#copes with it the way he's always turned to cope with being left adrift. with being at. a loss you could say (is smote)

[pestilight]

[sits upright in bed as though waking from some prophesied dream] rau.ru as flavour text

[datawyrms]

Not As Such

For Phic Fight 2021! Using @dp-marvel94 ‘s lovely prompt. On AO3

Something was different with him. It had been for a while, and to his horror, Danny Fenton thinks he might have finally pinpointed it. He's felt off, strange, like his memories, his life, even his own body was foreign to him because....he might not be Danny Fenton at all.

It was the photographs that ruined his life. They were a reminder of some choking wrongness curled up in his chest, solidified it so it got harder and harder to dismiss. The occasional twitches of discomfort that rolled beneath his skin was ignorable, just a weird side effect of being half ghost. Rubbing at his arm, scratching at his hair and running his tongue over his teeth to count them over and over again were just signs of stress. Anxious people didn’t like to keep still, Jazz said all of the extra responsibly just weighed on him that way. Of course a stressed out teenager might be a bit jumpy, or grit and grind at the meaty thing in his mouth that he needed to speak. He always stopped once the foul coppery taint of blood warned him. A damaged tongue could still taste, and the dull pain didn’t really matter. No one else noticed. It was just a way to cope. Totally normal. Even if he felt somehow, it wasn’t. Enough to know not to bring it up. Sam and Tucker would be concerned about the flakes of skin scratched from his ears, or hair tugged free of his scalp, because he lost parts of himself. Bleeding into his own mouth was fine, he didn’t lose anything. The logic was shaky, but he had better things to worry about. Grades, fighting ghosts, hanging out with friends. The little times where he was a cold outsider stuck in the wrong shape always passed. He just had to pull it together and relax.

The photographs always unsettled him. He was not in the photographs. He never remembered any of the times or circumstances that they were taken. He was in them, Danny Fenton absolutely was in those photographs, but the blue eyes always seemed to be judging him. Accusing him. Asking ‘when was this taken, how did you feel’. New photos didn’t do this. The new photos were of him. He compared some from slightly before the accident to now, trying to see the difference, but he never could find a flaw. He used to be able to play it off, think it was just a strange intrusive thought until he actually really looked at the family photo album. Not a single one was familiar. The only ones he recognized, felt attached to were ones his family had mentioned, or talked about before. Second hand knowledge that ‘felt’ right in the moment, but seemed more like a disconnected farce when he tried so hard to find something familiar. A fishing trip, a picnic, hell he’d take a ‘first day of school’ photo at this point, but none of them triggered a familiar sensation or memory. Danny Fenton had been there, he’s there in the photo, so why can’t he feel anything about them? Why can’t he recall something that prompted the picture, what had been happening without guessing from what he can see in that little framed moment of the past? ‘Oh do you remember this?’ was a question he ignored until they clarified, explained more about the photograph so she could nod and say ‘yes’. Even if the answer was always ‘no’. The events sounded right, felt right when a living person told him, but left on his own with only a silent image? Nothing. He’d sound ridiculous if he said that out loud. So what if his memory wasn’t the greatest? He was still Danny. Their friend.

Who didn’t remember grade school. Who didn’t remember their history, their friendship. Of course he remembered how they met. After Sam and Tucker had spoken about it. He was lucky they talked so much, were open and caring while he was disoriented and ‘weird’. From the accident. Of course he was a bit slow on the uptake after playing human electric cable. He only noticed now how he never corrected them, or remembered something different. Tucker would often go ‘oh this reminds me of x’, and he never said that. As nothing really triggered that feeling, the recognition that was fun or amusing to his friends. Ignoring how ‘bad’ his memory was was taking a toll. Sliding a nail under the curve of his ear to scratch at the uneven mess of broken skin helped. He didn’t leave it alone long enough for it to properly heal, the different texture somewhat soothing. The layers and bumps were 'wrong', but only because he'd damaged it when it was whole and flat. It was still his ear, even if the outside was smooth as he hid the self inflicted damage. He was still Danny, just a bit different where no one could see. He had to be, he insisted. Fallen skin, a bit of blood, it wasn’t a big deal.

The photos knew he was a liar. More and more ended up face down, or ‘went missing’. He didn’t want to see the Danny Fenton that wasn’t him. He remembered his friends, he loved his parents (even if he didn’t love being threatened, but nobody’s perfect), and cared about doing well in school. He was still Danny Fenton. Not a ghost just...going along with what he heard and following social norms. You needed to do well in school to get a good job. What kind of job? Should he care? He didn’t know yet, he was young, that was fine. He always liked space, he didn’t just make that up. Didn’t just see how his room was decorated and accepted those were his interests. He didn’t like fighting ghosts as an escape from Danny Fenton’s life. He fought them to protect people, to make up for letting them out in the first place. The tension that eased in his ghost form had nothing to do with being a ‘different’ person. It had nothing to do with being a different face, one with no expectations set that he had not created himself. Danny Phantom was him, and always had been. Always would be. His gloves weren’t a problem, he never needed to scratch or pull or dig. He didn’t need to breathe, so he didn’t choke on the hissing voice in his mind that insisted he was an imposter.

Running away from a problem wasn’t too hard. Just exhausting. He had always been bad at math. Except Danny Fenton had not been bad at math. He had always done fairly well in school, As across the board, like Jazz. Fentons did not get C minuses. It was just being tired, just the ghost fighting that kept him from applying himself like before. There were hundreds of excuses, and everyone bought them. They made far more sense than something as ridiculous as ‘someone else is pretending to be Danny’. Except he spent time staring at questions, reading books that ‘built on fundamentals’ and still struggled. Fundamentals he had, had demonstrated he had, but had lost. Forget solving for ‘x’, he could barely muddle through a times table. ‘You should know this from previous years’ always made him ill. He didn’t know. He didn’t remember it. Danny Fenton knew, because he was the one who lived it. Denying it wasn’t working. Staring at himself in a mirror, trying to find some sign or quirk that felt familiar and purely human only made his veins hum in a furious frustration. Everything comforting, everything familiar was something true of his ghost form. A reflection, an inverted copy of a face that was his; but wasn’t. He should be alarmed, or concerned his anger was strong enough to turn those blue eyes green, but it only felt right that they did. Unnatural, glowing, inhuman. His real eyes to show his own emotion.

Ectoplasm and post human consciousness. That’s what ghosts were, according to his-yes his parents. So he should be fully, properly dead. Danny Fenton could be who he was, while alive. That would be easier. It didn’t explain why he felt nothing familiar about himself. If he was a post human version, why wasn’t there any of the human? Other than the beating heart, the heaving lungs and the smothering, crushing expectation of an identity he’d been expected to assume. One that he liked, at first until the cracks widened. As his discomfort grew and the evidence started making the cracks into chasms. The obvious flaws that everyone glossed over but clung to him like a leech, until there were so many that simply existing was too much to tolerate. He denied it so long that he no longer had a choice in the matter.

He genuinely loved Sam and Tucker, his best friends that always stuck by him, ghost troubles or not. The first people he’d seen, worried about him and trying to calm him from the jarring sensation of existing. So he had to be Danny Fenton. That’s who they thought they were talking to, thought they were helping out, and he’d latched on to that. He’d been confused, adrift and they’d given him a role to fill and a group to belong to. He had so many reasons to admire and like them, separate from who Danny was before. Things he had witnessed first hand, Sam’s willingness to go to bat for those who were pushed aside or considered inferior. How Tucker would throw aside his personal dislike and fears if someone he cared about was in danger, that he could and would put aside even his own jealousy just to be a pleasant person to spend time with. He didn’t need to know about before, or why they chose to be Danny’s friends. They would see it differently. That he had deceived them, pretended to be their friend- even if he truly thought of them as friends. Would they think he was a mockery of Danny Fenton? A creature that wanted to cause them pain and anguish by deception? He couldn’t tell them Danny Fenton was dead. He had to keep being who they expected him to be. They expected Danny to be in this body, and he was stuck in it. A part of it, but not the part his human friends would like. It would be so much easier if they suspected something was wrong. Then they might understand that he hadn’t meant to be lying. That he really did think he was the boy he saw in the mirror, at first.

Jazz noticed more. She knew Danny best, to be fair. Siblings, always under the same roof. Someone who always helped out when going to his parents wasn’t an option. Yet she mostly noticed his fidgeting, not the cause of it. Her ‘dorky little brother’. The one who liked to make spaceship models, but hadn’t so much as looked at one to wistfully hope for it. Not since the accident. They seemed fiddly and complicated, not an enjoyable way to pass the time. Still, that was chalked up to being a teenager with different priorities. Friends and school came first. She’d cover for him, try and help with ghost hunting even though she had avoided it before and generally was a helpful shoulder to lean on when hearing how much pain their parents wanted ghosts to be in. She would be crushed to know her brother, her first brother, the real one was gone. She might even deny it, assure him that it was all in his head, that she loved him even if on some days he just felt like a freak. That he was fine as he was. So he had to keep being Danny Fenton for her too. Even if the taste of blood wasn’t enough to make the unbearable itch stop anymore, that he’d taken to biting his knuckles until flesh broke. The red, thin blood was enough. Human, he just had to be a certain human. It wasn’t that hard. His body knew how to bleed.

Why had he let himself find the answer? Why did he look at those photos enough that he noticed the common thread of where his memory issues stopped? An answer he couldn’t use, couldn’t act on was worse than the baffling twinges and strange thoughts that boiled to the surface of his mind unbidden. Why did he feel heavy and weighed down in his own body, why did the sound of his heart jar him awake in the night like it was some foreign sound? Because it wasn’t his. He felt like he didn’t fit because he wasn’t meant to fit. He was ectoplasm twisted and shoved in an emptied vessel, a monster squirming in a meat puppet that was his- but also not. If he had just ignored it, kept taking it as just ‘ghost powers and humans don’t mix well’ he wouldn’t be sitting here, desperately wishing he could claw free of himself- of Danny without ruining everything for everyone he cared about. One desperate thought was that he was a ghost, fully and entirely. A spirit in a bad place at a bad time, just unlucky. That he could figure out a way to separate himself from this human life he’d stolen by mistake. Except he had no memory of being a ghost either. The Ghost Zone was new and terrifying territory. He genuinely struggled to grasp how to use his powers, and didn’t have a helpful family like he did as a human, people that could remind him how legs worked. Didn’t have people he could mimic and follow enough that it felt natural after the fog of confusion after his accident faded. If he’d woken up on the other side, would he still be like this? Thinking he was a ghost, had always been one until suddenly gaining a weird human side? The Ghost Catcher didn’t work because there was no Danny Fenton to split from. It just skewed aspects of himself. The thing left behind would be no more Fenton than he was, and he doubted either would live long. He was still half human, in body at least. Just not the human they expected, or wanted. A new thing, created in that portal with feet in two worlds he didn’t understand. He didn’t want to be a new thing, he wanted to be the old thing, but he hated being the old thing. He had to keep everyone happy, he couldn’t branch out or act differently, that would be wrong. He owed it to Danny Fenton to live like he would have. He stole his life and gave his family and friends a false hope, he could hardly take it back now. Realized too late, far too late. So he pretended. Noticed how he could pick things up of how he should be when people talked, felt the sickly squirm inside as he lied about remembering, or nodded along. How he could almost sense how people were feeling and follow their lead. A ghost thing? A human thing? A freak thing? He didn’t know how, he just knew once he was alone he wanted to throttle that feeling until it died, and only another pain seemed to lessen it. It was fine. Chapped lips were common enough, it wasn’t a sign that he kept biting them open. Humans didn’t heal that quickly.

 He wasn’t fine. He’d never be fine. Everyone he loved would despise him if he ever slipped up, if they knew the truth. His mom and dad were proof of it. They hated him, completely and utterly. Which they should, he’d stolen their son’s body. Not that they knew that. They didn’t really know they had another son. They made the portal. They looked after him, fed him, said they loved him while he was Danny Fenton. He couldn’t exist without them, it still felt right to call them Mom and Dad, even if he wasn’t a proper Fenton. Maybe on some level they did know. Maybe that’s why they hated Danny Phantom so much, recognized him as the thing that set off their devices and weaponry. Phantom was him, had never been something before he existed. He could feel comfortable in that form, and somehow they could feel it and despised him for it. The monster pretending to be their child daring to feel unrestricted and at ease. Jazz would call him delusional. She would probably be right, if he was Danny Fenton. Which he wasn’t. That was the entire problem. Just crack a smile, remember what he was meant to like and forget it. He owes them. Everything. He can handle it, even if he wants to grab his friends by the shoulders and tell them to really look at him, and stop seeing who they want to see. Who he wants them to see; for their own sake. He half expects the lie curled under his rib cage to fling it open one day in a gory splatter of ‘justice’, but it is content to stay still and remind him with every stolen breath who he isn’t.

 Jazz catches him ‘managing’. She thinks the wounds are for a fight, and he goes along with it. Danny Fenton wasn’t some animal that needed to claw out of his own skin to repent for the constant lies he tells the people he loves. All he needs to do is go along, like always. Maybe fight a bit sloppier next time, take a few more blows. He just wants to move on, live as himself, but can’t. He never can. He probably isn’t all that different from Danny Fenton anyway, but unless they know it isn’t genuine. There’s always the chance he’s acting, pretending to be a dead kid. He can’t tell what feelings are his if he learned how he felt about things second hand, if he hadn’t been doing anything but trying to ‘get back to normal’. Was his ‘favourite food’ his favourite because he genuinely enjoyed the taste? Or was it because someone told him it was, so he deluded himself into agreeing? He slips up.

“I’m so tired of lying, Jazz.”

His sister is thrilled that he’s opened up, even as he bites his lip and wishes he could take those words back. Can he spin it back into a joke, or something less important?

“Danny, I know you’re worried. If it’s stressing you out this much, you should tell them.” Her hand on his shoulder is warm, her tone is encouraging.

She means Mom and Dad. She thinks he means the other secret. The secret that isn't. Yet telling one is impossible. It’s too much as it is. Adding them to the list of those tricked about his nature- it makes the blood in his body feel like phlegm. “I can’t, Jazz. They hate me, remember?” Playing it off, but he’s slipping again. He knows the ‘truth’. They accept Danny Fenton. Which is why they can’t know.

“Danny, you know they don’t hate you. They just need to understand they’re wrong about you.” A weary smile, her hand still in place. “The sooner they know, the sooner they’ll stop saying those kinds of things. And the sooner I can tell them off properly!”

“No- Jazz, they hate me. They’re pretty loud about that.” He doesn’t know why he’s trying to convince her. He just needs to back away, say he’ll think about it and leave it. Now he can’t with how she crouches down a little to look into his eyes, instead of his red and angry knuckles.

“They love you just as much. Hiding from them isn’t helping you, you’re jumpier than a jackrabbit every day. I don’t want you here while I’m off at University feeling like everyone in the house hates you, okay?”

She’s begging for him to let her help. Wanting what’s best for him. As she doesn’t know she isn’t talking to her brother of fourteen years. His tongue bleeds, but the guilt doesn’t lessen. “There’s nothing I can tell them.” She doesn't catch how his words slur slightly.

“What? Danny, just tell them you’re their son. I’ll help you, oaky? You’ll feel so much better not needing to hide anymore.”

He probably would feel better. Every bit of him longed for it, but knew he couldn’t in equal measure. “I can’t tell them that.” He doesn’t want to tell that lie, to double down on it. Their absolute hatred of him is warranted- he can’t steal that from them with another lie.

She rolls her eyes. Like he’s being a fool. “Of course you can! If the lies are stressing you out, you can tell them the truth.”

She doesn’t understand. It’s easier to slip away by going intangible so she can’t keep her hand on his shoulder. The comfort feels unearned. “They wouldn’t like the truth.” No one would. Besides him. He’d be free of the burden of his ‘human form’. The body he took to exist with. Not that he’d probably last long once Mom and Dad knew. They’d properly hate him in both forms, not just the one he was comfortable in.

“They’d be thrilled to know you’re a ghost hunter like them, you know that. Seriously, what’s wrong? You look pale.”

“I’m always pale.” He can’t answer that question. He’s wrong, everything’s wrong. He wants to spit, but he has to choke the blood down instead. She was just trying to help. Stay calm, stop talking.

“No, this is little brother is being weird pale. Did something happen? Why do you think they’ll hate you now?”

She won’t believe him anyway. “Uh. Being told how much they hate Danny Phantom will do that to a guy.”

“All the more reason to make them stop, you just need to tell them Fenton and Phantom are the same person.”

“And what if we weren't?” He isn’t thinking. He’s covering his mouth, too late for it to matter. Yet so many muscles relax once it’s out. The weight on his back shrugged off by even posing the question. A question he shouldn't be posing, one she’ll disregard, but the moment of freedom is nice.

Her eyes are too serious as she looks at him, a quick scan up and down. To check if he’s joking? Does she see how ‘the truth set him free’ there? A corny saying, but he can admit it feels better than the snarling smothering force jabbing at his heart. “But you are?”

Not a statement. A question. All he has to do is laugh and lie again. So why- “No. I don’t think I am.”

[themissingmarvel]

Kind Regards, Detective [Part 8]

(I am going to prompt this with first, an apology for how long it’s been. I blame Animal Crossing as well as the apocalypse. That said, and this is a TW/CW there is a major death. So be advised.)

CATCH UP: [Part 1] // [Part 2] // [Drabble] // [Part 3] // [Part 4] // [Drabble 2] // [Part 5] // [Part 6] // [Part 7]

Pairing: Detective Loki x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Language, descriptions of violence, major character death

They didn’t fall asleep right away. Which made sense on many levels. She was still shaken and he was still quite taken with the woman in his arms, who he had dreamed of namelessly for so long. She was already a dream. But that was dangerous, and he knew it.

She told him stories of training in the bureau, and what she had encountered. Being a woman and an agent was never easy. He told her stories about when he started off as a beat cop and his first time arresting someone back when he worked in Philadelphia. He talked about having seen so much and knowing what he did, he wanted to bring his work to an area that didn’t always get attention. That needed good cops. Conyers had been that place.

Her words were shaky when she discussed the loss of her sister, and that was what the CD had been in reference to. David had lost so much in his life so young he supposed he didn’t really understand that kind of pain the way he wanted to. He hadn’t ever loved something like that before. He had felt adrift, a ship without an anchor. Love was a memory to him and he dreamed of it sometimes so hard he could taste it. 

When they did finally fall asleep, David had buried himself against her and they had managed to look disgustingly adorable in a way neither would ever admit to, even in a court of law. Y/N had prided herself on her ability to keep work separate. It helped that at least once a month she’d spend a couple days out of town. Sometimes longer. Meant she had good excuses for staying settled. David had no such excuse save for his own emotional damage as a child and teen. 

Her phone was what stirred her from sleep, sleep that rarely came so deeply. The phone was by her bed, the issued FBI one she was sure was being tracked but didn’t much care. Breaking away from the warm embrace of the man who had no business being as wonderful as he was, she fumbled for it before answering, not registering the emergency ring, “Agent Y/L/N. Yes, that’s what I said. Wait, what?” 

Loki had stirred when she woke, though more so as he watched her suddenly sit up, pushing back her hair that had become quite a mess. He was almost hurt he didn’t get a chance to see her as she woke. A soft waking. Not this.

Already she was on her feet, “No. That’s incorrect. I’m still in New York, the drive was a nightmare so I decided to stay at a hotel and- it doesn’t matter. Check my phone records, I never-!”

She was silent, David sitting up as he watched her, a frantic look suddenly dissipating from her delicate features, her skin pale, eyes wide, looking like a deer in headlights. So far he had found that answering the phone was not ending well for either of them.

He was adjusting his own hair, standing and going for his shirt and belt, watching as she pulled the phone away to look at the screen. 

By now she had adjusted to this sort of new normal. Henry Best was not a shy man and she suspected that for a long time he had been killing people. For whatever reason, it had escalated the past few months and she was certain when they looked at patterns statewide, they would find a broader, less direct pattern. No roses, but perhaps notes. Ones discarded. A disappearance and a body found days or weeks later would be easily dismissed by an overworked department. 

Closing her eyes tightly, she took a breath before lifting the phone back to her ear, “When was he found? Yeah, check the hotel records I don’t give a fuck. You think I seriously killed my own coworker?! Tell Kendrick to call me himself, then!” She pulled the phone back and hung it up.

It was six in the morning, and she supposed the few hours of sleep they had gotten was a blessing, but one she would regret. She would speak at the funeral later and try not to loudly blame herself, but it would be hard not to. She hadn’t pulled the trigger but she had left a loaded gun on the table just the same. She had let David in and in turn let other parts of herself go.

David was quiet before he spoke, “What happened?”

What a stupid question. It was met by a look of anger he didn’t recognize immediately but knew as rage. It was a powerful kind of rage that clouded judgment and made people do stupid things. He hoped it was the kind of rage Y/N could reign in and use as fuel but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know enough. He knew fragments and pieces and he hoped she could keep herself together. Keller Dover had let that rage nearly destroy him and almost got himself killed. It was personal.

“Adrian is dead. They found his body in the parking lot of an empty office building, two shots to the chest. They found texts on his phone from me, though we both know it wasn’t. It was ‘me’, asking to meet him with important information I was ‘too scared’ to speak over the phone. Adrian died alone, bleeding to death in a parking lot because of me.” 

Her face was stoic, eyes cold and echoing of something akin to heartbreak. She didn’t love Adrian. Not really. But she liked him. She liked how he flirted and made her feel cute, how he called her ‘ladybug’ and would grin even through the phone. Even when he was such a fucking asshole, blowing off her requests for meeting up or talking about his dates… she knew. He wasn’t a bad man, he was kind of a dick, but he sure as hell didn’t deserve to die. But she had killed him, hadn’t she? Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger but she left the gun on the table.

When her sister died, long ago, rage had taken the place of sadness and grief. She had felt anger like no other that the world would have reached out and taken her sister from her. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. Sadness was so hard to manage but rage and anger was always so much more reasonable, in an odd way. Sadness you had to cope with but rage you could channel elsewhere. It also made you stupid as hell. 

Loki was walking to where Y/N was, reaching for her arm before she snatched it away, “Hey, this isn’t your fault, we both know-”

“But it is!” She stared at him, eyes wide and deadly cool, “It is my fault, David. I thought that this,” she gestured between the two of them, “was a good idea. And it wasn’t. Henry got my phone credentials somehow and he got to Adrian.”

David stepped back, absorbing the blow that hit him right in the chest. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but when a wounded cat is cornered and injured it will always lash out, even at what it loves the most. She was defending herself. Somewhere he knew that, in the same way he knew he would be doing the same, were he in her position. But he allowed it to sink, instead stepping away and getting himself dressed.

He was cautious as he watched her solemnly get dressed, do her hair as best she could before silently stepping into the bathroom to use the crappy-but-acceptable toothbrush and toothpaste provided. Her brain was trying to process what just happened, but so was David’s. He was reeling from the pain of being told he was a mistake, and because he knew that she didn’t mean it. He hoped she didn’t. He felt responsible as well, that he had distracted her from the case. Perhaps, he thought, it might give him clarity to have the step back that she didn’t. 

If Henry had reached out to Adrian, it was because he knew a few things. First, he knew that Adrian provided Y/N with information frequently enough that he had access to quite a bit of data. He probably knew more than he even realized he knew, and he was a risk. Also, Henry knew that Adrian trusted Y/N completely. Enough that he’d simply drive in the middle of the night to meet up with her over a simple text. But doesn’t the FBI train better?

Suddenly it was David working like a profiler, and perhaps it was the brain of the woman he had slept next to that was rubbing off on him. 

It didn’t make sense that Adrian would just trust a text message from Y/N, did it? 

Looking down at his own phone, he scanned through a few missed calls and voicemails, a text or two from guys at the precinct. Opening his work mail, he noted a few important forensic items and tabbed them for later. One that stood out was the email that the PAM shots had come in.

When Y/N came out she was silent, her words feeling like pain, should she utter them. Instead, she grabbed her things, hardly looking at David as she felt the weight of the boulder she had decided to shoulder pressing down on her before breathing out the words, “Let’s go.”

___

The drive itself hadn’t taken long, all things considered. Y/N had insisted she drive her own car, the reliable car that felt reliably foreign, making her feel like an alien in a world she was supposed to be part of. Adrian didn’t deserve to die. Arguably, most folks didn’t, really. He was a good guy, though. He did the stuff you were supposed to do. Being an asshole wasn’t a reason to off someone and yet Henry (and she was sure it was Henry) had chosen him specifically. Whether or not it was because he ‘knew’ something, it was calculated. Gunshots, however, meant this was not as planned as he had wanted it to be. Something had been off. Emotions had been involved. This had been a crime of passion and not a single note was left behind. Not a single rose.

He wasn’t the pattern, though. So it made sense.

Pulling up to the precinct, she got out and made her way to the door, aware of Detective Loki only steps behind her, protective in a way he didn’t like, even for himself. Henry was bold, however. Further forensics on the phone had shown Y/N’s phone had been cloned, of course. She supposed handing the man her jacket in his office where he had defense level technology hadn’t been her smartest move. 

She had to play chess and make him think she was still playing checkers.

“Agent? This was delivered about an hour ago, one of the DC Agents dropped it himself. Credentials checked out. It’s for you.” A young man was behind the precinct desk, looking a little tired but otherwise unbothered, handing her a small package. She was curious, though not concerned this time, able to spot the small sticker on the bottom left of a glittering ladybug. 

Taking the box she glanced at David and nodded her head towards the long hallway that led towards the interrogation rooms. She was silent, moving like a whisper over the ugly rug in the dingy department that desperately needed an upgrade. Opening the door to the other side of the one-way mirror, she removed her jacket and her phone, David following suit. It was eerie, how silent she was, even her movements noiseless as she fiddled with the microphone settings and turned off all recording devices. She went so far as to power them off entirely, making the room dark. 

Shutting the door, the young woman gently opened the box and withdrew a sleek, silver Samsung Galaxy, definitely not government issue. Squinting, she pressed the power button and turned it on, the phone booting up with no problem, the background a picture of a ladybug. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes and smirk through the pain, “Subtle, as always.”

Sitting down, David took a seat by her, watching as the phone appeared to begin on its own, the woman taking the cue to prop it up and sit back, the two close by once more as they watched a video begin.

“I know. This isn’t subtle, right? I mean, if you’re watching it then it’s not supposed to be. After what Henry did, I didn’t want you getting another package and being scared again.” 

It was Adrian, his face, brown scruff over his handsome features, sharp jawline and broad shoulders visible, stunning hazel eyes that were arguably more green than hazel visible. His hair was dark brown as well, normally gelled down and styled, though a bit more tussled now. He was sitting in his apartment, what looked to be his apartment. Pictures of his family were behind him and he was sitting on his couch, beige… funny the things we choose to see.

“He texted me tonight. I mean, you did, from what police records will show, but it’s him. He’s gotta think I’m some next-level idiot, you know? He tried to get your tone down but he can’t get that icy exterior quite right,” he smirked, looking into the camera, Y/N’s eyes softened as she knew she was watching the final moments of a man’s life. You don’t turn away from something like that.

“It’s my fault… I’m sorry.” She whispered as she watched the video, her body caving in on itself as she felt herself tense.

“And before you apologize, don’t! Hey, for all I know, things turned out just fine and you’re gonna make fun of me for this video and I’ll get the credit for catching The Black Rose! I won’t let you live it down,” he smirked.

Tears burned at her eyes, holding a hand over her mouth to stop herself from speaking again, almost wounded by how eerie it was how well he knew her. It fucking hurt.

“I can’t call you on your phone because it’ll route to his. He has authority over it by now, so don’t trust it, whatever you read on it. It’s useless. I used this because I knew I could jailbreak it and install the firmware to keep him out. But yeah, this’ll be pretty useless too if he gets wind of it.

“Anyway. He wants to meet me. I figure if I can get some recordings of him in the parking lot, maybe clone his phone myself without him knowing, maybe I can get something off him for you. If not, if you’re watching this and feeling like shit… it means it’s a good thing I sent the phone. Because if you’re watching this, much like those tropes I know you hate, then I’m dead, Ladybug. And I’m sorry for that one. But it sure as hell isn’t your responsibility and you need to know I’m doing this because I chose to. You’ve always been the brave one, Y/N. I’ve watched you take hits from assholes, get threatened, travel across the country, work yourself through hell on earth… you’re brave. You’re good at your job. And you always deserved better than me. Doesn’t make much sense to tell you I always loved you, so I won’t. But I’m doing this not for you, but because of you. Catch the asshole.”

The video closed, another taking its place, this one far grainier and from within a spot on the dash of Adrian’s car. It was a shitty camera, one that would be found, quite obviously, and that was broadcasting a recording. Later they’d find out not even Henry could trace the broadcast, but Y/N knew. David knew. Both knew as they sat in the dark interview room in the Conyers precinct.

The audio was muffled and quiet, which made sense. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. But it showed Adrian getting out of the car, jacket on, walking over with his hands up. He was speaking, softly, and staying still as another man entered view.

Henry.

He had his hands in his pockets, though he was visible. His head. Face. Hair. Unmistakably Henry Best. It was like watching a horror movie, though, and she hadn’t even realized that David had wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled himself to her, ready to stop the video at any moment. 

Shouts were exchanged suddenly, Henry barking at Adrian who stepped back, his hands still up, shaking his head and looking almost quizzical as he tilted his head to the side, “-her…-?” It was barely audible, though Henry’s face contorted into anger, rage, pulling a gun out of his pocket suddenly and screaming, “You could never understand my love for her!”  

One shot. Two shots. Three shots. 

Each made Y/N jump, tears in her eyes as she watched her friend, one of her closest friends, the man she trusted, shot dead in front of her, the feed suddenly cutting out. 

The video closed, leaving only the phone with its basic desktop icons before them, Y/N reaching out and gently picking up the phone, “You fucking idiot, Adrian.” Tears were falling down her cheeks, not that she cared. And even Adrian’s promise that his death was not on her was not enough. The guilt was tremendous and suddenly she felt like she was the one speeding down the highway and popping a tire. She felt everything spinning out of control and she wondered if this was the same kind of end her sister had met. Chaos. Loss. Helplessness. Blame. 

It was the icon in the bottom of the screen, however, that snapped her back, looking down at the icon that was only black but was titled all she needed:

“EVIDENCE”. 

His last gift was not a video of his death, but rather, Adrian had ensured, was a gift of life and a promise of revenge against the man who had done so much. And, perhaps, a warning of something more sinister.

(Tagging: @escapingthoughtsandsecrets​ @is-it-madness​ @detecellie​ @doritosandavocados​ @oscarflysaac​ @peccobagnaia​ @miss-missing-patd​ @hockeyandheroes​ )

[uraichievents]

UraIchi PC4 2019 Masterlist

Here’s a list of all the works submitted for PC4! I’ve ordered them in by prompt number under each work type, and it looks like we came pretty close to finishing the whole table! Thank you to everyone who participated this year~

FANFICS

Third Eye Blind by DevinePhoenix [#02]

Long before Kisuke was blinded by Askin, his eyes had already been damaged.

Patchwork Soldier by DevinePhoenix [#02]

When they wake up, they will have to deal with what their decisions have wrought. He will have to cope with his injuries and Kisuke will have to cope with his scars and guilt. But they still have time before that morning of uncertainty. In the dusty twilight of the Soul King’s realm, they could rest together and dream of a better ending.

Death Gods by Chaos_Greymistchild [#03]

AU in which Kisuke is still a mad scientist with only slightly more morals than the rest of them, but Ichigo is a vampire/death-dealer/human hybrid, a legal executioner, and (still) the world’s most recent supernatural anomaly.

The long avaited encounter by SueGra [#04]

Kurosaki Ichigo left Karakura after he lost his power. Urahara Kisuke listened to Isshin and he broke up with Ichigo. Somebody killed the rogue shinigami and his partners. Urahara went after the person who killed them and he was surprised. Who was it?

Wrong Side of Reality by Starrie_Wolf [#06]

If there was one thing that every invader of Soul Society did wrong, it was that each and every one of them measured one's power by the strength of their reiatsu alone. And every single one of them failed, because they did not understand that to be truly powerful, one must first have the Means to ensure their plans succeed.

He, who has been watching from the shadows for a thousand years, refuses to make the same mistake.

By Invitation Only by FeelingFredly [#10]

“No weapons are allowed past this point.  Please move forward to the weapons check and place them in the tagged locker.  You will be given the code to retrieve them when you leave.”

Ichigo turned on his heel as if to follow the robot’s directive, only to stop and spin back, trench knife in one hand and katana in the other, the smooth swing of the blades separating the brassneck’s head from his body.

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing over the sparking remains, “but I refuse to make Aizen-sama’s acquaintance so underdressed.”

Kisuke snorted in his ear.  “No one is there to hear your dramatics, Kurosaki-kun.”

Ichigo kicked the head to one side, like a soccer ball. “You know that you’re the only audience I need, Kisuke."

stay with me (until the sun rises) by Fox_the_Hermit [#12]

Ichigo is friends with a great deal of supernatural entities. The one monster under every bed in town is his favourite, though.

these dreams like ashes float away by howls [#12]

Ever since Ichigo refused to leave something well enough alone, a shadow man would visit him once, or twice, a month. (What he never realized was that there was more going on in those moments than the shadow man would reveal. For now, at least. He could never refuse Ichigo for long.)

Gambit without Guarantee by Starrie_Wolf [#18]

How did everything go so wrong so quickly?

new life, same shit by Chaos_Greymistchild [#19]

Not all knowledge is gained through the Gate of Truth. Not all reincarnates are born with their memories. Ichigo’s not sure how comfortable he is with this knowledge.

Arsenic by FeelingFredly [#20]

He was poison and he'd accepted that fact. Now if only everybody else would.

Police Tricycle (or: it’s not a buddy cop if I’m the third wheel, says Rukia) by Chaos_Greymistchild [#21]

Ichigo chases Szayelaporro Gantz down the highway in a high-speed car chase with a grenade launcher cameo. That’s it. That’s the fic.

Winds of Change (Tempest) by Sky_King [#24]

When the war is over and Ichigo has won, fate will come back to get her due.

Ichigo gambled and gave everything away in exchange for power, and finally the price paid has to be claimed.

(When the war is over, Kisuke finds himself adrift, too guilty to live, too guilty to die. He carries on, fueled by that single promise, trying to find a reason for being.And when he does, he'd sooner kill the Soul King himself than let it disappear, no matter the cost.)

Whip It Good by FeelingFredly [#25]

You didn't live a life like Kisuke's without developing a few interesting preferences, but he knew they weren't for everyone, and really, his relationship with Ichigo was more than he could have ever asked for--loving and supportive in ways he still wasn't sure he deserved. It was just very vanilla. Which was fine. Really.

So why he was "just visiting" at his old BDSM club?

The very bad, terrible, no good first few days of Junior SID Agent Dokugamine Riruka by Starrie_Wolf [#27]

Sometimes, Dokugamine Riruka wishes she could go back to her 22-year-old self and tell her to choose another department, any other department, she’s got the grades to take her pick.

Berry Nice by Chaos_Greymistchild [#28]

“Can I kiss you?"

“If you don’t,” Kisuke said with remarkable control, “I think I might do something regrettable.”

“Okay.”

Calling You (Maybe) by EternalEclipse [#29]

Ichigo never answers his phone, and Kisuke always does.

building a future (and tearing down the past) by EternalEclipse [#30]

At first, Ichigo had just been an invention of Kisuke's, nothing more than a gear to be moved. A pawn. It was only natural that after the war, Kisuke left him to his own devices--they'd won, which was the best he could ask for. As it turns out, once he starts making things for Ichigo instead of just countering Aizen, it's a hard habit to break. By the end of it, he won't even want to.

Or, five times Kisuke made things with Ichigo in mind, and one time Ichigo asked him to destroy something.

Companionship (Stay with Me) by Nikolaila [#31]

People are people, even in space. Sometimes the required conversations in relationships are hard to have but necessary to hold.

Tsuki no Tsuppane by Silmariën (Starrie_Wolf), Starrie_Wolf [#32]

They have scarcely begun to unravel the complex web of Aizen no Sōsuke's treason when Kisuke is made aware of another layer to the conspiracy, one that threatens to expose all the secrets he has not yet decided if he will share with Ichigo-no-mikoto.

Few enough people are willing to accept onmyōji, but even fewer will be willing to accept that their lover is not even human.

Work/Date Balance by Starrie_Wolf [#33]

Kisuke doesn't seem to really grasp the meaning of a date, but it's okay, Ichigo loves him anyway.

“So… are you doing your usual fainting damsel imitation, or shall I take care of it?”

(Interlude during their vacation in London.)

a breath of fresh air by Fox_the_Hermit [#34]

Ichigo refuses to let Kisuke win yet another round of the "I took a cute photo of you and I'll use it to fund my experiments" game. Mostly on principle.

The world is changing by Starrie_Wolf [#35]

They’ve been doing this for so long that Kisuke has no idea how to wake up in a world where he doesn’t need to prioritise the Hōgyoku over his family.

Interlude: the day after Aizen's defeat.

Accidental Pokèmon Acquisition by EternalEclipse [#36]

Ichigo had never wanted to be a pokèmon trainer. To be flat honest, the ghosts kept him busy enough. But when Monferno fell into his life with a burst of laughter and trouble, Ichigo is drawn into a side of the pokèmon world he didn't even know existed.

Or the one where there are both ghosts and pokèmon, the Gotei 13 is a government organization with as many checks and balances as ever, and Ichigo will do whatever it takes to keep his own safe.

Feeling Horny by Silmariën (Starrie_Wolf), Starrie_Wolf [#36]

When Urahara shoved Ichigo to Hirako to learn how to control his inner Hollow, Ichigo thought it meant Urahara wasn’t Hollowfied.

He was wrong.

the fear is eating you alive / so I'll be your reason, I'll be your shelter by Chaos_Greymistchild [#37]

Sometimes, Kisuke doesn’t remember where he is, or who he is in his own personal timeline. Sometimes, Ichigo is more Hollow and instinct than human. But that’s okay.

one-sided understanding by Angst_Distribution_Service (Fox_the_Hermit) [#37]

suspended animation (patiently waiting for the end) by Chaos_Greymistchild [#38]

Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck is new on the starship Zangetsu, piloted by Captain Kurosaki alongside his AI Urahara Kisuke, who seems to have an… unprecedented freedom on board the ship, if she was being entirely honest.

Freedom worth Fighting (for) by Starrie_Wolf [#39]

Things have a way of coming full circle...

You Haven't Lost Me by FeelingFredly [#40]

Ichigo has moved on. It doesn't matter if his Shinigami powers are gone--he's a weapon, and there was always a market for that skill set. Currently that skill set was being tasked to collect the oyabun's past due tribute from a troublesome shopkeeper.

Troublesome shopkeeper. No... it couldn't be.

What they don't understand by Starrie_Wolf [#42]

Ichigo comes back from winter break with bruises he can't explain and a significant other who looks to be much older than him.

His classmate thinks she's put two and two together.

With Affection by wynnebat [#44]

"Yoruichi asked me if I had any family," Ichigo says. His gaze rests on the courtyard and squad buildings across from them while Kisuke cannot look away. Ichigo's voice is even, but Kisuke knows better than that. Ichigo adds, wryly, "I told her all I needed was you."

painting in blood by Chaos_Greymistchild [#45]

“It’ll be fine.”

He hopes that that proves true.

You Don't Have a Soul, You Are a Soul (You Have a Body) by FeelingFredly [#47]

Kisuke has a disregard for his own safety a mile wide and it's enough to drive Ichigo mad. This time he finds the shopkeeper unconscious but not alone, and the woman with him has some very interesting things to say.

Thunder For Bells In This Church Of Two by Chaos_Greymistchild [#48]

“[Resonance for a human is] total, complete, irreversible blending” -- Bell Tolls, esama

For the shinigami, it is... less so.

wear your soul (outside your body) by Fox_the_Hermit [#48]

Ichigo has no idea how he ended up with someone so brilliant. Kisuke has no idea how he got lucky enough to end up with one of the best people he's ever met.

your heart doesn't beat (let me teach it to) by Fox_the_Hermit [#52]

Kisuke understands that his time to go has come. It's time to accept that he can't hang around forever. His dear friend Ichigo has agreed to help him with finding what is needed to help him move onwards, whatever that really means. (Except he’s not ready to let go.)

roots in my lungs, blooms on my tongue by Chaos_Greymistchild [#55]

Astilbes, dahlias, and Queen Anne’s Lace. Patience, devotion, sanctuary.

Will you become my... by SueGra [#57]

The war with Ywhach has ended two years ago. Everybody enjoying the peace. Suddenly all captains get an invitation to the Shiba compound because there is a new clan head? Who is she/he?

Happily Ever After by Starrie_Wolf [#58]

Ichigo wasn't expecting a happily ever after, but it seems like he could find a little peace at last.

Omega as Fish Oil by EternalEclipse [#59]

Yeah, Ichigo's an omega. He's fine with it, especially since some of the instincts that come along with it are useful for protecting his own. What he's not fine with are a bunch of shinigami noble knotheads deciding that he's up for the taking because of it. Luckily, he's got a Kisuke to help him set them straight.

You are my Sanity by OrangeTeaMoon [#60]

And so, it had taken Urahara Kisuke nearly 4 months, 1 week, 3 days and a direct run-in with an absolutely impossible apparition of Kurosaki Ichigo to realize that he had lost his mind.

reach the epilogue (and then take it from the top again) by Fox_the_Hermit [#61]

Ichigo's alive and healthy and whole. But too many people aren't (friends, family, the one single crush that hasn't had the time to get anywhere), and this isn't an epilogue to his story that's worth living in. He'd rather rewrite the whole damn thing from scratch.

Only the truth you want to see by Starrie_Wolf [#61]

Growing up as the daughter of a police detective father and a novelist mother, it’s no small wonder that Rika chose to study English Literature in university. The class is unavoidably small – even for Todai,finding students interested in pursuing a degree in the classics of a foreign country is a difficult matter.

Which makes all her classmates so unavoidably interesting.

Especially that Kurosaki Ichigo.

I'm a Certified Genius, I Swear by Chaos_Greymistchild [#64]

Kisuke’s not quite sure why he keeps getting gifts from the Shiba Clan Head, Shiba Ichigo, but— Hiyori please stop laughing please.

-0-

FANART

UraIchi PC4 Prompt #32 - Magic AU / Mythology AU / Fantasy AU by @ananfer [#32]

UraIchi PC4 Prompt #48 - Daemons AU by @junoagriffin [#48]

[rimmers-swimming-certificate]

Red Dwarf Fanfic - Comatose (7/?)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6

Lister’s guitar stood resting against the wall, in the same place it had been yesterday, and the day before. The same place he had left it the last time he had played it, months ago, when he could still touch it.

Sitting on his bunk with his legs dangling over the side, Lister moved his hands as though he was playing, humming a tune to himself as he imagined the feel of the guitar in his hands; the weight of it, the feel of the smooth, painted wood, the pressure of the strings on his fingertips as he pressed the frets and strummed to coax music from the instrument.

He stopped. It was no good. Imagining it would just never be the same.

Lister sighed deeply, pulled his legs back up onto the bed, and lay down. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. Thinking at a time like this would be a bad idea. The best thing he could do when he felt himself sinking into despair was pick up his guitar and let himself get lost in the music.

He had never been prone to depression before he had been marooned in deep space. He was fully aware that he’d had his issues, but that had never been one of them. Since Holly had brought him out of stasis, however, he had found himself sinking into low moods with alarming regularity, even before he had been whacked over the head and woken up as a hologram.

He supposed it made sense. After all, he was the last human being alive, he was cast adrift in deep space, with very little hope of ever seeing Earth again, and he hadn’t touched a woman in three million years. Honestly, he supposed it was a miracle that he wasn’t a blubbering wreck rocking back and forth in the corner.

Most of the time, he could ignore the feeling; push it into the back of his mind and act like it wasn’t there. He could drown it out by making himself smile, finding the joy in what little he did have, and forcing himself not to think about what he had lost. If he pretended hard enough most of the time, it would go away.

But not always, and once he began to sink, he would often sink hard, and it would take time and effort to drag himself back up. And that was what he felt beginning to happen now.

It had been brewing for some time in the back of his mind, and right now, he just didn’t have the mental energy to fight it off. He couldn’t retreat into his usual coping strategies. He had always used his guitar to stave off the worst of the loneliness, his guitar, and a good curry, and now he couldn’t even touch either.

“Lister, falling back into old habits, I see,” Rimmer announced as he strode purposefully into the living quarters they shared. “Honestly, if I’d known that you were going to spend all your time lying around in bed, I’d have suggested we leave you comatose.”

Lister cracked open an eye and glared at Rimmer through it. “Very funny.”

Rimmer shook his head. “It wasn’t a joke,” he said.

Lister rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Leave me alone, Rimmer. I’m not in the mood.”

Rimmer frowned at him as though he was some disgusting piece of gum he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Not in the mood for what, exactly?”

“This conversation, for a start,” Lister said. He wasn’t in the mood for anything, he wasn't in the mood to have to deal with Rimmer, he wasn’t in the mood to talk, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood to have to pretend like he was okay. Not now, when he was feeling less okay than he had in a long time.

Rimmer nodded. He looked himself over in the mirror, brushed down imaginary dust from his clothing, then turned back to Lister. “You need to get up,” he said.

Lister continued to stare at the ceiling. “I’m tired,” he said.

“No, you’re not. Well, you shouldn’t be, anyway. You only woke up a couple of hours ago.”

“No I didn’t,” Lister argued. He frowned, and turned to address a question out into the centre of the room. “Hey, Holly, what time is it?”

Holly’s face appeared on the viewscreen. “About 4.15pm,” she said. “Why?”

Lister turned back to Rimmer triumphantly. “See. I woke up three hours ago.”

“Oh, well done,” Rimmer congratulated him in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what have you done with your day so far? Achieved a lot, I imagine. Have you even got out of bed yet?”

“Yes!” Lister told him. Truthfully, as it happened. “I mean, only for a bit. I popped down to the medical unit to check on my body.”

Rimmer nodded. “How’s it doing?”

“Same.” Lister turned his head to look at Rimmer as he spoke to him. “Kryten says he's going to keep me informed, but I guess there’s nothing to tell, because so far he’s barely said a word about it.”

“No news is good news,” Rimmer said.

Lister shrugged. He wasn’t so sure about that, but he supposed that at least it wasn’t bad news.

“I don’t understand why you keep going down there.” Rimmer told him. “Surely it can’t be fun, seeing yourself hooked up to all those machines.”

“It’s not.”

“And it’s not like it’s helping anything. It isn’t like visiting a sick relative so they think you care. There’s nobody in there to score points with.”

Lister stared, disbelieving. “That’s the only reason you’d visit someone in the hospital then, is it? Point scoring? So they ‘think you care’? You genuinely wouldn’t give a damn if someone you cared about was sick in hospital?”

Rimmer shrugged. “It would depend on the person,” he said.

“So did you never go visit me then, before you hologrammed me? You never once swung by to check up on me?”

Rimmer folded his arms and looked away. “Once or twice. I didn’t make a habit of it.”

“No? Because Kryten told me you were there every day.”

Rimmer shrugged dismissively and suddenly appeared very interested in the wall at the other side of the room. “Yes, exactly. Once or twice a day. That’s what I meant.”

“Because you didn’t want to make a habit of it.”

The hologram scowled, then folded his arms. “Even comatose, Lister, you’re a better conversationalist than the Cat. Anyway, forget that, we were talking about you, not me.”

Technically, no. Lister had been trying to have a lie down on his bed. Rimmer was the one trying to talk.

“You’ve got to get up, Lister. Stop moping around and get on with your life. Otherwise what was the point in us giving you this hologram body, if all you’re going to do is lie in bed?”

Lister eyed him suspiciously. “Did Kryten put you up to this?” he asked.

“Kryten? No. Why?”

Lister shook his head. “No reason. So, go on then, what do you suggest I do? I mean, my options are a bit limited right now, if you didn’t notice.”

Rimmer gave him a look. “Yes, thank you. I’m well aware of the limitations of being a hologram Lister. I’ve been dealing with them for a good few years now. Maybe it’s time you stopped moping around and listened to me. You might even find that I have some vague idea what I’m talking about.”

Lister sighed.

“There’s loads you could be doing,” Rimmer assured him.

“Like?”

“Like? I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

Lister shook his head. He wanted to be left in peace. He had been perfectly fine moping around in bed. “Leave me alone, Rimmer,” he said. “I’m okay, honestly. I don’t need your help.”

Rimmer shrugged, and turned to leave. For one, brief, moment, he thought the hologram was going to do as he was asked. Facing the door, Rimmer stopped, and then turned back. “No,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this. Get up.”

“Rimmer…”

“Lister, you know the ship’s computer can take control of a hologram’s body, right? Holly did it to me, when he decided to play that ridiculous practical joke and pretended to be Queeg. It’s not very nice, and if you don’t want to learn that first hand, I suggest you get out of bed.”

Lister sat up and stared at him in horror. “You wouldn’t,” he said.

Rimmer stared back at him wordlessly. His expression said ‘try me’.”

Lister felt his mouth go dry as he imagined a total loss of control. A familiar feeling of claustrophobia began to grip him at the mere thought of it, but that would be so much worse than being trapped in a small space. To be trapped within his own body, unable to move except at the will of another person. He felt himself begin to break out in a cold sweat, and his heart, or the simulation of his heart, pounded in his chest.

“Don’t.” He slid down from his bunk. “Please don’t, Rimmer. Don’t you dare.”

“I wouldn’t.” Rimmer told him. He was staring at him in horror. “I… really I wouldn’t. What do you take me for? It was a joke.”

A joke. A joke? Lister took a deep breath and sat down so heavily on Rimmer’s bunk that for a moment he thought he was going to fall through it. He ran a hand over his face, then wiped it on his trousers. It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Rimmer told him. “I didn’t mean to make you… whatever it is that’s happening. What is happening, by the way?”

Lister leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, he sucked in a slow deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips as he tried to chase away the rising panic. “Claustrophobic,” he said.

“Oh. Well I wasn’t going to make you lock yourself in a box or anything.”

Lister forced himself to look up and glared at Rimmer, who genuinely looked worried about what was happening. Lister took another slow, deep breath. “You’re a total smeg head, Rimmer. You know that, right?”

Rimmer sat down on the bed next to him. “It’s been pointed out to me,” he said. “On occasion.”

Lister nodded.

“In my defence though, I expected you to just threaten me back, or… I don’t know, maybe call my bluff or something.”

Lister sucked in and blew out another breath. “Rimmer, if you ever so much as think a threat like that again…”

Rimmer nodded. “I won’t,” he promised. “Got you out of bed though.”

“Yeah.” Lister sat up straight and rubbed a hand over his face again. He could still feel himself shaking, but he trusted that Rimmer wasn’t really going to follow through on the threat. He turned to look at Rimmer. “Any particular reason for that? Or have you just decided you don’t like people to be laying down?”

“I wanted to try to cheer you up,” Rimmer told him. “I smegged that one up, didn’t I?”

Lister couldn’t help it, he laughed at that. “Great job,” he said.

Without thinking, he touched Rimmer. A quick hand on his shoulder as he moved to get up, and he froze.

With his hand still on Rimmer’s shoulder, he stared at it in fascination. “Rimmer…” he began, but broke off.

Rimmer too, was sitting completely still, staring at Lister’s hand. His eyes were wide, and his expression impossible to read.

Lister squeezed, just slightly, pressing his fingers into Rimmer’s shoulder. He could feel the flesh and the bone beneath. It felt so real. Warm; human. The unexpectedness of it took his breath away.

Rimmer raised his other hand slowly. Hesitantly, he touched the back of Lister's hand. Through the fingerless leather gloves he was wearing, the touch felt feather-light, moving slowly across the back of his hand, tracing the shape of it. Lister watched, wanting him to press harder, but not wanting to break the spell of the moment by speaking.

And then, it was over. As quickly as if a switch had been pressed, Rimmer snatched back his hand, got to his feet, and bolted from the room.

“Rimmer, wait a minute!”

Lister was too late, Rimmer was already gone and by the time Lister had reached the door, he had disappeared around a corner.

“Smeg.”

He went back into the room and sat back down on the bed. He looked at his hand. He could feel the ghost of the unexpected touch. He touched his own hand, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t speak to that need for contact inside of him; a need that until that moment, he hadn’t even recognised.

He sighed. He didn’t get it, Rimmer had seemed to like it at first. Until he hadn’t. Lister flexed his fingers and shook his hand as though he could shake off the memory of the touch, but it was impossible.

Finally, he got to his feet. “Holly, do you know where Rimmer’s gone?” he asked.

(next)

[ironwroughtowl]

Words to The Void #1

A Bird (Trigger Warning : Cutting)

    A girl, young and depressed, stares through her kitchen window. Past it is a bird staring back, its eyes black as its feathers. Its gaze is unshifting, focused. She wonders what brought it to the long-dead tree in the yard. What possesses it to stare into the kitchen with unflinching fervor. Its head tilts; eyes blink.

    “Alyssa, are you going to do your homework or are you going to stare outside all day?” When had her mother slipped into the kitchen to berate her? Her mother hated her--the girl’s therapist had discussed this with her before, it was her paranoia plucking at her that brought up such thoughts. Her family doesn’t hate her; her mother just wants her to move at a reasonable pace; her newly-online classes have been pushing Lys down and pushing the girl hard is the only way she knows how to help, it’s what her mother did to her and today she’s a district manager., so her daughter could be more.

    “I’m trying, it’s just slow going right now.” The bird’s wings flap in a sudden display as it alights itself on a lower branch; it shifts under the new weight. Perhaps the bird announces its intentions to move with wild flapping. Is that the way with all birds, or is it specific to the one outside the girl’s kitchen window? She doesn’t know enough about birds to wager.

    “If you keep going this slow you’ll be in college forever.” Twenty-four and she is still in college; a girl living with her parents, a girl because “Women don’t live with their parents.” All her friends had graduated--one with a masters.The bird let out a call, and its wings beat the air; it blinks once and tilts its head twice. “I understand that the way things have worked out you’re going to be in college for another two years, do you really want to add more time to that?” The girl knows full-well that she needs to get out of school. She wants to live like her friends, making money and living, instead of stockpiling debt and failing. She’s a failure--pluck. She’s pathetic--pluck, pluck. She makes note of the negative thoughts, but does nothing to stop or refute them.

    She’s been falling, falling, falling for ages. The bird, it drops itself another branch; its wings fluttering. The thought of the bird knowing her flits across her mind. Birds don’t know people--one never knows, it might. It could know her, know her thoughts--it’s just paranoia she reminds herself, pluck-plucking at the edges of her mind. “-a! Alyssa! Are you even listening to me?” Her mother’s voice cuts through her dissociation--being aware of your problems is the first step, she’s never goes beyond that. Her mother’s voice is raised, she’s angry, she hates the girl--pluck, pluck, pluck. Her mother knows how she feels about raised voices.

    “I’ll get on it, I just gotta find the motivation…” She could feel what little energy she had falling off the end of the sentence. The bird wails beyond the window.

    “Why don’t you write about the god-damned raven or whatever it is you’ve been staring at?” It is an idea for a better writer. She lacks the skill to form a story around a raven; that’s what she tells herself. Everything she writes is trash--pluck.

    The window shook as the bird flew into it, and its sudden screech rakes across the two’s ears. Perhaps it wants the world to stop like Lys did; just for a moment, or altogether--suicide, another non-option according to her therapist. The bird squawks angrily and takes up the lowest branch on the tree. Lys had killed the thing years ago. That’s all she does, damage everything and everyone she touches--a maladaptive thought plucking at her psyche.

    “I’m going out there to chase the damned thing off, maybe you’ll get some work done then. And, I want to hear about what assignments you’ve completed before dinner.” What assignment could she do? They all feel like they’re too much, each one looming up off the screen until they tower over her as a crippling cold fills her veins. She selects a task at random and begins the painful process of her assignments, turning them in late or not at all--pluck, pluck, pluck. The anxiety is a physical pain, tracing its way through her body. Outside the bird is suddenly ariot, screaming from the air at her broom-wielding mother.

    A thought presents itself to her: can birds feel powerful? It seems to Lys to be a powerful being. It defies the will of her well-meaning, heavy-handed mother; it teases her with lazy motions. Could she be like the bird--out of the question.

    “What’s your mother up to out there, Boss?” She hates the terminology, she was no one’s boss, not even her own. Her father had slipped into the kitchen at some point, and now leans against the counter, coffee in hand, watching the scene past the pane.

    “She thinks the bird is distracting me.” He gives a knowing look; she doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s obvious. She always looks for distractions, anything to keep her mind from truly settling down to think.

    “Let’s make a deal, I’ll bring Deena in and keep her off your back while you do what you can, okay? We love you, and want the best for you, we just have different ideas of what we need to do to help.” He winks and heads for the foyer, coffee left on the counter, still steaming. Soon enough he’s outside, exchanging muddled and heated words. They must be talking about her, how disappointing she is--pluck. The bird finds itself on the highest branch amidst the argument, forgotten and victorious.

    The night was unproductive: Lys hadn’t completed a single task. She’d done half of one and a quarter of another--a failure through and through. Her dreams had been the peak of the night and early morning: she’d spent a night cuddled with her favorite person, and incomparable feeling of comfort and safety; she’d spent the day out in a mist, fog rolling through the neighborhood until she was soaked to the core; she’d spent a morning drawing the things in her head, each wilder than the last--now she’s awake and all of it was just a memory. All the good behind each dream was nearly lost, faint as the ink of the dying pen in her hand--she has to write something down.

    Her therapist, a charming and blunt man, told her to write. Write out her feelings--numb, depression, anger, anxious, paranoid, repeat. Write out her days--she barely remembers them. Her time isn’t important enough to become lasting memory. She thinks about the bird.

    ‘The Bird’

    It was only two words on a random page of her notebook, but she’d written them. It was the one thing she remembers from the day before; the raven and its defiance, its power. She only feels powerful when in the throes of self-harm. Her goto ritual: cutting.

    It’s the sight of blood swelling up from the slits in her arm, then watching as it trickles away like a tributary to some other imaginary state on her skin. The sting as the blade passes over her arm, then again as she puts cloth to the wound; watching the red spread through the fabric. She is the one in control of the process, the cycle. She controls the affliction and healing of each wound. She controls the scars and how nicely they heal. She is at the helm of her boat in those moments, adrift in a sea of delirious euphoria. She has branched out into other forms of punishment, but none of them gives near the same rush.

    Her window to the shadowed wood shutters with a sudden tap, tap, tapping--pluck, pluck, pluck; who is watching?

    The raven sits, its wings tucked, on her sill. Its head tilts; its maw filling the air with a shrill shriek. She asks herself again if the bird knows her; knows what she does; knows what she thinks--pluck. It is an absurd concept, one her therapist would say to not entertain. But, what if?

    What could she write about a bird? The bird, she corrects herself. One that thinks and knows a person. Her therapist has recommended fictional writing as an exercise, a productive way to dissociate and retreat from the world. It shrieks again.

    “Do you need something?” She’s talking to a bird, she must be mad. The bird replies with two tilts and a blink. She decides to ignore the raven for the moment and write about it instead.

    The Bird

    A girl, young and depressed, stares through her kitchen window. Past it is a bird staring back, its eyes black as its feathers. Its gaze is unshifting, focused. She wonders what brought it to the long-dead tree in the yard. What possesses it to stare into the kitchen with unflinching fervor. Its head tilts; eyes blink.

    “What now Lys?” The bird shrieks again, slapping its wings against the window. “Are you not satisfied with the direction I’m taking it already? Is it wrong to insert yourself into a story? How do you even know where I’m taking it anyway?” Knock, knock, knocking.

    “Alyssa, you were supposed to be up and ready for breakfast an hour ago, or did you forget our plans? You’re under my roof, and you know I expect you to follow my schedule.” Not everyone lives in a constant rush, and not everyone finds the rush useful. Her mother doesn’t know another way of living, she has to keep moving, keep doing; and anyone around her has to conform to that standard or be yelled at. Lys’ therapist has told her that some people are just like that, “It’s out of your control, you can try and deal with it or go with the flow. I know you tend to crumble to pressure, but you can say no. You can always say no.” She never says ‘no’ and fawns instead--it’s her goto coping mechanism; giving in and letting people have their way with her when she doesn’t know how to handle a situation or wants one to end.

    “I’ll see you later, bird.” It dips its head before bringing it back up. Did it nod? Its head dips against, this time accompanied by a soft call. Does the bird know her? Know her secrets? Her shames? Pluck, pluck, pluck.

    It was going to upset her mother further, but Lys decides to take a long, hot shower anyway. Her parents could wait another hour for breakfast. She picks out her self-dubbed washed-outfit; a pastel pink shirt, faded-faded jeans, and a washed out jacket. It’s her favorite. One of the few remnants from the best times of her life. She has a bag somewhere to go with it, maybe she would grab that too. She has nowhere to go, but that isn’t the point. It provides her a sense of joy; on top of the outfit, it could be a good day.

    She grabs her phone and slips into the hallway, making her way to the bathroom on the balls of her feet. All things quiet; her music stood in stark contrast. Suddenly the back half of the house fills with sound. The pouring water does little to stifle Glass Animals’ “Waterfalls Coming Out Your Mouth,”

    Drip drop

    Gimme what you got

    Your talk

    Is incredible

    So, so, so unusual,

    You taste like surfing videos

    It was all so incredibly loud. She relishes it.

    She never knows how much time passes in the shower. She was only ever aware of a few things: how each song feels and sounds, how the water feels against her skin, and how the heat wraps around her. The bird’s screech comes from above; a shadow settling above the skylight. She feels a drop of its power, nothing can touch her in the embrace of her playlists.The rest of her morning routine passes in a daze. Finally, she waits, staring at the door to reality, and the door stares back.

    Reality is outside the bathroom door, and the whole world waits to crush her, to destroy her--pluck, pluck. But, she has to go about existing; her mother would chastise her until she did. The door opens and she steps back into the usual oppressiveness of her day to day life; ice already creeping into her blood. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to experience the comments her mother was waiting to unleash.

    “There’s the girl of the hour. Do you have any idea how much money you cost us with your showers?” Her mother is right, she was a waste of a time and money--pluck. Just another maladaptive thought she does nothing about. “Maybe we should start making you pay rent. You do plenty to drive up the bills.” It’s not Lys’ fault she’s depressed, that she suffers from a personality disorder; Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s crippling. Dissociating in the shower, getting lost in videos and shows, chewing through data when she’s not at home; coping mechanism on coping mechanism to distract and balance her wild emotions. Each one annoys her mother, making the woman hate her, resent her--pluck, pluck, pluck. Her father was opening his mouth to speak when, past the window pane, the bird wails as it roosts on its dead tree. When did it become the bird’s? “Sometimes I wish you believed in guns, James. Maybe it’s death would spur the girl.” The bird screeches in response.

    “It’s a bird, mom.” She never knows whether her mother is being serious or sarcastic, she uses the same voice regardless. Lys wouldn’t put it past her mother to do something so drastic, however, she’s resorted to violence to enforce her rules before.

    “Did you actually do anything last night?” She had tried, she was always trying. It’s so hard. It shouldn’t be so hard to function, she’s a middle class white girl. But, everything feels like a monumental task of late.

    “I got about half of my Systems program done.”

    “Wonderful, a whole half. And it only took you a whole day.” Her father relegates himself to silence. Being contrary wouldn’t do any good. Instead he saves his comments for a private sit down with his daughter--if he remembers to try and calm her down. Lys’ self-hatred swells, paralyzing her while anxiety sinks its claws into her chest. She’s panicking, the world tipping--the bird interjects the moment, slamming talons first into the window as it screams. Lys wants its power. She wants to scream at her mother, scream that she’s doing her best, that most people with BPD have trouble with schooling, that she’s doing good by even continuing her education in the first place. She hates her mother.

    She doesn’t hate her mother, it’s just a momentary thought. A flitting emotion.

    “I’m tired of this bird. James, take care of the dishes. I’m heading out. And you, Alyssa, should have an assignment done before I get home, because I’m tired of this mopey shit. It’s been weeks since that boy dropped you out of his life. You need to get over it.”

    She couldn’t focus. Her mother hates her--pluck. She has to hate her--pluck, pluck. Why else would she be so hurtful--pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck. Her book slams into the wall opposite her. She’s standing from her desk, chair on the floor. When had she done all that? Her breathing is hard, labored. She needs to do something, anything.

    “Power.” The raven screeches from above.

    Power is what she wants, and what she needs to feel it. Power requires a blade and a bathroom. She slips down the hall for a second time, taking a razor in hand and preps herself. She takes a few deep breaths and braces for it. She was suddenly so incredibly powerful, the world before her tilting wildly. There was a lot of blood, more blood than she’s used to. What had she done?

    The bird screams above her. Its form blocking the afternoon light from above. The world seems hazy. The bird wails, its form shuddering as its wings flitter in the night. How long had she been out. Looking around, the bathroom is the same except for the red tiling. Her arm is open, wider than usual. The wound twinges around the edges. Screaming came from above, followed by a thrashing of wings and beaks.

    “I’m down here… I’m… I’m here.” The thing seems to calm. Standing from the floor, she watches as the world swims in front of her. “I think I overdid it.” A squawk answers from above, ‘no’ it said. She was beginning to understand the bird. Were you meant to understand a bird? “Are you really the only one who checked in on me?”

    ‘Yes’

    “Let’s go to my room. I just need… I just need to clean up a little.” The more she moves, the straighter the world gets. She feels a lot stronger than she thought she would, considering the bloodloss. She doesn’t even feel cold, the power still pulsing through her. The clean up ends up being more of laying towels over the ground that she’d come back for. Her parents never go into her bathroom, they’d never know.

    Back in her room the bird waits on her sill.

    ‘Feel good?’ Its head tilts and dips.

    “Am I really talking to a bird?”

    ‘No,’ it calls.

    “That’s good. I haven’t had psychotic symptoms in a while. I’m sure my therapist will love this.” She’s smiling, a moment from giggling to herself. When was the last time she’d laughed? Something must be wrong--poke, poke. She was still powerful, a strange feeling. Music fills the bedroom; she is untouchable.

    ‘Come?’ The bird flies off to a tree across the back yard, a soft croak coming from its beak.

    “Come? Come where?” Does it want her to follow it into the forest? It isn’t smart to follow talking avians. The thought reminds her of Wonderland. White Rabbits and Black Ravens. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

    ‘Come?’

    “I can’t come along. I have colleging to do. Maybe on the weekend we can do a daytrip.” The bird seems to agree with that. “Saturday then.” The bird fades from her mind as she falls into a steady rhythm of work. Some things were frustrating, but the sight of the blade on her desk and the encouraging croaks of the raven kept her going.

    ‘Home’ broke her reverie. Suddenly she’s aware of the world around her, she still feels powerful. In her fervor she’d forgotten her wound; it’s stinging again. The carpet beneath her features several red pools, her jeans were wet and warm, and the front of her desk has streaks of crimson. What did ‘Home’ mean? The answer comes a moment later as the front door opens and slams shut. Her mother’s footsteps pound down the hall. There are no knocks, instead the footsteps disappear into the office opposite her room. A moment later they approach her door.

    “Be ready to leave in ten minutes, we’re going to Chili’s with or without you.” Anger spills into her as the raven wails outside her window. The bird’s call seemed to justify her anger. She has a right to hate her mother; “Why can’t you just get your shit together?” “You’re just overreacting.” “Your medication is a crutch.” Words, old and new, are flowing through her head. “You should be living alone by now, happy with a husband or wife and working like a capable person.” She glances at the object of power on her desk. Taking it up, the blade feels good; reassuring her anger, reinforcing it, stoking it to true fury.

    ‘Hurt?’ Asks the raven.

    ‘Hurt.’ Whispers the girl.

    The girl stands at the end of the hallway, a razor in hand. Her mother is staring at her phone. Her father is getting ready in the master bedroom. The girl glides across the floor. Does she hate her mother? Poke, poke, poke. There’s a gentle push against the idea, it weakly protests ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t.’ Her anger is blinding; blood boiling.

    ‘Kill!’ Screams the raven, its body slamming into the glass porch-door. Her mother startles and the girl slips up behind her. The blade slides across her mother’s throat, the woman doesn’t even get to scream; left gargling on the couch as she grasps for anything to help her. The power is unlike anything she’s ever felt. She’s a murderer. Alyssa Queen is a murderer. And, her mother would never say another hateful or hurtful word. Lys looks to the window for the bird.

-- 30 --

Word Count : 3449

[heartandsouloc]

OC Character Sheet

2020 UPDATE

Setting: distant future post-post-apocalypse. Tired of the humans ravaging the earth many monsters and magical creatures rose up and took control of the planet to save it. Centuries later, some humans adapted and live side by side with the new supernatural neighbors, but most that survived still live separately in isolated city-states. Times however are threatening to change once again.

Notable Character List

Thaddeus Varni: main character. His mother was elected governess of his human city-state of Waldrand (in modern Austria/Styria) so he’s lived about a good a life as a human could in this world albeit very sheltered and vaguely stressed. He was turned into a vampire accidentally when the city was attacked by the small vampire nation. Now as a monster he cannot return home, his goal now is to become human again and stop the vampire nation from attacking again. The attack also damaged his throat significantly, the bite left him mute and with a large scar. He’s very self conscious about the scar, and especially in the beginning he wears things like scarves or a poncho to cover his neck. He communicates at first with writing on notepads but eventually learns sign language. He goes from very stiff and proper to more loose and expressive as a result of learning sign. A grump with a heart of gold, just wants to sit in his vegetable garden tbh. Thaddeus can be hard to get to know but once you do become his friend he is willing to throw hands with anything for you. He’ll fight anything actually (especially if that thing is much bigger than he is, which is usually the case as he’s rather short and slight). Most likely to eat pizza with a knife and fork. He hates it when people call him Tad. As a vampire he has the ability to shapeshift (his form is a pine marten).

Shahrazad Zargari: An alchemist originally from a city in the Iraq region. Thaddeus meets her while she is telling stories in the street using alchemy to make and animate little figures to go along with her tales. They eventually end up traveling together as she knows the outside magical world much better. As an alchemist she was meant to be traveling the world from town to town to offer services and alchemical medicine but she found she likes telling stories and creating art with alchemy better. Her family doesn’t know about what she’s been doing while traveling and she hopes to keep it that way (such is the life of a liberal arts student). She has a talent for creating golem which she considers friends even if they are only friend shaped empty shells. Shahrazad’s an actual ray of sunshine, most likely to be a studio ghibli protag.

Feliz Guillermo Rivera: a spanish sailor, he lives on a small caravel boat/ house boat named La Foca. He spends most of his days fishing and playing music and movies obnoxiously loud much to the annoyance of whoever he’s docked next to. Feliz makes his living selling fish and offering ferry services on his boat which is how he meets Thaddeus and Shahrazad. He was human but ends up tragically turned into a vampire during their adventures. They all learn to manage it together. Feliz was left with the boat after his parents were killed by a sea monster attack. Because of this Feliz is very attached to the boat and still struggles going out into large open waters instead preferring to stay close to shore. He also developed OCD tendencies as he struggled to cope ie intrusive thoughts and compulsive tendencies to count items and double check things on the boat in an effort to maintain control. He’s learning to manage it better with things like music and jigsaw puzzles. Most likely to eat all the marshmallows from the Lucky Charms. He can play the guitar, ukulele, and the accordion. As a vampire he has the ability to shapeshift (his form is a seal).

Ramon and Concha: This bonded pair are the kobolds/ klabautermann that live with Feliz on the boat the La Foca. They have watched over the family’s boat since the time of Feliz’s grandparents. They consider themselves family, and these two watch over Feliz as if he were their own. As klabautermann they protect the boat, in fact they’re practically are a part of the boat really. Concha tends to help Feliz with the sails or steering. She also likes joining Feliz in his music making, playing the accordion, even though the thing is about the size of her torso. While Concha is very sweet like an old granny, Ramon is much more rough and gruff. He tends to help with the cooking and keeping the ship clean and tending to the mechanics. He likes to take the form of a fire on the stove to cook. 

Hugh Wesley: Hugh was a doctor who was bitten by a vampire he had been treating as a patient. He was chased out of town for being a vampire and spent many years adrift. He found peace with his condition and has been able to reintegrate into society again under the guise of being a normal shapeshifter. He does not have a medical practice anymore, although he’s always willing to provide aide. Instead he owns a flower shop, selling plants from his greenhouse in town. He’s surrounded himself with other vampires who have passed through, confused and lonely as he had been. Although many of the other vampires come and go, several stay, and together they all form a loose sort of coven. As a vampire, he has the ability to shapeshift, Hugh’s form is a black fox.

Ava and Theresa Baumann: They met at university in the UK when Ava was studying spirits and spirit magic while Theresa was a seamstress. The two fell absolutely head over heels about each other, and married. Unfortunately Ava died suddenly and Theresa could not cope. Using Ava’s research she scoured the knowledge she could trying to find a way to save Ava. This eventually led to her finding and beseeching to the Spirit of the Dead. Theresa was able to get the power of necromancy from this spirit ie giving life to the dead, however this did not work on Ava as hoped. Theresa was able to call enough soul energy from the ether to animate Ava’s decayed body and summon Ava’s soul to be present but she could not actually combine Ava’s soul and body since the connection had already been lost. So now Ava’s body is animated, mindless and basically a zombie while her soul lingers as a noncorporeal ghost. So the two can speak to and see each other again but of course it’s not ideal. They just try to manage as best they can, unsure what would happen if Theresa tried to send either Ava’s body or spirit away. The two now live in a secluded cottage surrounded by forest and a large garden. They’re Hugh’s best customers. They have a 30 year old orange cat named Purrsephone.

Antagonists:

Queen Athanasia: Queen of the vampire nation in what was once Greece/ the city of Delphi. Also known by other names like Athanasia the Deathless, or The Dragon, The Great Oracle. She became queen after she lead a coup against her own husband, the old vampire King Ambrose. She is revered for her strength, vision, and powers of fortune telling. She speaks almost exclusively through telepathy (just to flex tbh). She has lost one leg which she has fashioned a prosthetic made of brass with talons on the foot. Vicious and swift, she has high standards for vampires she lets into her society, values strength above all else. While the vampires have drained their own people and the very land of life, she has now taken it upon herself to start moving into new territory for more souls and to Make Vampires Great Again. What’s the point of being an evil queen without world domination anyway? As a vampire, her shapeshift is a barn owl. 

Jan Rostami: When the vampires first started running low on souls to devour, they started demanding sacrifices from villages nearby to the west. Jan, as a sickly unremarkable member of her distinguished family, was volunteered as sacrifice quickly. This broke Jan. When she was faced with the vampires she did not fight back or beg for her life. It surprised them that instead Jan was willing to die rather than live with the shame and disdain. Athanasia offered Jan a chance to be turned and join the vampire ranks instead. Jan’s first act as a vampire was leading the attack on her ungrateful village. She’s reveled in her new strength and Athanasia’s supposed ‘love’ ever since. Jan’s vampire shapeshift is a rabbit

Erik Draugur: Athanasia’s main general and a trusted advisor. Draugur is very tall and thin, almost skeletal looking. A very grave man, but truly comes alive while hunting. He has a tendency to loom about silently over people’s shoulders. Draugur is also the one to generally keep the other vampires in line, especially Jan, whom he has yet to trust since she joined the court. His vampire shapeshift is a pale gray horse. 

Abraham Ruthven: one of the oldest vampires in Athanasia’s court, he was an old Lord that did not want his wealth to outlive him so he allowed himself to be turned. He has not aged well, he looks more waxy and decrepit by the decade. What Abraham lacks in brains, he makes up for in being terribly vicious. He has his moments, which is why Athanasia has seen fit to keep him in the court as a long time advisor. His fangs come from his two front incisors, this gives him a bit of a hissing lisp. His vampire shapeshift is a bat. 

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

A brief list of other podcasts to look into:

1) Adventures in New America A world gone mad, in many formats and viewpoints.

2) Aftershocks  A young woman placed in an institution must escape.

3) ALICE ISN’T DEAD A lonely truck driver must search through supernatural mystery and chaos to find her missing wife.

4) Archive 81 Literally someone paid to listen to found footage, strange and bizarre found footage... and goes on a journey of their own, down a dark, bizarre path.

5) The Adventure Zone The mcelroy bros take on DnD and it’s as chaotically hysterical as it sounds.

6) The Archivist An artificial intelligence looking into CM-001. But what... is it?

7) Attention Hellmart Shoppers! Working retail... on the hellmouth. Literally.

8) Audiodiary of a Superhero The rise, fall and mediocrity of being a superhero... and how it came about.

9) Beasts of Bardon College Anthropomorphic animals and the trials and tribulations of entering college.

10) The Behemoth From the ocean comes a towering behemoth that does not speak, he walks across state after state, on a direct line to the coast on the other side of the continent. A small human being feels a calling to save the behemoth in the only way she knows how. [Additional podcast in this series, is IZZY, which gives another perspective]

11) The Black Tapes Follow down a path of mystery, lead by your host Alex... and Dr Strand, as they take on the supernatural elements of the world.

12) The Blood Crow Stories Human suffering creates energy, dear subject. For this reason, you hear the echoes of history in three different yet unique time periods, follow the lives and deaths of humans that were touched by a dark entity. Season 1 follows the SS Utopia, trying to hide certain rich persons from the war. Season 2 Blackchapel joins a posse of avengers on a ride, trying to stop a mystery from killing again. And Season 3... well, ongoing, but the Neon Lodge is a world set in the future where humanity still isn’t safe from the darkness.

13) The Box Addison Gilmore found a lockbox... and her life hasn’t been the same since.

14) The Bridge A big transcontinental bridge, now falling into disrepair, hides horrifying secrets that are carefully puzzled out through each episode.

15) The Bright Sessions Dr Bright provides therapy to some unique individuals.

16) Critical Role A DnD podcast that will knock your socks off.

17) The Earth Collective Humanity’s last historian details how they adapted to a hostile world, by always moving along. And never looking back.

18) The Elysium Project A chemical that can make you superhuman... but what cost must you pay?

19) End of All Hope An Alien Invasion. Follow three survivors trying to get the hell out of the targeted zones...

20) The Enoch Saga Humanity found a way to become immortal... now imagine being the only person allergic to the cure to death.

21) GONE Waking up alone, with no understanding of what happened, one woman strives to keep her mind together. Where has humanity gone, and why did she get left behind?

22) Heretic A young man, disabled and excommunicated by a certain cult, has to investigate the sudden series of bodies turning up in his life.

23) IMMUNITIES Aliens, they take ahold of you with a single glance. Some people are carriers, others are just pawns... and yet a third, rare subset, are immune. The world has changed, and survival is as much mental as physical now.

24) Inhale Tamara Tracer was a hero, and now she wants nothing more than to bury the past.

25) KAKOS INDUSTRIES For all your evil needs, including research into doing evil better, try Kakos Industries!

26) King Falls AM A big-time radio host. A small town that sees nothing supernatural about its ghostly, demonic and crytpid inhabitants... what could go wrong?

27) Lake Clarity A mystery of five teens going to an abandoned camp grounds in the woods, and only one returning with a story no one believes.

28) Lesser Gods Humanity is down to six teenagers, all bred to be the ‘saviours’; ironically, born to hopefully naturally conceive a child amongst the small pool, and save the human race. Except... perhaps they’re not conforming as they should.

29) Limetown A whole town disappeared, something happened there, but the information has been buried. One reporter strives to find the truth, and avoid being killed for it.

30) MARSCORP Imagine waking up in the future... a lot further than intended, to find the world you were meant to terraform is run by idiots who won’t listen to common sense.

31) Marsfall A crew tries to survive on the Red Planet... what could go wrong?

32) Organism Not human, an Other. Trying to understand.

33) The Orphans Teenagers, a crashed ship, a hostile planet. You know what comes next.

34) Paralyzed Sleep paralysis is terrifying... but what happens if the creature you see, is slowly invading the real world? And is now threatening the lives of your friends.

35) The Penumbra Podcast Join Juno Steel, a futuristic detective on multiple mysteries. Join the Second Citadel for kooky, fun adventures! 

36) The Phenomenon Forgot to put this on the FAVES list, actually. Something happened. The warning says do not look outside, do not look at the skies. Do not make noise. Do not make any more heat than you must. You will die... and what exists up there, is only the beginning.

37) Raising the Dead Again Necromancy in the modern age is a little more complicated than you’d think!

38) ReMade They died. All they had in common was death, and this strange rebirth. What have they been returned for... and why?

39) SAYER You are on a new world, part of an intergalactic workforce, in a station run by the AI SAYER. SAYER says jump, and you must... woe betide those who refuse.

40) The Strange Case of the Starship Iris A human adrift in space is saved by an unlikely crew...

41) Supervillain Corner A podcast by supervillains, for supervillains... no superheroes allowed!

42) Tale - A KNIGHT ADRIFT Join the lady knight fighting evil to defend her kingdom.

43) The Thrilling Adventure Hour In the style of old-timey radio hour, and with the occasional guest cameos, the most unique serials you ever will hear! Sparks Nevada the Marshall on Mars, Beyond Belief supernatural mysteries, and so many more!

44) Tunnels Find out what lives down there... and then regret it, for the rest of your short life.

45) Uncanny County Imagine the audio equivalent for the Twilight Zone. Enjoy yourself.

46) We Fix Space Junk Follow the insane adventures of space smugglers, and try not to get shot!

47) Welcome to Night Vale A normal little town, where we never question anything, and angels do not exist. If you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget.

48) We’re ALIVE! A zombie-survival story, and how the survivors coped in a world where flesh-eaters run rampant.

49) Wormwood A supernatural murder mystery, definitely engaging and exciting.

50) 2298 Profiles, as the network refers to humans, are cared for and raised for certain roles. Never deviate. Never.

[chikabiddy]

In winter it's a marshmallow world

This story was written for the LoVe Gift Exchange for @nicemom93 

It was incredibly nerve-wracking to write for you because your stories are always perfection. But I hope you enjoy it!

It is Part One of the (hopefully) three-part story titled In Winter, It’s A Marshmallow World (based on the Christmas song A Marshmallow World).

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021237

Veronica scanned the flight information board for the third time since sitting down in the gate waiting area. Rolling her neck and shoulders to ease the building tension, she relaxed into her seat and closed her eyes. There was an hour to go before her flight to Neptune. As bored as she was, she was grateful this was a connecting flight and she didn’t have to go through security again.

The security at JFK had been a nightmare. Literally, a nightmare. Nothing like fighting through thousands of rushed, angry, screaming people to get you into the holiday spirit. She didn’t like crowds on the best of days, but the holidays were infinitely worse.

She wouldn’t even be here if her dad hadn’t bought her tickets without actually asking her first. Her initial reaction was disappointment. The allure of an empty campus and the library to herself, so she could study without distraction, was nigh irresistible. But when she heard the excitement in her dad’s voice after he told her his plan, she changed her mind. If it made him happy… well, she was all about making him happy these days, why not add this to the list.

Logan couldn’t believe he was going back to Neptune again. Dick all but begged him. Logan had declined, initially. But he hadn’t seen Dick in almost a year and so here he was, struggling his way through the airport crowds to catch a last-minute flight back to Neptune.

He made it to his gate just before the first call to board. A personal worst. I’m never traveling this close to a holiday again.

Scanning the crowd reflexively, his eyes caught on a shade of blond hair he’d never forget. He thought he must be seeing things, willing into reality what he’d had so many fantasies about. It’s never been her before.

He turned away, looking for an open seat, but his eyes kept drawing back to the blond. The curve of her neck, she shape of her shoulders - it felt so familiar and he couldn’t look away.

He stepped towards her involuntarily, desperate to know for sure, then shook his head and turned away. Get a hold of yourself and stop acting like a hormonal teenager. Whoever that is doesn’t need you being creepy. Then he heard her sigh and watched her stretch her arms over her head.

It wasn’t a fantasy, it wasn’t another case of mistaken identity, she was here. Veronica. The name alone was reserved only for his dreams. Until now.

Rubbing the back of his neck and adjusting his carry-on back to his shoulder, he debated what to do. Should I approach her? Leave her alone? It had been so long. Perhaps she wouldn’t appreciate seeing him as much as he was desperate to see her.

The call for priority boarding shook him out of the anxiety-driven haze he’d been caught in, and he realized it was now or never. If he didn’t at least try, he’d regret losing this chance forever. Five years is a long time, maybe long enough that she’ll have softened towards me.

_______________________________________________________________

The din of airport noise stirred Veronica from her half-slumber. Ignoring the call for priority boarding, she rubbed her eyes to dispel the last of her sleepiness.

“Veronica?”

She froze and didn’t dare look up. She had to be imagining it, that voice. She’d heard he joined the Navy, surely he couldn’t really be here. But the light hand on her shoulder, followed by another-

“Veronica?”

-told her she hadn’t imagined anything. Now if only she could get herself to look him in the eye. Cowboy up, Mars. It’s not like you haven’t been dreaming about this exact moment for years. She didn’t realize how long she’d been silently still until the hand left her shoulder and that voice, soft as a whisper, said:

“Sorry, I thought you might not want to see me. I’ll leave you alone.”

“No!” She found the strength to move, flipping around and reaching for his retreating hand. The tightness in her chest and throat released only when he stopped and looked back, hand clasped in hers.

“Logan,” she managed to breathe out.

His trademark smirk flashed across his face before settling into the most beautiful, genuine smile she’d ever seen. God, I thought I imagined how good he looks and here he is, aged like a fine wine.

They stared at each other far too long, hands still linked until the next boarding call broke them both from the trance they were under. Their hands fell, Veronica’s to her lap and Logan’s to his side.

Veronica managed words first. “What are you doing here? Are you on this flight?”

“Yeah,” Logan affirmed. “It’s my first holiday not stuck in a tin can, and Dick practically promised me his firstborn if I spend it with him.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good deal for you.”

“Well… you take what you can get.”

“So.” She hated the stilted awkwardness overshadowing their conversation and tried to break the ice, so to speak. “You were coerced into holiday celebrations too, huh?”

“I take it returning to Neptune wasn’t your idea?”

Veronica returned his knowing smile. “All my dad. He booked the flight without even asking. So I really couldn’t say no.”

“You’ll have to thank him for me.”

The conversation stalled. Veronica was a little unsure of what to say, or where she stood with Logan. Just say something. Ask him about the Navy!

“So, the Navy...”

It was still hard to wrap her mind around Navy Logan. She’d heard, of course, but she’d always struggled to envision it.

Logan hesitated a moment, eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made her want to avert her eyes. Don’t you dare look away, Mars.

“Yeah, it’s been a lifesaver. Gives me a direction when I was pretty adrift before.”

Veronica swallowed the guilt, responding with all the enthusiasm she could muster, “That’s great!”

He probably saw right through her. He always had before. But she kept the facade up, willing him not to look too close and realize how responsible she felt for his feeling lost. For feeling like he needed something to save him.

He broke her out of her guilt-spiral.

“So, where are you sitting?”

Veronica realized how empty the gate seating had become. Shit. How did I not notice that? Luckily, there was still a bit of a line waiting to board so their chance meeting wasn’t holding up the flight.

“Uhm, C34.”

“Window seat, huh?”

“My dad knows me well.”

“Well, hey… what if…” he trailed off a moment, scrunching up his face. “I could upgrade you.”

He spoke so fast he nearly stumbled over the words and it took a couple seconds for Veronica to register what he said.

“Upgrade my seat?”

“Yeah. I could get you in first class. We can keep catching up.”

Veronica wanted to say yes. She wanted so badly to say yes and spend the next hour and a half getting to know Logan as he was now. God, do I want to say yes. But, though she’d done a lot of work on herself and truly tried to be more open and willing to ask for help, she still couldn’t handle feeling like a charity case.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Is it really you letting me when I offered? I’m glad to do it.”

“Thank you, Logan, really.” She shook her head. Why am I saying no, again? Oh, yeah. Pride. As mad at herself as she was for passing up a first-class upgrade with Logan as her companion, she couldn’t accept the offer. “But I can’t.”

Rather than getting upset, which was what she was expecting, Logan smiled slightly. “I thought you might say that. Well, another time then?”

“Final boarding, flight D224 non-stop to Neptune.”

“I think that means us.” Veronica stood as she spoke, draping her bag over her shoulder. “But yes, definitely. Another time.”

Logan followed her to the gate and down into the plane. As they stepped up into the narrow hall, Veronica realized it might be years before she saw him again. She stopped just before showing her boarding pass to the flight attendant and made an awkward turn in the cramped passage.

“It was great to see you again, Logan.” She stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him like she wanted to cling to this moment. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered. Dropping her arms, she gave a mock salute. “Catch you later, sailor.”

________________________________________________________________

Logan hadn’t felt this unsteady in years. The therapy and coping techniques he learned were supposed to keep him from feeling like this again. But he wasn’t too surprised. Veronica always had a way of destabilizing him.

“Boarding pass?”

The flight attendant’s clipped tone told Logan he’d missed the first, and probably the second, time she asked. He moved to hand it over when he had an idea.

“I’m in first class,” he told the attendant. “But that woman I walked on with? She’s an old friend. I’d like to see if the person sitting next to her wants to take my first class seat so I can sit with her.”

The raised eyebrow of the attendant betrayed her suspicion. “You want to downgrade to economy? Why don’t you just upgrade her?”

“I already offered,” Logan sighed. “But she declined.”

“She declined?” Her piercing stare made him feel he was being judged. “Well, maybe that means she doesn’t want to sit with you.”

Logan sighed out his frustration. “Did the hug she gave me look like she was dying to get away from me?” He took another anger-expelling breath. “Can you just go ask the person sitting next to her if he or she would like to upgrade?”

“I guess.” The attendant didn’t manage to hide her skepticism.

“She’s in seat C34,” he called to her retreating form.

Logan tapped his feet, leaning against the flight attendant seat while he waited. He’d run through five relaxation techniques before the flight attendant returned, a greasy old man following close behind.

“This is the gentlemen,” the inflection on the word said she thought Logan was anything but, “who would like to trade seats with you.”

“Trade to first class?” The man looked to Logan, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “I never could resist a blond, either.”

“She’s an old friend,” he said back, voice stoney. All the therapy tools in the world would never get him to feel less protective of Veronica. “So, you’re willing to trade?”

“Gladly.” He rubbed his hands together and turned to the flight attendant. “Lead the way.”

The attendant rolled her eyes but turned towards first class. “I’m assuming you know where to go?” she shot back over her shoulder to Logan.

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

But they had already disappeared through the dividing curtain. Logan made his way to row 34, near the back of the plane. He spotted Veronica staring out her window and smiled at the sight. Five years. It changed nothing and everything.

“Excuse me.” He slipped past a girl, who looked barely old enough to fly on her own, sitting on the aisle seat.

He’d settled in his seat before he felt Veronica’s eyes on him. He waited for the confrontation he knew was coming.

“What are you doing back here?”

His eyes widened then he frowned slightly. “What, you disappointed? That guy I traded seats with did look like excellent company.” He broke into a grin, unable to hold the ruse any longer. “Though I’m not sure I could pull him away from the luxury of first class to get him back for you.”

“Aww,” Veronica replied in her trademark Amber voice. “You remembered how much I love sleazy old guys!”

He chuckled, taking satisfaction as she played along with him.

“For real, though. You traded seats? Did you at least get a refund?”

Logan scoffed. “Of course not. Do you think Mr. Grease was going to fork over the seven hundred dollar difference between his seat and mine?”

“Losing seven hundred dollars just to sit by me? If I didn’t know better I’d think you have a crush on me.”

Her fluttering lashes, her lightly flushed cheeks, her teasing smile. It was all he could do to not kiss her right there. He shook his head slightly at the ridiculousness of that thought.

“So you’re not denying it?”

Veronica snapped him back to the present. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so scattered. He’d need a double session with his therapist to help him unravel his jumble of emotions.

“Sorry,” he quipped. “That’s classified information. Top secret. You have to have special clearance to access it.”

“And how does one get this special clearance?”

Is she flirting? This feels like flirting. But he had a tendency to see what he wanted to see when it came to Veronica; he’d have to wait for something more concrete before making any assumptions.

“That is also classified.”

“Then how does anyone get clearance?”

“You don’t get clearance, clearance gets you.”

Veronica laughed and his whole body felt light and warm. He missed this so much, having someone to banter with, someone to understand him in a way no one else could.

He and Veronica continued chatting about everything small and unimportant. Though the conversation paused as Veronica prepared for take-off. She clutched the armrests tightly until the plane leveled out.

After a few minutes of neither of them knowing what to say, Veronica broke the silence.

“So,” the trepidation in her voice was overt. “Direction from the Navy? How’d that come about.”

Chuckling at her not-so-subtle dig for information, Logan took a moment to consider what she was really asking him: What changed you so much that you joined the military? The answer was too heavy for a first reunion plane ride. The diluted version will have to do.

He pulled his hand from the armrest and rubbed the back of his neck. Three years in the Navy wasn’t enough to purge him of this particular nervous habit.

“You remember what I was like our first year of college?” He started off simple, trying to ease into what would be a difficult conversation, watered-down or not.

“Brooding? Tortured? Drifting?” Her soft shoulder bump, and all the time he put into building his confidence in himself, took the sting from her assessment.

“Basically. All of the above.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes glistened ever so slightly and he had to look away. I don’t want her reading me like I am her. Not yet.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “You can only drift for so long before you get lost. The Navy was like a life raft for me. It came unexpectedly, but when I needed it most. And it’s no exaggeration to say the Navy literally saved me, mostly from myself.”

Veronica’s reassuring grip on his arm helped him lift his gaze back to hers. The space between them crackled with an energy that was so familiar, almost like no time had passed at all.

________________________________________________________________

Veronica felt the familiar spark of energy and excitement that always seemed to permeate the air whenever she was within fifty feet of Logan. She realized, much to her delight, in five years nothing had changed. Logan’s ever-pulsing magnetism had only strengthened in their time apart. The difference now? The current warmth cast in stark relief the devoid meaningless of life without him.

And she never wanted to feel that emptiness again.

The realization hit her like a freight train.

You don’t want to live without him… so what are you going to do about it, Veronica?

She knew how she felt, knew what she wanted, but would Logan want the same? Was their turbulent history too much to overcome? Have I pushed him so far I can’t ever get him back?

There were only so many things she could control and guaranteeing Logan would feel the same as her wasn’t one of them. But she could control herself and make sure she did everything possible to try.

Her mind went into overdrive, thinking of how she could make up for the past, how she could convince him she was a safe bet to place. I have to show him how much I’ve grown.

Veronica hoped Logan would see and appreciate her resolve and progress. She had a feeling this would be their last chance to make it work.

Logan was still staring, and she was still clutching his arm. He seemed open and vulnerable in a way she’d rarely ever seen. Her heart swelled at the man Logan made of himself.

When Logan offered no further commentary on his life change, Veronica decided it was time to start talking herself up. Nothing like presenting yourself interview-style to show your progress.

“Well.” She pulled her hand back to her lap, giving him her most mischievous smile. “You’ll never guess what I started doing three years ago.”

Her inability to trust had always been a sticking point for Logan. She hoped voluntarily going to therapy would show him she was actively working on it.

Logan rubbed his chin, eyes lifted in mock contemplation. “Mmm, pole dancing? No. Drug smuggling. Or, maybe working as a hitman?”

Veronica laughed as she shook her head. Same old Logan. “Don’t I wish. I could have paid off my bachelor’s degree, my law school debt, and probably had money to spare!”

He leaned closer, one elbow now propped on their shared armrest supporting his head in the classic Toddlers in Tiaras pose. “Well, if it isn’t about money I have to know.”

“Not all of us have had a trust fund from birth,” she scoffed, waving his words away like nagging flies. “Though I’m assuming most of that sits in an investment account while you live off your salary.”

“Right on both counts. But we were talking about you.”

“Were we? I can’t seem to remember now.”

“Oh, I’ll get it out of you, one way or another.”

“Logan,” she mock-scolded in a growling whisper. “We are in a very public setting right now.”

He crinkled his eyes, adopting his brooding look. “Sorry, Bobcat, you make it impossible to resist.”

Veronica’s heart fluttered with excitement. He called me Bobcat. That has to be a good sign, right?

“Okay, okay. If you stop looking at me like a kicked puppy I’ll tell you.” She steadied herself with a deep breath, then blurted out before she could reconsider: “I’ve been going to therapy.”

Logan’s mouth popped open and his eyes went wide. His chin almost slipped from its perch on his hand. Does he believe me? “So… yup. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Veronica.” His voice choked with emotion. “That’s really amazing.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, unclenching her hands from their death grip.

“I’m really proud of you.”

Her cheeks flushed. He’s proud of me. She didn’t predict how much she longed for his perspective, his approval.

She grinned, hope blossoming. “Thanks.”

“I actually started therapy a few years ago as well.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. Though, it’s not surprising given his history. It might have even been mandated.

“That’s great!” she managed through her shock. “That’s really great. I mean, if therapy was made for anyone, it was probably us.”

He chuckled at her quip, understanding the truth of the words and the need to make it a joke.

“It’s really helped me, anyway.” She settled herself back, half leaning against the side of the plane and halfway still in her seat. “After a year I was able to date without resorting to planting trackers or phone stalking.”

Please understand me. Please realize I’m trying so hard to be open with you. Please understand how much I’ve worked on trust.

Logan lifted one side of his mouth, giving her his classic half-smile and nodded. “It’s been years since I last broke someone’s nose. I’d say we’re both doing pretty good.”

She noticed how he kept himself laid bare, never moving to cross his arms or shy away. Of course, he always wore his emotions on his sleeve.

“We sure are!” She lifted her hand and he chuckled as he reciprocated her high five. “I even went out all on my own and made friends. As in, multiple friends.”

See? I’m not shutting everyone out.

“I’m impressed. Bobcat of old was always more of an ice queen.”

“I guess I’ve thawed out a little. I even told my dad and Wallace all about therapy, and making friends, and what I’m hoping for the future.”

I can’t be blamed if my future plans have changed a little since we last talked. The universe obviously wants us together. There is no other explanation.

“That’s really great, Veronica. I’m really happy for you.”

She reached towards him, ready to share the sentiment, when one of the flight attendants announced their impending landing and the need to, “Make sure your tray tables and electronics are stowed away and fasten your seatbelts.”

Perfect timing, as always. She huffed and rolled her eyes, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter. Not to the pilots and definitely not to the universe. I just hope I told him enough.

She positioned herself back into the proper seating position and snapped on her buckle. Logan followed suit, casting glances at her every few seconds.

“The plane hasn’t landed yet, Logan. I’m not going to evaporate.”

She offered a knowing smile and fidgeted to get more comfortable in the seat. Twenty minutes to prepare for landing and then it would be over in a second.

This time, as they went in for landing, Logan reached over and squeezed her hand. Thank you, Logan. You always know exactly what I need. She gripped his fingers tightly.

Deboarding and luggage collecting passed in a haze of “I’m so glad to see you again” and “we have to meet up while we’re both in town” and crowded hallways and the ever-present airport noise.

They were past the gate, moving towards the arrivals before she thought to ask how long he would be around. He was due to fly back in a week, just before New Year’s. She wouldn’t be leaving until closer to the start of her next semester, mid-January.

Spotting her dad in the crowd, and unfortunately Dick who stuck out like a sore thumb, Veronica turned back to Logan. If ever there was a time for you to read my mind, it would be now. She repeated her quick hug from earlier but caught and held his gaze as she pulled away.

“It was really good to see you, Logan.”

________________________________________________________________

Logan stared after Veronica, watching as she greeted her dad and then she was gone.

Pinpointing how he was feeling wasn’t possible. The short two hours since he’d reconnected with Veronica were more emotional than he’d experienced in years. But he did have one prominent, crushing thought: She’s doing good, really really good. Without me.

He never imagined Veronica would voluntarily go to therapy. Of anyone he knew, she was one of the last he would have pegged to go. Though he supposed the same could be said for him. She seemed to be flourishing away from Neptune. Away from him.

Logan was pulled from his ruminations by a shake to the shoulder.

“Dude, was that Ronnie?” Sarcasm and surprise warred in Dick’s voice.

Still recovering from the whirlwind that was Veronica Mars, Logan barely managed a “yeah” in reply.

Dick was more astute than most gave him credit for and let the subject go while they made their way to his beachfront bungalow. Though he couldn’t help but mention the multiple parties with very available women that he planned for them to attend during Logan’s visit.

Logan gave noncommittal responses; not saying no, but also showing no enthusiasm. And Dick kept up his pestering until, settled in his room, Logan had enough.

“Hey man, thanks for the ride and the invite. I’m exhausted from traveling, so we can talk more tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, dude. Sleep, so we can party hardy tomorrow.” He exited the room with a hip thrust.

Sighing at the conversation he knew was going to have to happen in the morning, Logan readied himself for bed and settled himself on the soft, silky sheets.

Veronica is doing great. She got away from Neptune… and me… and now she’s doing better than ever.

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, dispelling the dew gathering there. If Veronica was better off without him, he would let her go. He had hoped… but it didn’t matter. What was best for her, that’s what mattered. And maybe we can still be friends. I can keep her in my life, even if it isn’t the way I want.

He drifted into a fitful sleep, thoughts of Veronica and what was and what might have been plaguing his dreams.

[shellheadtmark2]

actually, because i’ve gotten a lot of new mcu mutuals lately, and i need to redo my 616 tony stark care manual bc i wanna tweak it and make some aesthetic changes (because i’m just Like That), things you should probably know because i am actually 616/marvel prime/main continuity-based.  i swear i’ll be serious this time.  maybe.

the original flavor tony is not going to be the same tony you’re used to from the mcu - mcu tony is actually more marvel ultimates inspired, which is a whole kettle of fish unto itself and that i have a verse for, but we’ll get to that at a later date.  instead, meet main continuity tony.

+  he started his path to iron man in a very similar way to mcu tony, in that he was injured by his own weapons (depending on where you pull from the sliding timescale, it’s everything from landmines to micromunitions) that damaged his heart and left him slowly dying.  we all know this story, right?  he built the first iron man to escape and the rest is history.

+  the difference is, main continuity was dependent upon the armor’s chestplate for a few years. the arc reactor ain’t really a thing in 616, instead we have the rt node.  similar in function, only tony could use it to do unibeams without the suit.  anyway, when tony came back, he took on iron man as an alternate identity, and told the world iron man was his bodyguard.  no one knew for a few years there that tony stark - handsome, generous, kind-hearted benefactor of the avengers who opened his home to them - and the metal-clad adventurer known as iron man was the same person.  it took a mishap with molecule man and a tiny red silk thong (no, i’m not kidding) for that little secret to come to light.

+  he was in his very early twenties when he became iron man - much younger than his mcu counterpart, and he’s very, very good at being iron man.

+  his relationship to most of the avengers - and heroes in general - is very different.  his best friend in the entire world is steve rogers - he’s had a captain america memorabilia collection since before the avengers pulled steve out of the ice (which is another thing - the avengers thawed steve, and tony has always idolized him - there’s no resentment there - and steve was not a founding member, he came in after the avengers had already formed).  his other best friend is rhodey, who was his employee-turned-military liason for stark unlimted (formerly known by many other names).  his other other best friend is pepper potts - they’ve never actually been romantically involved.  his other other other best friend was happy hogan, who died a few years back during the nightmare of civil war - which was much more us-based and much more horrific in tony’s universe.  he’s carol danvers’ aa sponsor.  he’s good friends with reed richards.  he’s been friends with stephen strange for years.  he and bucky barnes are fairly close and tony’s the one that got rid of bucky’s trigger words.  he and natasha have dated...ish, and are close.  he was never peter parker’s mentor, as his peter is a full grown adult, but peter did intern for him for a while.  and was on an avengers team with him before civil war.  he, steve, and thor are still the big three, but they have a friendship that’s been forged in the fires of really bad mistakes and they’ve come out the other side still close.  he knows the guardians of the galaxy because he was a guardian for a while during his big vacation in space.  he’s dated more avengers and x-men than you can shake a stick at.  and jarvis for him is edwin jarvis, his living, breathing, now semi-retired butler who served the avengers for many years and is part of the avengers family.

+  he was director of shield for a short time after civil war and steve rogers’ assassination.  he hated the job and he hated steve being dead and he hated what he forced himself to do so bad he literally erased that entire year out of his head.  and to get rid of the database full of superhero secret identities stored in his brain but you can’t tell me he didn’t have a more recent backup without it.

+  his first ai was named homer.  jarvis actually was pepper’s ai, for her rescue suit, and was never tony’s.  friday is and has been his main ai for years, and she has a hologram form.  she mostly runs the day to day stuff that doesn’t require tony to physically be there for the company.  which, also, tony is still ceo, he hasn’t handed that over to anyone, and pulls double fulltime duty as both a working stiff and an avenger.  his eyebags are designer.

+  he was secretary of defense for a year - he got himself elected when he found out someone in military research was reverse engineering and stealing things from the iron man.

+  he’s in his early 40s and looks younger:  being an extremis enhancile for a while and then undergoing a full-body reboot does wonders for the skin, apparently.

+  he’s canonically bisexual.

+  is known for using himself as a lab rat for incorporating experimental technology into his biology.  ask me about the suit he carried in his bones!

+  he’s 6′1 with blue eyes.  that’s, uh.  kind of important to know.  he’s tall.  he’s lanky.  and if you’re not a metahuman he might just can kick your ass, because captain america trained him in hand to hand combat (of which he’s very proud of).

+  the ten rings are literally ten alien rings used by his main archvillain, the mandarin.  they hurt.  a lot.  and he hates when he gets an up close and personal view of them smashing into his face.

+  he’s not as quippy as his mcu counterpart, and instead is more prone to bad puns and rambling awkwardly.  canonically he has depression, anxiety, and ptsd, and struggles with them regularly.  he’s also a recovering alcoholic.

+  take mcu tony’s tech.  then put it on steroids.  then make it the craziest scifi thing you can imagine.  and you’ve got the barest hint of what this tony’s tech is like.  seriously.  ask me about the suit he literally carried inside of himself.  or the time he could control machines with his brain.  616 is wild.

+  he’s been homeless.  and i don’t mean rich people homeless. i mean living on the street, nearly froze to death riding out a blizzard in a doorway and almost lost fingers and toes to frostbite homeless.  tony’s a Rich Boy but one who’s had a taste of how the other half lives on more than one occasion.  he’s also worked a regular nine to five like everyone else and lived in what was...honestly...a really shitty apartment.

+  he’s adopted, and he has a(n adopted) brother named arno.  his bio mom’s a former rockstar, and his bio dad a hydra double agent.  you literally can’t make this shit up.

+  he’s incredibly self destructive and self sacrificing.  if things look hopeless he’ll be the first to offer himself for the pyre.  because he has absolutely horrid self esteem.

+  he’s a liar.  he’s sneaky.  he tends to make decisions for other people without consulting their feelings on the matter - partly because of a tony knows best attitude, but also because there are people in the world he’d do anything, and i mean anything, to keep safe, even if they hate him in the end.  it’s kind of awe inspiring and terrifying if you manage to inspire that level of devotion in tony, because really.  anything.

+  he has a playboy reputation, but he’s anything but.  you either get casual sex out of him?  or you’re married now, sorry, that’s just how it is.  he settles and nests with a vengeance.  he’s one of those people that would love to be happy and safe and loved and married and all that happy shit but doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of it.  his issues with this have issues, to be honest.

+  if you call him in the middle of the night and need an evac and you’re on his People list he will come.  twice in two days.  dropping everything to go to the middle of indiana to do it.  if you are sad and text him about it he will bring you food.  if you don’t answer his texts he will find you and check in on you.  if you feel out of place and adrift he will try to buy your baseball team and move them back to brooklyn to make you happy.  if you die and he can’t cope with your death he will buy your first avengers indenticard for 2mil at an auction because he can’t stand the thought of anyone else having it.  if you’re really special he’ll call you “beloved” and “captain handsome”.  sometimes sweetheart.  please note these things are all canon.

+  he dies a lot.  it’s okay, he gets better.

+  his irrational fears are the dark and cockroaches.  his actual fears are waking up drunk and the suit becoming a coffin.

anyway this is a Lot.  and it’s not even really scratching the surface so.  i’m gonna just drop this on the dash as is.  and you know it helps for me to make dumb lists like this from time to time to refresh things.  anyway, i know it’s a lot!  i know it’s different!  but my (broken) ims and disco (shellhead#8434) are always open for questions and plotting.  and my inbox, too, ig.  so you know.  remember we’ve got a canon multiverse.  it’s real easy for me to drop him in the mcu to make your day annoying.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 23

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: We have a masterlist, FYI. We have a tag list, also FYI.

Warnings: None. Goodness none; just pure, happy fluff.

Abstract: Reader and Jim dress up after dressing each other down.

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

You needed a drink. Everything Jim had told you danced around your mind like a whirling dervish. You didn’t know what to think about your time with John Deacon anymore. Maybe that was too specific, even: you didn’t know what to think anymore. It wasn’t as if you thought the world wasn’t this inherently good place, by any means, but nothing tragic had ever really happened to you; a broken heart, an ended relationship, a failing grade didn’t really seem to land anywhere near being as terrible as what happened to Deacy. Nothing about it seemed fair. Nothing about it was fair. Even three years after the fact of Veronica’s death, you wondered how he was able to be up and about at all. You were certain if your partner had died, quite suddenly, and exceptionally too young for that kind of thing, you’d want to be buried right next to them. You’d close the coffin on the both of you and surrender to nothingness. You couldn’t imagine being able to feel anything again--especially having feelings for another person. It would always seem risky, unpredictable, and worrisome; what if they died, too? They could, they had before, at anytime anyone could die, and that was the most chilling fact of life ever, you thought. Perhaps, it was knowing that secret we strive to deny most that allowed Deacy to want to try again?

It was another paradox, to be sure. If death made you realize anything it was what mattered most and how you wanted to live your life; everything becomes clear, genuine, meaningful in ways life just hadn’t previously. Maybe it was too optimistic, or existentialist, but he had found some way of going on with his life; he was still here, creating, and putting himself out there, and whatever those reasons were for doing so, he had them and kept them close. They were, you figured, his life preserver. You felt like you needed one after that story. Adrift at sea, you kept reminding yourself to not feel jealous, or unduly neglected or deliberately deceived. This, you thought, was doubt. You were doubting everything now. And that’s what hurt the most. It wasn’t that he himself hadn’t told you; when would have been appropriate to do so during the party and afterwards anyway? What did hurt was the doubt. As Jim had told you Deacy’s heartbreaking story, you had begun to doubt the meaning of your time together. And doubt was the worst, most deadly kind of poison.

You had doubted during the party, but you knew that was your own anxiety trying to win you over, trying to trick you into old ways and dark paths of self-doubt and insecurity. You and beaten it back successfully, and you knew--you knew--instinctively, or just by experience that he really cared about you, especially after this morning. He did at the party, but after you had been intimate, something had changed; it always did, one way or another after sex. It had been imperceptible, you figured, but something about him had relaxed. You hadn’t been able to put your finger on it at the time, but now you had so much new and privileged information you couldn’t help but connect the dots.

“Y/N?” Jim inquired.

You realized you hadn’t said anything since Jim had finished talking.

“I need a minute, Jim. And something stronger, if you have it?” You pointed to your tea, who had been doing the job earlier, had been equal to the task, but it just wouldn’t cut it anymore.

Jim, personally, couldn’t agree more with your need for the stronger stuff. He could also understand your current predicament. He had lived through it after all, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to hear it. It would seem unbelievable at worst, and pitiful at best. Like Roger, Jim would do what he had to do to protect John. He stood, and retreated into the kitchen. His pants were ridiculous, slate blue and satin. Who had done that to him, you wondered? It didn’t seem like a choice the pragmatic Jim would make himself. His retreating ass had been quite spectacular in them, and you had to remind yourself he was already spoken for, a married man, and not remotely into women.

“I know you’re thinking about my arse in these pants.” Jim’s voice boomed to you from the kitchen. You heard a loud pop! And had the feeling he had opened a bottle of champagne. He returned with two flutes, the bottle, and some apple juice.

“They’re...something else!” You said, trying to not laugh, and hoping that came off as a compliment.

“That’s one word for them. I have several others.” He started pouring the champagne and apple juice mimosas for each of you. “Satan’s own pants for starters.”

You laughed unexpectedly; Jim was terribly witty and unafraid to say whatever was on his mind, and considered it for the good of everyone when he did so. You liked this about him, for you knew he’d never lie to you to spare your feelings, or let you off the hook. He was a genuine friend. A true rarity.

“The devil’s legwork?” You suggested.

“I like you.” Jim said, clinking his glass against yours. “Death on two legs, if I ever saw one.”

You sipped your mimosas, putting off the inevitable. “Freddie gave them to me.” Jim elaborated.

“Height of good taste those are…” You bit your lip and gave Jim a wry side-eye.

Jim sighed loudly, “He ran out of chic options a couple years ago.”

“So,” you started, ready to face the music.

“So,” Jim agreed.

You stared at each other, his brown eyes betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

“Do you understand why I told you?”

“I think so,” you said.

“Well let me tell you so.” Jim said, and there was finality to his tone that you hadn’t heard before. “I love Johnny. He’s been through more than most people his age. You’re not meant to lose your spouse at 27. At least when you’re older life has kicked you down enough you know how to cope with tragedy. He changed after that.”

“Naturally; anyone would.” You agreed.

“He took what fragments remained of his heart and put them into the band. If he hadn’t had them--us--I’m sure he would have just faded away, picked up and left forever without fuss or looking back.”

“It would be hard to blame him if he had runaway”

“I agree. We all took turns having him live with us; he couldn’t go back to the house they had shared. Some things are beyond grief, beyond coherent words, and that place that was so full of her filled him with unspeakable regret. Slowly, he returned to us, but he wasn’t fully there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, well, he played, he joked, he danced even, but he was going through the motions of life, luxerizing in the bland routine; he wasn’t really invested, not really living--and maybe he didn’t want to, not fully.”

“Was he suicidal?”

“No, not particularly; there’s a keen difference between wanting to die and actively not living your life. Yes, his wife had died, and he missed her, might always miss her, but he knew he couldn’t follow her. It was anathema to him. Her death wasn’t reason enough to die himself.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“You’ve got the sand of him, yes.” Jim said, smiling broadly at you. “He’d never give in that easily.”

“I like that about him,” you admitted.

“So do I. I like him very much. When I say that what I mean is this: I would do anything for him. We all would. Especially Roger; after what happened he grew bizarrely protective of him in ways he’s been with no one.”

“I could see that.”

“What I mean to say is, if you’ve heard all this, and are...intimidated by it, if you think you can’t commit to him knowing his history, if you think you’ll abandon him down the line, please, Y/N, leave now.”

You breathed.

“Leave him now before this gets any bigger, before feelings get any larger, because…” Jim’s lips were shaking under his mustache, and he had tears in his eyes again, “because you’ve brought him back to life in less than 24 hours, and if you don’t plan on being here, do him a kindness, and leave now; he couldn’t take the heartbreak again. I know it is a tremendous amount of pressure to put on a person; but, we all have that little voice, do you know what I mean?”

You stared at Jim, waiting.

“We all have that wee voice in our heads, in our hearts that we do what we can to ignore at the beginnings of every romance. That little voice that knows if it’s a good idea or a bad idea to pursue it; listen to yours whatever yours is telling you, that’s all I ask. Don’t ignore it.”

What was your voice telling you? You traveled inwards, then. What would be useful here? Not the doubt, the doubt wasn’t fair, it was a trap, a mirage of an answer. It was a duck decoy and it wouldn’t sway you away from examining your heart and head. You let yourself go, drifting into memory, letting your heart take you where you were meant to go; you’d listen to that little voice, and see where it had to take you.

You saw a pair of grey-green eyes. Gazing at you from across a crowded room. You couldn’t breathe, you remembered that. He had literally taken your breath away. With one look he had disarmed you, and squirreled his way into your desires. That you knew for sure: you desired John Deacon. Was desire enough? You thought not. So, you let yourself travel further.

You were two hands holding, then. And that feeling had added another layer. You hadn’t realized it at the time, of course. Holding hands with a relative stranger had changed the entire course of your life. He guessed intimate details about your life, and you had leaned into him, and he hadn’t backed down. Surely, a power trip for you both. You connected then, at a primal level; a small truth about who you both were had be exchanged then, in that moment. You knew you both had a backbone and you weren’t afraid to use it, that maybe you even liked to use it. He was confident, confident enough to want a successful woman. Fundamentally, you matched, perhaps.

Deeper deeper, let’s see: the pantry, and your first kiss. Magic or nothing? You and Lydia had promised each other you’d only go after someone who offered you everything and ignore those who offered only their own proclivities or needs. Deacy wasn’t the kind of man who only wanted his own joy; your joy, sexual or not, mattered fully to him in a way that was unknown to your previous experiences of love.

Of love? That’s a dangerous word. Or is it? Sure, it had been under 24 hours, as Jim had noted, but what did that little voice tell you? Could you love Deacy? Could you see yourself with him?

You thought of the bed, the bed you had shared with Lydia, Brian, Freddie, Jim, and Deacy. Your slip of the tongue rang out in your mind. It had been bold and very telling of your inner feelings, and he had liked it. And his reaction, where it could have been quite aggressive, was anything but: it had been tender, accepting, respectful. Come to think of it, even when you had been fooling around and fooling with your mutually desired light power-play, he had been nothing but tender, accepting, and respectful, whilst also being undeniably sexy, giving you what you wanted, and being commanding, in charge. The same went for the staircase. You had traded desires and positions and unspoken directional power with ease, care, and compassion. You were compatible, deeply.

Compatibility, however, wasn’t love. But it was functionally imperative to any romantic relationship that had sex as a part of it. Compatibility couldn’t be taught. And you had learned the hard way sexual incompatibility killed relationships faster than infidelity or lying; in fact, it was ignored sexual incompatibility that frequently led to cheating and lying in the first place. You wouldn’t settle for anything less than being on the same page regarding that anymore.

How about the sex itself? Not the compatibility of it, but how it had made you feel? Safe, satisfied, loved. Deeply comfortable, absolutely cherished, treasured. Which was even more fantastic knowing Deacy’s history; he was able to open himself up, pull away the stitches one by one from his heart, and allow himself to be vulnerable with you. Which, in turn, had made you feel capable of being vulnerable with him. This wasn’t just any old turn of the cards; this was rare. True vulnerability could take years to foster, could never mature, or fester and die. Yet you and Deacy had found a morsel of it and decided to take a risk and see if it could grow.

That was noteworthy, surely.

Jim’s story. Well, that had been unexpected, but what about Deacy’s own words? All night and morning he had gone out of his way to make it clear, repeatedly, that he was interested in you. Interested in a way that went far beyond your body or what you could give him. It was a pure interest for its own sake.

You looked at the string around your wrist.

You smiled.

And you knew your answer.

“Jim,” you said, “I am all in.”

He examined your face, making sure your words aligned with your body language.

“Good,” Jim leaned in a kissed your cheek. “Let’s celebrate.”

“I’m all in for that, too.”

Jim stood, took your hand, and said, “Bring the champagne.”

You grabbed the bottle, and let Jim whisk you away into the depths of Garden Lodge. He took you on a path similar to the one you had followed yourself last night. You saw the widow’s walk where you had met Brian May, and the pantry you and Deacy had shared your first kiss. Jim, stopped at another door in that hallway, entered it, and went through to the master bedroom he shared with Freddie.

“What are we doing here? I’m not that kind of girl…” you said to Jim, playfully.

“That’s not what I hear…” Jim retorted, whip-fast, with an exaggerated wink.

You both laughed; some barrier had been broken down between you two this day. You had gone through a battle together and survived, and were instantly made closer because of it.

Jim led you into a section of the massive walk-in closet. You had a sneaky suspicion this closet wasn’t Jim’s, but Freddie’s. It was organized, as far as you could tell, by costumes, day wear, formal wear, and random extras--which included a lot of black leather for some reason. The decor, as with the rest of the lodge--a misnomer if you had ever heard one--was second to none. Though mostly all white--to let the clothes sing, Jim said--it was the height of elegance. Edwardian sofas in pristine patterned white silks made up most of the seating. As if seating in a closet was a priority, there were dainty stools clustered around a table full of makeup. Floor to ceiling mirrors covered the farthest wall, which was preceded by an honest to god runway. It even had proper lighting above it, adequately equipped to debut the next fashion line by the next big designer at the drop of a hat. And speaking of hats, there were so many, all hung up around every inch of the perimeter, like wearing art. Masks, too, adorned the walls from all around the world. A full set of samurai armor, even, rested in a corner, all black and ivory, complete with a devilish mask. Antique men’s suits, vintage dresses, capes, crowns, an astronaut’s outfit, really anything you could have dreamed up rested in this glorious closet. Even a gorilla suit. Leotards in every color. Jeans. So many yellow sweatshirts? And then the designer couture pieces were startling, littered around like kisses. Surely, Hollywood could use this closet as a costume department for every film it has on its current docket. All it needed to be a high-end department store was a cash register.

“Wow,” you said; there was just no other word for the opulence.

“It’s a bit much,” Jim was smiling proudly, “But so is Freddie.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“Very and every day.”

“You love him entirely, don’t you?”

Jim looked at you, “with everything I am, yes.”

“Then he’s a lucky man, too.”

Jim blushed, “Thank you; now! Let’s dress up.”

“What?” You laughed, a huge smile plastered on your face.

“We have the champagne, we might as well as dress to match.”

“Really?” You felt like a kid in a candy store.

“Entirely. Pick whatever you want.” Jim was reaching for a red cowboy hat and spurs to match.

You didn’t know what to pick first. Your eyes were a blur with colors and costumes from every decade--even a few togas caught your eye. “Is that armour real? Or the genuine article?” You were pointing to a full set of knight’s shiny armor.

“A replication, not the real McCoy like the samurai armor.”

“Right!” You said, taking the fleur de lis breastplate off the display. A larger than life, larger than necessary cotton candy blue floor-length tutu kept distracting you. You had to have it. Next, you looked to the hats, you needed one to finish off the look, but which. There were so many to choose from.

“Might I suggest the pillbox one?” Jim was pointing to a leopard-print pillbox hat.

“Perfection,” You said.

Undressing yourself carefully, you folded your clothes, and placed them on one of the white sofas. The skirt was so large and comical, you couldn’t help laughing looking at yourself in the mirror. Jim helped you into the breastplate, fastening it from behind, he remarked on your tattoos; your back and upper arms were covered with lines of musical notes, connecting and drifting off into each other in only ways that made sense to you.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” he said.

“They’re all from pieces of music that mean something to me.”

Jim smiled, “they’re beautiful. I can’t read music, but if I could, this is surely the way to do it.”

“That’s what Lydia said.”

“I like her, too.”

You nodded, putting on a large pair of yellow diamond earrings and gold strappy knee-length gladiator sandals.

“Roger does, too.”

“You think?”

“Maybe a little too much.” Jim said, thinking.

You put the hat on; looking at yourself in the mirror was a bizarre experience that simultaneously made perfect sense. Only at Freddie’s could something like this take shape, you thought.

You looked at Jim’s reflection: he had put together a cowboy look adorned with a white tailcoat circa the 1880s, a golden glittery muscle shirt, the red cowboy hat, a pair of copper-colored golfing pants, and red patent leather tap shoes with the red spurs attached to them. Mardi Gras had thrown up on you both. You clinked your glasses together, quite pleased with yourselves.

That’s when, in the mirror, you saw Freddie Mercury standing behind you both.

He was smiling ear to ear looking at the both of you.

Jim, looking somewhat sheepish, raised an eyebrow at his husband.

Freddie had on a tight pair of jeans and an over-large yellow sweatshirt. He looked at the two of you for a moment longer, thinking.

In that moment, he loved you both dearly.

Freddie walked over to a mannequin, grabbed a ten foot hot pink feather boa from it, wrapped it around his shoulders, took a swig of champagne from the bottle, and sat on one of the sofas.

He said, with a wave of his hand, “Well, as you were, darlings.”

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

Tag List:  @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love@partydulce @richiethotzierz@sophierobisonartfoundationblr@psychostarkid@teathymewithben@smittyjaws @just-ladyme@botinstqueen @mydogisthebest@little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty@deakysdiscos@yourealegendroger @marvellouspengwing@molethemollie@deakysgirl@arrowswithwifi@tardisgrump

[brucenat]

Prompt: This is kind of a continuation of the fic "Closed Doors", but one night when things get heated once again Natasha decides she's ready. Bruce being the gentleman that he is, still offers her an out, saying she doesn't have if she's not ready. But she is, and Bruce shows great care and a kind of gentleness that Natasha has never experienced before.

Hello, lovely!

I’m posting this fic in full both on AO3 and here, but not Fanfiction. I didn’t want to risk my account getting hit because of a guideline violation (and I know there have been some groups going around reporting people).

Before reading this piece, please note the trigger warning and the author’s note.

Trigger warning: sexual assault within the fic’s flashback. Please read on at your own discretion.

Note: Before diving into this piece, I wanted to assure that I crafted this narrative and its events with nothing but respect and understanding, and I apologize now if that doesn’t come across for anyone. Surviving sexual assault is tremendously difficult, and it is absolutely normal and okay to experience flashbacks and feel triggered. It’s okay to experience these things and not want to engage in sexual activity afterward. It’s okay to experience a flashback, take a moment, and continue at your own pace. How you cope is absolutely valid, please know that.

If you want resources for reporting sexual assault or you want to talk about anything (related to this or not), know that my inbox is always open and there are so many people out there ready to help you.

AO3

Arch (The Sequel to Closed Doors)

It’s utterly gentle how he has her pressed against the dresser. His kiss embraces her with more pressure than his hands cupping her face, more than his hips tilted into her. She’s enjoying their position, this foreplay of teasing nips, her tidal wave of touch over his bare torso, their tangled tongues. She melts into the wood, slouches into him when he dives down her neck and fastens onto the skin just above the collar of her shirt—technically his shirt. He might think himself clever—which he is—or sneaky—which he isn’t—when he moves his hands to the hem, inches the fabric up. The tongue now teasing her clavicle is almost enough to convince her, but acquiescing now would be a lot less fun.

She seizes his hands in hers and leans down to capture his mouth. His palms slide into her grip, their fingers interlace, and their lips meld in a slow dance. Fixed between him and the dresser, she remains, kisses lazy and long, her thighs where their joined hands rest. A grin tips onto her mouth when his thumb strokes the pillow of skin near her underwear.

It doesn’t make sense when the flashback hits her. She’s safe, she’s settled, yet it rams into her.

Too many tongues slither onto her skin. There’s her body and a horde of snakes clambering onto her, over her. They make her a burial ground, except she is still breathing. Her lungs are painfully functional and, without even blinking, she is back in the Red Room.

“Nat?”

His voice, along with the entirety of the present, stir in the back of her skull, all under gelatin with leeches suspended in it. Everything in front of her is a cursed crimson with a bleeding teenage corpse strewn across a mattress of nails. Fixating on the destruction itself is better than the images of the trauma inflicted against her, what she feels happening to her. The men allowed into the room, allowed access to her without her say, revoking possession of her own limbs—

“Natasha.”

Then she’s back. With questioning fingers brushed against her cheek, Bruce’s arms sturdy under her palms, she’s out of the red.

He folds a hand so his knuckles rest on her cheekbone. All of him is a support for her. She’s slumped further down the dresser, crouched halfway between standing and sitting on the floor. He’s right there with her.

“You’re here. Nat,” he murmurs, “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna…”

She doesn’t need to finish for him to know. “Yeah.”

He slides his arms back until both her palms cover his. He waits for her to latch on, then tugs both of them upright. There’s a threat of wobble in her legs, which she refuses. She will stay on her own feet. This is her body, and she will use it how she pleases. In this moment, that means walking to the bathroom and into the shower.

When Bruce pauses in the doorway as she enters, her stomach drops into fast nausea. Come with me. Her tongue won’t accept the words. Her throat is thick with suppression, gagged by the past. She reaches for Bruce and he’s at her side, in her grasp, in an instant. What’s supposed to happen next seems so obvious and, yet, she can’t find the will to do it.

The two of them linger on the tiles, joined palms like a liferaft, adrift toward an endless horizon. Who knows where she’ll sink if she lets go, if she’s left to tread in the dark depths of history too long.

It’s time likes this when Bruce steps in, does what she needs without hearing her verbalize it. There are other ways to speak.

For a few moments—less than fifty seconds—he relinquishes her touch, traverses over to the shower and turns it on. As the water warms, they wait. His shirt on her is a safety net; if she really wanted to—and she does—she’d shower with it on, and he’d have no qualms. She wouldn’t have gotten this far in life without pushing herself, though. She strips.

The shirt lifts and sinks to the floor in a parachute of navy blue fabric. Her underwear follows, and so does Bruce’s pants, his boxers. He looks to her for a signal, any direction. In response to the tiny nod she gives, he steps in, paving a path for her.

As soon as she enters, hot water hits her magma skin and, somewhere between, it becomes steam; it beckons the old infection out of her skin. The toxins seep out, the present replaces them. Bruce is right in front of her.

The phantoms of fingers stick to her skin like tiny spiders. She scrubs at her arms and stomach, swiping away rivulets of water and invasion. In here, in this square of a space dedicated to cleansing, she permits herself this outward rebellion against her memories.

“Nat. Nat.” Bruce murmurs. His touch whispers over her, brushes onto her jaw. She breathes, refocuses. Water, which rivals her burning skin in temperature, thickens the air with steam. Her pores sigh into the damp, her hair slicks into a wet sheet. Bruce cradles her face as the showerhead rains around them, splatters soft onto the glass barrier. He said her name and she holds it as an echo in her ears. He’s with her in one of the two spaces in the world where being viscerally herself is the default. He’s as there as she is.

She lifts her hands from herself to cover his, press them more firmly into her. Her head tilts forward, bowing ever so slightly into the space between them. It’s something she does out of instinct rather than thought or intention, but he nudges in the next second and strokes her crown with a kiss.

“You’re here. I’m right here with you.” He assures into her skull.

“I know,” she tells him.

“Whatever you need—whatever you want me to do—”

She lifts her mouth to meet his, not to quiet him but because this is what she wants: the person she loves, trusts, whose resonance matches hers, as close to her as possible. She wants his love beating right beside her heart. She wants him loud and utterly himself with her when she blocks out the rest of the world with her walls. He is the quintessence of what she wasn’t supposed to have.

She clutches him to her like he’s an oxygen mask, kisses him as though they’re raising a mountain together and not even the shower spray can get between them. He gives right back, melding into her mouth without overwhelming her whole body.

When they part to breathe something other than each other, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

They’re barely apart, so her noses brushes against him when she nods. “Better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to get the water?” He gestures behind her to the shower handle with a flick of his eyes.

She nods and he cuts the spray. Emerging from the shower is easy—it’s existing beyond the bathroom she’s not prepared for.

He gets a towel for her before himself. She constricts her chest with the cotton, eliminates the nooks and crannies where shadows of the past can haunt her. As she stands there suppressing, Bruce bends down and retrieves his shirt from the floor. It’s a tranquil offering he holds out to her, which she gladly accepts. The scent of their detergent gusts over her when she tugs it on, trades the towel for the swath of him. While she does that, he slides back into his boxers, maybe his pajama pants too.

“Do you want these?”

She turns to see her own underwear held up to her. A glimmer of a grin cracks through the cement that’s settled on her face. Each action slow and steady, she takes the arm extended to her, plucks the fabric from his grasp, tosses it aside, and pulls him to her. She directs his hand to her waist, where he can keep them steady as their mouths press together. They create a gentle ebb and flow, his hands mirroring where hers drift on him.

“I, um—” He pecks her lips before continuing. “I have an idea—if you’re feeling up for anything. It’s okay if you’re…”

“I’m here with you,” she assures. “I’m okay.”

“Okay. Uh,” a sidelong look reveals what he has in mind before he says, “Could you…sit on the counter?”

An eyebrow quirks, more play than critical, but she doesn’t question. A thin layer of condensation makes sliding on effortless. In the interim, Bruce scoots a towel over and positions himself on it, kneeling. It’s second nature, the way her legs part for him.

He deposits a kiss onto her knee, slides his hands over her calves. When he looks up at her, his full eyes and lingering creases of concern in his face are nothing except loving. “If something doesn’t feel right, or you get another flashback—”

“I’ll let you know.” She promises, passing her fingers through his short curls.

He nudges his nose where he’d kissed her, lets her maneuver however she wants in the meantime. Knowing this part well, she drapes one leg over his shoulder and leaves the other propped against the cabinets below. Her hands don’t wander far from his head, which migrates toward her crux, a butterfly trail of kisses and the stroking of his fingers.

The warmth of his breath breezes through her lower hairs, coasts over her folds. She settles into his touch and trusts him to make her melt.

With the leftover moisture from the shower, he could enter her with a two fingers and she’d have no issue. It wouldn’t be him, wouldn’t be his typical touch, if he jumped to that without her asking. He dips into the damp with his tongue, eases her into the thaw. Out of the shape of her, he finds art, tracing her in a slow, fluid motion. An arm curls around her thigh, lighting scrapes up the taut skin on her hip, then slides back down. When he widens her part, he applies a slight pressure, just enough to spark the right nerves and get her to sigh the ghost of a moan.

She arrives fully into the present on blissful tides, his mouth wading around her, replacing the shower’s wet with her own. When he attends to her clit, he starts with a tease of tongue before a full embrace. She could cry from the softness of it. Instead, she hooks onto his hair, encourages him on.

He shimmers and flicks her clit, obeys the hand telling him to give more, and adds a finger to the mix. A firm tip drags through her damp, leaving more in its wake. Worship replaces the feeling of cursed.

Her orgasm happens quietly, with a gradual increase in his tongue’s pace combined with the coaxing of her G-spot. Sighs elevate into gentle moans as her thighs quiver from this blissful undoing. This time, when she’s unmade, it’s entirely with her consent. Reconstruction happens in the aftermath, where she doesn’t desire his shirt on her, but Bruce himself.

Once he removes his finger, she tugs the sole piece of clothing off her body and drops it on his head. He startles, and his lips stumble across her folds. Without removing it, he rises, meets her with a grin as she takes the fabric off his skull and sets it on the counter. Before either can say anything, they’re kissing. The tang of her slides from his mouth to hers, mingles between them like sweet oxygen. For some span of precious time, they stand, bodies pressed close, and simply kiss.

Want of him lingers in her core like an itch not properly scratched. Loath as she is to pull away from his kiss, she does so to see what he’s willing to give. “Bruce—”

He responds with minor surprise, sans condescension or judgement. “More?” To her nod, he coasts his hands over her thighs, one on either side of him, and asks, “Do you want fingers or…”

“Fingers.” Though he doesn’t feel hard—and she absolutely won’t apologize for what she feels—the receding wake of her flashback compels her to add, “I don’t think I could—”

He crashes into her before she can venture down the spiral. His fervor has him tugging her closer to the counter’s edge, her legs clamping tighter, both of them caught mid-exhale. When air becomes necessity, they part and he tells her, “You don’t need to justify anything. Not to me.”

This time, it’s her who pulls him in. Their lips meet and melt, and she’s indomitable inside this haven and out. It’s her who takes his hand and directs it over her body, her muscle, her skin. What she wants is him and her, him knowing how to touch her, her loving with him here and now. He senses this and listens. His hand cups her crux, her fingers feathery on his wrist, and he swirls through her damp heat.

She migrates two fingers to her clit and, with just light pressure, her spine shudders and bows. Their heads knock together, her thighs tremble and he adjusts one of her legs in an effort to hook her more firmly to him. The same digit teases her entrance while, elsewhere, his hand wanders, cherishes. Subtle sparks under her skin follow his touch up her hips, her waist, her brief collection of scars, her ribcage. When he cups her breast, squeezes light, in just the right way, his finger plunges in and she’s ascending toward a euphoric peak.

He strokes into her, shows her how even the inside of her can be caressed. The circles she presses into herself start regular, have her humming from her throat to her core, but the pattern crumbles into erratic movements as he increases his pace. Keeping her legs up around him is both a challenge and the only option. She clings to his hair, goes to kiss him but he eludes her. He sucks on her neck’s pulse point, makes her veins feel like they’re a lava flow.

Just as her trembles turn to quakes, he retracts his one finger and quickly returns with two. She can’t help but emit an, “Oh—”

Then he’s at her ear, scraping with his teeth, and the only recourse in the world is to kiss him, the only sensation is a pleasure that overwhelms the senses, has her shaking. He thumps into her through it all.

When orgasm hits, it crashes into her. Her back arches as she moans into his open mouth. His palm on her breast gets caught between them, which he doesn’t seem to mind. Even if he did, there’s not much he can do as she comes, vibrating around him and his fingers within her.

Everything’s as she left it when she returns to her normal state, minus the trembling in her panted breaths. Other than that, Bruce is still between her legs, his mouth dropped to the junction between her neck and shoulder, and she’s sitting on the bathroom counter in the home they share. She’s safe.

She’s also a little tight in the legs—definitely not in other places—and her calves are starting to throb from something other than orgasm-induced pleasure. She kisses the top of his head, then stretches out. His hands lift from where they’ve settled on her thighs. They cup her face as their lips peck, then he reaches for the cotton bundle beside her.

The blue clump gets a smile out of her. “You got your shirt back.”

“Not for long.” He holds it between them without condition.

Before taking it—because his clothes are an offer she can’t refuse, and one he can’t revoke—she slides back onto the floor, onto her own feet. She tells him, “Thank you,” and hopes he recognizes how far that goes. To be sure, she kisses his cheek then, for herself, she pulls him in, wraps her arms around her partner in life and soul and simply exists in the squeeze he reciprocates.

After that, she takes the shirt.

[fictional-downey]

Nebula’s Weapon (Tony/Nebula)

I’m pretty sure this is terrible, but it’s been rattling around in my head for months, so here goes.  ANY feedback is appreciated.  I haven’t lived up to my “name” in quite some time.

The weaponization of an act of comfort - this is what things had come to.  “It was the only way,” Nebula insisted, speaking only to herself.  “He refused to sleep and it was my only choice.  He kept talking his way out of everything.”  Guilt felt similar to an open wound and she was finding it hard to cope with these new feelings.  True, Nebula felt the emotion before - recently, in fact - but this was of a unique level.  She sat on the floor of the ship beside him, her hand over his heart, feeling its beat and making certain it didn’t stop.  Tony had been nothing but kind to her.  Not kind in a passive sense or an obligated one - and certainly not in any way meant to benefit himself.  He simply saw this woman’s pain and wanted to help her - more importantly he knew he could help her, at least in the physical sense.  She nodded off now and then, not needing nearly the amount of rest that he did.  As she sat there, she projected various events into the quiet, rewatching and continuing to learn from them.

When the others disappeared from Titan, Nebula understood what Thanos accomplished.  Tony grasped the result as well, but not the action that made it possible.  Peter’s ashes on his hands, Tony approached Nebula, his own battered body shaking.  Only two words escaped his lips.  “You’re hurt.”

He spent hours fixing the damage that was done to her.  He was even able to make slight adjustments here and there that relieved pain she didn’t realize she had until it was gone.  All the while, he spoke to her as his equal and treated her with tenderness.  Tony knew she was more being than machine and not the other way around. As soon as she was repaired, Nebula helped Tony with the ship.  Days of working in tandem - taking parts from all the available spacecraft on Titan to try and get this one back up and running correctly.  They succeeded in leaving the planets surface and even made some progress before the engines cut off and they fell adrift.  

A few days passed and Nebula watched from the shadows as Tony recorded a message to the woman who held his heart.  She replayed this moment over and over again, wishing she could understand that sort of connection a little better.  How did it feel to care for someone that much?

It was only a few hours since that message was recorded when she suggested Tony get some rest.  Between his physical and emotional states, he was doing nothing but making himself frustrated.

“I can’t sleep, Neb, I’m so close.  Look, if we just...” He coughed and his eyes watered.  “...we only have to...” He lost his balance.  

“Tony, we will fix this, but you are no good to either of us right now.”  Nebula placed a chilled hand on his shoulder.  “Please, at least sit with me for a little while.  Tell me about her again.”

Tony gave in, sitting cross legged on the floor.  Nebula sat across from him, her black eyes assessing him.  She had been worried about him for days.  At first, the distraction of fixing her, as well as the ship, was enough to keep him focused and fired up, but over the past few days, he refused to sleep - the nightmares were too much for him - and recording what he felt were his last words to Pepper made her fear he was giving up.

“She’s my world,” he began.  “Pepper has stood by my side in my absolute worst moments…”  He coughed again, but the smallest shadow of a smile appeared on his now gaunt face.  “I never wanted a wife or kids…family wasn’t my strong point, but…”  

He made to get up, but Nebula placed her hand on his knee.  “But what?” she prodded.  Tony was silent.  “Love is real,” she stated.  “I only understood that recently.  I don’t remember my family and what I had was nothing more than torture and chaos and disdain.”  Her left eye twitched a little.  “Gamora…I understand love because of her…and while I haven’t come to regret much, I…”  Tony watched as tears fell from Nebula’s eyes.  He wasn’t sure if she was capable of them, but there they were, as real as the heart beating within her modified body.  He placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed it.  “You aren’t what anyone expects, are you, Tony?”

“I’ve a feeling you’ll be a surprise as well, won’t you?”  A full smile changed Tony’s face.

“To whom?”

“To whoever we can find when we get this ship somewhere.”  

Again, he tried to get up, but Nebula continued to ask him about Pepper.  “Can you feel her?”

Tony didn’t hesitate.  “She’s not gone.  I know it.  It’s why I can’t sleep, Neb.  I need to get to her.  I need us to get to whoever is left!  My last few breaths have to be ones where I’m at least trying.”  He was successful in getting up now and he began to pace.  “My math is always right, so what am I missing?  Why can’t I fix this?  I can fix anything…”  He wiped at his eyes.  “…I’m the mechanic.”  

His exhaustion was getting the best of him and Nebula knew this.  Together, they worked endless hours and she knew for certain, that they truly were just on the edge of finding the missing factor to their problem.  He walked back to the same panel he had taken apart and put together dozens of times already when Nebula tapped his shoulder.  He turned around and was taken back by her smile.  It was a little awkward looking, but he assumed she hadn’t done it much.

“Neb?  You okay?”

“Whatever happens, Tony, I want to…thank you.  You fixed me and…”  She wasn’t feigning emotion, despite the plotting she was doing.  She was genuinely grateful for this stranger - now friend - and his kindness.  She outstretched her arms and Tony smiled at her once more.  He was just as thankful to have her in this lonely corner of space.  He hugged her, the feeling of contact something wonderful to them both…for a moment.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  Her arms tightened around him and more tears fell from her eyes as she squeezed.  She heard him struggle to breath, was sure he uttered the word “why”, but she continued to hug him until he went limp in her arms.  Once he did, she easily carried him to the makeshift bed at the back of the ship.  She could remember Tony kissing her forehead before he worked on the panel that held her eye in place.  He was apologizing, in advance, in case he caused her any pain.  The small affection made her feel inexplicably safe and she decided to repeat the action on him.  When her lips left his pale skin, she covered him and assured him of something.  “You will hold her again, Tony, I promise.”  

[malereader-inserts]

Distraction

Fandom: Twilight  Pairing: Jasper Hale x Male!Reader Summary: Jasper Hale will always be the biggest distraction Word Count: 1043 Request: m!r is the new vampire in the Cullen family who keeps losing control, making him the weakest link (the one who has the most difficulty with human blood) instead of Jasper. Jasper has to make sure m!r doesn't go and do wrong things, by distracting him in several ways to find out what was the best way is to distract him (maybe smut way?) With m!r and Jasper flirting a lot with each other? Warning: Mention of Blood, gets heated??? A?N: I don’t do smut sorry, but I tried to get as heated as it could be. Still, don’t know how to write it without it being cringy as fuck, comments will be great on how to improve and I know it kinda ends abruptly.

You have been a vampire for a long time, but you have always been on the human blood diet rather the animal diet, until ten years ago when you had switched to a new diet. You’d like to think that you had good control over your bloodlust, that was until when you were invited into the Cullen coven, it made you realise that you don’t have the best control.

Everyone was very supportive of you and very patient, especially Jasper. Jasper knew what it was like to struggle since he experienced it himself, however, Jasper was building resistance. He would admit that he isn’t perfect, and he still struggled, but not as often as he used to.

He had Alice, his best friend, to calm him down and upon your arrival, he knew that he had to stay by your side. It was fairly obvious, from Alice’s reaction, that you and Jasper were meant to be. But, you were currently preoccupied with your issue rather than focusing on Jasper.

Jasper didn’t mind, if he was able to spend time with you then he was happy. The, they made you go to school, the human blood stench was so pleasing to you that you almost refused to get out the car.

Jasper and Alice were clinging to your arms as you walked through the school, as everyone watched on.

“Everyone is staring,” You muttered, gripping onto to Jasper.

“Yeah? You’re big news, darlin’,” Jasper spoke as you scoffed, “Plus, it’s not their fault that you’re good-looking, think you took Edward’s hottest boy title away from him.”

“Smooth, Jas,” Alice giggled as you broke out a smile and shook your head in amusement, Jasper didn’t care, you radiated happiness and that was good enough for him.

Alice made sure that Carlisle had enrolled you in a class with another sibling, Alice and Edward may have meddled a bit a made you have the most class with Jasper.

You would sit next to him and under the table, you were holding his hand. Luckily, he was left-handed, and you were right-handed, so it worked perfectly, and no one suspected anything. 

Jasper figured out that holding your hand and small affection renders you surprised so you were distracted from the smell. Jasper was slowly falling in love with you as you were happily by his side. Jasper also realised that you got giddy and excited when you could hear bits of his accent, it makes your mind adrift from the strong blood smell.

Jasper focused on the louder emotions that you radiated. The temptations and urging feelings were the loudest and he knew that you needed a distraction or reassurance. He could feel a concerning amount of happiness, that could rival Alice’s when you are near him. 

You transmitted excitement and amusement when you were sat with your siblings at lunch, unfortunately, he didn’t focus on the quieter emotions, but you knew those smaller emotions mean more to you. You hoped that Jasper could feel how much you loved, cared, adored him. How you feel exhilaration when Jasper brushes his hand against yours.

Until, you were outside, waiting for the rest of your siblings. It was you and Jasper, coming out of history early. You thought that the smell of blood wouldn’t be distinct as the wind covered it most of it. However, a group of friends were messing around and accidentally gave their friend a cut. The blood was seeping out and both you and Jasper could smell that.

“(Y/n),” Jasper spoke, as your relaxed shoulders stiffening, “Listen to me,”

You turn to look at Jasper, he immediately takes both your hand into his, you looked down at them. The smell was enhancing causing to squeeze Jasper’s hand tighter.

“I can’t Jas-”

“I know you can, look at me,” Jasper spoke softly as you looked at him, you could hear the drawl of his accent, “I trust you can do this.”

You gulped, before closing your eyes. Jasper could feel your temping feelings as he held onto you tighter. You opened your eyes with a soft smile.

“I’m lucky to have you as a mate, I don’t know how I would cope without you.” You softly hummed as Jasper looked at you with utter surprise, you laugh softly, “Jas, I do love you. I’m surprised, for an empath, you would feel it. I guess you care more about the temptation and urge fee-”

Jasper could feel you getting agitated, you were ranting because the urge to pounce on some humans were growing as more of them were leaving the school. Jasper grabs you closer as his lips brush yours. Not innocently, like a tease but hot, fiery, passionate and demanding. 

The sudden urge washed away as you could feel like nothing mattered but Jasper. Jasper dropped your hands as they moved up your shirt, you refused to start something public as you grabbed his wrist as made sure they were on your hips.

You could feel Jasper smirk against your lips, you scowl at yourself, as his hands strongly grabbed your shoulders and flipping both of you. Shoving you against Emmett’s jeep, there was no longer a gap between you as you felt Jasper’s knee knock with yours as he thrust closer.

You felt him grin even more before softly pushing him away.

“Not here,” You were thankful that vampires didn’t breath, you put your forehead against his shoulder.

Jasper chuckled, his hand gently tracing circles on your back while the other held your hand, he wanted to nip at your neck, but you would whine before softly pecking his lips.

“I fear if we start, we won’t stop,” You slowly grinned as Jasper chuckled.

“You’re absolutely right, handsome, I don’t think I have the control.” Jasper drawls out, if you were human you would have definitely shivered at the comment, “Let's hope the guys won’t mind going out tonight.”

“You fucking tease, Jas,” You glared at him, leaning back but your arms draped over his shoulders as his hands around your waist, “But, I think we should get a head start on getting home.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can last with the smell unless you just take me right here right now.”

[bridenore]

Harry / Draco recs : personal favourites

Something a bit different this week to celebrate the end of the year : 20 of my personal favourites. It was hard to chose, but finally I’ve settle on my go-to fics. The ones I’ve read over and over and still welcome like an old friend.

Liste in alphabetical order, as always.

At Your Service by @faith2wood [95k]

Hogwarts students are in danger; Harry is determined to save them all. There's only one thing he knows for certain: Draco Malfoy is somehow involved.

Away Childish Things by @letteredlettered [153k]

Harry gets de-aged.  Malfoy has to help him.

Azoth by @lol-zeitgeistic [88k]

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by @letteredlettered [54k]

Harry Potter is an Unspeakable.  Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him.  Adventure!  Intrigue!  Secret identities, celebrities, spies!   It’s all right here, folks.

Glamour by SilentAuror [22k]

Post-war: Harry is given an assignment: to assist Draco Malfoy as he carries out a month-long disguise that turns out to reveal more than it hides in the end. Warnings: EWE, gender-bending.

Here's The Pencil, Make It Work by ignatiustrout [49k]

Harry thinks "Why is Malfoy working in a coffee shop in muggle London?" is a much simpler question than, "Are you going to accept that auror offer and, if you don't, what will you do?"

He Was He and I Was Bunny by bryoneybrynn [37k]

The war is over and “eighth year” is about to begin at Hogwarts. But for Harry and Draco, nothing is quite the same. Harry’s looking for an escape, Draco’s looking for a friend. Does a little black bunny hold the answers for both of our boys?

Jolene by Romaine [21k]

Harry comes back from a mandatory holiday and finds that an Auror raid on his favourite establishment could expose his biggest secret.   However, another has even more secrets than he does at stake.

Jolene Deux by Romaine [5k]

Draco makes special plans after being told by his Healer that he’s fully recovered from being pregnant and having given birth to his and Harry’s daughter, Violet.  I hope you enjoy this little glimpse into Harry’s and Draco’s future life together.  The story begins immediately after where Jolene ended.

Kiss A Boy In London Town (And Other Intimate Misadventures of A Society Whore) by @femmequixotic [36k]

There's only one cardinal sin for a whore.

Left My Heart by @emmagrant01 [85k]

Auror Draco Malfoy has disappeared, and Harry Potter has been sent to San Francisco to find him. (Post-Hogwarts, set in February, 2004. Written before Half-Blood Prince was released.) 

Surrender the Grey by @emmagrant01 [151k]

Draco Malfoy returns to London after five years of self-imposed exile to start a new life with Harry. But will the secrets of the past destroy everything they've worked for?  Sequel to "Left My Heart"

The Light More Beautiful by @firethesound [81k]

Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter’s help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn’t been enough to dim Draco’s obsession with him.

Salt on the Western Wind by Saras_Girl [60k]

When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected.

Some Kind of Wonderful by taradiane [34k]  

Harry is adrift without an anchor after the prophecy that shaped the first eighteen years of his life is fulfilled. Restless and bored, and wanting to stop Hermione from nagging him about wasted opportunities, he decides to spend his time volunteering at a Muggle homeless shelter…then along comes Malfoy, with an anchor of his own that he needs help carrying.

Things Worth Knowing by @femmequixotic & @noeeon [164k]

After the Battle, Harry thinks he’s left Hogwarts for good, but Minerva insists that all students return for an Eighth Year if they wish to sit for NEWTs in the spring, and Harry needs those NEWTs to go into the Aurors. Draco’s just grateful not to be in Azkaban. Or the Manor. He’s hoping he can steer clear of Potter this year and grapple with his own problems. Unfortunately for him, Potter appears to be one of those problems. And that’s not even addressing the fact that Potter’s got serious issues of his own, which Draco realises as he’s forced to share an Eighth Year dormitory room and several classes with the Gryffindor Git. If only they can make it through the year without killing each other, it should be all right, shouldn’t it? 

A Thousand Beautiful Things by geoviki [104k]

Draco Malfoy struggles with changed fortunes, shifted alliances, an ugly war, and an unusual spell, with the help of a concerned professor, an insightful house-elf, and an unexpected Gryffindor friend.

Delicate Sound of Thunder by geoviki [61k]

Draco Malfoy has always known that happily ever after is only true for fairy tales.  When someone threatens to expose his wartime past, he risks his life to protect his secrets, but learns he's not the only one with something to hide. The sequel to A Thousand Beautiful Things.

Turn by Saras_Girl [306k]

One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.

Welcome to the Broom Closet by incapricious [23k]

Harry thinks he knows how his life will go: Become an Auror. Marry Ginny. Have a family. But then he sees an advertisement in the paper that no one else can see, and his life is turned upside-down. The Broom Closet: you can be anyone you want while you're there, but you won't remember it in the morning.

When It Alteration Finds by  momatu [55k]

After the war, Harry left most of the Wizarding world behind and built a new life for himself in the Channel Islands. He opened a bakery and is happy with his life. Draco is a fiction author who writes under a penname, and he's currently suffering from writer's block. His agent suggests he try writing in a new environment and rents a cottage in the Channel Islands for him.  

When You Kiss Me (What A Lovely Way To Burn) by @femmequixotic [22k]

A drag fairytale of New York in which Draco wears red lipstick and Potter can’t get enough. 

Written on the Heart by who_la_hoop [113k]

Harry doesn’t mind that so many Slytherins from his year have returned to finish their NEWTs, really he doesn’t. It’s just – do they have to be so friendly? He’s not prejudiced, really he’s not. It’s just – they’ve got to be up to something, right? Unnerved by the attention he’s attracting from everyone – the Slytherins are the least of it, to be fair – and struggling with a raft of changes to Hogwarts itself, Harry wishes he could be happy that one constant remains: Draco Malfoy really fucking hates him.

When he’s hit by an illegal love-spell though, Harry finds he has more to worry about than whether or not Blaise Zabini actually wants to be his friend. For if everyone affected has been blessed – or cursed, by the look on Malfoy’s face – with a magical tattoo revealing the name of their soulmate, what does it mean that Harry’s skin remains completely bare?

As an added bonus, I wanted to add to the list these two unfished fics. Even if they haven’t been updated in a while, I still read them over and over again and would definitely recommend them to anyone who asks. They are just that good.

All the Answers by Maxine [195k] *Incomplete

Finding himself saddled with Draco Malfoy is just about the last thing Harry expected to happen this year. Too bad ignoring the git is something he’s never been able to do. Horcruxes, war, and teenage hormones – no one ever said this would be easy! 7th year fic. Harry/Draco main pairing...eventually. 

Not in the Hands of Boys by fourth_rose [130k] *Incomplete

Once the final battle is won, life must go on, although it can be even harder to master than death. Back at Hogwarts for his final year of school, Harry tries to cope with everything he's been through. As the world around him struggles for a way back to normality, he is forced to realise that in the long run, living takes a lot more courage than dying.

I hope you enjoy thes stories as much as I did!

[scapegrace74-blog]

Seventeen: Interlude

A/N  You ever make a list?  A way to compile all the missed opportunities, the transgressions, the warning signs telling you that you’re on the wrong path?  Of course you have.  Part 15 in the series, but actually not about a sexual partner.  I just needed to get all this early season groundwork down before forging on.  Part 1 and links to other parts are here. Rated NC-17. 

He stayed at Elizabeth’s for three days, patching his shaky foundation with comfort food, halting revelations about his state of mind, and restful oblivion in the double bed of her spare bedroom.  He dreamed he was adrift on floating wreckage, trying to navigate to some ever-changing point without a map, with only the stars for company.  

It turned out there was no need to worry about what Elizabeth’s husband thought of him - they’d divorced ten years before.  Still, they didn’t rekindle their affair, and for that he was thankful.  This was how he explained it to her:

“People want to borrow things from me: my mind or my heart or my body, and they always hand them back to me more damaged than before.  They use me, and I feel like I’ve failed them.  How fucked up is that?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking away to hide a stricken expression.

“Wha? No.  I wasn’t talking about us, Elizabeth.  You gave me so much in return.  I was a lost kid, and you set me on my feet and reminded me that an ugly world had room for beauty in it as well.”

“That’s a pretty generous read of my motivations, Mulder.  I came onto you like a mare in heat.”

He smirked, but didn’t deny it.

“I think you need to talk with a professional.  And no, chatting with me over waffles doesn’t count,” she argued before he could interject.  “You’ve got years of buried trauma to excavate.  And since you’re a brilliant behaviouralist yourself, you know just where to hide the bodies.”

He swallowed a ball of fear that rose up in his throat and whispered, “What if I don’t like what I find?  Maybe sticking my head in the sand and coping is the best I can hope for.”

“I don’t think you really believe that, or you wouldn’t have come looking for me.  I don’t deny avoidance is the easier approach, but since when have you done anything the easy way?”

He grinned in acknowledgement.  If Scully came back, he bargained with himself, he’d find himself a therapist who wasn’t a call girl and give the psycho-analysis thing a try.  It couldn’t be any worse than fucking a suicidal vampire in the vain hope that he could save her and by extension every woman he’d ever failed.

***

He might have bargained with himself in bad faith, however.  Missing for over three months, it didn’t take an actuarial table to figure out that Scully wasn’t likely to be found.  But he didn’t give up on her.  His life’s work was one abandoned cause after another.  It was no time to be making exceptions.

So when Scully emerged from her coma in Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, to say that he felt a lot of conflicting emotions was an understatement.  He was thrilled she was alive; incredulous his pleas were answered; guilty for his role in defying her family’s wishes; humbled by her physical and mental fortitude; and utterly terror-stricken that he now had to follow through on his silent promise.  

The one pre-condition he set for his pursuit of mental wellness was that it had to take place in a world that contained Dana Scully.

***

Dr. Ian Turner was a good friend of Elizabeth’s who practiced out of his home in Chevy Chase.  The Gunmen ran him through every background check they could conceive of, and Elizabeth called persistently to find out if he’d made his first appointment.

“Trust me, Mulder.  Ian is exactly what you need.  He’s unflappable, quick-witted, and he’ll extract ugly truths from you like an iron gimlet.”

“That doesn’t sound like very much fun at all,” he quipped nervously.

“It’s what you need.  Make the call.”

And he did.  Two days after being released from quarantine after Mount Avalon, he parked in front of a mid-century home with well-tended gardens and tried to calm his racing heart.  A slight man in his early fifties with wire-frame glasses answered the door and extended his hand.

“You must be Fox.  I’m so glad to finally meet you.  Please come in.”

***

It wasn’t what he’d imagined.  They didn’t progress methodically through his childhood, assigning a Freudian paradigm to each of his manifold issues and perhaps indicting a family member or two along the way.  He didn’t leave each session feeling lighter, as though he’d left behind some heavy part of his past.  In fact, on the days he met with Ian, he dragged his feet and felt like he’d been beaten mentally and emotionally with pipe iron.  

He grew angrier, and even more isolated as he revisited his long line of broken or dysfunctional relationships.  He lashed out at those around him who cared enough to try to save him from his recklessness, including Scully.  But he also started to see this behaviour for what it was: years of sand bagging against future pain.  Life was easier when no-one was on his side, because then there was no-one else for him to lose.

Scully was on his side, though.  She was staunchly, steadfastly, infuriatingly on his side, even when he wasn’t.  Especially when he wasn’t.  She was his dauntless and enduring counterpart, reflecting back radiance and reason from her side of the mirror.  

Just last week, he’d pulled a gun on her and nearly shot the one person to ever stay true in his shitshow life, and she still held his hand and led him from Modell’s hospital room afterwards.  He sat in Ian’s living room and spat out the five scariest words of their eighteen month patient-therapist relationship:

“I...uh...I think I love her.”

He snuck a look at Ian’s face, hoping his pronouncement would be seen as evidence of his progress.  He was well enough to put a name to that tightrope terror that bided in his soul, every time he imagined Scully gone.

Ian didn’t look happy.

“What?  Ian, what?  I would have thought... I mean, loving somebody is a good thing, right?”

“Of course.  But... and this is where I lay those hard truths on you like you pay me to... I don’t really think you love her.”

His lips flattened into an angry snarl.  How dare he?  How dare Ian question what he knew he felt?

“Stop scowling and hear me out.  Scully is your FBI partner, and from everything you’ve told me about her, she’s also a loyal and honest friend the likes of which you life has been sadly lacking.   And she’s an attractive woman, I’m guessing?”  Here Ian stopped until he acknowledged his statement with a nod.  “And you’ve no doubt flirted with her and laid on that patented charm, because that’s what you do to deflect suspicion away from the fact that sexual attraction terrifies you.  And now you confess to me, in practically the same breath, that your greatest fear is losing her and that you love her.  Come on, Fox.  Put that Oxford doctorate to good use and tell me what I’m seeing.”

He blew air through his pursed lips, jaw muscles clenching in upset.

“That she’s a surrogate,” he finally voiced, defeated.

“Very good, Fox.  A surrogate for whom, do you think?”

“For my professional colleagues, whom I’ve alienated or ignored.  For unshakable parental affection, which I never felt.   For my sister, whom I couldn’t save.”  Every sentence rang like a nail in the coffin of his fragile hopes for a normal future with someone.  Someone like Scully.

“Don’t despair, Fox.   I’m not saying that you aren’t capable of romantic love.  And maybe that love will be for Scully, who’s to say?  But your last two sexual relationships were with a hooker and a woman who lit herself on fire mere hours after sleeping with you - I don’t think you’re quite ready for happily ever after yet.”

He sighed.  Elizabeth was right.  Ian didn’t pull his punches.

“A word of advice, Fox?  As someone who has hundreds of hours invested in your mental well-being: until you’re absolutely certain that your feelings for Scully are real, for the love of god please don’t fuck her.”

Go to Seventeen: Marita.