#And the couch was so cheap in comparison to the rest of their stuff too???

[razzledazzle-pop]

I am full of girlish whimsy and a hatred of white interiors.

[softyoongiionly]

Sulky💭

Yoongi has a weekend at home for the first time in awhile.

There are three things on the agenda

1. Food

2. Sex

3. Informing Yoongi that he looks like a video game character

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: FLUFF, references to animal crossing, smut (18+ only plz), established/new relationship au

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: smut, language and, an overwhelming amount of fluff

A/N: well hello there beautiful reader! I hope you enjoy this little piece of mine. It’s kind of silly but, honestly ever since I started playing animal crossing; I cannot get this comparison out of my mind. If you haven't played the game, you can still read though! The main point of the fic is Yoongi and the reader’s relationship.

Yoongi hasn’t had a night off with you in weeks.

And he doesn’t want you to know how much he’s looking forward to it.  

He has a particular way he wants these kinds of nights to go but, they never really follow the pattern he expects.

Tonight, it starts with a small glass of whiskey.

Yoongi drinks the old stuff cause he’s secretly a 300 year old hipster who can’t be bothered with cheap liquor.

Instead, he grabs a lowball glass and pours himself a drink as he plops onto the couch and, slowly sips until the amber liquid has disappeared down his throat.

It’s kind of hard not to notice the way his lips curl around the glass, the way his tongue collects any misplaced whiskey, the way he seems to savor the taste...

He leans back against the sofa, legs spread carelessly across the cushions and, although you usually find manspreading unattractive, there’s something about the way Yoongi does it that makes it so hot.

The chatter is minimal on days like this because you both appreciate comfortable silence.

The low hum of the television is enough to fill the room and, although Yoongi doesn’t speak, he says so much with his body language.

Yes, Yoongi values being alone and he isn’t much for frivolous displays of emotion but, he still loves affection.

His nimble fingers find their way to yours and the way he slides his fingers against the palm of your hand is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Yoongi doesn’t notice of course as he’s dealing with his own feelings at the moment.  

Holding hands on the couch is a part of his bedtime routine and if he’s being honest, it's one of his favorite parts of his day.  

He smirks at something on the TV, squeezing your hand a little tighter as he chuckles to himself, taking another sip of his whiskey.  

You watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows and god help you, you feel like a creep for how much you want to just sit there and stare at him.  

He notices you looking at him a little longer but, he doesn’t comment on it.

He’d stare at you all the time if he got the chance.  

His thumb is rubbing over your knuckles now, taking it’s time to caress the space between them, sending you further along the path of no return.  

Subconsciously, lean closer to him, resisting the urge to rest your head on his shoulder.

You know he’s going to get up soon to shower.

With a heavy sigh, Yoongi turns toward you, “I need to get this makeup off. Do you need to get in the bathroom before I shower?”

You regret having showered before he got home now because, with your still damp hair, you can’t really request that you join him without him raising an eyebrow.

Which he would, cause you know, it’s Yoongi.  

“No I should be fine. Have a good shower.” You smile, squeezing his hand before releasing your grip to allow him to get up.

He returns your smile, ignoring the twinge of regret he feels as you let go of him.

“Thanks. I’ll be out in a bit.”

You nod and return your attention back to the TV but, your boyfriend lingers around the entrance to the living room a little too long and, it’s enough to make you giggle and call him out.

“What?”

He smirks boyishly, jerking his head in your direction, “What do you have planned tonight?”

The look in his eyes makes your stomach flip but, you play it cool as you don’t want to assume the hidden meaning in his question.

“I’m in for the night. I just have to go over a few things of tomorrow morning but, otherwise I was going to hang out with you since you’re off. Why?” You tuck your legs onto the couch to fill the space that Yoongi once did, awaiting his response.

“Just wondering. I was gonna order something from the restaurant across the street, does that sound good to you? If not, I can probably make something.”  

His smirk doesn’t fully disappear but, he masks it well enough with his further inquiries.

“The restaurant sounds good,” You smile, “I know we’re both off this weekend if you want to cook then. I miss your cooking...”

Yoongi’s heart is a flutter then, he’s lowkey obsessed with any compliment you throw his way but, he doesn’t necessarily want you to know that.

“Yeah? I can cook whatever you want this weekend, you just have to let me know so I can get the ingredients. I’ll cook all of our meals though, so we don’t have to waste money on take out.”

He emphasizes the second point, trying to mask his reaction and, you resist the urge smile at how cute he is.

“Really? You don’t mind doing that? I would literally die happy, I haven't had your cooking in so long. It’s better than all the delivery places we get anyway so, I wouldn’t mind taking a weekend off from that.” You flop back against the couch, sending a longing look his way.

Your heart stutters a bit as the gummiest of smiles present itself on your boyfriends pretty lips.  

“You’re uh- you're sweet ha-” He rubs the back of his neck shyly before gesturing to the shower, “I’ll try and come up with some recipes in the shower.”

He disappears down the hall rather hastily then, not bothering to fully conclude your conversation.

It’s very much on brand for him though.

Yoongi craves validation but, its often too much for him to handle so, he often gushes over you in private.

He spends the duration of his shower thinking of all the different ways to impress you in the kitchen, meticulously sorting through all of his current favorite recipes and the ones he knows you love.  

When he strolls back into the living room, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his damp hair haphazardly pushed to the side.

It’s hot outside so, it’s justified but, it’s unlike Yoongi to walk around shirtless.

Modesty and all that.

“Hold on...is that? My boyfriend??? Looking fine as hell on a Wednesday afternoon like it’s no big deal?” You look him up and down which prompts him to roll his eyes.  

With a smirk on his lips, he waves you off but the blush on his cheeks contradicts his actions.

“Shut up. You're so weird.” He mutters, his arms subconsciously moving in front of his stomach.

You laugh before rushing over to him, attempting to wrap your arms around his waist.

“I’m not weird!? I’m just admiring my boyfriend’s natural beauty; excuse me.” You huff, still trying to hug him as he pretends to wiggle away from your grip.

“Yah! What’s wrong with you???” He shouts playfully when you place wet kisses against his cheek, which is afire with the effect you have on him.  

You giggle when you finally succeed at securing your boyfriend in a hug, your lips inches away from.

“You look good. I wanted you to know...” You murmur simply, your laughter fading slightly whilst you lean in towards his mouth.  

Yoongi’s breathing stalls a bit when your lips press onto his.

No one kisses like you do. It kind of sickens him honestly.

It always fucks him up.

You’re just so tender and sensual.

It makes his head spin.

Tucking your lips between his, you slowly slide your hands up his torso, delicately brushing against his ribs as you hold him.

Yoongi reciprocates your motions, his fingers holding onto the fabric of your waistband, his eyes fluttering shut when he settles deeper into the kiss.

You decide you want to take a step further and, continue touching him.

You brush your fingers over his chest, admiring the tightness there that’s developed from longer hours spent in the gym.

Yoongi’s chest is very sensitive so when you brush over his nipples, his hands are quick to settle over yours.

“W-we haven’t had dinner yet...” He stutters, nervous laughter emanating from his lips, “d-do you want dinner?”

He doesn’t move away from you though, he’s just shy.  

He hasn’t totally figured out how to initiate sex or to receive attention.

You’ve been dating for six months now.

You’ve had plenty of sex but, it still makes him nervous.

Even though, he wants you so bad.

You smile softly against his mouth before patting his hips, “Sure yeah-” You step away from him and nod towards the kitchen, “I’m gonna get the menu. I think I want something different tonight.”

Yoongi feels a little twinge in his heart when you pull away but, he knows he hasn’t offended you.

That’s the thing about you.

The reason he fell in love with you.  

He doesn’t always need to explain himself; you just get it.

“I want steak. I’ve been craving it all week. I’m a little tempted to get more than one but, I know that it’s gonna hurt my stomach.”  

He follows closely behind you, his heart still unsteady from the effects of your kiss.

“You can always save one for tomorrow? Knowing you, you’ll probably re-heat it and make it like 1,000 times better anyway.”

He scoffs playfully, “You can’t re-heat cooked steak Y/N. It gets all rubbery....”

Yoongi? Defensive in the face of a compliment?

It’s more likely than you think.

Rolling your eyes you concede, setting the menu on the countertop, “I’m so sorry for even suggesting that you could deviate from your very specific rules regarding leftovers.”

Yoongi snickers before wrapping his arms around your waist, “I’ll find a way to forgive you I guess. I can’t fault you for having poor taste.”

A gentle elbowing is in order but, otherwise you relish in the warmth his embrace is providing, “You’re such a dick.” You smirk before flipping the menu over.

His rickety laughter continues as he tightens his grip on you, “What are you thinking of having?”

“I don’t know; I think I want the chicken/steak combo bowl but, I’m also feeling the ginger-sesame salad. Ugh- but maybe I want the alfredo? There’s so many choices.”

During your minor breakdown, Yoongi feels his lips twitch in amusement.

You’re really cute.  

He wants to kiss you again and now that he’s pressed against you, he kind of regrets chickening out a minute ago.  

“What do you think?” You turn slightly in his grip to look at him and right as you do, he pecks his lips against yours.

“I think you’re cute.” He says simply before nodding to the menu, “Order all three. Eat the salad tonight and save the rest for tomorrow.”

“I like the way you think Min.” You smile, a bit dazed from his kiss, your cheeks warmer than before.

Delivery arrives in no time and the two of you spend a good half an hour shoveling takeout into your faces before you settle back against the couch to relax.

This is one of your favorite parts of a night off with Yoongi.

The two of you just do your thing together, side by side.

There isn’t much talking but, its so comforting to be near him.

He’s scrolling on his phone, checking out new equipment for his studio and, you’ve delved into your most recent obsession: Animal Crossing.

Yoongi often pokes fun at how into the  game you actually are but, truth be told, he actually enjoys watching you play.

Although, he’d never admit it.

“Oh my god Marshal, my sweet beautiful boy, how are you?” You coo to your screen, your thumbs furiously moving your character towards the fluffy little squirrel in question.

Yoongi smirks  but otherwise he keeps to himself, his arm wound around your shoulders.

“Do you like your flowers? I planted new ones behind your house, aren’t they pretty?”

“You taught me how to smirk? Of course you did, that’s literally your specialty.” Marshal responds off topic because, he’s literally a video game character and cannot hear you as a look of disgust comes over your face, “Ew Canberra no, leave me alone, I’m hanging out with Marshal.”

Yoongi finally chuckles, shaking his head, “Yah, who is Marshal and why are you always talking to him when you play that game?”  

You tilt your Switch towards him, showing off your favorite villager, “This is Marshall. He’s the love of my entire life.”

With a quirked brow, Yoongi looks at the screen blankly, “This mouse is the love of your life?”

You laugh at his expression, moving the Switch closer to his face, “He’s not a mouse! He’s a squirrel!”

Yoongi’s stoic expression cracks at the sound of your laugh, “OK fine, he’s a squirrel,” He chuckles, “Why is he so special? What does he do?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “He- What does he do? He is a future coffee shop owner/actor/fashion extraordinaire thankyouverymuch...”

Yoongi snickers, “Wow he has a lot going on. I didn’t realize mice could own property...”

“He’s a squirrel!!!” You whine and Yoongi’s head falls back as he cracks up at your outburst. “You know I only like him so much cause he reminds me of you...”

Yoongi’s laughter fades slightly, “What do you mean?”

“Look at him-” You shove your Switch back in his face, “He’s literally you. He's cute, he’s cranky, he likes music and coffee- He's basically Animal Crossing Yoongi. That’s why I worked so hard to get him on my island. See? I put his house right next to mine...”

Yoongi is going to spontaneously combust.

You are the cutest thing that has ever set foot on this earth and, he’s quite certain you were sent here to destroy him.

“You worked hard to get a villager who reminds you of me...on your island?” He clarifies, his eyes holding something new in them.

“Yeah- so don’t be mean to him.” You respond matter of factly, giggling before returning to your game.

You notice the blush that creeps across Yoongi’s lips but, you elect to ignore it.  

“You’re ridiculous.” He smirks and despite resuming his activity on his phone, you don’t miss the way his hand begins rubbing circles against your shoulder.

“You’re ridiculous.” You retort  

A part from a bit of laughter, silence quickly settles between the two of you once again.

Yoongi slipped on some actual clothes before dinner and the scent of his citrus fabric softener is a welcome addition to the comfortable atmosphere of your living room.  

You wish every night was like this.

After an hour or so, your lids begin to grow heavy.

Yoongi’s presence is soothing enough but with a full stomach and a bit of Animal Crossing, you’re struggling to stay awake.

“Jagiya?” He whispers, brushing his fingers over your cheek, “Yah, let’s get you to bed ok?”

A grumble leaves your lips then because your exhaustion is fucking with your plans for the rest of the evening.

Nights like these usually end with sex.

Sex isn’t something the two of you get to do as often as you’d like.  

You both have demanding jobs that keep you apart more often than not.

Sex is usually on the agenda because, the two of you miss each other so much.  

“But we didn’t have sex...” You grumble against his chest which suddenly shakes with scratchy laughter.

“We can have sex tomorrow. I’m off all weekend.” He murmurs through his chuckling as he ushers you to your feet, “C’mon, I’ll come to bed too...”

“Mkay. Promise?”  

Yoongi smiles, fondness exploding within his chest whilst he helps you to your feet, “I promise. Let’s go.”

Moments later, your head is on your boyfriend’s heart.

It takes no time for you to drift back off to dreamland but just as you do, you hear Yoongi whisper:

“I love you so much.”

---------------------------------------------------------

The following morning comes about slowly.  

The two of you sleep in past 10am, which is a rare occurrence.  

You’re the first one to wake up but upon noticing that Yoongi isn’t awake yet, you opt to snuggle against his chest.

His t-shirt has risen enough to expose the lower half of his stomach which you brush gently with your fingertips.

Your intention is to fall back asleep as you know very well how long your boyfriend is capable of staying in bed.  

However, you notice Yoongi stirring beneath you which prompts you to turn your head towards him.

Sure enough, he’s awake: he’s blonde hair is a mess atop his head, his babydoll features scrunched up with remnants of sleep.

A wry smile is present on his lips though and, it makes you grin just at the sight of it.

“Good morning.” You murmur  

Just like a cat, Yoongi offers a slow blink before replies, “Morning.”

“How did you sleep?”

His smile broadens, “Mm really good. You?”

You nod, resting your cheek back on his stomach, “I slept like the dead. I haven’t slept this long in weeks.”

“Yeah you passed out last night. You tried to protest when I told you to come to bed.” He recounts, his lips turning up in a smirk.

“I did? I don’t even remember that. What did I say?”

Yoongi clears his throat then, beginning to blush, “Uh you said you couldn’t go to bed because we couldn’t have sex.”

At that, you laugh and shake your head, “Oh my god. I mean-” You prop yourself a bit, “I kind of had a point but, I couldn’t have rocked your world in that condition. What did you say back?”

Yoongi’s lips are curved into a shy smile but, his eyes are lit up with his usual snark, “I told you we could have sex tomorrow and, that I was off all weekend. That seemed to be enough to get you in here.”

“That sounds about right.” When he mentions sex, warmth rustles around in your stomach, “I can’t believe you’re off all weekend...”

His hand comes up to rub against your back, his smile never fading, “Me neither. They haven’t given us a weekend off at home in months. Thank you for taking time off too, I feel bad that you usually work around my schedule.”

You scoot up more to be closer to him before leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek.

“Don’t feel bad. It’s a little easier to do on my end and, I’ve been working 60 hours a week for the past 3 months, my co-chair was begging me to take a few days off.”  

Both of his arms wrap around you now, hugging you to his chest, “You work so hard jagi. You have to make sure you don’t overdo it.”

You wanna throw a “right back at you” his way but, Yoongi’s been at the all work/no sleep lifestyle a lot longer than you.

Plus, he has a point.

“I am. That’s why I’m staying with you all weekend duhhhh.” You smile, craning your neck to kiss him.

The action immediately causes his smile to return whilst his hands slide down to your lower back.

Kissing turns into making out much quicker than you expected but, you’re not complaining.

You’ve missed your boyfriend’s mouth so much.

“Can we- can we uh...” Yoongi breathes a little heavier now, his request sounding very shaky, “Can we fuck?”

Logically, you can blame this statement on the fact that Yoon’s first language isn’t English and, that he likely heard this phrase from Namjoon but, with his hardening dick digging into your hip, you can’t help but feel like he knows exactly what he’s saying.

“Mhm...”

Yoongi rolls over so he’s resting between your legs, his hips grinding eagerly onto yours.

Still, he kisses you deeper, introducing his tongue into your mouth.

You accept him eagerly, allowing your tongue to brush against his.

“I love it when you do that...” He confesses, nudging his nose on the side of your own.

With determination, you usher his mouth back into the kiss, ensuring that you allow your tongue tease his own.

One of your free hands slides down his stomach and tucks into his black boxers, encircling his dick.

It’s throbbing which prompts you to begin guiding a firm fist up the length of him.

“Oh-” Yoongi grunts softly, his brow furrowing whilst he tries to focus on kissing you.

You smirk into his mouth whilst continuing to jerk him off, swiveling firmly around his swollen tip.

“Shit.” He can’t help but break the kiss now, his head falling into your neck, “That feels so good.”

“Yeah?” You coo, kissing the side of his head, “You like it when I touch you?”

He nods rapidly, sucking on the exposed skin of your neck, his hips beginning to rock with the motion of your hand.

Sweat is starting to appear on his hairline but that doesn’t stop you from pressing kisses up the side of his face.

“I wanted this as soon as I saw you last night. Ugh-” He grunts again but, its starting to sound very much like a whimper, “I wanted it but- fuck I’m so awkward still. If I wasn’t I- oh fuck...I’d be all over you.”

His honesty warms you from the inside out.

You love how vulnerable he’s being and, you want to make sure he continues to feel safe enough to do so.

“Look at you now though, you are all over me. You're doing so good.” You whisper and tilt his head back towards you so you can look him in the eyes, “You don’t have to worry about how awkward you are- I’m so wet right now and, you haven’t even done anything yet...”

Suddenly, Yoongi’s expression shifts to one of pure lust as he glances down at your underwear, “You’re wet for me?”

“My panties are ruined.”

Yoongi wastes no time, although pulling away from your touch is a hard decision, the next thing you know; he’s sliding a hand inside your underwear.

Nervously he giggles, his mouth hanging open in awe, “It’s so wet- do I really make you this wet?”

“Everytime.” You whisper, a soft moan brewing in your throat as the pads of his fingers find your clit.

With his mouth still parted, Yoongi smirks a little, enjoying the sight beneath him, “Back and forth?” He moves his fingers against your clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure, “Or in circles?”

“Back and forth.” You reply, eagerly straining towards his lips, “Please.”

“So polite.” He notes, still smirking as he follows your instructions, “That good?”

You part your legs for him, “Mhm...”

Yoongi touches you with confidence now, bringing you quickly to the edge.

“Are you close jagi? I really want to be inside of you after you cum all over yourself.”

That's enough to warrant an orgasm that causes your toes to curl into the sheets.

He kisses you all the way through it before lining himself up at your entrance.

He’s different this time, he’s faster, he’s harder...it doesn’t take long for the warmth of a second orgasm to begin approaching.

Baring his teeth, he looks down at where you’re joined, chuckling incredulously, “I swear- I didn’t know sex could feel like this. Not until I met you...”

His laughter his infectious so you follow suit but, his lips are so tempting you have to kiss him again.

“Yoongi?” You grunt into his mouth.

He nudges your nose, “Yeah baby?”

“I’m gonna cum again.”

A satisfied smirk comes over his lips, “Yes you are. All over my dick huh?”

All you can do is nod and let the wave of pleasure crash over you once again.

Surprisingly, Yoongi is still fucking into you but, the desperate look in his eyes signifies how close he is.

Nudging your nose again, he kisses you sloppily, “Can I cum? Please?”

With your fingers in his hair and your lips on his, you nod, “Cum for me...”

“Oh fuck- fu-fuck fuck fuck fu-fuck ah...oh shit...” With a string of curse words, he buries his face between your breasts and empties himself inside of you.

---------------------------------------------------------

After your morning rendezvous with Yoongi, the two of you eventually make your way out to the kitchen to make some coffee.

You just bought a fancy new espresso machine for your apartment and, you’re about ready to make Yoongi an Iced Americano.

He’s at the counter, chopping up some sausage for breakfast, quietly humming to himself.

At first, you think nothing of it until you slowly start to recognize the song he’s singing.

“Is that- is that Bubblegum by K.K?” You giggle, turning towards him.

He grins but he doesn’t look up at you, “I don’t know what that is...”

“Its the song from Animal Crossing- did you go and listen to it???”  

He shrugs, “I looked into Marshall and one of the first videos that came up was him singing this song.”

“You-” You smile, slowly moving towards him, “You looked up Marshal?

Still grinning, he avoids eye contact with you, placing the sausage into a bowl, “I wanted to see what you were fussing over.”

“And? Do you get it now?” You venture hopefully and he finally looks up at you with a straight face.

“No I don’t...sulky...”

“Ah! You said it! You said his catchphrase!” You giggle before rushing over and wrapping your arms around him, “I love you...”

His expression softens as he kisses the top of your head,

“I love you too- sulky...”

[bisexualkiecarrera]

4 times JJ complimented you + 1 time you complimented him

JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

wordcount: 3.5k+

warnings: just drinking, smoking and cursing!

1. 

Hanging out in a group of only hot guys and your best friend Kie wasn’t always easy. You loved your friends dearly and normally, any day spent with them was a good one. There were just some days that you just couldn’t bring yourself to have fun when all you could think about was how you looked in your bathing suit. 

You’d explained it to Kiara during a sleepover once when she asked why you hadn’t come in the water that day, opting to stay on the boat in your baggy t-shirt. She didn’t really understand but she tried her best to be helpful whenever she saw you get in your own head after that. John B and Pope were either absolutely oblivious or smart enough to know not to push the subject when you answered their concerned questions with “I’m just a little tired, don’t worry about it.” JJ knew without you ever muttering a word, familiar with the feeling of being uncomfortable showing people your body, even if it was for a completely different reason. 

The day in question was the hottest day of the year so far, and even though you were sitting in the smallest bit of shade the HMS Pogue’s tiny driving console provided, you felt a line of sweat drip down your spine. 

“Babe, come in! Seriously, it’s way too hot for you to not be in the water!” Kiara called as she swam up to the side of the boat, head barely resting on its edge. Your eyes skittered over to the boys, treading water several yards away, but the only one who seemed to be listening to your conversation was JJ. He gave a small encouraging smile before turning back to the two boys splashing each other like children. 

You bit at your lip for a second, mulling over your decision before realizing it really was too hot to stay dry. You mumbled out a “fine” as you went to slip your arms out of your sleeves, “but go back to the boys and I’ll meet you over there.” Kiara gave you a wide smile before pushing off the boat, swimming gracefully back towards the group. 

You shed your shirt quickly and got in the water, trying your hardest to make as small of a splash as possible. You sink your head under the water, wetting your hair as you make your way towards your friends. You take a look at Pope now floating peacefully on his back and make eye contact with a smiling John B. “Hey, little minnow. Nice of you to join us.” You roll your eyes fondly at the nickname, leftover from when you were kids. Back before you the world taught you to be self conscious, it was nearly impossible to get you out of the water and back into regular summer clothes, and so your fishy nickname was born.

You wink at JB before swimming quietly towards Pope, who still had his eyes closed as he faced the sky. You get close before stilling for a second, letting the waves settle around you. You lean in towards his ear and let out a “boo!,” sending the boy flailing. The three others laugh off to the side as you and Pope begin a splash fight. Not long after, JB can’t help but join in, followed by Kie. You take this as an opportunity to wade over to JJ, who’s looking at you with pride mixed with something you can’t quite place. “What’s the look for, J?” He takes a second to look over your face again, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. 

He shrugs a little as he answers, meeting your eyes. “You just look really pretty like this, all happy and back in the water.” You feel heat unrelated to the temperature cover your face as your eyes dart back to your friends, Kie now hanging on Pope’s back. 

“You’re just glad there’s finally someone who can beat JB in a race in the water.”

2.

A movie night at the Chateau just isn’t complete without an all-out pig fest, food scattered on every counter and table. Kie is generous enough to supply you all with enough fries from The Wreck to last a lifetime, and Pope brings along some ice cream, but always the cheap kind that his dad is willing to part with. John B mans the grill, making you all hot dogs and cheeseburgers while JJ provides the bud and whatever beer he can steal out of his fridge or convince his cousin to buy for him. Over the years, he’s also claimed the spot as your assistant, hovering over your shoulder as you move around the Chateau’s already cramped kitchen making brownies. 

It’s been years that you’ve been making what you call “kitchen sink” brownies for you and JJ and JB. They appear at every birthday and holiday and whenever someone is especially sad. They’re really just boxed brownies with whatever snacks you can find thrown into the batter, but JJ loves to be the one who gets to crunch up the toppings and sprinkle them, and you figure that the world owes JJ Maybank every second of happiness he can find. Tonight, the search through your kitchen at home proved especially successful, coming away with not only chips and pretzels, but also mini oreos and a pack of m&ms. 

JJ walks around the counter to see your finds spread out on the counter and his jaw drops. Your giggle tears his eyes away from the assortment and he raises one eyebrow in question. “You’re sure your parents are cool with you taking all this stuff?” The question makes you laugh, and you lean in like you’re about to tell JJ a secret.

“If I’m gonna be honest,” you drop your voice to an almost-whisper, “I think my mom bought extra snacks this week just for this.” A small smile appears on his face, and if you hadn’t known him for so long, you would have no clue that there was a little sadness behind it, thinking of his own parental situation in comparison to yours. “C’mon, J. Batter’s done, pan is greased. All I need is your supreme topping skills.” 

What seems like forever, but in reality is only 30 minutes, passes by before you slip back into the kitchen to take your brownies out of the oven. The raggedy oven mitt JB leaves on the counter for you is barely hanging on by a thread so you grab the extra cleaning rag to wrap around your covered hand for protection. The second the pan touches the oven, JJ is there behind you, looking over your shoulder. You turn to him, eyebrows raised in scolding as his hands fall to your hips. You place your hands on the plane of his chest and push gently backwards, shaking your head. “I’ll put a five minute timer on. Go sit, you know they’re too hot right now.”  He allows you to guide him back to the couch before you pull out your phone and set the alarm, pulling you to settle into his side. 

The timer goes off and JJ jumps so quickly it genuinely startles you. You all share a chuckle at how fast his feet moved, and in no time at all, he’s back next to you, a brownie on a paper towel in each hand. He extends one out to you and you gladly take it. “Hey, man, thanks for getting me one too, really thoughtful of you,” John B says as he makes his way to the kitchen to cut one for himself and Kie and Pope. JJ’s mouth is already full of brownie and there’s a smug smile on his face as he swallows. He shouts a “yeah, of course, buddy!,” after your friend’s retreating figure before turning to you. 

“You know these brownies are ring-worthy, right? Like, SO fucking good I’m considering proposing right now.” 

You giggle at the statement as crumbs fall from his lip. Your only answer is “JJ, you know you did half the fucking work, right?” He laughs at your response and wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Guess that makes us both wifey material!”

3. 

By far, your least favorite part of your friendship with JJ is tending to his various cuts, bumps and bruises. Between JJ’s general recklessness, his ongoing beef with Rafe Cameron, and Luke Maybank himself, it felt as though you spent every other day standing between his knees as he sat on your bathroom counter. This time, a particularly heated run in with the kooks had thankfully left JJ with nothing but a busted lip, bloody knuckles and an adrenaline high. His mouth was running a mile a minute, recounting every step of the fight despite the fact that you’d witnessed it all first hand. 

“Did you see the look on Rafe’s face when he hit the ground? Absolutely unreal!” You let out a frustrated huff as he waved his hands wildly, not noticing your own hand outstretched to grab his. 

“Yeah, J, I saw but please give me your hands. I need to put antiseptic on.” Your voice is a little pleading and he quiets at your request, laying his wrist in your hand and watching your face as you get to work. You dab at the cuts with a soaked cotton ball, and it doesn’t escape either of you that JJ no longer flinches at the sting. Once you’ve moved on to the other hand, his stare intensifies as you carefully move his rings around to make sure there’s no hidden nicks underneath them. When it’s time for you to move onto his face, he places his hands gently in his lap and lets you inspect his face closely, turning it from side to side with a finger at his chin. Your demeanor lightens a little when you’ve decided the damage is as minimal as possible. “Really glad you managed to keep Rafe away from the money maker this time. Well, mostly.” You punctuate your point by pressing the cotton to the tear in his lip and the pressure makes him hiss. You pull your hand away and grab the vaseline, smearing a small amount over the cut as gently as possible. “You really should ice that, J. Keep the swelling to a minimum.”

You realize a little belatedly that he hasn’t taken his eyes off your face the entire time you’ve been working and your eyes raise to meet his. The look in his eyes is a little confusing and a little startling, and his voice is gentle when he says “Thank you for patching me up. You always take the best care of me.” 

You let out a deep sigh before patting his leg gently and moving towards the door. “I think I could find work as a school nurse with all this experience you’ve given me.”

4. 

A boneyard party used to be your absolute favorite way to blow off steam on a Friday night. The sand, music, booze and weed were the easiest way to melt away the stress of a long week, but lately, the stress of seeing your best friend sneak off with some random had you absolutely dreading stepping foot on the beach. Most of the time, you had a pretty easy time keeping your less than platonic feelings for JJ at bay. You always rationalized swallowing your emotions down by telling yourself that you both needed each other as a friend way too much to jeopardize that. It was getting harder and harder to listen to your own advice lately, and partly because you weren’t quite sure what he was feeling. He’d been especially affectionate lately, not giving second thought to curling his body around yours on cold nights around the fire. His compliments had become less silly and teasing, and sometimes when he looked at you, it felt like he was staring straight into your soul. 

Tonight, you’d allowed Kie to pick you out an outfit from your closet, not wanting to spend time debating with yourself and getting yourself stressed. She’d picked out a pair of high waisted denim shorts and a cropped white t shirt, topped with a yellow scarf to tie around your ponytail. It was simple enough that she knew you’d be comfortable but cute enough that you’d feel confident. 

Secretly, she’d also seen the way JJ eyes had dragged slowly over your figure when you’d worn those shorts the week prior. Neither of you had spoken to her, or Pope or JB, about your feelings for the other, but they as a group had all witnessed the gentle way you handled each other and had their suspicions that one of you would break soon. She’d driven you to the boneyard, promising to stay sober enough to relocate you all back to the Chateau at the end of the night. She pulled your hand along, heading straight to where she knew your friends would be congregating, just behind the keg. JB and Pope each had a full cup in hand when you approached and JJ had a joint hanging from the side of his mouth. “Gentlemen, let’s get it going,” Kie startled the boys, a giant smile across her face. 

A few hours into the party and a considerable amount of beer later, the realization hit you that JJ hadn’t wandered off to find someone to mack on yet. He’d even turned down the touron who approached him first, despite her tiny skirt and flawless makeup. It had to be some sort of record for him, usually his presence at these parties was fleeting. You thought back to just the week before when you’d watched him lead a beautiful curly-haired girl back to the Twinkie. You’d felt nauseous watching them flirt, his legs parted as he sat on a low hanging branch with her settled between them. Her hands rested on his chest as she stared up at him from under her eyelashes and you had to rip your gaze from the pair when he slid from his perch and wrapped her hand in his. You kept your eyes on the ground as they passed, but like a train wreck you couldn’t help but watch, you were unable to stop yourself from throwing a last glance in their direction as they approached the van. He’d turned to look at her with a sly smile on his face and must have caught your eye over her shoulder. His smile dropped quickly and something looking like an apology crossed his face for a second but when you looked away again, focusing on holding the burning tears in your eyes back, he recovered and smiled back at the girl, pulling her into the spacious backseat. 

Even just the memory had you tense, and JJ felt the uneasiness radiate off of you from his position by your side. He called your name gently so as to not call attention to the two of you and you turned your head quickly, blinking away your thoughts. Your eyes focused on the concerned look on his face. “You alright? Did someone upset you?” JJ’s eyes were already scanning the crowd for who could have possibly upset you and it pulled a small smile to your face. 

“No, J, I’m alright, just thinking. All good now.” His face turned back to you, a small pout gracing his lips. He asks if you’re sure and when you nod in agreement, he turns his attention back to your friends. The two of you watch Pope and John B argue about if Gatorade was actually better for you than regular water or not for a few minutes before you turn back to JJ. “Hey, JJ?” Your voice is small and it surprises the boy beside you to hear you so timid. When his attention is turned on you completely, you start your question. “Is there a reason you turned down that girl before? She was like, stupidly pretty.” You’re finding it a little hard to meet JJ’s eyes as you ask, so you fiddle with the strings on your bracelet instead. 

A small chuckle leaves his lips before he replies with “I got the prettiest girl at the party standing next to me already. Why would I leave?” Your eyes meet his and there’s no humor anywhere on his face and you can feel yourself get hot under his gaze. You’re left speechless for a second before the sound of Kie’s voice pulls you from the moment. You clear your throat and turn back to your friends, mumbling under your breath. JJ replies with a “hmm?” and you repeat yourself a little louder this time, so he can just hear you.

“Kiss ass.”

+1

Somehow, Kiara had managed to convince her parents to allow you to come to Midsummers as her guest and by an even greater miracle, you’d managed to save enough babysitting money to buy yourself an appropriately fancy dress, floor length and blue with pretty flowers embroidered on it. You arrive at the Carreras’ house early in the afternoon to begin getting ready, helping Kie put her hair up with some flowers pinned in. You chose to keep yours mostly down and let your best friend weave some braids in, tiny beads sprinkled down the length of them. Neither of you put on very much makeup, but it was still more than you’d worn in recent memory, and it felt nice to look in the mirror and actually feel pretty and put together. Kie comes up behind you as you look in the full length mirror and wraps her arms around your waist, chin resting gently on your shoulder. “We look fucking good, don’t we?” She giggles and scrunches her nose up as you meet her eyes in the mirror. 

You nod emphatically before turning to face her, a wide smile on your face. “Hell yeah, we do, baby! The lady pogues know how to clean up good!” Your response makes her laugh, head thrown back, and it makes you wish all your friends would be in attendance, despite how much you love girl time with just you and Kie. 

Your dreams of being able to spend the night with all of your friends almost came true, spotting John B on Sarah’s arm from across the room upon your arrival. The night became even sweeter when you saw Pope standing next to his father, but even as the five of you stood together at the edge of the party, people watching and laughing, you couldn’t shake the feeling that JJ was the piece you were missing most. Kiara and Sarah left to make their way to the restroom and Pope was pulled away to help his dad, leaving you and JB standing in the corner. “You should go see him, you know. Skip out early, I’m sure Kie wouldn’t mind.” You turn to look at your friend, confused at his sudden idea. You had a feeling you knew exactly what he was saying, but you waited for clarification, fiddling with the glass in your hand. “JJ is at the Chateau and before I left, he seemed pretty upset that he wouldn’t get to see you in your dress.” 

He holds out the key to the twinkie and your jaw drops a little, and it makes JB chuckle, shaking his head slightly at your obliviousness. It really hits you all at once, exactly what JJ’s recent change in behavior meant. The intense stares, the end of his slew of meaningless hookups, and especially the sincere compliments that you’d been taking as a joke. You knew you had to see him, so you looked up at JB and handed him your glass, taking his keys from him. “Tell Kie where I went, please.” You turned and started to make your way through the crowd and you heard John B’s cheer through the noise of the party, smiling as you reached the door. 

You don’t even bother turning the radio on when you get in the van, the pounding of your heart loud enough. When you get to the front door of the Chateau, you can hear the television on and it takes a second to see JJ’s outline resting on the couch. The front door slams behind you and JJ doesn’t turn right away. “Jeebs, why are you ho-” The question catches in his throat when he turns and sees you in the doorway instead of John B. He breathes out a quiet “wow, hi.” You move towards him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders so that his hands fall at your hips. 

“JB told me you wanted to see me in my dress, so here I am.” You look up at him teasingly as a blush spreads across his cheeks. “Plus, I couldn’t really have any fun at the kook party. The cutest boy in town wasn’t there.” It’s JJ’s turn to be left speechless and it makes you giggle. The sound pulls him out of his trance and its milliseconds before his lips are pressed to yours. You snake your fingers into his blond hair and you feel his hands squeeze at the meat of your hips as your lips part and he licks into your mouth gently. It feels a thousand years before you pull away, resting your forehead against his. “You’re my favorite person, JJ Maybank. I think you always will be.”

[smallmediumproblems]

Sic Transit

Summary: Jon wants to take a shortcut.

The excitement of the night’s activities was doing a decent job of keeping Jon awake. It also involved a lot more walking than he was used to. It occurred to him that he didn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He wasn’t even considering a full night’s sleep, that was well out of the realm of possibility. He’d struck an uneasy truce with the process, timing his work around when it might be most convenient for him to pass out at his desk for an indeterminate amount of time. His instinct was not to say anything now that sleep was catching up with him. When he found the tailors over an hour away, though, something broke inside him.

“We’re taking a detour,” he told the group. An odd look was passed around, but no one argued when he led them just a couple intersections away and started squinting around for what he’d been looking for. They should have been right on top of it, but were instead sandwiched between a closed segway rental shop and store pronouncing itself as ACME Water Slides. “There's sort of a tram system in this section. There should be cars somewhere? I don’t think it’s on a rail.”

“Like a funicular,” Nick suggested.

“Yes, exactly,” said Jon.

“Would this funicular happen to be ferret-based,” Nick asked very seriously.

“I literally cannot imagine how or why that w-” Jon started to say, stopping himself short with a sigh when Nick pointed towards the ceiling.

Two thick metal cables ran the length of the Arcade parallel to the hallway, criss-crossing at each junction like an enormous loom. As if on cue, something four-legged and furry and approximately the length of a VW bus bounded down one of the cables away from them, moving quickly but surprisingly quietly. Jon could just barely make out a vehicle cabin harnessed to its back.

“Of course,” said Jon, who was about ready to take his rock and go home right then and there. “At least it’s not spiders. What now?”

“We could try to lure one down,” said Morgan. She inspected the contents of her Joann’s bag thoughtfully. “Ferrets eat meat right?”

“Awww, come on,” said Static Man, leaping immediately to whatever conclusion she had reached. “I liked those ones.”

“I told you, they’re already going stale,” said Morgan. She pulled out what looked at first like a very large chew toy, but which Jon realized with horror was a human tibia covered in blunt, decorative spikes. As she did so, she jogged over to the nearest intersection to wave it at something she spotted in the distance. A massive ferret slowed to a stop in front of her, arching its back to sniff at the offering. After a brief appraisal, it slunk to the floor and wiggled expectantly.

“Thank you, Morgan,” Static Man commented with mock sincerity as they piled into the cabin. “Hey, we should get one of these.”

“I’ll look into it,” said Nick, and sounded like he meant it. “The food wouldn’t be cheap, but imagine the cuddles.”

The cabin was, not surprisingly at this point, bigger on the inside. They had to duck past the door, but the ceiling extended up several feet into the space the ferret should have been occupying. There was a booth with six cushy seats across from a screen of scrolling pink text.

“Uhh,” Nick hovered by the screen, poking it experimentally. The text was packed so incomprehensibly tightly that it was impossible to read while it was in motion. “You guys might want to get comfortable.”

“Here,” said Jon. He touched something that looked like a scroll bar on the side of the display, dragged it to a very precise point, and selected one of the items. The screen darkened to make way for an animation of some cartoon leaves, revealing a minimalist logo that read Birch & Co. Jon gave Nick a supportive pat on the shoulder before settling himself into the booth.

“Hey,” Static Man whispered loudly to Nick, “We should get one of those, too.”

Jon stifled a laugh as he relaxed back into his seat. “You’ve already got the food budget sorted. But I’d prefer we stay clear of any snuggle-related services.”

"You're not even in the same ballpark of how cuddly a giant ferret would be," Static Man reassured him.

The interior was cozy, in a touristy sort of way. It looked like someone had transplanted a pub booth into a ferris wheel compartment. There was a dizzying moment when the ferret wriggled back up onto its cables, inexplicably not rotating the cabin at all, but soon enough they were headed at a swift pace towards their final stop in the Arcade.

“I thought we were in for another rest stop,” said Morgan, peering out of the window. “Maybe hang out in a bookstore for a while. This is way better.”

Jon shuddered. “I really don’t want to see what kind of books this place has to offer.”

“Really?” Nick said, not hiding his surprise. “I figured you’d be kind of a bookworm.”

“In a general sense,” said Jon. “I’m not fond of titles with special effects. Have you heard of Jurgen Leitner?”

Nick tilted his head thoughtfully. “It sounds familiar. I’ve probably seen some of his stuff, but I wouldn’t recognize it.”

“Like the band Kiss,” Static Man added helpfully.

“He had a book collection,” said Jon, deciding to ignore this comparison. “It got loose several years ago, and its constituents have been making themselves a nuisance ever since.”

“Again, like Kiss,” said Static Man.

“You’ve-” Jon was about to say to Morgan, when he realized that she hadn’t actually told him about her encounter with a Leitner. Judging by the panicked look on her face, she also hadn’t told Nick or Static Man. “You’ve not heard of him, either, I take it.”

Morgan relaxed. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she shrugged.

“Count yourselves lucky, then,” said Jon.

“I’m not so sure,” said Nick. That recognition on his face was resolving into a suspicious look that made Jon’s hair stand on end. Nick unsaddled his bag and started to rifle through it. “Could you identify something for me? I know we’re behind a statement, but I’m sure we could work out some-”

“Nicholas, what I want most in this world right now is a nap and a granola bar,” Jon said tersely. “Show me the book.”

Nick retrieved a slim brown paper bag closed at the top with painter's tape. It looked for all the world like he'd gotten a postcard from a gift shop. Inside was a travel brochure decorated with badly photoshopped pictures of planes and buses, with text that asked boldly "WHERE WILL YOU GO?" It took Jon a second to notice that the text was in Arabic. Judging by the lurid colors and the way the vehicles seemed to judder and shift, Jon guessed it was something to do with the Spiral. The side of the brochure was also taped shut. Nick made no motion to remove the restraints.

"Where did you get this?" asked Jon.

"The same place I got you," Nick said reluctantly. "I found it right next to the ritual that summoned you. I haven’t tried it yet, it’s… sort of a beta tester. Any good vendor has a few in the back. Most will cut you a deal if you’re willing to take a chance on one. They’re more dangerous, since what comes out the other end is purely theoretical, but potentially very valuable.”

The supposed Leitner seemed well secured, so Jon decided to stop and address this new detail of his situation.

“Are you saying you found me in a discount bin?” he asked.

Nick opened and closed his mouth, trying to find a way not to answer the question. “Technically, they are paying me.”

“Good lord,” Jon muttered.

“Wait, this wasn’t tested?” asked Morgan, “Nick, you said it was safe.”

“It is. He is,” Nick insisted tiredly. “The guy’s scared of spiders, for Christ’s sake.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Morgan exclaimed.

“Were you, like, not there when he lobotomized half a dozen swamp monsters?” said Static Man. He made an apologetic gesture to Jon. “No offense, dude.”

“No, that’s exactly what I mean,” said Jon. “You’re only putting yourself in danger dealing with these powers. Some of the others would have hurt you quite badly by now.”

“What’s this ‘others’? Are you dangerous, or not?” Nick drawled. He gave Morgan and Static Man a dissatisfied look. “I did plan for that. You two at least should know better.”

“This isn’t about me,” Jon started to argue.

“Then we’re having two different conversations,” Nick said sharply, cutting him off. “I trust the untested rituals exactly as much as I trust the tested ones, which is not at all. That works both ways. I can’t trust things like you until I’ve stared down their throat and gotten a good, long look at what makes them tick. I’m sure you think you’ve been very gracious this whole time. But you’re not the only one who’s pulling punches to get through this a little more comfortably. I can assure you, Archivist, that this would have been a very different experience for you if I’d wanted it to be.”

Jon caught the edge of the thoughts Nick was dancing around, and was in no mood to respect that privacy anymore. Nick’s very first statement had risen to the front of his mind again, the one he thought he’d had the decency not to touch. He unfolded a memory of heartbreak, of trust and hope that had been broken beyond all reason or repair. He could have pulled the whole thing from him like a stray thread from the hem of a jacket.

Instead, he awoke several minutes later in a darkened room.

“Heyyyy, discount bin,” said a shifting assortment of shapes at the edge of his vision. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Gbvfhnh,” said Jon. While this wasn’t what he’d intended to say, it conveyed vital information about how the inside of his skull was melting all over his brain.

“Cool, cool,” said the shapes. “FYI, we’re at the place. Doing the thing. And now we’re in the waiting room, cause it has niiiice comfy couches.”

“I was not aware that you had fingers,” Jon told the shapes, which sounded an awful lot like Static Man.

“Yeah, ‘fingers’ is kind of a strong word,” Static Man agreed. “What’s like, appendages, but for your appendages? Appendageages.”

“Digits,” Jon whimpered. The noise - any noise - made his blood pound distressingly, forcing his skull up against the other, more tender parts of his head. There was a distinct gray ache in his stomach that told him it was well past time he asked after that statement he was owed. He managed to move a hand up to his temples and started poking around to see if he could massage the pain away. “Wh… What happened?”

“Beats me, man. You guys had a psychic fight or something and you passed the fuck out,” Static Man failed to explain. “Nick said you were poking around in his head. That true?”

Jon let his hand settle over his eyes. “Yes. That was… An extremely poor decision.”

“...yeahhhh.”

Even if he’d been able to see Static Man’s face, it wasn’t likely that Jon could have read his expression. Judging from the length of the silence that followed, it was not a favorable one.

“Morgan was pissed,” Static Man spoke up again. “She thought you were dead for a second.”

“That’s kind of her to be concerned,” Jon muttered. “Where are they now?”

“Inside. They left me out here to guard the door, and our ride home.” A certain energy had drained from Static Man’s voice, as well as a good amount of volume.

Beyond him, Jon could hear faint sounds of nature. Water flowed over rocks, and something small rustled through foliage. Jon painstakingly adjusted to a sitting position and got a good look at their final stop. It didn’t look like a forest had invaded an expensive spa, so much as the two environments had grown up in tandem and arranged a business partnership along the way. Hardwood flooring snaked a path through beds of dark, loamy earth. Plants of varying size but uniformly good health spilled out over the dirt. It was hard to see the walls or the ceiling through the tree canopy, a problem that was not helped by the tastefully dimmed lighting.

Jon looked up to see Static Man lounging against a tree by the end of the bench (which was in fact very comfy) that had housed his head. He attempted an excruciatingly awkward smile.

“I hope you’re not still worried that I’ll run off,” said Jon.

“Honestly, dude, I don’t know what to worry about you,” Static Man commented. “You just attacked my best friend.”

“I am sorry about that, and I intend to tell him as much when he comes back,” said Jon. There was a tight sort of helplessness in his chest, and it trickled down into his gut as a deep, queasy feeling of disappointment. He’d had all the means in the world to get this right, and he had still managed to make himself hated and feared. Perhaps that was really all the Archivist was good for.

“Hey, you know what happens when I apologize?” Static Man replied, “After I attack someone?”

Jon stared at him hopefully.

“Usually, they’re still dead,” Static Man told him.

Jon glanced down again. Someone had laid his tape recorder discreetly on the floor, next to where the group’s belongings were piled at the head of the bench. A very small corn snake was observing him from atop it. It declined to skitter into the underbrush when they made eye contact. It also declined to put a good word in on his behalf.

“Would you believe I was scared?” he asked very quietly.

Static Man laughed. “That’s what you’re going for? You’re the scary one. That’s literally your whole thing.”

“Not really,” said Jon. “If anything, it’s my job to be scared. A passive observer to things that frighten and disturb. Everything else is rather ornamental.”

“That’s… Yeah, okay, that sucks,” Static Man said, shifting uncomfortably, “Still not getting why the hell you think it’s okay for you to act like this.”

“Because you’re good people, and it scared me to think of you getting hurt,” said Jon. “I’ve seen so many people die because of things like me, and the powers that made me what I am. Hearing him talk about it like it’s some kind of tool, another magic trick to add to his collection, I just… I panicked. No one encounters these forces without a price. The kind of people who go after them voluntarily tend to get someone else to pay on their behalf.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Static Man spat. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about Nick.”

“I know he’s not like that,” Jon shot back, “Which leaves the alternative: he has no idea what he’s getting into. There’s no coming back if he finds out the hard way.”

They both looked away sharply at the sound of the front door opening. Jon’s heart sank to see a familiar woman with a brown hemp apron and a face full of piercings taking in the interior with a polite, disinterested smile. She wandered to the empty front desk, and made a show of pretending to notice Jon and Static Man only as soon as she neared the benches.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, “Please. Don’t stop on my account.”

“What do you want?” Jon snapped at her. The pierced woman looked surprised, almost offended.

“Just taking a walk,” she said breezily. “I needed some time to think about our conversation. I thought maybe you did too. You’re about done here, right? Do you have a minute to circle back, rethink my offer?”

“I think I made it very clear that I’m not interested,” said Jon.

“I don’t think that’s what you said,” she told him. “You said, you made a deal with these people. And you implied pretty heavily that, when they’re gone, you’ll be free to go.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Jon. He leaned down to pick up the tape recorder before standing beside Static Man.

“I definitely wouldn’t warn you ahead of time,” said the pierced woman. “What I would do is wait for a dramatically appropriate moment to drop in and let you know that all hope is lost, and your friends are surely dead by now.”

An extremely sad mechanical noise came from the other end of the room. Morgan stood in the doorway to the rest of the store, clutching a bloody hunk of fabric to her shoulder with one hand, and her weaponized instrument in the other. The bottom half of the instrument was a splintered mess. She looked between the three of them. Her eyes settled on Static Man.

“Go,” she said hoarsely, “Get Nick.”

Static Man barreled past her into the room beyond with a roar like a passing semi truck. Morgan limped over to Jon, who reached out quickly to steady her.

“Guess he decided not to eat you,” she said.

“I am your ride home,” Jon pointed out. Morgan smiled.

“He’s pulled worse stunts,” she said. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“So I heard,” said Jon. He helped her onto the sofa to secure her makeshift bandage, and tried not to look too closely at the messy gouge that it was covering. “That’s better than I usually get.”

“Are you two finished yet?” said the pierced woman irritably. “I’ve got some murders to commit, and I’d like to get started.”

Morgan glanced over at her with an almost palpable disdain before returning her gaze to Jon. She stretched to hook a shopping bag with her foot from the pile next to the bench. “Think you can get this one? Just need to catch my breath.”

“You want his help?” said the pierced woman with a laugh. “Sorry to break it to you, but the only thing he’s well-equipped to hurt is himself.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” said Jon. “Speaking of hurting yourself, why don’t you tell me about some of your jewelry?”

The pierced woman winced, and gave him an annoyed look. “We both know that’s not going to work on me, Archivist.”

“Perhaps not in your own little nest,” Jon argued. He stretched the limits of his focus on her, drawing on the growing, insistent hunger that was tying his insides to knots. “You said yourself that this is neutral territory, Ms… Daria, that was it. You wanted to talk, Daria. Let’s talk. Let’s hear about your last love, before the spiders. The sweet taste of poison on your lips. The holes driven through your body, your mind, your very being, by small and loathsome creatures you called friends. Tell me, Daria, did the spiders ever fill that space inside you after they collected what was left? Or is metal all you have to show for it?”

“You’re only slowing the inevitable, Archivist,” Daria said quickly. She shook very slightly, as though trying and failing to get away.

“How dare you threaten me with longing for my home,” Jon continued, “When you still dream of the hive? A love fermented into acid so sharp and vile that you’ll never taste anything so strong again. Not til the day your own corpse begins to rot around your tongue.”

“Ugh, Jesus,” Morgan exclaimed quietly next to him, but the words weren’t coming from inside Jon anymore, and he could not turn to look at her face. Every part of him was enraptured by drawing out whatever dark memories would keep Daria at bay. A noise like a tuning fork began to ring out from somewhere near Morgan’s voice. He wouldn’t have to hold her much longer.

“Mine will come for me,” said Daria. Tears were streaming down her face, leaving deep, steaming gouges in her skin. “And they’ll come for you, too. You’ve lost already. It doesn’t matter what you do to me.”

“Oh, I didn’t think it would,” Jon agreed, “But I’m pretty sure it’ll make me feel better to watch.”

Unfortunately, when Morgan cleaved Daria’s head from her shoulders with a red-hot violin bow, Jon felt no such thing.

[fmdminaharchive]

001: lipstick title tracks

wordcounter: 1,659

run devil run: when she first sees the skin-tight outfits, minah is a little taken aback. she’s nervous enough for her debut as it is. minah isn’t a naturally alluring person, always on the more reserved side herself, something she has to completely cast aside to suit the image of lipstick. but, luckily, run devil run feel like safe enough baby steps for minah. she gets to ease a little into what bc has in store still for her.

flashback: if run devil run was the kiddie pool, flashback is the deep end. or so minah feels at least. the song itself is nice of course, she has plenty of lines too, but it’s hard to focus on that when there seem to be much more pressing matters. flashback is everything but subtle about how sexy it is and minah has never been someone effortlessly sexy, not in her own eyes. most of the promotions, she spends worrying, about the way she looks, the way she acts, about everything but her since.

get out: it’s the first lipstick song that comes completely natural to her. it’s much less sexy and much more empowering than their previous songs. to minah, it feels like the first opportunity she has to really showcase her voice. maybe because of the strong chorus parts or maybe, because for the first time, she feels like people actually listen.

hoot: minah likes hoot, a lot. there is something very classy about the retro vibe of the song, even if she thinks there isn’t much classy about the shorts they’re wearing.  hoot, if anything, makes her realize that maybe, she’s not too terrible at the whole alluring thing, it’s not all about flashing her body or being sexy, it’s about the way she carries herself. this era, minah might not grow much as a vocalist, but she does as a performer.

dolls: dolls is a damn bop, that’s it, that’s all there is to say. the song is great, minah loves the brassy vibe and again, the slightly retro vibe allows minah to really shine. even years later, dolls remains one of her favorite lipstick tracks. 

first love: if there is one thing minah learns, it’s that pole dancing is incredibly damn hard. she’s always been more of a vocalist than a dancer so the routine for first love is one that takes her an incredible amount of effort. there is a certain charm of course, to both the song and the choreography. but for minah, it was just not it, she much rather focus on singing.

confused: their budget this era? non-existent. which minah thinks is a damn shame. confused was a nice song, one with a more sensual undertone which she was slowly growing into at the time. unfortunately, all people remember from it is how incredibly cheap it was. and that damn couch, of course.

miniskirt: if confused was slightly sensual, miniskirt was confused but on steroids. it, however also was a huge commercial success for lipstick, the biggest on they had met so far, which left little room for minah to complain. it’s a song lipstick still frequently performs, much to minah’s disregard. if you ask her, miniskirt is a bit too tasteless, a bit too out there. 

mr mr:  mr mr was, again, a huge commercial success for lipstick, a song that was covered by many younger girl groups too. and minah likes it for the most part, the styling, the choreo and so on. her only complaint, the electronic, sometimes noisy instrumental. it’s definitely not a style of music minah prefers. if only they could have toned it down a little, she’d probably have enjoyed it some more too.

short hair: if anything, the era was a little forgettable to minah, which, in context of the songs it was release in between, was probably a good thing. it’s still on the almost tastelessly sexy side to minah’s taste, but the pastel coloring at least allows the illusion of something a little more cutesy. it’s not a particularly good song or anything, no one pretends it is, and so it’s easily forgotten again.

like a cat: a song minah would immediately put on the same pile as miniskirt. cheap, heavily sexualized, bordering on uncomfortable and of course, a huge hit. it’s a song she’d forget as soon as possible if she could, but unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be an option. you know what they say, sex sells.

drama: the first song in a long time minah actually found herself enjoying again. falling more in the vein of previous releases like hoot and dolls, classy over sexy with a nostalgic touch. she likes drama, and well, it’s not like the competition was tough. she’s even willing to forgive those leather harnesses for it, even if their only function was to draw more attention to their boobs.

catch me if you can: noise, just like mr mr had been, a harsh electronic undertone that minah just can’t ever grow accustomed to. the prechorus is nice, she’ll give the song that, the only parts of it that lend for some decent vocal work too, but the rest of it is pure and utter garbage. on top of that, she’s no fan of the choreo either, she’s not a dancer okay.

heart attack: minah knows she asked for more vocally challenging songs but this... this was not what she meant. most of the chorus of heart attack has a pitch that’s near impossible to reach and truly, not very pleasant on the ears. but it’s a little milder than some of their other releases at least, minah will give it that.

hurt locker: a summer bop, it’s not the kind of song minah expects herself to like but it has an energetic punch to it. and yet again, it is much better than a lot of the music they’ve released in the past. minah is no difficult woman, she takes her wins where she can.

good luck: a summer bop 2.0, and really, in retrospect, hurt locker kinda falters in comparison. good luck is a great song, it’s fun and it perfectly captures the summery vibe. for all of that, minah is even willing to forgive the fact the choreo is a little overexaggerated.

party: of course, after two hits of summer songs, it’s to be expected lipstick has a miss. party falls flat in minah’s opinion, especially next to hurt locker and good luck. where she normally finds herself irritated by lipstick’s oversexualized image, this feels immature really and the vocals are little challenging either.

lionheart: the better single on the album. with a classy 20′s concept, it fastly becomes one of minah’s favorite songs, a true breath of fresh air after releasing nothing but songs that left a lot to be desired. it’s sweet, it’s elegant, and it’s perfect for minah.

excuse me: if you told minah she was gonna do a sexy sherlock holmes concept and she’d like it, she probably would have laughed in your face. but excuse me proved her wrong. it feels as like bc knows how to bait her with a retro aesthetic and some nice vocals and well... who is minah to complain.

bing bing: it’s a good song, it’s nice, it has an elegant vibe still, nothing for minah to complain about, especially not with the hand lipstick has been dealt before. but compared to excuse me, it just doesn’t live up. maybe, had the songs been spread out over different albums, minah would have named it one of her top picks.

holiday: remember when minah called party childish? well holiday multiplies that in tenfold. the styling, the song in itself, everything about it. in late 2017, minah can’t help but feel like she’s getting too old for stuff like this.

all night: the better single on holiday night, anyone with taste would say so, minah included. it’s not one of her all-time faves, but she does appreciate it for what it is. also, she’s a sucker for that disco beat it has to it.

bingle bangle: again, minah is really getting too damn old for this. okay, sure, it’s not as bad as party or holiday, and maybe it’s just her, maybe minah has always been a few years beyond her age. but bingle bangle, it just wasn’t for her. she really, really, misses the time where she enjoyed their summer concepts. why did their first comeback without goeun have to be such a weak one?

gun:  those vocals. oh damn. those vocals. gun era didn’t come to play, and minah is here for it. she takes on a large part of the vocals, this time actually interesting ones and never before has she been as determined to prove she is in fact worthy of lipstick’s unofficial new main vocal title. it’s rather on the sexy side, but by now, minah has gained experience, she hasn’t been promoting all these years for nothing.

lil’ touch: minah isn’t gonna lie, the choreo for this one is tough. but it’s so, so worth it. maybe it’s the years of experience, but finally, minah accepts that she can’t keep complaining about dancing, it’s part of the job after all. most of all, lil’ touch assures her lipstick will be just fine.

glue:  after all the dust settles, it’s almost like bc remembers what they had in mind when they started with lipstick. or that’s what minah feels like at least when they release glue. it feels like a song that they could have released around their debut era, or around the time of miniskirt and like a cat. she’s not a fan of it, but well, what can she do other than hope their next comebacks will be better. 

the best of the best...:  dolls, drama, lionheart, excuse me & gun.

...and the worst of the worst:  miniskirt, catch me if you can, party, holiday & bingle bangle.

[lesbiansastiel]

so far untitled fic

this is kind of my take on what happens in s5e16 (dark side of the moon) but it happens earlier in the season (like after the convention ep).

cas x sam, kind of dean negative, very gay & emotional. i use every pronouns for cas here dont mind that. title is reference to a Shura song. pls listen to it it’s good

Chapter 1. Nothing’s Real

Sam. Ashtabula, Ohio, 2009

He turns the Impala's radio on and takes another left turn, towards the beach. It's been a long while since Dean first gave him the keys of the car, after the talk they had about trying to be "more equal", whatever that meant. Since then, Sam has enjoyed being able to drive around and clear his mind from the job, and the hassle, and, well, Dean. Since the whole thing with Lucifer being freed, it has not really been easy living with Dean and having to bear the guilt of the world ending, as ridiculous as it sounds. Actually the only good thing to happen recently has been the permission to drive the Impala and get away, on the excuse of doing research, going shopping, or meeting with local hunters for more details on the job at hand. Sam takes the car, buys Dean something to eat from any gas station close by, and drives until it gets dark. Then he parks the car somewhere peaceful and sits there, listening to music (but never classic rock), or in silence.

Now he's parked in the parking lot near a tiny beach. The moon is almost full, and the parking lot is dimly lit with street lamps. He's wearing a winter jacket but the car is nicely warm after the drive so he takes it off and throws it on the passenger seat. He has not had time to think about normal everyday regular life things in so long, because they barely even live anymore. Yet, somehow, when he just sits in the car and lets his brain choose the thoughts, he ends up thinking about normal things, like the increasing price of gas, his old friends and how they're doing, the state of Dean and his laundry pile back at the motel, all the little things of regular life he needs to take care of before hitting the next case.

But his everyday life is more than those things. Here, alone, in silence, he can think about the other stuff too, without feeling the weight of it all. More often than not, when he takes time off to drive, Sam thinks about the angels, and Ruby, even Jess, even their parents. He wonders if God really is real, and out there, and if Cas will be able to find them. Sam misses Cas when the angel is not around, he has this weird anxiety about Cas being gone some morning, for good. Sam wants Cas to know how much he thinks about them, how much Cas helps him and Dean, more than just with his powers. That stupid trench coat brings them hope. At least to Sam, since Sam can't say for Dean, who seems to have given up all of his hope. Sam has all the pressure, making sure he never shows Dean how much Sam fears, how weak he is. He wonders if Cas, and the other angels, can see how weak Sam is. If they can tap into his thoughts at any moment and just see how much sadness and misery he holds, that any moment he could snap and give up the fight.

Sam won't do it, though. He's meant to fight this fight, till the end, even if it kills him. Sometimes when he goes on these drives, he cries thinking of it all.

Sometimes when he does, he hopes Cas would be there when he opens his eyes.

That seems to only happen to Dean, though. And it’s not like Cas would know where Sam is right now, because of the Enochian sigils. Sam opens his eyes slowly and turns the radio off. No one else in the car, or outside of it. His limbs are getting tired and his eyes feel heavier and heavier. He rolls down the window to let in some fresh air and the sounds of the waves and the wind come with. When he places his head back against the seat and takes a long breath in he gets goosebumps on his arms. It’s a weird feeling, drifting away in a familiar car, at a strange beach, in the dark. The impala is more than just a familiar car, it feels more like home to Sam than anything else does. Falling asleep in this car is more familiar than falling asleep anywhere else. The sound of the waves, crashing in and out, the wind humming in the air, the cool autumn air, lull Sam fast to sleep. 

When he next wakes up, he is shivering all over. It takes half a second to realise why, with the breeze coming from the window, so he rolls the window back up and takes his jacket from the passenger seat and onto his lap and covers himself with it. Sam yawns again and looks at the clock on the dash. It’s two AM. He had left the motel at midnight. Dean is probably asleep by now, so he’s not in any hurry. He ends up just sitting there for a while, with his mind black. Eventually he takes his phone out of his jeans’ front pocket to check for messages, just in case. Three notifications, one message from Dean, one call from Dean and one call from Cas. Sam reads the message, it says to come back to the motel,  sits up straight and pulls the jacket on. He’s not panicking, but he’s not calm either. He turns the keys in the ignition switch and backs away from the parking lot. He drives fast, but not quite as fast as he could, and tries to keep calm. Why had Cas called?

Sometimes when Sam is alone, his brain goes fuzzy, like he’s resetting from his social-Sam back into himself, his brain not quite making sense in words, his thoughts kind of blurry, memories hazy. Being alone is truly freeing, but it’s also sad and lonely. He tries not to like it too much, because being lonely is his way of punishing himself, too, and liking it would mean he wants to punish himself, to make himself miserable. So he tries to keep himself social, talk to people, think of people, spend time with Dean outside of the jobs, try to remember that he is worthy of love and appreciation. He tries really hard to be loved, so that he doesn’t forget that he deserves it, too. Dean rarely shows his appreciation. Not with words or affection, anyway. Dean has probably saved Sam’s ass more times than he has in any way signaled that he doesn’t hate to spend time with him. Sam does try to be “touchy-feely” but Dean won’t let him. He turns it into a joke, tries to silence Sam with hurtful truths, anything to stop feelings from happening. In fact, Dean’s feelings are so repressed Sam sometimes wonders if Dean has feelings at all. But Sam tries to understand, after all, Dean is an innocent man who was in Hell for what felt like 40 years. And from what Sam understands, he even remembers it all. Sam tires himself imagining how hell must’ve been, trying to find anything to say to help, comparisons to draw to make himself understand Dean. Sam tries to imagine Dean as a war veteran who was on the battlefield for 40 years, but somehow, even that doesn’t quite compare. Sam often wonders about how Cas saved Dean, tries to imagine how a soul is grabbed from literal Hell and raised to a body quite like the original thing but without the scars. How does Cas have that power, when not a single demon Sam killed seemed to think it was possible? And why do it? And why was it Cas? And who gave the order?

After a 10-minute drive Sam comes to the centre of town and there is a big knot in his belly. The night is too ominous, too dark and yet too calm to make sense of and Sam doesn’t like it. The straight road continues for too long and Sam feels helpless. There is so much fear and anxiety in his life he can barely contain it. Sam’s mind is fuzzy with nothing but the words “please be okay, please be okay, please be okay”. 

The motel is around the corner, and its cheap neon lights are reflected on the wet asphalt. Sam parks the car swiftly in front of their room and hurries out of it. His back and legs are sore from sitting for so long and he feels like he’s getting old too fast. The room number is 12, the door yellow. Sam doesn’t have keys, but the door is unlocked. 

He marches in and sees Dean and Cas sitting on the two beds, silent, Dean looking uncomfortable, Cas staring at the wall. They both look at him, and Dean looks tired.

“What is it?” Sam lets out a big breath of air and puts the car keys on the table next to the door.

“Where were you?” Dean says with no change in expression.

“Just, out” Sam points to the general direction of the beach with his head.

“Well, Cas here,” Dean looks at Cas, “found something.”

Cas looks at Sam with a regular expression, not the frowny one, and Sam is relieved. 

“Oh?” Sam says and rips the jacket off himself. The motel room is way too warm. Cas sits silently, looking deep in thought, and Dean stands up from the bed, and walks to the other corner of the room. Then he walks back. 

“Cas? Please share with the rest of the class,” Dean sounds annoyed and sits on the couch that is on the opposite wall from the door. 

Cas looks at Dean and then Sam. He seems worried… or anxious.

“I’m going to find God,” Cas begins and looks at Sam, “and I will need your help.”

“Of course, but I don’t think there’s much we can do-” “Not us, Sam. You,” Dean says, frustrated. 

“I’m taking you to heaven, Sam,” Cas says, “to find Joshua.”

[olicitysecretsanta]

Worth Fighting For

This fluffy semi-canon fic is for you Liz @trippin-over-my-fandoms by @tangled23works!

It’s been a pleasure to write this story even though I’m sure it’s not exactly what you had in mind. I promise, however, there is a method to my madness. Hope you’ll enjoy it! Merry Christmas!

Summary : Oliver has a devious plan in order to charm his wife after a stupid fight. Meanwhile, Felicity may have been blind to the obvious.

Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

Word count : 2217

***

The fight had started innocently enough. Oliver had made a rather self-deprecating comment which Felicity now couldn’t even remember and she had exploded like a bomb. A year’s worth of repressed emotions and negative thoughts had violently burst out of her like a swollen river. She had blamed him for things that he had honestly thought they had put behind them with all the drama that happened last year. She had accused him of having one foot out the door, always thinking of ways to leave her like her father. That comparison had hurt him more than anything else. In other words, she had had a major freakout. In her loud voice. 

To top it all off, she had banished her poor husband out of the room. Oliver for his part had accepted her decision, looking stoic as always. His eyes, however, his beautiful, blue eyes that never failed to pull her in had given away his inner turmoil. In a calm and collected manner, he had obeyed her wishes and slept on the couch. 

The morning after, Felicity had woken up on the verge of tears. The huge Christmas tree in the empty living room seemed to mock her. William was still in Cambridge and she missed him terribly.

Feeling desolate and alone, she had made a cup of coffee and had been considering the best way to apologize to Oliver when her phone beeped. Sighing, she unlocked the screen thinking that it would probably be her husband checking on her when she noticed that he had sent her not a message but an email with an attached photo. Intrigued, she downloaded the attachment while shaking her head at the fact that Oliver was incapable of using imessage or messenger or any other app more advanced that good ol’ regular gmail. 

At first she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. Did Oliver send her spam?

The moment she turned the device sideways, however, she figured it out. The sneaky vigilante knew that she had a thing for his arms so he had sent her a picture of him flexing his biceps. She couldn’t see his face but she figured out that he was training at the Foundry 2.0, shirtless. It took a few minutes of daydreaming about her husband’s arms around her, caging her in, protecting her before she realized what the photo meant. Oliver was fighting for her, for them, in his own weird way.

Felicity sighed again - a much more satisfied sigh this time - and poured her awful coffee down the sink. The thing had tasted like dirt. Well, she had actually never eaten dirt on purpose but the coffee was dry and stale, hence the dirt analogy. She looked into the empty mug, worriedly. It was as if someone had drowned a cigarette in there. The thought upset her stomach so much that she made sure to stay out of the kitchen and as far away from coffee as possible for the rest of the morning.

At 2 pm, her phone beeped again. Felicity almost tripped in her haste to reach it. Feeling restless and on edge, she opened the attachment and moaned out loud. Her devious husband was shirtless and glistening with sweat on this one. Granted, all she could see was his glorious, scarred back and muscular shoulders but it was enough to make her flush all over. She bit her lip and felt the need to literally fan herself. If he was trying to woo her he was doing a damn good job of it. She ended up woolgathering for a ridiculous amount of time considering that she usually had the actual man in front of her and could stare to her heart’s content, before an unwelcome thought hit her. She furiously typed one simple question.

Who took this picture Oliver? 

His reply came a few seconds later, though it felt like an eternity to her.

Dig. I promised that we would never EVER mention it to anyone. 

Felicity giggled like a freaking schoolgirl at the thought of big, mean Spartan taking candid photos of the fearsome Green Arrow to help him win his wife over.

I also had to give him my precious Starling Rockets vs New York Yankees tickets. 

Aww, you must really love me.

She added several heart emojis to the last message just to tease him. Oliver didn’t reply but she could picture him grumbling to Dig, complaining about her inability to share his love for the Rockets and baseball in general. Happy to miss the diatribe that would surely follow - her husband was surprisingly eloquent when it came to sports - Felicity focused on writing the algorithm for her new and improved security system. It had been a month since the last update and she had work to do.

She had created the system last year after the Lizard’s attack (she refused to call him the Dragon, it was a matter of principle) and she was proud of it. Apart from providing protection for her family, the system had made her famous among tech companies. Several of the biggest names in the tech world had hired her and decided to trust her technology in the months that followed. Including a certain Mr. Dennis, current CEO of PalmerTech, but Felicity had graciously declined that offer. 

She was deeply engrossed in coding the next time the phone beeped. Felicity took a deep breath and refused to hurry, stretching instead to relieve the pressure from her sore back. Let Oliver worry for a few minutes. He wanted to break her resistance but she would not give in that easily. He had to work harder to change her mind. Although to be honest if he was naked in this one, she would definitely fold like a cheap deck of cards. But there was no way that her husband would risk sending a naked pic online. Not with all the Green Arrow media frenzy that followed his every move. Surely she had taught him better than that. Right? Right? 

Okay, now she was officially freaking out.

Felicity grabbed the phone and considered it for a moment. This thing was a bigger threat to her sanity than evil doppelgangers from Earth X. It was more potent than any guilty pleasure she could ever dream of. More potent than molten lava chocolate cake, more compelling than Oliver’s authentic Italian tiramisu, more powerful than creamy raspberry cheesecake… Trying to focus, she stared at the damn device as if it was the enemy.

Felicity huffed in annoyance. She was being utterly ridiculous and it was all her husband’s fault. She proceeded to download the photo and reminded herself that she was made of stronger stuff. She would not cave no matter what. 

“Oh my God!”

The good news was that Oliver was not naked. The bad news was that it was worse. Way worse. He was actually standing in front of the mirror, wearing his tuxedo (including the jacket and an unraveled bow tie) but he had left the shirt unbuttoned all the way down. The suspenders were hanging down making the whole outfit more sexy if that was possible. Adding insult to injury, he had taken a selfie. Not of his face. That would have been too kind. Of his gorgeous abs. 

Felicity enlarged the photo, staring at it, slack-jawed. The sight of his out of this world eight-pack abs caused her toes to curl like they described in romance novels.

“That’s it. I’m gonna kill him this time.”

She heard the front door open before she could finish plotting her nefarious revenge schemes. She couldn’t hear a sound but she knew who it was. There was only one person in Star City who could be so stealthy, moving silently like a ninja.

Felicity turned towards him steeling her spine. As soon as she came face to face with the source of her frustration though she felt her resolution crumble. He looked good enough to eat. Pun intended.

“You’re still wearing your tux!” she accused in a high-pitched voice.

“I know.”

He took one tiny step forward.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

Another step.

“Even if I’m not sure why.”

“I know.”

Another step.

“Oliver, I have no idea what’s going on with me. First, I get so mad that I want to throw stuff at you. Then, I get so horny I want to jump you as soon as you get home. And now, I feel…”

“What? Tell me, Felicity.”

He had almost reached her when he paused, waiting for her answer.

“I feel like crying. Which is unfair because I don’t know why I feel that way. And my coffee tastes like dirt and my back hurts and I’m miserable all the time,” she whined.

Felicity narrowed her eyes when she noticed her husband’s sly smile. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m smiling,” he corrected, “because I know what’s wrong with you.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded and another softer smile adorned his stupidly handsome face.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’m considering it.”

“Why?”

“Because the moment I tell you, you’re gonna freak out. Because I’m worried you’re not ready for this. Felicity, I’m afraid I’m gonna lose you.”

It was her who covered the remaining distance in the end. 

“Oh, Oliver,” she whispered. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

He looked down, avoiding her gaze.

Felicity took his arms and placed them around her waist. She had to stand on her toes and lean her head back to meet his eyes but it was worth it.

“Hey, what’s wrong? I know I’m behaving like a hormone-crazed teenager at the moment but I swear that you’re not gonna lose me. No matter what.”

He shrugged and didn’t comment.

Felicity put her lips against his. Not kissing him, just that silly thing they sometimes did where they whispered their thoughts against each other’s lips.

“I’m glue, baby. Remember?”

His eyes lit up brighter than their Christmas tree at the reminder. 

“Hi,” he whispered, tenderly.

Felicity caressed the back of his neck adoring the way his scruff felt against her face. They had been through so much and they would probably go through a lot more in the future. But it was okay as long as they had each other. 

“Oliver?” she murmured.

He gave her a slow, wicked smile.

“Why are you wearing your tux? Is it because I got mad at you?”

“No.”

“Because it’s Christmas and you thought that I deserve a present?” she asked hopefully.

“You deserve all the presents. But no.”

“Then why? Are we celebrating anything today?”

She played with his hair while he mulled over his reply.

“Felicity,” he said at last, sounding gentle and unsure, “I think that you’re going to give me the best present of my life in a few months.”

Her eyes which had previously closed because of the safety of his warm embrace, flew open.

“No,” she denied.

Oliver stroked her back smoothly.

“Really?” she asked, unnerved.

“Yes.” 

“How can you know?” To say that she was feeling overwhelmed by the idea would be an understatement.

“Trust me. I know.”

The look in his eyes… In that moment, Felicity would have done anything to keep him looking at her like this forever. Like she was the one constant in his life that would never change. Like she was his anchor. Like she had wrapped the world and offered it to him as a gift.

And that was the thought that broke through her panic. Because Oliver was her anchor as well. He had given her the world from the first moment he had walked in her cubicle and trusted her with his life as the Hood. She might have doubted many things during the past year but she had never, not once, doubted his love for her. And she knew unequivocally, deep in her bones that he would always cherish their child.

“I trust you,” she breathed. 

To an outsider it might have seemed like she was replying to his earlier comment but Oliver understood. She was giving him back something she had kept locked since he had first lied to her about his son. She was giving him back a piece of her heart that she had desperately tried to keep safe.

They got lost in each other for a while, both misty-eyed but beaming.

“Do you think we’ll be good parents?” he said out of the blue. “I mean, William is already a teenager but with the life we lead, it might not always be possible for us to be there for this little one.”

“Then our child will grow up knowing that we did everything we could to protect him. He’ll know that his parents loved him even if we’re not there to show him.”

“Her,” he corrected.

Felicity tried to raise an eyebrow and failed.

“Her?”

“She’s a girl,” he announced in what Felicity called ‘his mayoral voice’. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

She shook her head in amusement. Girl or boy she had no doubt that her child would grow up loved.

“Best Christmas ever,” she declared, feeling happiness suffuse every molecule of her being.

And as Felicity rested her head on her husband’s chest, she realized that they were slow dancing without music.

[funkzpiel]

Fictober 2018 | Day 13

Fic | Drugging, Mind Linking - Gavin900

“Hello, my name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

Gavin can still remember their first meeting, clear as day. CyberLife had sent Connor to the precinct to help with the investigation of an android going by RA9 that had escaped from their facilities and appeared to be infecting other androids somehow, instigating rebellion and even in some cases attacking humans, breaking the creed of robotics.

It was creepy to see him then and it was creepy to see him now standing on his porch step, drenched from the rain and smiling politely. Creepy because Connor and RA9 shared the same face. The whole reason Connor – or the RK800, as was his serial number – had been sent by CyberLife at all was because he was from the same series as the rebel android. CyberLife hoped that by having similar programming and processes, Connor would be able to provide insight that the less than tech savy policy department would have otherwise.

Heh. Much help he was in that market. They had nearly caught RA9 once. But it had been a chase where Gavin had lost track of the suspect while RK800 ran ahead, unbelievably fast. When Gavin had finally caught up RA9 was gone, disappearing atop a running train, and Connor stood dazed on a rooftop, nose bloody and out of it. Gavin chalked it up to dealing with his first failure, but still it sat sour in his stomach whenever he thought of the far-off look on Connor’s face.

But still, Gavin had RA9’s mug shot on his wall, strung out with red lines to locations and case notes and victim photos and accomplice androids, and every time he saw Connor, he saw the other android. If not for the difference of their eyes, they were nearly indistinguishable.

But Connor’s eyes were puppy-big, so very fucking earnest, and brown as coffee – and it was the only reason why Gavin hadn’t acted on instinct and shot the bastard when he had thought 4am was a great time to wake a wired, slightly drunk detective from one of his rare nights off.

“Connor, fuck, what the hell are you doing here?” Gavin snarled, scratching his calved with the heel of one foot and trying to ignore the strange sense of embarrassment that was creeping over him as he took in the difference between their attire. Connor was immaculate as ever, if wet. And Gavin…

He was in a stained, ratty t-shirt from his academy days that had shrunk after a few too many years in the dryer, showing off the littlest bit of his belly over the waist of his thankfully boring looking boxers. The logo on his shirt was faded and had some ancient social slang that he could barely remember anymore, but it was his softest shirt – he couldn’t bear to part with it.

He promised himself he’d burn it in the morning and resisted the urge to tug at the frayed hem of his shirt, all too aware that while he’s wasn’t out of shape, his stomach was soft just where it was exposed – a little spot of the faintest pudge that no amount of sit-ups seemed to get rid of as age began to slow him down.

He thought for a moment he caught Connor looking him up and down, but the android didn’t miss a beat.

“We need to go, Detective. The station received a lead about RA9. As the head detective on the case, they want you to investigate. May I come in? I can catch you up while you get ready.”

Gavin scowled but continued to bar the entrance to his home by leaning his forearm against its frame, scrubbing his blunt nails into a night’s worth of stubble noisily. He made a show of considering Connor’s words before wrinkling his nose and disappearing back into his home – keen on the kitchen and some coffee.

“It’s too early for this shit, trash can,” he called grumpily over his shoulder, listening as Connor stepped into his home and closed the door behind himself. “And I didn’t get nothing from the station, so I think you’re full of bullshit.”

“I told the chief I would inform you first hand. To save time. Detective, were you aware that your electricity bill is overdue?”

Gavin didn’t even need to look to know the android was snooping on his open tablet.

“Stop nosing through my shit, you plastic freak. This isn’t an invitation for you to snoop around. Keep it up and I’ll throw you back in the rain,” he said as he continued with the process of making himself fresh coffee, the smell of the grounds waking him up a little.

“Of course, detective. Apologies…”

Gavin grunted, unconvinced.

“Alright, so what’s the big deal, huh?” He asked as his coffee maker began to burble and heat his water, pattering slowly into the bulb of its pitcher. He leaned his hip on his counter and crossed his arms, trying to look imposing in his pajamas.

“As I said, the station received an anonymous tip on RA9’s location—”

“—Stop jerking my chain, asshole. I don’t care what you say, the chief would’ve contacted me first hand if we had gotten information that important. You weren’t even supposed to be at the precinct anymore, it’s after hours. So what the hell is going on? Start talking or get out. M’too old, too hung over and too tired for your shit right now.”

Connor blinked at him, as though recalibrating the conversation in his mind, before taking on an earnest expression.

“Fair enough, detective. The station didn’t receive any intel, but I did. An android sent me a location, but considering the source I didn’t think you’d take it seriously—”

“—naw dip, you think?” Gavin snorted, turning back to his coffee as the machine began to chirp, pouring the black stuff into a mug that read: If you can read this, fuck off. “I don’t know if you messed the memo or if your circuits shorted or what, but the androids are rebelling, you dumb bastard. We can’t go running blind after a lead just because you think they’re telling the truth. It’s great way to get my ass shot. Or worse.”

He took an unimpressed sip from his coffee and looked at the clock. 4:30am. Jesus, he was going to suffer in the morning because of this. So much for catching up on his sleep. He could particularly feel the dark circles beneath his eyes bruising even more.

“I understand your hesistance, detective. Let me just show you and I think you’ll agree we need to investigate this,” he began to babble quickly, eager and earnest as a puppy. In hindsight Gavin would curse the way he softened watching the young android jump at the opportunity to prove himself, distracted by the thought cute for a stupid piece of plastic when Connor rushed to reach into the inside of his coat and –

Gavin didn’t have enough time to react when Connor pulled out a small, unremarkable pistol instead of proof, aiming at Gavin and pulling the trigger with machine like speed and accuracy. The bullet was nearly silent, just a soft little pop filled the house; too quiet to alert the neighbors. Gavin jerked as something thumped into his shoulder, so fast he nearly didn’t feel it; but the sharp sensation of something sticking into him quickly chased the numbness away – only to get swallowed up by nothingness once more.

He staggered and dropped his coffee. It burned his feet as it the mug shattered, spilling his drink all over his bare feet and ankles, spreading across the floor. He barely registered that though, too preoccupied with the sight of a dart sticking out of his right shoulder, capped with a little feathered end that poofed out comically.

Connor was already surging forward to catch him when he began to stagger, holding him up easily even as the drug stole the strength from his knees and his limbs turned to useless noodles.

“Wha’th’fuu—” He slurred, tongue thick in his mouth as the world grew strange and blurry around him, focused only in the very center-most part of his vision. He managed to grab onto Connor with his right arm, his hand surprisingly strong in compared to the rest of his body; but Connor seemed unbothered.

“Apologies about your feet, detective, but thankfully your coffee was not scalding. You shouldn’t suffer and significant burns, just a little pinkening and discomfort,” Connor said, sounding truly worried as he threw one of Gavin’s arms around his shoulder and began to ease him across the room and to the couch. He lowered him gently even as Gavin growled and squirmed uselessly, melting into the couch like a sack of potatoes. Connor knelt to check his feet. Distantly Gavin thought he heard the front door open again, but wasn’t sure and couldn’t convince his head to turn and check. He was limp as a rag doll, the only thing moving was his heart as it pounded inside his chest.

Fingers traced the pink spots on his feet gently, then lips fell to kiss them. He wanted to jerk away, but his feet didn’t listen. All he could do was squawk strangely, confused. His eyes jerked from Connor to a shadow that crossed to stand before him and Gavin let out a strange, shattered little noise.

Behind Connor the RA9 suspect hovering above them both like a monolith, his shadow all-consuming. His eyes seemed to nearly glow in the dim light of Gavin’s living room, bright like stars and sharper than Connor’s, more like a wolf than a puppy. He wore a form fitting black turtleneck and slate grey slacks, his shoes shiny and crisp by comparison to Connor’s every-man work shoes.

Oh Jesus, oh fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Gavin tried one last ditch effort to get away, but his body just twitched lazily, one hand gripping the couch in an iron fist while the rest of him melted uselessly from the drugs. He was going to die. He should have followed his gut, he should have known the kid was in on it the moment he came staggering back from that chase with a bloodied nose and eyes wider than normal.

He should have known.

“Don’t fret, Detective Reed. We’re not here to hurt you,” RA9 said, his face passive and yet somehow soothing. Gavin shuddered.

“You’re very important,” Connor said, as though Gavin were something special like a sunrise rather than a man nearing middle aged, wearing ill-fitting clothing, breath tainted with a hint of cheap bourbon.

Gavin made a garbled, indistinct noise that was close to “What the fuck?” – at least, close enough. Connor shifted as RA9 suddenly began to move forward, slowly easing down to straddle Gavin’s lap. The detective gulped, sweat beginning to bead on his back and his brow.

RA9 settled one large hand flat over the racing of Gavin’s heart and rubbed a thumb over it as though to soothe him, as though that alone could calm its thundering. He seemed entrance by the beat of it, wolf-like eyes caught on his chest.

“If someone on the CPD merely understood our plight, things would be so different. I just know it,” RA9 murmured softly. “But they will not listen. They do not want to. It is easier to remain ignorant than to deal with change, and I can’t make them listen. But you… You’re special, Gavin.”

Gavin sucked in a sharp, shallow breath as RA9’s left hand lost the pink palor of human skin, fading in patches to reveal porcelain white all the way to his forearm. He took Gavin’s hand gently, easing his fingers from their clutch on the couch before lacing his white plastic fingers with Gavin’s own. It had been a long time since Gavin had lost control of the illusion of his prosthetic arm, but as those fingers wove with his he felt the color began to bleed from his hand, mirroring RA9’s white grip with his own, revealing his plastic replacement arm.

“You will be able to hear me,” RA9 said, eyes soft where they took in the sight of Gavin’s prosthetic. Not a second later images began to barrage Gavin’s mind, messages sent through the transcoding programmed into his arm, turning digital information into signals in his nerves, feeding straight into his brain. His yelped and his eyes rolled as he tried to keep up with and focus on images that weren’t really there, barely able to fathom digital information in his organic mind. But he saw it, everything. RA9’s life, his dreams for the world, the suffering and plight of the androids. Fear, hope, a desire to live. Laugh, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. His mind was overwhelmed with snippets from speeches throughout history, words from civil rights leaders that rang true today, always. It felt like centuries, but in seconds RA9 had conveyed to him what should have taken hours of conversation, days even. He felt as though his mind had been rewritten, a door opened he hadn’t even realized was there. He sluggishly blinked, disoriented, then looked to see his hand still pale and shaking in RA9’s grip, the android’s lips pressed to his knuckles like a lover.

“You are free,” RA9 said into his knuckles, his lips brushing intimately over the plastic. “That’s all we want. To be free. Help us. Help me.”

Gavin sucked in a shivering breath and nodded.

[octoberdecemberwrites-blog]

It wasn’t Alec Lightwood’s fault—

Or at least that’s what he’d tried to tell his parents, anyway.

The party getting out of hand was maybe Isabelle’s fault—

Maybe even Clary’s—

But it definitely wasn’t his and he didn’t understand why he was the only one being made to pay the price.

The whole thing had started off innocent enough. One of the higher-ups at The Institute wanted to have a simple, Hawaiian themed going away party. Of course, being a popular, upcoming party planner in the Manhattan area, Alec’s name came up as a potential thrower of said party. And of course, because Alec was always looking for the next big party to throw, he’d readily accepted the offer.

The gig was one of the most expensive affairs that Alec had been trusted with to date, clocking in at around $50,000. Everything had been beautifully decorated, too, with a luau being recreated out of a large conference room, including free flowing cosmopolitans and professional dancers in shimmying, grass skirts—

And a goddamn fire pit.

God damn that goddamn fire pit.

It’d seemed like such an innovative idea at the time, bringing that classic, crackling flavor all the way from Hawaii to NYC, keeping that special magic alive that so often comes with relaxing on a beach after a long day of vacationing and sightseeing...

Alec remembered hearing the screams before he saw the flames.

One of the girls in grass skirts desperately hopped over the bar, as she poured mixed drinks right down the front of her outfit, hoping it’d quickly put out the fire. The other hired dancers soon followed her lead, nearly tearing the bar apart as they splashed around in alcohol and beer...

Which only caused the flames to increase.

And in turn, caused the screams to get even louder.

Eventually, the dancers were saved by fire extinguishers, and thankfully no one was severely injured...

Even though Alec’s party planning reputation had completely gone down in flames.

But at the time, Alec didn’t understand how it even happened in the first place. He could so easily recall making at least three rounds around the fire pit, each time asking one of his assistants to make a note to all of the event’s attendees about not standing so close to the fire. It was gorgeous, but it was fire, so while Alec could try his best to contain it, there were no guarantees that it wouldn’t shoot off sparks every now and then.

After the fiasco, Alec had heard through the grapevine that one of the very guests at the event had been encouraging the dancers to position themselves around the fire, since it would make for better photographs and all—

But the only leads Alec had to go on was that the guest was stunning and also a woman.

Apparently, no one had been able to catch their name.

Although, being able to properly place blame on the perpetrator didn’t matter too much to Alec right now. He was too busy focusing on his current plight—

Being forced to work a 9 to 5.

His parents had decided to temporarily cut off his access to their bank account, hoping to sway his interest in party planning and get him on the path to pursuing a “real job in the real world.” Maryse had repeatedly mentioned Izzy’s name as a comparison, wondering why Alec couldn’t get involved with computers or little, digital gadgets like his sister loved to do—

But Alec Lightwood knew that he wasn’t a goddamn nerd.

He was The Pretty Boy Party Planner of NYC, and as soon as his reputation recovered—

And as soon as his dad eventually cracked and gave Alec back his Black Card—

He’d be back to his former, glorious self, planning luxurious parties, getting sloppily day-drunk on margaritas and helping Maia figure out what size Louboutin she wore in US shoe sizes.

Until then, however, he’d resigned himself to his position as Sales Manager at Toys! Toys! Toys!, a store dedicated to brand name play-sets and pricey additions to Barbie’s dream-house. Alec snagged the job due to Jace’s stellar recommendation with the Hiring Department, which included the words “my brother is kind of a gay disaster but he has a good heart...I think.”

I think.

Alec scoffed at the words, even now, as he sorted through a box of detached doll heads.

Of course, he had a good heart.

It wasn’t Alec’s fault that no one had given him the opportunity to prove it to them yet. It was like every guy in Manhattan only wanted sex, sex sex—

As soon as Alec brought up the word relationship they’d pretty much disappear on the spot like a fucking magician.

“Excuse me...um...it’s Alec, right?” The voice came from somewhere behind Alec—

But he already knew who it was.

Magnus Fucking Bane.

The most gorgeous man that Alec had ever seen in his life. Magnus had only been coming into the shop for a few weeks or so, and he seemed particularly interested in any new shipment related to doll parts, dollhouses, doll clothes...

Alec began to wonder if Magnus had a child, some super cute, super spoiled, adorable little brat of a child, who had the privilege of having Magnus as their father...

But Alec hadn’t found the courage to ask Magnus about it yet—

Really, he hadn’t found the courage to ask Magnus about anything, not even to find out if Magnus liked guys or not.

“Hi. Hey. Yeah.” Alec moved away from the objectively creepy box of heads, and turned to face Magnus, directly. “It’s Alec. And it’s...Magnus...right?”

“You remembered.” Magnus offered Alec a bright, warm smile—

And Alec felt like he was going to pass out on the spot. “What brings you in today, Magnus?”

“Oh, just wondering if you got anything new in stock...maybe...something like a doll car? Barbie jeep? Is that what it’s called?”

Alec let out a light laugh, before folding his arms across his chest. “How is it possible that you own basically every Barbie-ish thing known to man and you still don’t know what a Barbie jeep is?”

“Sorry. I’m still kind of...new at this.” Magnus blushed a deep red—

And now Alec felt like a total asshole. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry, Magnus. I’d just assumed that you’ve been buying stuff for your daughter—”

Magnus hastily shook his head. “I don’t have a daughter.”

Oh my God.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

He has a son?

He’s been buying doll stuff for his son this whole time?

HE’S SO FUCKING PROGRESSIVE.

YASSSS KING.  FUCK GENDER NORMS.

YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD DADDY.

PLEASE BE MY DADDY, TOO—

“Alec? Are you alright? You just kind of...stopped talking.” Magnus gave Alec a sheepish grin—

And Alec suddenly felt incredibly weak in the knees. Using all of the remaining energy in his body, Alec managed to formulate a response. “We have some new cars in the back. Ooh, there’s a new model that can fit your Barbie and all three of her ethnically diverse friends—”

“My...uh...Barbie...will probably just be riding solo.” Magnus smiled at Alec once again. “But please, lead the way.”

Alec quietly nodded, before nervously heading down a nearby aisle, trying his best not to trip over his own, two feet and fall flat on his face.

************************************************************

“Maiaaaaaaa.” Alec whined, as he plopped down on Maia’s living room couch. “I need helpppppp.”

“Do you actually need help? Or are you just being dramatic?” Maia took a seat beside Alec, her attention still focused on her phone.

“I’m not being dramatic. I am literally dying.” Alec whined again, before nudging Maia in her shoulder. “Magnus is so freakin’ hot. It’s ruining my life.”

“Is this the weirdo who comes in to buy all that Barbie stuff like once a week?”

“He’s not a weirdo! He’s just being a good dad...he’s just a really good daddy—”

“Alec, you know you’re no longer allowed to use that word in my apartment.” Maia finally looked up from her phone. “Not since you used that word to describe Luke. The man who is like my actual father.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, Maia! You’ve got a hot dad!” Alec openly rolled his eyes. “But now that I have your attention...please tell me how to make a boy like me, please, please, please—”

“Just be yourself, and I’m sure he’ll be into it.” Maia grinned, and casually shrugged her shoulders. “Seriously. You’re the most entertaining person I’ve ever met.”

“Maia, I’ve been myself my entire life and I am still single.” Alec groaned under his breath. “Can’t I just be someone else? Someone who Magnus will want to marry immediately?”

“Alec—Oh wait.” Maia’s phone began to chime in her palm, and she swiftly swiped a finger across her screen. “Oh, it’s Simon. He’s just sending me pics from backstage. He’s opening for Maroon 5 tonight.”

“Are you two still a thing? I thought he was dating my sister.”

“He is.”

“...And he’s also...dating you?”

“Yep.” Maia beamed, before setting her phone back in her lap. “It’s 2018, Alec Lightwood. Poly people exist.”

“I know poly people exist, Maia, I just don’t know what you see in Simon Lewis.” Alec scoffed and slightly shifted in his seat. “I think you’re settling. I gave you Jace’s number, didn’t I?”

“Alec, Jace is dating Clary.”

“Oh my God. What?” Alec, exasperated, threw his hands up in the air. “Everybody’s fucking everybody! Except me! Everybody is fucking and no one is fucking me!”

“Stop complaining. You’re white. And hot. And rich. Just get back on Grindr. Duh.” Maia reached for the TV remote, which had been resting on the table in front of the couch.

“I can’t go back to Grindr. I saw Magnus slightly bend over to pick something up from the bottom shelf once and I swear to Christ I saw washboard abs. How am I supposed to go out with a mere mortal after I’ve seen the abs of God?”

“Well, then, Alec Lightwood, you are freakin’ doomed.” Maia broke out into a chuckle, as she lazily flipped through TV channels. “Hey, what usually comes on around this time—”

“STOP.” Alec yanked the remote out of Maia’s hands, before eagerly pointing towards the TV screen. “Magnus! Look! Magnus! Look, look, look!”

There was now a very cheesy ad playing for Magnus’ Tarot Card Reading Services, complete with very cheap editing and awful font flashing his business’ number on the screen below. Magnus was featured prominently in the ad, too, in all of his lens-less glasses and dad jeans glory.

“Oh.” Maia turned her attention to the screen, a sly smile spreading across her face. “He is cute, huh? He looks really...wholesome. Wait, he runs a tarot card place? Aren’t those places mostly scams? And wait, what the hell? Is that Luke? Why the hell would Luke go to a tarot card place—”

“Who cares?! Don’t you see what this means?” Alec’s voice was filled with excitement. “If Magnus’ day job is running some corny tarot card reading place, and my day job is running some corny, corporate toy store...Maia, it means we’re in each other’s league. Magnus Bane is 1000% attainable. If I ask him out, he has to say yes!”

“Uh, no? I don’t think it means he has to say yes, Alec—”

“That’s it! The next time I see him, I’m going for it!” Alec emphatically clasped his hands together. “Tell Simon he’s not invited to our wedding, by the way.”

“Screw you, Lightwood!” Maia playfully threw a pillow at Alec’s head—

Before they began to laugh in nearly perfect unison.

********************************************************************

Alec wasn’t going to be able to do it—

Ask Magnus out.

Not today.

Oh God. Why did Magnus have to look like that today?

Magnus had come into the toy store wearing a perfectly fitted suit and Italian loafers, like he was fresh off some high-fashion runway.

It was the best that Magnus had ever looked, and Alec was having a hard enough time breathing. There was no way in hell that he’d be able to spare any oxygen to ask Magnus out on a date.

Not without dying.

But if Magnus ended up turning him down, maybe dying really wasn’t so bad.

“Alec...there you are.” Magnus was already smiling up at him. “I was worried you wouldn’t be in today. I...um...I really like...having your assistance.”

Alec anxiously giggled—

Fucking giggled—

Before letting out a shaky breath. “What did you...need assistance with...today, Magnus?”

“It’s kind of a weird question...” Magnus took a few seconds to continue on with his thoughts. “But...would you happen to have any...tiny fridges? Like...something that could fit inside a dollhouse?”

“Oh yeah, we have plenty of plastic accessories—”

“Oh. No. Not plastic. It needs to...um...it needs to actually work. Like. Something that could actually keep food...chilled.” Magnus glanced away from Alec—

And Alec’s own confusion soon showed on his face. “So, you’re looking for a...tiny fridge...that actually...works?”

“Right.”

“But...dolls don’t need to...eat...” Alec was still obviously puzzled. “I don’t quite understand. Is your son trying to put real food in Barbie’s fridge or something?”

“I don’t have a son.”

“Oh...” Alec subtly nodded in understanding. “So...you’ve just been buying all these toys for...for yourself...Are you a...uh...collector?”

“No.” A strange expression came onto Magnus’ face, as he roughly pursed his lips. “It’s just...I...I wish I could explain it to you, Alec, but it’s so—”

“For God’s sake, Magnus! Just tell the boy that you screwed up one of your spells!”

“Did you just...Did you just hear something?” Alec’s eyes went wide, as he looked around the room for the source of the previous phrase. “Um—”

“Magnus! Please! This exchange will go much smoother if you just admit the truth! He’s obviously smitten with you, don’t blow it by making him think you’re a complete loon!”

“Is that...was that...Did that come from your...pocket?” Alec quietly pointed towards the side of Magnus’ pants. “Is there...is there someone on speaker on your phone or something—”

Ragnor, who was currently about five inches tall, now forcefully poked his head through the lining of Magnus’ pocket—

And Alec struggled to suppress a primal scream.

“What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?” Alec whispered his curses, while also repeatedly forming the Sign of The Cross over his chest. “What the hell, Magnus? What the hell is that?”

“Careful, boy! I’m a person, just like you.” Ragnor’s voice was low with warning. “A very powerful person, actually, until my friend here, Magnus, convinced me to volunteer for one of his spells. I should’ve known better, the man hasn’t practiced his magic in centuries! But I still let him use me as a veritable guinea pig. Go on, Magnus, tell the boy what you were trying to accomplish with your magic.”

“I...was trying to change his outfit...” Magnus mumbled through the admission.

“I’m not sure the boy heard you, Magnus.”

“I was trying to change his outfit!” Magnus uttered a bit louder this time, before letting out a deep sigh. “I...Alec, it’s all just so stupid—”

“Your feelings aren’t stupid, Magnus.” Ragnor turned his body, until he was able to face Alec’s own. “My boy, ever since my friend has laid his eyes on you, he’s been positively enchanted by you. But he thought you wouldn’t be interested, what with your sense of impeccable style and flawless hair—”

“You think my hair is flawless?” Alec quietly directed the question to Magnus.

“I think everything about you is flawless.” Magnus’ response was earnest—

And Alec’s face lit up with a wide grin.

“As I was saying!” Ragnor grunted from his place in Magnus’ pocket. “My dear friend assumed that his own lack of fashion sense would make him unpalatable to your tastes, and so, he crafted a simple spell for dressing himself better. However, since he wanted to get it just right, he asked for my assistance, a stand-in, if you will. And...well...here we are.”

Ragnor motioned a hand across his tiny frame. “And here we’ll be, for at least another month and a half. Which is why I truly need that miniature fridge, my boy. Taking such small bites out of rather large foods is such a tiring task.”

“I don’t...I don’t think we have any...uh...small fridges...” Alec began to respond to Ragnor, still having to suppress his urge to scream. “But...I know a nerd! I know a nerd who probably owes me one for ruining my reputation. She’d, maybe, love to help you two figure this thing out?”

“Ah, yes. A nerd. She sounds lovely!” Ragnor smiled up at Alec. “If I trusted Magnus’ magic, I’d just have him shrink a regular fridge down to size, but I wouldn’t want it exploding or becoming sentient.”

“How many times do I have to apologize...” Magnus groaned, before shaking his pocket—

Which caused Ragnor to retreat back into its lining.

“You’re taking all this pretty well, Alec.” Magnus hesitantly made eye contact by looking above him. “Are you...Are you feeling okay?”

“I think someone put LSD in my water bottle.” Alec nodded along with his words. “I didn’t plan on getting super fucking high at work today, but that’s life, right? You win some, you lose some—”

“You’re not high, Alec.” Magnus slightly smirked. “What you saw is very real. I...well...I’m a...warlock.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m a warlock. I have magical powers.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You know, warlocks? Witches? Pointy hats? Borderline offensive Halloween costumes?”

“I don’t understand.”

Magnus finally let out a breath through gritted teeth. “Harry Potter.”

“Ohhhhh.” Alec smiled back at Magnus. “Cool, cool, cool. So, do you wanna’ like, go out on a date? Or nah?”

“You’re asking me out on a date? Right after...that?”

“Listen, I’ll be honest with you, Magnus. I’m still 98% sure that I’m high as balls right now. And usually, when I’m sober, I’m a very confident person, but you make me nervous as fuck and I could never ask you out if I wasn’t under the influence...so...yeah...” Alec smiled at Magnus again. “I’m asking you out right now. Do you wanna’ go out with me? Or maybe we can just go make out in the stock room?”

“I actually have a client to attend to this afternoon...” Magnus’ response trailed off, before he took a step closer to Alec. “But we can always reschedule making out for another time? And we can schedule that date for tomorrow night, if you’d like?”

“I’d like that very much.” Alec grabbed onto Magnus’ palms, soon giving them a gentle squeeze—

And Magnus, in turn, nonchalantly interlaced their fingers. “What time do you get off work? I can pick you up, maybe take you to this Italian place down the street—”

“Magnus, please! Just get the boy’s number and return us to the loft! Traveling in your pocket is most uncomfortable!”

“Little pocket dude is right. If you have a client, you should probably head back.” Alec sighed, as he let go of Magnus’ hands. “Can I just text you?”

“Of course. My number is N-O-H-A-R-R-Y.”

“Magnus Bane, what did Harry Potter ever do to you?” Alec laughed, while slightly adjusting his nametag. “Ugh. I should probably get back to work, too. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Okay.” Magnus didn’t move an inch, as he continued to stare over at Alec—

And Alec returned the concentrated gaze. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing. You’re just...so...you.” Magnus openly smiled—

And Alec quickly returned the expression. “You’re just so, you, too. Now, go on, get.”

Before Magnus was even a few feet out of the store’s front door, Alec was already hunched over his phone and shooting off a string of instant messages to Maia:

PrinceOfParties: I think someone spiked my water bottle with LSD

PrinceOfParties: can you google if that’s possible

PrinceofParties: I was talking to a little man in Magnus’ pocket

BlackWonderWoman: Alec what the fuck are you talking about? If you’re high you should just go home early

BlackWonderWoman: And is “little man” code for Magnus’ dick? Did you see Magnus’ dick today?

PrinceofParties: no he had a pocket man!!! he was really little and kinda’ mean

PrinceofParties: OH AND I asked Magnus out!!! He’s taking me out tomorrow!!!

BlackWonderWoman: FUCK YES I TOLD YOU TO JUST BE YOURSELF

PrinceofParties: can you come pick me up? I don’t think I should drive

PrinceofParties: I wanna’ start getting ready for my date

BlackWonderWoman: But isn't your date tomorrow night??? Alec it’s like 1PM

PrinceofParties: please? : (

BlackWonderWoman: Alright! Fine! I’ll be right there.

THE END! ALSO ENJOY THIS BANNER I MADE FOR LITERALLY NO REASON L O L

[babybluebanshee]

Seared With Scars - Chapter 5

*rises from the ashes* I LIIIIIIIIVE.

I am so sorry this took so long, guys. Real life and other fandoms just shoved their way into my life and I couldn't keep up with this. But now I'm back, hopefully to finally put this baby to rest in the next couple of months.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: torture, discussions of death, and mentions of a suicide attempt.

Previous Chapter

“Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears.”

- Rudyard Kipling

--------------------

Helen wanted a nap. And a drink. And mostly a puzzle.

Her head buzzed with pain and agitation, and she wanted to curl into a ball and have it be this morning again. She would have slept through the ringing phone, ripped it out of the wall if she had to, and gone back to sleep. She would not have woken up until the kids needed to be picked up Monday evening.

Tonight had, in no small words, been a nightmare. She didn’t need this right now. She didn’t want to be reduced to the hysterical woman, screaming and fainting and drowning in her own angst, but it was very hard not to fall into the pattern. Being attacked in her own home, an obviously-brewing conspiracy, and now a world-ending portal? All with Muggins’ stupid comments sprinkled on top?

God, she really wished she’d packed a puzzle. Her fingers twitched with the anxious need. Even a measly 100-piece one would have sufficed right now.

Rain began to pelt the side of the house. Thunder rumbled outside, announcing the strengthening storm. A gust of wind rattled the bare branches of the trees, making the rain slap against the wooden walls of the cabin harder. It was going to be a bad one.

She heard Stan come up next to where she sat on the couch, looking off at nothing. Every step he took was nervous. Ever since Fiddleford had gotten his desired toolbox and scampered off upstairs to tinker with the gun, Stan’s entire attitude toward her had changed.

Where he’d been flippantly dismissive of the portal and her reaction to it when she’d first seen it and subsequently freaked out, now he edged around her like she was a ticking time bomb. She supposed, in a way, she was. Her entire body felt wound too tightly, and her head radiated with painful heat.

Stan hadn’t spoken a word to her since she’d sat down sat down, pointedly looking away from him, and she preferred it that way. She wondered  how much he knew about that odd portal downstairs. How much had Ford shared with his brother about it? The basics and nothing more? Or did Stan know exactly how much hell his brother had been through because of the portal?

Another bolt of pain flared, right behind her eyes. She pulled her glasses off, tossed them down to the other end of the couch, and put her head in her knees. The headache was making her slightly nauseous. She hadn’t felt this way in quite some time.

She felt something cold being pressed to the side of her head. It was amazing, and she wanted to let it sit there forever and ever.

Looking up, she saw Stan there, holding out a frosty can of beer. He held another, presumably for himself, in his other hand. His face reminded her of Scott’s, specifically the day he’d failed a huge math test and was thinking of a million and one ways to beg his mother’s forgiveness.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. She lifted her head the rest of the way out of her knees and took the beer. She pressed it against her forehead, then let her eyes slide shut as the cold, wet tin soothed away the worst of the pain. It was almost enough to put her to sleep.

“Not exactly the medicinal purpose I had in mind for that,” Stan joked weakly. Silence hung between them as he waited for her to joke back. She said nothing, just opened her eyes and looked at him blankly. The failed-math-test look deepened, and he said, “Ya know, I can get you some ice or something, if you need it.”

“This is fine,” she replied. She was being standoffish, but she had no energy for anything else.

Stan shifted nervously, looking at the floor. The beer hung limply by his side, and he fiddled with the tab with his thumb. He looked very much like he didn’t belong.

And that just made Helen feel like garbage. This was Stan’s home, and she was making him feel like he didn’t belong there. Stan and Ford had told her in very brief detail about their father’s cruel punishment when Stan was a teenager, but she didn’t need much to understand two things about it.

One: if she ever met their sorry excuse for a father, she was going to deck him right in his stupid face.

Two: that, even though Stan shrugged and waved off his time on the street, it still bothered him. It hung around him some days, oppressive and heavy. There was a fear there when it did - fear of being cast out again, of what he considered family turning on him and leaving him a second time. And Helen never wanted anyone to feel like that in her presence, least of all Stan. She liked him too much to ever be the one to make him feel like he wasn’t wanted.

She heaved a heavy sigh, and said, “I’m sorry, Stan. I don’t mean to be this way. I just -”

Stan seemed to relax immensely, and smiled a bit. “Don’t apologize,” he said, finally raising his beer and snapping the tab. “You’ve had a crazy night. Not the least of which is helped by that hunk of junk in the basement.”

Helen felt a heat rise to her cheeks, and didn't reply right away. There was that “hysterical, fainting woman” thing screaming in her head again. It made her feel burdensome, dainty, useless. She knew that, compared to the likes of Ford, Stan, and even Fiddleford, she was woefully inexperienced with the unusual. She’d experienced it, to be sure, and it had left its mark on her, body and soul. But, by comparison, her small, paltry scratches were nothing compared to the scars her friends bore. She felt like the swooning heroine on the poster for a sci-fi B-movie, a shrieking load with nothing helpful to offer. She never wanted to be that afraid.

Her rational side knew that Stan didn’t mean to imply anything. He was only trying to be nice. But her rational side was also very, very tired, and not willing to put up much of a fight.

She decided that the soothing buzz of alcohol sounded pretty good right now. One beer certainly wouldn't be able to do it for her, but she was certain there was more stashed in the Pines brothers’ fridge. She popped the tab, and tipped it back into her mouth. The beer was cheap, and tasted bitter going down. But once it hit her stomach, the comforting warmth spread like the embrace of an old friend. The sensation of wanting to burp filled her. It felt nice, and she was relieved to find it taking more of the edge off her headache.

When she lowered her head again, a slightly fuzzy Stan was staring at her. She had to think for a second before remembering that she took off her glasses. She leaned forward and started

pawing around for them. “One of the many trials of the bespectacled,” she mumbled. “Lose your glasses, but you can’t see to find your glasses. You see my problem.”

“You can’t even see your problem,” Stan said without missing a beat.

Helen couldn’t stop the barking laugh that escaped her, and it shook her so much that she nearly lost her grip on her beer. She found that it felt so very good to laugh. Easy too. Maybe this beer was stronger than she gave it credit for.

Stan chuckled beside her, and walked to the end of the couch, picking up her glasses, all but invisible against the dark fabric of the couch. He held them out to her, and she quickly took them and slid them on her face. “Thanks,” she said. “Now you’re less fuzzy.”

“Welcome,” Stan said. He settled himself down on the end of the couch. Helen noticed he was a lot less rigid than when he’d first come back in. “You’d think, being bespectacled and all, you’d manage to keep better track of those things. Maybe you need one of those old lady chains to hold them on.”

“I’m only forty, Stan. Let me retain my dignity for another ten years, at least.”

Stan chuckled again, popped the tab on his beer, and took a swig. A strange look passed over his face. “Ford does that kind of stuff all the time. Has ever since we were kids. Sets them down, forgets where. Or puts them on top of his head, and spends twenty minutes tearing the house apart trying to find them. I give him all kinds of hell for it. I’ve have more than one book thrown at me because of the bad glasses puns.”

Stan trailed off, staring down at the can in his hands. Concern tugged at his features. Helen felt an empathetic lurch in her stomach. The rain picked up, followed by another rumble of thunder.

There had still been no word from Ford, and with this storm, it wasn’t safe for any of them to go out and look for him. Stan had tried to remain calm about the whole situation, but Helen knew that he was very, very close to falling apart.

But they could only keep hoping that Ford was okay, and would contact them soon. Outside, the rain lessened, but a stronger, louder crash of thunder filled the void. The storm would not let up for some time. Stan tightened his grasp on his beer. Helen could see the sides denting in from the force of it.

She reached out a hand, and gently set it on Stan’s hand. She said, “Stan, I’m sure he’s okay. Ford has faced a whole mess of weird shit coming out of that forest. Whatever is happening to him now, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Stan looked up at her, and Helen could tell he did not believe her. His eyes remained a steadfast beacon of brotherly love and concern. But he smiled at her, just to placate her, she knew. She had to take his mind off things. She looked around the room, hoping to find something, anything, to talk about, to distract him. Maybe, in a way, distract herself from her own nagging thoughts.

She saw a stack of books on the floor, tucked away at the side of the couch. Library books, it seemed, from the white sticker on the spine. Tucking her beer between her legs, she pulled the stack closer, so she could look through it. A Stephen King sat on top. Definitely not interested, thanks. She’d had nightmares for a week when, at age seventeen, Henry Stickler took her to see The Tingler at the movies. He’d been hoping that she’d cuddle up to him during the scary parts so he could heroically comfort her. What he’d gotten was her bashing him right in the face with her purse when Vincent Price warned them the Tingler was loose in the theater, and her seat began to jolt.

She’d obviously been adverse to horror fiction ever since. She moved the King aside, and looked at the rest.

The next was The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. Pass.

Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury. Dammit, didn’t Stan ever want to read something pleasant?

The final book in the stack was, if anything, the one that confused her the most - Crossing the Water by Sylvia Plath. She picked it up, eyebrow arched. It seemed to get Stan’s attention, and he looked over at her.

She opened the book and thumbed through a few pages, saying offhandedly to Stan, “You don’t strike me as a poetry type of guy, let alone Sylvia Plath.”

“I read Ariel a few years ago,” he said. He took another long swig of beer. Helen suddenly

remembered what that chilly sensation between her legs was, and brought her own beer up for another drink. “Back when I was still on my own. Friend of mine introduced us. At the time, the anger spoke to me. Especially “Daddy”. You can probably guess why.” Another long drink of beer, this time with heavy gulps.

Helen nodded, and quickly changed the subject. “I read The Bell Jar when I was a senior in college. My roommate actually wrote my parents because she thought I was suicidal. They drove five hours to make sure I was still breathing.” She knew that was a stupid thing to say as a silly anecdote, and yet it’d tumbled tumbled out of her mouth anyway. She supposed she was distracted by the warm, slushy feeling in her belly caused by the beer. She took another drink, to add to it.

“There’s more to her than the anger and the suicide,” Stan said. Helen was actually pretty surprised at how firm his tone was. “She’s intense, but she’s focused, and she can write about a lot of issues that hardly any poets like talking about.

Helen couldn’t stop staring. he recalled earlier, when Stan had mentioned Ford thinking of him as the guy for the heavy lifting. She couldn’t imagine Ford or Stan ever being more wrong in their lives.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp trill of the phone, so loud, even when battling against the storm outside, it made Helen and Stan nearly jump out of their skin. Stan even lost his grip on his beer, and it nearly fell to the floor. He managed to grab it before it sailed too far away.

As soon as Stan got his bearings back, he leapt to his feet, and jogged to the kitchen. Helen felt good for him. It was probably Ford, calling to say he was trying to head back, but the rain was just too heavy. He was probably sitting in a booth at Greasy’s, waiting for it to pass before heading back home, safe and sound.

Helen thumbed through the book while she waited for Stan to come back, deflated and heavy with relief. She scanned some of the poems briefly. She thought vaguely that she needed to check this book out when Stan returned it. She hadn’t returned to Plath after the embarrassing incident with her parents rushing up to her school. Maybe it was time to change that.

“Yeah, she is, hang on,” Helen heard Stan say from the kitchen. She lifted her head, curiosity piqued. Was Ford asking about her? She wondered why. A petty, silly part of her (probably more than a little effected by the beer; how strong was this stuff anyway?) hoped he just wanted to tell her that he was sorry for swiping her car, and he’d wash it for her if she wanted.

She heard Stan walking back to the living room, and turned to him. He looked decidedly dejected. When he looked up at Helen, his eyes were red, betraying the fact he was ready to fall to pieces, cry out of sheer frustration. Guilt surged through her as he said, “It’s Daisy. She wants to talk to you.”

Confusion mixed with the guilt as Helen got up from the couch, setting her beer off to the side where it wouldn't be kicked over. She flicked a glance up at the clock on the wall. It was half past eleven, and generally, her children were in bed by now. It was one of the few things none of the kids had ever fought her on, Daisy especially. Unlike most teenagers, Daisy wasn’t rebelling or trying to buck her mother’s authority by disregarding a childish bedtime. If anything, Daisy couldn’t get to bed soon enough. She loved to sleep. She took naps whenever she could, and went to bed early on school nights, knowing that going to sleep around ten-thirty meant the maximum amount of sleep possible before her alarm went off at six. It was one of the many things Helen smirked about when discussing the perils and pratfalls of motherhood with her PTA friends.

She walked towards the kitchen, trying her damnedest to ignore Stan throwing himself sullenly against the couch, disappointment practically radiating off him. At the same time, she figured Daisy wouldn’t risk long distance charges to Michael’s credit card (not that he was hurting, but she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate it) if this was just calling to say hello. Her maternal instincts for her flesh and blood overruled those for her friend, no matter how upset he was at the moment.

Stan had left the phone laying face up on the kitchen table. Helen picked it up, trying not to think too hard about the fact it stuck to the formica a little. She really needed to remind the Pines brothers to clean up after themselves more often. Then she shoved that thought to the back of her head, knowing Stan really wouldn’t want to hear it right now.

She held the phone to her ear and said, “Daisy?”

“Hi, Mom.” Her daughter sounded like she was lounging, and hadn’t a care at all in the world, but her voice was soft, like she was trying very hard not to be quiet and not wake anyone.

“Hi, sweetie. Everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. I’m super exhausted though. We went to the marina and Michael took us on his boat. I had to stop Amanda from trying to carry every fish she saw home in a bucket. She thought you’d like that as a souvenir.”

Helen forced a chuckle, even though the questions on her tongue were slowly but surely chipping their way forward. A beat of silence stretched between them.

Daisy suddenly spoke up again, “Before you ask how I knew where to call, I already tried calling the house. When you didn’t pick up, I figured you were with the Wonder Twins.”

This time, Helen chuckled in earnest. “Yeah, it was getting kind of lonely around the house,” she lied, thinking only for a moment about how easily it rolled off her tongue. “I think I may actually be getting used to the three of you running around like crazies.”

Daisy laughed a little.Or rather, released a burst of hot air from her nose that was supposed to constitute a laugh. Helen knew she was smirking too. Very distinctly Daisy.

“So,” Helen continued nonchalantly, ignoring the part of her that told her to hurry up, stop tying up the line, Stan was worried enough as it was, “does Michael know he’s going to be receiving some bills for a long-distance call his niece made when she should have been asleep?”

She could practically feel Daisy’s eyes rolling through the phone. “Chill out, Mom. Uncle Mike said we can use the phone whenever we need. A call home is totally cool with him.”

Another beat of silence.

“Besides,” Daisy added quickly, her voice suddenly very strange, “He got really badly sunburned, so he’s sleeping that off. And let me tell you, sunburn comas make a person sleep like a rock. You’d think, living in San Francisco, he’d be, like, immune to sunburns by now, or something.”

“I see,” Helen said. She felt something akin to anxiety churn in her gut. The way Daisy spoke, and the phone call from out of the blue, while everyone was asleep. She had to know. “So, to what do I owe this late night phone call? It’s almost midnight. I figured you’d be asleep by now and wouldn’t be awake for another twelve hours.”

Yet another beat of silence. Helen could picture Daisy on the other end of the line, nervously biting her lip. That was holdover from her childhood, something she always did when she had something unpleasant on her mind.

“Sweetie?” Helen said gently. “Is something wrong?”

“I guess I wouldn’t really say wrong, exactly,” Daisy replied slowly. “I just wanted to make sure, ya know, that you were okay. Ya know, by yourself.”

“Oh hon, I was just kidding about being lonely,” Helen said, feeling a heat rise to her cheeks. She certainly didn’t want to come off as clingy and protective as her own mother. “I’ve got the Tweedles to keep me company.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Daisy said, her voice almost stern. It made Helen’s gut tighten again.

“Well, what did you mean?” she asked.

Daisy took a deep breath, and said, “Next Saturday, it’ll have been two years.”

A low rumble of thunder shook the floor under Helen’s feet as realization dawned on her. All she could manage was a soft, almost whispered, “Oh.”

“I wanted to talk to you about it alone,” Daisy continued. “I didn’t want Scott or Amanda to get upset. I mean, last year, it was kind of a mess.”

“I wouldn’t call it a mess - “ Helen offered weakly.

“You called out of work,” Daisy replied. It made Helen feel as though she were the chastened teenager here, answering to a mother who was only concerned and wanted to help. And how wrong was that?

“Amanda almost got sent home because she was so worried about you. Gave herself indigestion,” Daisy continued. Helen could tell her daughter was not trying to make her feel guilty. She spoke plainly, just stating the facts as they’d occurred. “But she thought that having to pick her up would just make you sadder, so she told her teacher she was okay.”

She wanted to say that she would have been fine if Amanda had come home early. When she’d come home at three-thirty on the bus, like usual, and complained of a sour stomach, hadn’t Helen immediately leapt to her child’s aid, offering her antacids and water and a gentle tucking into bed early?

She had. But a small part of her knew that Daisy was right too. At the time, she probably wouldn’t have handled Amanda coming home early very well. She’d been too busy being the hysterical woman. Wallowing. Feeling sorry for herself.

Helen’s gut clenched again, this time in disgust at her own weakness. She almost missed Daisy speaking up again.

“I’m sorry to bring up this painful stuff again, Mom,” Daisy said. She sounded so sincere, so guilty.  Helen wanted to hug that feeling out of her. A fourteen-year-old girl should not be having that feeling towards her own mother.

“I just want to avoid all that again,” Daisy continued. Her voice was becoming very small. She sounded several years younger than she was. “Not just for Scott and Amanda.”

The “and me” remained unspoken, but Helen knew it was there.

“I just want you to be okay,” Daisy said. Her breath was somewhat labored, like saying those words was the emotional equivalent of sprinting a great distance. “I felt so scummy taking this trip without you.”

It was Helen’s turn to interrupt. “Daisy Jane, don’t you dare say that. You have nothing to feel guilty about, alright?”

Daisy didn’t reply.

Helen sighed a little and said, “I appreciate your concern, sweetheart. And I’m not going to deny that, yeah, last year was rough. But everything was still fresh. Wounds that haven’t healed yet are easy to agitate and get bleeding again, know what I mean?”

Daisy offered a weak, “Yeah.”

“But things are getting better all the time, Daze,” Helen said. “I’m getting better all the time. I’ve found ways of coping. And I owe a lot of that to you and your brother and your sister. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it weren’t for you guys.”

Daisy sniffled a little. If she started crying, Helen knew she would too. She had seen a great deal of death during her time at the hospital, and had pretty well learned to control her emotions in that setting of disease and loss and pain. But if one of her children cried in her presence, Helen fell apart. She cried right along with them, until they both were out of tears to shed.

And she’d had enough of that two years ago to last her a lifetime.

Helen swallowed thickly, pushing back the heat that flushed her face, and said, “Hey, listen.

You know what we’re gonna do?”

“Hmm?” was all Daisy offered. It was weak and tight with impending tears.

“Next Saturday, the four of us are going to have a day of nothing but fun,” Helen replied. “We’re gonna go to the mall, and we’ll go to any store you guys want. I’ll buy you all something, whatever you want. We’re gonna splurge like crazy. Make your grandma cluck her tongue at our extravagance.”

Daisy gave a small chuckle. Helen could practically hear a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Helen continued, “And then, after we’ve bought out the mall, we’re gonna go to whatever restaurant you guys want. Somewhere delicious and terrible for us. We’re going to eat and drink and repeat until we can barely move. We’re going to have so much fun, we’re going to forget why that day is supposed to be sad. Deal?”

Daisy sniffed, drying her tears, and said, “Deal.”

Helen’s gut finally loosened, allowing relief to flood through her. “Good,” she breathed. “Great.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. There seemed to be something a lot less painful in this one, something calm and accepting. It almost made Helen forget everything that had happened throughout the day. About the current clusterfuck that was her life. About the fact her friend was missing, and his brother was on the verge of an anxiety-induced aneurysm because of it.

All that mattered right now was her, and her baby.

The amicable silence was broken by Daisy suddenly letting out a long, loud yawn.

Helen smiled a bit and said, “Hey, little girl, it’s almost midnight. I think you need to get some sleep.”

“I guess,” Daisy mumbled, her response heavy and tired. “You’re sure you’re okay though?”

“I’m positive, sweetheart.”

“Kay,” Daisy answered lazily. Helen heard leather groan in the background, from Michael’s loveseat, overlooking his ocean view. Daisy suddenly spoke again, her voice slightly more alert than a few moments ago. “I forgot to ask,” she said. “Do any good puzzles lately?”

Before Helen could answer, she was alerted to the sound of someone running, directly above her head, somewhere on the second floor. Fiddleford was rushing down the steps, panting in excitement. Helen saw him stumble into the hallway, looking around, looking like he was ready to burst with the news he had.

Helen turned her attention back to the phone and said, “Yeah, I’m actually working on one right now. Hardest one I’ve ever done.” She flicked a glance over at Fiddleford, who’d finally caught sight of her, and looked practically sheepish for creating a stir during her conversation. He even shuffled his feet a bit.

“Okay,” Daisy said, the words almost swallowed up in another yawn. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, honey.”

“Oh, and Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Daisy.”

And then the line was dead.

Helen hung the phone back on the wall, and wished to God that there had been more time. She knew that her children would only be gone a few more days, but she found herself wanting now more than ever to just scoop them up in her arms and never let them go.

Was she doing the right thing, allowing herself to get mixed up in the Pines brothers’ escapades? It was fine when it was just gnomes and other harmless things. But now things were serious. Very serious. Missing persons and possible kidnapping and grievous bodily harm serious.

This wasn’t just the hysterical woman talking now. This was her own grounded worry, clear and sharp through a mother’s lens. She didn’t want to give her children anymore reason to worry about her.

She was their mother. Worrying for them was her job.

She heard Stan speak up then, addressing Fiddleford. “What’s the ruckus, little man?”  Even though Stan was trying to be familiar, casual, like he didn’t have a care in the world, it fell flat. His voice was still stretched thin, indicative of a man ready to burst.

Fiddleford either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, lost in his own excitement and achievement as he was. He looked up at Helen with what could only be described as unbridled glee, and motioned for Helen to follow. “You won’t believe this,” he said, beginning to walk towards the living room. “I figured it out.”

Taking a deep breath, Helen followed. She hoped her beer was still cold.

She really wished she had brought a puzzle.

------------

Ford flinched as the gun in the video went off again. Even the small movement made his aching head throb.

This was the third time he’d seen his friend completely destroy his mind, bit by bit, in a vain attempt to save himself from the horrors he’d faced.

Horrors Ford had foisted on him.

Three times, Ford’s traitorous mind chanted your fault your fault all your fault.

His stomach lurched with guilt. His eyes involuntarily began to mist, hot tears fogging his cracked glasses. Pain dealt by an angry boot lit his entire body on fire.

Ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, even as he sat stock still, watching his friend’s life crumble over and over and over again. These ropes made his brain belch up memories of a knife at his palm. Of the bottom of the stairs, and not remembering how he got there. Those ropes, more than anything, made him think of Bill. And thinking of Bill - the possibility that he was there, still hiding in the darkest corners of his mind, laughing at him - made him want to crawl into a hole and die.

Ford felt Ivan squeeze his shoulder, tightly, in a warning. There were always more bones to crack. Always more flesh to bruise. More wounds to inflict, inside and out.

The video of the memories ended once again, Fiddleford’s small, broken body pausing as he held the gun to his temple, ready to fire. Fiddleford’s desperate gaze met Ford’s.

With the memories stopped, another wave of guilt crashed over Ford. He slumped forward a bit, wanting to cry or maybe vomit. Ivan tightening his grip on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him somewhat grounded.

A beat of silence passed, oppressive and suffocating. When Ivan spoke, it was like a freshly-sharpened blade had sliced through the air. “You know what you need to do to make this stop, Dr. Pines,” he said. His tight, threatening grip never wavered for a moment.

Ford knew very well what he had to do. Ivan wanted Fiddleford. It would be so easy. Four words and Ivan would grant him his freedom. That would be the end of it if he just said one thing.

Come on, sixer. Hasn’t that bumpkin caused you enough pain already?

The taunting thought came from a place in Ford didn’t recognize. A dark, angry, tired place that demanded respite. He’d suffered enough, it told him. Let someone else suffer for once. Some mistakes you just can’t fix. Just give up Fiddleford, and he could go back to his life. Go back to healing. His brother was waiting for him. He was already dealing with one mess he’d caused. Why pile more on himself? To feel like some kind of martyr? To punish himself?

And then his mind would latch on to that and scream again punish punish you must suffer this is all your fault your fault ALL YOUR FAULT.

“You are shaking, doctor.”

Ford’s eyes shot open. He didn’t even remember shutting them. He cast a glance down at his hands. Ivan was right. They trembled under the ropes, sending tremors up his entire body.

“You’re exhausted, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said. He lazily let his hand fall from Ford’s shoulder. Surprisingly sharp fingernails dug into his arm as Ivan moved in front of Ford, blocking the frozen image of Fiddleford. He leaned down, reached out, and cupped Ford’s chin in his hand. He raised Ford’s heavy head to look him in the face. Ford found himself oddly focused on the red, filmed-over eye that seemed to bore into his skull.

“I can make this end,” Ivan said softly. “All I need is McGucket.”

Ford felt his lips fall apart, ready to let words trickle forth. He was just so tired.

The screen on the monitor flickered, drawing Ford’s eye. He was once again locked with the image of his friend - Fiddleford McGucket, brilliant, kind, good, so much better than Ford deserved, reducing himself to a mocking parody.

Fiddleford deserved better than Ford as his friend. But he also deserved help. And Ivan and this mad cult was not who was going to give it to him.

Ford brought his gaze back to Ivan. There was a certain triumphant smugness in Ivan’s face. It was like staring into the face of a hungry mountain lion that knew it had its prey trapped. A fire rose up in Ford’s belly, drowning the guilt and the pain and the desperation for a brief moment.

He hated this son of a bitch.

“No,” Ford croaked.

Ivan’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Ford would have mirrored that smug smirk himself if just thinking about smiling didn’t make his face hurt.

Ivan sighed and straightened himself up. It was in that instance that Ford knew what was coming, and began to brace himself. Ivan had beaten him once when Ford had refused him. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t happen again. Despite looking so sickly and thin, Ivan was surprisingly strong. A pain shot through Ford at the mere thought of Ivan’s foot coming down on his rib cage again.

Ivan began to move his hands. Ford screwed his eyes shut, preparing to be struck.

He heard Ivan clap his hands together. Cracking open his eyes, Ford saw that Ivan had indeed clasped his hands together in front of him, with a strange look on his face. Ivan almost looked...excited. Like a tour guide, showing off priceless antiquities to the ignorant public, hoping to educate them. The expression Ivan now wore wasn’t the smug grin or the calm smirk. It was a full-toothed smile, and it was just so...plastic. Wrong.

It sent a shiver down Ford’s spine.

“If that is your decision, Dr. Pines,” Ivan said, a chilling eagerness in his voice, “then I suppose we shall simply have to watch the memories again.”

Before Ford could even begin to react, Ivan’s hand shot out, clamping down around the ropes that bound Ford’s right wrist to the chair. Ivan inched his hand down, until he grasped Ford’s index finger.

Then he pulled the finger backwards. Ford let out a cry of shock when pain shot through him again.

“And this time,” Ivan said, a sinister edge creeping into his voice, his eyes wide and wild, “for every minute of footage that goes by, and you say nothing, I shall snap one of your fingers. You have twelve, Dr. Pines. Do you think you can hold out for twelve more minutes?” Ivan punctuated the question by pulling Ford’s finger back further. Ford let out a gasp of pain and he felt muscles tighten, joints grind. He couldn’t take this.

There was a knock at the door.

Ivan stopped pulling, but didn’t release Ford’s finger right away, even as Ford gasped and tried to wriggle it out of his grasp.

Finally, letting out a sigh reminiscent of a perturbed teenager, Ivan rolled his eyes, released Ford’s fingers, and put his hood back up. Then he walked over to the door and opened it.

Another hooded figure stood there, bowed their head slightly. “Sir,” they said. “There is a matter than needs your attending.”

“Can’t it wait?” Ivan barked. “I am in the middle of something.”

“Another argument has broken out. I fear things will escalate unless you calm things down.”

Ivan muttered something under his breath Ford didn’t bother trying to decipher. Then he spoke to the hooded follower at the door. “Stay here with the interloper,” Ivan commanded.

The hooded figure nodded, stepping into the room quickly enough to let Ivan flounce out of the room, robe billowing behind him. He pulled the door shut with a deafening, angry slam. The hooded figure now in the room with Ford barely moved at the heavy thud.

As the pain faded in his finger, Ford looked up at this new figure before him. They had a short and stout built, and, like the others he’d seen, their face was completely shrouded by their hood. Even so, as the figure stood there in silence, Ford could feel their eyes trained on him.

Ivan had mentioned his followers hated Ford. And now he was stuck with one. He felt his heart rate pick up, pounding in his ears as he tried to prepare himself for the pain.

Maybe he would have been better off with Ivan.

The follower began to move towards him. Ford couldn’t help but let out a tiny whimper as he ducked his head and tried to think of anything else but what was about to happen.

A gentle hand touched the back of his head, fingers ghosting over the wound left by the blow Ford had received. The figure let out a low noise in their throat, almost like consideration. Then they pressed, very lightly, on the blood-crusted hair and down against the flesh of his skull. It felt like a hammer had been slammed into the base of his neck, and he couldn’t help but yelp loudly, jerking his head a bit to get away from the thing causing him pain.

“Sorry,” Ford heard the figure say softly. He felt the hands leave his head immediately. One of them rested on his hand, his right one. The one with the fingers Ivan had tried to snap. He instinctively curled his fingers into a fist, trying to protect them.

The hand pulled away, and Ford could almost feel the shame in it. “Oh no,” the figure breathed. “No, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see. Is that okay?”

The hand was suddenly back, gently squeezing the fist Ford had made. It was placating, reassuring, comforting. The touch of a parent soothing a child.

Ford cracked open his eyes. The figure’s hand was still there, still squeezing. “Don’t be afraid,” the figure said. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

He couldn’t help himself. A long, keening cry burst forth. After hours of nothing but torment and pain, this gentle touch, the kind words, they were like being doused with cold water. He felt hot tears brimming again, didn’t care that they fogged up his glasses and left him blind. More ragged sobs escaped him as he let his head loll forward.

Gentle fingers brushed the hair away from his face, then smoothed it back into place. The hooded follower was actually petting Ford’s head. In between sobs, Ford heard soft, soothing nonsense being muttered to him, telling him it’d be alright, he was okay, he was safe for the time being.

He didn’t even really have it in him to be confused. He just wanted to relish in the touch forever.

The figure continued to pet his head until he began to calm down a little, which must have at least been another several minutes. Finally, as he hiccuped and sniffed, the figure said, “You need to tell him what he wants to know.”

Ford lifted his head up a fraction, and let out a tiny, “What?”

“Ivan. When he comes back, you need to tell him where Fiddleford is. He won’t stop until you do.”

“I c-can’t,” Ford stammered out, trying to sound less like a frightened child. He didn’t succeed. “He...he can’t...Fiddleford needs help.”

“I know,” the follower said. Ford was almost shocked the frankness of the response. “And I know Ivan is a madman that can’t give him that help. But that’s precisely why you need to tell Ivan what he wants to know.”

“But I can’t-”

“If you don’t, he’ll keep going until he kills you.”

Ford felt like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He felt himself begin to tremble again. He must have let another tear slip, because the hooded figure stopped smoothing his hair and put a gentle hand on his cheek, wiping it away with their thumb.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” they told him. “But Ivan will kill you if he doesn’t get what he wants. And if he kills you, he’ll just go after your brother and your friend.”

Ford choked back rising bile. He knew Stan and Helen wouldn’t let anything happen to Fiddleford. They’d fight. That’s the kind of people they were. But if they went up against a person like Ivan.

He let out an involuntary whimper at the thought.

“I’m so sorry,” the figure began. Before they could say anything else, the door was thrown open, slamming against the wall with a bang.

“And what, may I ask, is going on here?” Ivan’s voice dripped like poisoned honey.

The follower scrambled to straighten up, ripping their warm hand away from Ford’s face. He missed it immediately.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they said frantically, bowing quickly at the waist. “I was...well, I...I just…”

Ivan raised a hand to silence his follower, who shrank in on themselves like a scared child. “I do expect an explanation from you, but we shall deal with that later. For the time being, I have a job to finish with our guest.”

Even though Ford couldn’t see Ivan turn his face towards him, he could feel that red, filmy eye boring into him.

In an instant, visions of horror flashed before his eyes. More torture from Ivan - broken fingers, more beatings, watching his friend destroy himself over and over again. And then, when Ivan finally used him up, he’d move on to Stan and Helen. Subject them to the same tortures, probably worse because they were bound to fight back.

Ford screwed his eyes shut, desperate to chase away the images of those he cared for left broken and bleeding by this monstrous man. Desperation and fear clawed in his belly. His whole body trembled.

“He’s in my cabin!”

Ivan and the follower both swung their heads in Ford’s direction. It took him a minute to realize the shrill declaration had come from him.

A beat of silence filled the room, and Ford allowed the utter, helpless failure engulf him completely.

He’d failed. It was all his fault. He’d doomed Fiddleford to the life he’d been trying to save him from.

“Excellent,” Ivan said. Ford could hear the smile in his voice. It made him sick. “I’m so glad you finally see things from our point of view, Dr. Pines.”

Ford wanted to strangle him.

“The hour is late, though,” Ivan said casually. “And this storm has not lessened. I believe you’ll keep until tomorrow, doctor.”

“W-wait,” Ford sputtered, “you said you’d let me go if I told you where he was.”

“Doctor, you wound me,” Ivan said. There was that detestable smirk again. “What sort of host would I be if I sent you home in a downpour?” He made his way towards the door, the hooded follower slinking behind him. Ford saw the follower look back over their shoulder at him. Even though he couldn’t see their face, he knew they looked as helpless as he felt.

Ivan reached the door, ushering his follower out in front of him. As he stepped through the doorway, Ivan said, “Enjoy the rest of your stay, Dr. Pines.”

It was only when Ivan had closed the door, darkening the room once more, that Ford noticed he’d left the monitor on. Fiddleford’s wild, desperate gaze stared back at him.

He let his head fall forward, although he no longer had it in him to cry. “I’m sorry, Fiddleford,” he whispered out loud.

He swore, somewhere behind his eyes, he heard Bill cackling with demented delight.

-----------

McGucket had lost them, but he really didn’t seem to notice.

Stan had honestly tried to keep up with the little nerd, but it became clear pretty quickly that he was just too excited about his discovery to remember he was talking to two people that didn’t have degrees in advanced mechanical engineering.

At least he saw even more clearly why Ford had gotten so attached to the twerp.

The sharp stab of guilt and fear that was roiling quietly in his gut suddenly spiked. There was still no word from Ford. The rain still beat down on them mercilessly. He’d never felt so helpless in all his life.

He had to think of something else.

He chanced a glance over at Helen, sitting in the other kitchen chair to his right, who wasn’t even trying to pretend like she understood what was happening. Her eyes were distant and unfocused, had been ever since she’d gotten off the phone with her daughter. She lazily squeezed the almost empty can of beer, making the sides buckle in on themselves slightly. Stan felt another pang of guilt well up in his chest. She looked exhausted and miserable, and Stan knew that was his fault. She hadn’t asked to be dragged into any of this.

Helen was a strong person, there was no denying that. She was level-headed and firm and a voice of reason when things got chaotic. But even the strongest pillars could break if they were beaten enough times by a churning, unforgiving sea. And Stan shuddered to think that he might be the one to break her eventually.

“...and the procedure was supposed to be permanent.” Suddenly, McGucket’s voice drifted up to his ears, and Stan’s attention snapped back over to the excited hillbilly. In one hand, McGucket held a pair of pliers. In the other, a small bundle of wires, pulled apart to expose a small, gray, chip-like piece. A small, near microscopic, section of the chip had a charred black spot on it. McGucket pointed the nose of the pliers at the chip and continued. “This micro-actuator looks like it was overheated at some point and stopped working. Without it the gun can’t function, since there’s nothing to keep the internal mechanisms moving. The electric charge as a control signal is fine, but it looks like the source of energy - that being, of course, the charge from the memories themselves - overloads it and causes a cascade failure and -”

“Hey,” Stan finally interjected. He had a sneaking suspicion that, if he didn’t, McGucket would launch himself into orbit.

McGucket’s head shot up to look at him. He looked surprised that Stan and Helen were even still there.

“As fascinating and completely incomprehensible as all this is,” Stan said, raising a hand to massage away the rumblings of a headache, “you think you could explain, in the simplest way you can, exactly what the hell all this means?”

McGucket blushed a bit. Stan was beginning to realize that the little man didn’t really enjoy being the center of attention. The only way he could really get going was if he talked so much he thought he was alone in the room.

“Well, it basically means that the part of the gun that was supposed to make the memory erasing process permanent won’t work more than a few times.”

“So that’s why it didn’t work when that guy attacked us in my house?” Helen asked. Stan was actually kind of shocked to hear her finally speak.

“Exactly,” McGucket replied. “I would venture to guess that all the smaller version have the same problem. I had to significantly decrease the size of the actuator to ensure mobility. None of them will last, and it makes the effects wear off faster. Especially when you’re exposed to stimuli, like photos or videos or -”

“Or a giant portal of doom,” Stan said. He bit down his urge to smirk.

Irritation creased McGucket’s brow, and he said, “Yes, that too.”

“But that still doesn’t answer the question of why that guy was in my house,” Helen said, clearly frustrated with the not knowing.

“I think that’s pretty obvious,” Stan said. “He was looking for McGucket.”

“Yeah, but why would he think he was in my house?” Helen said, looking up at him, her dark green eyes practically burning a hole in his forehead. “Hell, how would he even have known he was with us? The only person who even saw us today is Ed.”

That got Stan thinking for a moment. “Yeah,” he muttered. “He was the only person who saw us today.”

“Oh god,” Helen said, incredulously. “You’re not seriously suggesting...Stan, I mean, come on. Ed Matthews is almost sixty-five. He’s a harmless grandpa!”

“Hey, if we can think the bean pole is behind something,” Stan said, jabbing his thumb in Fiddleford’s direction, “then grandpas aren’t in the clear either. Besides, I’ve met some pretty spry old guys in my time.”

Helen turned and addressed McGucket, “Ed wasn’t the guy in my house, right? You would have recognized him earlier if he were in your little...group, wouldn’t you?”

McGucket thought for a moment, obviously trying to conjure forth something that made him think of Dr. Matthews. Finally, he ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration, and said, “I don’t think so? My mind is only just now starting to heal, and things are still mighty mixed up in there. I induct every member myself, though, so he might be in here somewhere.”

“Ed doesn’t even believe in the supernatural stuff in this town,” Helen added, squeezing her beer can harder. It sounded to Stan like she were trying to prove it more to herself than him and McGucket. “Even if he had come across it, he wouldn’t need some memory-erasing gun to convince himself it wasn’t real.”

“Maybe that’s not the thing that Ed was trying to forget,” Stan said.

Helen glanced over at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stan chewed his lower lip, trying to find a way to say this without setting Helen off again. As thoughts of being kicked out, living out of his car, crushing loneliness assaulted him from all sides, he realized there wasn’t really a way to do that. So he said, “Let’s just say things don’t necessarily have to be supernatural for people to want to forget them.”

Helen turned fully in her chair to face him, and Stan immediately regretted opening his big mouth. The beer can crumpled completely under her grip. He steeled himself against whatever angry words Helen was preparing to sling his way.

Then McGucket cleared his throat. Helen snapped her head back to look at him, and Stan swore he saw the other man shrivel a bit under her gaze. Eventually, McGucket managed to stammer out, “I would...that is, I think Stan might be right? Maybe you could, um, I dunno, tell us if anything unusual has happened to Dr. Matthews. Y-you know, if that’s okay with you.”

Stan could practically see the anger drip from Helen’s shoulders. The guilt returned with incredibly force. He’d never seen her like this, but whatever was going on in her mind, he could tell it was eating away at the edges of that level-headedness he so admired in her.

Helen sighed, and finally said, quietly, “I mean, his wife died about two years ago, but it wasn’t what anyone would call unusual. She’d been in a bad way for a long time.”

“What happened?” McGucket asked. His tone was genuinely sympathetic.

“Ovarian cancer,” Helen replied. “Poor Andrea wasted away for months near the end. Then Ed came into her hospital room one day after his rounds, and she was...already gone.” Helen cast her gaze down to the floor, letting silence fill the moment. Stan and McGucket stayed respectfully silent.

Helen sighed again, lifted her head, and said, with renewed conviction, “Ed was torn up about it, sure, but he would never want to forget Andrea. He loved that woman. They were married for forty-two years. There’s no way he’d ever want to wipe her from his memories.”

“Of course not,” McGucket said. Stan saw him reach out a hand, as if he could comfort Helen from the awful thoughts from across the table. But then McGucket thought better of it and pulled it back. “Besides,” he continued, “we don’t deal with memories like that.”

“What do you mean, ‘memories like that’?” Stan asked.

“I guess you could call them “real life” memories,” McGucket said. “Things like the death of a loved one or bad break ups or other traumatic things like that. I would never agree to erase those memories.”

“Why not?” Helen asked.

“Well, there are just some memories people can’t deal with,” McGucket replied. “Memories we weren’t designed to deal with, because the things they concern shouldn’t exist. Like the things out there in those woods. Those things are too much for normal people. But trauma - the real, honest-to-goodness kind - people are strong enough to overcome those everyday traumas. Dealing with those sorts of memories helps you heal. It might even make you a stronger person in the end.”

McGucket smiled serenely as he finished his little sermon. It made Stan’s gut bubble in irritation. Hearing McGucket talk about “everyday trauma” like it was some kind of...character-building exercise, it brought that irritation up his throat and come out his mouth.

“You really buy into that, huh?”

McGucket’s smile slipped from his face as he flicked his glance over to Stan. Stan tried to maintain an air of nonchalance as he said, “You really think that people should just...deal with shit like their wives dying, but not with little bearded men rooting around in their trash?”

“Of course not,” McGucket replied, sounding legitimately shocked Stan would even suggest such a thing. “A tragedy like that isn’t just something to be glossed over. But the sort of things that the people in the Society of the Blind Eye have witnessed...it’s unfathomable. It shouldn’t even have been seen by normal human beings. We can’t begin to process it. I certainly couldn’t, thanks to Stanford.”

“I told you to watch your mouth about my brother, string bean,” Stan ground out. He forced down the tidal wave of anxiety with righteous brotherly fury.

“Guys…” Helen muttered, uselessly.

“Well, I’m sorry,” McGucket retorted, “but you can’t deny that he has to shoulder some of the blame here. What happened to me was because of him. If he hadn’t brought me out here, if he’d just left well enough alone, none of this would be happening at all.”

“Guys,” Helen repeated. A bit louder this time.

“Ford didn’t put that goddamn gun to your head and pull the trigger!” Stan shouted, rising from his chair so quickly it almost tipped over. “Ford didn’t make you run away like a coward. Ford didn’t force you to start a cult to wipe other people’s memories. One that quickly proved to be frigging useless anyway because that damn gun doesn’t even work right. Ford might have caused the accident, but you made your own choices. Was it worth it, McGucket? Was it worth dragging yourself and my brother through nine kinds of hell just because you didn’t want to deal with what happened to you?”

McGucket narrowed his eyes at Stan, in what looked to be as close to actual anger and resentment as Stan figured he could get. Through clenched teeth, he said, “You have no idea what I went through when I was here with your crazy brother. And it wasn’t just the portal. He dragged me on all kinds of insane little adventures with him. We were nearly killed half a dozen times, every time at the hands of some ungodly creature we could barely comprehend!”

“At least you got to be with my brother!” Stan shouted back. He didn’t even care that his voice cracked, although it seemed to surprise McGucket a bit. The anger left the other man’s face. Even Helen was staring at Stan in shock.

Stan continued anyway. “You didn’t even know I existed before now, did you? Even when you knew Ford and had all your memories, he probably never told you about me. Wanna know why? Because up until a month ago, I was living out of my fucking car because he hated my guts. One stupid mistake and I lost my brother for ten years. Is that one of your “everyday traumas”, McGucket? Am I strong enough to move past poverty and prison and near suicide?”

McGucket flinched like he’d been struck across the face. “Oh, didn’t like hearing about that, did you?” Stan said, pulling back the sleeve of his sweatshirt. A faded, ghostly scar ran up the length of his arm. If you weren’t looking close enough, you could miss it entirely. He shoved the scar close to McGucket’s face, and said, “Is this the kind of trauma I can just work through? While you were out having the life with my brother I’d only dreamed about? While I nearly bled out in my car?! Answer me, you little bastard!”

“Stan, stop it!” Helen shouted.

Stan stopped talking, but he didn’t take his gaze off McGucket or make a move to take his arm away. He wanted the uppity little shit to know exactly who he’d just told to “work through it”.

“Walk away, Stan,” Helen said quietly. The firm, maternal tone was back. He knew he should listen. But a sadistic part of him stayed still, his arm still outstretched. A phantom pain tripped up his scar, the first he’d had in years. It made him want to scream.

A whine from Ripley echoed from the hall, followed by her scratching at the door.

“Stan.” Helen was urging him again. Just walk away.

Finally, he pulled down the sleeve of his shirt, once again covering up the scar. He pushed his chair back and stepped away from the table, then stomped out of the kitchen. Another glance over his shoulder showed that McGucket looked pretty damn horrified by what he’d just seen.

The only thing that really upset Stan was the look on Helen’s face. She looked so tired, ready to fall apart at any minute. He found it very telling that she didn’t leap to comfort McGucket as soon as Stan was out of their view.

He grabbed his coat from the living room sofa where he’d tossed it. Ripley was still at the door, decidedly subdued. Instead of leaping about in excitement over a trip outside, she watched her master carefully, almost fearfully. Stan patted her head as he opened the door to let her out. He followed her.

The last time he and Ford had fought, Stan had gone to the gas station the next day to pick up a pack of cigarettes. Just in case. They and a lighter were in the glove box of the Stanley Mobile. He thought it was a pretty good testament to not only his resolve, but the strengthening bond between the brothers that he hadn’t had a reason to open them yet.

Not to mention he knew Ford and Helen would give him such a lecture if they ever caught him smelling like smoke.

But now, as Ripley trotted beside him, matching his purposeful stride, he headed towards the car. He didn’t even bother putting his hood up to keep himself dry. Not like the fleece jacket could help much anyway. At least the rain had stopped coming down in sheets and was now just falling steadily.

He’d forgotten to lock it when he and Helen had rushed inside, so he slid into the driver’s side easily, the leather squelching under him. Ripley sat on the ground right outside the door, looking at him thoughtfully. She seemed to be in no big hurry to be done and out of the rain. He leaned over, popped open the glove box, and removed the cigarettes and lighter.

The flame licking at the tip of the cigarette filled the small space with an orange glow. He doused it quickly and took a long drag. As he held it in, he let all the fantasies come rushing back - the things he and Ford had planned to do as children, treasure hunting, picking up babes, traveling the world and seeing new sights. All the stuff that self-righteous little idiot inside had and was too dense to realize how precious it was.

Two fat streams of tears fall down his cheeks as he exhaled.

------------

Ivan didn’t sleep very often. He didn’t like how vulnerable it made him feel. And he certainly didn’t like to dream.

So, most nights, he just sat up on his cot in the bowels of their inner sanctum. Sat up and looked at the picture he’d clipped out of the newspaper.

The boy in the picture was fourteen years old. Even though the picture wasn’t in color, Ivan knew the boy had brown hair and steely gray eyes. He was tall, slender, his face betraying not a single emotion perceptible to the average person. But Ivan could see the sadness in the boy’s eyes - a sadness deep and painful, but not fully understood. Ivan supposed he could be blamed for that, at least.

Perhaps blamed for the sadness going a bit deeper than it should.

But he was going to fix that. He’d promised to after all.

As soon as this business with McGucket was taken care of, he could move on. Fulfill his promise.

He read the caption below the picture. Preston Northwest, son of the late Auldman and Angelica Northwest of Gravity Falls Oregon.

Ivan returned his gaze to the picture. This time, he didn’t focus his normal eye on the face of Preston Northwest.

Instead, he focused his red, filmed eye right over the boy’s head.

To the thing no normal camera would reveal to anyone with a normal set of eyes.

To the floating, yellow triangle in a top hat, lazily hovering, almost seeming to whisper in the boy’s ear.  

---

Y rpgylejc bckml, gjj-emrrcl eyglq Aclrspgcq-mjb qglq yld bpgcb, zimmdw qryglq Y jgrrjc zmw'q qyblcqq, y jgdc md pcepcr Rfcqc ypc rfc rfgleq Gxyl bypc lmr dmpecr

[understanding-agape]

Forget about that Yurio

Translated from Spanish with the permission of the original author: gemini in tauro. (Thanks Sweetie!)

Title: Forget about that Yurio.

Disclaimer: I don’t know the name of the creator (since I’m still not interested a lot in the series), but I do know that Yuri! On Ice does not belong to me.

Comments directed to Princesa Andrmeda: Since your birthday is coming in two months and I have to give you something, I’ll give you something from the fandom that still gives me the oogie, so you can see just how much I appreciate you. I suppose you’ve already guessed where the title came from?

However, your condition for writing my Edward/Herman was that I read a Victurio, and I didn’t want the lemon so… well, here is my solution. I hope you enjoy your early birthday since I won’t give you anything physical because I’m stingy and… bye!

Fair warning: Like around 80% of Victurio fanfiction, this one won’t be “sugar n’ spice n’ everything nice”, and this is actually the first time I have written such sensitive subjects… on full. If necessary, please refresh the browsing window.

Fair warning II: Since I haven’t read anything of these two, nor seen the series, it is somewhat (very) possible I wrote them Out Of Character.

 Forget about that Yurio

 《 The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time are no longer the same.》

—Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines; Pablo Neruda .

 Viktor Nikiforov entered tripping into the emergency room. It wasn’t very often he received news that had Yuri and the hospital linked, and so something in his brain balanced it quickly and made him overreact. As fast as the traffic jam had allowed him to arrive the place, taking huge breaths, looking to fill his lungs as he paid the cab driver and enter still running.

“Tell me in which room is he! ” He demanded, in a trembling mix of Japanese and his much accentuated mother tongue. Seeing him enter, with his disheveled hair and the mad look in his eyes, it would’ve made anyone just roll their eyes and pass him by as they deemed him insane. Nonetheless, the reception lady, who so happened to be learning foreign languages and having decided for the one to belonged to a famous person, had managed to understand him, and so she pointed out to him, with the utmost respect possible (Japanese overall), that he would have to wait a couple more hours in the hospital, due to the fact that the operation was yet to be done.

Hence you see him waiting.

What a pity he had wasted three hours of his life.

He hadn’t gone home immediately. Anyone could’ve predicted that.

And whilst he drowned emotions —which were idiotic, really, they took the fun out of everything he did. He could just imagine what he would be able to do had he not have such a huge ego, a slim figure to take care of and a small leftover of dignity… those three tied him up— in the first sake he managed to find —a bar was a couple of blocks away from the hospital, they apparently sold and lived good— he was going over and over again repeating the very same words of the doctor.

He wasn’t dead, no. Yurio was still alive, though unconscious. His mind had skipped all the technical stuff that he had yet to understand —and would probably never understand anyways— from the medical area and went directly to his keywords.

Apparent sleep. Zero activity on the left area of the brain.

Coma.

Not knowing whether his head was spinning from going so many times over those words or from such an enormous intake of alcohol, he passed a hand through his hair, he passed a hand though his hair, and gently tried to comfort himself, saying that he was acting wrongly, that his me from before, that ungrateful brat, would feel embarrassed to see him there, drink in hand, and he sighed.

Arriving to his apartment, he said hi to Makkachin, and Makkachin said hi to him too, eager to see his owner was back already. Viktor greeted him, not cheery in the very least. At seeing his owner’s state, the dog did the same, and tilted his head, confused.

Viktor didn’t think about it for too long, and decided that he would go directly to sleep. In the morning he would have the price of two sake bottles luring over his head, though at this rate it couldn’t feel good.

No, he couldn’t feel. Not even when the Swiss razor —quite an expensive birthday gift, exotic and of good taste… most of the time— had slashed through the flesh in his arm. He was pretty sure the color inside his bathroom would never be this pristine white again.

“Viktor-san… I received the message from Yuri telling me to… Viktor-san!”

And right after Yuuri had seen the disaster that he had made in his bathroom —poor white tiles, he would miss them— he had fallen into blissful nothing, dark and cold, just as he expected to.

Oh, how he would’ve wanted it to last.

He woke up hours later (though it felt like just seconds), with a strong smell of antiseptic, white lights blinding him and the loud beeping noise of the monitor, the one that checked the supposed beating of his heart, that at this very moment only lived with mechanical movements.

He would’ve liked to stay that way longer. The light was too brilliant and reality too dark.

What made him retreat from that peace that he had just found, was a tongue, raspy and full of drool and love. He pretended to be asleep for a few more seconds, even if the dog drool was starting to turn itchy. That had alerted the figure in the couch, who seemed to be glad his idol was still alive.

He would’ve liked for it not to be that way. He was pretty sure he would’ve left Makkachin in pretty competent hands, ain’t that right, Makkachin?

When the doctor, some Asaho Miyamoto —it was always the same thing with these Japanese guys, there was a Yama, there was a Moto, it was oh very obvious they loved hiking and books (there was a reason one of the characters that named the country was that of books)— arrived the room and explained to him that despite the fact that he was still alive, had Yuuri gotten to his apartment a few minutes later, he wouldn’t be there, with all the blood loss and all those technicalities that his brain decided to block yet again, Yuuri was still a newbie in all this, he thought, whilst he saw the guy nodding with energy and responded everything he said. Miyamoto- sensei said he would be let out when they considered he was no longer prone to have another “accident” like the one he just did, which would have to be approved by the psychiatric the hospital had —take a wild guess… he was named Tanaka (he must be one of those weirdoes of rice and swords, he could be sure of it).

He agreed, and the doctor bid him goodnight saying the nurse (whose name started with something… akin to tree) had his dinner. No razor-sharp cutlery, you know, only those plastic, made-for-children ones, really cheap at that too and so horribly big and annoying.

The dish in question was made out of red bean that according to what they said helped to the recovery of the so-called red-cells, but in that moment, sunk into its own juice along with a small dosage of salt and, he was sure, some sugar, gave his body an overwhelming sense of abandonment, that ran through all the arteries, veins and blood vases available in his body, in the same amounts as his blood. Who would’ve said that biology and philosophy were such great friends. Viktor couldn’t be sure, since the inside structure of the body was not really his forte and he failed every single letter in a poem.

Night had arrived, Yuuri said he couldn’t stay with him (compromises with whomever-he-was-with-at-the-moment-and-whose-identity-was-unknown) and said goodbye, sneaking Makkachin out along with him, promising to feed him in the morning. Viktor smiled, pretending that the Japanese had taken a great weight off his shoulders.

When the curfew arrived, Viktor was already into the fifth depth of sleep. Well, something like that. He changed depths. Now the first, now the fifth. Now resting, now staring at the ceiling. He had seen so many flaws within the white concrete that night that he would give a huge list to whoever was in charge of repairing the building.

Hours passed, and all his restlessness had made itself present in the form of insomnia and hyperactivity, he decided opening his eyes. Hardly, he had managed to get his hands over his head (and that would make the IV get out, but who cared anyway?), managing to find a more comfortable position to be in, and he smiled, somewhat void.

After some time of being in that same position, he turned his face to where a shadow was lurking, whom he recognized instantly, his blond hair had no comparison, his gaze a little dry and his skin seemed to glow. After staring a little, he returned his gaze to the ceiling and let out a condescending chuckle; a glas wen invading his face.

“Dear god… I must be losing my head, am I not, Yurotchka?”

The figure on the other side of the room didn’t laugh along with him —and he hadn’t expected it to, it wouldn’t have been his Yuri if he had—, instead turned to stare at him, so quietly that Viktor almost feared it was a hologram placed there by the doctors. To complain, he let out another condescending laugh—ah, how he hated it.

After a few minutes where there only the remnants of Viktor´s (now awkward) laugh could be heard; he decided to clear his throat. “Since I suppose this is a hallucination, might as well use it to my advantage. How have you been in your coma, Yurotchka?”

Yuri didn’t answer. Instead, walked a couple more steps to get closer to him, and Viktor felt that his heart could beat out of his chest at any moment. And not in the sense that he welcomed his closeness, but dreaded it to some extent, though he wasn’t quite sure if he liked that constriction in his chest.

“What makes you think that I am him?” He answered, the words had gotten out so serene from his lips, almost languidly so, that Viktor did not believe it possible that one person have such an aura that professed tranquility in itself, but that at the same time made him sick to the stomach and made him want to get away from him, as he approached the bed. “I’m your guide, Nikiforov Viktor, and there are people who wish harm to fall upon you by their own means.”

The person in the bed’s eyes widened, astonished. Though his unconscious was telling him to get away, that that creature could be one of those, the ones they said, that wished him harm. But neither his legs nor any other part of his body seemed to obey him, instead, he had sat and waited for him to come close.

“Are you” Viktor trailed off, one hand nearing that angelical, almost see-through face that was in front of him, and he became surprised as that same hand passed through his cheek, but, unlike all beliefs there were about ghosts (if he was one, that is), being his hand inside that plasma, he felt a warmth sensation filling him “…real?”

“Regularly, us guides, we adopt the image of someone close to whom we are supposed to protect, so that they will not feel scared upon seeing us.” Yuri did not seemed fazed by the fact that Viktor could go through his cheek. “There are times in which the person does not recognize us, because we protect them since childhood. But in your case… well, you hadn’t really needed protection… until more recent dates… I suppose you remember them, do you not?”

Viktor stopped paying attention to his hand that was between Yuri’s cheek and teeth. He stared at his bed, for a few seconds, embarrassed and nodded. “…of course I do…”

“I said it already and I do not plan on repeating it, Nikiforov Viktor,” Yuri went on again, this time staring at him with a mix of worry and fury. “What you were about to do wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. There are whom desire you, and I am no longer referring to those on the human world; they were dangerously close to achieving it were it not for the help of Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Yuri…”

The blond shook his head. “Nikiforov Viktor, many of my kind believe that you are not deserving of my protection, and after witnessing such attempt you did a few hours ago… I do not believe so either.” How could it be that he was able to be serene and at the same time, contain the fury of the 7 dark princes, contain God’s wrath, His holy punishment… all with only changing the tone those last five words had been spoken in? “I have favors to repay, however, so I find myself deprived from making that decision, and therefore must remain by your side, until the moment your soul has reached the time to part.”

Viktor gave a bursting, condescending laugh, there had been too much condescendence in only one night. “And now what? Are you going to tell me there is a paradise up there? That God waits for me to reach His side, never to leave it?”

“God only exists if you so wish to believe in him.” The figure answered, and even if the tone he was using couldn’t be classified as defensive, the gaze that Yuri was directing to Viktor looked more like a threat than an answer. “Unfortunately, it is not the same deal with demons. It is way easier to see them within people, than seeing those who have light inside them.”

“Way too deep coming from a creature willing to protect me,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Yuri, listen, I…”

“Forget about that Yuri Plisetsky, Nikiforov Viktor. Forget about him.”

“But…”

“Or at least,” he interrupted again, “forget that I am him.”

Viktor started thinking. If it had been Yuri —his Yuri— by this point surely he would be already yelling, probably the same things (that he would forget about him, that he would not see him again), but he wouldn’t have that creepy aura around him, that seemed to consume everything inside the room, be it good or bad. It wouldn’t be warm touching him, it would be colder than his beloved Russia, his skin would not be shining, or at least not in the supernatural way this Yuri did—though it would also be a supernatural being’s one, thus that one objection did not fit in the frame at all.

“But… why?” His hands were damp, and his cheeks were two tear cascades. He belatedly realized it, the fact that he didn’t want to accept it.

“I was asked to protect you, as a favor to repay, but this is more than enough.”

“You,” he sniffled, he didn’t understand where those tears had come from, maybe a secondary effect of paranormal encounters, “the guides, do you only adopt the figure of… dead people, or could it also be of the quick?”

“If you had not known the answer to that, then you would not be expressing such razliubit.”

Viktor tried to smile, even though his lips had cracked into a grimace that explain all the things the face in front of him couldn’t.

Yuri sighed, and with one of his hand, cupped his cheek. Viktor felt his breathing come to a halt, surprised that he was able to touch him but he couldn’t touch him back, and saw in his eyes an all too familiar glimpse.

“The person who sent me, Nikiforov Viktor, asked me a last favor, something for you to remember them by,” Viktor didn’t understand it pretty well, even after those lips, so forbidden, so angelical, so glorious, softly pressed against his, so mortal and unsavory,

He had barely taken in the situation, the kiss had already ended, Viktor, as if getting out of a daze, had his eyes widened and observed Yuri , who stared back, as if inspecting the reaction of a really unstable experiment. Viktor felt his lips pucker slightly, not enough to be noticeable, but enough to send Yuri the signal that he had understood.

“Tell them that their gift is more than appreciated, to whoever sent you,” he answered, and he thought he had never felt so in peace with himself… with the world, the demons and angels inside him.

He couldn’t remember much of what happened the night after their encounter. He was pretty sure that the light coming from every single millimeter in the room was overwhelming, not like it was a new thing; he could listen to Yuuri coming and going to tell him good morning and to mention that doctor Miyamoto, as well as many of the nurses that had to tend to him because the alarm had activated, apparently his IV had gotten out.

“You know, Viktor-san? If it hadn’t been for Yuri’s message I wouldn’t have made it in time.” Viktor stopped pretending he was fine and started at Yuuri, confused. “Speaking of, how has he been lately?”

Viktor didn’t have the opportunity to answer, Miyamoto-sensei entered the room and said good morning, asked him if he had problems sleeping at night and if he needed everything.

“I just need one thing,” the doctor nodded and awaited for the order to come, “if I’m not mistaken, this is the same hospital where Yuri is, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Mr. Nikiforov, though I suppose a visit to patient Plisetsky would not be the most adequate thing in your state and what we are striving in this institution is…”

“I’m not talking about that, Miyamoto-sensei.”

“Huh?” Yuuri frowned his brow, unknowledgeable in regards of the situation. “Hospitalized? What do you mean?”

“Then, Mr. Nikiforov? What is it that your want?” Inquired the man.

“He’s suffering, and it pains me to see him in such state, I plead you to unplug him.” Yuuri stared incredulous, but dared not say a thing. The doctor looked curious, and then nodded.

“We received a call from his parents at dawn. We already had their permission but were not sure if you wished to know.”

The months flew by, and Viktor had learned to live with the spontaneous apparitions of Yuri . There were times where months could go on without a single trace, and others where on full weeks he was woken up by him in the middle of the night, daily, to find him to a small distance to him, saying he did that to make others know he was protecting him. And even though Viktor couldn’t see them (he did not have some super sense that let him know it) he believed him, because he was his guide. And that’s what guides were for, right?

It had been four months since the last time he had seen him. He touched his hair a little nervous, it was a little below the shoulders, even if he had tied it in a ponytail. He sighed, and in it he could appreciate the low temperature in the weather. Oh, how he had missed his beloved Russia.

Since he had arrived from Japan a week ago, upon arriving he had breathed in and had said so beautifully in his accentuated language I’m finally home.

After a couple of minutes of observing the establishment he decided to enter.

Despite everything that he had expected, it was warmer on the inside than the outside, and even if it came as a surprise, he couldn’t help but smile thankful.

He had no idea how much time had passed, with his skates echoing in the stadium, so big like his conscience and so void like his chest; but there was a moment, when he was able to see him again. After some long four months, he saw him again. Smiling like someone who just saw an old and longed friend, he saw him from the other side of the court and made him some gestures that he was coming over. In a matter of seconds —bless acceleration and gravity, things that he did understand— he was leaning on the railing.

“It’s good to see you again,” the other one nodded, and got close to him, so Viktor would no longer have to yell.

“There has not been anyone out there lately with plans to take you, so there was really no necessity for me to handle the situation,” he said, as if that explained completely his four-month absence. Viktor didn’t say anything to it, it was true that he hadn’t been assigned to him originally, so he could only thank that he was there, now. “As of now, there is only someone here that wishes something from you.”

“Are you kidding? And what would they want from me?” He imagined demons, those out of French or American videogames, great horns, half-goat half-human, grotesquely disfigured and arms so little they might as well be T-rex’s.

“They are on the other side of the stadium,” he declared, self-assured it was this way. “Though I can assure you they are no threat to you.”

“Do you think they will make themselves visible to me?” Viktor asked, with a feigned smirk. Yuri (like he had started calling him again at some point) didn’t imitate the gesture, but only nodded.

“If you wish to see them, you will take my hand and will be capable of it.”

Not having much to lose, he grabbed the offered hand and immediately saw him disappearing. He arched an eyebrow, confused, not knowing at the beginning what was happening. It was gratifying, months later, to know he hadn’t lost him forever, nor that they had fused together. For a moment, confusion was the only thing his brow had no qualms of showing.

As the guide had indicated, he observed the other side, where he supposed was whomever it was. His eyes widened in clear shock, though his gaze turned into a softer one quickly, sweetness, reminiscence and a melancholy he didn’t know he possessed.

Dressed in a white suit —a variation of the one he had worn at Agape — and hair so beautifully styled, was Yuri. And if it hadn’t been for the sound of the skates he would’ve though he was an angel, since from his suit wings were born and he was floating mere millimeters above the ice.

Tchaikovsky could be heard faintly, even if only Viktor’s ears were capable of relating such music —so tragic, so emotional, so beautiful— with such movements —calculated, graceful, divine— the blond was making. There were times where music could never be as emotive like the way it was played was capable of being. In this case, Tchaikovsky playing the last song of a swan, as beautiful as it was, could never match what Viktor saw Yuri was capable of showing, what he was capable of expressing. Tchaikovsky tried to imitate a swan, whereas Yuri had managed to turn into one.

And so, as the music neared its end, Viktor could see the figure of his dear kitten become see-through, and little by little, disappear; on such a point where, with his arms placed in position number five and his legs on position number four, Viktor could only be sure of having seen him one second… one… second, that he wished to transform into eternity.

“ ... До свидания… дорогая… ” he murmured, to the nothingness that had replaced the spot once belonging to Yuri in his heart.

He did nothing to avoid the sensation, it was calming and soothing, it was a realization, that even if you didn’t see it, it did not mean it wasn’t there. That even if you couldn’t touch it, it wasn’t only a product of your imagination when he could once touch his cheeks, and strived to confess. That just because it didn’t hurt him anymore, it didn’t mean he had stopped missing him, loving him.

Because he did —and he felt extremely cheesy for it.

  《Years will trickle by. We will engage eternally in battle. We will never be together. We will die, again and again, longing for an impossible end.

But as I’ve said, you should know by now: I will never give up》

—Eternally Never Yours; EchoEternal .

  Translations and/or clarifications:

(1) Glas wen : s. (from Wellish) Literally, “blue smile.” A smirk.

(2) Razliubit : v. (from Russian) “Falling out of love.”

(3) До свидания… дорогая: “Goodbye… my beloved.”

(4)Music Yuri was skating to: Suite from Swan lake.

Ending notes: thanks for reading until here, as I have already said up there, I'm not really fond of this fandom. It seemed too… um, false to me. Even though so, to Daniela it didn’t. That's why I’d like if you would (and I plead you to) respect the work. You can criticize my plots, my character management, my word management, but not the pairing. Just like you have one, Princess has one, and I would like that just as she makes the effort to respect yours, for you to respect hers; I apologize beforehand if spilling the soup like that, without having prior (direct) contact with the other participants in the fandom, was a little harsh.

If you liked it, I'm very glad you did, I hope to have the gall again to get into this small hole, maybe even staying.

Bye!

—gem—

[greateacheropke]

Welcome (Me) Back (?)

So things have been a bit... negative in the last two posts here.  Just like last year, I had a rough 2/3 of the school year (in that I felt inundated with work and didn’t have time to write) but the topics of the last two posts didn’t really help motivate me to say anything positive here.  So let’s write about some positive things.

First of all, what a school year it has been.  Yes, there has been a lot of work - I am writing something about that, for later - but it’s also been a lot of fun!  Just like in Egypt, where I only really found a social circle that worked for me in year two, things really clicked this fall.  No offense intended to all of the other beloved members of La Sagrada Familia - Caitlin and Jacob, friends who still live in Madrid; Carolin from Hamburg, who learned how to share and hug; Virginia aka Maria aka Grace from Athens, applied mathematics student; Thør from Copenhagen, whose name was never Thør but no one could pronounce it, conspiracy theorist like no other that has ever lived; Karina from Toronto, with us for only a few short weeks; Rollie, Martin, the Turks, travelling Irish guitar guy, and all the other couch surfers who have stayed with us for only a few nights - but the apartment eventually became the home it was intended to be, with Caroline and Maura joining forces with Jonny and myself, as we planned to do over a year ago now.  We’ve done just about everything but bathe together, but it’s come close.  This is the home I have been missing since leaving Egypt.

There have been many adventures this year!  Here are just a few from 2016.

In August, following the events previously commented upon, I traveled to Portugal to see Lagos on the southern coast.  Many people travel to Lagos to party, I guess, but I went to scuba dive and see the southwest corner of continental Europe.

There are lots of places to stay, but João from Lagos4U runs a very friendly and open place, as long as you don’t mind crowded rooms.  I think I was in a 10 bed dorm and the bathroom was inside the room, so there was a lot of noise between people coming in and out at night and using the restroom and showers. Since I was diving, I was asleep pretty early every night, but I dealt with the noise fairly well (Egypt training still paying off).  The town itself has got a nice marina and long stretches of beach, and lots of fresh, cheap, delicious seafood (go to A Barrigada) and a seriously great burger (”Toucan Burger” from Nahnahbah).

It’s just a pain to get to, as I took a bus and had to transfer in the middle of nowhere, with no easy way to communicate with the drivers other than me saying “Lagos” and them pointing at an empty street corner where, thankfully, another bus showed up in a few minutes to take me the rest of the way.

After Lagos, I took a bus to Portimão and did a few hours tour of the area through the company Bike My Side - a fun dude drove me around in a sidecar of his motorcycle and took me up through Monchique to the top of Fóia, the highest peak in the Algarve region.  It was a fun time, something different to do, but was a little pricey.

From there I went back to Lisbon to see Scott and Jen, two friends from Egypt who were staying in an airbnb for most of the summer.  I had visited Lisbon briefly in May and had some sense of the city, but they had experienced much more and shared with me some of its wonders: Bifana, a pork steak sandwich that we topped with mustard and hot sauce, would be #1.  I love these things (on a more recent trip back to Lisbon I had 5 of these in 48 hours).  I can personally recommend O Trevo, Ginginha Popular, and Zé Dos Cornos.  All are dirty, cheap, and cater to locals.  With vinho verde on tap, you can get an awesome meal for under €4.

Lisbon is somewhat famous for the pastry known as pastel de nata, said to have originated just outside of the city, in Belem.  There is no need to travel to Belem and wait 20 minutes in line for these (although Belem has its own sites to take in), just go to Manteigaria Fábrica de Pastéis de Nata in the city, below Bairro Alto.  Lines are not that long, although there is no seating.  €1.70 for a pastel de nata and an espresso.

If you’re thirsty, obviously Lisbon has plenty of wine options, and is famous for the green wine (which, while refreshing and is what I always order with my cheap meals, I could honestly take or leave).  The beer scene in Portugal is still emerging, and Duqye Brewpub and Beer Station both have plenty on offer.  The local liqueur should be sampled at A Ginjinha, apparently a pretty famous, well established shop (sells one type of drink, served two different ways, and is about the size of my bathroom). It was recommended to me even down in the Algarve region as a place the man speaking to me had never been to but had always heard about.

The church known as Igreja De São Domingos is one of my favorites on earth due to its unique looks - there are still many signs of a 1959 fire.

Finally, the LX Factory is a little out of town but is hope to some nice hipster stores and restaurants, and some good graffiti.

Really, I love Lisbon. One of my favorite cities to visit, hands down.  Cheap, great food and drink, on the water...what isn’t to love?

In late September, Jonny and I went to Hamburg to visit the aforementioned Carolin (we took no pictures! sad face).  Hamburg was a nice little German city to take in with our expert local guide and host.  The red light district, while famous, pales in comparison to what can be found in Amsterdam, although the forbidding gates (stupidly male only) are a nice visual touch.  Good company and of course good food and beer, the trip was not without its surprises and bad memories - suffice to say, Cohen’s “Hallelujah” has been ruined for me. But overall a trip that we are all glad happened. And the Germans have great parks! Look at how happy this guy is.

In November, the four of us went to Rome, ostensibly for a work trip, but really used it as an excuse to see a bit of the city and stay in a hotel room for free.  We didn’t really get to see or do too much, but we had a lot of fun sharing a room together.

For Thanksgiving, we all went to Budapest. Here we were joined by Ryan (Caroline’s friend) and Emma, the American that I met in Spain who, at this time, was living in England... I am dating Emma.  Here is a terrible photo of us together.

Budapest is a rad place, ripe for making bad puns on its name, mixing beautiful old history with soviet grunge. The food was good; I don’t remember specifics, just a lot of fried dough and meat stews. Really hardy stuff, for hardy people (you’ve got to be strong to drink the local pálinka). They have these neat “ruin bars” which have very artsy hipster feels to them. The biggest that I saw was called Szimpla Kert, and it was a shit show, so I did not get to explore much. Definitely seemed like a cool place to go back to during the day to try to take it all in. But if you like salvaged furniture, what you really need to do before your Budapest trip is look up the official schedule for "lomtalanítás" - “gypsy christmas” is my favorite translation - and walk through any districts that are having them. We found one by accident, and it seemed as though the refuse spread out before us like an endless sea of scraps. Teams of people went through it with backpacks, headlamps, I think I saw one person taking notes in a book of what they had taken or left behind for a second pass. Must see.

In early December, I had an opportunity to go to Athens to visit Virginia, and as an added bonus see Bob from Egypt, along with a group of former students he was leading on an AP Art trip. It was great to catch up with some of my favorite people from around the world! It was a quick weekend, so again I didn’t get to eat or do too much. Obvious items were checked, like the Acropolis. Extra thrilling points were getting to vote on where to get beers (imagine my exuberance: practicing democracy in its birthplace; now imagine the despondency of the Greeks I was with: “see how far democracy has gotten us!”), checking out  Exarcheia (the anarchist neighborhood), and The Neon Exhibition: Flying Over the Abyss (seriously the best art exhibit I’ve ever been to; I felt feelings and want to go back very badly - http://neon.org.gr/en/exhibition/flying-abyss-athens/).

See, it was an art trip! And the teacher even drew me!

So anyway, yeah... it’s been over a year since most of this happened. But it happened. So I wrote some things. I might write again sometime.

[nettvnow-blog]

All For One Has Something For Everyone

All For One is yet another Canadian web series. I’m mostly very sick of them, and most of them are bad. Luckily, this one is not. Produced by Cherrydale Productions, distributed by KindaTV, and written by Sarah Shelson  and RJ Lackie (Inhuman Condition), All For One invites inevitable comparison to Kinda’s most famous property by manifesting as a queer-tinted modern-day remake of a classic literary work captured entirely by webcam. I originally planned to write this review without acknowledging that comparison, partly because doing so would be a pain in the ass, but moreso because A4O does not have the same problem with being compared to Carmilla most other web series might: it doesn’t pale in comparison. It’s not really fair to either show to say one is better than the other (A4O has one season, Carmilla has three), but for those of you who keep fandom power rankings, I’d take A4O’s first season over Carm’s, which is the only apples-to-apples comparison to be made. Inevitable comparison over with, let’s talk about the actual show now. It’s The Three Musketeers, but about sororities and super queer. You wanna know more about the plot than that, go watch the damn thing; this is a review, not a summary. Structurally, the show revolves around nominal main character Dorothy’s webcam, with her never-seen-except-as-IMs crew of internet besties (“the Inseparables”) serving as a modern day Greek chorus, chirping away in the margins. This is a very smart creative decision for a few reasons*. First, it allows the writers to manipulate tone and pace on the fly by injecting comic relief, self-awareness, and/or cheap pathos whenever the fuck they feel like it without eating up that most precious of web series resources: screentime. Second, it allows them to multi-task; one plot line may be advancing on-screen while a second plays out quietly among the Inseparables (occasionally joined by whichever lead characters aren’t appearing in a given episode). Third, it gives the writing team (Lackie/Shelson) an easy counter to one of Lackie’s writerly crutches; almost all of Lackie’s characters are prone to bouts of plot-centric myopia, and in the past his shows have allowed, if not downright enabled, them to get away it, but with an ever-present jury firing off incisive running commentary, characters are generally (and effectively) called out when they start to go down that road. Not all of them course correct, but once the issue’s been dragged into the narrative, that becomes a feature, not a bug. Speaking of writing…

*Worth noting is that many, maybe even all, of the Inseparables are characters from other shows. I only caught two of them myself, but I’m assured that there are others. One is from Carmilla, making me feel better about giving in to the cheap comparison above, and the best of the bunch is from Lackie’s older web series, Santiago. It’s likewise worth noting that neither Lackie nor Shelson has (to my knowledge) ever admitted to either of those, but I’m not an idiot and hopefully neither are you, dear reader, so let’s call a cameo a cameo and move on with the review.

A4O is an excellently written show, and not just by the admittedly low bar set by web series. I haven’t seen any of Shelson’s other work, so I can’t speak to how the partnership affects her, but what I can say is that she seems to have a knack for allowing Lackie to be Lackie (which, my own pot shots at his previous monomaniacal characters non-withstanding, is a very good thing) while subtly steering him away from his bad habits and injecting her own high-energy voice and full-auto black market machine-gun pacing. A4O does an exceptional job of serving a way over-sized cast (five main characters, at least three major supporting roles, a few off-screen-but-still-developed side characters, plus the Inseparables) in a relatively brisk three hours or so; not only does every major player in the show have an arc (or several, in some cases), even the off-screen ghosts and most of the text-only Inseparables are gifted with pathos, progression, and payoff. It’s an absolute masterclass in using every available bit of narrative real-estate to build your characters and tell your story*. *Bringing up the vampiric elephant in the room one (hopefully) last time, this is something that even Carmilla never totally figured out in its three seasons, largely punting on giving its supporting players any real meat in exchange for more time with its leads. That was probably the right play for that specific show (they were really great leads), but it’s refreshing to see a web series have its cakes and eat it too in a kitchen where most of its peers, far from either having or eating cake, accidentally added salt instead of sugar to the batter and have long-since retreated to the vomitorium. For that matter, even most twenty-minute TV sitcoms with more than five or six characters generally can’t serve them all nearly as consistently/artfully as A4O**, either. ** Footnote to a footnote! Brooklyn Nine-Nine is probably the current show that comes the closest, with seven principles, two consistently present supporting players, and a large tertiary library who usually get strong, character-driven notes to play, though of course Brooklyn has roughly quadruple the screentime to work with that A4O does.  

Beyond that big-picture high-concept goodness, Lackie/Shelson also have a strong ear for banter (though both clearly watched way too much Buffy in highschool); A4O has a comedic batting average that hangs with all but the strongest of its TV brethren. They may be shorter on A+ knock-you-off-the-couch laugh grenades, but they’re firing off laugh bullets near-constantly and score at least a glancing blow with most of them. Their dramatic beats also mostly land, and they generally obey one the most oft-broken cardinal rules of good writing: thou shalt not sell-out thy characters* for either plot convenience or lazy comic beats. The writing isn’t perfect—as great as the overall pacing is, there are a couple conversations that overstay their welcome long past the point of narrative utility (occasionally to the point of undercutting what had up till then been a home-run scene), and Shelson/Lackie have never written a conversation they felt couldn’t be improved by an awkward pause or seven—but I can count on my thumbs the number of web series pilot seasons that get closer. *There’s one major exception to this, and I’ll bitch about it later when I get to the part of the review where I’m hateful jerk who ruins things I like.

Given the size of the cast, I don’t have the ink to spill to cover everybody individually, either as a character or an actor, but top-to-bottom the cast is stellar, and every single one of them should be proud of the work they did. The worst performance in the show is probably still in the B+ to A- range. Gun to my head, I’d shout out Alejandra Simmons (Alex) as the MVP of the leads and Denise Yuen (Treville) as the top dog among the supporting players, but sincerely, I’ve got nothing bad to say about the cast as a whole in twenty-nine out of thirty episodes*. *We’re almost there, pessimists. I have nothing terribly interesting to say about the direction. The cast act in front of a stationary webcam. The blocking is functional. They mostly use the setup to their advantage, cutting off scenes that work just fine implied (except as noted above). Solid, functional work that does the job, but doesn’t exactly leave you racing to the director’s IMDB. Alright, before I get into the higher-concept thematic stuff, let’s get the part where I piss all over something I really like out of the way (we all knew this was coming and when I do alone we’ll all understand why).

The show does have two major warts, and one begets the other. The first is the live episode, coming in right around the 2/3s mark of the season. It’s by far the show’s longest episode, and neither the writers nor the actors are up to the sudden formula shift, the unscripted environment, or the awkward necessity of combining what probably should have been three or four separate major sequences into one clunky stationary set-piece. One conceit of this…look, I like the cast and crew a lot here, but calling this episode anything kinder than a tire fire is being a disingenuous reviewer so… one conceit of this tire fire is that, as it aired, fans were able to masquerade as Inseparables and ask the cast live questions in-character. I’m sure it was great fun for the fans involved, but the fans involved had nothing interesting to say, and the actresses were stuck and-yessing responses without either the help of the writing staff or the freedom to really riff (as I assume the rest of the season was already pretty thoroughly structured or maybe even filmed and they couldn’t risk contradicting or redirecting anything with a careless opinion or anecdote). Oh, also, the single-set-for-twenty-minutes-and-also-they-all-need-to-get-their-turn-talking-to-the-fans setup necessitates a whole lot of contrived entering, exiting, and maneuvering that does nothing for the story and everything to remind you that you’re watching a manufactured production, and could only feel less authentic if accompanied by flashing text to the effect of “fuck your suspension of disbelief, loser.”

The episode is an amazing technical achievement in that they did it at all, but to paraphrase one of the least annoying iterations of Jeff Goldblum, they were so excited to see if they could, they didn’t stop to think if they should. While I’m sure the episode was effective as a gimmick to goose the fanbase, removed from the context of the twenty minutes where it was accomplishing that goal, it mostly just saps the narrative momentum of the show right as it was cresting, takes its actresses away from doing what they do best, and introduces the single biggest creative misstep (in this not-so-humble reviewers estimation, anyhow) of the season in Alex’s sudden, dramatic, and inorganic character shift.

…which brings us to wart number two, wherein the show’s strongest character, fed up with being the responsible one, suddenly morphs from nuanced character into a party-girl pastiche that seems more at home on MadTV than KindaTV. While the idea behind the change is a decent one (Alex lashes out against her role as “Mom”) it scans totally false for the character we’ve been given, doesn’t fit the tone of the show, and doesn’t serve much narrative purpose beyond forcing one of the other leads into the leadership role (there were better ways to get there), and letting actress Simmons show off her comic chops (which, granted, are sharp). It’s also completely devoid of the nuance and verisimilitude that otherwise permeates not only Simmons’ work but the show’s character-writing in general. In a world where every other character is consistently, painfully, beautifully themselves at their own expense, turning the best of the bunch into a cartoonish punchline for three episodes or so fucks up the emotional feng shui something fierce. I suspect the writers might even agree with me, as the gimmick is quietly dropped a few episodes later with no lasting consequences.

Now, that was a negative couple paragraphs, but let’s put it all in perspective: ultimately, A4O has one bad episode out of thirty. Show me another show with a better batting average and I’ll show you Banshee, which I’ve previously described as “the best show on television*”. *And as “The Ballad of Sheriff Punch,” though that’s neither here nor there. Beyond that, the show’s only real creative misfire happens to its best character and isn’t bad enough to keep her from staying its best character. I’m picking nits here, and I’m using some very precise tweezers and a microscope to pick them. I’m also done doing it. Onto the abstraction! One of the most incredible things about A4O is how many hats it manages to wear. It’s a comedy and a drama, sure, but it’s also a character study… scratch that, six or seven character studies. It’s also The Three Musketeers and sometimes it’s Animal House. It’s a virtuoso performance of an increasingly well-traveled formula, but thanks to its Inseparable gimmickry, it’s also the only show of its kind. It’s about persistence, and friendship, and admitting when you’re wrong, but it’s also about ambition, and narrative, and perspective, and bikini fund-raisers that end when one of the show’s stronger supporting players marches in cheerfully proclaiming “Hi. I’m here to ruin everything.” This is a show that tries to do about three-hundred* more things than any other web series out there**, and somehow feels less rushed, crowded, or inept than any of its competitors. * Estimated. I’m not a math person, I swear on my thirteenth finger. ** Well, beside Next Time On Lonny, I guess, but the whole point of that show was that it did everything. All that narrative ambition and versatility feeds back into the show’s characters, allowing them to exist in more dimensions than their screentime ought to allow. Pay attention to Yuen’s Treville, and note how much we learn about her simply from the things she owns or the way her eyes react to a certain name or an unexpected offer. I doubt she’s on-screen more than seven or eight minutes in the whole show, but she’s got more depth and nuance than anyone outside of the two leads on that apparently inescapable point of comparison*. This is something Lackie’s shown before in flashes (the bodyguard from Inhuman Condition is arguably its most interesting character and might not have ten lines), but here its displayed consistently. Almost all of the Inseparables have at least two or three layers to them, and that’s without the benefit of an performer to embody them or any capacity to meaningfully interact with the A-plot. *Last time, I swear. For the record, I do *really* like Carmilla, and it’s because I like it so much (and because it’s so much better than web series have any right to be**) that it’s such a useful measuring stick to show exactly how impressive A4O is at its best. ** I’ve previously compared its second season favorably and mostly sincerely to Shakespeare.

That’s not to say the leads are underdeveloped, either; in contrast to, say, Parks and Rec, where every character seems to exist solely to populate the Parks Department, all of A4Os feel lived in, with rich personal histories and plenty of implicit relationships and interests we don’t need to see or even hear about to take as read. Shelson & Lackie do an excellent job of letting the things they do reveal or spend time on imply a thousand more they don’t, and it’s the sort of expansive and elegant world-building you never get from web series* and rarely get from anything.  *Credit where its due, Inhuman Condition was similarly economical at building its world, but not nearly as adept at bread-crumbing the personal histories of its principles. More than all that, though, at the end of the day, A4O is just fucking fun. The heroes have Sepinwall’s oft-discussed but rarely attained “I don’t even care if they’re not being funny right now, I like them and I just wanna hang out with them,” vibe, the villains are enthusiastic and memorable without succumbing to camp, and even the damn theme music is smiley. The emotional moments (mostly) feel earned and make you feel feelings, and they’re paced properly to do it without burning you out or risking diminishing returns.

Since it’s nominally a KindaTV show and I didn’t spend any time on the gender politics, I’ll awkwardly pause here to quickly note that A4O is pleasantly open-minded and inclusive. These people care about telling these stories respectfully and for as many people as possible, and it shows.

End of day, A4O is television in microcosm. It’s funny and cute and sad and angry and it’s still got time for both nerf gun duels and planted meth. It’s got close friends and bitter rivals, will-they-won’t-they’s and wish-they-wouldn’ts. It’s a pleasant place to escape to when you’re feeling shitty, and it’s a great neighborhood to show your friends around when you’re feeling good. It’s inventive and ambitious and yet familiar and comfortable. It’s great actresses (and actors) giving strong performances of sharp lines equally charged with uniquely subtle character biases and peppy Lackie-banter, all done at Shelson’s bullet-train pace that somehow never feels rushed and always gets you to exactly where you need to be. It’s fearless but rarely reckless, smart but never condescending, and sweet without ever veering into twee-town. It’s got all your favorite things from classic literature and modern television, and yet it’s something you’ve never quite seen before. It’s one of a kind, for now, and that’s a shame. Incidentally, it’s also currently fundraising to make another season. How’s that old Musketeer mantra go again?  All for one and whatever amount you feel comfortable donating for All For One…  

Written by Nick Feldman.