodged itself in her brain so she marked how long it took for her blood pressure to go down. Each shot stretched out her recovery time longer and longer. This instance was nearly twenty seven minutes, an absolute eternity. Worse still her mom wouldn’t look her in the eye. But the crease in her brow grew with every test that came back. It was a look Clarke knew too well.

“M-om?”

Abby looked up and pasted a smile on her face. “It’s okay. I’ve got half a dozen more to run. We’ll find something.”

Forty minutes later Clarke had started feeling twinges in her chest. The pain was intermittent but sharp. Abby had given her an oral anti-inflammatory but she had thrown it up less than ten minutes later. While she stared up at the hazy fluorescents the nurses had changed out sweat-soaked sheets.

Abby watched as her only child descended into the infection, her body losing the fight in her half-conscious state. And as the last of the antivirals failed to have any effect on the infected blood, she approached Varn and sighed.

“If we’re doing this we’re following standard medical procedure.” Abby held out her hand for the knife. “You can have it back after I disinfect it.”

“You wish me to bleed Wanheda?”

Abby nodded, crow’s feet at her eyes. “I have no experience with bloodletting.”

As they prepped the knife and Clarke’s arm, Varn closed her eyes and began murmuring under her breath. The IV drip was removed and Jackson and Abby exchanged an apprehensive look as the woman took back her knife and held the cold metal against Clarke’s skin. She’d just made the incision when Bellamy walked in.

His eyes widened at the sight of Varn holding a knife in one hand and Clarke’s arm in the other, blood streaming from a long cut into a bowl. He dropped the sweet rolls he was carrying.

“What the hell are you doing!”

He lunged towards the bed before Varn’s guards stepped in to block his path. Each grabbed an arm and wrestled him to the floor, face meeting cold metal. He tried to twist, kicking what he could reach as they bent his arms behind him.  

“Stop! Bellamy stop it’s all right!”

Abby knelt and laid a hand on his shoulder. With a word from Varn he was released. He stood, glaring at the women before he was roughly pulled aside.

“I let her do this because she might be able to help Clarke.”

“So you’re okay with this?” He waved a hand at the bowl of Clarke’s blood, grimacing.

“No but it’s the fastest option we have. None of the antivirals worked and because we have no background on the virus or vector we don’t have an effective treatment plan. I don’t have time for more tests and she’s getting worse. Every Dexa shot takes longer to regulate her breathing and she can’t keep anything down. If I had the right equipment I’d put her in an induced coma and lower her body temperature. But I can only work with what I have and I’m willing to try anything at this point because if the infection reaches her heart there won’t be anything we can do.”

He blinked at the information. Before he’d left for Patrol she’d seemed fine. Snarky even. He made to walk over when Abby grabbed his arm.

“Promise me you won’t attack the only healer who might be able to treat her?”

“Fine.”

He pushed past her and over to where Clarke’s arm was being bandaged. He could see the black veins creeping up past her collarbone.

“Did it work?” He looked over at the old woman who was cleaning off her knife. The blood bowl had disappeared.

“The bite is always fast. She will not linger if she falls. We will know by morning.” She waddled out of the Med Bay, followed quickly by her guards, presumably to find the Mess.

He took the chair from this morning and sat, back to the wall next to her bandaged arm.

“Hey Clarke.”

She made no reply. Her breathing was wheezy and shallow, a rhythmic sound to accompany the low buzzing of the lights. Sweat beaded her forehead, cheeks bright red against a pale face as she shivered under the pile of blankets cocooning her in the bed.

He watched Abby watch Clarke and saw the shift change for the nurses. An hour passed and then two but she didn’t wake. Finally he took hold of her hand, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin.

“I can’t do this without you.” He held tight and simply waited.

As the night ticked by he felt his head grow heavy and nodded off sometime after midnight. When he woke it took a moment to remember where he was. His neck hurt, his mouth was dry and sleep had crusted over his eyes. When he turned to the bed it was empty. For a moment he froze. Ice shot down his back and he imagined the worst. He shot to his feet only to find her standing at the entrance, door wide open to outside.

She was still pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. Her bandaged hand laid heavy on the door. He walked up beside her and softly touched her shoulder.

“Hey.”

She didn’t acknowledge his presence or touch. Instead he had to turn her and squeeze a shoulder. But she simply stared through him. It was only after she blinked several times before recognition flared in her eyes.

“Bellamy. What are you doing here?”

She stepped closer and swayed, nearly falling until she latched onto his jacket with her good arm. Above them the sky had started to brighten, light blue and pale orange against a smear of clouds.

He reached out to cup her cheek, brushing his thumb over her skin. “Waiting for you to come back to me.”

[zombageddon]

Well wendy's gang, mabel's gang, and dipper and bill would be great, but if that's a bit much, dipper and bill is fine. Thanks!

Okay, so this might get a bit long for an ask, but I’m gonna do it anyway! I always feel weird describing characters in story, especially when I know the readers probably already have ideas about how they might look, but describing them here will probably be a good exercise for me, so, follow them if you want, or tweak them to suit your own headcanons, it’s all up to you as readers because I suck at putting this stuff on story.

Wendy: My version of Wendy looks a lot like an older version of who was in the show, with a few noticeable differences. Her hair is cut into a bob, and she’s got a bit more muscle now, instead of just being lanky. She’s lost her hat, but her outfits still favor rundown jeans, loose flannel over a tank top (or sometimes tied around her waist, when she gets hot or needs to move freely), and ankle boots. She’s also got a pseudo holster for her hatchet attached to her belt, it’s basically just a couple straps that button together around head to keep it secure. She’s also got a few leather bracelets, because can anyone truly be a badass without them?Robbie: Our awkward goth boy has grown up to be a nearly respectable gentleman! Since entering medical school, Robbie’s worked to make his look a little more professional. His bangs are shorter, and his acne has cleared up. He doesn’t have any facial piercings, but he’s still got both ears pierced, plus a few extra rings on the shell of his right ear. Snice it’s summertime, his outfits have started slipping back into goth tendencies, but his wardrobe has still changed. His jeans no longer have rips in them, and they’re not quite skin tight anymore, though his converse are still old and ratty with little skulls drawn on in sharpie. He also still has his trademark hoodie, and he wears it over various band t-shirts that come out whenever it gets too hot to wear the hoodie, or when the need for mobility outweighs the need to be a goth.

Tambry: Tambry has really just gotten more scene in college. Her hair is still purple, though it’s gotten a bit shorter, and she’s got her ears double pierced on both sides plus a bar on the left side. She also has a nose piercing. She did have to change her style a little bit for the apocalypse. Originally she was in a tight dress with combat boots and fishnets, but after stopping at her apartment for supplies she changed into jeans and a t-shirt that she stole from Robbie at some point. She also wears her pepper spray clipped onto her belt loop.

Thompson: Pretty much the epitome of a gentle giant, Thompson is still the only member of the gang that really nails the “upstanding citizen” look. He tends towards cargo shorts, polo shirts, and Vans. The downside of his look is that whenever he gets splattered in blood, the stains are super visible. Honestly, he kinda looks like a stereotypical horror movie frat boy, just nicer. Thompson is also super big though, he’s the tallest of the gang by a good two heads (three is you’re Tambry and Lee), and he’s pretty bulky too from spending the last few years weight lifting. He’s not quite bodybuilder ripped, but he’s still pretty strong. (Ngl I’m picturing a very similar build to that of Hunk from the new Voltron)

Nate: So, fun fact. When I first started writing thing, I got Nate and Lee confused. And while I did try to switch them back in my head, I couldn’t do it, and honestly? Nate looks like a Lee and Lee looks like a Nate. So I’m pulling a swap a la Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and ya’ll can’t stop me, and hopefully none of you care. So my Nate is the lanky blond guy who looks like he belongs in a band that operates out of a basement. His hair is still pretty long, and his image isn’t being helped by hours in a car with no comb. He wears Metallica tees and ripped up jeans, and the kind of converse that are so ratty that your mother is constantly telling you to throw them out, and that was before they got exposed to a zombie apocalypse.

Lee: So there is an aesthetic for Lee, but fuck if I remember what it’s called, so bear with me, because while you probably know the look I’m talking about, it’s hard to describe. Nate is that short, skinny boy with rubber band bracelets and a snapback. He wear skinny jeans and v necks (blue, in Lee’s case), and plain black Vans. He listens to a lot of EDM and knows all the Top 40 hits, and he can absolutely dance to all of them. He keeps his hair short, and on days when he doesn’t have the snapback he’ll gel it. He looks like a douchebag. That’s what this look is called, I just remembered.

Mabel: Mabel has grown up a bit since she was a kid, but her style hasn’t changed much. She still wears cute sweaters with hand sewn pictures, though they tend to fit better now (yarn is fucking expensive and oversized sweaters are unrealistic on a college budget). She also still wears her hair long, though she started braiding it for the apocalypse. Under the sweater is a plain t-shirt, and on bottom she’s got a short skirt with colored leggings that go down to about mid calf, plus some diy bedazzled converse. Everything is colorful, but nothing clashes. I’m thinking teal, orange, and pink, but let’s be real she totally packed multiple outfits so feel free to experiment.

Pacifica: Purple is still her signature color, even if it does get a little bloodier. She’s got a light, tan leather jacket over a purple v-neck and white capris, plus white sneakers. Now, nothing white will stay white (damn apocalypse), but Paz has more important things on her mind than fashion...mostly. Her makeup is still beyond reproach, and her eyeliner is so on point she could stab a zombie with it. She still has long hair, but she wears it in a tinkerbell bun for practicality. She also has bangs, so that’s a pretty cute look too.

Candy: Candy’s hair is bobbed, and her glasses are black with those cute wings on the edge of the lenses. She’s one of the few people who decided to dress appropriately for an apocalypse too, so her outfit is more function than fashion. Cargo pants, loose T, and a bomber jacket. And I’m talking about a real bomber jacket, not one of those fashion ones from Hot Topic (love them, but not great for movement). If anyone watches Z Nation, Candy is pretty much trying to emulate Warren, because that woman is a badass.

Grenda: Grenda has grown up as a bit of a gym rat. She was studying to be a personal trainer, and the girl is fucking ripped these days. She also wears a lot of athletic wear, so her apocalypse wear consists of running leggings and rainbow Nikes, plus graphic tees. Her hair has gotten a bit longer since her childhood, but for the purposes of the apocalypse she keeps it in a ponytail.

Dipper: Dipper is a scrawny little nerd, and while he’s not completely helpless, his biggest strength is endurance running from years of being chased by bullies in school. He also has a tendency to border on hipster with his fashion choices. Open flannel, graphic tee, jeans, and converse tendencies. Dipper also has a blue hoodie, and his old pine tree ballcap, just for old times sake. His hair is curly and kind of a mess though.

Bill: Bill’s idea of practical comes from a childhood of being dragged on hunting trips, and his outfits now reflect that. Red and black flannel, jeans, and hiking boots. He tends to wear his crossbow over one shoulder, with a quiver on the other. As for what he looks like...this is hard, because I know that everyone and their dog has a head canon for this. But important things, he’s human, he’s got two eyes, and he’s attractive. And he’s got a good jaw, because Dipper may punch him at some point (just for being annoying, probably), and if he did that would hurt. But as for everything else? I picture a white guy light brown eyes and dirty blond hair, but you guys shouldn’t limit yourselves to that! Bill is cool because he has no standard, so play around with him a bit if you want to.

[elizaabandon]

Home Fires

Uncharted FIC – Sam/Elena(ish) – NSFW

Set soon after the events of A Thief’s End. Slight canon divergence where Sam agrees to Nate’s offer to stay with him and Elena. A few months after moving in, Sam finds out his baby brother isn’t pulling his weight in the bedroom, and he can’t get it out of his mind.

I don’t even know what this is

Sam shouldn’t be listening, he knows, and normally he wouldn’t be.

Normally when Elena had “the girls” around, Nathan and Sam would catch each other���s eyes and slip off to a local bar. “All they want to talk about is makeup anyway,” Nathan would say, rolling his eyes, and even though they both knew it wasn’t true they’d laugh and slap each other on the back and mutter various permutations of, “Women, am I right?”

This time, Nathan had waved off the offer of beer in favour of the library, his creased brows and chewed lips suggesting a new secret obsession that he’d yet to share, leaving Sam home alone with the ladies. He’d slung on his jacket and headed to the front door out of habit, but it was icy cold and the rain was practically horizontal, and he didn’t much feel like sitting in a bar with a bunch of sad old lonely fuckers stroking their beers to luke-warmth, waiting to go home to his borrowed room.

So he’d hung his jacket back up and stood in the hallway a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. The fridge was in the main area. The TV was in the main area. Even – shit – his cellphone was in the main area. He’d heard a loud scream followed by peals of laughter, and had decided not to risk it, lest they were in predator mode. He wasn’t in the mood for endless critiques of his double denim or sly questions about his love life, so he’d slunk upstairs and attempted to fall asleep, growing more and more agitated and restless as the night went on.

Which had led him to where he is now, at the door of the lounge, bracing himself to resolutely and staunchly walk through the mess, grab a six-pack and his phone and head back to the spare room. He takes a deep breath and is just about to push through when –

“You mean he’s NEVER made you come?!”

Sam stops in his tracks. He can’t help but smirk a little. It’s a little earlier than he would have expected for this kind of talk, but he did see Elena pouring a rather generous helping of tequila into the pitcher of margaritas she’d made, and if they’d been gulping them down like their lives depended on it as they usually did, they’re probably starting to feel the false liquid comfort of Dutch courage. Mexican courage. He snorts at his own joke and wraps his hand around the doorknob.

“Well, no, not exactly, but we still do it all the time so it’s not a big deal.”

Sam freezes. Although the door is thick and the words have the hint of a slur, the voice is unmistakeably Elena’s.

“But haven’t you … you know … shown him?”

Sam stands dead still. They can’t be talking about Nathan

“Yes!” A high cough. “Yes. I’ve – you know – made myself. In front of him. And I’ve taken his hands and – you know. Put them. There. And – oh God, I can’t believe I’m telling you guys this!”

He shouldn’t be listening. He knows this.

“So what, he just doesn’t care?”

“No! Nate does care. He’s sweet.” Elena’s voice softens and Sam can imagine the way she looks, her eyes all wide and dewy like when Nathan falls asleep on her lap watching TV or absent-mindedly picks her a flower on one of their long walks. “And the way he kisses me is – thousands of explosions in the sky. Fireworks. Seriously. And he’s hungry, you know? His hands everywhere…”

“Girl, keep talking and I’m going to need to excuse myself.”

The room explodes into laughter. Sam shakes his head. She can’t seriously be suggesting Nathan, his stupid baby brother, had never…?

“We’re just away from each other so much, you know? A lot of back and forth from Malaysia. Which is fine. That’s how we like it and that’s how we planned it. And we miss each other, which I like. And when he comes back it’s like – electricity. And he’s all over me and he’s so earnest and desperate and he feels so good–“

He hears a low mumble and presses his ear closer to the door.

“And it’s so good – it’s great – and he’s really good at getting this amazing sweet spot inside me. But he just always – comes.” She laughs awkwardly. “And afterwards he’s completely useless. Flops about like a big stupid seal. And getting him to do anything then is a no go.”

“Why don’t you lay him back and ride his face?”

Sam stifles a surprised chuckle.

“He WHAT?”

Sam presses his ear harder against the wood, the carvings digging deep into his cartilage.

“He doesn’t LIKE IT?

“I dunno! I mean, I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

A pause. He wishes he could see Elena’s face. He can imagine the blush that’s trailing slowly across her cheeks. It might even be at her neck right now, like it was the time she caught him shaving naked in the bathroom. Her mouth open. Her lips glistening. Her breathing heavy.

“I mean, he’s just never seemed that enthusiastic about it, and it’s a little bit of an awkward point to belabour…”

“So he just doesn’t?”

“It sort of got – abandoned earlier on in the relationship and neither of us have ever really brought it back up.”

Sam winces. He’s never been more ashamed of the Drake name. He feels like marching down to the library and grabbing Nathan by the scruff of his neck and hauling him across one of the reading tables and … and … and what? Telling him to eat out his wife? Here’s the thing, baby brother. You want to be a real man? You gotta learn to eat pussy and eat it good. He shakes his head. The paternal feelings combined with disappointment and guilt and latent arousal are a complicated cocktail. He sucks in a deep breath. Maybe he’ll just bail and head upstairs and go to sleep after all. Maybe jerk myself off. He squashes the thought and turns away from the door.

“So what do you DO?”

He stops, drumming his fingers lightly along the doorframe. There’s no point waiting, he chides himself. He knows the answer. He knows the answer.

“Well,” Elena says, drawing out the syllable playfully, and she’s got the low, husky conspiratorial voice she uses when she suggests they do something slightly out of the traditional bounds of the law. “I read a while and when I know for sure he’s asleep, I get up and go into the bathroom and…”

“And??

Sam bites his lip.

“And I fuck my fingers until I come like crazy.”

Wham. A million feelings crash into Sam all at once – shock and heat and curiosity and fear and guilt and desire and arousal and want and need.

He doesn’t even have a second to brace himself before the image is thrust into his mind. The image of Elena, kneeling on the cold tile floor, her panties hastily pulled down and her fingers circling her clit and slipping in and out of her wet pussy, rocking back and forth, her pyjama shirt riding up over her perfect tiny tits, biting her lip so she doesn’t wake Nathan in the next room, her climax building as she grips the side of the bathroom counter, shaking and shuddering silently as she comes, falling back onto the tacky green bathmat, her blonde hair strewn across empty shampoo bottles, her half-naked body pink and guilty and slick and gorgeous…

Jesus Christ.

Sam can feel his cock slowly thickening and he gives it a hard and unpleasant squeeze through his jeans. She’s your goddamn sister-in-law. He hastily turns to go.

“So how long has it been since someone else made you come?”

Sam’s heart thuds in his chest. It’s loud. For a split second he’s almost worried they will hear it.

Elena’s response is so soft he almost misses it. “Years.”

The room is silent.

“Girl.”

Another pause.

“Poor yourself another goddamn drink.”

They dissolve into laughter and Sam hastily slips back to his room.

That night Sam lies stiff as a board in his bed, his hands resolutely by his sides, more alert than he has ever been in his life. His attempts to wait his arousal out have all failed and his cock is achingly hard. He can’t get the image of Elena furiously fingering herself out of his mind, but the thought of jacking off to his little brother’s wife while staying in their guest bedroom is a little too far, even for him.

I fuck my fingers until I come like crazy.

He moans softly. God, what the hell is Nathan’s problem? The thought of Nathan getting Elena all wet and worked up and then uselessly rolling over and falling asleep fills him with irritation. The fact that Nathan hasn’t learnt to fuck her to orgasm (or slip a hand between them) is one thing, but not even finishing her off afterwards? Not eating her out ever?

Sam angrily adjusts his rock hard cock. It would be so easy. Especially given Elena’s apparently more-than-healthy levels of sexuality. Even if Nathan refuses to make her come first, which is Sam’s standard practice (less because he’s a gentleman and more because he finds it makes for a more willing participant) there’s no excuse not to make her come at all. Ever.

Sam kicks off the covers, the room strangely hot despite the raging storm outside. All Nathan would have to do, he thinks angrily, is kiss Elena long and hard, letting her moan and grind up against him, and once she was good and ready, settle down on his back, open his mouth wide with his tongue hanging out like a kid trying to catch raindrops, and let Elena do the rest. God, he could let her grab onto the headboard and grind onto his face and moan and shudder above him. He could hold her thighs down hard and tease her clit with the tip of his tongue until she was begging for more. He’d be treated to such a beautiful sight, her pussy glistening and her breasts bouncing just above and her face flushed with need.  In fact, Nathan could let her ride his face until she was seconds away from coming and then flip her over and lick her out like his life depended on it and get all the credit and glory.

He could even, if he was feel adventurous, bend her over the bed and fuck her from behind and just when she started to really push back, roughly pull out, drop to his knees, and lick a long line from her swollen clit right to her asshole, and when she cried out in need and surprise, fuck her with his tongue until she was spent. For Christ’s sake, if Sam were in that bedroom right now…

What? You’d fuck your brother’s wife?

Sam groans and flips over, burying his face in his pillow. His cock rubs teasingly against the warm mattress. He grits his teeth and shuts his eyes, praying for any kind of release aside from the one he really wants.

Over the next few weeks, Sam does his best to avoid the house. He starts going for long walks, even in the wind and the rain. He tries to get all his ablutions done in the gym, because every time he walks into any of the bathrooms at the house, he can’t help but wonder if Elena’s been in there too, hot flesh against cold tile. In fact, he can’t help but picture her all over the house – spread out on the couch, up against the kitchen sink, across the papers in the study – and his mind is only too happy to provide him with endless images. Most of all, he can’t help but picture the look on her face as someone else’s fingers and mouth make her come for the first time in years.

One night, Nathan comes home from an all-you-can-eat seafood restaurant with food poisoning and spends the night emptying himself from both ends, and instead of worrying about his brother – or, more accurately, laughing at him, as he usually would – Sam starts to obsess that Elena’s going to use the bathroom closer to his bedroom to get herself off. He tosses and turns in his bed, harder than a rock, and when he hears her tiptoe to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he hesitates for less than a second before staggering after her. He stands in the hallway, his heart hammering. He doesn’t even know what he plans to do; he just wants

She’s in there less than a minute before the door swings open again, and Sam is confronted with her face-to-face, his cock tenting in his sweatpants so prominently it’s almost pornographic.

“Um,” Elena says, her eyes flicking from his cock to his face in quick succession, and Sam mutters, “Excuse me,” as gruffly as he can, pushing past her and slamming the door shut behind him. He sits on the bathroom floor for about an hour before growling in frustration and jerking himself off.

At least he gets a good night’s sleep.

“You’ve been acting really weird.”

The voice in Sam’s ear nearly makes him jump out of his skin. It’s been a week since the night-time pyjama encounter, and he’s six beers deep and spread out on the downstairs couch, deeply entrenched in both the pillows and the thought that he has the house to himself. Nathan and Elena had left a few hours earlier to a dinner party, where they’d insisted they were going to stay the night – “So Lena can get white-girl wasted,” Nathan had laughed – and Sam is glad at the solitude. They’d extended the invitation but he’d begged off, looking forward to an evening of beers and crap movies and no Elena to test his moral fortitude

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters, turning to see Elena smiling conspiratorially at him. “You gave me a goddamn heart attack.”

Elena laughs. “Oh, you Drakes.” She circles around the couch. “So dramatic.” She taps his legs and he hastily moves them aside, allowing her to settle onto the couch next to him.

“I thought you guys were at some fancy dinner party?”

“We are.” Elena wrinkles her nose. “Were. But then Nate started playing beer pong and arguing about Visigoths and I wasn’t in the mood.” She looks at the empty bottles strewn across the table. “I can see you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

Sam clears his throat. “Just a bit.” Her black evening dress is slung low and he can see the outline of her breast, and the sight makes something coil deep inside his belly.

“Room for one more?” Elena grabs a two bottles and cracks one open, handing it to Sam.

“Uh, well.” Sam’s head is feeling a little hazy. He’s not used to seeing Elena in makeup, and goddamn she looks good. Her lipstick is ever so slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth, and he can’t help but imagine her sucking her fingers and slipping them under her dress, knees spread wide… “NO.” He clears his throat again. “I mean, no, thank you. I’m – I’m good.” He stands, brushing off his jeans. “I should – ah – I mean, I should get to bed. Got an early start tomorrow.”

Elena snorts. “When do you ever have an early start?”

“Just got some things. Some errands. That are going to take a little longer than I planned. So, uh, thanks, but no thanks.” He turns to leave.

“Stop right there, cowboy.”

Sam freezes.

“You Drakes are terrible liars, you know that?”

He stays standing, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Turn around.”

He doesn’t.

“I said turn around.”

He edges around, his head hung low, avoiding her eyes.

“What is your problem?”

“Me?” Sam shrugs, still avoiding her gaze. “No problem. I don’t have a problem. This guy here? He’s a guy with no problem.”

“You’re going to lie to me in my own house?” Although she’s laughing, there’s the faintest edge to her voice that Sam hasn’t heard before. “You’ve been acting like I killed your dog for the past month or so and I want to know what I did to upset you–“

“You didn’t do anything–”

“So that I can make it right–“

“There’s nothing to make right–”

“So that you can stop slinking around here like some ghost in the night–“

“Hey, hey, hey, I don’t slink!”

Elena glares.

“There’s nothing wrong, Sam insists. “Honest. I’m just tired. So if you don’t mind–“

“I swear to God, Sam, if you don’t tell me right this second–“

“I HEARD YOU, OKAY?” Sam is dimly aware he sounds crazy, even to his own ears.

“Heard me what?” Elena furrows her brow, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Talking about Nathan,” Sam says weakly.

“Nate?” Elena laughs. “Am I not supposed to talk about Nate? What was I saying?”

Sam gestures around the room uselessly.

“What, that he doesn’t clean up after himself?” She cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “Are you defending his honour as a husband?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No. When your – when your friends were here. When you said…

“When I said what, Sam? God, you’re acting like-”

“That he’s never made you come.”

Elena’s words die on her lips and she slowly trails off, her eyes widening. Her mouth falls open into a perfect, silent “Oh.” Sam curses himself, wishing he could snatch the words out of the air and shove them back into his stupid mouth, but now they’re out there, filling every tiny inch of the room with their weight and heat. He can feel them constricting his throat, pulling at the hairs on his neck, freezing his legs. Elena stares at him from across the room, the air thick between them. Sam shrugs, his eyes locked with Elena’s, and he watches a dark pink blossom at her cheeks and start to spread down her neck, flicking its way to the drape of her dress and the curve of her cleavage, just as he’d imagined so many times in the past few weeks.

Elena bites her lip and whispers so softly Sam doesn’t catch it.

“What?” he says weakly, his voice barely above a whisper himself.

“Don’t tell him,” Elena murmurs.

Sam absent-mindedly rolls an imaginary coin between his fingers. “Christ, I’m not exactly going to bring it up over dinner–”

“I just – I don’t want him to feel bad, okay?”

“He should feel bad,” Sam mutters, before he even has time to think.

“No, you don’t get it. It’s hard to make me come. I’m – I’m different.”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“I’m different,” Elena insists, sitting up slightly on the couch. “I have a lot of thoughts buzzing around in my head. I’m too – intellectual. I keep looking at it from an outsider’s perspective. It’s my reporter’s mind, you know? I can’t– “

“Sounds like you don’t have any problems when it’s just you.”

Elena does her best impression of a guppy fish and it almost makes Sam laugh.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, Elena, I heard the whole thing– “

“What, did you have the room bugged or something?” Her face is now a deep red. “You want to look through my emails, too?”

“–and it sounds like you don’t have any trouble at all, except when it comes to my stupid baby brother and his stupid selfish behaviour.”

He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but she looks both mollified and more infuriated at the same time. He takes a deep breath and walks over to the couch, sitting down gently next to her.  Her hands tighten into fists but she doesn’t make any moves to leave or respond. “And I’m sorry about that, okay?” he says, gently. He pauses a moment. “I’ve got to admit,” he says, placing his hand on his chest, “I feel partially responsible.” He cocks his head and lets his mouth spread into an easy grin, the kind he usually reserves for winning girls over in bars. “I should have given him some pointers.

Elena cocks an eyebrow ever so slightly, her expression unconvinced. “You?”

“Yeah, me!” Sam laughs, letting out as much tension as he can, attempting to cajole his limbs into a casual ease. He settles back into the couch, using every skill he’d ever learnt in his years at prison to diffuse a difficult situation. “Our Dad left us when we were young and Victor goddamn Sullivan is about as generous as a slot machine in Vegas. Nathan had no one to teach him the tricks of the trade.” He shakes his head in faux lament. “I should have passed on my wisdom

“Your wisdom?” Elena’s mouth tugs into a smile and Sam feels a rush of relief as her expression shifts from defensive to amused. “Oh, sorry,” she says, unballing her fists and holding them up high above her head, “I didn’t realise I was talking to a sex God.”

“Hey, I’m no God, but I can eat pussy,” Sam counters

Elena rolls her eyes.

“I can! I mean, sure, it’s an acquired taste– “

Elena snorts.

“But like a good cigar or a nice glass of aged whisky, it’s something a man comes to crave.” He cocks his eyebrow and a voice in his head tells him he’s bordering on flirtatious but at this point he’s enjoying himself too much to care. He steals a glance over at Elena, expecting her to look pissed or amused or some combination of the two, but instead she’s staring at him with an indecipherable expression, her eyes scanning his face up and down. Her jaw sets slightly and she leans over, grabs the open beer from the table and settles back into the corner of the couch.

“Alright, then. Tell me.”

Sam cocks his head. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me how you’d do it.”

A beat. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Elena reaches over and grabs her pen and paper from the side table. “I’ll even take notes.”

“Why, you wanna learn?”

“No,” Elena says evenly, and there’s a sudden air of professionalism about her tone. “I just think that a lot of men tend to overestimate their skillset in this particular area.” She slips her pencil behind her ear and takes a swig of beer. “Tell me how you’d make me come by eating me out, and I’ll tell you if I think it sounds like it would work.”

Sam’s heart is thudding in his chest and there’s a slight ringing in his ears that won’t go away. Is she seriously asking me to talk dirty about eating her pussy right in front of her? Sam has to admit, the idea certainly has its merits, but the chances of his keeping his cool and his cock under control are slim to none. “Listen– “

“Oh, I get it. Talk the big game, but when it comes round to it, you can’t walk the walk.”

Sam huffs. “I can walk the walk, sister.”

Elena makes a strange noise in the back of her throat and it’s a second before Sam realises she’s making chicken noises.

“Are you kidding me?”

She grins, gripping her beer, and continues clucking, louder and louder.

“First,” Sam interrupts loudly, and her mouth snaps shut, her eyes sparkling. “First things first,” he says again slowly. “I’d have to make sure you were nice and wet.”

“You’ve skipped a step there, pal.” Elena bites the end of her pencil. “How would you do that?”

“Oh, that’s the easy part.” Sam looks Elena up and down, drinking in the sight of her. He can’t quite believe this is really happening – can’t quite believe he’s about to speak aloud every stolen minute and secret fantasy he’s kept locked away in the dark of the night for the past month – but he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Right now, everything is on the line: his pride, his masculinity, his very identity, and he’s not going to fuck this one up. “I’d push you up against the wall, kissing you slow and deep, letting you feel every lick of my tongue. I’d flick the tip of my tongue against the tip of yours, pretending it was your clit, teasing you for what’s going to come later.”

Elena nods, her expression neutral. “Okay.”

“I’d move down to your neck, sucking at every delicious point I could find. Your earlobe. Just underneath. The bit where your neck meets your jaw. Where your neck meets your collarbone.” He can feel his cock thickening, and he prays his jeans are thick enough to hide it. “I’d bring my hands up to stroke your breasts, rubbing my thumb over your nipple through your dress, and I’d slowly spread your legs with my thigh and let you grind yourself against me.”

He can picture it perfectly, and the fact that Elena is only sitting a metre way is intoxicating. He feels a sudden bolt of guilt slide through his stomach, thinking of Nathan, his brother, his baby brother, but insists to himself that he’s doing this for Nathan, really. If Nathan weren’t so selfish, he wouldn’t be in this situation. And the advice Sam was giving was marriage-saving stuff, really. Nathan should be grateful.

“Is that all?”

Sam licks his lips, returning his gaze to Elena in full force. “Then, I’d gently let you feel how hard I was. How much I wanted you. And I’d whisper into your ear how badly I wanted to taste you. How I wanted to see you come all over my face.”

The blush is back, deepening across Elena’s cheeks, and Sam pretends not to notice.

“I’d keep kissing you, back and forth between your mouth and your neck and your tits, until I hear that subtle change in your moans – from happy to frustrated.”

“How do you know I’m moaning?”

“Trust me, you’re moaning.” Sam can almost hear it. “Then I’d slowly trail my hands down from your breast and up your skirt, slipping my hand into your panties. I’d run my finger across your pussy, making sure you’re nice and wet– “ Sam pauses for a protest, but none is forthcoming. “But I don’t force it. I let you rub yourself against my fingers, let you get used to me, while I learn the way you like it. How much pressure you want on your clit. Whether you want fingertips or palms. If you want it deep. I let you teach me, let you show me what you want, so I know exactly how to give it to you. I can feel what makes you wetter and can give you exactly what you want.”

“Okay,” Elena says, her tone studied calm. “And then what – take me to the bed?”

“Fuck that,” Sam growls. “I’m done with being gentle. I sink down to my knees in front of you and roughly pull your panties down and start licking your pussy like a goddamn tootsie pop.”

Elena gasps, then clears her throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding slowly. “Oh. I’d grab one of your legs, hooking it over my shoulder, so I could get better access to your beautiful pink pussy.” For a second it sounds like too much, but really, he’s sitting here describing how he’d perform a sex act on his brother’s wife – it’s all too much. “And I’d eat you out, deep and hard so you know how much I’d like it. I’d moan and let it vibrate across your clit, and I’d fist my cock with one hand while using the other to stroke up and down your pussy – around the clit, around your lips, back and forth across your slit, in and out, in between your pussy and your ass– “

“Um, Sam.”

But Sam is in too deep now, almost in a trance. “And I’d grab your ass and encourage you to rock against my face, encourage you to grind against my mouth, and I’d dip my nose in your pussy so you know it’s fine to get that wet, too. I don’t want you to hold back. I grab your hands and put them in my hair, so you know you can pull or push or – fuck yeah – tug.” Sam groans and feels his fingers twitch, wishing he could wrap them around his cock. “And I’d wait for that tell-tale shudder, that moment where your hips jerk a little, when you twitch away from my tongue and then back even harder.”

“And?” Elena’s voice is high.

“And I’d grab the back of your thighs and pull you down onto the ground on top of me, pulling you up so that you could straddle the sides of my head, and I’d spread you open and lick you deep and let you ride my face until you shuddered and came all over my mouth.”

Sam lets out a long slow breath. As he slowly sinks back into reality, he becomes aware of two things: one, that he’s rock hard, and two, that his eyes are closed. He slowly opens them to see Elena sitting across from him, mouth hanging open, pupils dark, cheeks flushed. He stares at her a moment, and suddenly realises he can see the thumping of her heartbeat in the pulse point of her neck. They stare at each other, chests heaving, for their second thick silence of the evening.

“Well, yeah,” Elena says softly. “That’d do it.”

The next morning Sam calls up Victor, and within 48 hours he’s on his private jet to God knows where in the Pacific Islands. Nathan had looked confused and jealous and relieved as he bade him goodbye, and Elena had steadfastly avoided his eyes before hugging him tightly and whispering, “I’ll teach him, I promise.” Sam had nodded, feeling equal parts ashamed and proud.

Sam stares out at the bright blue of the Pacific Ocean. God, he hopes his motel has a private bathroom.