#and how raw everything feels. how it really feels like her dreams hinge on her every action. FUCKING a great performance in a great show

[allgather]

i am so always late to thing but i am adding sydney from the bear bc she's so heartbreakingly real to me. tries so hard and cares so much it makes her fucking crazy. holds her tension and discontent and anxiety and self-expectations so tightly, yet holds her dreams so tenderly and also with her teeth and nails and clenched fists. she punishes herself for her indelicacy, for mistakes that always feel as though they cascade into all-encompassing failure. she is oriented towards being better, all the time, always, but she misses how she's good in extraordinary ways in her pursuit of excellence.

[babeyvenus]

My Future

Derek Hale x OC

Samantha, Stiles and Scott are always joking about the impossible. Who wouldn't when your best friend's dad is the sheriff of Beacon Hills? All jokes stop when they realize the impossible is indeed possible.

Chapter 4: Challenge

"I just woke up covered up in sweat.", Scott said as we walked up the front steps of the school. "I never had a dream like that before."

"Really? I have.", Stiles said. "Usually ends a little differently."

"A, I meant I never had a dream that felt that real and B," Scott began but I cut him off.

"We don't wanna know what you dream about, sir.", I said, in disgust.

"Thank you.", Scott agreed with me and we turned right down the hallway.

"Okay.", Stiles said. "But, let me take a guess here."

"No, I know, you think it has something to do with Allison tomorrow. Like I'm gonna lose control and rip her throat out.", Scott says.

"No, of course not.", Stiles said. We both looked at him, unamused. "Yeah, that's totally it.", Stiles confessed.

Scott sighed and looked down at his feet.

"Scott, it's gonna be okay.", I said, rubbing his back. "I'm going over to Derek's tomorrow to clear everything up."

"Ok, well, back to Scott's killing Allison dream, I think you guys are handling this thing really well. I mean, you can't actually take a class on this.", Stiles says.

"We can definitely learn from a master, though.", I smile.

"Who, Derek?", Scott and Stiles exclaimed in disbelief. I crossed my arms. "He was compliant when we talked, we can definitely learn a thing or two."

Stiles shook his head. "Did you forget the part where we got him tossed into jail?", Stiles asked, widening his eyes in emphasis.

"Uh, who's we???", I asked. "You guys are the one who got him tossed into jail, not me."

"The dream did feel so real though."

"How real?"

"Like it actually happened."

We pushed through the back door and stopped abruptly when we saw cop cars everywhere. There was a school bus with the back door bent and ripped off its hinges and there was blood everywhere.

My jaw dropped. "Scott? What the hell did you do?" Scott rushed back inside, us following behind him.

"She's probably fine.", I reassured.

"She's not answering my texts, Sam.", Scott urged.

"It could just be a coincidence, Scott.", Stiles said.

"Just help me find her, ok?", Scott gruffed. I looked and saw a girl with black wavy hair

"Look there she is." I said, pointing in front of Scott.

"Where??", Scott exclaimed looking around.

"I'm sorry, I'm just messing with you.", I felt bad.

"Sam!"

"Sorry, sorry, just trying to lighten the mood.", I say, sighing.

Scott turned to a locker and punched on it with his fist causing a big dent in it. "Whoa, Scott, take it easy. Look there, she is over there.", Stiles said.

"Stiles, not you too."

"No, I'm serious, she just came in through the front doors." Scott looked up from the locker and rushed over to Allison and picked her up into a big bear hug. "Well, glad to see she's ok."

I looked to my right and saw Jackson trying to fix the bent locker door.

I sat next to Stiles in Chemistry, copying the notes off the board. Scott was in front of us, shaking and fidgeting. "Maybe it was my blood on the door.", Scott whispered to us.

"Could have been animal blood.", I said.

"Yeah, maybe you caught a rabbit or something.", Stiles joked.

"And did what?", Scott asked, in shock.

"Ate it.", Stiles said, bluntly. I kicked his leg to get him to hush. "Raw?", Scott asked in disgust.

"No, you took it and baked it, what do you think??", Stiles replied, sarcastically.

"Mr. Stillinski.", our teacher called Stiles. "If that's your idea of a hushed whisper, you might want to pull the headphones out every once in a while. I think you, Miss Wilson and Mr. McCall would benefit some distance apart, yes?"

"No.", Stiles and I said in unison.

He didn't listen. "Mr. Stillinski, over there, Mr. McCall, over there, Miss Wilson, you stay where you are."

Stiles and Scott got up and moved to opposite sides of the room. "Let me know if the separation anxiety gets to be too much."

I heard Stiles laugh sarcastically as he moved to his new seat. I hurriedly continued to take notes until a girl jumped up and looked out the window.

"Hey, I think they found something.", she announced. Everybody got out of their seats and rushed to the window. Stiles, Scott and I saw paramedics pushing a stretcher with a man on it to an ambulance.

"That's an awfully big rabbit, Scotty.", I muttered. The man on the stretcher sat up quickly and yelled in pain. I jumped back, scared from the quick reaction and sighed. Scott back away from the window, horror plain on his face. Stiles and I looked over at him, walking over to his side.

"This is good, he's not dead.", Stiles reassured Scott. "Dead guys can't do that."

"Guys, I did that.", Scott said. "Psh, how would you know? It was a dream right?", I say.

Scott wasn't convinced.

I grabbed my lunch tray and walked over to an empty table with Scott and Stiles behind me.

Sitting down, I sigh. "Dreams aren't memories, Scott."

"Then it wasn't a dream.", Scott argued. "Something happened last night and I can't remember what."

"What makes you so sure that Derek even has all the answers?", Stiles asked me.

"Well, one, he's kinda the reason why we're in this mess in the first place.", I said.

Stiles nodded. "Two, during the full moon he wasn't changed. He was in total control. And the night of the game, when I ran off into the woods, he was there.", I say.

Thinking back, I quirked my lips. "I was kinda relieved to see him again."

"You were relieved to see Derek?"

"Yeah.", I say, confused.

"Derek Hale?", Stiles expressed.

"Yes, Stiles, Derek Hale.", I roll my eyes.

"If he was in control of himself on the full moon then he can help me. He was in control while I was running around in the woods chasing some innocent guy.", Scott said, ashamed.

I frowned, sadly.

"You don't know that." Stiles said.

"I don't not know it.", Scott retaliated.

"That doesn't make any sense.", I say.

"I can't go out with Allison. I have to cancel.", Scott groaned.

"You can't cancel.", Stiles said. "You can't just cancel your entire life. We'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?", Lydia sat down on the left side of Scott.

"Uh," Stiles stuttered.

"Homework.", I said bluntly.

"Yeah.", Scott replied quickly.

"Why is she sitting with us?", Stiles whispered to me. "How the fuck should I know? She's your girlfriend.", I say, making him sputter. "N-Not yet! But thanks for having some faith in me."

Allison sat down on the right side of Scott. Enya sat to the left of me and Mark sat at the head of the table and Danny to the right of Stiles.

"Get up.", Jackson ordered Mark.

"How come you never ask Danny to move?", Mark whined.

"Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin slot.", Danny answered. Mark reluctantly got up and moved to a different table as Jackson sat. "So, I hear they say it's some type of animal attack. Probably a cougar."

"I heard a mountain lion." Jackson said. I roll my eyes.

"A cougar is a mountain lion.", Lydia said. Jackson looked at her. "Isn't it?"

"Who cares?", Jackson said. "The guy's probably some homeless tweaker who's gonna die anyways." Fucking prick.

"Can we talk about something that's slightly more fun?", Lydia asked. "Like, where are we going tomorrow?"

Scott and Allison looked at Lydia in astonishment. "You said you and Scott were hanging out tomorrow night, right?"

"Um, we were thinking about what we were going to do.", Allison said, swallowing her mouthful of food.

"Well, I am not sitting home again watching lacrosse videos, so if the four of us are hanging out, we are doing something fun.", Lydia said.

"Hanging out?", Scott questioned Allison who chugged her water nervously. "Like the four of us?"

Stiles and I shrugged at Scott.

"It sounds fun.", Allison said.

"You know what else sounds fun?", Jackson said, picking up a fork. "Stabbing myself in the face with this fork." Lydia snatched the fork from his hands. I rolled my eyes. The guy was such a dick.

"How about bowling?", Lydia suggested. "You love to bowl, Jackson."

"Yeah, with actual competition.", Jackson said.

"How do you know we're not actual competition?" Allison questioned him. "You can bowl, right, Scott?" Oh, boy.

"Sort of.", Scott muttered.

"Is it sort of or yes?", Jackson asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Yes. In fact, I'm a great bowler.", Scott said with confidence and a glare.

Me and Stiles looked at each other in disbelief. This can't go well.

[bellysoupset]

AAAAAHHHHH SCREAMING BLUSHING CRYING SCREAMING SOME MORE‼️‼️ SOUP THE LAST TWO FICS HAVE ME DEAD LIKE OMFG WOW THANKS FOR BLESSING US WITH THESE IM GONNA EXPLODE 😭😭😭

okay so starting w the last one, ngl when i read 🧷anon’s request for bad caretaking from jon i was like NOOO bc i really just don’t like bad caretaking at all cause it just gives me second hand embarrassment lmaoooo idk why

BUT GOSH THE WAY YOU MIXED BOTH ASKS TO CREATE THIS MASTERPIECE WAS BEAUTIFUL‼️‼️ (SLAY 🧷 anon’s request‼️‼️‼️) like omfg the GUILT was SO INSANELY GOOD‼️‼️‼️ and the bitchiness at first was SO necessary and it just made all the guilt afterwards THAT much more angsty and raw and AHHHH it was just so perfect😭🫶🏽 baby girl begging at the beginning and the DETAIL OF JON BARELY EVEN LOOKING AT HER so he really just couldn’t have known/suspected she wasn’t feeling well😩 and omg the clear heartbreaking mix of “i don’t want you” + feeling so shitty but also safe w him that she completely trusts jon to take good care of her even if she’s a lil pissed at him 😭😭😭 and vin all worried at the end and then vin hugging him and jon feeling guilty about that too aghhhhh I LOVE ANGST SO MUCH SOUP THIS WAS PERFECT♥️ (i’m only a lil tiny tiny tiiiiiny bit sad this wasn’t longer bc i really wanted to see vin worried and taking care of her 🥹 (angsty part 2 w migraine getting worse maybe?👀👀👀 no pressure at all tho lmao i know we’ve had 2 wen focused fics in a row and i don’t wanna abuse my luck here teehee🫡) but fr tho this was so amazing and THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING THIS IT GENUINELY MADE MY DAY AND IM SO THANKFUL FOR YOU WRITING ALL THESE REQUESTS YOU’RE THE BEST AND I *KNOW* YOU’RE GONNA GET FAR W YOUR WRITING bc you’re such a talented author and always able to depict the little things and make all your characters’ personalities shine through in the most beautiful (smol and big) ways and gosh you know i already love your writing but every single time you post i’m just always bamboozled by how CRAZY good your writing is AHHHHH)

omg and then the NSFW fic????????? GODDAMN?!?!?!?? i didn’t comment on it sooner bc i was legitimately speechless 🤭 that fic scratched the deepest itch in my brain in the most satisfying way possible🤓 and goshhh my girl was LIVING THE DREAM and i was vicariously living it through her omfg 🤭🤭 the “don’t even pretend to care” and the descriptions of her being so turned on was 🥵🥵 and vin being so chill and nonchalant about everything??? the kiss at the end???? holy mother this was SO FUCKING GOOD TOO and i have no words other than i will be rereading this one an abnormal number of times thank you very much 🤭🫡🫶🏽

🦦

🦦 I swear to god I thought I had answered this one, I DONT WANNA ANSWER IT. I wanna keep it in my inbox so I can look at and cry.

LMAO I got so scared when you said you didn't like Bad Caretaker, because I mixed without asking either parties, so what a huge relief to know I didn't fuck it up.

I am soooo happy you liked it!!!! And all the details you picked up!! 🤩🤩🤩🤩 I agree it deserves a part 2, but I'm actually moving on to a Jonah (+ caretaker Luke) piece that kinda hinges on this not being solved. So don't worry, I'll bring it up again and also have more Vin and Wendy fluff (LOADS), but not in a part 2 manner

The smut got such an amazing turn out, I'm kicking my feet and squealing. Deepest itch uh? 🙈🙈 Guess the Wendy in you is showing, 🦦! Please DO read it an abnormal amount of times, just know I'll be giddy asf every time you do

[poolsidepanic]

Blondies, Brownies, and Kitchen Catastrophes

4,595 words | read on AO3: here

Chrissy Cunningham/Heather Holloway | Fluff | Humour | Baking | Chrissy Cunningham is a Sweetheart | and lots of little background details :)

.

Chrissy has flour all down the front of her jumpsuit, across the kitchen counter and in her bangs when she finally decides to call in reinforcements. 

She should have relented earlier, but she had been determined that she would make this work. How hard could it be to bake some brownies, after all? It’s supposed to be simple; mix the ingredients, all into one tin, then cut into slices. Turns out, Chrissy is really not made for baking.

The phone is only ringing for a few seconds before it’s answered.

“Steve?” Chrissy asks, eyeing the state of the kitchen behind her. “I need help.”

“What? Is everything okay? Are you alright? Do I need to bring the bat? Because I can bring the bat—”

“No! It’s nothing like that, I promise. I just…”

She sighs, letting her head thump back against the wall as embarrassment flushes her cheeks. It feels ridiculous to admit now, in the face of everything they’ve all survived, that Chrissy Cunningham has been defeated by brownie batter.

“I’m trying to bake and it’s going really badly, and I could use some help. Please?”

“Oh,” Steve says, and Chrissy can hear the sigh of relief. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be over soon, Carol and Tommy are here but they won’t miss me for a few hours. I’m pretty sure Tommy’s passed out in my bed after challenging Billy at basketball when the kids were around and Carol is either sunbathing or plotting the downfall of man.”

“Probably the latter,” Chrissy says with a smile, thankful that Steve’s happy just to move on from the fact that Chrissy called him for something so silly. “See you soon?”

“Yep!” Steve affirms and then hangs up.

A smile works its way onto Chrissy’s face. They can definitely fix her mess of an attempt, this is all going to be fine. After all, two heads are better than one.

—

“How did it get worse?” Chrissy frowns, looking down at the grainy mess constituting their batter.

Steve has been at her house for forty-seven minutes and the kitchen is in more of a state than before. The chocolate they managed to get into the pan is burnt, the rest is scattered in unevenly-cut chunks across the tabletop, and there is a concerningly misplaced knife from the chopping board. 

“You were supposed to help me, Steve,” she whines, looking over at him pathetically as he tries to get the sugar and egg out from where it’s stuck between his fingers.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how to make food.”

“You worked at an ice cream place the summer before last!”

That makes Steve’s head jerk up to look at her, a baffled expression firmly in place. 

“I didn’t make the stuff, Chris! I just scooped it” he tells her, before miming a scooping motion with one hand. “With my scooper. And do you even know how many cones I snapped? The floor behind the counter crunched when you walked.”

“Okay, but what about when your parents go off on business trips? You have to cook for yourself, right? You must be at least a little better than me.”

Despite waitressing the last few summers, Chrissy hasn’t really done much cooking up until this point in time. Anyone should be a better cook than her—or baker, in this instance—especially someone who has definitely had to cook for themselves in the past. Her whole hopes of baking something actually decent hinged on this hope. Yet here Steve stands, crushing all her poor little baking dreams by somehow managing to be worse than her, who has never done any of this stuff before.

“I’m the king of chicken nuggets and fries– or just potato chips, sometimes.”

“How are you alive?” she sighs, defeated. “That’s almost worse than Eddie.”

“Hey! No, that’s unfair; I’ve seen what that guy considers a meal. At least I can make nuggets, and pasta sometimes. I’ve seen him just eat sticks of raw spaghetti and— Wait— Hey, where are you going?”

Chrissy looks back over her shoulder from where she has started making her way over to the phone once again. The expression on Steve’s face is betrayed, but at this point they’re left with no choice. If the two of them plus a written down recipe isn’t enough to manage to make the damn brownies, maybe a third person can do it better.

“To call someone else.”

—

Billy’s “Hey, pretty boy” is met by a groan of despair from Steve as Chrissy leads him from the front door into the kitchen.

“Play nice,” Chrissy warns, a teasing smirk on her face.

“I could have played nice with anyone else, Billy’s just going to be a dick.”

When Steve’s face flushes bright red, she looks over her shoulder to see the other waggling his eyebrows. She’s not sure she wants to know what that means.

“No foreplay in my kitchen,” she warns, making Billy cackle and Steve splutter out a choking sound. “Or dying, Steve,” she adds on as his choking turns into a hacking cough. “I want to get these brownies done so I can give them to Heather when she gets home and you’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I’m not sure he’s been helping as much as sabotaging,” Billy grins, looking over the state of the kitchen.

Steve just flips him off, still doubled over and gasping. Neither of them pay him any mind. Instead, Billy turns back to Chrissy, face saying exactly how much of a waste of time he thinks this all to be.

“Why are we even making brownies for Heather?” 

“Because,” Chrissy explains, trying in vain to sweep a clear spot onto the messy countertop for Billy to work at, “she made me blondies a few days ago, and it’s the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Steve finally seems to have stopped trying his best to asphyxiate in the middle of Chrissy’s tiny kitchen space. He glances up at Chrissy—and technically also Billy since the taller blonde has settled himself in to lean against the now somewhat-clear counter space—with a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Wait— did she make you blondies because you’re blonde or is that a coincidence?” 

Billy makes a face like that is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Which, when said like that, it does sound like a bit of a leap in logic. In Steve’s defence, though, he is actually entirely correct.

“She made me blondies topped with white chocolate and strawberries, because I’m her strawberry blonde.” 

“And she said that?” Billy asks.

“Yep.”

“Those words came out of Heather’s mouth?” 

Chrissy frowns at him, utterly lost. Isn’t that exactly what she had just said?

“Yes?” 

“What a dork,” he snorts.

“Hey!” Chrissy whines. “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” 

“I don’t see the problem.” Steve interjects.

Chrissy thinks she sides with him, too. It had been incredibly adorable—as Heather is any time she does something nice for Chrissy, because Chrissy knows it’s just for her. Heather only ever does considerate, sappy things like that for her and remains her usual, wonderful, bitchy self towards everyone else. That fact has turned Chrissy into a blushing mess on more than one occasion. So, yes, Chrissy doesn’t see what the problem is with her girlfriend being a sweetheart.

“It’s lame,” Billy deadpans, face so utterly unimpressed Chrissy would almost want to laugh if she didn’t have the moral obligation to defend her girlfriend. “She made a pun. With cake.” 

“Are brownies cakes?” 

“It was sweet!” Chrissy squeaks, petulant, ignoring Steve’s question.

“Lame.” 

This time it’s Steve that laughs, a sudden, mocking sound. Billy’s eyes glint in warning, not that his boyfriend seems to pay any mind.

“Like I haven’t heard you use the word heebie jeebies,” Steve fires back at him. “You’re the dork.”

“That’s not a pun, though.” 

“Please,” Chrissy jumps in, before the two of them can get too out of hand; “just help me with the brownies.”

—

They do not help with the brownies. 

Despite Billy being adamant that they needed more moisture and so adding milk to the mixture, despite Chrissy and Steve’s protests that there was no milk in the recipe, it doesn’t help. The batter ends up concerningly runny but at this point, after a partially-entertaining partially-exasperating food fight—

“It was not a food fight, Chris.”

“It was a food war.”

“Okay, no. Food implies more than just ingredients. And we’re not kids; we're adults now.”

“You’re just bitter that you lost.”

—they’re just too fed up to do anything about it. It’s worth a try, right? 

So it goes into the oven, at the temperature that the recipe said. When the timer goes off and they stick it with a skewer, though, it is obviously still raw inside. After a quick discussion, they pop it back in for a little while longer.

When it next comes out of the oven it’s shallow, stodgy, and burnt.

“Well this is a disaster,” Carol observes from where she’s perched on the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her legs and watching them all with a spark of mild interest in her eye.

The girl had shown up and let herself in about ten minutes after Billy had arrived. Chrissy doesn’t know if Heather gave her a spare key to their place or if Carol just took one for herself, either way she doesn’t usually mind.

The only problem is that, right now, Chrissy is halfway to overwhelmed and the kitchen is starting to get a little cramped; her and Heather’s place isn’t huge, after all. The apartment is actually pretty small, though it does have the necessary two bedrooms that… probably aren’t all that necessary.

“Who even invited you?” Billy snaps, glaring over as she surveys her nails.

“I was on the other phone when Chrissy called Steve,” Carol explained. “And I got bored of waiting for Tommy to wake up.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Steve accuses.

“Duh.”

“And you came to help?” 

“I came to witness the devastation,” she simpers back, expression unrepentant even when Chrissy groans in misery.

“That isn’t helpful,” Billy says

“Did I say it was?” 

“So, what, you’re just going to stand there and look pretty? That’s my job, why am I not doing that?” 

“Chrissy is your friend,” Carol points out to him.

Chrissy frowns at that, looking up at her with sad eyes.

“Are you not my friend?” 

“Yeah,” Carol sighs, “but I just got my nails done. Plus, none of you expect me to be nice.” 

“People don’t expect me to be nice, either. Even Steve doesn’t and he’s screwing me.” 

“I’m dating you, asshole.” 

“Yeah, but Chrissy’s your exception,” Carol dismisses with a wave. “She bats her sad eyes at you and you come running. It works on everyone.” 

“But not you?” Steve asks.

“I’m the exception.” 

“You’re a bitch,” Billy grumbles, wiping off his hands as he plops himself down into the dining chair.

“Hey!” 

Chrissy groans again.

“Guys, please. What do we do now? Do we call someone else?”

Billy shrugs and Carol kicks him in the shin.

“How about Vickie?” Steve asks, which makes Chrissy perk up a little.

“Oh!” She smiles. “Her and Robin might be back from their grocery store date by now.”

“Gag,” Carol says, rolling her eyes. 

“Hey,” Chrissy defends, “they’re sweet.”

“You have to say that; Vickie is your cousin.”

“And her and Heather are just ridiculously sappy, as well,” Billy throws in.

“It’s… cute…” Steve tries.

“It’s gross.”

“You guys shut up,” Chrissy huffs, “I’ll call them.”

—

Everything goes wrong. Again.

Chrissy is— Chrissy is trying so goddamn hard and none of this is working. It seems that every new person they bring in just makes things worse and crowds the limited space in her kitchen even more. No matter what she’s tried this isn’t working, so maybe she should just give up.

It makes her feel almost pathetic, really, that Heather just easily made something for Chrissy and was so caring… and when Chrissy tries to reciprocate she has to call on all their friends—minus Eddie who is sleeping off a night shift, and Argyle who’s back home visiting his family—and still manages to screw everything up.

The arrival of Vickie and Robin also brought along Nancy, the three of them arm in arm and looking ridiculously happy. At first their addition had seemed like a blessing; they helped wrangle the others into some semblance of peace for at least a minute, and Nancy was quick to step in and organise the process of starting over again. 

With the way everyone, all seven of them, were loitering in the kitchen space, there wasn’t enough room to move around and properly clean up. But, despite that, they cleared a little space and were ready to tackle everything again. 

Inevitably, that seemed to be where the good luck ended.

Working in a cramped little space, knocking elbows with everyone else, is no easy feat. At some point Carol goads Steve and Billy into an arm-wrestling contest for her own amusement; Billy wins, easily, every time. Steve is petulant enough to get grumbly and start up a fuss, which ends in him and Robin bickering like siblings with Vickie and Billy somehow getting involved on their partners’ behalf.

So, after showing Chrissy how to set up a double boiler properly, Nancy ends up having to step away to wrangle her girlfriends. With the argument winding down, Carol moves over to start something with Billy instead—Chrissy doesn’t really understand how they’re friends when the pair of them seem to manage a maximum of two seconds before they’re insulting each other in increasingly indignant tones.

At some point, Chrissy can’t say when for sure, Tommy shows up (apparently having slept off his exhaustion) with Jason in tow. They, as expected, do not help in the slightest. Everything gets more and more out of control, and, at this point, Chrissy can’t take half a step without knocking into someone. She even ends up burning herself a little on the pan when someone else bumps into her.

The chaos of the kitchen is distracting, and overwhelming. She can hardly hear herself think, let alone make any sense of the instructions when Nancy has had to abandon her in the fruitless attempt to stop her ex and her girlfriend from causing more of a mess and destroying the room. 

The second attempt at brownies are no better than the first. In fact, they may be worse; that is the last thing Chrissy can take.

Which leaves her here, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head in her hands. Her head is pounding and her eyes sting from the salt of her tears but she can't seem to calm down. This whole thing has been a disaster—a catastrophe—and even having experienced it in the company of friends hasn’t helped. It may even be worse because she feels upset at them and feels guilty about that, and the fact they’ve seen her fail so spectacularly is humiliating.

There’s a knock at the door and then Vickie is slipping inside with a sympathetic look on her face.

“Hey, Chris,” she greets softly. “You okay?”

A sniffle.

“No.”

“Right, stupid question. I wouldn’t be okay in this situation, I can’t imagine why anyone else would be. We’re all very sorry, by the way, and we want to make this right–”

“There’s no fixing this,” Chrissy huffs. “The whole thing was a disaster, I don’t know what I was even thinking.”

“You were thinking about being a good girlfriend, because you are. For what it’s worth, you could come up empty handed and the effort would be all that matters, y’know? To us and definitely to Heather. She’s scary as hell but I’ve seen what she’s like around you; absolutely besotted. The fact you even wanted to do this for her will make her day.”

“How’d you know they were for Heather? I didn’t tell you that.”

“No, but you told Carol and Carol told me. She’s worried about you in here by yourself, by the way. She’s doing the whole unimpressed face, snarky voice routine—complete with the ‘this is why I think romance sucks, I’m not jealous of any of you losers’ thing—but she keeps glancing at the door to your room. She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

“That’s sweet of her but I’m—” Her voice cracks. “I’m gonna be fine. No need to worry.”

“Every need to worry,” Vickie corrects, sitting down beside her and curling an arm around her shoulder. “We all love you, of course we worry when you’re not happy. Not– I mean– it’s fine that you’re not, we just want to be here. That’s why all of us came today, to help. We’re so sorry we made it worse.”

“It’s fine,” she dismisses. “It wasn’t going to turn out anyway, it was a lost cause from the start.”

“Which is why we’re going to do it right this time.”

That makes Chrissy’s head snap upright.

“This time? What do you mean this time? Vickie, I can’t do this again; it’s not going to—”

“Ah ah,” Vickie chides with a smile. “None of that. Nance pulled me aside—not like that, don’t make a face!—and we’ve figured this out. It’s all going to get sorted out and work fine cause, like, we’ve handled it. Nancy called Jonathan to fetch in more ingredients because we’ve used up all the stuff in your kitchen by this point—and no we will not let you pay us back, it’s only fair since we all made a huge mess trying to cram into your kitchen while you were working so hard (and I’m so proud of you for trying so much, by the way, cause I always seem to give up when things get to difficult unless it’s, like, band).

“And for everyone else, me and Nancy are going to keep them entertained and hopefully not killing each other in your living room—we don’t want another mess to clean up but if there does end up being a murder we’ll deal with it, you won’t even know about it cause Nancy is wildly scary when she wants and can blackmail the witnesses into silence and I’m so good at cleaning messes. Anyway, the point is that we’ll keep the noise out of the kitchen, Jonathan will be here in ten minutes with new ingredients, and Patrick’s just shown up to help you bake. You remember that his aunt is a baker, right?”

“Obviously,” Chrissy smiles, expression still watery.

Vickie smiles back, squeezing Chrissy a little tighter before standing up and making her way back out.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she tells Chrissy before shutting the door behind her.

—

Jonathan drops a kiss to Nancy’s cheek as he enters and only stops in the kitchen long enough to drop off the bag of ingredients before he’s dropping himself down on the sofa next to Robin. When he glances her way, Chrissy offers him a little wave hello before slipping into the now-clean kitchen.

“Hey,” Patrick smiles. “You ready to get started?”

“Not really,” she offers, but obediently moves to re-wash her hands.

“I’ll do my best to help you through it, yeah? We can get these to turn out real nice now the idiots are distracted and it’s just us two.”

“Thanks.”

Patrick doesn’t actually end up doing most of the work. Instead, he just guides Chrissy through the process as the instructions state. He helps her set up a double boiler on the stove, and makes sure she keeps an eye on it and keeps stirring so the chocolate doesn’t burn while they wait for the butter to melt in. 

The sugar gets spilled a little, but it’s easy to ignore that when Patrick doesn’t make a fuss. He simply nudges Chrissy aside and swipes a wet cloth over the surface of the counter to brush it all away as Chrissy moves onto weighing out the brown sugar.

“You want to beat the eggs for longer than that,” he tells her, guiding the hand holding the electric whisk back to the now combined sugar and eggs.

“But… all the eggs are in now – one at a time, like you said.”

Patrick claps her on the shoulder with a grin.

“Yeah, and you did great, just trust me. You want to beat more air into them, that way they’ll turn out better. You keep whisking for a minute and then I’ll add in the chocolate and butter as you keep going.” 

The batter comes together right this time. Under Patrick’s guidance Chrissy ends up feeling a lot less stressed and has a lot easier of a time. She still doesn’t really enjoy baking, but she doesn’t think she’s going to cry again so that’s good as far as she’s concerned.

When the brownies are finally in the oven, Chrissy has time to sit with her friends in the living room. It’s a little cramped with so many people piled in, but the overwhelming feel in the kitchen isn’t here. Nancy and Vickie have seemingly ordered everyone else into some semblance of control so it’s actually… fun.

Chrissy is having fun.

A smile breaks easily across her face, knowing Patrick is ducking in and out of the kitchen to keep an eye on the baking goods. Now she can just enjoy the company, laughing with everyone else as Robin and Steve fight over what actually happened in Back to the Future—which they apparently watched together once while stoned and only half-remember. It turns out Carol has seen it too, her and Tommy having gone out to see it together, but she’s tight lipped on the actual plot.

If Heather were here, Chrissy is sure they’d start bickering good-naturedly over whether her silence was because she just couldn’t remember. The thought makes excitement buzz under Chrissy’s skin. Call her a sap, but she just can’t wait for her girlfriend to get home. The look that Carol sends her is painfully knowing and her cheeks flush a brilliant pink that everyone politely ignores.

“If Tommy went with you then why can’t he clear this up?” Jonathan asks, sat on the floor in front of the armchair Nancy has curled into.

Steve pauses at that.

“Wait, where is Tommy?”

Billy grins, all sharp teeth and shark-like. Carol groans—actually groans—in dismay. Vickie, bless her heart, turns bright red.

“Uhm,” her cousin starts. “I think him and Jason are in the bathroom.”

“Still?” Robin asks from beside her, finally turning away from Steve on her other side.

Billy cackles.

“Think you told your no foreplay warning to the wrong person, shortcake.”

Robin opens her mouth, then closes it.

“I don’t want to know,” she says, shifting to press closer into Vickie’s side.

“Know what?” Patrick asks, poking his head back in from the kitchen.

“Nothing!” Steve squawks, and Billy laughs again, head tipped back in joy and eyes sparkling.

Patrick looks dubious for a second, but then he shakes it off.

“C’mon Chrissy,” he tells her instead. “They’re ready to come out.”

—

Eventually, the flow of visitors ebbs away. Nancy, Vickie, Robin, and Jonathan all depart together; apparently Vickie and Nancy are having a much deserved night in after the chaos they had to deal with. Jonathan and Robin, however, are going out drinking. Chrissy almost wishes she could be there to see the inevitable chaos of a drunk Robin Buckley.

Billy leaves next. He appears behind her as she’s washing up, hands dunked in the sudsy water in the kitchen sink. Two arms circle her waist and she screeches in surprise.

“I’m off now. Bob insists on meeting Steve since I’ve been talking about him so much since I moved in, so we’re doing dinner together. Should be awkward.”

Chrissy snorts at that.

“Yeah, right. Bob’s great, you and Steve are great, you’ll have a fun time.” She dries her hands and wraps up some freshly-cut brownies. “For dessert,” she explains with a smile.

Billy grins at her and then ducks in to press a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Later short stuff!”

Rolling her eyes, Chrissy helps Patrick with the last of the cleaning before he dismisses himself. 

“Thanks,” Chrissy tells him, earnestly as possible. 

He waves her off and makes her promise to call him first next time. Chrissy promises, on her childhood pet cat’s grave, that there will never be a next time for her baking. Patrick laughs and jogs off down the road, heading home.

When Chrissy turns around, she jumps.

“Carol! Fuck, I didn’t know you were still here.”

“You swearing feels illegal.” At Chrissy’s glare she shrugs, amending: “Fine. Maybe not illegal. Sacreligious.” 

Chrissy huffs.

“You hanging around?”

“No,” Carol scoffs, but her expression is teasing. “I’m just waiting to see if I get any of the spoils.”

“The brownies you mean?”

“No, I meant the scrapped batter.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes, but can’t help the grin worming its way onto her face.

“They’re for Heather, Carol. You know, my girlfriend?”

“Is Billy your girlfriend too? Wonder how Heather feels about that.”

A laugh escapes before Chrissy can bite it down.

“The ones I gave him were more for Bob; he let me come over plenty after Billy moved in with him. You can have one though. And I mean one, Carol.”

She just waves a hand and makes a detour to the kitchen on her way out--the shape in her hand when she leaves looks suspiciously like two brownies. Then Chrissy is alone, waiting for Heather to get home from work.

—

She isn’t waiting too long before she hears the front door open. The excitement under her skin sparks into a vibrant display, shining along her nerves and making it hard to fight the impulse to run straight up to the other girl and display her successes. 

They’re just about under control when Heather steps into the kitchen and meets her gaze with a fond smile. Chrissy melts, and then she’s in Heather’s arms before she even realised she lost the battle with her self-control.

“Hey,” she grins, smile smushed into the other’s shoulder.

“Hey yourself. You have company? The living room is a state.”

Chrissy laughs, pulling away to smile up at her.

“Maybe one or two people came over.”

Heather looks doubtful, but then her eyes land on the plate of brownies. They’re laying pride of place in the centre of the kitchen table, and despite the messy edges Chrissy thinks they came out pretty damn good. More Patrick’s influence than her own, but she’s still pretty proud despite the exhaustion. 

It was all worth it, anyway, from the way Heather’s eyes widen and then soften. They turn back to her with adoration.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, and Chrissy flushes. Again.

“Surprise!” she tries, feeling a little embarrassed by the fondness plain for the world to see on Heather’s face. Or, if not the world, just the two of them in their little kitchen. “I wanted to make something for you after you did for me.”

“I love you,” Heather mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Chrissy’s shy smile.

And that’s when Jason and Tommy appear in the doorway, looking a little dishevelled. The four of them blink at each other.

“Have you been in the bathroom this whole time?”

The pair turn bright red.

[oreoambitions]

46 for agentreign please

Anon I'm sorry this took me a thousand years, but here you go. This gets wildly NSFW after the cut. Enjoy!

/// The first time it happens, Alex figures it's a fluke.

There are, after all, extenuating circumstances. She's not sure how many glasses of wine she's had because every time she turns around Sam has topped her off again, and maybe she should stop indulging but the wine is good and the company is better and this is the first day off off she's had for so long that it's hard not to let go a little. Kara's been keeping the showtunes coming all afternoon, a little louder than her old bluetooth speaker can really handle but it doesn't matter because Spotify is really just an excuse for Kara and Sam to sing at the top of their lungs. Alex is not participating, but she is appreciating. Appreciating because it's nice to see her sister laugh and smile like maybe things are getting better and maybe things are going to be okay. And also appreciating because, well, Sam. It's hard not to appreciate anything and everything Sam.

The activity of the afternoon is ostensibly the production of baked goods for a fundraiser related to Ruby's soccer team. Alex says 'ostensibly' because the reality is that it's been more than three hours and they haven't gotten the first batch of cookies into the oven yet. There's flour all over the floor, and she's pretty sure Kara got butter stuck to ceiling before Sam took the mixer away, but sometimes that's just the cost of a slightly raucous afternoon well spent, isn't it? And they'll have it all done in time anyway. In fact, Sam is just now finishing up the first batch of cookie dough in the confiscated kitchen aid when Alex, perhaps inebriated or perhaps just feeling emboldened by the domestic comfort of the whole affair, lunges for the beater.

This, it turns out, is either a mistake or the best decision she's ever made in her life. Her hand does contact the beater. She does come within a few seconds of pure raw cookie dough bliss. But Sam is faster, and in a flash Alex finds herself pinned between the counter and Sam's hips, one wrist wrapped up in Sam's fingers, the beater now soundly out of reach in Sam's other hand.

"Mine," Sam growls, but her eyes have dropped to Alex's mouth and for one disorienting moment Alex thinks she might be about to kiss her, thinks maybe the word 'mine' has nothing to do with the beater at all, that maybe they've crossed into some alternate dimension where there's a future for her and Sam that doesn't involve a lot of politely smiling and politely never mentioning one another's romantic entanglements or the absence thereof.

And the thing is, Alex thinks to herself, contemplating the heat of Sam's gaze and the fact that she literally cannot move beneath Sam's hips, this is... attractive. This is very attractive, in an immediate and throbbing sort of way that would be frankly embarrassing approximately half a glass of wine earlier in the afternoon. But that can't be right, because Alex doesn't like to be pushed around. Alex is the one who does the pushing. Isn't she? Sam's grip tightens around her wrist and Alex's lips part of their own accord and-

"Oh for heaven's sake," Kara says, snatching the beater out of Sam's hand. "It's mine, because you two are both being ridiculous." She rolls her eyes. "I hate being the only adult in the room."

It was a fluke. That's what Alex thinks to herself later that night when she wakes with a start from a just-dozing-off dream featuring the immovable nature of Sam's hips. They were drinking and it was a long afternoon and everyone was a little wound up and a little giddy and Alex has been single for a long time. That's it. That's all it was. That's all it has to be.

///

It's harder to write it off as a fluke the second time, but she manages.

James is in town and so it's game night. Not their monthly game night as scheduled, but an extra at-the-last-second game night, and Alex is on call. Which is fine. She can count on her fingers the number of times she's had to handle something in the middle of the night while on call for the DEO, and she's not particularly worried. But it's a problem because she can't be drinking, which means she's sober when Sam corners her in the kitchen.

It's been a long night. Not in a bad way. Just in the sense that things have been a little more risque than usual, what with Nia falling over herself trying to make it clear to Brainy that she'd like to sleep with him without actually making it clear, and Lena shooting those long smoldering looks at a characteristically oblivious Kara, and then there's Sam. Alex can't stop looking at Sam in that shirt where it sits a little too tight across the shoulders, can't stop tracing the line of that necklace to the place where it disappears just below her collar, can't stop following the meaningless movement of her fingers as she absently fiddles with a beer that wouldn't have an effect on her even if she drank the whole case. She wonders idly if it's for the aesthetic or if Sam just likes the taste of a craft IPA.

The trouble is that every time Alex catches herself looking at Sam, she also catches Sam looking at her. And so, upon dragging her eyes up once more from Sam's fingers to find Sam staring back at her, eyes dark and expression unreadable, Alex decides it's time for a drink after all. One beer won't hurt, even if the world decides to consider coming to an abrupt conclusion in the next hour or so and it turns out to be her responsibility. It's just that her mouth is suddenly dry, and the room is suddenly too loud, and she needs something to roll between her fingers the way Sam is rolling that IPA back and forth and back and forth and- Yeah. Just one beer will be fine.

She slips into the kitchen while Nia is yelling about how they should all do a TikTok together. It's quieter here, and a cool breeze through the window over the sink raises goosebumps across her arms. She pops the fridge open, pulls a beer at random, leans up against the counter. Maybe she doesn't want a drink after all. Maybe she just needs a minute.

"Aren't you on call, Ms. Danvers?"

Sam. Alex pouts. "What are you, the party police?"

Sam steps up close, takes the beer from Alex without so much as looking at it. "Aren't you the alien invader police?"

That's a dumb line and it doesn't remotely reflect Alex's actual job description, but she laughs anyway. "It's just one beer. Like 4%. I can handle it."

"I know," Sam murmurs.

Alex thinks she's forgotten how to breathe. Sam's eyes are on her mouth and those hips are pressing into her again and when Sam slips one arm around her waist and one hand into her hair a sound comes out of her that might have been a whimper. There's an inevitability to the way Sam leans in, to the way Alex's lips part as Sam tilts her head back with a firm tug. There's a moment of hesitation, a lingering, an opportunity to say no. Instead, Alex whispers, "Please."

Sam obliges. She kisses her slow, languid almost, holds her firm against the counter as she licks into her mouth and Alex is thinking that maybe she's going to come right here just letting Sam kiss her like this when Sam presses a thigh between her legs and she gasps, grinds down hard without meaning to.

Sam chuckles into her mouth, drags one hand around to her throat, traces feather light kisses along her jaw, tugs on her earlobe with her teeth. "Good girl," she whispers.

Alex isn't sure if it's the heat of Sam's breath, or the praise, or the way she's been casually immobilized, but she shudders, and Sam chuckles again, lips against her ear, and that only makes it worse.

"Fuck," Sam says. "If I had my strap with me I'd rail you right here."

Alex is pretty sure that would kill her. She's pretty sure just the thought of it is going to kill her. Just the pad of Sam's thumb dragging across her throat as she kisses her again, just the roll of those hips, that thigh pressing hard into her, that deep ache coiling tighter as Sam pulls back just far enough to meet her eyes and-

"Hey, Nia wants- Oh!" Lena stops short just inside the kitchen door. "I'll just." She plucks a bottle of wine from the counter. "Take this and tell her that you've uhm. That you're busy."

"We'll be right there," Sam says. She straightens Alex's shirt with a tug and a smirk. "Wouldn't want to miss the TikTok dance."

"Nope," Alex chokes out. "Wouldn't want to miss that."

It's a fluke. Alex takes a long shower when she gets home, and she takes care of the lingering ache that's now outlived not one but two TikTok dances, and she thinks about texting Sam. She falls asleep with her phone in her hand and if she has dreams about a tall, handsome, strong woman railing her against a kitchen counter, well. That happens sometimes. Could happen to anyone. Doesn't mean anything except that Alex has been single for probably too long . She downloads Hinge in the morning and considers explicitly mentioning in her bio that she's the one who wears the strap.

///

The Hinge profile lasts about three days. Alex scrolls through a ridiculous number of women, all of whom are... fine, before she comes to the conclusion that the problem is that none of them are Sam. She's sitting on this stupid app pedaling her stupid profile and all she wants is the woman whose attention prompted her to download a dating app in the first place. And she can't want Sam because it would never work. They're fundamentally incompatible. This bedroom ain't big enough for two tops. It's not going to happen.

But the words if I had my strap with me I'd rail you right here are as stuck in Alex's head as that Lady Gaga song Brainy won't stop playing over the speakers at the DEO. She can't stop thinking about it. Picturing it, even. Dreaming about it when her mind should be anywhere else, on anything else. And she'd just avoid Sam, just look the other way until her hormones sort themselves out, except that Sam is virtually impossible to avoid.

Kara doesn't make it any easier when she calls on Friday night to ask her about a movie night at Sam's apartment.

"Ruby's on a school trip, so it'll be just the four of us," Kara says over the phone. "I'll bring snacks, and we can order whatever you want for dinner. Please? Lena's never seen Star Wars; we have to do something."

Alex doesn't know how to say no. No, I won't come to what feels suspiciously like a double date movie night at Sam's apartment, because Sam's strap is at Sam's apartment, and I'm not sure that she isn't going to try to fuck me on the bathroom floor, and furthermore, I'm not sure that I don't want her to. Instead she says, "Any Star Wars? That's a crime. Which movie are we starting with?"

It's probably a safe bet anyway. Kara and Lena will be there the whole time; Alex and Sam will never be alone. All Alex has to do is make sure that she leaves when everyone else does and they can avoid the awkwardness altogether, and no that is definitely not anticipation she's feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she certainly does not spend an extra half an hour in bed on Saturday morning keeping herself busy with the thought of offering to stay and help clean up, of finding herself pinned against the refrigerator door while Sam takes her from behind. That absolutely does not happen because that would be ridiculous, undignified, untoplike behavior.

Alex is certainly feeling ridiculous, undignified, and untoplike standing outside Sam's door that evening, anxiously smoothing out her shirt with one hand, a case of that IPA from game night in the other. She's arrived a carefully calculated fifteen minutes late just to be absolutely sure Kara and Lena will get here first, but she didn't spot Kara's car outside, and so she isn't particularly surprised when Sam opens the door with a warm smile and welcomes her into an empty apartment.

"Kara and Lena?" she asks as Sam takes the proffered beer.

"Lena got held up at the office," Sam replies, already disappearing into the kitchen. "They're running late. An hour or so. Told them we'd wait. Do you prefer an IPA or a lager? I don't have any stouts in the fridge right now. Might be a decent sour in here somewhere."

Alex lingers in the entryway, that not-anticipation feeling thrumming through her veins. She could follow Sam to the kitchen. Kitchens do seem to be their Thing. But Sam returns with two lagers, her question unanswered, and nods her head towards the living room.

Well, now they're alone together after all and Alex is feeling awkward. She settles onto one end of the couch and tries not to read into it when Sam deposits the lagers on the coffee table and settles in next to her, legs folded under her, almost too close, instead of occupying the perfectly good cushion on the other end.

"Sam," Alex tries. They should talk about this. "We should talk about this."

"Hmm." A hint of a smirk flickers across soft lips before Sam schools her expression. "Talk about what, exactly?"

If Alex had bothered to rehearse this conversation in her mind, she still wouldn't have imagined it going this way. Her eyes drop to Sam's mouth and then she struggles to look elsewhere. The records on the shelf under the window. The blank television screen.

"I-" she starts, but the words don't want to come out. The lager on the coffee table. She doesn't reach for it. "I can't stop thinking about game night," she forces out, and then she looks back up at Sam to gauge her reaction.

Sam is smirking openly now, a hint of laughter in her eyes. She reaches out to tangle long fingers in the hair at Alex's nape, the same grip she used to pull her into a kiss just last week, and Alex's arousal is embarrassingly immediate. "Really?" Sam asks. "Game night, huh? You want to know what I can't stop thinking about?"

It's Alex's gaze that drops first, to Sam's mouth again, and this time she can't look away. "What?"

"Tonight," Sam replies, close enough that Alex's eyes flutter closed, close enough that she can almost feel Sam's answer on her lips. There's probably a coy response for this somewhere in the lesbian handbook but Alex is reaching and coming up empty. She presses a soft kiss to Sam's mouth instead and feels that anticipation - there's no denying now that it's anticipation - thrum again when Sam's tongue immediately presses into her, hot and demanding.

"What's so special about tonight," Alex mumbles as Sam kisses along her jaw to her neck.

"Mmm." Sam nips hard against Alex's pulse point, smiles into her skin when she gasps. "Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"Take your shirt off."

Alex hesitates. That isn't remotely the answer to her question, but now Sam is sucking on her neck and her capacity for rational thought is rapidly diminishing. She fumbles with the first shirt button, fingers trembling, and then the second. Three undone is enough for Sam to pull the offending garment over her head. The sports bra follows, and then Sam is tugging on Alex's hips to reposition her so that she's lying back on the couch, and Alex suddenly understands what everyone finds so attractive about kryptonians, because it's effortless the way Sam moves her. She has about a half second to be transfixed by the abs peeking out from under Sam's own blouse before Sam is kissing down her collarbone and over her breast, chuckling when Alex's hips jerk underneath her.

"You know," Sam says, "I was expecting more of a fight out of Alex But-I'm-A-Top Danvers."

Alex opens her mouth to let out a retort but Sam's tongue is working a circle around her nipple and rational thought is once again threatening to fail. "Is that what you want?" She manages, struggling to sit up. "You want a fight?"

"No." Sam pushes her back again, pins her arms over her head with one hand, brushes the fingers of the other across her ribs, frowns. "No, I like you better like this."

Alex flushes and has to remind herself not to squirm, not to look away as Sam studies her in silence, drops kisses across her shoulders, traces the lines of her hip and the inside of her thigh. And then Sam reaches under the couch for a box, the implications of which are momentarily as immobilizing as the hand still holding Alex's wrists down, because Sam planned for this, planned far enough in advance to stash supplies where they might be convenient.

Alex swallows hard when Sam's pants exit the scenario, and Sam's eyes flicker over her face as she opens the box.

"How do you feel about being strapped on the couch?" she asks.

It's such a blunt question that Alex flushes again. "Uhm. Okay?"

Sam stops with her harness halfway out. "Just okay? I'm gonna need a clear yes or-"

"Yes. God. Yes please," Alex says, flushing an even darker shade. She's going to let... this... happen, but she's not going to beg. Christ. Consent granted; please let's move on before things get awkward. Sam chuckles a little at her discomfort and presses a kiss to her brow.

"Okay. But if you want me to stop you just say the word."

Alex nods, not trusting herself to speak, eyeing Sam's fingers where they're tightening the harness. And then all at once she blurts out, "Kara and Lena could be here at any moment," which she hadn't realized might be a concern until it came out of her mouth but now she can't stop thinking about it, and how embarrassing that would be, and Kara can see through walls for heaven's sake, and-

Sam chuckles. "Baby," she says, sliding herself between Alex's legs, "You're not going to last long enough to be worried about that."

Sam is embarrassingly, excruciatingly not wrong. By the time the strap is working into her Alex is pretty sure she's wound tighter than she's ever been, and she'd crack some kind of joke about how it's clearly been too long since she's had anyone inside of her but this is really not the time. Sam is pressing inexorably deeper and it's all she can do to hold her breath because otherwise she's going to come altogether undone before they've even gotten started.

Sam gives her a moment when she's all inside, waits for Alex to exhale, waits for her nod before she starts to rock her hips, and the drag of the strap is so intense that Alex loses her breath and her self control in the same instant with a groan that only deepens Sam's smirk. Alex is kind of wishing Sam would give her back the use of her hands, but that's not in the cards. She squirms instead, hips bucking of their own accord, head thrown back hard against the cushion of the couch.

"Thought about this every night," Sam murmurs, and Alex thinks she'll say since game night but she says, "Since the day I met you," which is almost as mindblowing as the pleasure somehow, incredibly, continuing to build between Alex's hips. "Thought about how good you'd be under me."

Alex shivers at that and then comes, bucking hard into Sam to take as much of the strap as she can, half aware of Sam whispering something in her ear that might have been what a good girl you are if Alex had been cognizant enough to comprehend it. She comes back down to soft kisses across her face, and when Sam lets go of her wrists she wraps her arms around her and tries to remember how to breathe, how to pull all the pieces of herself back together, how to be a competent and capable, dignified and toplike partner.

Alex runs a hand absently through Sam's hair and hums. "Do you want me to return the favor?" she asks. She doesn't have a strap with her but, well, it's not like that was ever the best trick up her sleeve anyway. She opens her mouth to make a quip about how a good top is always prepared but Sam reaches out and casually tips an untouched lager onto her discarded shirt.

Alex splutters.

"Too late," Sam says brightly. "You'll have to ask me after dinner. Lena and Kara are here."

"Lena and Kara are what-"

And there's the knock at the door. The door not ten paces from where Alex is lying in a state of naked disarray on the couch where they are supposed to be watching Star Wars. There is a moment of absolute stillness before Alex begins to scramble for her clothes.

"Bedroom is the second door on the left," Sam says, sneaking in a last kiss while Alex reaches for the underpants peeking out from under the coffee table. "Clean shirts in closet. Do pick something nice; I've been dying to see you in my clothes."

Alex scurries down the hall in her socks quietly cursing and thanking every star in the sky. It's going to be a long night. If she's lucky.

[lady-bluebird-luv]

Digesting Chapter 138

Don't get me wrong, there were moments in chapter 138 that fucked me up (cough Connie and Jean cough), and I love the art. Eren and Armin’s fight and the final panel with Mikasa, which I want to dig into in a bit, are both especially powerful drawings. Overall, though, I feel much calmer after reading this chapter than I thought I would. I’ve been trying to figure out why that is, and one reason is probably that I expected some of it. The rumbling was going to continue, the explosion wouldn’t have killed Eren, and he was probably going to die in either this chapter or the next one. 

But I also think that part of why I feel so normal is because I’m not thrilled about this chapter. Which is rare for me. I won’t say that I’ve never been peeved about a chapter, since I definitely have been and I just can’t remember the specifics, but it’s been a while. 138 is confusing, it’s disgruntling, and it didn’t pack as much of a punch as AoT usually does. I don’t hate it, but I’m also not here for it, and there are a couple specific moments that make me feel that way.

First, the titanization. 

Like I said, Jean and Connie’s last moments cracked my heart, but even though that last panel of them standing together, watching Falco fly away, was beautiful and painful, I’m so confused about how the titanization happened. The chapter heavily implies that the gas which infects the characters comes from the Hallucigenia-worm-neck-thing.

Okay, bet. I can accept that the spine worm primed the Eldians for titanization. What confuses me, though, is that it’s not clear that the worm triggers the titanization. If anything, it looks like Falco did, which I don’t understand. 

As Falco flies away with Mikasa and Levi on his back, leaving the other characters behind to become titans, Falco screams. After he screams, the Eldians turn into titans. It’s not clear what else could trigger the transformation. There’s no panel of, say, Eren screaming, and from past chapters, titanization is trigged by a scream, not because of exposure to gas or spinal fluid alone. 

So, the chapter looks like it implies that... Falco screams? 

Maybe that’s not what’s going on, but that’s what it looks like, so the titanization makes no sense to me. If Falco screamed The Scream, why? Screaming turns the people that he wants to protect and free, e.g. Gabi and his family, into titans devoid of autonomy. If Falco is the trigger, that also means the titanization was preventable, which is incredibly frustrating given that so many important characters were transformed. 

Maybe someone could say this is a highly dramatized scream of anguish, and that the gas was strong enough to turn the Eldians through exposure alone. Maybe the worm is just insanely powerful. But that sounds like a cop-out, so this is a really confusing, frustrating scene. 

The confusion about the Hallucigenia and its role in titanization is part of a bigger problem with this final arc and this chapter: Ymir and the lore.

 The more I see of the Hallucigenia and Ymir, especially after the weird origin story last chapter, the less sense everything makes. I have a lot to say about Eren’s death, and I’ll get into it more some other time, but for now, I want to focus on Ymir’s reaction to it.

Putting aside how morbidly funny I think her presence is, why is she smiling? Ymir has either helped or controlled Eren, I’m still not completely sure which, for a long time at this point. She’s invested in him. His death seems like it would be a massive loss for her own objectives, but when Eren fails, Ymir just... watches. 

Her smile definitely makes me think that there’s much more going on here than she’s letting on, but I also can’t figure out what the hell that “more” is. At this point, watching her react this way, I don’t understand what she wants or her dynamic with Eren. Last chapter’s lore confused me, too, so this chapter’s weirdness exacerbated my frustration with not knowing what’s going on. 

Why this panel from last chapter confuses me is a whole other text post, and I don’t want to go off on a tangent, but basically, if she made the titans/ Hallucigenia to have an undying body, and if she meant to escape to a free world, whether that’s the paths or something else, she didn’t succeed. It’s also not clear to me whether she completely controls the thing in Eren’s neck, or if she only made it. 

Ymir and the founding titan’s powers are massive components of the rumbling and Eren’s behavior. They also don’t make sense. After last chapter’s lore threw me off, I hoped that 138 and 139 might shed some more light on the titans’ origins and Ymir. After reading 138, I’m more confused, and I’m started to give up on trying to wrap my head around any of it. It’s still intriguing, but I’m increasingly frustrated, and it makes the series’ ending feel rushed. 

Beyond Ymir, I’m not into the ending in general. And yeah, it’s because of That Final Panel. 

Like I said at the beginning of this post, I LOVE the imagery. It’s so dramatic and macabre, and I’m excited about what fanart it might inspire. I don’t also love it thematically. 

I’ve seen a lot of really vitriolic reactions to it, especially from people who dislike EreMika. For me, I’m just bummed about it means for Mikasa’s character.

One of, if not her greatest, defining traits for YEARS has been her love for Eren. Especially after Eren’s rampage in Liberio, it became more and more clear that her development would have to mean letting go of that devotion, or at least not let it keep her from stopping his plans. 

Mikasa rejecting the dream and killing Eren fulfills that development, but the kiss undermines it.

The kiss is closure. A goodbye. It is also still a kiss on the lips, which, at least for me and in the culture I grew up in, reads as romantic. Since Eren is dead, it’s also unreciprocated. The scene is both as Mikasa letting go of Eren and perpetuating the same (recently toxic) devotion she’s had for the whole series.

I’m not saying that I don’t think she should have closure. It makes sense that, after such an intense relationship, her goodbye is going to be tender. Nevertheless, I don’t think that the kiss is the form that closure had to take. Even if it took the form of a kiss, I don’t think that it needed to be on the lips. It’s like Yams can’t decide whether he really wants Mikasa to lose her love interest or not. Or, by extension, to not be defined by Eren. 

Over the years, I’ve gotten exasperated with how much Yams writes Mikasa focusing on Eren. This end doesn’t read like she breaks free the way she needs to. Saying “see you later” instead of “goodbye” right before she kills Eren also reflects her attachment, although the dream/vision/??? is a WHOLE different rabbit hole and that line is up for a shit ton of interpretation. 

As you can see from the watermarked panels, I’m not using an official English translation, so maybe the official English pages might clarify some things when they come out. I doubt it, though, since my frustrations don’t hinge on interpreting slight differences in wording. It’s also true that this is a pretty raw reaction, so my opinions might still develop, and I might figure out some of the lore and confusing panels that I’m stumped on. 

Nevertheless, this is how I feel right now, and based on what I’ve seen, I’m not the only one. If you liked the chapter, you do you. This is just my opinion. Everyone values and focuses on different elements of a story. Even though I just slammed the chapter for about 1400 words, I also liked some parts of it. 

In the end, it still doesn’t bode well for the manga’s ending. An author doesn’t have to explain every mystery and ambiguity for me to like a story. Grey areas and space for interpretation actually make a series stronger, in my opinion, but only to a point. Right now, there’s just too much that seems out of reach. I don’t blame Yams for wanting to be done with the manga after, as of about a week and a half from now, 11 years. At the same time, when I read this chapter, it felt like it was written by someone who was ready for it to be over, and not in a good way. I’ll wait and see how everything ends, but so far, I think the ending is... kind of underwhelming, unfortunately. 

[not-close-to-straight]

Lost and Found (Eight)

Slight TW for mentions of 40′s era h*mophobia and Tony’s thanks-to-Howard internalized h*mophobia but it’s over quick. 

MASTERLIST HERE

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

“I think there’s an issue with connectivity.” Tony chewed on the end of a pen as he watched James go through a series of repetitive motions with the prosthetic arm. “Which makes no sense at all, because obviously I did everything correct. Are you sure you’re doing that right?” 

“Touchin’ the tips of my fingers together?” James raised his eyebrows and tried to touch the ring finger of the metal limb together with the thumb, gritting his teeth in frustration when the joints hitched and froze. “Yeah Tony, pretty sure I remember how to move my hand.” 

“Okay fine, maybe I screwed up somewhere.” Tony huffed out a breath, blowing messy hair off his forehead. “Hold your breath, this will probably feel weird.” 

The twist and pop of the arm disconnecting certainly did feel weird, the tug and strain at the plates in James’s chest when his shoulder weighed heavy for just a moment and then lightened in the next alien and uncomfortable. He flinched more from the awkward noise than from any actual pain though, grimaced away from a flash of nightmare that felt like being strapped down and hurt, and when Tony paused to ask, “Alright?” he simply nodded. 

Sure. He was fine. 

“This will only take a few minutes, hang tight.” Tony carried the arm back to another table and James reached up to feel gingerly along his shoulder, tracing the scars from the hard stump over to his collarbone. 

Seeing himself reflected in the large mirror tilted above the chair was… well it was worse than James thought it would be. Tony had suggested that seeing what was happening might make the process a little easier but all James could see was damage, ruined skin and twisted muscles and a deathly pale pallor the sun never seemed to touch. 

It was awful. He was awful and the situation was made all the worse for the way Tony was distant today, this morning, last night and every night since James had blundered into the not-kiss at the Expo. 

The surprisingly easy laughter from just last week was gone, the quick smiles and nearly shared thoughts non existent. Tony wasn’t being cold, but he was stiff. He wasn’t avoiding spending time together, but movie nights happened with either man sat on the opposite side of the couch now, and attaching the new prosthetic arm was the closest Tony had been to James in days. 

Everything was awful and James didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t know if Tony wanted to try and fix it, or if there was even something to try and fix--

--James was right back to not knowing anything at all except his name. 

My name is James and he wanted to know so much more than that.

Awful. 

“You asked if I watch the news.” he tried to break the silence when he just couldn’t take it anymore. “The other day, I mean. A few days ago. Before the Expo. You asked if I ever saw you on the news?” 

“Yeah.” Tony looked up only briefly and went back to fine tuning the input of the arm.  

“Sometimes the uh-- the counselor that came to the shelter would sit and watch with me.” James cleared his throat, discouraged by the lack of response.  “I couldn’t ever watch the news, it about killed me to see some of that stuff but Sam said most of our memories are locked into references and not-- not concrete ideas. So maybe TV would help bring some of them around.” 

“Sam Wilson.” Tony stated. “Pep’s mentioned him a few times, says he does good work. Did watching TV help with your memories.” 

“No.” James dug his fingers into his thigh to combat the flush of failure at the back of his neck. “No it never did. Only confused me. Would watch game shows or documentaries and it wouldn’t be right. The name of countries, you know? I would see a map or something and think I knew it, then my answer would be wrong.” 

Tony cocked his head, the first real sign of interest he’d shown all day. “Huh. Can you give me an example?” 

“Well there’s--” James hesitated, searching his memory for one that had stood out with Sam. “--There’s a whole lotta places where the Soviet Union used to be. Names I don’t know and cities that used to be called something else.” 

“Soviet Union.” Tony readjusted one more thing on the arm, then turned to face James fully. “What did Sam say about that? Anything?” 

“He told me it could be something as easy as me havin’ watched a history movie or reading a book before my accident and those are the names that stuck with me afterwards.” James’s heart picked up when Tony smiled a little. Was it possible to miss a smile after a few days? “That never sounded right to me, though.” 

“The Soviet Union collapsed in December of 1991.” Tony folded his arms and leaned back against the table. “I remember that entire month vividly. If you know for certain you remember it being the U.S.S.R, then you were at least high school age studying geography before it fell. Interesting.” 

James wasn’t following Tony’s thought process at all but he was so happy the beautiful genius was talking to him again, he didn’t even care. “Why is that interesting?” 

“Based on that fact alone, I’d suggest you were pushing thirty which means we could narrow down search parameters and maybe get a better lead on who you are.” Tony explained, his smile growing just a little bit more. “There’s other ways to figure it out too, but nothing easy or very concrete.” 

James made a ‘go on’ motion and Tony scratched through his goatee as he thought it out. 

“Well, I could run some tests if you’d like, but seeing as how we’re only barely managing getting the arm on in a La-Z-boy recliner cos the other chair upset you, I bet you don’t want me poking and prodding with needles and electrodes. Totally fine by the way.” he waved off James’s objection. “I don’t like it either. It’s fine. No tests, we don’t need to do that.” 

“The easiest way to find you in the system is fingerprints.” he continued. “But I ran your fingerprints the first time you came through the lab as a precaution-- don’t look like that, I do it to everyone-- and yours aren’t in the system, or at least not anything recognizable. Not a big deal, fingerprinting tech is still fairly new, it wasn’t an electronic database till the 1980’s and AFIS wasn’t halfway usable till about 2000. There’s a thousand reasons why you wouldn’t be in there, even with your military service.” 

“Fingerprints.” James looked down at his hand curiously. “What else?”

“We could always do DNA testing, but I wouldn’t do it without your permission. I know some people that track you down quick but DNA testing always seems a little… invasive.” Tony tapped at the reactor casing a few times. “I’m not a fan of anything invasive. And you know, finding results would hinge solely on the idea that your DNA is already registered somewhere and if your fingerprints don’t come up…” 

He let the sentence trail and shrugged. “If you really want a definitive answer of who you are beyond a guess at your age based on when the Soviet fell, I’m happy to try. There isn’t a whole lot I can’t find out once I start getting nosy, but I figured if you wanted to know, you’d ask.” 

Tony waited a beat, “Do you want to know?” 

No. 

I don’t know. 

What sort of man dreams the things I do? 

“I’m okay with just James for now.” is what James said instead of everything else burning on his tongue. “Maybe the memories will come back on their own.” 

Tony nodded absentmindedly and turned back to the prosthesis, so James took his slightly raw feelings and tried to distract himself by picking up a nearby photo book. All the what-if’s of who he had been were colliding with all the what if’s from the Expo and circling round in his mind, round and round until he actually felt a little nauseous, so he cleared his throat and forced the thoughts away and flipped idly through the photos. 

The pictures were at least twenty years old, snap shot after snap shot of a young Tony draped all over a younger James Rhodes, laughing hysterically at a joke between them, clearly wearing each other’s clothes and other costume pieces, a picture of Tony dead asleep on thick text books while Rhodey drew various genitalia on his face in marker. 

Some of the photos were dated and placed at MIT, others were at what looked like the Colonel’s home, his family scattered in the background of their antics. Only one was a formal picture, Tony and Rhodey in fit suits standing solemn at the top of the stairs but in the very next frame the boys were wrestling and pulling at each others hair and then in a third picture mid-tumble down the stairs while a woman who looked remarkably like Tony threw her hands up in clear exasperation. 

It was years of friendship, years of happiness and pranks and love and James found himself smiling as young Tony’s hair got higher and fluffier style changes, the clothes got more and more ridiculous, even the cap and gown graduation picture complete with fake mustaches and crossed eyes for the portrait. 

There were pictures of vacation-- Tony in hilariously printed swim trunks, a floaty around his waist and over sized goggles on his face, Tony tripping over the flippers and face planting into the pool, Tony looking slightly drowned rat-ish as he struggled back onto dry land--

“Wow.” James didn’t mean to say anything out loud but the next picture of Colonel Rhodes didn’t match the silly theme of the book at all. It was an artistic shot, all pretty angles and purposeful shadows, a whole lot of skin and muscles on display and while it wasn’t obvious if Rhodey was actually sleeping or just posing, it was clearly obvious that whoever took the picture had had only one thought in mind. 

Sexy. 

“Didn’t realize the Colonel was so good lookin’.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud either and after the Expo, James should have made a better effort to not blurt things out in front of Tony, but it was too late now, the words were out there and Tony was staring at him in surprise. 

“What’d you say?” 

“The-- the Colonel.” James put the book down and swallowed, looking away from it and from Tony. “He’s damn good looking. You and he ah-- you’re real close?” 

“Rhodey is my best friend, and yes he’s a total hottie.” Tony carried the re-adjusted arm back to James and set it aside to pick up the book too, flipping through the pictures and chuckling when he got to the shirtless one. “Oh man, he hates this picture. I tried for days to convince him to submit a photo to some ‘hotties of spring break’ calendar and he refused, so I got him blasted on tequila and then took the shot while he was passed out snoring.” 

“That--” James hesitated. “That seems creepy, Tony.” 

“Yeah, in retrospect, one of the creepiest things ever but eh, what’s a little creep-on between besties?” Tony’s laugh was fond and maybe even a little melancholy as he set the book down again. “I labeled the picture as ‘Honeybear in the Near Nude’ and I really thought he was gonna kill me. Really did. Actually feared for my life the rest of that semester.” 

“...That was the last spring break we had together before graduation.” Tony added after a minute. “Maybe the best week of my life.” 

“Did he win--” Bucky stopped when an alarm chimed somewhere in the lab, and the first few lines of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy started playing. “-- I know this song. What is this?” 

“The Andrews Sisters.” Tony snapped his fingers and the music turned up a few notches. “How do you know it?” 

“How do you know it?” James returned, his mind spinning with lyrics he knew and a beat he knew and holy shit he’d definitely danced to this before, suddenly James knew he loved dancing. 

“It was my Auntie Peggy’s favorite song.” Tony took one of those nasty smoothies from Dum-E. “She taught me to dance to this kind of music and I set it as my alarm because it’s such an unusual sound these days that I couldn’t ever ignore it.” 

“I know this song.” James said again, and it was incredible to know something beyond how much pressure it took to snap a man’s collarbone and whether or not the walls were thick enough to stop a bullet. “I love this song.” 

“I don’t know if I love it-- hold still, please.” Tony set the prosthesis up to James’s shoulder and notched it in with a few clicks. “--but it makes me think of Peggy, which makes me happy and means that I’m not as cranky when I have to drink this green stuff. How does the arm feel?” 

“Bout the same as last time.” James mouthed along with a few of the lines as the song played in the background. “Should I do the same sorta stuff to check it out?” 

“Yeah, touch your thumb to each finger and flex your wrist as you do.” Tony instructed around a mouthful of smoothie. “If we can get past that part this time around we’ll move on to something else.” 

“Sure.” James went through each motion as Tony directed, touching his finger tips together and rotating his wrist, unable to help a smile as the left hand responded perfectly to his every thought. “Feel great, Tony. This is amazing.” 

“Yeah yeah, I know.” Tony’s dark eyes were glowing with excitement, and James’s concentration faltered when Tony leaned in even closer and ran his hand up the metal limb. “All the things I’ve built, and bionic man never made it to my list. I can’t believe what I was missing out on.”

Tony tried to close his hand around the bicep of the left arm and scrunched his nose in delight when his fingers didn’t come anywhere even remotely close to touching. “Alright, you can’t actually pop the knuckles on this hand but make the motion anyway, holding each finger down with your thumb like you’re trying to crack the joint. It’s a weird gesture and not one that everyone can do but it will test the dexterity of the prosthesis as well as prove how well it connects to your mind.” 

James hummed along to the music as he followed the easy instruction, laughing in quiet disbelief when the new arm did everything he wanted. 

I have two hands again. 

I’m whole again. 

I’m me again.

“All that looks good, so what we’re going to do now is--” 

“Dance with me.” James interrupted and Tony stopped, mouth open. “C’mon there’s all sortsa things we can do to test this thing out but dancing would take care of most of them, right?” he glanced up at the speakers and then back down at Tony. “I love this song, Tony. Dance with me.” 

“You want to dance with me?” Tony’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, expression shuttering just like it had at the Expo. “James, I don’t think--” 

“I’ll go easy on you.” James tried for coaxing, for teasing, for anything besides fear of another rejection. He might not know a whole lot of anything these days but he knew this song and he knew he really really wanted another chance at whatever had almost happened at the Expo, and damn it Tony’s smile was so pretty he almost couldn’t stand it. 

He felt like him all the sudden, two hands and an easy smile and even though the sight of metal gleaming along his left side triggered warning bells somewhere deep in his subconscious, James ignored them for the sake of holding out his hand and curling his fingers hopefully. “Dance with me Tony.” 

Spend time with me when I feel human. 

“Promise not to step on your toes?” he offered almost desperately now-- please please see me as me, I’m so close to me right now-- but his heart sank when Tony stuttered, “Uh James listen. About-- about the Expo and when we almost--I mean, that’s something we should talk about, right? Before you suggest anything like dancing?” 

“Never mind.” This time it was James pulled away, who cleared his throat and blanked his expression and let his words get clipped and a little frosty, unease and insecurity warring with a little bit of self loathing for being so fucking dumb to try and fail again. “Forget I asked.” 

“No wait--” 

“Tony, I don’t really want to hear all the reasons why you didn’t want to kiss me.” James could almost feel himself fading away, disappearing back behind the gates in his mind as the warning bells about the metal arm started to get loud again. “Or all the ways I was misreading everything I thought I saw. Guess I’m more outta practice with this than I thought I was and I don’t want you saying yes cos you feel bad for me or anything, just leave it be.” 

Silence, and James cleared his throat, tried not to let the misery and feeling of failure seep too far into his voice. “What else do I need to do to test this thing out?” 

“No, don’t change the subject, we should talk about this.” Tony scrubbed his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. “Fuck me, I’m bad at this but I’ve been working on talking things out and trying to say what I mean instead of being sarcastic all the time so here we go. James, about what happened at the Expo--” 

“Tony don’t.” 

“--Do you think Rhodey is hot or not?” Tony burst out and James’s mouth fell open. “Do you?” 

“...He’s a good lookin’ fella, sure.” 

“Okay.” Tony nodded a few times. “Okay, because I think he’s hot too but it’s taken me twenty five years to be able to say that out loud. You know what I mean?” 

“I--” James hesitated. “No. Sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”  

“It means I’ve been pretending for twenty five years that I don’t notice anything remotely attractive about Rhodey and this is the first time in my life I’m not lying about it.” Tony’s eyes were wide, a streak of red painted high on his cheeks. “My Dad was flat out against anything like that and I don’t know if my Ma knew or not, but it’s been twenty five years and I’m just now comfortable saying it.” 

“...okay?” 

“And then you went and almost kissed me at the Expo and it all sort of--” Tony made a crazy motion with his hands. “-- I didn’t handle it very well and I’m sorry, but it wasn’t you, it was me and my Dad’s voice right here--” a finger to his temple. “--saying a whole lot of things. You get it?” 

James wet his lips and clenched his fists and Tony kept staring, kept hoping James understood even a little bit. 

“Twenty five years.” he repeated, chewing at the inside of his cheek and pressing his palm to the reactor to ease the anxious balling up inside. “And it sucks that I made it to over forty before I managed to stop listening to all that crap about who I am and who I’m supposed to be attracted to, but it is what it is. I promise you’re not reading anything wrong on my end, but I’ve never been brave enough to do this before so I gotta know-- am I reading it all wrong on your end?” 

And after a quiet, shaky breath, “Do you hear all that shit in your head saying this is wrong too, or is it just me that’s a ball of goddamn conflicted?” 

“Goddamn conflicted.” James repeated, and his mind went back who knows how many years ago to all the things he used to hear when he tried to hide, when he went to church in secret and tried to confess, when he gave in a few times and quit pretending to be just like the other fellas. 

C’mon now, you know better than to think like that. We like dames, don’t we? Stop starin’. 

The Good Book wholly condemns those who engage in perversion, James. Ask for forgiveness and move on from such sin. 

Look, what we do here at night is one thing, but don’t go talkin’ bout it in the day time, I’m not a queer, you just got a pretty mouth. 

Stay away from that side of town, don’t you know that’s where the fags go?

Tony was asking for understanding and for another chance, for forgiveness because of his reaction and offering an explanation that sounded an awful lot like what James heard in his head every time he thought about how beautiful Tony was.

“I’m so bad at this.” 

James must have been quiet too long, because Tony muttered a curse and sat back in his own chair. “Shit. I am so damn bad at this. You know what, maybe we should call it a day and try again tomorrow, I’m clearly not up to dancing or working or putting together sentences or making any fucking sense so--” 

“Tony.” James made up his mind and held out his hand again, eyes hopeful and voice as soft as he could make it. “I love this song. Dance with me?” 

“Okay.” Tony’s fingers shook just a little as he placed them in James’s palm. “I love this song too.” 

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

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

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy wasn’t a slow song by any means, and Tony was several years past his last dance lesson with Peggy, but after a few mis steps and playful arguments about who exactly was going to lead, James finally flexed his left arm and lifted Tony right off the ground to announce, “If you can lift me up, you’re welcome to lead, Tony.” and Tony laughed in surprise and kept right on laughing as JARVIS started the song over and James took him out between the desks for a dance. 

“You’re doing it wrong.” James chuckled and dragged Tony forward into the right steps, left hand secure at Tony’s hip and right hand clasped around Tony’s fingers lightly. “Come on, it’s swing not a waltz. Loosen up for me.” 

“You don’t remember your own last name but somehow you remember how to swing dance?” Tony was out of breath already, but game to try and keep up step for step, easing his body towards pliant so James could lead them through the familiar patterns. “How’d you get so good at this anyway?” 

“I know this song.” James repeated, concentrating on the give of Tony’s waist soft beneath the hard fingers and not on the headache coming along with thoughts of dancing and maybe even watching the Andrews sisters up on stage as they sang the song which-- that didn’t make sense because the song was seventy something years old at this point wasn’t it? No way he saw them perform. 

“I just know it.” he decided, and then teasing, “Or maybe I’m just a better dancer than you.” 

“I could ballroom dance your socks off.” Tony announced, and barked a startled laugh when James spun him out into a quick twirl. “I didn’t take six years of lessons with Madame Laurent for nothing. Swing dancing just isn’t exactly my forte.” 

“Well next time I give you a lesson, make sure you’re wearin’ a twirly skirt so I can get ya above my head and take a peek, huh?” James grinned, and there his voice went slipping soft and flirty and so damn Brooklyn Tony stumbled and nearly fell when his heart jolted in his chest. 

Twenty five years it took to even admit out loud that Rhodey was a damn hottie and now Tony was faced with a soldier right out of his musical-themed day dreams who could dance and smile and talked like all his favorite characters from movies he’d watched enough times to ruin the tapes. 

Twenty five years to admit something as dumb as his best friend being attractive and now James was laughing with him and teasing and the mis-step at the Expo seemed ages ago, almost impossible with the way the soldier’s pale eyes were lit up right now and the way James’s fingers held just a little tighter at Tony’s waist and pulled him in close through a turn and ohhhh their bodies brushed together and Tony closed his eyes when a bolt of heat went straight to his core. 

Was he so touch starved and miserably horny that a silly dance to his Auntie’s ancient music was going to get him hard? 

Another turn and another touch and James’s hand slipped lower along Tony’s waist and he nearly passed out. 

Yep. Yep he really was that touch starved and miserably horny. 

Except not really miserable. Tony was having the most fun in the world dodging lab tables and chairs as James got more confident with his steps and JARVIS kept the song playing around them. A few banged ankles and stepped on toes were worth feeling the heat pouring off James’s chest, the steel like security of the left arm contrasted with the drugging warmth of the right hand when James cupped the back of Tony’s head to hold him steady through a quick turn and two step. 

The music went on, the dance got easier, and then their legs tangled almost to the point of catastrophe and James caught Tony laughing as they crashed together--

--and Tony bit his tongue to quiet a moan when he felt James’s body reacting against his own. 

“J-James?” 

“Tony.” This time James knew he wasn’t reading anything wrong, this time he wasn’t going to second guess himself and this time Tony was definitely leaning in and standing on his toes--

“Shit!” James jerked away at the last second, jerked away and recoiled when everything seized along his left side and lit up painful, sparks popping behind his eyes. “Ow! Tony help!” 

“Damn it, come here and sit down so I can get it off.” Moment temporarily stalled, Tony slid right back into inventor mode and pushed James down onto the closest chair so he could get to work disconnecting the new arm. “I don’t know what’s going on with this thing, I really thought I could just connect it to your shoulder but I might have to go a little deeper into your chest to fix it, maybe even do something with adjustable plates since this piece doesn’t really move, then everything could re calibrate individually as needed….” 

Tony trailed off into mumbling as James lay back and tried to breathe through the pain shooting across his chest. Everything on his left side felt like it was on fire, like it used to those first few months after waking up beneath that bridge, phantom weight dragging his shoulder down and the feeling of needles in his skin. 

It hurt and he growled a rough curse when Tony pushed at his shoulder experimentally. 

“Sorry.” Tony said immediately. “Sorry about that. I can fix this, I definitely can. JARVIS run some simulations on using individual pieces instead of one solid on like the armor-- the arm. Not long lines like muscles but horizontal plates instead. A hundred small calculations to adjust as he moves, not three or four major ones.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“One two three, off.” Tony pulled the arm off and hurried it back to the fabrication station so JARVIS could take the appropriate scans and start working on the changes. “Okay, you still with me? James?” 

A bottle of water pressed into James’s hand, and Tony hesitated before resting his palms on James’s thighs. “Feeling okay?” 

“Feeling like shit for ruining our dance.” James grit out, honest because there was no reason to lie to Tony, no reason to hide his disappointment when he knew Tony had been having just as much as him. “Sorry about that.” 

“Rescheduled doesn’t mean ruined.” Tony said the words lightly but his heart was in his throat, waiting to see if James would acknowledge the clear invitation. “Right?” 

“Right.” The corner of James’s mouth crooked up into a smile. “Rescheduled.” 

A smile meant good things, the invitation to another dance meant lots of very good things so Tony gathered every bit of his courage, every bit of determination he had about completing his bucket list, all the hope he’d gotten every time James smiled at him or flirted a little and all the butterflies in his stomach from their dance and said softly, so softly,--

“James, I-- I’d like to take you to bed.” 

And James’s eyes opened wide and incredulous, “...what?!” 

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SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER

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[eugene-not-flynn]

cavalry

word count: 1414

summary: Eugene’s been kidnapped. a short New Dream Rescue!fic. 

Warnings: some elements of Eugene!whump, blood, injury, passing out, kidnapping, being tied to a chair, please let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: first time writing for the tangled fandom, so of course this is nerve-wracking. But I’m also working on just getting back into the habit of writing after a few weeks of hiatus. So I wrote this fun little thing, mostly as a way to try out new characters and dynamics. Not meant to be Serious Fic. I haven’t read much in this fandom, so I dunno if kidnapped!Eugene is a trope in this fandom, but I think it probably is. If so, posting this in the name of the “two cakes” theory. Hope you all enjoy! Edited (loosely) by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine. 

...

Eugene blinks as he wakes up, squinting against the limited sunlight that filters through the tiny window at the top of the cell. Is it a cell? He’s not sure, though he wouldn’t know what else to call a small room with a single wooden door in front of him, surrounded by stone walls and a hard, unforgiving floor. He takes a breath, wincing slightly as the smell of mold and copper assaults his nostrils.

He should be used to it by now, he figures. How many days has he been here? At least three. Maybe more than that. The sunlight helps with keeping track of time, though he’d been in and out of consciousness a bit too much for Eugene to have any semblance of confidence about the passage of time.

He flexes his grip experimentally against the rope that anchors his wrists to the arms of the chair he’s in. There’s no give. They must have replaced the ropes while he’d been unconscious. Eugene sighs. So much for the slow progress he’d been making on stretching the ropes out.

He hangs his head and immediately regrets it as the room spins slightly. Eugene clenches his eyes shut against the slight roll in his stomach, and it’s not until he tastes something sharp and metallic that he realizes he bit his already-split lip. He spits the blood out to the side as it floods his mouth.

“Okay,” Eugene says slowly, “Plan B, then.”

Except he doesn’t have a plan B. He had been taken at least three days ago. He’d exhausted most of his usual escape routines, and the fact that they kept him tied to the chair, even during their… interrogations… meant that he was limited in his ability to use and manipulate the space around him like he usually did. There was no hiding-and-ambush, no jerry-rigging a lockpick set, and the stone walls and floor meant there was no digging-your-way-out escape either.

He can’t give up, though. The sunlight through the tiny window reminds him of Rapunzel. He wonders if she even knows that he’d been taken yet. He’d been out with the guard patrolling the northern border of their kingdom when he’d been taken in the night. They’d been half-way through a week-long venture. So it would take the guard at least three days to get back to Corona. If the guard hadn’t also been ambushed. And that didn’t even account for the fact that Eugene still didn’t have a clue where he was.

He’d managed to glean from his brief exchanges with the people who came into his cell to knock him around that they weren’t from Corona, and that they didn’t seem to have a personal grudge against Flynn Rider like Eugene had first assumed. With a few smart remarks and carefully placed questions, Eugene had learned that they knew enough about the crown to know who Rapunzel was, and her parents, and had taken Eugene in an effort to force the crown’s hand for… something.

It had been an oddly gratifying feeling for Eugene. Most of the other times he’d been targeted, it had been for Flynn Rider. Now he was wanted for being Eugene. He figures that maybe there was something kind of nice about that. In a morbid sort of way.

Or maybe it was the concussion talking.

A loud crash on the other side of the door startles Eugene out of his thoughts. There’s muffled shouting, doors opening and distant thuds. Eugene thinks maybe another prisoner tried to escape. He doesn’t know who else these people had taken, but he knows that he is not the only one they’re keeping. He’d been hearing the screams for the past three days.

Then a horse whinnies and he shouldn’t because hope like that is dangerous, but Eugene finds himself thinking it anyway. Max?

There’s a heavy thud against his door that rattles it against the hinges. A muffled voice yelling something. A feminine voice. Eugene’s heart lurches towards the sound but he doesn’t dare think the name. Because if it’s not, if it’s not her, Eugene thinks something might break inside of him.

The lock clicks and the door slams open and Eugene squints against the light, trying to make out the silhouette.

“Get them out of here, Atilla!”

For the first time, Eugene is grateful he’s sitting in a chair because he thinks that if he were standing, his knees might’ve given out on him. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. And the silhouette is familiar and of course—of course—she’s holding a frying pan.

“Sunshine,” Eugene greets, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears, “Gosh, it’s good to see you.”

He hears Rapunzel gasp slightly as she rushes into the cell. “Eugene!”

She’s moving faster than Eugene thinks is possible, but the back of his mind mentions the concussion again. He wonders, with a terrifying jolt, if this whole thing is some kind of elaborate hallucination. But then Rapunzel is cupping his face in her hands and the touch is real and solid and achingly gentle.  

Eugene sinks into it a little. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Is this where I say you should see the other guy?”

Her green eyes—gosh but Eugene could stare into them forever—flit over his face, her brows pinching together in concern. Eugene thinks perhaps his attempts at a smile may have really looked more like a grimace. Her lips press into a thin line before she swallows.

“Pascal,” she says, who appears on her shoulder. Eugene blinks a few times. Where did he come from? “Think you can undo these ropes?”

“Frog, you’d have my undying gratitude.” Eugene flexes against them and tries not to grimace as the harsh texture rubs against already raw skin.

Pascal rushes down Rapunzel’s arm and inspects the bindings more closely, then shoots a look back to Rapunzel that Eugene cannot decipher. He almost wants to call it apologetic. Rapunzel frowns, but nods once. Eugene sees that spark of determination set into her eyes. She brushes her fingers softly through the strands of his hair that are into Eugene’s face.

“We’re getting you out of here, Eugene. Okay?” Before he can respond, Rapunzel glances over her shoulder and gives a sharp whistle. Maximus appears in the doorway and if a horse could look concerned, Eugene is pretty sure that’s how he’d describe the look on the steed’s face.

Eugene feels a laugh bubble up his chest. “You really brought the whole cavalry, didn’t you, Blondie?”

Rapunzel, evidently, doesn’t find the situation as funny as Eugene does. “Just hang on, Eugene. You’ll be okay.”

Eugene doesn’t really doubt that. Rapunzel is here. A part of him always felt like everything would be okay as long as she was there, with her relentless persistence and optimism.

“Eugene…” There’s a look in Rapunzel’s eyes—wide and soft and something else—that Eugene cannot decipher right now, but it does make him acutely aware that he just said his thoughts aloud.

Max and Pascal work together and manage to quickly undo the ropes around Eugene’s hands and feet. Rapunzel wraps Eugene’s arm around her shoulders and braces a hand carefully against the center of his chest. Eugene does his best to stifle the wince as it sends a sharp burst of pain through him.

“Sorry!” Rapunzel says, always closely attuned to how the people around her react, no matter how small the change.

“It’s okay,” Eugene assures her softly. “Just—ah.” He winces as Rapunzel helps him stand.

He takes a step forward and his knees immediately give out. Rapunzel catches him, and is really the only thing that keeps Eugene from pitching face-first into the floor. The room is tilting and spinning and it occurs to him that he probably won’t be able to walk out of here.

“Max,” Rapunzel says urgently. “Think you can carry Eugene?”

Max huffs a breath in affirmation. Rapunzel helps Eugene swing up into Max’s saddle, and Eugene is proud of himself that he only whimpers a little at the jolt of pain that floods his chest as his ribs are jostled in the process. He instinctively wraps an arm around himself as if he can physically hold his ribcage together.

“Rapunzel—” he grimaces.

“I’m right behind you, Eugene. We’ve got you.”

Eugene sees her soft smile and the determined set to her jaw before his vision tunnels and then goes dark.

[halfway-happyyy]

An Invisible String - Part 3

AN: This is something I’ve been working on for quite a while now, and it is a little different than my usual pieces. It will probably be about three or four installments. If you enjoy it (or even if you don’t) (I don’t do too many chaptered pieces… like, ever) please feel free to send feedback. Warnings include: mentions of suicidal tendencies, depression, anxiety, past mentions of domestic physical and mental abuse. Loosely inspired by the music video for ‘High Hopes’ by Kodaline.

Synopsis: Depressed, suicidal and recently single Alexander Skarsgård is at the end of his rope. But he is about to find out that no matter where you come from, what your pain looks like, or what your truth is… The universe will always fight for souls to be together.

Part 1 Part 2

Specific trigger warnings for this chapter: tw: mentions of past domestic abuse

Alexander Skarsgård had never been in the habit of letting fate amass space in his life. As far as he was concerned, which was not extremely far at all, everything that had happened to him thus far in his life was just exactly the way it was supposed to be. People left; it was something that he had grown accustomed to a lifetime ago. Maybe they ended up coming back, maybe they did not- regardless, it ceased to be his business a long time ago. He had made a silent promise to Thea that evening, under the glow of the pub lamp, and with her small hand tucked into his much larger one, like so many times in the past. He promised her that as long as he still had the air in his lungs, he would never chase another ghost again.

“Thank you for dinner this evening,” Thea smiled. Alexander watched her in the low light of the hallway lamp. Her hand was poised on the round, brass knob of the bedroom door and he found himself aching to ask her to sleep next to him. Though sex could not be further from his mind, the thought of having her lay next to him, the sheer warmth that would radiate off her seemed too sweet an opportunity to pass up.

Alexander bent his head toward her, a small smile pulled at the edges of his lips. “It wasn’t much I’m afraid, but it was nice to spend an evening with you, Thea.”

“Goodnight, Alex. Sleep well.”

He watched her disappear into the room, listened for the now-familiar sound of the lock turning on the other side. Though he wondered briefly why she was still in the habit of doing that, he could understand it better now. “Goodnight Thea.” Retreating to the stillness of his room, he sat perched on the edge of the bed while raindrops raced each other down the length of his windowpane. He let his mind wander back to an hour ago, to the secluded booth at the back of the pub. He allowed himself to revel in the feeling of her weight against him, of the tantalizing familiarity of it all. He remembered thinking that he could be content to stay like that for the remainder of his days. That if nothing else in the world made sense to him at all, she was the one thing that did. Eventually, when the rain had dissipated, he stood from the edge of his bed and rid himself of the days clothing until he was clad only in a pair of black briefs. Pulling back the edge of the charcoal comforter, he slid into the blissfully cool sheets and pulled the blanket back over his bare chest. He stared up at the darkened ceiling above him for what felt like hours, hoping in vain like every night, that sleep would come for him fast and deep. He could not be sure how long he was under before a blood-curdling scream ripped through the blanketed silence of the night. It roused him immediately and he shot up in bed like a cannon, his chest heaving under the duress of equal parts fear and adrenaline. A slick sheen of perspiration covered every square inch of his body as he fought to take a proper breath of air. Again, it happened, and his stomach dropped with dread. “Thea,” Tearing the covers from his body, he leapt out of bed, and tore open his own door, frantic and wide awake. “Thea, are you alright?” He pounded on her door and waited for a response. When he received none, he pressed his ear right up against the paint-chipped wood and listened carefully. She was sobbing so hard now, that she could barely get a proper breath in.

“No, don’t- Please, no!” She pleaded, her voice was raw from screaming, and painfully desperate.

“Thea, I need you to open this door right now.” Alexander’s voice was firm but teetered precariously on the edge of breaking. Again, another earth-shattering scream emanated from beyond the door and he knew immediately what he needed to do next. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back into the hallway and in one swift motion, came charging at it with his leg out. The door stood less of a chance than he thought and shattered from the lock and hinge on impact, swinging open and falling against the closet. His hand immediately went to the light switch to the left of where he stood, he flicked it on and squinted as it bathed the room in a soft, yellow glow. He was not sure what he expected to find when the light found her- was not sure if an intruder had made its way through Thea’s window now, or if they had broken in earlier. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that she was alone. She was sat up straight in her bed, her legs curled up tight beneath her chin. Her shoulders shook silently under the weight of her sobs and Alexander immediately rushed to her side and threw his arms around her body. “Shh, it’s okay Thea, I have you.” He rocked her against him for an unknowable amount of time, placed periodic kisses to her temple and cheek. He tried to brush the tears from her face, but they were merely replaced by fresh ones moments later. “I’ve got you Thea. You’re safe with me.” He could not be sure how many times he repeated himself in the growing morning light. He just desperately needed her to know that he was there, that he was not about to go anywhere and that she was not alone. Thea eventually grew silent right around the time that her clock read ‘4:47 AM’, her soft, measured breaths told him that she had finally given in to sleep, and he was relieved. An hour passed after that, and he gingerly moved away from her to return to his own bedroom, but she stirred only slightly to say,

“Please don’t go.”

He hesitated in the threshold, but could hear the earnestness in her tone, could hear the precise fragility of it, and he nodded his head. “Okay, Thea.” Padding around to the vacant side of the bed, he slid in behind her and pulled the quilted blanket up over their bodies. Only when he was certain that she was asleep again, did he let his own heavy eyelids slide shut. His sleep, like most nights, was heavily fragmented by dreams broken up by the sound of Thea’s scream that he could not hide from no matter how hard he tried. When he awoke a few hours later, she was still fast asleep. A golden yellow sun shone through the cracks in the curtains above her bed and shone beams of warm light over her sleeping figure. Like this, it was difficult to imagine the terror that had plagued her only mere hours earlier. His gaze drifted from her hair, which cascaded down her freckled shoulders and stopped somewhere near the middle of her back. A small, dark shadow lay just beneath a piece of her hair that caught his eye. Alexander reached toward her to brush the hair away from her back, and swallowed hard. Bruises of all shapes and sizes scattered her back like a warzone. Some seemed about a week fresh, violet and utterly angry, while some were almost fully healed, the only evidence that they were there at all was in the faded yellow ring that that encircled them. He let his fingertips traverse the many bruises, but was careful where he touched her marred skin, for he could not be sure if they still caused her physical pain or not.

“It’s okay, Alex.” Thea whispered.

Alexander’s hand dropped from her back and he discovered that any moisture in his mouth had long since evaporated, and he swallowed hard again. “Did he do this to you?”

“I’m okay now, Alex.” Thea whispered again.

“This is so far from okay, Thea.” His stomach lurched, and he wondered briefly if he would be sick. He closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths, and the moment passed. In its place, he considered for a second what it might feel like to wrap his fists around the neck of the man who had subjected her to this, to see the life slowly fade from his eyes… Alexander shook his head and cleared his throat. “This is not okay, Thea.” He repeated.

She rubbed a hand up and down the length of her arm slowly, as if to ward off a sudden chill. “I’m safe now, Alex. I feel safe here. With you.”

For now, and despite the immense trepidation that he felt, he would have to accept that.

“What do you feel like doing today, Thea?” They had risen for the day in silence and in separate rooms. Breakfast had also been a quiet affair, the urge to say anything had not plagued either of them. He was tired, but it was the kind of tired that seeped into his bones and made him weary of his own home. He thought that it might be beneficial for them both to have some reprieve from the house today.

She glanced up from the steaming cup of coffee in her grasp and shrugged. For whatever reason she had gravitated to that one cracked mug since she had arrived, and Alexander simply thought of it as hers now. “It’s a beautiful day,” She mused. “Reminds me of when my father used to take my sister and I to the beach.” Alexander followed her gaze out the window, at the glorious shade of blue of the mid-morning sky. He watched the trees in the backyard sway in the early June breeze, and thought for a moment that he might really like to be near the ocean today.

“Why don’t we go?” He asked.

She swallowed the last sip of her coffee, her eyes wide in mild surprise. “Beg your pardon?”

Alexander shrugged. “Let’s pack a lunch and head to the beach today.” He watched in awe as her face curved up into a wide smile, and he figured that maybe someday he would make a list of all the things he said that made her smile like that. “What do you say?”

“Sure, Alex.”

He lived about a two-hour drive from the beach in which Thea had referred to earlier, and he found that he was grateful to be able to put some mileage between himself and the unsavory morning that they had just endured. Though he remained proud of the house that he and his wife had once shared, he figured that he might like to sell it someday soon. That he would like to settle somewhere a little closer to Stockholm, somewhere a little closer to the comfort of his family. Thea had fallen asleep fifteen minutes into their drive and Alexander found that he had to fight to keep his attention on the road and on the traffic around him. She slept peacefully for the time being, which he was thankful for. When the vehicle trundled to a halt at a spot in the gravel parking lot thirty minutes later, he was surprised to see that it was mostly empty save for one or two couples scattered haphazardly along the shoreline. “Thea,” He murmured and rested a warm hand atop her forearm. When her eyes remained closed, he pressed a little further and gave her a small shake. “Thea, we’re here.” She inhaled deeply and as her eyes slid open, Alexander watched her pupils constrict against the sudden barrage of light. She smiled sleepily at him, and it was all he could do not to lean over and kiss her deeply.

“Hi, Alex.”

“Hello,” He smiled back at her. “You ready?”

She nodded her head and unbuckled her belt, letting herself out of the side door and stretching her arms high above her head. Alexander followed her suit, and grabbed a couple of towels, a thick checkered blanket, and the picnic basket from the backseat. He followed her down to an uninhabited stretch of sand where he shook the blanket out and watched the ocean breeze pick it up and carry it out before him. He settled it down over the sand and sat down, setting the wicker basket off to his side. His eyes slid shut as he raised his face to the heavens and inhaled deeply the briny scent of saltwater. To him, it was nostalgic and immediately comforting. Thea stood a few feet away at the water’s edge; she had one of his worn, blue beach towels draped loosely around her shoulders that billowed out behind her in the wind.

“God, it’s beautiful isn’t it?”

Of course, she was referring to the view before her; to the vastness of the Baltic sea as it stretched on for what felt like forever before her very eyes. But his only view now, and certainly the only one that really mattered, was of her solitary figure at the waters edge. “It sure is,” He murmured. He watched her approach the water with trepidation and though it was June, it was only just, and he knew that the temperature would be far from comfortable. “Go on then.” He encouraged her.

She turned back to him with a smile and let the towel fall from her shoulders. Alexander watched the wind carry it out a little further away, and finally set it down a few feet from where he sat. “This isn’t going to be like yesterday,” She giggled.

“Yeah? Well, we’ll see about that.”

She waded out a little further out into the ocean so that the water came up around the middle of her calves. “It isn’t warm.” She shivered.

Alexander laughed from his perch on the blanket. “Didn’t think it would be.”

“You don’t want to join me?” She asked with a wink.

Alexander glanced down at his jeans and shrugged his shoulders. “Would you like me to?”

She turned in the sand, and held a hand over her eyes to shield herself from the sun’s glare, and nodded her head. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

Alexander smiled and pushed himself up from the blanket. “Well alright then.” He stood in his spot and leaned down to roll up the bottoms of his jeans so that they sat snug just below his knees. He enjoyed the feeling of the sand between his toes, reveled in the feeling of the sun as it shone down on his back and basked him in a warm glow. He stepped into the frigid water without hesitation and joined her where she stood. For a moment he wrestled with himself on what he was about to do; the moment passed, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, his hands falling to rest just below her sternum. He could not miss the way that her body immediately molded to his own, could not miss the contented sigh that exited her mouth as he held her to him. He placed a soft kiss to the top of her head and dipped his head lower so that his lips were mere inches away from the shell of her ear. “I’m happy that you found your way back, Thea.”

She turned in his arms, her gaze lingered on his lips, and then met his own and she smiled. “I’m happy too, Alex.” She reached up first, though it was difficult because her had feet begun to sink in the sand. Alexander tightened his grasp around her waist and held her to him as their lips connected in a kiss that had been in the works since the beginning of everything. It was the innate push and pull of a love that dwindled a lifetime ago, but never fully burnt out. She tasted so familiar to him that it caused an ache to twinge somewhere deep in his heart and he deepened the kiss. She had found her way back to him and he had no idea who to thank for it. They held each other for a long while, both equally needing the comfort that the embrace brought them. “Are you hungry? How about some food, hm?” Alexander felt her shiver against him, and rubbed his hands up and down the length of her freckled arms to create warmth. He smiled when he felt her nod her head against his chest. They walked hand in hand to the towel a few feet from the shore and Thea settled down to eat her sandwich in between the crook of his open legs. They had not packed much in the way of food; two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a bag of multicolored garden-grown carrots, and two water bottles. It was enough, but Alexander found that his appetite for food was nearly nil. Instead, he was simply content just to watch her eat as he held her to him, his mind still buzzing from the kiss that they had just shared. She finished her food in silence and when she was done, Alexander cleared his throat. “Thea?”

“Hm?” She murmured.

“The situation this morning…” He could feel her stiffen against him and he winced. “You were dreaming about him, weren’t you?”

She hesitated before she nodded her head. “Yeah, I was.”

“Does that happen often?”

Thea started to wring her hands in her lap- a nervous habit that she had yet to outgrow. “More often than I’d like,” She admitted quietly. “Last night was the worst one yet, though.”

Alexander hugged her tightly to him, his lips ghosted the top of her head. “You’re safe with me now, you know, that right?” He pressed his lips to her cheek. “As long as we’re together- you’re safe. I would never let anything happen to you, Thea.”

She rubbed a hand reassuringly over the top of his forearm. “I know, Alex.”

They remained at the beach until the sun began to sink low over the Baltic sea, the shore now entirely void of everyone except an old man and his golden retriever. Alexander gazed at Thea from his spot at the blanket. The pockets of her jean shorts bowed out at the sides, bursting with the tiny treasures that she had stumbled across. He watched her pick up rocks of all different shapes and sizes, watched her run her fingers over the smooth ridges in scattered shells. Alexander watched the old man toss a piece of driftwood out into the ocean and his four-legged companion dive in after it, happily. A twinkle of familiar laughter sounded in the distance and he saw Thea drop to her knees in the sand, her arms wrapped loosely around the dog’s neck as he waggled his blonde tail in unbridled excitement. “Hi Max,” He heard Thea giggle. She exchanged a few words with the man and with a sincere goodbye, scratched the dog once more behind his ears and made her way for the blanket. “Did you see that dog?” She asked, breathlessly. Alexander did not think she had ever looked more beautiful. Her hair was windswept from the ocean breeze, her cheeks pink from the slight, early evening chill. But best of all, he loved the way her eyes twinkled merrily when she spoke of the new friend she had made.

“I did see that dog, Thea. He looked like the best boy.”

She beamed at him. “He was, Alex.”

Thea had fallen asleep on the ride home like Alexander had predicted that she would, and mid-sentence about the dog that she had just fallen head over heels for. He had hardly minded a bit, because minutes before she nodded off, she took hold of his hand in hers, and did not let go until the car glided to a halt in front of the house. “Thea, we’re home.” He murmured and placed a kiss to her temple. As he carried her half-asleep figure into the house, he wondered for a moment if maybe he ought to leave a little more room for fate after all.

[merryfortune]

eggshells

Un-Love You Challenge: Day 20. I hate you, you bitch.

Ship: Asuka/Yuriko

Fandom: Tropical Rouge PreCure

Word Count: 1.9k

Tags: Not Canon Compliant, Inspired by Revolutionary Girl Utena, Minor Animal death

Synopsis: Shrodinger’s bird is both dead and alive depending on whether its eggshell is broken. Asuka and Yuriko both wish that the bird is dead.

AN: As soon as I saw these two interact, I was instantly reminded of Juri and Shiori from RGU so I wanted to write a fic inspired by that.

   The first omen that their relationship was about to be broken beyond all repair was when the fleur-de-lis locket that Asuka had gotten for Yuriko broke. It came off the hinges unexpectedly with no forewarning. Through sheer force of will, Asuka had gotten it to click back into place but it was lopsided and as it was lopsided, Yuriko had little desire to wear it anymore. It sat awkwardly between her clavicles in a way it had never before.

   Especially not in the way Asuka had first adorned Yuriko with it. That moment of repose, in between torn gift wrapping and the intimacy, had meant a lot to them both. Asuka was delicate as the silver chain slipped into place against Yuriko’s skin. As she did so, she regaled an old wives’ tale that Yuriko hadn’t heard before about misplaced locks, whenever they went askew it meant someone was thinking of you and in the essence of that moment, Yuriko couldn’t help but sense that all Asuka was thinking about was her but… Yuriko was aware of other’s thoughts, too, as she was so damnably perceptive.

   The second omen that their relationship was about to be wounded beyond all healing was when that little black and brown sparrow had flown into the window and didn’t get up afterwards. Asuka had wanted to help it; Yuriko had wanted to allow nature to take its course. 

   They had been standing around the tennis club’s hangout, where they stored their sports gear and such, arguing or trying not to argue as they rallied around the obvious issue in the clubroom when they had heard the smack against the glass. Both had rushed outside as soon as it had happened, expecting a tennis ball. Not a bird. With Asuka taking it in her hands, against Yuriko’s harsh fussing, it was already too late. The skull was cracked, as was its beak and so all it could do was twitch in her hand with some imitation of life. Asuka’s expression was grim; Yuriko’s wasn’t even smug. Neither noticed the other, just assuming the other’s reaction.

   The third omen was that they couldn’t even look at one another. Things had become awkward. Stiff. They both knew they were headed for a brick wall but they were trying to overcome it anyway. Going through, going over, going under. Whatever it took but it was slowing down their game. They couldn’t win together as doubles with this hindered team work but they couldn’t even win either way if they were to go out as doubles. The other members of the tennis club could tell something had happened to them. Or, at the very least, something was happening between them.

   There wasn’t a fourth omen because the fourth unusual event was the end of it all. Their friendship, their love, their whatever their relationship was as more than just partners in tennis but a whole lot less than partners than lovers. After all, things tend to end at four. 

   Sometimes, they even died at four. 

   Unfortunately for Asuka and Yuriko, no matter how they wished for it, what they had didn’t die. And neither of them were the type to simply keel over and expire with their hearts in agony. So, what happened instead was some necrotic deterioration of their relationship and everything else in the way was mere canon fodder for what happened. Yuriko retreated to her own camp, finding a new tribe amongst the folk on the student representative council, and Asuka retreated to one at all, instead choosing to lick her wounds in private.

   Or at least that’s what Asuka had wanted to do. She wanted to sculpt herself as the cool girl. The loner. The girl who didn’t need anyone at all, even though it was no secret that doubles tennis was her passion - and so was any video game with co-op play, be it through multi-player or even A.I. controlled characters. And for a while it worked, she would hide out behind the school’s gymnasium or in the toilets, pretending she didn’t exist for the most part until she hit a collision with someone who was like the striking of the summer sun.

   Natsuumi Manatsu. What a girl. She was bright, bubbly, and she had an actual living mermaid living in some sort of watery genie bottle she kept in her bag - and that was to say nothing of what she could do with the ring on her finger. A ring which would soon have a sister which was gifted for Asuka and thus, Cure Flamingo was born and so was the Tropical Club and all aspirations and illusions that Asuka had of being of being a lone wolf were shattered because deep down, she liked to keep a flock of birds.

   Club President Takizawa Asuka did have a good sound to it, even if it really ought to be Manatsu. She was the central and driving force who had connected together a handful of scattered students who wouldn’t have interacted otherwise but no, no, she had humbly given up the role for Asuka. Seeing something in those bright eyes of her’s that Asuka didn’t even see in herself.

   She was thankful but it was unfortunate but she supposed her underclassmen were cute enough so she’d do anything to protect them. Beat up bullies, beat up underwater bad guys, and of course put herself in the crosshairs time and time again of the worst of the worst: young ladies like Kakuta Masami and, of course, Shiratori Yuriko.

   For so long, Asuka had managed to avoid the hawk-eyed ire of the council president. She hadn’t escaped it completely but she had minimised it but thanks to the Tropical Club, Asuka was once again the subject of that cold, hardened gaze. When it could be sustained at least.

   No matter the lecture, it did become apparent here and there within Yuriko’s behaviour that she was avoiding Asuka’s own, fierce gaze. She had all the power of fluttering wings and mermaid magic, she could handle one ex...something. Friend, girlfriend, partner. It didn’t matter; it hadn’t mattered because they felt like it would last forever so there was no need to label it. What rot that was. Now look at them. Going to war each time they gimpsed one another. Asuka could handle how Yuriko’s avian, yellow eyes slitted around her and how she had mastered the effect of looking closely, directly whilst actually not. 

   And so began their newest foray into being foes. The battleground might have changed but the battle itself hadn’t. The to and fro was far too familiar to them both as tennis pros. The rally and the volley. It was all the same to them: all a racket. Thus leading to their latest confrontation in Yuriko’s council room. 

   When it was all to themselves, like right now, they were free to get as downright nasty as they pleased: even if it was under the veneer of rather hushed voices. As much as they wanted to squawk at each other like duelling carrion birds, this was still a school so they had to keep their composure and their voices down. Besides, there were plenty more ways to pierce than just being ear-piercingly shrill in their voices.

   “You’re doing this on purpose,” Asuka insisted brusquely, “random inventory checks by the Disciplinary Committee aren’t so random if they’re only being held on the Tropical Club.”

   Yuriko shrugged, her face just a degree off from fully facing Asuka, her arms were folded in front of her, “I do not control the personal actions and decisions of Kakuta-san,” Yuriko murmured, “I merely suggest that the time is right at pure arbitrary of my own whims as they come and go between the paperwork and other scheduling that I do.”

   The dangling of the conspiracy infuriated Asuka. She growled, her hand balling into a fist by her side and in the thick of that raw noise in her throat, she hissed, “I hate you, you bitch.” Asuka knew she was right and Yuriko knew it too but was keeping it so locked and guarded and yet so out in the open just to bait Asuka. The rage that it caused seeped through and made Asuka seem redder - and madder - than her hair.

   “I hate you, too.” Yuriko smiled, oh so pleasant, her eyes crinkling in the corner with genuine joy.

   Asuka gritted her teeth and she stormed forward. She grabbed Yuriko by the lapels and shook her. Yuriko went prone with the roughness, seemingly not caring one bit at how Asuka had accosted her. Her whole body was limp, without worry, without so much as a glimmer of harshness in her eyes as they were far, far away from this brutish conversation.

   “What the hell is wrong with you?” Asuka growled. “Target me all you want, I don’t care, I can take it but leave the other girls out of it. The Tropical Club has nothing to do with us-”

   A glint of silver caught Asuka’s eye and just that tiny flash was enough to halt her tirade completely. All her anger ceased in her mouth as she was so stunned by what she saw on the pale of Yuriko’s skin. It slinked and slithered on her clavicles, mostly hidden by the turquoise of her flapping collar: the locket.

   “Y-You're still wearing it?” Asuka asked and she let go of Yuriko gingerly.

   She huffed, sorted herself out and Asuka noticed that the clasp was askew. Right by her pencil-thin neck, right where Asuka had always dreamed to leave a bruise: be it from love or from wrath, it mattered not. Especially now that Yuriko had gone and fixed it up, moving the clasp to the back of her neck, the locket moving beneath the white of her sailor shirt.

   Yuriko bore an enigmatic expression as she looked up, done with her fussing. It was distant and playful. And she reached out to Asuka, shocking her with the seeming kindness in her fingertips as they brushed past her temples, caressing her. Asuka winced and she was blinded. Yuriko’s fingers cupped her face in a way so that all she could see - and feel - was her hands. Her soft, supple hands and the spritz of a maturely scented perfume on her wrist. Asuka’s heart skipped a beat.

   Yuriko kissed her. It was a kiss that was like dry ice to Asuka’s searing mouth. It was a cold, clinical kiss that was fit to leave a blister on Asuka’s skin. She tried not to kiss back but all her soul wanted to. She had yearned to kiss Yuriko for so long, so why did this have to be the circumstance? When a kiss was not a kiss but a way in which to kill instead.

   Especially… Especially knowing the last time that Asuka could recall before this incident wherein she and Yuriko had locked eyes, firmly and strongly, for the last time. The event which had been foretold by the various omens of things breaking apart, getting wounded, and even dying. When Asuka had seen Yuriko kissing someone else through the crack of an ajar door at the tennis club room. The memory and recollection made Asuka sick and to think of it now, at such a pertinent moment, sullied the seconds that Yuriko spended on her, kissing her with such stringent luxury that it was calculated to the edge of her sigh on her sharp mouth.

   But in the darkness of her hands, that’s all Asuka could see and it all but killed her. She wished that it killed her.

[bottlecapbaby]

Fantasiland | Gage/SoSu

Pairing: Porter Gage/Fem!Sole Survivor

word count: 1519

Warnings: nsft hehe

notes: I was writing one big chapter but I decided to split it up! here’s the first part. Part of the Nuka-World Blues series

Sole was a reader. Her eyes roamed all over everyone she spoke to, not quite clinically, but definitely observant. She took one look at someone and knew exactly what they wanted to hear from her. All stares, all the time, nothing safe from her fiber optic gaze.

At first, it made Gage freaked out and uncomfortable. What was she looking for? Was he uglier than he thought? As with all of her quirks, he got used to it pretty fast, until it eventually just endeared her to him more.

But Gage was quickly realizing something. She could dish it, but she couldn’t take it. Did her best to avoid stares from others. It took a long time for her companion to figure it out, because her backwards way of avoiding having her body and face stared at was to keep eye contact. But once he figured it out? Shit, it was somehow even harder not to stare while he followed her around. To make it worse, she shivered when she felt eyes on her sometimes.  

Unfortunately for Sole, she naturally attracted attention, as much as she tried to avoid it. It was a big reason why she ditched the vault suit so early on. She still looked fresher, prettier, and fuller than everyone around by leaps and bounds. Those who weren’t gawking at her pre-war beauty looked at her for all manner of reasons: her wardrobe (some stolen from animatronics, some hand made), her weapons (like that freaky sword she found at the bottom of a well), the company she was keeping (Strong, Hancock, Gage, etc), the weird shit she can’t seem to stop herself from saying. 

Gage’s stares were a unique combination of all of those things, plus his own… feelings. As with most of his feelings towards her, they began as purely sexual. Plumpness of her ass, swell of her breasts, the way her thighs pushed together on tram rides. Then some more subtle attractive features. The sheen of her hair, bright smile, smooth skin. 

Then it got a little too specific. Gushy kinda shit he’d rather die than say out loud. The kinda thing that only existed in pre-war harlequin novels. The little whisps of baby hair at the base of her neck, the way she crinkled her nose, the birthmark at her hip that was only visible when one of her sleep shirts rode up (or, god willing, she changed in front of him). 

And now that Gage had let her start with those little touches? Things only got worse. Give Sole an inch and she’ll take a mile, not that Gage ever had it in his heart to stop her; the man did not know how to refuse her. The way she looked at him when she’d grab his hand or touch his shoulder? Card her fingers through his mohawk, short as it was? He’d do just about anything to see that look, much as he beat himself up for even thinking stupid sentimental shit like that. 

Not to mention the hugs. Good, merciful lord, the hugs. 

Every time they got back to the Fizztop for the day, she’d give him a hug the minute the last of his armor came off, no matter what dirt and grime was still all over them. In her eagerness, she always finished removing hers before him, practically bouncing while she waited for him to be done. Then, another embrace before they parted for the night to go to sleep. It was times like these where she really acted like some kid, and the old raider didn’t understand why he tolerated it, much less looked forward to it. 

Maybe it was because even though she acted like a kid sometimes, she sure as hell didn’t hug like one. For one, sometimes she just about knocked the wind out of him (she had to have strong arms to carry around all those desk fans ‘n shit, he supposed). For another, the way her chest squished against his fucked with his brains something special. Or rather, it drained the blood from his brains and sent it… somewhere else. Fuck, she was soft. Warm too. Sometimes, when she showered right before bed (with no luxuries like hot water to be found in Nuka-World), he could feel her pebbled nipples under the fabric of whatever shitty Nuka-Cola t-shirt she was wearing. Without pants, cause why the fuck should she make anything easy for him? 

He jerked off pretty much every night lately, like a teenager who just got his hands a pre-war nudie magazine for the first time. 

Tonight, his fantasy of choice was wondering if Sole was doing the exact same thing as him down the hall. It wasn’t his first time thinking of this scenario, not by a long shot, though he had noticed that the prevalence of Sole calling his name in these fantasies had gone way up as of late. Another recent development was how it ended. 

At first he could get off just to thinking of her arched back, hair in a halo around her, fingers reaching deep in her cunt while her breath got labored and her legs twitched. Then, it was him that she was crying for. Then, in the theater of his mind, he would interrupt her, maybe thinking she was calling his name because she needed help, maybe because he knew exactly what she was doing and how much she wanted him (depending on if he needed an ego boost). She’d take everything he had to give her, and she’d take it gladly, until he was satisfied (usually she’d be satisfied ten times over in the process). Within the past couple of weeks, the fantasy had started concluding with him pulling her close, having her rest on him as they dozed. He knew this was a slippery fuckin’ slope to be on, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

Tonight, fantasy-Sole whispered something as she fell asleep. 

It would probably be another week or two before he’d be able to admit to himself what she said. 

———-

Too real. That was too real. 

Gage was brought out of his fantasies by the sound of a voice. Sole’s voice. He wasn’t sure if he had imagined it or not, it was like when you wake up because someone in a dream calls your name. It was so quiet, so barely there that it was easy to ignore. 

Or it would have been, had it happened just once. 

Gage had pretty good hearing despite everything. He had to. Needed to be able to sleep but stay aware enough to defend himself. Muffled as it was, he heard the occasional sharp, strangled moan. It could only have come from the boss, who slept down the hall on the patio. He quickly tugged on some jeans and got up, his head running through possible scenarios at a mile a minute as he paced quickly yet quietly down the corridor. 

Sole was nothing short of neurotic, and it showed as soon as she first laid eyes on the Fizztop Grille. The grimace she made upon seeing all the animatronics, random shit, and trash strewn about the place when she first arrived made Gage laugh whenever he thought of it. It had been cleaned up, rearranged, and thoroughly taken care of within 24 hours, probably less. At the time, it made Gage pretty fuckin’ nervous, afraid that he’d just recruited a complete ninny and that Nisha was going to skin his ass raw. But now, he was grateful for how obsessive she had been about cleaning. 

Because she had made sure to oil every single rusted-to-fuck doorknob, hinge, and mechanism in the entire place. Meaning when Gage opened the door to the patio, it was quiet enough that she didn’t stir from whatever she was doing. Gage was about to find out whatever that was. 

“—hah! Fuck…”

The raider peaked over at her, nearly craning his neck to see what was going on, and he was almost starting to sweat at the sounds she was letting out. He cautiously made his way forward, until he inched close enough to make out that she was under the covers. Curled in on her side, panting, really clearly trying to be quiet. And to her credit, she was. Gage couldn’t help but think she’d probably done this in the company of her other friends at a similar distance, but their hearing hadn’t been trained enough to pick it up. They hadn’t been waiting to hear it like he had. 

The scene had been… different from how he had imagined. He had thought of her, spread out, on her back, almost unapologetically loud and out of breath. Presented. But here in reality, she was so tucked away and vulnerable. What came out were hitched breaths and quiet whimpers, all he could really see was her tangled hair on the pillow and the movement from beneath the sheets. 

Got him hotter than any porno mag he’d ever had, and he could barely even see her. 

“Oh god— Gage—“

And that was the final push he needed. 

[spiltscribbles]

I Crave You And That is All

Notes: A reblog is worth a thousand stars 

.-

Sometimes I just look at Baz— At his gray eyes that go molten in the light and his ridiculous cheekbones that could literally cut right through glass and the precise shape to his cupids bow lips that I always want to kiss— and I can hardly believe that we’re actually  together, an item— that against all odds we’ve somehow stumbled into something like love. Something that makes my chest contract, and my stomach tumble itself into knots, and sometimes when Baz touches me— always so tenderly— it feels like their’s a thrill prickling up my spine, magic revived within me once more.

For instance, it feels that way right now, but just a thousand times more maddening.

Penelope’s spending the night at her parents place over the sprint holiday, bidding farewell by crowing a pointed, “Please let loose of the sexual tension before it suffocates us all,” to us, which makes it so Baz’s face goes utterly scarlet, and I can’t help but  sputter an indignant “Hop off!” before tossing her the bird. Penelope had only cast us one last smirk, always so very smug. But whatever, that doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that the moment the front door slammed shut, Baz and I scrambled towards one another like clashing tornados, hips rocking against hips in a frankly obscene motion, and  swapping kisses  with such fucking ferociousness  that I’m positively  sure there’ll be bruising around each of our  lips tomorrow, but I don’t care, just as long as I can finally tug off Baz’s shirt, and run greedy hands up and down his hard torso, and breathe him in deep, He always smells like sandalwood and blossoming fields and something indescribably incandescent, something distinctly his own.

“Crowley, I’ve missed you,” Baz chokes out between a gasp when I begin to nip at the hinge of his unfairly sharp jaw, the way that always gets him writhing.  I wouldn’t admit this in the light of day, but  my heart does a ridiculous swooping motion when I hear that, pressing Baz even closer like its all I have to give.

We’ve seen one another nearly every day since all of it— Since the Humdrum, and the Mage. After I became a fucking normal, no matter what Baz or Penny try to say otherwise. But I understand what Baz means with the feeling of having missed me, we’re always around a damn crowd of people, or Baz has to make it back to Watford before curfew, or what the fuck ever. It’s been too long— nearly a month— since I’ve been able to just hold him like this, to see that particular flush run down Baz’s chiseled features. Since I got to knot a hand in Baz’s thick mop of hair. Since I got to suck Baz’s plump bottom lip into my mouth and fucking bite, ears ringing with the splendid sound of Baz’s moan that comes out right then.

“It’s been so damn long.”

.-

We’re lying naked on the bed now, the tip of Baz’s finger tracing random designs against my bare skin, intermittently cut off by him peppering kisses along my freckles or moles.

“You are really good at that,” I tell him, breathless as I flip around so that we’re face to face again, so I can see the way Baz’s hair spills on the sheets with abandon, and the beautiful contrast of the bruises I left on his hips while I was pounding into him against his sides,  and how his eyes gaze at me with such raw wanting that it makes it so my insides sing with glee.

“You said that already Snow,” Baz goads with heavy breaths. Truthfully, I   wish he hadn’t called me by my surname, I much  rather hear the soft lilt to his voice curling around Simon instead, is thrilled on those nights when Baz really sheds himself of all the walls I know I  had a part in building up in the first place. The nights when Baz curves against me so gingerly, nights when he says that he loves me in such hushed breaths that skirt against my skin, ones  punctured with kisses against my collar bone. The nights when he calls me love, or even once darling when I had actually  had made him laugh with such mirth that the blue in Baz’s gray eyes shone so brightly that it punched the breath right out of me.

“Don’t be a prick Pitch,” I bristle, leaning  into the familiarity of it— of our bickering and banter, even it’s so much more now— when Baz’s my entire world.   

Lazily, I tug on a lock of his impossibly soft hair. For fuck’s sake not even Agatha’s was quite as silky. 

Baz’s smile goes diffident, as much of an apology as he’ll ever offer and as much as I  will ever except.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells me instead, cups a hand around my cheek and kisses my lips with such  aching gentleness.

We stay like that for a while, with me lying naked atop him  and the both of us forever yearning for the other. But inevitably we have to pull apart for air, and of course Baz has to ruin the moment by joking about me using too much spit.

“I can’t believe my boyfriend’s such a damn tosser,” I pout moodily, collapsing besides him with my arms crossed against my chest, and I only feel better when I hear the dulcet sound of Baz’s laughter pouring out his lips when he throws his dark head back, humor painting him in brilliant lights.

“’s only a joke Snow, I rather like your primitive fashion,” Baz goads, snuggling closer to me and pressing a kiss to my cheek in penance.

“Oy, why don’t you make me a pot of tea then,” I snark moodily at a Baz who   is still positively beaming. Can’t help but laugh at my grimace.

“’S one in the morning.”

“I’m thirsty,” I pout.

“Then make your own bloody tea,” Baz huffs, rolling his eyes heavenwards but never really meaning it.  He still  never stops touching me, like he can’t get enough of it, like somehow this was Baz’s dream come true instead of the other way around— you know, super repressed dreams that I would’ve never admitted in the light of day.

“What can I say lover,” I preen, pecking the corner of his mouth knowing  full and well  that it makes Baz melt just slightly. “You wore me out.”

“You’re such a prick,” Baz retorts, lips curled and cheeks infused red.

“But?” I press with a cocked brow.

“But nothing Snow, you are a prick.” Baz charges.  I don’t say anything, only leer after  him, watching as the delectable sight of Baz’s naked form gets up, headed to the kitchen.

For the record, I definitely do not wince when Baz throws a spare pillow at my head. “Not a fucking show Snow.”

“I reckon I’ve got some spare notes if you felt unappreciated,” I call out in response, totally gleeful.

The glare Baz threw my way was downright menacing, but also very very hot. It’s unfair how he could pull that off, truly.

.-

I’m not sure when exactly I start to doze off, all that I notice is Baz— as quiet and graceful as ever— stealthily slipping back into the room some time later, setting the tea to the side and carding a ginger hand through my bronze curls. He’s so quiet about it, but I think I’ll always just be attuned to him, going alert whenever he so much even looks at me. Once I had  thunk it a survival technique, but now I know full and well how desperate I had been just to get Baz to look at me, to spare me some of his attention just for that infinitesimal moment of the day.

“Good night Habibi,” Baz tells me, just above a whisper, before pecking a barely there kiss to my forehead.

A feeling I can’t quite parse out— something splendid, something so warm and lovely— coils deep in my gut. 

Of course I  recognize the word, Habibi, an Arabic pet name that Natasha had constantly crooned to a pampered Baz, doting and delighted, when he was only a child— before all the madness that altered his world so completely.

I know without Baz ever having to say as much  that Baz only speaks the language on his especially bright days, usually sticks to incantations in English or French or Latin or Greek— I know that the Arabic reminds him too much of what he had, of what he lost. But occasionally, these small words would pour from his lips without his seeming to even realize it, and only ever when in regards to me. It’s something so fragile, so precious, that I never dare to  put any lyrics to it, just let it happen and try to show Baz how much it means to me in the silence that follows.

When Baz crawls back into bed with me, I do just that, cuddling closer and wrapping a protective arm around his torso and  kissing the sole dimple on his left shoulder. Baz relaxes into the embrace, and everything feels miraculous.

[taliel-strykidz]

Ending!

It’s finally here, I’m sorry for the long ass wait :( It’s not great but here you guys go!

Huannie couldn’t understand why it felt like there was something over her eyes making it difficult to open them, but she fought the urge to succumb back to the darkness and wrench them open, she felt like she hadn’t done that in a while.  Her whole body ached upon trying to move and everything from physically and mentally felt foggy. 

Feeling something wet on her cheek she brought her hand up to wipe it only to feel something tug in her arm, looking down she saw something plastic feeding into her veign, although everything was foggy she was well aware that the distinct shape of the the plastic thing on her arm was an IV. 

She glances upward, her mouth pursed but slightly open and loose. Her eyes are fixed as if she’s looking at something a yard away, but in reality she was staring at the ECG machiene mimicking her distressed state. Finally she launched herself up into a sitting position and observed where she was. She was in the hospital room the managers would usually request when an Idol was needing medical attention, but it looked different. There were piles of letters stacked on the armchair, boxes of plushies scattered on the desk and alot of overnight duffle bags shoved into the corner.

“Hello?” She called out weakly, a few minutes pass and no one had answered. Throwing the dozen blankets off the bed in agitated disorientation she rubbed her eyes furiously. “Mom? Taeyong?” She called again, her voice cracking like she hadn’t used it her whole life. 

There were scrambling footsteps outside of the door in the hall sprinting over to her door, speaking of the door it almost got ripped off its hinges as the nurse came inside to assess who was talking. This person Huannie had never seen before in her life. Although the brown haired nurse in front of her look unfamilliar there was a slight nagging in the back of her brain that she knew this woman. Her chocolate brown hair was in a beautiful messy bun; her doe brown eyes looked absolutely bewildered. 

“Annyeonghaseyo... Um could you please tell me where my family is?” Huannie asked matching the womans terrifyed eyes, the woman still stares at the Idol with wide eyes, her mouth opening and closing, not being able to find the words to properly explain to the woman sitting in the bed what situation she was actually in. 

“They- They should be due to arrive like usual- They’ll be here soon.” She managed to get out, the nurse stood at the door trying to remember what her senior told her about coma patients that just woke up. The nurse bows to take her leave but Huannie tried to get out of the bed to stop her/ 

“Who are you?” Huannie burst out with brimming eyes, the nurse turned to look at her with a tembling lip but only grabs her hand. 

“They’ll be here soon, okay.” 

Huannie couldn’t believe what was going on, she didn’t think she wanted to anyway. The last thing she remembered was telling Heechul to tie the belt around his leg, but it seemed alot longer had passed with such a reaction from the nurse.  She forced her knees up, hugging them to her chest. Her hand working back and forth over what seemed like healed scars on her legs, all while feeling the irregular box like shape in her chest area. If she didn’t get some answers soon she had a feeling she would vomit, already she could feel the bile in her throat. 

She saw the door opening slowly, revealing Park Jinyoung, standing at the door looking like he would vomit himself. Huannie assumed he was the one who was nearby considering he was alone, soon a worn out Na Jaemin entered behind him. 

“Jagi? What’s going on- Why are you crying?” She asked worriedly watching as his knee buckled ever so slightly hearing her voice after four months of only hearing his own breathing. “Oppa?” Her voice cracked under the immense confusion circling around in her head, a scared tear slipping out of her eye. 

“Jaeminnie? Tell me, what’s going on?” She asked the younger boy hoping that he would be of help, the teenager only stared at her with his beautiful eyes watering, but he at least had a relieved smile. 

“You’re scaring me,” She voiced, only she wasn’t sure who it was directed at whether it was at the two standing in the room or at herself who couldn’t come up to an answer to any of her own questions. 

It felt like a lifetime of sorrowful tears before one of them spoke. 

“You’re awake.” Jinyoung says, slowly walking over to the armchair next ti her with Jaemin following quietly. 

“Yeah.. I’m awake?”

“Angel, you’ve been- you were- you were in a coma.” He mumbled quietly, staring down at the hand he’d grabbed instinctively as he sat down. She stared back at him in pure loss for words as he stared back at her with an expressionless face. 

Her heart leaped as she took in the faces of the boys, first trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke, but judging by their shaking hands and non stop tears her own hands seemed to trembled as she tried to remember what happened after the crash. “For how long? Like a week?” She asked desperately trying to get at least one answer out of the million that were drowning in her mind. 

The two looked at eachother as if they didn’t know if they should tell her, for their own sake because they didn’t want have to talk about the events of what’s happened throughout the time she was lay in pain. But Jaemin spoke anyway. 

“It’s been four and a half months Noona.” The teen whispered painfully as he grabbed her hand to steady his racing heart. 

Huannie’s already dry mouth felt as if it had been sucked of any remaining water and threatened her tongue to smash into tiny little pieces. She shook her head in denial as she furiously wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks with her palm. 

“This is a joke.” She snipped and laughed without any ounce of amusement. “It not a funny one, but some twisted joke right?” Anguish could be seen on her face as she desperately pleaded with Jinyoung’s eyes to tell her it was all a joke or a dream, but Jinyoung only shook his head. 

“No, Angel it’s not a joke.” He replied placing his his head in his hand to rub away his tears. 

“No, it’s not possible. It can’t be. I was with Heechul yesterday, singing in the car and then-”

Huannie cried as if her brain was being shredded from the inside out, emotional and physical pain flowed out of her every pore. From her mouth came a cry so raw that even the eyes of the people walking past the hospital room were suddenly wet with tears. She grabbed onto the two boys hands so that her violent shaking wouldn’t make her fall off the bed and from her eyes came a thicker flow of tears than she had cried for her own mother two years ago. We don’t really think about death, but when you find out you were close to it it unerves you. 

Upon seeing her right in front of him, brick by brick, Jinyoung’s walls came tumbling down. As she clutched onto his hand the tears in his eyes turned into a hurricane. He just broke down as the nurse guided a soft smiling Jaemin out of the room. When they cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain of four months ago was still an open wound. They both clasped onto eachothers hands for support, anything that would tell eachother that the other was there, and then their bodies would shake. Jinyoungs sobs were stifled at first as he first panned to comfort the woman, but realising that she was there crying with him the wave of emotions hit and he broke down entirely. 

“Jinyoungie?” She finally spoke. “Who was playing the piano? The one that Jonghyun was singing to?” She asked desperately looking into his eyes. 

“Chenle played the piano last month, but no one was sing-” 

“Jonghyun sang it in the meadow, he sang it to me.” She corrected him. 

“Angel are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Jinyoung replied. Huannie refused to believe it, she saw he late bestfriend playing the piano in the meadow she was sure of it. 

After a minute of Jinyoung realising eaxactly what she was meaning he sat softly on the bed next to her and brough the crying woman into his embrace. 

“Has it really been four months?” 

He gave her a weak smile and squeezed her closer to his chest. 

“Longest four months of our life Angel.” 

[akathecentimetre]

So here’s the thing.

Of course I love The Old Guard. Like, of COURSE I do. It is everything I like and everything you all have gotten used to knowing I like, from found family to unconditional love to the yummy yummy historical tidbits. It’s going to have a truly Great fandom.

But watching it was not, for me, some huge revelatory experience in media because - well, I’ve written it before. Many times, in scattered pieces, across a lot of my fic. And what made me cry last night when I finally watched it was that it’s the spitting image of an epic vampire story that I wrote, over a decade ago, with Rio (@aumerle-that-was​).

Who is now dead. Recently dead. [I wrote a post about her here.]

The Barrens will most likely never make it to publication. It’s huge, and unwieldy, and full of unnecessary crack because I was an 18-19-20-year-old virgin when we were spending the most time on it. But it’s 232,761 words of memories, of laughter, of love, and, as I mentioned in my previous post, of me learning how to write at all.

I miss her. I wish she was still here, to see The Old Guard and love it (GOD she would have loved it). I wish she was here so she could write the most beautiful, unbearable, Italianate fic of Joe & Nicky that anyone could have ever imagined. They deserve a gifset set to her Coldplay “roman cavalry choirs” singing. 

Here’s some tiny images of what we wrote, focusing on various characters (including one called Rio, of no relation; this epic started, if you can believe, as a football/soccer RPF AU). I’ve picked out some character moments rather than historical bits, but fair warning that there’s mention of some nasty/upsetting stuff.

*

It was the need to eat, and the need to live, and the need to go on, and it was, as the last sliver of sun splintered on the deep blue of Capri's sea, utterly unendurable, because he knew that he would, he would get up, he would go on, he would feed, and he would keep living. He would keep living, and the grief and anguish in his mind would keep on with him, the raw, still-bleeding edges of the severed bond breathing with him, and the new fear and hatred he had learned keeping him company with them.

He would just refuse to think, that was all. That couldn't be so hard.

It couldn't.

*

He closed his eyes, and swallowed, shutting down memories and envy and misery at once, and drew a deep, unnecessary breath before he looked out at the Mouth of Truth again. He walked over to it slowly, and put his hand in. "I don't miss you," he said. "And you needed to die." Robin whined sadly behind him. The Mouth stayed open.

*

Things were shutting down, blowing out like lamps at night, and all he could think was thank God, because he didn't want this anymore, couldn't stand it, and he thought it might be his life that was guttering out like a candle, and it was really too much effort to care, because peace.

...but as bad as dying was, it was nothing compared to waking up again.

Fingers were tapping him sharply on one cheek. "'Ey. 'Ey, come on, wake up."

He opened his eyes. And immediately shouted out in a mix of pain, terror, and absolutely overwhelming confusion, because his head hurt so badly he thought he just might have been brained with an axe, and when he struggled into a sitting position it was to the realization that his clothes were soaked with blood, and that just couldn't be good at all. His hands shot to his throat, but when he found that there was nothing there - no torn flesh, no blood, no wound, no nothing - all he could let out was a horrified sort of squeak.

There was the odd laugh again, and it didn't help at all to realize he could feel it now, as if he was tapped into the other man's amusement like some barrel of watered beer left running.

"Very good," the man's voice rumbled, making him jump again, because he didn't just hear it, it was like it was in his ear. "Now then. Follow these regles" - a piece of crumpled paper was thrust into his bloody palm - "and you shall be just fine, yes? Yes. I think you shall be fine." And then the man stood, stepped over him, and opened the door, pushing Rio's nerveless legs aside as it swung on its hinges. "I think I had better go. Too much - commotion. Bonsoir!"

"And fuck you," Rio managed to croak with some vehemence, feeling the amusement fade out and vanish, as though it had never been there at all. If it weren't for the way his head felt and the state of his hands and clothes, he'd have thought he'd dreamed it - got coshed, maybe, and dreamed it. The crumpled piece of paper was telling him otherwise. The slightly-mangled syntax was bad enough without it apparently being straight out of a child's fairy tale.

Never kill when you drink. Never go out in the sun unless you have strength enough. If it is possible, no churches. NEVER TOUCH SILVER. Run from Hunters, do not fight. Be polite when you use your mind, otherwise it will hurt.

Bonds of love are forever.

*

He had got as far as the steps when the world began to shatter, as though cacophony could be made into feeling, sending him in a kind of sideways fall against the stone balustrade, and wondering how he had never known there was this much pain in the world, because it was worse even than the night he had been left to bleed his life out on a London street, worse than silver, worse than anything he could begin to think of as comparison. It was the utter definition of agony, and all he could think was that he needed it to stop, it had to stop, before his mind fragmented and splintered along with it.

It came to him, distant and heartwrenching, that this was what Cruyff had meant by letting go, that he had to withdraw or risk going irrevocably mad, but - fuck, fuck, how could he let go of everything, Cruyff was everything, it was impossible that he should be - imposs -

He fell against the wall, toppled onto his knees, and screamed.

*

“And if you want immortality for someone, the last thing you want is to find yourself becoming a murderer. Unless you're Marco..."  he trailed off with a sigh, and shook his head. "Marco seduced a girl in Babylon --"

"Babylon --!"  Rio gaped.  Babylon didn't even exist any more, God, what sort of timescale were they talking about here?

"He went with Alexander," Gullit said patiently, "and if you want to know more about that, read a book."

*

Gullit bristled and snarled without actually saying anything, giving Rio the distinct impression that the master vampire was more of a real wolf than Robin would ever be. "Go on then," he snapped. "Tell me to my face that you will be able to wake up tomorrow night and do what you have to do. That is all the time I will allow you - and I will know if you are lying."

Rio swallowed.  He thought of silver, and the way it burned even when it wasn't a knife, thought of how it tainted everything, how the thought even of being there one more second alongside that pain was almost impossible.  He thought of how it was now his knife, how he had earned the pain and the ability both, and owned them by name and by right.

He thought, deliberately, of the scars on Ed's body, of the look in his eyes that first night at Stevie's, as though the world were a place of ash and horror and nothing good could even be imagined.

He thought of Gullit, whose sons were dead and had no-one to lay claim to him or who he could be part of but Marco, and who carried on, scarred and limping and casting his damn spells, trying to earn something Rio thought just might be the forgiveness of the twice-dead.

"Yeah," he said then, looking straight into Gullit's dark, hot eyes.  "I could."

"Could you really," Gullit said thoughtfully.  It wasn't, terrifyingly, anywhere near a question.

*

I can make no predictions, so consider this an indefinite promise: you are not going back.

Rio's mind turned into a perfect, careful blank of pure incomprehension.

Back here? he ventured, because if that was it, he really didn't understand, since how not coming back here was anything but good was absolutely and completely beyond him.  How he was supposed to feel anything but thank-you-God about even the idea of never coming back here was apparently a mental leap he was incapable of making.

There was a snort of derision, the horrid sound failing to arouse even a twitch of amusement from anyone. No, Rio, Gullit whispered. He had to live with the possibility of never - that his pain would never end. And now you’re going to live with it too. You’re going to live with the thought that you might never kill Marco... and, due to the extremes of unpredictability this world - and especially Marco - goes to, you’re going to live with the idea that you might never see, or be able to love, Edwin ever again.

He wasn't sure if he was being manipulated, or if it was real, but the sense of something that wasn't even grief – that was beyond grief, was nothing as human as grief – was shocking and immediate and all-consuming.  It was the knowledge that the last memories he might ever be able to make that were his own – even now, as his brain stuttered in a void, he knew that what he had seen here was not his for the taking – the last memories he could truly take for himself would be the look of joy in Ed's eyes, and the clean-cut Roman profile of the vampire who had been able to give and be all he had ever wanted.  The last memory he might ever be able to bring out of his mind in all the days that were his to pass from now until the end of some infinite horror was one of loss.  

It was devastation, wilderness, wasteland, the barrens.

It was exile, and eternity, and Christ! Laurent had given him no such thing as a gift of life, he had given him a curse.

Bonds of love are forever.

And without the ability to love, with only the bonds, with only shackles for his heart and soul worse than those that lay open in front of his mind's eye – with the only thing he had always known suddenly ripped from him and held up to the clear light of unforgiving truth, and shown as worthless, forever didn't seem like any kind of promise at all.

*

He had only recently started getting used to the concept of communicating with his mind, and what glimpses he had gotten of Ruud's had only convinced him that there was more in there than he could ever possibly hope to understand - so he didn't try. But he did know that London was important, and that something was going to happen, so he finished packing very carefully before moving on to Ruud's things, which were still scattered carelessly around the room (a rarity, because normally the captain was as neat as a pin). "You don't deserve this," he heard Ruud say quietly, and he shrugged without looking over his shoulder. "Well. I'm alive, sir." "No you're not," Ruud said - not unkindly.

"I'm here?"

"Yes," Ruud said. He sounded exhausted. "You are. Hooray for you."

*

"Give me one solitary fucking reason why I shouldn't throw you through this wall."

Ruud didn't have the energy to come up with something honest. "Goodwill towards your fellow man?"

He ended up flat on his back in the remains of what had been a parked cab instead, but he was pretty sure it hurt the same amount.

"Fellow man? You don't count," Rio said, sounding horrible and raspy from somewhere off to the side, as Ruud blinked away some interestingly-coloured sparkles and waited for his leg to heal up the nerve-endings enough for things to start being excruciating. "I'm not sure you count as a fucking vampire, you shit."

"No," Ruud grunted, swaying up to a seated position just in time to get punched in the face and fall back again with a broken nose, and the sparkles deciding to take up permanent residence behind his eyelids. "I don't. Tell me how he is."

Rio's skull-face didn't look any better in lamplight and through floating small pinpricks of fake stars. "Sorry, was that you asking for something?"

"Yes," he ground out, lifting a weary hand to his mouth and shoving a crooked incisor back into its place. "And you're going to tell me. I don't care if you feel like disembowelling me, though don't get any ideas - you're going to."

"I'm off disembowelling for the next century, don't worry yourself," Rio growled, and that was the nastiest way Ruud had ever got an answer in his life, and knowing he'd deserved it didn't help at all. "Fuck's sake. How do you think? You left." Right, so apparently git stood for Great Incompetent Tosser.

*

"Like you what?" the man said, getting right to the heart of Rio's inadequacy in the same death-warmed-up voice, and put a shaking hand down against the floor to try and pull his rag-covered body out of the bunk. "He said it would save me. Are you saved?"

Maybe he would just use the hook on Laurent, instead. "Um. Not - really, no." He hoped like hell the man wasn't talking about in the sight of God, because that was one can of worms Rio was never going anywhere near. "He made me, though, too. Just like he did you. So we don't die....yet." Life, Laurent had told him, and hadn't that been a terrifyingly unfunny joke? Rio didn't want to have to use the word 'vampire' among all these living corpses, but he was getting a nasty feeling that between necessary obliquity and whatever arsing terrible explanation Laurent had buggered off after giving, he was going to have to.

He straightened up without the help of Rio's hands, and for the first time Rio could put a face to the voice - he was Rio's height, and big, or should have been were it not for the thinness of his limbs, wrists and forearms Rio could have encircled with two fingers end-to-end, and a broad, now-pinched face which spoke of a starvation perhaps beyond all else Rio had seen, because he knew without even asking this man had not known, at least not consciously, to drink, and yet the strength of the vampire would have kept him from expiring even had he begged for it.

Laurent would have fed him, though. Laurent would have let him know at least what it took to keep going - wouldn't he? Perhaps not, any kind of feeding here was a death sentence to the donor, willing or not, and considering Laurent's one and only set of instructions, Rio guessed that the bastard had just been hoping for the best to work itself out - and in the meantime, what the fuck was he going to do? "Means you're my brother," he said at last, because that was what mattered, in the end, wasn't it, that was why he was here, why he'd ended up in a kind of Hell no-one had even thought of until now, not even the living dead. "An' I'm Rio." He'd first introduced himself as who and what he was so many lifetimes ago that he was amazed it still struck a chord of memory inside him, hearing his voice in the little hut as though he were back in the room in London, wondering why he'd saved a vamp who didn't even have the sense not to kill. "It's - we're gonna be all right. Honest."

[foxtophat]

here’s chapter 4!!! it’s been about a week and a half, two weeks since John Seed reappeared, and now nick is ready to take his vengence!  by... having john do basic tasks to repair the homestead.  hey, this isn’t eden’s gate -- what do you expect, skin flaying and long-winded religious diatribes?  (weird, that’s exactly what john expects, all the time, from everyone!)

i really love this story and am so thrilled that other people seem to enjoy it too!!! it’s fun to write, and since i know it’s just full on self-indulgent bullshit, i don’t feel guilty for not being ~~realistic~~ about the whole thing.  fuck it! nick is a pacifist now!!!

i’ve included today’s chapter under the cut so you don’t have to leave tumblr if you don’t want to.  if you’re enjoying this story, please consider reblogging so your friends can also enjoy my hellscape! or, you know, do what makes you happy, it’s not like i can force you to ruin your aesthetics blog on my behalf. stay frosty my dudes, i’ll see you in 2 weeks!

Well, John doesn't die. Despite that being the only good thing the man could possibly do, he manages to hang on through the first night, looking better before the week is out. It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Nick no longer feels like he's serving a skeleton its last meal; on the other, it means that John is more than likely here to stay. Every time Nick goes to give him food, he finds the room just a little bit more lived in, the tarp turning into a makeshift bed as John struggles to settle in. Just yesterday, Nick had noticed a short series of tally lines scratched in the wall, marking each day of his sentence as though he were confined to solitary.

Nick should probably be happy with how smoothly things are going. He should probably be glad that John is keeping quiet and politely recuperating without so much as a snide remark. It's what he wanted, after all — for John to wave a white flag and agree to an unconditional surrender. And yet Nick can't help but feel short-changed, as if John owes him at least one opportunity to punch him in the face for being an asshole. It used to be something Nick dreamed about doing; he'd fantasized about beating him to a bloody pulp even as John had ripped his skin from his chest. Now, he's not willing to deal with the guilt that would undoubtedly follow.

Nick wishes he could go back to his "fight everyone" thirties. Being a mature adult sucks.

It's bright and early one morning when Nick decides it's past time to do something about the ceiling, which is warped and sagging beneath the nursery. Nick suspects it's a cracked joist, but considering his lack of carpentry skills, he doubts he can do anything to repair it. Right now, all he can do is try to support the weight of the second floor with something other than a wish and a prayer. Thankfully, he saved some of the posts when he dismantled the back porch — now if only Kim weren't going to be busy all day with Carmina, they could actually get some work done.

Except, maybe not!

John has been looking a lot better these past two days, since all he's been doing is resting and regaining his strength. Nick's heard him rummaging around at night, and he's been making himself something of a nest out of the crap left with him. Nick's even heard him talking, although it's anyone's guess who he thinks is listening. Considering how quiet and withdrawn he is when Nick brings him his meals, he doesn't seem interested in what real people have to say.

Honestly, if Nick hadn't been an integral part of John's survival for the past week, he'd think the whole thing was some kind of ploy. Nick's not sure what John would be planning with this act for sympathy, but he isn't going to make the same mistake he did all those years ago and write him off as some rich, coked-out jackass with no thoughts to his name. He's not going to let John sit around and finalize whatever evil machinations he's got brewing in his mind. He's gonna work that sad-sack until the only thing John's thinking about is collapsing from exhaustion.

Nick doesn't reveal his plans until after breakfast. He doesn't want to ruin his favorite meal of the day, not when he can rest aimlessly beside his family around the table, eating ham and eggs while Kim brews coffee. It's the closest they'll ever get to the way life used to be, and Nick can pretend that everything is back to normal as long as he has a cup of coffee in hand. Hell, it's not like watching his eight-year-old daughter methodically clean the family rifle during breakfast is all that weird for Hope County, with or without the apocalypse.

It's probably a good thing that Carmina is distracted. If she realized today was the day John would be seeing sunlight, she'd refuse to go anywhere until her curiosity was satisfied. They've told her as little as they can get away with, given that they're keeping a man prisoner across the hall from them. Mostly that he's a very sick stranger who could make little girls very sick too. She'd bought it for the most part, but Nick's afraid that she won't be able to contain her curiosity for much longer.

"Think I'm gonna get some stuff done while you're gone," he tells Kim, glancing significantly towards the stairs while Carmina isn't looking. "We need to deal with the second floor sooner rather than later."

"Are you sure?" she asks, raising her eyebrows meaningfully back at him. "Is this something you can do on your own?"

"Better to not put it off anymore," Nick replies. "It'll be easier if I have the place to myself, anyway. Less, uh, confusion."

That said, he puts the chore off for almost half an hour after Kim and Carmina head out. He tries to prepare, but there's not much he can do to close off the exits, and it only takes a few minutes to drag all the necessary supplies into place. All he can do at this point is hope that John is only strong enough to help, and not strong enough to run at the first chance he gets. If he does that, Nick's going to have no choice but to shoot him.

Nick does his best to hide his nerves as he unlocks the door. It feels weird to knock so he doesn't, pushing the door open slowly enough for the hinges to creak. John should just be thankful Nick bothers to try giving him any sort of head's up.

John, ungrateful bastard that he is, sleeps through Nick's entrance. He's found the cheap wool guest blanket that Nick would never dream of actually offering to guests, which seems fitting. His shirt is crumpled next to him, leaving Nick with the unfortunate view of his bare torso.

Nick's seen John shirtless a few times now, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. His skin is stretched over his jutting shoulder blades, clinging to every sharp, bony angle of his spine. Nick knows there's not much else for it to cling to - he's seen the way John's stomach sags, too much skin with not enough meat to hang on to. It's all been eaten away from months, maybe even years , of malnutrition and inactivity. The only thing left of the man Nick remembers is a goddamn shadow. Looking down at John, Nick's left to wonder how he had survived at all.

Nick nudges John unkindly with his boot, ignoring the grunt of discomfort he gets in return. "Come on," he snaps, "It's morning. If the sun's up, you're up — this isn't the goddamn Hope County Hilton."

John groans, biting his tongue against whatever snide comment might come to mind. That's too bad — Nick would love to start today off with an ethically-sourced beat-down.

Even though he wants to, Nick refuses to look away as John sits up, revealing all of his tattoos and scars. The tattoos are nothing new, and some of the scars look pre-Collapse old, but John obviously didn't let the bunker curb his self-mutilating tendencies. Some of the tattoos have been ritualistically carved out, leaving flat slabs of scar tissue behind. Others have been scratched out less completely, seemingly at random. The worst part is seeing the ten deep, half-moon gouges in his shoulders, leaving behind raw, fresh scars. Nick can only imagine what led to their creation, but he would really rather not.

"Put your shirt on and eat quick," Nick tells him, setting the plate near enough to John before retreating to wait by the door. The more space he has between them, the better. If John is going to pull something, Nick wants to have room to grab his gun, or at least to brace for a fight. And anyway, John still eats like a mongrel and it's uncomfortable to watch.

"Time to put me to work?" John asks skeptically as he drags his shirt over his torso.

"You bet," Nick replies. Should he be a cagey dick about it? Part of him thinks so, out of spite, but realistically he should temper John's expectations. Nick isn't going to be capable of putting John through the kind of torture he's probably expecting. So, he points out the dipping corner and says, "This whole floor is gonna give out if we don't do something about it. Well, I say we , but I mean you ."

John regards the spot with more skepticism. "That's it?"

"You haven't even seen how much of the house you're going to be digging out of the dirt," Nick points out. "Come on, hurry up already, I don't have all day."

——

Despite being sick as a dog, John's strength is still something to be reckoned with. Nick watches uneasily at first as John makes short work of clearing space for the beam to stand, heaving shovelfuls of dirt out the open window without regard to his wasted muscles. If John decides to come at him with that shovel, it's going to be Nick's reflexes that save him, not his brute strength. Nick's reflexes aren't exactly the best these days, so Nick hopes it doesn't come to that.

It doesn't seem like John is interested in fighting, though. Nick sets him to work with the shovel and he takes it up without so much as a snide comment about Nick trying to order him around. He slings dirt silently, practically zoning out over the manual labor as Nick watches from his side of the room. It's almost like he's in a trance or something, and it's only broken when the shovel scrapes against the wooden floorboards. He comes to a sudden stop, staring at the floor in surprise. He looks up and around, fixing a sour glare at the wide-open back porch that Nick is standing guard in front of before finally looking at Nick himself.

"That's it?"

"Hell no, it isn't," Nick sighs, gesturing towards the beam that he'd dragged in from the woodpile outside. It doesn't rain much nowadays, so it hasn't gone to rot, and it should be just about level with the supports in the ceiling. Plus, it's already got the right hardware attached, and most of it even survived the nuclear blast.

"Come on," he tells John, "You're putting this up."

Still no backtalk, not even as Nick gets his own hands dirty and helps John prop the beam up. He remains silent as Nick fastens it in place with the only three-inch bolts left in America. It's a temporary solution, but Nick's proud of it anyway, and he steps back to admire the work. He has to admit, even if John is planning something, at least his plan involves actually being useful.

"That should work for now," he says. He scratches the back of his head as he regards John — what does he do with the guy now? It seems like a waste to just... jam him back up there. He's obviously capable of working, and that's what Nick said he'd do — break his back with manual labor, right?

"Well, now that we're done with that... I guess you can get to work shoveling the rest of this dirt outta here. It's been pretty low on the list, but it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"No, I suppose not."

"Hey now, what happened to just saying yes ?" Nick grins, feeling mean but still pretty funny for it. John scowls, but he's just not the right audience for the joke, so his opinion doesn't count.

" Yes, sir ," John replies. He's probably just being a dick, but the way he says it roils Nick's stomach on impact.

"Hey, none of that shit," Nick snaps, even though he probably should lean into the boss role while he can. "Just — don't be a fucking weirdo about this, okay?"

John frowns and doesn't respond. He doesn't need Nick to instruct him any further, returning to work with the shovel as though he's forgotten he ever stopped. Nick keeps an eye on him as he has lunch, waiting for John to drop the weird, quiet obedience act that he's been putting on. It has to be an act. John's just using their mercy for his own ends, using them for shelter and food while waiting for the opportunity to strike. To take the house and the guns, to take control of everything that he'd felt so obligated to eight years ago.

An hour goes by in silence. John works steadily, almost meditatively shoveling down to the floorboards, dumping shovelfuls of dirt out the nearest window to him. He's lost in his thoughts, so much so that he doesn't seem to notice as he clears out nearly half of the living room, the shovel scraping against wood like the beat of the drum that's distracting the poor motherfucker.

Eventually, Nick can't help but point out, "You don't talk as much as you used to."

John doesn't so much as look at him, which is more irritating than Nick wants to let on. What, is he supposed to shut up now, too? Forget that !

"I mean, you used to never shut the fuck up. Guess even you couldn't stand listening to yourself for eight years solid, huh?"

John grunts in response. He doesn't look so hot; his face is pale and drenched in sweat, and he seems to be relying on the shovel to steady himself. Nick squints, trying to figure out whether or not the guy is trying to pull a fast one on him — it's exactly the kind of thing Nick would do, if he were being held captive — but John doesn't seem to notice Nick's scrutiny at all. He seems miles away from the house, from himself.

Goddamn it. The more Nick watches, the less comfortable he becomes. "Alright, come on," Nick sighs, exasperation masking his discomfort at seeing John near-fainting. "That's enough for one day, now sit down before you fall down."

It's a toss-up which of those options John takes, but moments later he's flopped backward into the mound of dirt. He leaves streaks of mud across his face where he wipes away the sweat. Nick watches, waiting for the asshole to spring his trap, but John looks sincerely too beat up to try wrestling the gun away or making a break for it. His hair, thick with dust, clumps over his face, dropping into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to smooth it back.

To his personal horror, he finds himself offering John his canteen. He should leave John to drink his own spit with their fresh water supply as low as it is. It's what the man deserves. But they've wasted too much time and supplies on John to be stingy with the water now.

"Don't get too comfortable lying in the dirt," Nick points out, "I'm gonna put you back before Kim and Carmina get home."

John nods without complaint. He takes careful sips of water, like he's trying to mind how much he's taking, which is a fucking riot coming from the guy who did nothing but take, take, take for years.

"It's the nursery, isn't it?"

Nick stares down at the dirty bastard in confusion. "What?"

"The room," John repeats with a suspicious lack of irritation. "It was going to be the nursery."

Nick scowls. "Yeah," he says. "Not that it ever panned out."

John holds the canteen out for Nick to take back, which he does. "No," he admits, "It certainly did not."

"No thanks to you." Nick takes a thirsty swig of water. "None of you got a chance to raid our bunker, but there were a lot of other people who weren't so lucky. Lots of people didn't even have a house to hide in."

"Yes," John sighs, "I know."

The nerve John has to brush aside the damage he's done momentarily overwhelms Nick, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's chucking the canteen at John's head in a vicious game of dodge-ball that John just barely wins. "No, you don't know. You managed to find somewhere to survive for eight years, while good, honest people were left to rot away on the surface and suffer through nuclear winter because you burned down their houses, you stole their supplies, you ruined their lives! You destroyed everything before the police ever showed up! You sorry assholes kept talking about the Collapse while all of us were already living through it! Because of you ! You know ? Fuck you!"

Nick reaches his hand out to grab John, to — to strangle him, to shake him , anything to stop him from sitting there and staring cow-eyed up at him. Waiting for Nick to exact a physical price for all the anguish that he's caused, waiting for the inevitable retribution that he deserves.

But eight years is a long time to carry so much righteous anger. Nick must've set it down somewhere along the way; now that it's time to resume that bitter loathing, he finds himself coming up short. Honestly, he's too goddamn old for it. He's too tired. Eight years of fatherhood and living past the end of mankind has run the rage right out of him. The idea of expending that much effort just exhausts him. What would even be the point? John isn't even worth it.

"Just — get up," Nick sighs at last. "Kim'll be back in a while and I... don't want to look at you anymore."

John slumps into himself as he stands, shoulders caving in as he avoids looking higher than Nick's boots. He proceeds without complaint or comment up the stairs; despite that, Nick still braces himself for a surprise attack, his hand clinging to the holster. He stops at the doorway behind John, waiting for some trap to spring and feeling oddly put out when nothing happens.

"I'll bring you dinner later," Nick tells him. "From now on, you're only getting a second meal on days you work."

John nods in response, falling into his makeshift bed with as much grace as he had the dirt pile downstairs. Nick's not sure he's gonna be awake the next time he checks in, but that's probably for the best. Nick doesn't like watching the guy eat, and he hates having to interact with him.

When John fails to say anything, Nick uses his silence as an exit and quickly locks John away. He'll probably sleep until dinner, which means he'll spend all night muttering to himself again. That's just what Nick needs.

There's still time before Kim gets back with Carmina. Nick drags the dining table into the living room, taking a minute to marvel at the amount of dirt John managed to clear out. Maybe tomorrow, Kim can take Carmina on a hike or something so that he can have John do the rest of the room. Once the dirt's all cleared out, they'll be able to build proper doors for the back porch, instead of leaving it open to the elements and potential prison breaks. After that, who knows? Maybe they'll be able to string lights up in here like they did back at the Spread Eagle. They could actually find a use for the generator. Hurk was on the radio recently, boasting about party liquor and gasoline — maybe they could barter for fuel?

Thinking more than a year ahead is jumping the gun a little, especially considering they have to get through another winter without heat, but this is the first time Nick's let himself imagine that far. Kim is already prepping for next year, of course, but Nick's still a little stuck on bunker time, where everything felt like a tightrope walk to survive and keep sane. But now, well — there's floor space, and Nick's even stacked plates and silverware on the kitchen counter for dinner. It's progress that he can't miss, and for once he breathes a sigh of relief and actually feels relieved.

Kim and Carmina come back before dusk with three rabbits and, in Carmina's case, a turkey so big that it nearly drags on the ground as she carries it on her back. "Shot it herself," Kim tells him, dropping the rabbits on the table. She does it almost without a second thought, wrapping her arms around Nick before realizing, "Oh, the table's back!"

Nick grins. "Figured we could use the extra space. Look at you, kiddo!" Nick turns his attention to Carmina, who still has the turkey slung triumphantly over her shoulder. "That is one big bird."

"Yeah," she says, trying to look as casually confident as her mom. She can't help but brag, "It was coming right at us. I had to do something. "

"That's my girl," Nick says, "I need somebody to protect your mom whenever I'm not around."

"Hey," Kim protests, playfully shoving out of her supposedly loving husband's grasp, "I can protect myself, you two. Carmina, take that thing into the kitchen and start plucking."

Heaving a very exasperated sigh she must have lifted off of her dad, Carmina drags the limp poultry away. Kim watches her go with a satisfied smile, telling Nick, "She's got great eyesight. I didn't even notice it in the grass."

"Thank God. Can you imagine if she needed glasses out here? We would be royally screwed. So! What do you think?"

Kim looks back at the clear floor and the table with four legs on solid ground. "I admit, I'm impressed," she says. "I expected to come back to a funeral pyre. But look, you even got the support in!" She furrows her brows at him. "Did you have any trouble?"

"Nah. Actually, it was... uh, painfully easy. He didn't put up a fight or anything."

"Hmm."

Nick's not sure what Kim's thinking as she eyes the progress that's been made. Maybe she's wondering what John's endgame is, the same way Nick wonders. She's probably worrying about how to explain it to anyone who might ask about it — Grace, mostly, maybe Jerome, if he'd ever come out this way. Nick's sure he can just take credit and leave it at that, but maybe she's seeing some hidden angle that he hasn't caught on to yet?

"If we string some lights up in here," Kim points out thoughtfully, "We might actually be able to use the bottom floor, instead of camping outside all day."

"Hey," Nick laughs, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Am I supposed to pluck this whole thing myself ?" Carmina exclaims in horror from the kitchen.

"I'll be right there, honey," Nick calls, offering Kim a chair at the table. She takes it with a grateful smile, leaning into his hand as he briefly strokes her hair. "Not bad for a day's worth of work, huh?"

"Not bad," Kim agrees. Nick heads for the kitchen, unable to keep from humming some old-world song he can't remember the words to, happy to put aside his doubts about John for a couple of hours yet.

[get-your-fics]

Violent Ends - Chapter Nineteen

Red Lights

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dig.

Throw.

Dig.

Throw.

The sun was setting as I shoveled dirt on top of the freshly dug grave. It sunk below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood oranges and russet reds and royal purples. I had found a good spot in the back of the garden obscured by a rose bush and some lemongrass. Usually, the garden looked whimsical and full of life, but now everything looked so dark and bleak. It looked drained of color, like it had gone from technicolor to black and white. Even though it was the end of summer, I could swear there was a chill in the air that bit and nipped at my skin, like I was in the middle of a stark, barren winter. I could almost forget where I was and think I was in an empty graveyard in the dead of night.

Dig.

Throw.

Dig.

Throw.

I kept a steady rhythm as my hands worked. A burning simmer started in my spine and spread throughout my back. It ran through my limbs and reached all the way to the balls of my feet and tips of my fingers. It transformed into a dull ache over time and stung my nerve endings. My hands were rubbed raw and red, and my joints and bones and muscles screamed at me to stop, but I couldn’t. Not until this was over.

My shoulders hunched over as I stuck my shovel in the pile of damp earth next to the grave. I lifted it up and hauled it over my shoulder, launching it into the rectangular hole in the Earth. I could no longer see her face, but six feet below where I stood was a cold, dead body riddled with flies and worms and maggots that crawled all over her rotting, gray flesh and peeled back her blue-tinged skin. Her eyes would be open forever, but never seeing anything. Only black.

Dig.

Throw.

I smoothed over the top of the grave with the back of the steel shovel blade, sifting through the soil. Then, I threw the shovel down next to me and wiped the sweat that had gathered on my brow with the back of my hand. I settled my hands on my hips and stared down at the fresh patch of dirt surrounded by dewy grass at my feet. Maybe I’d plant a row of multicolored tulips there, or a blackberry bush for you, and no one would ever know.

I headed back inside, airing out my sweat soaked shirt that clung to my skin. My muddy shoes left a trail of footsteps on the hardwood floors in my wake, but I didn’t care. I’d clean it later. I came to my bedroom door and found it still closed, just as I had left it. I grabbed the handle and twisted it, pulling the door open.

The room was clean now. After hours of dousing the sheets in bleach and scrubbing the floors until my hands throbbed, the room looked like it always had, like nothing wicked or sinister had ever happened there. But I would always see the blood on the white sheets, the ruby red liquid that had painted the floors and coated our bodies in crimson. Something told me you always would too.

“There’s my pretty girl.” I smiled and stepped towards you, the floorboards creaking under my feet.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed with your legs dangling off of the side. You were fresh out of the shower, the blood long gone, and droplets of water dripped from the ends of your hair, hitting the white sheets. You wore a white eyelet dress that compliment your complexion perfectly. It showcased all of the scars on your arm, some old and some new, raised and red and standing out on your skin like brushstrokes on an otherwise blank canvas. You were my masterpiece, covered in blue and purple bruises, and I wanted to hang you up on a wall for everyone to see.

I rounded the bed and stopped right next to you. “How are you feeling?”

You didn’t seem to register my presence, even though I was inches from you, and my voice filled the silent room. You stared at the wall in front of you with droopy, unfocused eyes, your spine curved. I lifted my hand and gently placed it on your shoulder, almost hesitantly. Usually, you would flinch or wince when I touched you, but you didn’t react at all.

“I know what happened was... traumatizing,” I stumbled over my words, “but you understand why I did what I did, right?” I looked down at you and traced my finger along the line of your jaw. “She would’ve taken you away from me.”

Still nothing. It was like my words weren’t reaching your ears. I leaned forward and buried my nose in your hair. The smell of soap and green apple shampoo clung to you. I stepped back and retracted my hand from you. I tilted my head to the side, raking my gaze over your form.

“Take off your dress,” I commanded. Without a moment of hesitation, you gripped the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head. You wriggled out of it and laid it down on the bed next to you. Then you folded your hands in your lap, clad in only a white lace thong.

I walked over to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer. I took out the pocket knife from its usual place and pushed the drawer back in. I walked over to you, the soles of my solid shoes thunking against the wooden floors, and switched the blade out. I stopped in front of you, the blade glinting in the dim light. In one swift movement, I dragged it vertically down the skin of your stomach, creating just a deep enough incision for blood to seep out. It was about four inches long, and the crimson color of your blood stood out on your skin as it trickled down.

I shifted my gaze up to your face. There was no sign of a reaction, no scream, no gasp, not even a twitch. Nothing that showed me you had processed it all. Your eyes remained blank and glazed over, like you were lost in some sort of trance. Part of me desired to cut you again and see how much pain it would take to make you scream, to push you to the edge of death.

Anger bubbled inside of me, and I struck your face with my hand. The clip echoed in the room as your face turned to the side. You didn’t make a sound. “Say something!” I shouted, spit flying. I couldn’t tell whose face was redder, mine from rage, or yours from the blow I had just landed to your cheek.

You looked up at me at last, but it was like you weren’t really looking at me, but through me. “What do you want me to say?”

My mouth fell open, and I stumbled back a step. I drew in a breath. I had broken you. I had dreamed of breaking you for so long, of getting you to bend to my will and do my bidding, that now that I had it, it was bittersweet. I could no longer see you tremble with fear like I so loved to. No more passion, no more emotion. It’s like you were an empty husk, all the life sucked out of you. I couldn’t tell who I had truly killed: Grace, Brant, or you.

I heard a creak come from somewhere inside the manor, like a door swinging on its hinges, and my ears pricked up. “Nothing. I want you to say nothing.” I pointed to the dress on the bed, my eyes glued to the open doorway. “Put that on and stay here. Don’t go anywhere unless I tell you to.”

You started putting on your dress, and I moved towards the doorway. I stepped out into the hall, swiveling my head from side to side. I shifted the handle of the knife in my hand. Drops of blood ran down the blade and splattered on the floor in perfect, dime-sized, ruby red drops. Every cell in my body vibrated, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on edge. I was on high alert. I tiptoed into the foyer to find the double front doors wide open. The carved, oak wood around the lock was splintered, as if it had been forced open.

“Bruce.”

I spun around on my heel to see Alfred standing behind me. He was panting, his chest heaving up and down, and sweat slicked his skin. “Where is she?”

I stood tall, puffing out my chest. “Where is who?” I asked in a condescending tone.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You know who I’m talking about. I know you have her.”

“Well, then you’d know that having this discussion is pointless.” I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms.

His gaze flickered down to the knife in my hand, and he clenched his jaw. “Did you...” He couldn’t bring himself to voice the words out loud.

“Kill her?” I finished for him. He stared at me and exhaled. I scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I try to make it look like she went to Paris if I was just going to kill her?” I pushed off of the doorframe and swung the knife in my hand as I walked. “What a waste of time and effort.”

“I know you care for her, Bruce, and that scares you.” He stepped towards me. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but you’re hurting her.” “You say that like you think I don’t want that.” I smirked at him.

His jaw ticked. “Just show me where the girl is, and I’ll be on my way.”

“What, so you can rat on me to the cops?” I snickered. “No, thank you.” “There’s a reason I came here by myself, Bruce, otherwise I would’ve just called the GCPD a long time ago and let them handle it.”

“But you do want to take (Y/N) from me, and unfortunately, that I cannot allow.” I waved the knife in the air as I spoke. “You said it yourself: I care for her.”

“I’m not leaving without her, Bruce.” The look on his face was grim and serious. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.” “Whatever it takes to get me back on your leash, huh? I know that’s what this is all about.” I stopped in my tracks and spread my arms out wide. “You want to protect me, to control me, but I can’t be controlled anymore, Alfred. I’m unhinged, and there’s no going back.” I raised my hands in front of me. “Why don’t you stop trying to protect me and put your money where your mouth is?”

He shook his head solemnly. “I don’t want to fight you, Bruce.”

“Really? ‘Cause I do.” I slashed at him with my knife, but he caught my wrist. He twisted my arm in his grip at an uncomfortable angle until I had no choice but to release the handle of the knife. It clattered to the floor noisily. He stepped on it with his shoe and pushed it away. It skidded across the floor and hit a wall before coming to a rest.

He quirked a brow at me. “Then let’s make the fight fair.”

I glared at him and slammed my foot down on his. His hold on my arm loosened just enough for me to slip out of. I bent my elbow and shoved my forearm into his chest. He stumbled back, allowing enough distance between us. I swung my fist at him before he could catch his footing, but he raised his hand just in time to block me. I threw my other hand at him, and his arm shot out to catch it. He pushed me back with his hands on me before letting me go. I fell backwards until my back hit the wall. I lifted my head to see him striking up a fighting stance, beckoning me to come at him with his hands.

My hands curled into fists at my side. I hurled another fist at him with a cry of anguish. He stopped my offending fist inches before it could connect with his face, but I brought my foot up at the same time. I landed a solid kick to his stomach, taking him by surprise and knocking him back. He doubled over in pain. I grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted my leg to knee him in the chest, but he latched onto my thigh before I could.

He swept me off of my feet, and my back collided with the hardwood floor. I laid there for a moment, sucking in air, before placing my hands on either side of my head. I kipped up, kicking him twice in the chest before landing on my feet. He pulled his arm back, and before I could react, his fist slammed into the side of my head.

A sharp, buzzing noise filled my ears, and gray dots clouded over my peripheral vision. My teeth scraped against the inside of my cheek, cutting my flesh. I stumbled to the side and braced myself on the wall before I could completely collapse. I blinked rapidly and shook my head, clearing my vision. The noise faded away, and I focused on Alfred’s face in front of me. His eyes were wide, and his mouth formed a small ‘o’ shape, like he couldn’t really believe he had punched me.

I raised my hand and swiped my thumb at the corner of my mouth. I glanced down at the pad of my thumb to see a drop of scarlet blood there. I looked up at Alfred and grinned. I could feel blood flood the side of my mouth, staining my teeth, and trickle out of my mouth.

I came at him with a flurry of fists, my face contorted with anger. He blocked each one successfully, but I backed him up into the corner of the foyer. He caught each of my wrists and held them above me. He crashed his forehead against mine, and I was sent sliding across the hardwood. I landed on my side, my head spinning, and rolled over onto my back with a groan. I sat up on my elbows and clutched my throbbing head to see Alfred stalking towards me.

“(Y/N)!” I called out, crawling away from him. I reached for a vase of flowers on a nearby table and chucked it at him. He dodged it, and it splintered into a thousand ceramic pieces against the wall behind him. The wall was painted with dry soil, and a sad, wilted flower with a limp stem fell to the floor.

Alfred continued to draw closer and closer to me. “(Y/N), come here now!” I scooted backwards on the floor and grappled for a frame next. I briefly glanced at the photo. It was the picture me and my parents took in the garden on my seventh birthday, bright smiles lighting up all of our faces. I lobbed it at him with a yell, but he once again avoided my assault. The glass in the frame cracked as it hit the wall before dropping to the ground, shards of glass spilling across the floor.

My head bumped into the wall as I moved back as far as I possibly could. I looked up to see Alfred gaining on me, setting alarm bells off of in my head. I looked around for something else to throw to buy me time when I noticed the discarded pocket knife from earlier. I stretched my arms and fumbled for it. “(Y/N)!”

“Yes?”

I raised my head to see you standing in the archway leading to the hall opposite me. Your dress was back on, and a drop of blood ran down your leg. I scrambled to my feet just as Alfred came upon me. He extended a hand out to stop me, but I grabbed onto it, using his momentum to flip him over me and onto the floor behind me. He landed with a grunt, and I dashed over to where you were. I moved behind you and trapped your back flush against my chest with an arm around your waist.

Alfred slowly got to his feet only to see me holding the knife to your throat. “Don’t come any closer,” I warned.

His gaze switched back and forth between me and you, and he swallowed roughly. “You’re not going to hurt her, Bruce.” He shook his head.

I shifted my weight between my feet, fidgeting with the handle of the knife in my hand. You were still against me, like you were lost in some kind of dream, and I was surprised to find that I was the one shaking. “You’re right,” I breathed out after a while. “I’m not.”

The noise was barely audible at first, but I could feel it in my bones. The faint wail of police sirens could be heard in the distance, and it became louder and louder as it grew closer. I narrowed my eyes at Alfred. He had called for backup ahead of time.

Fuck. There was no way I would have time to take him down before the police showed up, let alone secure your safety. I grabbed the magnet hanging from the chain around my neck and touched it to the back of your collar. It gave way, and I tossed it aside. It fell to the floor with a metallic clang and landed face up so the light glinted off of the silver letters spelling ‘Mr. Wayne’s’ in all caps.

“Sorry, Alfred.” I kept the blade of the knife against your throat as I shuffled us over to the open doorway. “It’s been nice to catch up,” I stopped in the doorway and grinned at him, “but I’ve got to go.”

I walked backwards through the doorway and pulled you with me, never taking my eyes off of him for a second. When he was out of my line of sight, I moved the knife away from your throat and let go of you. I looked around for some way to get out of here quickly, and my gaze landed on Grace’s silver Porsche parked at the curb of the circular driveway. I ran towards it and reached for the handle of the door to the driver’s side. Please be unlocked, please be unlocked.

The door clicked open with a satisfying pop. Not only was it unlocked, but her keys laid haphazardly on the tan leather seat. Rich people truly are too careless and trusting. I looked back at you over my shoulder. You were standing idly in the driveway, the skirt of your dress and your hair whipping in the wind. I jabbed at the car with my thumb. “Get in the car!”

At my words, you came to life like some kind of robot. You walked around the car and got in on the passenger’s side. I picked up the keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. I slammed the door shut behind me and jammed the key into the ignition, revving the engine.

“Where are we going?” you asked. I looked over at you, but you faced forward, staring blankly out of the windshield.

The steady thrum of the engine filled the silence that fell over us. I adjusted the rearview mirror and saw the reflection of red and blue flashing lights behind me. I couldn’t go out the gate now or they would catch me. I needed some place close by and discreet, somewhere nobody else would be and nobody else knew about. I tapped my thumbs against the steering wheel. When realization dawned on me, I sat up straighter in my seat. I had almost forgotten what day it was.

“Hold on, gorgeous.” I spun the steering wheel, turning the car off of the path. “It’s about to get really bumpy.”

The car rocked as I drove over the curb. I slammed down on the gas pedal with my foot as I sped through the garden. The wheels of the Porsche ground up any flowers or bushes I drove over and tore up the earth. I maneuvered around trees and stone benches and fountains that blocked my path. When I spotted the back gate, I watched the red arrow on the gas meter tick higher and higher. I clenched my jaw as I ran straight into it at full force. There was a bit of resistance and the crunch of metal, but then the gates flew open and banged into the brick wall. I drove through it and pressed down on the brake before the car could go spiraling out of control.

The paved roads turned to dirt paths, the limestone walls of mansions into towering, striped, slender tree trunks, and the sirens faded into the distance. You were quiet next to me during the drive. You sat slumped in your seat, barely blinking, barely breathing, your lips parted. I wondered if I peeled back your skin and hair and bone and peered into your head, what I would find there. Would it just be black and white, fuzzy tv static? Or would I find myself staring into Grace’s cold, dead eyes?

I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My dark curls were disheveled, and faint bruises littered my skin. I had a scratch on my forehead, and blood stained the side of my mouth. My eyes looked impossibly dark, darker than they ever had before. They were like two dark holes burrowed deep into the earth, and if you fell into them, you would keep tumbling down, down, down, and never reach the bottom. I looked completely deranged and disturbed, like the mask of sanity I had worn for so long had disappeared, revealing the true me underneath.

I stopped driving when the hill got too steep to drive up any more. I kicked open the door and ran around to your side of the car. I wrenched open the door and pulled you out. I intertwined my fingers with yours and dragged you along behind me, our feet crunching the dry grass beneath us.

“Do you know where we are?” I asked, and you shook your head. “We’re at Mount Bristol. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but every year, my father and I would go camping here. We would come up here and place a rock on the top of the mountain. After he died, Alfred tried to keep up the tradition, but it just wasn’t the same. It felt forced.”

The sun was completely gone now and replaced by the moon in the sky. The stars twinkled up above, and everything around us was black. Tree branches seemed to come out of nowhere and scratch at our skin. Your bare feet were caked with mud, and I began to become plagued with exhaustion.

I was starting to think I couldn’t go on for much longer when the plane started to even out. The mountain sloped out as we came to the top, and I nearly bumped into the stack of rocks at the top, almost toppling it over. I stopped in my tracks and stared down at the tower of stones. They were large, flat, rounded rocks piled on top of each other, each one inscribed with the initials BW or TW.

I turned around and looked at you. You were slightly swaying on your feet, like there was a melody only you could hear playing in your head. “Truth is, I don’t know why I brought you up here, gorgeous.” I laughed slightly. “I’m running out of options. I don’t think there’s a way out.” I smiled sadly at you. “I think I’m out of control.”

Suddenly, the sound of sirens filled the air. It was deafening and vibrated the trees. It scared crows, and they squawked as they flew up into the open, night air. The trees around us were lit up in shadowy silhouettes by red and blue flashing lights. Obscured figures surrounded me on all sides, shoulders squared and guns drawn. I pulled you flush against me again and whipped out my pocket knife, holding it to your throat.

“GCPD!” a voice pierced the air, a voice that I had heard many times. Jim Gordon marched ahead of all the other cops, his pistol aimed at my head. “Drop your weapon!”

“One step closer, and she gets sliced open!” I threatened.

Jim halted and raised his hand, commanding all the other officers to do the same. “You don’t want to do this,” he said in his low, gruff voice.

“Is that all you got?” I scoffed, shifting the weight of the knife in my hand.

“Give it up, Bruce!” Harvey fell into step beside Jim. “It’s over! We’ve got you surrounded!”

“It’s not over until I say so!” I shouted.

“Come on, Bruce.” Jim stepped forward and lowered his gun. “You’re not going to hurt her, and you don’t want her to get hurt either. Just put down the knife and let her go.”

My smirk fell from my face, and my jaw clenched. My hand that was holding the knife was trembling. I looked down at you against me. You stood still, not even moving an inch, not a muscle. But it wasn’t out of fear; it was because you were unaware of everything around you.

A single tear escaped from the corner of my eye and slipped down my cheek. I guess it’s really over.

I took the knife away from your throat and pushed you away from me. “Fine.” I raised my hands with a huff. The knife slipped from my grip and fell to the forest floor. “Take me away, detective,” I taunted.

The second the knife was out of my hand, the officers descended on me like vultures on a carcass. An officer came up behind me and roughly jerked my hands behind my back. He slapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists and hauled me down the hill. He yanked on my arms until sharp jolts of pain shot through my limbs and pulled me in tow until my feet tripped over one another. He took me down to where a squad of cop cars were waiting for me. He crushed me against one of them, my cheek squished against the window.

“Hey, stop!” I protested. My voice came out mumbled and indiscernible against the glass. “Stop! Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law...” the officer continued to read my rights, his voice blaring directly in my ear. But I stopped listening as I saw you being led to one of the other cop cars.

A slew of officers were gathered around you, talking in soothing tones and asking you questions with pitiful looks on their faces. You didn’t say anything. You looked rattled, hugging the fleece blanket they had given you tighter around you. The bright light from the headlights lit up your form, making you look like a ghost. Whatever spell you had been under before was now broken.

The cop put a hand over my head as he shoved me into the back seat of the police car. I leaned my head against the window, my arms awkwardly crushed against the back of the carseat behind me. I stared at the blue and red flashing lights casting across the fogged up window. But mostly the red.

Mostly the red.

CHAPTER TWENTY