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aloysiavirgata · 4 years

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The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Title: The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG (language)

Timeline: Season 1

Summary: Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor.

Author’s Notes: Mulder reads Cicero and finds the method of loci tool useful in honing an eidetic memory. Also, the timeline of this show is absurd. Per canon, the Pilot is in March of 1992. But here it’s March of 1993 because...I just can’t, honestly. Thank you to @perplexistan for reminding me that I wrote this in 2013, and talking me through the timeline.

*** It's been a long December and there's reason to believe Maybe this year will be better than the last I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself To hold on to these moments as they pass - Counting Crows *** It’s gritty outside, gritty and gray with a rime of salt on everything. There are pockets of rotten snow for him to kick, slushy and satisfying against his heavy shoes. He pulls his coat tighter, feeling like a hard-boiled detective in a pulp paperback, thinking this would be a good time for a cigarette if he still smoked. His divorce papers were filed this time last year, just like his parents’ had been a couple decades back. The ink had scarcely been dry on the marriage certificate when they realized they didn’t know each other and changed their minds. It was the same time Diana left him and his - their - files for whatever the fuck had summoned her across the sea. Paperwork, as ever in his life, was all that remained of these experiences. If this were really a detective story, he thinks, stepping over a soggy Washington Post, a tall cool blonde would have walked in through the frozen mist and into his arms. Someone lithe, with red lipstick and half-lidded violet eyes. She would look like Veronica Lake and speak in a low, compelling voice, urging him to do brave and outlandish things to thwart the Nazis. He’d wear a fedora, buy a mink stole for the blonde. They’d drink martinis and make love in dark hotels smelling of leather and intrigue. But he’s not living in a dime-store novel, he’s living in Alexandria on Christmas Eve 1993 (“The New Age of Angels,” claimed Time magazine, somewhat cryptically) and is eager to turn the last page in his calendar. Mulder knows it’s symbolic only, that his Eurocentrism is showing, but he still watches the ball drop on TV. Last year he’d kissed a woman in a bar and gone home with her too, but doesn’t think he’d remember her face if he saw it. He hasn’t got the energy to entice a stranger this year, and Scully’s hardly his type. He shouldn’t be sleeping with coworkers anyway, it’s never worth the trouble and the FBI is full of people who are paid to do nothing but sniff out secrets. Besides, he is now 32 years old which is really about time to start getting your shit together even if your baby sister was abducted by aliens at Thanksgiving. Mulder generally holds the holidays in low regard. He pauses to watch a small flock of cats at an upended trash can, feasting upon pungent things like battlefield ravens. One of the cats glances at him sidelong, narrowing round yellow eyes as though Mulder has designs on the gray thing it’s gnawing at. He holds his hands up to show the cats he wishes them no harm, keeps walking. Scully had offered to drive him home but he thanked her and caught the blue line, the clank and rattle of the train making him feel like some variety of normal businessman. Maybe people thought he was a banker or a Congressional staffer, going home to a twinkling Douglas fir and a mantle hung with stockings. Nine months and a broken condom can, in many circumstances, result in a whole new person. But it’s been nine months with Scully and she’s still her own woman, though Christ knows Mulder’s tried to remake her in his own image. She’s trudged alongside him through graveyards, military bases, bad diners, and one memorable night in Pennsylvania where she had captured a frantic bat in the hotel lobby. (“Do you want to wait for it to take human form before I release it?” she’d asked drily.) Through all of it she remained disbelieving and supercilious, leaving him vexed. She’d chirped “Merry Christmas, Mulder” at him, assuming that he celebrated Christmas and was capable of merriment. He was afraid Scully’d bring in a little Charlie Brown tree for the office, ornaments smooth and shining as her earnest face. She is skeptical in all the wrong ways and probably has the Michael Bolton Christmas album on her stereo at this very moment. She probably has eggnog in the fridge and will drink it without rum. She probably likes fruitcake and ham with pineapple rings on it. Mulder, going home to the shadows of his apartment where he might listen to Pink Floyd and nurse his resentment with three fingers of whiskey, feels justified in his scorn. A couple loaded with gifts pushes past him and he nearly loses his balance on a patch of black ice, clutches at a lamp post. He gazes up at the endless sky as snow begins to fall again. (Scully’s probably delighted by the prospect of a white Christmas, probably whistling a few bars of the song as she puts on a green sweater.) But he’s being unfair, isn’t he? For all her tattling back to the higher ups, she’s never tried to present herself as an angel. Her primary fault is in not being Diana, not being a tall dark moon goddess. Being pretty rather than beautiful, being frank rather than alluring. He’s seen her smoking a couple of times, discovered that she says “Jesus!” a lot so that she doesn’t say “fuck” or “shit.” This amuses him; he thought the blasphemy would be worse. He knows Scully watches what she eats but turns to carbohydrates and wine in times of stress. He found out she was sleeping with that asshole Jack Willis, which really threw him for a loop because Scully has a schoolteacherish quality that led him to presume premarital abstinence. He thinks of her in that first motel room, her smooth back beneath his hands, her panic turning on some masculine caveman switch. It’s been a long year, perhaps she could be his type after all despite her sensible underwear. She’s attractive enough if you like that sort of Hibernian look. He can tell she’s a bit awed by him and he could manipulate that to his advantage. Mulder walks the last slushy block thinking impious thoughts about Catholic school uniforms and playing doctor. The honeycomb tile of his building is muddied, layered with fragments of leaves and footprints. A radio blares something about Barbra Streisand doing her first live concert in twenty years. Mulder shakes his head and imagines his mother on the Vineyard, frothing with excitement. “Merry Christmas Agent Mulder,” says Leo, the maintenance guy. Leo’s got some kind of intellectual disability that Mulder hasn’t bothered to diagnose, but he’s always quick to replace a kicked-in lock or a shot-out window, and Mulder therefore regards him as a master craftsman. He gives Leo money every year at Christmas. At present he’s attacking the hallway sludge with an ancient mop. “Merry Christmas, Leo.” He gets his mail, sorting through it as he ambles to the elevator. Bill; bill; Playboy; Christmas cards from his doctor, dentist, and insurance agent; coupons; a thick manila envelope from the divorce attorney. Mulder rolls it all into a bundle and shoves it under his arm. He’s fumbling with his keys when the elevator deposits him on the fourth floor. There are wreaths on most of the doors in his building, a handful of mezuzas. Number 42, as usual, conforms to no given standard. He stops when he sees Scully leaning against his door. “Um,” he says. “Hey.” She waves her fingertips, looking uncomfortable. She’s holding a cardboard FedEx envelope. “I forgot to give you this before you left.” “Okay,” he says, uncertain about the idea of Scully on his turf. “Hang on a sec.” He makes sure the packet from the lawyer is hidden, though she’s probably heard the whole story. He knows what the talk is. They all act like he’s John fucking Douglas, like he can guess what number they’re thinking of based on how they part their hair. He’s a sideshow act, the guy who can think like John Roche and Monty Props. A freak. Scully turns to slouch against the wall while he jiggles the latest lock open, wishing there were a convenient place to stash a can of WD-40. “So, uh, come on in, I guess.” She turns, walks under his arm as he hold the door open, and stands in the entryway. The door clicks shut behind him, a final sound. Mulder puts his mail on the kitchen counter, tossing his coat over it. “You want anything to drink?” he calls to her, unsure if he can make good on the offer. What the hell does Scully drink? Tea? Zima? He’s got a few beers in the fridge, his wife’s wine is long finished. “No, I’m good.” Her coat’s draped over her arm when he comes back out, and he hangs it up for her. He notices that she’s wearing jeans with a navy cable-knit sweater, no tartan in sight. Her boots are dark and practical. Mulder shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie out of its regulation noose. “Here, sit down. There’s, uh, the couch is right over there.” His couch is the atramentous green of algae, appearing black in the close room. “So what’s up?” She holds out the folder to him. “I realized I had this when I got home and since it’s a three day weekend, I wanted to make sure you had it. I thought it might be important.” Scully sits down close to the edge of the couch, much of her weight on her knees. She presses her hands together between them after Mulder takes the envelope, bouncing a little bit. He looks at the return address and groans. Arlinsky, that idiot from the Smithsonian. Mulder’s got enough credibility issues without this nutcase on his tail. He tosses the envelope on his cluttered desk for later perusal. Scully, as the messenger, looks apologetic. “Bad news?” He sits next to her, why not? “Nah, just…you know. The usual.” “Ah.” He watches her do a quick scan of his apartment. He has nothing to be ashamed of, she can look around. Mulder removes his tie completely now, untucks his shirt and leans into the corner of his couch. “So I’m surprised you’re here, Scully. I got the impression Christmas was a…thing. For your family.” He waves his hand vaguely, as though families are something he read about in a Margaret Mead article but never fully understood. Something closes in Scully’s face, which intrigues him. Discomfort usually comes with a good story, but he’ll tease it out of her later. She scratches her elbow, stalling. “I’m going to go by my parents’ house tomorrow.” “Not tonight? No big Scully celebration with stockings hung by the fire and cookies for Santa?” He has picked these ideas up from Oxford and Christmas music. Santa would probably prefer a cold longneck and some nachos. “My sister’s coming in tomorrow, she’s staying with my parents so they’re getting everything ready tonight. My younger brother and his family too, they’re getting in late.” Scully looks faintly guilty for this wealth of relatives. Which one of them are you avoiding, Dana? “Fun,” he says in a tone that he hopes is not sarcastic. Scully shrugs, picks at the cuff of her sweater. “Yeah, it’ll be good. I’ll get to see my niece and nephew. What about you? What are you doing?” “Oh, just…you know. Laying low.” He’s meeting up with the Gunmen for Chinese food and bootleg video games from some Japanese guy they know, but he’s not ready to tell Scully about them. In part because she might want to meet them and would end up charging Frohike with a sex crime. “Sounds good,” she says in a non-judgmental tone. “I could use some down time myself.” “Job wearing on you?” Going to wimp out and request a transfer? She puffs a breath of air out, pushes the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “No. Well, I mean, it’s hard. We travel so much, I didn’t do that before and it’s taking some adjustment.” Mulder drapes an arm over the back of the couch, wishing he could take his pants off and order a pizza. But he wants to know more about what drives her; Diana left him wary of unknown quantities, and this is his first opportunity to peer into Scully’s head. “Yeah, I guess they mostly shipped the cadavers to you before, huh? When you were doing doctor things?” He sees a slight narrowing of her eyes at this, the implication that she’s not a doctor now. The fact that she took it as an insult means it’s a vulnerability. “Mostly.” He decides to push it, being as he has home field advantage. “How come you decided to stop practicing medicine?” Scully sits up straight, her palms on the tops of her thighs. “I didn’t realize I had.” Prickly. “Oh, sorry, no offense. I just….you left your residency to join the FBI, right?” Faker, he knows her career trajectory down to the day. “My work as a Special Agent has always revolved around my background in forensic pathology. I just felt…called to the FBI as the place to best put those skills to use.” Called, religious imagery. Interesting. Her reply had a rehearsed sound, it’s something she’s repeated numerous times. Who gives her grief about being an FBI agent? A younger brother wouldn’t, would probably look up to that. Mom or Dad, most likely, though it could be one of the older siblings. He’d put his money on Dad or big brother based on the cold formality of her words. Both men are in the military, she’d speak to that. And big brother wasn’t mentioned as being in town, so Dad it is. He throws her a bone for revealing so much. “I’ve heard nothing but commendations.” “Thanks.” The appreciation seems genuine. “So what about you, Mulder? Why….this?” Scully holds her arms out like an orchestra conductor. The gesture encompasses his desk, the groaning bookshelves and fading newspaper clippings. Area 51, Reticulans, ectoplasm, and jackalopes. “Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible,” he quotes. “Feynman.” Scully knows her physicists. “It’s the perfect con, really. I figured out a way to get the federal government to pay for my hobbies.” He hopes that will satisfy her, but knows better. “Why is it your hobby?” Ah, Scully. You little investigator, you. “I’m a lousy knitter.” She smiles. “Because of your sister?” He steeples his fingertips, taps them against his chin. It’s tempting to blow her off, but he considers the implications of her presence. There was no reason to bring that letter by; she could have called and he could have told her to round-file it. She’s trying to build something between them, she’s looking past his annoyance with her assignment and he’s not going to slap her hand away on Christmas Eve. “Hold that thought,” he says. Mulder goes to the kitchen for the beers and the churchkey magnet stuck to the freezer. He checks for food, but a cursory examination reveals that Scully is going to have to make do with some brews. She’s peering into the fish tank when he returns, scrutinizing the inhabitants. “I think one of your mollies is pregnant,” she says. “That spotted one.” “Yeah, they’re prolific little cannibals. Here, Scully. Have a drink.” He holds the bottle out to her when she turns, watches her hesitate for an instant before accepting. “Thanks,” she says. “Though I probably shouldn’t.” She pops the lid off when he’s done with the opener. Takes a long drink. “So,” he says, returning to his seat on the couch. “Why do I spend my time looking for ET and yetis, right?” Scully rolls the bottle between her palms. “It’s hard for me to understand why someone with your abilities chooses to use those gifts this way.” Once she rides out this dogleg, Mulder thinks, she’ll go far in the Bureau with her careful diplomacy. “When my sister was…taken, it was the first time that none of the authority figures in my life had an answer. Not my parents, my teachers, the police…no one could tell me what had happened. Years went by and there was still no solution. People stopped thinking about it, you know? They just acted like she was gone and that’s all there was to it.” “But not you.” Her voice is gentle. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was a question with an answer, even if no one wanted to delve deeper into what that answer was. I became, well, obsessed with the idea that there were all of these mysteries out there with answers that people were uncomfortable finding. So when I found the X-Files…” He glances sidelong at his partner, her nutmeg freckles and her cinnamon hair. “Isn’t that what you were doing already, though? Solving impossible cases?” He shrugs. “They weren’t impossible. They followed a pattern if you knew what to look for. But what I do now, no one wants the answer, Scully. That’s the real challenge.” “You caught Monty Props. Props, Jesus, that case is legendary! I want to understand, I do. I see what you’re saying about the challenge, it does make a kind of sense. But when I think about the people you stopped…” She shakes her head. She doesn’t get it. But she’s trying instead of dismissing him. That’s something. “That’s just it. Your reaction, it’s…look. Serial killers, they’re sexy. The public loves them. Everyone wants to be Bill Patterson or, or… Jack Crawford, right? People still read about Jack the Ripper, they practically turn these psychopaths into folk heroes. There will never be a shortage of people wanting to do what I did.” Half the beer is gone in his next swallow. Scully looks thoughtful, her thumbnail at the damp corner of the label on her bottle. “So this is like, what? Like a martyr thing? If you walk away from the limelight for this then it makes up for never knowing what happened to your sister?” She turns her head to give him a level gaze, her eyes so blue and clear they seem artificial at times. He’s been called worse than a martyr, but somehow it stings. “Martyr? That’s condescending.” “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. I just, I guess it’s hard for me to understand what you hope to gain. What all this means to you in the end.” Mulder’s had enough of her analysis. “I’m not like you, I don’t crave approval.” It’s her turn to look stung. “I didn’t mean to pry.” He sighs. “Your questions aren’t unfair. It’s been a hard year.” “I heard.” There’s sympathy in her tone and he tries not to resent it. “Listen, Scully, I know you didn’t ask for this assignment and you’re doing your best with a bad hand. It’s just hard to share a career I’m passionate about with someone who pretty clearly thinks it’s a waste of time.” Scully sets her beer on the coffee table, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands cupped around her chin. Mulder props his feet up next to her bottle, patient in the silence. There are deep shadows in the room, illuminated by the ambient streetlight through the curtains, the cool blue aquarium lamp. Puddles of light leak from the kitchen, but they barely stain the rug. Scully looks like a Hitchcock girl, white and pure, untouched by the surrounding gloom. She reminds him of Ingrid Bergman or Greta Garbo, her good bones and heavy-lidded eyes. “You know,” Scully says, muffled, “Pathology’s hardly the hottest specialty in med school. It’s not really seen as a place to make a career.” “The malpractice can’t be bad though, right?” She rolls her eyes. “You spend years of your life learning to care for the living and use it to examine the dead. People have…opinions about that.” This had not occurred to him, and he says as much. Scully sits up and settles back into the couch. “And to then take that to the FBI, well…” Full circle to the truth. “Lots of grief for that?” She shrugs. “From some more than others. My dad, he – look, Mulder. I’m not saying we’re in the same place or have the same ideas or that we’re both noble misunderstood renegades. I am not trying to oversimplify anything. I’m just telling you that I know what it’s like to care deeply about something that other people don’t necessarily understand.” She looks defensive after this, takes a fierce swig of her beer. Mulder eyes her up with a new appreciation. “I guess I just figured all doctors sit on pedestals.” “If so, some of the pedestals are much higher than others. I know you don’t like me, Mulder. Or at least you don’t like our partnership. We may never be friends, I realize that. But it’s been three quarters of a year, you have to let your guard down if we’re going to work together. I want what you want, answers to these questions.” He smiles at her. A real smile, and thinks that it’s been a long time since he’s done it. “But you still think I’m spooky.” Scully smiles back. “Absolutely. And I still don’t believe in aliens. Or yetis. Or missing time or vampires or Nessie. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe there are answers.” He scratches his chin, five o’clock shadow rough on his fingertips. Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor. “I did say I wanted a challenge.” “You did at that.” She returns her bottle to the table, then turns to face him. The aquarium provides a ghostly backlight, her hair gleaming like rubbed copper. He holds this image of Scully in his mind until it is indelible, then tucks it away to remember her by. The Rhetorica ad Herennium advises sensory encoding to aid in recall, and so he places her in the sunlit portrait gallery of his memory palace. Scully stands, crosses the room to take her coat from the rack. “I’m sorry the letter wasn’t good news.” Mulder gets up to join her. “It’s okay.” He squints when she opens the door, the hallway so bright it hurts his eyes. “Thanks for bringing it by.” “Okay, well, I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.” She seems hesitant to go. She probably feels sorry for him. “Thanks for the drink. And the company.” “Go,” he says. “You don’t want coal in your stocking for oversleeping tomorrow.” She laughs a little, then takes his hands in her small white ones. She gives them a squeeze. “This is going to be okay, Mulder.” He thinks she might be right, squeezes back. She lets go of him, walks out and turns right. He locks up behind her, her perfume still lingering on his side of the door. Diana’s not coming home. It’s time that he moved on.

#my fic #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #season 1 #new years eve

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alarawriting · 4 years

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The Cold At The Heart of the Light: Chapter One

I’ve decided I’ll post probably the first three chapters of this as I work on it. There’s currently six chapters written and the seventh is started; I have been planning about twelve of them.

This is gonna have to be edited a lot when I finish the whole thing -- it’s too goddamn long, for one thing -- but I can’t spend too much time editing the first draft when I’m not done with it.

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

As soon as the maid led me to the living room and I got my first look at the little girl, I could tell the child was dying. She was sitting on an overstuffed, white suede couch with brown fringy pillows all around her, at the back of a living room that looked like something out of House Beautiful, all tall wide windows and understated elegance in brown and beige and gold and white. She was maybe about seven, if her disease hadn’t undersized her, feet dangling off the couch and not moving. When children whose feet are dangling are not kicking those feet, and there is neither a book nor a TV nearby to explain the discrepancy, I can generally tell something is wrong. Her blonde curly wig was as expensive as the décor of her parents’ living room, but I’m an expert in these matters – I could tell the chemo had taken her hair. And her skin was dull and dry looking, her eyes vague and unfocused, her expression indrawn and blank, her small limbs painfully skinny. She showed all the signs of either being abused, drugged, or severely ill, and given that her father had called me in, I knew that at least it was the last. Probably the second as well. The pharmaceutical industry has never solved the problem of stopping children’s pain to my satisfaction (or, for that matter, the children’s.)

Her mother would have been an elegantly plastic politician’s wife if she hadn’t been sitting tensely at the edge of the sofa, arm around her daughter, clutching the child. Fear and anxiety make even women with $500 haircuts and botoxed foreheads seem human. I’d already forgotten the woman’s name; after checking over the daughter with a quick glance, I turned to focus on her father. Senator John Lightman, one of those politicians who manages to look “boyish” simply by being a thin dark-haired man in his prime when everyone else in the Senate is somewhere between 60 and dead, was walking toward me, reaching out a hand as if to shake it. I saw the look of puzzlement cross his face as he got a good look at me. “Are you…”

“Dr. Mystery?” I filled in the blank. “Yes, of course, I apologize. You couldn’t possibly recognize me like this.” I had arrived in a stock form, a middle-aged woman of average height, weight and appearance with blonde graying hair in a short fluffy do. I couldn’t very well drive around town in my working form, but now that I was here, it was time to shock and awe the mundanes. With a thought, I transformed.

When I first adopted this as my working form, it used to take me ten or twenty minutes in front of a mirror to get it just right, because it doesn’t look human enough for me to use DNA as a model anywhere – I have to brute-force it. But by this time I’d been doing it for so many years, it took only a few seconds. Changing doesn’t hurt – it feels like having a really good stretch, actually.

In a moment, I was six feet tall, simultaneously busty and thin, with the golden skin of an Academy award, iris-less purple eyes with cat pupils, and flame-red hair down to the small of my back. I wore a skin-tight black leather catsuit with no shoes, and modified pelvis and leg muscles so I looked like I was wearing high heels even though I was barefoot – an anatomic impossibility for other women, but there’s no point in having total control over your own flesh if you can’t use it to show off a little. To complete the costume I grew a white cotton labcoat over the catsuit; not exactly a cape, but the name is Doctor Mystery, not Ms. Mystery or Lady Mystery or Sexy Chick I’d Like To Do Mystery.

Being a supervillain’s all about the power and the respect. Back when my working form wasn’t quite so do-me hot, I actually used to get less respect as a villain, as if a woman couldn’t possibly really be all that mad, bad and dangerous to know if she doesn’t look like a supermodel. But when I do the catsuit without the lab coat, I get respect as a badass with dangerous powers and incredible fighting skills, not as a biomedical genius. Not that I’m not a badass with dangerous powers and incredible fighting skills, but I’m not a teen thug for hire anymore, I’m a bona fide mad scientist and I want people to remember that, dammit.

Mrs. Lightman’s eyes went wide, and she made a tiny little yelping noise and clutched her little girl… who rather than looking frightened, actually looked mildly interested for the first time since I’d arrived. Her dad was trying to hide it, but his lips had compressed as if he were trying not to bite them and there was just the tiniest tremor in his hands. I expected Mrs. Lightman’s reaction, but the Senator could have gone one of two ways – men usually react to me with fear or lust, or a combination. I didn’t think I saw lust in Senator Lightman, and when I took his hand and shook it, I confirmed it. He was on the verge of peeing his pants. I might have believed he wasn’t reacting with any lust because he really had eyes only for his wife, if he weren’t a politician. But I’ve known very few male politicians to be faithful, and even they couldn’t avoid being lustful. Senator Lightman was terrified of me because I was a Proxima and he was a Sapien-centric bigot. Also, probably, because I was a supervillain and a killer and I could drop him dead in a second, turn him inside out, make the skin melt off his flesh or give him cancer, just from the touch of his hand in mine. But I suspected I’d have gotten the same reaction if I’d been a member of the Peace Force, or even a Girl Scout with purple eyes and gold skin trying to sell him cookies. He hated my kind, but he needed me today.

And I intended to use his need to my people’s advantage.

“Introduce me to your family, Senator,” I said.

I felt his adrenaline spike through the skin connection of our clasped hands, but he managed not to show it. He let go of me. “This is my wife, Dot, and our daughter Mindy. She’s eight.”

I walked over to Mindy and knelt down in front of her, prompting more tension and white knuckles from her mother clasping her. “Hello, Mindy,” I said.

“Hi,” she mumbled.

“Do you know who I am?”

“My daddy says you’re some kind of super doctor.”

Super doctor. I liked that. “He’s right. I’m here to help you. I imagine you’ve gotten real tired of being sick.”

She smiled wanly. “Yeah.”

“Let me have your hands.”

“Will it hurt?” Her tone was tired and apathetic, as if it didn’t really matter if it was going to hurt or not. I suspected it was more resignation than apathy.

“Not at all.” I smiled at her. “I’m a super doctor, remember? It doesn’t hurt if I don’t want it to.”

She gave me her small hands and I clasped them in mine. I can’t entirely describe what I feel when I examine a living creature, not in terms that refer to the senses everyone else has. It’s like feeling a symphony or hearing a tapestry. Everything is very complex and interrelated, and I get signals from thousands of processes in the body, but it all melds together into a single big picture. The big picture here was that Mindy’s body was attacking itself. Her bone marrow was busily churning out cancerous white blood cells that didn’t work, filling her bloodstream with useless cells that crowded out and starved the working, useful ones. The pain signals were overwhelming even with the drugs trying to mask them, and the drugs themselves were dulling her mind as much as the fatigue and weakness from the disease.

Like many terminally ill children, she was quiet and accepting, which is constantly mistaken in glurgy human interest stories about terminally ill children for bravery. Children who go out with scarves on their bald heads and run lemonade stands to raise money to research and cure their own illnesses are brave. Children who are too tired to feel fear and have been living with a disease too long to cry about it are just normal human beings. Mindy was a normal human being, and her leukemia was also perfectly normal, something I’d dealt with a hundred times before.

I closed my eyes so I could focus better on Mindy’s internal world. First I triggered the release of endorphins into her bloodstream to mask any pain caused by what I was about to do. The human body rebels against my power, seeing my authority as a violation of its autonomy, and frequently reacts by tattling to the brain about it in a way that the mind perceives as agonizing, but unspecific, pain. As I told Mindy, though, no one feels pain in my hands unless I allow it. As soon as her body was saturated with endorphins and I’d shut down most of the internal sensory trunk lines to the brain, making her internally numb while leaving her ability to sense anything touching her skin, I swept my concentration through her body and killed every immature white blood cell she had. I then targeted the surviving mature white cells and forced them to rapidly replicate and mature, until she had almost a normal white blood cell count and they all worked correctly.

To finish off, I blocked the drugs that hadn’t been working so well anyway, turned the internal nerves back on, and filled Mindy with a combination of endorphin and oxytocin, and other hormones designed to make people feel good. This particular cocktail wouldn’t have sexual effects – Mindy’s brain lacked some of the structures needed to process that, yet, and I always took great care with children not to do anything inappropriate to their age. After what my own father did to me… well, I may be a supervillain, but I am not a child molester, and that makes me better than he was. What I was going for – what I always gave the children I treated – can be best described, if you remember being a kid, as the excitement from knowing you’re about to go to an amusement park, coupled with the pleasure you get from eating ice cream, and all that combined with the warm snuggly feeling you get when you’re cuddled with your parents. Mindy wouldn’t know why, in the future, she looked forward to my visits and felt very warm and positive emotions toward me. She would just know that seeing Dr. Mystery would be the coolest thing ever, and just my presence would be more fun than any doctor’s office lollipop ever was.

Combine such warm and pleasant emotions with the freakish physical appearance of an obvious Proxima, and Mindy would not grow up to share her dad’s bigotry, even if he tried to teach it to her.

“Mindy?” Dot Lightman asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Are you all right?”

Mindy lifted her head. Her skin didn’t look any better, of course – I hadn’t done any cosmetic work – but her eyes were refocusing, turning bright and engaged. “Mommy? I feel good, Mommy. I think the doctor fixed me!”

With my endorphin cocktail chasing away her fatigue temporarily, she leapt to her feet. “Thank you, Super Doctor Mystery! I feel all better!” She twirled around, perhaps to prove to all of us that she was fully healed… and stumbled. “Whoa, dizzy!”

“Slow up there, kiddo,” I said. “You’re not cured. You feel a lot better and you’re going to be a lot better, but you’ve spent a couple of years being sick and you’re not going to be back to your full strength overnight. Take it easy.”

“Is she—is she going to be cured?” her mother asked, looking at me, her lower lip trembling.

“She’s much healthier, right now. But no, as I said, I haven’t cured her yet. I triggered a temporary remission and bolstered her immune system to compensate for what the disease did to it, so she needn’t suffer while she’s waiting for a full cure.” I turned to Senator Lightman. “To cure her, I’ll need to perform three treatments, about two months apart. The cost will be $8,000 per treatment. When we’re done, not only won’t she have leukemia, but the genetic potential for cancer will be purged from her system, so it will be very, very unlikely that she ever get any cancer-like disease again. Short of living on top of a radioactive landfill, of course, but you understand what I mean.”

“Oh, God….” Mrs. Lightman started to cry. “Oh, God, thank you…”

“Don’t cry, Mommy,” Mindy said, and gave her mom a hug. “It’s good news. Don’t cry.”

“I’m crying because I’m so happy,” Mrs. Lightman said.

“I—I don’t know what to say, Doctor. You have a deal. I’d pay anything to save Mindy’s life, and your prices… well, they’re much more reasonable than I was led to assume. I’d pay more than that for hospital treatments, even with the insurance.” I was pretty sure this was a fib – Senators get damn good health insurance. But of course Lightman belonged to the party that thought that health insurance was a privilege, not a right, and downplaying the high quality of his own state-sponsored insurance was probably a reflex by this point.

I smiled at him. “That’s because most of my payment is non-monetary.”

“Non-monetary?”

“Let’s go have a discussion, Senator. I imagine you must have a private office in this house somewhere?”

His wife gave me a hard-eyed look. I returned her look with an “oh, please” expression, just the slightest of eye rolls and sardonic smile. “There’s nothing you can say to me that you can’t say in front of my wife,” Lightman said, his voice hardening.

“Yes, there is,” I said, pleasantly. “You want to tell her all about it when we’re done talking, that’s your prerogative. But I am here to negotiate with a United States Senator, not a husband or a father.”

He stiffened. “All right,” he said slowly. “We can go downstairs to the den.”

“Is it—is it going to be all right?” Dot Lightman asked her husband.

“I don’t see that I have much choice, Dot,” he said. “She’s the only hope Mindy has. You know that.”

“Mommy? Can I play outside?”

“Sure. Sure thing,” Dot said, her voice breaking again. “I’ll play with you.”

“Don’t let her overexert herself,” I said. “As I said, she’s better, not cured, and even if she were cured she’d still need time to recover her energy. She wants to run around and play now because she’s not in pain, but she actually still does need to save her strength.”

“We’ll go for a walk,” Dot said. “How’s that sound, Mindy?”

“Sure, Mommy. We can do that.”

“The den is this way,” Senator Lightman said.

It was a typical suburban finished basement, not nearly as fancy looking as the living room, if you didn’t count the huge projection television. I perched on the still-nice-but-obviously-worn couch, sitting on the back of it. “Let’s get down to it, Senator,” I said. “You’re a member of the Committee to Analyze Parahuman Activity. You’re aware as well as I am that the United States government has been investigating or implementing various techniques to control or eliminate the Proxima population, including laws to create a registry for us as if we’re sex offenders, black ops soldiers with power suits to hunt us down, attempting to find cures for us like we’re a disease, secret databases being maintained in an attempt to identify us in the absence of a registry law… so on and so forth.” I didn’t mention the biowarfare; people who didn’t live through being imprisoned in a government research facility and watching others being injected with various tailored viruses have a tendency to assume that government biowarfare is the stuff of paranoid conspiracy theories, and I doubted anyone had actually let Congress know what was going on there. The others, I was pretty sure he’d been briefed on, if not actively involved with. “And you’re an active supporter of the Human Definition Amendment, which would deprive us of any human rights whatsoever on the basis of junk science.”

The faintest beading of sweat broke out on his forehead. “The United States government hasn’t taken any illegal actions to ‘control’ the Proxima population, as you put it, and certainly not to eliminate you. You must understand, however, that we do have the right and the duty to protect normal humans from people like…”

He hesitated just a moment too long. “Me?”

“I was going to say, people like Caesar Primus or Optometron. But if the rumors about your activities are true, then yes, you. Weren’t you some sort of assassin? An enforcer for a drug lord?”

While technically the description was almost true, the idea of describing David as a “drug lord” almost made me laugh. Almost. I don’t actually have a lot of a sense of humor when it comes to David. “And I was rehabilitated by the Peace Force and today I’m a fine, upstanding citizen who cures little girls of leukemia,” I said.

“That isn’t a lot of comfort to the families of the people you killed.”

“Maybe not. But if I’d been killed by American soldiers in power suits then, your daughter would be out of luck now, wouldn’t she?” I slid off the back of the couch and paced around him. “And this isn’t about me. How many people were saved when the Irregulars stopped that second plane from crashing into the Trade Towers? When they held up the collapsing building so the firefighters could get out? When the Peace Force shored up the levees in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina so the city didn’t flood, or when Maui’s volcano went active and they shut it down again?” The Senator didn’t actually need to know that was a plot of Professor Octohedron’s, if he didn’t already. The Peace Force hadn’t actually broadcast the fact that the disaster had been caused by a Proxima in the first place; I only knew about it because Octohedron continued to believe that he could get into my pants if only he could impress me enough, and he hadn’t actually ever managed to figure out that I wasn’t impressed by grandiose plots to take over the world by threatening to activate volcanoes. “You might owe your life to a Proxima. You are about to owe your daughter’s life. So I want your support for our basic human rights. Oppose the Parahuman Registry, oppose the research to kill us or break us of our powers, and oppose the Human Definition Amendment.”

“The Human Definition Amendment isn’t designed to take away your human rights,” he said. “It’s designed to clarify the rights you do have. I mean, there have to be different ways to handle you people vs. the rest of us. Remember when the ACLU sued on behalf of the Heat Miser? They said that it was cruel and unusual punishment to keep him continuously drugged in prison. And as soon as they won and the drugs were withdrawn, his powers came back and he burned the prison down. 700 people were killed, over 100 guards and the rest of them human inmates, who’d been sentenced to serve time in jail for their crimes, not to burn to death.”

“Then you redefine cruel and unusual punishment to state that methods intended to block Proximas from using superhuman powers to escape from prison are not cruel and are perfectly usual. Passing an amendment to the Constitution that declares that Proximas aren’t human is overkill.”

“It actually declares that humans belong to the subspecies Homo sapiens sapiens, and that the law should not be automatically extended to grant human rights to people who can destroy our entire planet with a thought just because some bleeding heart doesn’t think they deserve to go to jail for killing hundreds of people.”

“Yes, and by declaring that Homo sapiens promixus does not automatically count as human, it effectively says that we’re not, and we can be shot on sight with no one but the ASPCA to worry about our murders, let alone suffer discrimination in every part of our lives. You do not live with the reality of what being defined as non-human means, Senator. I do.”

“And you, Doctor, don’t live with the reality of inhabiting a world filled with creatures who can kill you with a thought, steal everything you own, destroy your home without even touching it, or make you believe that up is down and black is white.”

I could argue that last point, if I wanted to be a smartass – I lived in the world where there was conservative talk radio, and it had convinced any number of people that up was down and black was white. But that would be sidetracking. “True. But you’re so focused on perceiving yourself as a victim of the existence of Proximas that you’ve given no thought to what it would be like to be one of us. And you really should. Because you have a child, Senator, and she is too young to be confirmed as Sapien or Proxima. You don’t know what she is, and you’re just assuming she’s Sapien. What if she’s Proxima?”

He blinked. “Well, of course I—but she doesn’t have anything in her background – I mean neither her mother nor I have anything unusual, genetically—“

“No one knows what’s causing the sudden explosion in powered humans, Senator, but we do know that it’s some type of mutation. 90% of Proximas have parents who were Sapien. And the number is that low only because some of us have started having kids. If your daughter was a Proxima with two fully Sapien parents, she’d be in the same boat as most Proximas. Including me. So you really need to think about it.”

“Well, I – I certainly wouldn’t treat Mindy any differently if she were – but if she were, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t check for it. But I could, yes.”

“Well, if she turned out to be, you could just fix it, right? As part of the treatment?”

I stared at him as if I’d just found him on my shoe. “Of course I could. And if she was black, I could make her white and blonde and blue-eyed. And I could change her into a boy if you decided you really wanted a son. Have you any idea how offensive what you just said is?”

“I – I didn’t mean to give offense. I just want Mindy to have a normal life.”

“Most Proximas do. I don't look like this all the time, Senator. When I'm not treating hopeless cases, I live in a nice little townhouse, with two cats and a cockatiel. I go dancing with men friends on weekends, I buy groceries, I do my laundry. I choose to look like this when I'm treating people like your daughter, because I have no desire to be kidnapped and pressed into the service of crime lords or the government."

"Why would the government kidnap you? Proximas have rights. If you’ve served your time for your previous crimes, and committed no new ones--"

"--I would still have the power to make old men young, cure impotence and infertility, heal disease and scarring, change people's appearances... come on now, Senator, don't be naive. If you had a way to make me heal your daughter without paying my price, you'd do it. And I think you're basically a good man, who’s concerned for the child he loves. Can you say none of your colleagues would want me to heal them? To restore lost youth, or whatever they had lost?" I thought of the white room then, the snipers with guns outside ready to blow my head off if the important old men screaming under my hands didn’t get up and walk free completely healed when I was done. Never again.

"I... suppose power corrupts. There are some bad elements in any system, but that doesn't mean the system is evil."

"I didn’t say the system was evil. I said it’s not designed to protect people like me. And if you and your fellows have their way, it’ll be even harder for me to live a normal, safe life.” I shook my head. "We're sidetracking. If Mindy turns out to be a Proxima, she could still have an entirely normal and happy life, so long as you didn't reject her for it and the government didn't kill her for it."

"I would never reject Mindy. No matter what. If-- if she was a parahuman--"

"Then your opinions on appropriate treatment of Proximas would be rather different, wouldn't they?"

He sighed. “Look, I have a constituency, Doctor Mystery. They elected me into office to protect them and serve them, and they have ideas as to what constitutes doing that. If I do something that they don’t approve of, I won’t have the power they’ve given me for very long.”

I flopped down on his couch again. “Oh, baloney. You mean that if you can’t fearmonger about hidden Proximas living among us and the draconian measures the Daddy State will take under your watch to protect the poor scared soccer moms and NASCAR dads, you can’t get elected.” I sat up and leaned forward. “It’s all bullshit. The tide of history always favors greater human rights, greater freedoms, greater protections for minorities vs. mobs. And it always works out better in the end that way. I understand that you have to protect yourself from lunatics who shoot death rays out of their elbows, but you know, you also have to protect yourself from lunatics who break into the McDonalds’ with a gun and start shooting people, and somehow it was your party who decided it was an unacceptable infringement on your freedom to hunt, shoot intruders, and generally feel like manly men to make people undergo background checks to get assault weapons.”

“The Constitution guarantees the right to bear arms.”

“The Constitution wouldn’t say that if you passed an amendment redefining a ‘well-regulated militia’ as the National Guard. Which I’m not saying you should. I’m in favor of your right to protect yourself with a gun. I’m in favor of your right to shoot animals for fun if you feel like it; I’m a Darwinist and you’re a predator. It’s in your genes. Go shoot deer if you want. But the Constitution currently states that I am a human being, because it doesn’t say that I’m not, and I was born in the United States to two human beings, share 99.9% of my DNA with you, speak your language, look like you, and have sex with you. Well, not you personally, but Sapiens men. So if it’s so vitally important to preserve the right to bear arms, because it’s in the Constitution, that it’s okay to let sociopaths get guns and shoot up college campuses, then it is vastly more important to make sure that every child born in this country to human parents is defined as human.

“If you pass this Definition of Humanity amendment in order to protect your constituency, and Mindy turns out to be a Proxima, then she can be raped and her rapist could be charged with bestiality at best, because she wouldn’t be legally a child who can be molested, she’d be legally an animal. She could be killed, and the most her killer could be charged with is animal cruelty. No school would have to take her, no hospital would have to treat her diseases, no restaurant would have to let her in to eat with you. You would have to fight a battle to get her treated in a way that you humans take for granted, every time. Want her to die in a car accident because the paramedics didn’t want to treat a Proxima? Want her to die in a fire because the firefighters didn’t want to risk themselves going into a burning building for someone who isn’t even human? There are better ways to defend Sapiens than making it legally open season on us.”

“But you’re against those too. The Parahuman Registry would allow us to track dangerous people without having to deprive any of you of basic civil rights.”

“Except I’ve never heard of a version of it suggesting that only parahuman criminals be added to the registry.”

“Well, dangerous parahumans haven’t necessarily committed crimes yet. But for instance, if your next door neighbor turns up dead of a heart attack and everyone knows you were fighting with him, isn’t it important that the police know you have the power to stop people’s hearts by touching them?”

“If your next door neighbor has a gun, isn’t it important that you know about it so you can keep your daughter from playing in his yard?”

“Most gun owners are law abiding citizens, and if someone is killed with a gun we already have laws on the books to help the police track down the killer. If someone is killed with a superpower, we wouldn’t even necessarily know to look for a superpower.”

“So educate the cops better on superpowers. Most Proximas are law abiding citizens. If you kill your neighbor by hitting him over the head with a frying pan, does that mean you needed to be on some sort of registry of frying pan owners?” I started pacing again. “It’s irrelevant in any case. I don’t care what your personal beliefs are. I care that you love your daughter and want her to be healthy.”

“So you’re blackmailing me.”

“Blackmail? I’m demanding payment. When your campaign contributors give you money for re-election, they’re not blackmailing you to expect that you’re going to show them some quid pro quo. I’m offering you something far, far more valuable than a few dollars in your re-election coffers; I’m offering you your daughter’s life and health. I think expecting a little quid pro quo is not unreasonable.”

“And what if I refused? Would you let her die?”

At one point that would have been a tough one; in this line of work you have to appear to be compassionate, but you also have to be tough or the patients will walk all over you. I had had plenty of experience dealing with this particular conundrum, though. “Do you know what I did for Mindy today? Do you understand her disease at all?”

“I don’t know what you did, no. You keep saying you made her better but you didn’t cure her. But I do know something about her disease. The doctors tell me that she’s making too many white blood cells, and it’s crowding out and killing the rest of her blood.”

“Close. They’re immature, cancerous blood cells, so they don’t work to protect her from disease the way mature white blood cells would. This lowers her general immunity, and yes, it clogs up her bloodstream and takes resource away from working cells. What I did today was to kill all the immature cells and regenerate some of the mature ones. She still has leukemia; she’s still making too many immature cells. Without a full treatment that will never stop. What I’ve done is to ease her symptoms. Until she builds up too many immature cells again, she’ll feel better.” I leaned on the wall, arms folded. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this every six months and never actually curing her. She’ll feel better, and she’ll have a happy, normal life, as long as she gets her treatments on time. The one time she misses a treatment, though – maybe because the government kidnapped me, arrested me, killed me or took my powers away – she’ll have full-blown leukemia again, and within a year or two she’ll die.” I pushed off the wall. “So you can support me up front because it’s the right thing to do for the person who gave you back your daughter’s life, or you can hedge and haw and refuse to get with my program, and if so your daughter will be well for exactly as long as I am able to continue treating her. The very laws you want to pass that will harm me, will block my ability to heal her sooner or later, and then she’ll die, and it’ll be your fault.”

“And how do I know that if I promise to do as you ask, you really will heal Mindy and you won’t just do what you just said?”

“How do I know that if I really heal Mindy, you won’t go back on your word and start pushing for the Human Definition Amendment again? It’s a matter of trust, Senator. You trust me, I trust you. Or you don’t trust me, I don’t trust you. Tit for tat. What’s it going to be?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to just rubber stamp your suggestions. Even if that was the right thing to do for my constituency, and it’s not. I’m going to study the situation and try to do the best thing to protect my people and yours. You can accept that or not.”

“All right, I’ll accept that, with one caveat. The Human Definition Amendment is totally off-limits. You can switch your support to the Inclusive Humanity Amendment, or just drop your support of Human Definition, but if you don’t publicly do one or the other within the month Mindy does not get fully cured. The other stuff, do the studies you want to do, but I think you’ll find that when you look at Proximas as if we are people and not weird animal things with superpowers, you’ll find it a lot easier to come up with ways to help protect your kind without harming mine.”

Lightman nodded. “All right, Doctor. Then we have a deal. When do you want to perform the first treatment?”

“If you’ve got $8,000 lying around in a checking account, we can do it today.”

“I do. Who do I make the check out to? I don’t imagine you can cash a check made out to Doctor Mystery.”

“Make it out to Miracle of Life, LLC.” I had about twenty-seven of these shell companies I used to funnel my various payments through, since even Senators typically had a hard time coming up with $8,000 in small unmarked bills on short notice, and a girl’s gotta eat. Playing politics is all well and good, but I needed to cover the mortgage and the gas money for my various trips to clients, plus the funds for my various Activities of Mad Science. Just because you can manipulate any organic tissue with a touch, doesn’t mean you get your beakers and retorts and Petri dishes for free. “Let’s go upstairs. I’m sure Mindy is eager to begin freeing herself from this disease.”

“Of course.”

At the top of the stairs, I reached out for his hand. Too afraid of giving offense to refuse me, he took it, and I shook with him. “Pleasure doing business with you, Senator. Go call your daughter in, give me a check and we’ll do this thing.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mystery. I may not entirely approve of your politics, but thank you for giving my daughter back her life.”

He wouldn’t be thanking me so much if he had known I’d just planted a tiny clump of slow-growing cancerous cells deep in his brain. It’d be a year from now before he started feeling any symptoms, and that would land in the middle of his re-election campaign. If he did what I wanted after I finished healing his daughter and we were on good terms, I’d find some excuse to come by and heal him or prune it down again. If not… there was a reason I was a feared supervillain even though most people knew me, if they knew me at all, as some kind of uber-doctor. You didn’t double-cross Dr. Mystery and survive it. Ever.

Well, unless you were Dr. Suryabati Chandrasekhar. Then you got any number of free passes.

***

The truth was, I was being something of a hypocrite.

I was offended at Lightman’s suggestion that I make his daughter a Sapiens if she turned out to be a Proxima, but not for the reason I told him. The difference between a Proxima becoming a Sapien and a Sapien becoming Proxima isn’t the difference between black changing to white or male changing to female. The difference was described by Plato as a man raised in the darkness leaving the cave to see the light of the sun, vs. a man raised in the sunlight doomed to spend the rest of his life in a cave. Making a Proxima a Sapiens is like giving someone a lobotomy, or a clitoridectomy, or binding her feet until she can’t walk. It’s an obscenity, a Harrison Bergeron nightmare of breaking the best down to the level of the mediocre, taking away a birthright one was born with.

Making a Sapien a Proxima is, on the other hand, one of my great callings in life.

Mindy Lightman wasn’t a Proxima before I touched her. But she would be, before I was done. I did a preliminary assessment of her DNA while I was performing the first treatment, and I stored a small amount of her cellular matter in a pocket under the skin of my hand, to study at length later. I’d determine how much energy her mitochondria could supply her and which latent powers-complex genes she had, and which powers they were likely to ignite into. If she had something distressing, like death touch or world-shattering TK or the gene for turning blue, I’d edit the complex over the next two sessions into something more palatable for the child of a public figure, something frilly and unthreatening. Maybe the ability to make pretty light shows, or fly. Most flyers loved it, and it didn’t seem to frighten Sapiens as much as some other powers did.

When I left the Lightmans’, now back in my middle-aged lady persona, I headed first to the bank to deposit the check. Senators whose daughter’s lives are on the line don’t give me checks that bounce, but they do take time to clear, so the sooner I got it in, the better. And then I dumped the rental car at the airport, changed form in the bathroom, and got on the Metro to head back home.

****

Science fact: There is only one gene that determines the difference between a Sapiens and a Proxima.

To most people this seems insane. Proximas come in an entire extra range of colors besides the human norm, have powers ordinary humans can only dream of, and get energy to fuel these powers from a source that is frankly incomprehensible. We just have to be a separate species, in most people’s minds. When Proximas were first discovered, there was a huge push to label us a fully separate species – Homo superior (thankfully, that one got shot down real fast) or Homo proximus, “the man who comes next.” Scientists – not me at the time, since I was too young, but reputable geneticists and biologists – had to constantly point out that the definition of a species is that they cannot viably interbreed. The children of superpowered and ordinary humans were themselves perfectly fertile. Ergo, we cannot be a separate species.

But we hadn’t mapped the genome then, and we didn’t know exactly why Proximas had powers. So scientists made, in my opinion, a mistake. They agreed to classify us as a separate sub-species.

You’ve grown up being told that you are Homo sapiens. What you might not know is that technically, if you’re not a parahuman, you are actually Homo sapiens sapiens. There were several other subspecies of humans, all extinct, such as Homo sapiens idaltu (elderly wise man). It is still scientific nonsense to call us a subspecies, when we’re only different by one gene – to put this in perspective, parents and children differ by many, many more than one gene – and in fact the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature keeps debating changing it to Homo sapiens sapiens proximus or dropping the designate proximus entirely. But the scientific evidence that we aren’t even a separate subspecies gets even less play in the media than studies that show that men and women are alike, if such a thing is possible. And at least the Homo sapiens proximus nomenclature reinforces that we are of the human species.

The trouble is, most people don’t know that the true name of Homo sapiens is actually Homo sapiens sapiens. So when they hear the short designators – Sapiens vs. Proxima – they assume that our species is Homo proximus. We’re widely believed to be an entirely separate species, and it doesn’t help that high-profile supervillains like Caesar Primus (who is 2,000 years old and knows as much as any Roman gladiator about science, which is to say, diddly jack), or Professor Octohedron (a brilliant physicist and inventor, but he knows about as much biology as I know about fixing my car, and let me put it this way, the last time I ended up dead on the side of the road I needed a friendly dude passing by to tell me I’d run out of oil) are constantly spouting off about how we are a new, superior species. Informed laypeople and doctors usually know better, but the truth – that we are different by only one gene – is so appallingly counterintuitive that you almost need to be a geneticist or an evolutionary biologist to get it.

But here’s the truth.

The human genome is packed with genes that don’t do anything. Most come from our evolutionary history. You may have heard that we are less than 1% genetically different from chimpanzees. That 1% consists mostly of control genes, which govern when, how and if the other genes turn on.

It turns out that some of those genes generate superpowers, under the right conditions. One of them turns melanin, the brown pigment of humans, blue in the presence of a hormone called catalysine. Others use catalysine to activate superhuman abilities. All humans carry some of these genes. But only a very, very tiny number – about 1 in 10,000 – have the gene that codes for the creation of catalysine.

Like testosterone, catalysine has two surges in a person’s life cycle. One is pre-natally. The amount generated is small and doesn’t pass the placental barrier, so no, pregnant women do not manifest superpowers when carrying a Proxima baby. That’s an urban myth. The surge pre-natally does little, usually, except to prepare the brain to control superpowers someday, creating a brain nucleus and appropriate wiring. In cases where the child has two Proxima genes – for example, the child of two Proxima parents-- the amount of catalysine created pre-natally might be enough to distort the child’s appearance, begin converting melanin into azurin, or awaken a low level of superpower.

When the child hits puberty, the same genes that turn on sex hormones turn on catalysine production. The superpowers appear, and wire up to the brain structures created in utero. If the child has the gene for azurin conversion, their pigment changes from brown to blue – so pale red-haired and blonde white children suddenly develop purple, green or blue hair, while brown-skinned children turn blue all over. (Azurin is also rare. Only about 5% of all people carry the gene for azurin production, and only Proximas ever display it. Non-Proximas with the azurin mutation never express it, and end up creating perfectly normal melanin, because they are never exposed to catalysine.)

The “power mitochondria” are another pan-human phenomenon that only expresses itself in Proximas. All living cells on Earth contain tiny organelles called mitochondria – practically separate living things, with their own DNA, they use oxygen and sugar to generate the chemical that powers all life, ATP. Power mitochondria vastly overproduce ATP, and no one knows where they get the energy to do it – it’s like they suck potential energy out of the universe and convert it to life force. But they do this only when activated by catalysine within the cell. About 1/3rd of humans have power mitochondria. In the presence of the Proxima gene, these people generate energy above and beyond what they take in from food and air, which is then consumed by their superpowers. Without power mitochondria, a Proxima must draw from their own life force to fuel their superpower, which makes their powers pretty weak. The exact same genes for telekinesis can code for a person that can lift 70 lbs with their mind with effort vs. a person who can lift an aircraft carrier out of the water and break it in half, depending on the presence and output of the power mitochondria. Since mitochondria are passed by the mother, Proximas who inherit their power from a powerful mother will always be very powerful themselves, whereas Proximas who inherit from a powerful Proxima father depend entirely on the hidden status of their mother for their own strength.

(Funny fact, here: when Proximas were first discovered, male Proximas freely dated, married and fathered children on human women, because our entire society says it’s okay for men to have wives who are weaker than they are. Proxima women, on the other hand, mostly stuck to their own kind. In the seven years since we discovered the role of the power mitochondria, we have seen a dramatic reversal in which powerful Proxima men will not marry or get serious with human women unless they consider themselves “childfree” or have had the human woman’s mitochondria analyzed for power status, and more and more Proxima women are dating Sapiens men.)

So most of what goes into making a Proxima is actually in a vast percentage of the human population – 30% have power mitochondria, pretty much all of them have powers-complex. It’s the presence of the single gene that codes for catalysine production that makes a person Proxima as opposed to Sapiens. My belief was that Proximas would not be safe from the fear and envy of Sapiens unless we were normalized. The more Proximas there were, the more the law would adapt to and accommodate us and our needs and the less we’d need to fear the mob of Sapiens out to kill or control us. So my primary work, since I became Dr. Mystery, had been to increase the number of Proximas by giving as many Sapiens the Proxima gene as I can.

In my early experiments, when I used uncontrolled methods like retroviruses to mutate people, there were high casualty rates. Sapiens adults whose brains have not been exposed to catalysine in utero can’t control whatever superpowers they develop if they suddenly start making catalysine. So I started working primarily with children, usually terminally or chronically ill children that I could get direct access to. My power can create new brain pathways, and in a child or teen, with a developing brain, I can do it transparently, with no one noticing. Adults cannot experience sudden brain growth and change without noticing that something’s wrong – memories suddenly becoming lost, well-developed skills becoming weaker, mood swings, etc—so I only alter adults into Proximas if they request it. I often modify women of child-bearing age so that all their eggs carry the Proxima gene, ensuring that they’ll give birth to Proximas if they ever have kids. It’s harder with men, because men are generating new sperm all the time – I’d have to alter the spermatogonia, and since they’re part of the body, the body’s immune system might notice that they are genetically different from the other cells and attack them, making the man infertile. So I only make men into Proxima-fathers if I have plenty of time to work with them and tweak their immune systems, if necessary – and if they’re likely to have kids. Gay men coming to me to save them from AIDS and 70-year-olds who don’t want to get Alzheimer’s are usually not worth modifying reproductively.

The Peace Force were aware of my work, and opposed it. They believed it was wrong of me to change people’s genes without their consent. Technically, maybe they were right, but come on, what sane person would object to having superpowers? The only reason anyone would not want to be a Proxima is the prejudice against us, and I was working on that too. So I had to maintain a low profile because every so often the Peace Force would take it into their heads to try to capture me. I’m pretty sure this wasn’t fully legal – I was pardoned for my activities as Megamorph by Bill Clinton (did you know that Hillary Clinton once had breast cancer? No? Well, neither does anyone else), and nothing illegal I’d done as Dr. Mystery could be proven in a court of law. But the law hadn’t caught up with Proxima abilities, so the Peace Force never overly concerned themselves with whether they could prove wrongdoing or not. Their mentor and leader, Dr. Suryabati Chandrasekhar, aka Doctor Sun, was a telepath, and if she said, “Bad guy! Go fetch!” they would jump like puppydogs after a thrown stick.

So I lived in Baltimore, in a townhome in the Woodberry neighborhood, on Television Hill, because living directly under the broadcast tower generated enough interference that Suri couldn’t find me telepathically. I’d have preferred Little Italy, or better yet, a real city like New York or Philly (and I’d come way down in the world, admitting that Philly is a real city), but New York was far too close to Suri, whose base of operations was in Manhattan, and a lot of my work was done with politicians, making Baltimore or DC more convenient than Philly. And DC had the Special Service, human police in power suits who patrolled to protect the Capitol from parahuman attack. I never felt safe in DC. My Woodberry home had civilians living on both sides and a children’s day care across the street, ensuring that the Peace Force couldn’t attack me in force – they’d know the threat to civilians from a power battle would be too great to risk it politically for my sake (and to be fair, most of them are goody-two-shoes hero types who wouldn’t risk civilians, especially preschool children, even if they had perfect political cover for the operation.) So I figured that if Suri ever found me, she’d still think twice about siccing her dogs on me.

Also, the Light Rail, Baltimore’s sad and pathetic substitute for a subway, had a stop near my home. I didn’t learn to drive until I was 28, and I still hated it with a passion. I was a Brooklyn girl – give me a city with buses and subways and railways, so I wouldn’t have to dodge hurtling chunks of death metal just to get where I was going. From DC’s Metro, after I dropped my rental car at the airport, I changed at Union Station to the Camden line, took it to the baseball stadium in Baltimore, and changed there for the Light Rail. This took far longer than a car would have, but didn’t involve me being isolated in a tiny box with no source of living organic matter other than my own flesh and facing careening metal boxes coming right for me. It also didn’t involve traffic jams, which are brutal on the DC Beltway. A short walk from my stop later, and I was home.

As I unlocked my front door, Brian the cockatiel chirped at me wildly, flapping his wings in his cage. I’m really proud of Brian – in some ways he’s my greatest work. He used to be a man, or the head of a man, who attempted to rape me once. The truly pathetic thing was that Brian had been a good-looking guy, wiry and blond, the way I like them, and if he’d been willing to wait half an hour I would happily have had sex with him. But he hadn’t wanted sex, he’d wanted rape – the only reason he dated women and went back to their houses with them, rather than jumping out of the bushes with a knife, was that he was a lawyer and knew that a handsome man with money who date rapes a woman will basically never, ever be convicted. People think rapists have to be hard up for sex, or have to somehow look evil – the idea that a handsome, charming guy who could get any woman he wanted would actually prefer to hold screaming women down and force them when he could get consensual sex with the exact same woman instead breaks people’s brains. They assume the woman must be lying, because what man who could get mutual fun would prefer to commit rape? No one wants to admit how common misogynistic sadists actually are or how normal they look.

I found out from Brian that he’d date-raped ten women before me, that only two had tried to press charges, and the cops had refused to take the charges in one case and upset the other one so badly with their disbelief that she’d dropped the charges. I found this out while I had him paralyzed but still able to feel sensation, his voice made too hoarse to do more than whisper no matter how much he suffered, on a cot in the basement. Over the course of the two weeks that I used him in experiments, he told me his entire life story, amidst lots of self-justifications, begging, pleading and promising to change his ways. Then I started turning his body parts into animals, bit by bit. The rats and mice I made of his arms and legs didn’t come out right, and they died. The cockroaches who used to be his testicles were actually very robust, but after the cat knocked over the terrarium I was keeping them in, I had to get an exterminator to kill them because who wants cockroaches in their house? I was actually quite sad when the puppy I made out of his guts wouldn’t wake up and live – sometimes they just won’t come alive no matter what I do. Living things are very complex, and it’s more an art than a science to do things like make life into different life.

Since at that point, Brian had no way to digest food or ingest water, and he was therefore only a day or two away from death, I finally put him out of his misery by turning his head into a cockatiel and his torso into an iguana, a gecko, and a handful of tropical fish. Nothing lived longer than a week except the cockatiel, which so far had lasted three years. I often wondered, since I’d used some of the original brain tissue in making Brian’s new cockatiel brain, if he had any dim sense that he used to be human.

I fed Brian a cracker, re-absorbed my shoes into my flesh, and took back my original human form before plopping down on the couch to relax and await my cats. My actual body was permanently frozen at about age 22 or so; I changed it so often, I’d never really had the opportunity to let it naturally age. I could have forced it up to 36, where I really was, if I had to, but why bother? No one was going to see me and think less of me for looking too childish. My natural form is about 5’4” and built like a gymnast – tiny breasts, thickly muscled legs and arms, a rounded and balanced body with a low center of gravity and nothing sticking way out of line with the rest of it. For gymnastics – my childhood passion – and for combat, it was a fantastic body, and I used it for years as Megamorph before it occurred to me that maybe I should hide my true face if I was going to be a criminal. For instantly commanding respect, making men drool and women envy, or sending the signal “I AM A SERIOUS CRIMINAL MASTERMIND”, it wasn’t so good. It was short, the face looked too young and soft (and too much like a young, soft Gillian Anderson – people in med school actually used to call me “Scully”), and a body perfectly proportioned for gymnastics or martial arts isn’t all that attractive by the psycho standards of our culture. But it was my body, and in my home, with the shades drawn and the security system on, I went back to it because it was me.

As I wiggled my toes on my shag carpet and then propped my feet up on my coffee table, I wondered where my cats were. They were well-fed cats, but their heightened metabolisms made them constantly hungry, and they knew I was a sucker for giving them treats when I’d first come home. Normally, they’d be leaping on me minutes after my arrival. This worried me. If I had accidentally shut them in the bedroom, Angelkitty would probably pee on my ceiling to express her displeasure and Pikachu might have destroyed my furniture with a few good lightning blasts by now.

My cats were also experiments. I’d been curious to see if the genetic structures I’d observed in other mammals that seemed related to the human powers-complex were in fact superpowers, so I got myself a pair of abandoned newborn kittens and in between the droppers of kitten formula (I really drew the line at making cat milk in my own breasts; those little things have teeth very early), I modified them to generate catalysine. The female promptly grew bird wings (which didn’t attach to the right spot on her back and were too small; she’d never have flown if I hadn’t heavily modified them for her), and the male developed the ability to shoot lightning out of his paws, so I named them Angelkitty and Pikachu. (Technically, if you have seen the Pokemon cartoon, which I admit I have, Pikachu is a mouse that shoots electricity, or something rodentlike anyway, but come on, there aren’t exactly any mythological figures of cats that shoot electricity.) Angelkitty’s a Siamese and Pikachu is mostly white with some orange. They don’t have power mitochondria – that does appear to be a human thing – so they eat like pigs. I could feed six ordinary cats off what my two eat, but they remain extraordinarily svelte, almost feral in their slimness. And so if they weren’t here to pester me for fish treats, something was wrong.

I got up and went out to the kitchen. To my relief, my cats were still noshing on their tuna fish, which amazingly it looked like they had barely touched before I came home. (I always fed them human food. Why not? I had the money to keep them in canned tuna rather than cat food, and they loved the stuff.) Pikachu looked up at me, gave me a meow that I interpreted as “Oh, you’re home, good,” and then went back to his meal.

Wait a minute. There was more food in the bowl than there had been when I said good-bye to them this morning. And it was beyond the realm of possibility that they’d left so much food untouched for so long, anyway. And the tuna looked fresh out of the can. So how—

“I was wondering when you were going to get home,” a woman’s voice said behind me. I was already spinning to face her, preparing to leap at her, but as soon as I saw her I realized it was hopeless. “Don’t you ever feed these cats? They look like they’re starving.”

Ciana Kim, aka Sapphire, my once-classmate and current dire nemesis, was standing – well, floating—above my stairs in her traditional blue bubble, her features slightly obscured by the blue distortion and concealed behind her mask. The combat leader of the Peace Force was in my house.

I backed up. I couldn’t take Sapphire directly. Her power was to generate spherical or toroid magnetic fields, which glowed blue due to the way they bent light, hence her name. I needed organic channels to send my power through—behind her force field, Sapphire was totally safe from me, because I couldn’t touch her. I wasn’t safe from her, though. She could generate a force field around me, trapping me, any time she wanted.

There was a switch by the door to my basement, labeled “FURNACE – DO NOT TOUCH,” that would actually activate an EMP. All the computer and electronic equipment I had in my house outside the Faraday cage of the basement would fry, but Sapphire’s power would fail as well, and I could leap on her before she could reset her power. Or, if I didn’t really want to replace my MP3 player, phones, and the laptop in the bedroom, perhaps I could grab Pikachu and throw him at her. He’d be startled enough to discharge a bolt, and the electrical surge should pop her field like a soap bubble. I knew I had a faster reaction time than Sapphire – after years of modifying and tuning up my nervous system, I’m faster than anyone who doesn’t have super-speed as a specific power – so I should be able to grab her and neutralize her power or knock her out before she could get a force field back up again. I was reluctant to do that because Pikachu was my kitty and throwing him at superheroes seemed kind of mean, even though I knew he wouldn’t be hurt, but the EMP generator could theoretically blow out TV Hill, and then I’d have to dodge swarms of reporters trying to find out why they suddenly couldn’t get on the air anymore.

I stalled for time. “They’ve got very fast metabolisms. I feed them all the time, but they’ll pester anyone they meet for more.”

Sapphire rolled her eyes. “Oh, stand down, Meg. If I was here to capture you or beat you up, I’d have done it before you knew I was here.”

She had a point. Sapphire wasn’t stupid, and she had completely gotten the drop on me, to the point that I was actually really embarrassed about it. “So what do you want? Cooking advice? I always prefer to replace the generic vegetable oil with olive or canola, it’s easier on the heart.” The last time I’d been in the same household as her, Ciana Kim had refused to learn to cook, for very similar reasons to her refusal to learn hand-to-hand combat.

She ignored my jab. “Doctor Sun sent me. She needs your help and she asked me to ask you.”

I blinked. Doctor Sun wanted my help? Cold day in hell. But it’d have to get a lot colder before I’d say yes. “She wants my help? And she actually thinks I might agree? Excuse me, but the last time I interacted with any of you people you wrecked my lab, ruined four years of work and set me back half a million dollars.”

“You were infecting children’s vaccines with a retrovirus. Did you seriously think we’d let you just get away with it?”

“All it would have done was make them into Proximas. What do you think I am?”

“Someone who mutates people against their will. And how do you know that’s all it would have done? Retroviruses mutate. Besides, it’s still wrong to change people without their consent. How do you know those kids would even have wanted superpowers?”

“Oh, be real. Who wouldn’t want superpowers?”

“If I wasn’t a Proxima, I might have been an Olympic gold medalist.”

She was telling the truth. One of the things that annoyed me so much about Ciana was how close her life had been to mine, minus the dysfunctional family. I, too, had had Olympic dreams once, and my coach had told me when I was 11 that I might seriously make it as a contender. But no matter how good I’d been, I’d never really had a chance; if my parents hadn’t died when I was 13, some other aspect of my family’s screwed-up-ness would have ruined it for me.

Ciana Kim, however, had had a good and loving family who’d pushed her hard in the belief that she could achieve anything. She was a third-generation Korean American from California and her parents were doctors or something like that, and they’d stood behind her every step of the way. Even after everything had fallen apart in my life and I’d basically become a thug for hire, I had followed the Olympic gymnastic news, so I’d known all about this as it was happening.

Ciana was originally to be the USA’s representative to the Olympics in Seoul for women’s artistic gymnastics. Much was made in the media of a Korean American going to Seoul to represent America, but Ciana had been very photogenic and full of great soundbites about how she was as American as apple pie and she was honored to represent our great country and she was so looking forward to bringing a medal home for the US and she was following in Mary Lou Retton’s footsteps and blah blah blah. And then, a week before the Olympics, it had come out that she was a Proxima. They’d finally figured out that doing a blood test for catalysine would find any Proxima with an active power.

The truth is that even now, twenty years later, as an experienced superhero who uses her powers all the time, Ciana still can’t use her powers invisibly. There’s always a shiny blue blob there. And she had no training with her powers when she was 16, so it would have been even more implausible that she could have somehow used her powers to secretly cheat. I would be disqualified from a Sapiens competition in gymnastics in any sane world because of what my powers actually are, but Ciana was disqualified solely from anti-Proxima prejudice (and, to be fair, probably some anti-Asian prejudice from the Americans whose job it would have been to advocate for her). The Americans paid for their prejudices when Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union took home all the women’s gymnastics medals (I don’t like Ciana, but I’m pretty sure she would have won at least a silver in something, if not a gold.) Ciana was recruited by Dr. Chandrasekhar to learn how to use her powers and eventually join the Peace Force, Dr. Chandrasekhar’s UN-supported superhero team.

So it wasn’t that I had no respect for Ciana’s loss, but it irritated me that she saw the problem as being that she was a Proxima rather than that the Olympic committee was scared of Proximas. And also, that being an Olympic medalist was better than being a superhero. “Yeah yeah, you could have had your moment of glory, and nowadays you’d be selling sneakers and breakfast cereal to pay the bills, assuming anyone even remembered you at all. What’s Mary Lou Retton doing with her life?”

“She’s been an Olympics commentator, and she’s a motivational speaker who supports physical fitness.”

Trust Ciana to actually know this. “And that’s better than being a superhero how? You save lives, you have an action figure, millions of little girls look up to you—“

“—I wear a mask when I save lives because otherwise supervillains or stalkers might hunt me down, no one knows my real name, my family aren’t allowed to tell anyone what I do for a living, I’ll probably never have a normal life with a husband and kids—“

“--You could marry some guy and quit the superhero business any time you wanted to, it’s just your overblown sense of responsibility that says you can’t quit your job to have babies until your powers give out on you, because you think the world needs you, and if that’s the case where would they have been if you hadn’t been a Proxima?”

“Someone else would have taken my place if I hadn’t been a Proxima. And all of this is besides the point; no matter how great you or even I might think it is to have superpowers, the fact is that you were planning to infect helpless babies with a retrovirus that would have mutated them. Some of them might have died of it. Some might have been killed by their families for being Proximas once they manifested. You don’t have the right to play God that way.”

“Nobody would have died of my virus,” I retorted. “I tested it thoroughly ahead of time. But you also notice, I haven’t done it again.”

“Because you know we’ll stop you.”

“Because I listened to your arguments that retroviruses are unstable and highly prone to mutation, and I decided that maybe you have a point.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“You didn’t even try to just persuade me. You just blew up my lab! Do you know how many vials of vaccine I hadn’t modified yet you destroyed?”

“All of this is pointless,” Sapphire snapped. “I’m wasting time arguing with you when Doctor Sun is dying. Are you coming or not?”

Wait, what? Dying?

I had been a half-crazed killer with no self-esteem, no sense of myself being able to be or do anything good, no belief that anyone could ever care about me – at least not without dying for it – after David died. Dr. Chandrasekhar had taken me in and taught me that I could have a better destiny than being a tool for monsters to use to kill each other with; that I didn’t have to be a monster myself. I could use my powers for good. I could help people. I could be a decent person.

Viewed from her perspective, I suppose, it didn’t last – I freely admit I am a supervillain and I do highly unethical things, up to and including killing people. But I do it for a cause I believe in. I do it to save my people from the bio-engineered diseases I was forced to participate in creating at Sonnebend. I do it so girls with superpowers who are going to medical school to learn how to save lives will not be kidnapped, stripped of their powers except when convenient for their captors, raped, tortured and forced to use their powers to heal enemies and kill their own kind, by agents of their own government. I do it so my people can enjoy the same rights and privileges as every other human on this planet. And the fact that I can fight for a cause, that I can see myself as a person with a noble goal of my own… I owe that entirely to Doctor Sun.

No matter what she does to me, no matter what she orders her Peace Force to do, I can’t ever get away from that.

“Dying of what?”

“She was kidnapped and raped by Caesar Primus. When she escaped, she was two months’ pregnant, but the doctors say it seems more like six months. The child is growing too rapidly for her to handle it, and it’ll kill her.”

Oh, God.

My heart started pounding, my throat went dry. I could feel the adrenaline surging, my sympathetic nervous system revving up for a totally inappropriate fight-or-flight response. I couldn’t stop imagining the reality behind Sapphire’s words. It didn’t help that I’d once had sex with Primus myself – consensual, sort of, but I could entirely too easily imagine what it’d be like to be raped by him, without powers to protect you. And Primus was immune to telepathy, so effectively Suri would have been helpless. God, no. I didn’t want to think about that.

So I was flippant, and cold. “Doctor Sun’s a woman of the world. You’re telling me she’s never heard of an abortion?”

“She doesn’t want an abortion. She says she won’t compound Primus’ act by taking an innocent life.”

“When did Doctor Sun turn into a pro-lifer?”

“She says the baby has a mind and she won’t kill it.” Sapphire floated herself down onto my dining room floor, still surrounded by a protective bubble but no longer on my stairs. “Are you going to help, or not?”

“I’m a feminist Darwinist. I’m morally opposed to letting a fetus conceived in rape live. It lets dangerous genes persist in the population. Suri knows that.”

Sapphire sighed explosively. “Fine. I knew you weren’t going to be any help, but Doctor Sun believed in you. I’ll just go tell her I was right and she was wrong.”

“What is this supposed to be, reverse psychology?”

“Nothing reverse about it. I knew before I got here that I would be wasting my time. You’re a killer with no conscience; why Doctor Sun ever thought you might help, I have no idea.”

“Because she knows me better than you.” I stepped forward. “If this is reverse psychology bullshit, it isn’t necessary. I’ve known I was going to agree to help you since you told me she was dying. And if you really believe what you’re saying, then nyaah nyaah nyaah. I’m a doctor; everything I do, I do to save lives. And at least I have to try to persuade Doctor Sun to abort the thing. Besides, if she was raped by Primus she might have injuries she could need my help with.” Primus had hammered at me like he was trying to break my pelvis, and without my powers he might actually have done so. And I’d voluntarily gone to bed with him. What he’d do to a woman he was raping, I really really didn’t want to imagine.

I didn’t mention to Sapphire that this was partly my fault anyway. When I’d met her, Suri (Dr. Suri to me in those days, but I feel I have the right to call her by her first name now) had been dying slowly of multiple sclerosis. She had met me on a good day; she’d only needed crutches and braces to move. On bad days she’d been confined to a wheelchair, and on really bad days she’d had to stay in bed. I’d healed her, and in the process I’d turned her from a forty-something woman approaching menopause back to a woman in her prime, young and healthy, physically in her 20’s. It had been almost 20 years since I’d done that; Suri would be approaching menopause again, but obviously wasn’t there yet. By now she’d be well past childbearing if I hadn’t de-aged her when I’d healed her disease.

I didn’t know whether Primus had raped her to torture her, to express domination over her, to really make the Peace Force mad at him, or to impregnate her, but I knew he had enough control over his body that if he hadn’t wanted to impregnate her, it wouldn’t have happened. It was entirely possible that the goal of the whole thing had been to force her to carry his child; Suri was an enormously powerful Proxima with high output power mitochondria, and most women with such energy-full mitochondria would have had a power they could use to fight back against Primus. Blocking a Proxima woman’s powers while she was pregnant carried high risk to the fetus if it too was a Proxima; it could prevent the fetus from developing the ability to control its powers as an adult. Suri was rare in that she was incredibly powerful but only telepathic, with no telekinetic abilities, and with Primus’ immunity to telepathy, she’d have had no way to fight back against him even at her full power. If Primus had wanted a powerful woman to pass her mitochondria to his child, and he hadn’t cared about her consent, there were few Proximas who’d make a better target for him. And if that was the case, then the whole thing wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t made her younger, sixteen years ago.

Sapphire blinked. “Wait. You are coming?”

“I just said so. But we have to bring my cats. They need to eat more than the average cat – they’d starve if I left them without food for three or four days, and obviously I can’t ask the neighbors to come feed them.”

“Fine. Sedate them; I don’t need a cat flying all over my car, or meowing and moaning in his carrier the whole time. We’ll put them in one of the suites and make sure they get fed.”

I took my cell phone – it had all of my appointments and contacts in it, and I’d have to call them all to reschedule once I knew how long this was going to take. If I could talk Suri into aborting the fetus, this could probably go very quickly, but I knew how stubborn she was. If I had to save the baby too, I could possibly have to take a few weeks.

Damn Suri. Why the hell was I taking time off my work and spending four hours in a car with one of the people who most annoyed me in the entire world to go save my greatest opponent anyway? From a problem she could just fix herself if she wasn’t so damn stubborn?

But I already knew. I couldn’t let Suryabati Chandrasekhar die; not under any circumstances, and most especially not if she’d asked for me specifically. Our differences were ideological; what she’d done for me went beyond ideology. I would fight her and her people when I had to, but if she was dying and she needed me, I had to go.

#nanowrimo #cold light #wip #supervillains #tw: csa #tw: rape #the trigger warnings are for things being talked about not things we see

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raphaelshusband · 4 years

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[i] am [l]ucky t[o] ha[ve] [you] | saphael one shot

Raphael Santiago stretched out on the king's bed. He waited a moment for the heaviness to disappear from his eyelids and stood up, sliding his feet into the fluffy slippers. He picked up a cozy scarlet robe from the ground and threw it over him. He walked over to the heavy red curtains and then opened them. A winter landscape greeted him. Each smallest plant was covered with a layer of cold white fluff. He left his room and headed to the kitchen. He descended the red and gold carpeted stairs, running his hand along the cool silver railing.

Raphael started the coffeemaker and placed a mug under it. After that he found a pack of cigarettes, he opened the window to let in some fresh, cool air. Brunet leaned against the windowsill and puffed out gray puffs of smoke as he looked at the snow-covered spruce trees in his garden.

As the cigarette was nearing its end, he put it out in the ashtray and went with the coffee to the living room. He sat down on a gilded couch and a Siamese cat jumped on his lap. Santiago smiled and scratched Amor behind the ear. After a while he heard the doorbell.

Por que demonios?

Ignoring his appearance, he entered the hall and opened the door. His friend was standing on the stone steps. The boy was wearing only a hoodie. He was all red in his face and his hands were slowly turning a bluish color.

"Simon? Por el amor de Dios, what are you doing here? Come in!" He schouted and pushed his friend inside.

"R.. Raphael.. I promise that I won't stay here for long.." He stammered out, teeth chattering.

"You're not going anywhere, come on." Raphael pushed him onto the couch. "Dios, Simon, you have frostbites. Wait, here" he ran upstairs. Raphael returned with a blanket over his shoulder and a bowl of cold water. He stood in front of Simon and wrapped him in a cozy, dark blanket. "I'll make you tea."

"R..Raphael.. no.. don't be silly.." he whispered.

"Simon, you're definitely hypothermic, you need to keep warm," he ignored the boy's protests as he put the kettle on. He realized his appearance and, embarrassed, quickly knotted his robe. Amor, not understanding the situation, rubbed his head against Lewis's knee and began to walk on his lap. "Amor, get off" Raphael ordered, handing the mug to the brown-eyed man in one hand. He took the other one gently in his hands and gradually began soaking in cold water. "I know it's cold, but if I put it in hot, you'd be in pain.. now tell me what happened."

Simon started to cry.

"I'm a Jew, right?"

"Of course."

"My.. my mother is very religious, but also homophobic. I know.. she doesn't show it, but she is.." He sniffed, took a deep breath. Santiago took care of his other hand. "I admitted to her that I am gay," the Mexican looked up quickly. "She t.. threw me out. I don't even know if I can come back for.. for my things.."

"Oh, Simon.." the dark-eyed man stopped and wrapped his arms around the boy. Simon hid his head in the hollow of Raphael's neck and sobbed softly. "Shh.." he placed a gentle kiss on his friend's hair. Simon pulled away from him and stood up.

"I'll go now.. I won't disturb you .."

"Are you kidding? It's cold as fuck outside! Did you eat anything at all?"

"I ate yesterday.. but I found ten dollars in my hoodie so I can go to..

"No." He interrupted him. "You're staying here" Santiago grabbed hm by shoulders and draped in the blanket again. "You'll warm up, I'll give you a clothes to change, and you'll go take a shower. I'll make you something to eat."

"Raphael, stop.."

"I insist" he cut short. I look after the people I love. "What have you been doing all this time?"

"I was wandering the streets.."

"Eres un estupido! You should have come to me right away, not in the morning with frostbites! Drink tea. I'm going to change" he said and returned to his room. When he changed in the dressing room, he take warm pajamas and a fluffy towel from the wardrobe. Then he went back to Simon. "Go take a shower, mi sol. I'll make you breakfast and you'll sleep. Okay?"

"Sure.." he grabbed things and started climbing the stairs.

"First floor, you go to the end of the hall and turn left. First door."

"Thanks" Simon smiled weakly. Raphael went back to the kitchen and filled forgotten cat bowls in the process.

Thirty minutes later Simon was in the kitchen. Santiago offered him a plate of croissants. Brunet sat down in front of the boy.

"What about school?"

"I can't go back. Mom is a lecturer there. Probably everyone knows about it by now."

"Have you thought about changing direction? From what you told me, your mother chose accounting for you. Simon, you love music. You should go this way."

"I have no money .." he replied softly.

"I could hire you. In my coffee shop," he leaned forward. "You'd show your customers your musical talent every Friday or.. I'd just teach you the role of a barista."

"What? N.. no, no. I can't accept this offer," he shook his head. "I have enough of your help today.. I really appreciate it, but.. it's too much.."

"Think about it, Simon. It might be a good solution."

"Alright.. let me think it over .."

"Come on, I'll show you where you'll sleep" and began leading him to the second floor. When Lewis lay wrapped in sheets, he really wanted to grab Santiago by the wrist and tell him what he felt. He wanted to tell him I love you. But instead he muttered softly:

"I'm lucky to have you."

end of the part one.

#saphael #simon lewis x raphael santiago #one shot

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awesomenightfall · 4 years

Text

[’til death]

Haven’t written in 5ever and this is my first time writing Furuba ficlet! Rated PG, Ritsu/Mitsuru, Ayame/Mine, some mentioned others. Unbeta’d. 1,887 words.

With Ayame’s wedding looming, Mitsuru thinks, not for the first time, that they should definitely elope.

---

The invitation to the Sohma/Kuramae wedding was so big, so bedazzled and lace filled, that it had to be hand delivered to Mitsuru’s doorstep because it was too enormous to fit into the mailbox.

It was more box shaped than a standard paper invitation, Mitsuru observed, and knowing the ostentatious nature of her boyfriend’s relative, she wouldn’t have been surprised if live doves flew into her face when she opened it.

This was even fancier, if possible, than Ayame's baby announcement from the prior year. The pink lace monstrosity had taken a lot of people by surprise, but Ritsu sobbed hysterical happy tears for “Ayame-’niisan” and knitted no less than 12 pairs of baby socks for his new little cousin.

The older Sohma relatives were apparently not as impressed with the gaudy announcement or the out-of-wedlock baby girl that Ayame had brought into the world. The whole thing had been "Terribly scandalous," Ritsu's mom told her in a stage whisper, clutching her metaphorical pearls, "a baby before marriage and with his employee, no less… his mother almost had a nervous breakdown."

Her first thought: Wow. Rich people sure do things differently.

Her second thought: Am I going to have to see The Spawn of Satan - Shigure-sensei - at this wedding?

Ritsu, the sensitive, romantic soul that he was, was already blinking back tears by the time she pulled the velvet invitation out.

“I’m so happy for Ayame-’niisan and Mine-san. They’re such a kind, wonderful couple,” Ritsu sniffled, pausing from his knitting. He was curled up on her worn brown couch underneath an old blanket, hands working diligently at the tiny mittens he was knitting for one of his relatives' upcoming babies. They were adorable, of course, with a kitten motif in soft orange. “And it will be so good to see Hatori-’niisan and Shigure-’niisan again!”

Mitsuru shivered violently at the mention of her old boss. It was a Pavlovian response at this point and no amount of therapy in the world would help her work through it. Her worst fears were confirmed: she was definitely going to have to see Shigure-sensei and she was definitely going to have to be on her best behavior in front of Ritsu’s parents and relatives.

Ritsu lifted the blanket, looking concerned. “Mitsuru-san, are you cold? You should come under here before you get sick.”

She smiled to herself as she slid next to him. In the five years they had been dating, Ritsu had come a long way in terms of shyness and self confidence. He still asked if it was okay to kiss her and he blushed from neck to navel at the thought of anything beyond an innocent smooch, but they had gotten past the “apologize hysterically for holding her hand too long” stage and that in itself was a miracle.

“You’re so cold,” Ritsu said softly, setting the knitting needles down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He tucked her into the blanket next to him and took her hands in his, rubbing them for warmth. “Maybe we should plan a trip to my mother’s hot spring resort sometime soon, they’re the best in the winter. And she would love to see you, she’s always asking for you.”

Mitsuru rested her head on his slender shoulder and took this opportunity to stealthily stare at him. He was so cute, she thought. Beautiful, even with his cropped hair and more masculine clothing. And he was so darn sweet, always worried about her, worried if she was working too hard, if she had enough to eat, if her new clients were treating her right.

She had always thought she would die alone in her house surrounded by Shigure’s unfinished manuscripts with only cats to keep her company; Mitsuru never thought she could be so happy.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, catching her gaze with his own. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do you not want to see my family? You -- you don’t have to, I mean. I don’t want to pressure you. Are you too warm? Do you want me to--?”

She put her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

Her words had their intended effect and Ritsu nearly shot off the couch in embarrassment. “N-no no no no, Mitsuru-san! I’m the one that’s lucky to have you!” he babbled, face red. “I’m not --”

Mitsuru cut him off with a gentle kiss; the most effective way, she learned over the years, to stop his self deprecating apologies. “Ritsu,” she said with a smile. “I love you.”

Immediately his eyes glistened, even though he had heard this from her hundreds of times before. It never failed to make him emotional and it was infectious -- Mitsuru could feel her throat tighten at the look of gratitude on his face. “Thank you,” Ritsu said quietly, hugging her to him tightly. “I love you, too. And I’ll work so hard to make you happy.”

They sat in silence for a long while, enjoying the company and warmth.

“Weddings are nice, aren’t they?” Ritsu asked, somewhat hesitantly, not quite looking at her. “Being married must be wonderful.”

Mitsuru wondered if he was feeling her out on the subject. She knew he was getting some pressure from his family on proposing and while it was amusing, she didn’t want him to stress too badly. There was only so much knitting and yoga he could do to stave off a freakout. “I think so, too.”

“Y-you do?”

“Of course,” she said, snuggling closer. “To be with the person you love every day -- is there anything better?”

He let out a quiet, “Oh,” but said nothing further, only kissing the top of her head absently, looking deep in thought.

As the comfortable silence returned and she drifted off, a thought so horrifying nearly jolted her from Ritsu’s embrace:

If Ritsu and I get married, does that mean I’ll be related to Shigure-sensei?

The things people do for love, she thought with a heavy sigh, and let herself succumb to sleep.

---

The Sohma clan in its entirety was overwhelming, to say the least. The grounds of the complex were decked out with an explosion of flowers, beautiful against the autumn backsplash. There were gazebos and arches and tables upon tables of food, alcohol, and desserts that spanned as far as the eye could see.

Mitsuru recognized a lot of Ritsu’s relatives -- mostly the ones that had once lived at Shigure’s house -- so she didn’t feel entirely out of place. Shigure had yet to make an appearance because of course he would be fashionably late, even to his best friend’s wedding.

“Mitsuru-san, you look beautiful,” Ritsu said at her side. “I love your dress.”

“Oh? Thank you.” She didn’t even bother to hide how pleased she was that Ritsu thought so. The black, long sleeved cocktail dress has been a safe choice and not nearly as lovely as the kimonos Ritsu once donned, so it was nice to know it made an impression. “Is your suit warm enough? It’s a bit chilly out.”

He squeezed her hand. “Oh no, I’m fine. If you get cold, I brought an extra shawl in the car.”

How was it possible, Mitsuru thought as they walked towards familiar faces, that this angel shared DNA with Shigure?

Ayame’s brother, Yuki, looked resplendent in a dark gray suit but, well, the pinched look of stress sort of ruined the ambience.

“Bets on if you think Aya-’nii is going to wear a wedding dress?” another Sohma relative, the one with black and white hair, asked.

“He would look so good in one!” a blond, perky Sohma replied. He paused from digging into a huge plate of desserts. “Do you think they’re wearing matching dresses?”

Yuki looked pained. “Please, don’t even breathe life into those words. My mother is already having an aneurysm at the whole situation.”

The redheaded one -- Kyou, Mitsuru remembered -- handed Yuki a very full glass of champagne. Yuki took it gratefully and immediately started imbibing. “Kind of serves her right, don’t you think?” Kyou asked with a snort. “She bitched and moaned about him not being married before. Well, wish granted.”

A very pregnant Tohru beamed up at Yuki. Her hand cradled her round belly, a modest gold ring twinkling on her slender finger. “I think it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see what Ayame-san and Mine-san wear!”

“Are you okay?” Kyou asked her, a protective hand on the small of her back. “Are you tired? Do you want to go sit down?”

Yuki rolled his eyes good naturedly, turning to Mitsuru and Ritsu. At least something was distracting him from his existential dread. “He’s only gotten worse since the pregnancy. I’m surprised this idiot hasn’t implanted a GPS chip into her neck so he can keep track of everything Tohru is doing at all times. It’s borderline obsessive.”

Yuki’s girlfriend - Machi? - gave him an even look. “As if you’re one to talk. Who is the one browsing baby websites at 2am and reading all the reviews to make sure Honda-san only has the safest baby toys?”

“Thank you, Yuki!” Tohru trilled over Kyou’s protests. “You’re so kind.”

Before Yuki could retort, the lights dimmed. A literal orchestra started playing as Mine -- wearing a breathtaking lace and crystal ball gown with a hoop skirt that would put Victorian novels to shame -- slowly walked down the aisle. Mitsuru could hear Ritsu sniffling and she immediately handed him some tissues from her purse.

Before anyone could inquire where Ayame was, the music stopped. The spotlights zoomed in on one of the temporary partitions that separated the food area from the reception area.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yuki muttered. “‘Niisan kept mentioning a ‘surprise’.”

Hatori, arguably the one sane person at this event, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Just remember… this will be over soon and we can all go back to ignoring him.”

The partitions slowly opened to reveal Ayame -- not wearing a dress, to his credit, but a white tunic and pants outfit that looked like it belonged to an Arabian king-- in a lavish, horse drawn carriage, baby tucked in one arm, being pulled down the aisle. He waved benevolently to his subjects with his free hand and then blew a kiss to Yuki and then to his future wife.

“Please repress my memories of this night, Hatori,” Yuki said miserably. “It’s the least you can do for making me come.”

“Yuki, your mom fainted,” Hatsuharu said helpfully.

“Holy. Shit,” Kyou said.

Yuki grabbed an entire bottle of champagne from the nearby waiter. “I formally renounce the Sohma name and am now an orphan.”

Ritsu wiped at his eyes, passing a tissue to an emotional Tohru. “What a beautiful wedding. I can’t wait to see what they have planned next!”

“I hate this family,” Yuki said and honestly?

Mitsuru couldn’t blame him.

---

“Ritsu,” Mitsuru said a few hours later, once they were back in the safe haven of her house, “let’s elope.”

Ritsu dropped all of the plates he was washing with a loud crash, hands pressed to his burning cheeks. His voice went up at least three octaves. “Elope--? As in-- marriage?? Mitsuru-san???”

Elopement would be perfect, she thought happily.

The further away... the better.

#fruits basket #ritsu sohma #mitsuru #ayame sohma #mine kuramae #k writes trash #ayame is an icon

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atths--twice · 4 years

Link

The first Christmas apart, Scully spends it working in order to not think of the day. Of course, the best laid plans rarely work out the way we imagine.

Chapter Eight

Peace for Christmas

December 2014

Scully walked into her office on Christmas Day and sat down in her chair, leaning her head back and taking a deep breath. She was tired, but still had a few hours left in her shift. Swiveling her chair, she looked out the window and watched the snow falling.

It had been three months since she had left Mulder and gone to her mother’s house. Three months on her own, without the man she loved. She missed him more than she thought possible, but she knew this was right.

Three weeks ago, she left her mother’s and moved into a one bedroom apartment, closer to the hospital. She and her mother went out one day and looked at places that would fit her needs. There were two and she chose the second one.

The place was close by, but other than that, it was not something she thought much of. It was the place she slept and got ready for her day. When she was picking out furniture, she was careful to not have the place be too comfortable or too homey.

Before, her place was her escape and her sanctuary. Now, it was a place she needed to have in order to receive her mail and to sleep. Her mother kept insisting she could continue to stay with her, but Scully needed to be on her own.

Shopping for her furniture was hard and at times she wanted to break down, but she got through it. Everything had a nice clean look to it, but it was also unfeeling and lacked happiness.

At home, the stuff she and Mulder had were things they had collected for years. The couch had conformed to their bodies. The books, pictures, posters, and even the dishes were things that were home to her. She missed her home, but she also needed to have her own place for the time being.

She chose dark wood furniture for her table and chairs, coffee table, and side tables. The kitchen had a white marble gray counter top and the cupboards were white with glass fronts. Two bar stools, also in dark wood sat under the counter. A cream colored area rug lay in the middle of the living room. She added a cozy cream colored throw to the back of the dark gray couch, and a pillow she found online.

One night she was up late before moving into her place. She stumbled upon the photo of the pillow and it made her smile, imagining Mulder’s reaction to seeing something like it. She found the website, purchased it, and waited until she moved in before she opened it.

When she set it on the couch, she smiled and then cried for a bit, before smiling again. It was such a simple thing, but it did make her happy and think of Mulder. It was a small light gray throw pillow with purple stars as the background. A blue single seater spaceship with a space cat alien was the main focus. The cat was white with stripes, had pink in its inner ears, three eyes, and antenna.

A CAT-lien, or something similarly silly, she could almost hear Mulder saying. She shook her head, hoping one day he would see it.

For a reason she did not understand, the pillow had a name and it was called Lisa. Maybe it was the name of the cat, but Scully thought he looked more like a Jasper for some reason. Maybe the designer was named Lisa, but Scully had no idea. She did not mind that she did not know, she loved the pillow and every time she saw it, it made her smile.

Her bedroom had a new comfortable bed and frame, again in dark wood colors, with white sheets and a white duvet. Here the only splash of color and personality was in the bed throw pillows, four of them in different shades of blue. They made her think of the sea and it calmed her.

The only photo in the room was the one she took with her when she left, the one of her and Mulder. One day they went with her mother to a church function, a bazaar type thing where different booths had been set up. People brought foods to try, things to sell, and things to donate.

“Oh, Mulder,” she had said, as they walked up to a booth. “Try this jelly, it’s so good.” She picked up the sample piece of bread and handed it to him. She knew the person who made it, and that this particular jelly packed a spicy punch.

He had obediently taken the bread and tried it. As she stood watching and waiting for the inevitable moment, her mother unknowingly captured the exact second in a photo. Mulder’s eyes had gone wide and Scully had thrown her head back in laughter, her hand at her chest. She loved the joy she saw in the photo and though he bitched about her tricking him, he too smirked every time he glanced at it.

She placed the photo on the dresser so she could see it wherever she was in the room. Some days it brought her joy and some days it tore her apart, knowing they had been so happy. Yes, Mulder always had been one to overly obsess about something, but not like the past couple years.

Scully sighed, hoping he was okay. They still had not spoken since she left and it hurt. She left him text messages, one per week to tell him she missed him and that she loved him. She called and left messages on his voicemail. Short little updates, just to stay in touch, but he had not responded to any of them.

He did this occasionally, turning off his phone, and shutting out the world. Every time he did, it was maddening. After not hearing from him, she called the pharmacy and inquired if he picked up his medication recently. He had and she breathed a sigh of relief, knowing two things- he was alive (the shit) and he was taking care of himself. He would call her when he was ready, she supposed. His silence hurt, though. It hurt a hell of a lot.

She sighed again and watched the falling snow. It was beautiful and the sun was just beginning to set, her favorite time of day. The ground was now covered with snow and she was thankful she was living close by and would not be forced to stay at the hospital in order to avoid treacherous roads.

“Doctor Scully?” a voice cut into her thoughts. She turned around in her chair and looked to see who had called to her.

“Doctor Clark,” Scully said, nodding her head to the woman in the doorway. She was about her own age, brunette with deep brown eyes, and a kind smile. She was also smart as hell and an amazing doctor.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Doctor Clark said, stepping in the room with a smile. “But, Sydney Brown is asking for you.”

“Is she all right?” Scully asked, standing to her feet and reaching for her stethoscope.

“She’s fine, she would just like to see you,” Doctor Clark said with a wider grin.

Scully stared at her curiously. Sydney Brown was ten years old and awaiting a surgery. She was incredibly bright and loved to give Scully complicated riddles to solve. She quickly become one of her favorite patients and hearing she was asking for her worried her.

“It’s nothing medical, Doctor Scully,” Doctor Clark said, with a knowing smile. “It’s Christmas.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at her, as if that explained everything.

Scully nodded at her and walked past her toward Sydney’s room. Maybe something was wrong and Doctor Clark did not want to tell her. Oh, Christmas Day, of course. She had volunteered to work for anyone on Christmas who wanted the day off. Since she had no plans for this day, and wanting to keep her mind off missing Mulder, coming in and letting others be home with their families, was an easy decision to make.

Yesterday afternoon, her mother came over and they celebrated Christmas with a small meal and some gifts. Scully had gone to a craft store and picked out a small decorative fake tree and set it on the coffee table.

“Well, it seems you found a tree your father would finally approve of,” her mother said, touching the fake needles, smiling at Scully.

“Ahab was a tough one to please when it came to trees, that’s for damn sure,” she laughed.

They made their meal together, watched A Christmas Story, laughing and groaning in all the right places, and opened gifts after the kitchen was clean. Scully got her mother a beautiful red cardigan, a white scarf, and diamond earrings.

“Dana! This is too much. I can’t accept these,” she said, shaking her head as she looked at Scully.

“It’s not. In fact it doesn’t feel like enough, Mom. Thank you for all you’ve done these past few months. For the help you’ve given me, the listening ear, and your advice. I can’t thank you enough,” Scully said, tears in her eyes. They embraced, both crying, before laughing at themselves.

Her mother gave her a purple coat that she might not have chosen for herself but after trying it on, immediately loved. She was also given fancy bubble bath and a tea kettle and fancy teas, as she did not have one in her new place.

“For the next time you need a listening ear,” her mother said as she looked at all the new kinds of tea. Scully smiled and nodded.

Considering it was just the two of them, and the reality of where she was in her life, it had been a good day. Now, as she walked hurriedly to check on a patient, she hoped she was okay and simply wanted to wish her a merry Christmas.

Arriving outside her door, she stopped to take a breath before entering, so as not to seem worried. When she walked in, she saw both parents were there, and she smiled. She usually only saw Nancy, Sydney’s mother.

“Mr. and Mrs. Brown, hello,” she said, shaking their hands. “Sydney, hello to you as well.” She stepped over to her and squeezed her hand. Sydney grinned at her and squeezed back.

“I was told you were asking for me, are you feeling okay?” Scully asked as she put her stethoscope in her ears and started to place the end on Sydney’s heart. Sydney giggled and Scully stopped.

“Doctor Scully, I’m fine!” Sydney said with another laugh. “It’s Christmas today, you know.” Scully smiled at her and took the earpieces out, hanging her stethoscope around her neck.

“Yes, I do know it’s Christmas today,” she said, raising her eyebrows, making Sydney laugh.

“My parents brought me some gifts,” she said pointing to her table, where there were several gifts. A stuffed dog, a joke book, markers and a sketchbook, and some magazines.

“Wow, that’s a nice haul of stuff you have there, but it looks like you missed one,” Scully said, pointing at the one box still unopened. “Are you saving it for after your surgery?”

“No, Doctor Scully!” Sydney said, smiling at her. “That present is for you!”

Scully turned her head to Nancy, finding her smiling, with tears in her eyes. “Sydney wanted to thank you for all that you have done for her. This is for you.” Nancy said picking up the gift and handing it to Scully.

Scully was stunned and stood there in shock. No patient had ever given her a gift before and she felt awkward standing there holding it. She had nothing to give them and when she caught Nancy’s eye, she knew her gift had already been given. This gift was the thank you, the reciprocation of a gift to be received.

“Open it, Doctor Scully!” Sydney said, clapping her hands and smiling. “I can’t wait to see how you like it.”

Scully looked back down at the gift and started to unwrap it. The paper came off and then she took the lid off the box. Opening the tissue paper, she gasped. It was a painting, on canvas, of the ocean at night, the color of ink, with the moon shining brightly on the water. There were little stars in the sky and the bow of a boat was visible in the lower left corner, as if it were just sitting and enjoying the view.

On the boat, stood Scully, her profile prominent as she looked out at the water. She had a smile on her face and her one visible eye was very blue. She was wearing her lab coat and it was blowing in the breeze, along with her hair. It was truly beautiful and she was amazed by the talent Sydney showed at only ten years old.

“Do you like it?” Sydney asked in a tiny voice.

“Sydney,” Scully said, shaking her head. “I absolutely love it. It’s incredibly beautiful and so detail oriented. You did an amazing job painting this for me. Thank you so much. What did you name it?”

“Name it?” Sydney asked her, looking confused.

“Oh yes!” Scully said, patting her pockets for a pen. She found a black marker in it and handed it to Sydney. “All artists name their creations, what will you call yours?” She handed the painting to Sydney and pointed to the back where she could write the name down.

Sydney thought about it and then smiled. Scully watched her write “Peace for Doctor Scully” and she had to hold back a sob.

“Can you sign it for me too?” Scully asked, clearing her throat. Sydney smiled, signed her name, and gave it back to her.

“I remember you telling me that you liked the ocean and the stars, so I combined them,” Sydney said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen you in clothes besides your lab coat.”

“It’s perfect,” Scully said, looking at it again. “It’s almost like it’s a superhero costume or something like it.” Sydney laughed and Scully gave her a hug. “You know, my father was a Navy Captain, so this is extra special. Thank you, Sydney.” She touched her arm, and nodded at Nancy and Jeff, wishing them all a merry Christmas.

She quickly walked back to her office, closed the doors, and sat at her desk. Looking at the painting again, she let her tears fall. If she chose to have a more cynical view it would seem she was sailing out to sea on her own, not looking back. She knew that was not what was intended, but given her circumstances it was how she felt right then.

She dried her eyes, took out her phone and opened her text message app. There was still no response from Mulder. Although she did not expect there to be, she still sighed and felt that hurt again. She would keep trying, keep the line of communication open, even if it seemed to be jammed on his end.

Merry Christmas, Mulder. I love you.

Message sent, she put her phone back in her pocket. Holding the painting, she looked at her face, at the happiness Sydney had captured. The blue black inky color of the water was one she had loved for most of her life. She loved how the inviting beautiful bright blue could turn to ominous and dark by nightfall.

It was like life in that way, she supposed, the lightness had to give way to the darkness. But the light would always come around again, though it sometimes may take a while.

She leaned the painting against her coffee mug and sighed. Glancing out the window, it was completely dark now, the street lights illuminating the snow on the ground and the snow that continued to fall.

Peace for Doctor Scully, she thought. She closed her eyes and wished that she could find it as simply as one could write it on canvas. How easy life would be, if that was the case.

Peace for Doctor Scully, she thought again, taking a deep breath and waiting for peace.

#The X Files #XF Fanfic #X Files Novel #Separated #First Christmas Alone #Sadness #Heartache #Worry #Lonely #Waiting for peace

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caelesjjk · 5 years

Text

Unravel (CEO!Calum)

There’s going to be a part 2, but hope everyone enjoys this. It took me forever to finish it so I’m sorry about that! Let me know what you think!

“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Delta Wyse was working her ass off in law school. She was clawing her way through the thralls of other students to make sure she stood out amongst them so she could be sure she secured a job with the firm she had been looking at since she was 12 years old. There weren’t many things that meant more to her than following in her mothers footsteps and becoming one of the most respected female lawyers in the city.

There was only 6 months left of school, which meant for the next 6 months, Delta would be interning to gain experience and knowledge from outside the classroom, which she welcomed openly. She was up early, showered and dressed and ready for her day far before she needed to be, but the excitement was too much for her to stay in bed. This was the perfect opportunity for her grab some much needed coffee before she headed downtown to Hood & Associates Law Firm.

It was a short walk from her apartment to where she needed to go, so ignoring the protests from her feet that were settled into a pair of black velvet pumps, Delta grabbed her bags from her bright yellow couch, softly petting her calico cat named Annie a few times before heading out of her door for the day.

The coffee shop around the corner was surprisingly slow for the time of morning that it was, and Delta silently thanked the universe for continuing to be on her side today. It was warm inside the coffee shop as the smell of fresh beans and sugary sweet pastries wafted through the air and into Delta’s eager nose. It was comforting, if nothing else.

“Can I help you miss?” The teenage boy behind the counter said with a look of annoyance on his face. Delta must have been daydreaming and hadn’t noticed the person in front of her had already ordered.

“Sorry. I’ll um…just an iced mocha with some extra espresso, please.” She said, scrambling through her purse for some cash.

“How much espresso?” The boy asks, punching things into the register with a sigh.

“Excuse me?” Delta asked, confusion on her face as she continues to dig for her wallet.

“You have to be more specific, lady. How much espresso?” He rolls his eyes, sighing loudly again.

“A few?” Delta bites her thick bottom lip and looks to him hoping for sympathy. The barista finally huffs and walks away to make her drink. She was so flustered looking for her money and dealing with the teenage boy behind the counter that she hadn’t heard anyone else come into the shop.

“This ones on me.” A deep voice says from behind Delta just as a golden brown tattooed hand slips around her and slides a few dollars onto the counter. She stops fumbling with her purse and stands up straight to look at him.

“Thanks.” It barely comes out when she speaks. The man in front of her is breathtaking to say the least. His body is tall and lean. His shoulders are broad and snug under his white button up shirt. The black tie around his neck is sloppily tied and the black curls on his head are even sloppier, but are still somehow even more endearing than they should be. Delta’s hazel eyes finally fall onto his thick pink lips and she’s almost sure that the man in front of her must be an illusion. No one is actually this attractive, right?

“Any time.” He smirks and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m Calum.” He says.

“Delta.” She breathes, shaking her head to come out of the fog she was in and shake is outstretched hand. “Thank you again for the coffee” She says, taking it from the annoyed hand of the barista.

“Hope to see you around again, Delta.” Calum steps around her and quickly tells his order to the barista before turning his attention back to Delta.

“Yeah. I hope so too.” Delta smiles, knowing its covering her entire face, but she can’t help but stretch it even farther when Calum smiles back. “I should um…go. Bye, Calum.”

“Bye, Delta.” He drops his eye into a quick but effective wink, making Delta swoon just that much more. She forces herself to turn away and walk back to the door and into the cooler city air so that she can breathe again.

The rest of the walk to Hood & Associates was spent with a giddy grin on her face and even more pep in her step than there had been before. Today was going to be a really great day for Delta, she could just feel it in her bones. She kept the smile on her face as she stepped through the rotating doors and into the very posh lobby area of the building she would be working in. The blonde haired receptionist smiled as she entered and hung up her desk phone.

“How can I help you?” The receptionist asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Hood, I’m his new intern.” Delta began shrugging off her coat.

“Ah, yes. I’ll let him know that you’re here. Just have a seat over there for a few minutes.” The receptionist picked her phone back up, motioning towards the waiting area to the left of the big round desk she was sitting behind. Delta nodded, picking up her coffee cup and turning quickly.

As she turned, someone else’s body was directly behind her and the iced coffee that she had yet to enjoy dropped from her hand and flew against her chest. The lid popped off and coffee splashed all over her cream colored top and up into her face. Delta stood frozen, her mouth gaped open and a loud gasp escaping her as she tried to open her eyes.

“Shit! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” The voice was familiar, and it made Delta scrunch her eyebrows in confusion as she wiped her hand across her eyes to try and clear some of the coffee away.

“Calum?” She said in an exasperated voice.

“Delta? Are you following me?” Calum asked, a small smirk on his face.

“Me? You’re the one following me! What are you doing here?” Delta looks down at her top and nearly begins to cry, she can feel the tears pricking her eyes. She hated that she cried when she was angry.

“I work here.” Calum says, and Delta’s stomach plummets. She knew his name sounded familiar when he introduced himself before. This was his law firm. He owned the damn place and Delta had just made a complete ass of herself in front of him.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Hood. I didn’t realize it was you. I just need to clean up.” Delta scrambles around picking up her things and attempting to wipe away the remaining coffee from her face. “Shit.” She whispers to herself.

“I’m the one that ran into you, and you’re apologizing? Let me help you.” Calum stoops down and helps Delta gather her things, attempting not to think of how absolutely adorable she looks, even with coffee stains on her shirt and melted make up on her face. “And please, just stick to calling me Calum.”

“Really great first impression, right?” Delta says, standing back up straight as Calum does the same.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you up to the office, yeah?” Calum smiles, picking up his own leather jacket and messenger bag from the floor and starting towards the elevator. Delta nods, looking over her shoulder at the receptionist with a look of pure fear on her face. The receptionist covers her mouth with her hand, trying not to laugh at Delta’s expense.

Once in the elevator, Delta can practically feel how attracted she is to Calum radiating off of his body. These close quarters were not what she needed. She needed a bathroom and a new shirt and maybe even a cold shower. She could not have these types of thoughts about her boss of all people. It was not the type of road she wanted to travel down.

“Bathrooms that way. Meet me in my office when you’re ready?” Calum says as he steps off the elevator, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his perfectly fitted gray dress pants and a warm smile on his face.

“Of course.” Delta smiles back and waits for him to walk around the corner before she’s dashing for the bathroom.

As soon as she sees herself in the mirror, Delta groans out loud. She honestly couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Quickly grabbing some paper towels, she wipes away the coffee and melted make-up from her face leaving her looking a bit splotchy but it was what she had to work with. Her top was practically ruined, but she dabbed as much coffee from the material as she could, huffing in disbelief the entire time. With one last glance in the mirror Delta smooths back her hair that she was forced to pull up into a messy bun. This was not the first impression she wanted to give her new boss.

When she finally walked out of the bathroom and wondered farther down the hallway, it opened up into a large open room. There a few desks scattered about with people sitting them, either on the phone or with their faces buried in a file folder. Delta felt uneasy as she walked down the aisle of desks, searching for Calum’s office that just had to be all the way in the back corner of the room.

“Are you the new girl?” I woman with black hair that was slicked back into a tight, neat bun and thin framed glasses asked, catching Delta off guard.

“Yes.” Delta responded, sounding almost out of breath from the surprise.

“Good. Take these and follow me.” The woman was very monotone as she spoke and practically threw the stack of thick manila folders into Delta’s arms. She nearly dropped them from the weight of them on top of her bags she was carrying. “This is your desk. My name is Olivia, and I’ll be helping oversee your work while you’re here. Mr. Hood is a very busy man.” Olivia points to a desk right outside of Calum’s office.

“I um…I’m Delta.” She tries to shake the womans hand from beneath the stack of folders without dropping them. Olivia only rolls her eyes and steps back so Delta can get to her desk. Delta tries to smile as she walks over to the desk and clumsily sits the stack of folders down, a few of them slipping from the top and sliding across the dark wood.

“Mr. Hood wants to see you in his office once you’ve gotten settled. Try not to make him wait.” Olivia walks away without another word. Delta is overwhelmed to say the least. When she woke up this morning, there wasn’t an ounce of anxiety about how this day would go, and now that it’s happening she’s wishing more and more that she could rewind and start over.

After getting her things settled, Delta straightens out her top, making sure it’s neatly tucked into her pencil skirt. Once she’s satisfied, she walks the few feet to Calum’s office and quietly knocks on the door, peaking her head inside to see if he’s busy. He’s standing in front of his far wall made completely of windows overlooking the city and talking on his phone. He paces a bit, his eyes trained on his feet until he notices Delta standing in his doorway. A dimpled smile spreads across his face then as he begins walking closer to her.

“I’ll call you back Ash, something important just came to my attention.” Calum says, stopping just a foot from where Delta was standing. The smell of his woodsy cologne immediately attacking her senses and making her heart rate pick up.

“Please don’t end your phone call because of me, sir. I can come back.” Delta moves to go back out of the door but Calum’s long fingers wrap around her own and pull her to a stop.

“You’re just who I wanted to see. And for the love of god, don’t call me sir.” He smiles gently, dropping her hand and leaving behind a tingly feeling that Delta was not used to in the slightest.

“Sorry. I’m just out of sorts I guess.” Delta follows Calum when he motions for the chairs sitting in front of his desk.

“Don’t apologize. It’s your first day, so I think it’s normal to feel that way.” Calum moves to stand in front of Delta, the backs of his thighs leaning against his desk and his arms crossing over his chest. “Your resume was quite impressive, I’m happy that you’re here.” He says, looking down at Delta as she sits in one of the chairs, awkwardly trying to cross her legs.

“That means a lot coming from you.” A smile plays at the corner of Delta’s lips as she looks down at her nervous hands.

“Why’s that?” Calum’s eyes couldn’t leave her if he tried. She was like no one he had ever seen.

“You’re the youngest lawyer with his own firm in the city. That’s something I strive for.” Delta sighed, trying not to meet his eyes.

“You’re going to have to learn to assert yourself if you want to get anywhere in this business.” Calum stoops down in front of Delta, his pointer finger ghosting beneath her chin to slowly lift her face up meet his eyes. “That’s not so bad, is it?” His words are soft and comforting. Delta wets her dry lips with her tongue before speaking again.

“Do you have anything you need me to do, Mr. Hood?” Delta felt a warmth leave his fingertips and spread throughout her entire being, and she tried to best to seem unaffected. Calum smirked, laughing softly before he was standing back up and removing his touch.

“Olivia will get you set up. Just let me know if you need anything.” He walks around his desk and sits in his big leather chair, acting like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t just set her on fire with his touch.

“Have a good day, Mr. Hood.” Delta stands up and quickly shuffles out of his office so that she can breathe again. Her back presses to the gray painted wall right outside his office, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a few breaths. “What the fuck…” She whispered to herself, pulling it together and heading to her desk.

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

Delta had been working for Hood & Associates for almost a month now, but she was starting to wonder if she would ever get the hang of things around here. The case files continued to pile up on her desk, awaiting her review. And as much as she loved taking in all the information, it was becoming more of a chore than something she enjoyed.

Calum was such a laid back boss. He made it known how he wanted to run his firm but he wasn’t a pretentious prick like most male lawyers always seemed to be. He kept conversations light and always made sure Delta had everything she needed. He always smiled and complimented her outfits and even noticed when she had gotten her haircut . And even on the days that he walked in with a scowl on his face after being stressed about a particular case, Delta would go out on her lunch break and get a few brownies from the coffee shop they both frequented. Sneaking them in to his office on top of a pile of case folders he needed to review. And Calum always said thank you. Sometimes it was just a nod and small smile and other times it was a quick text message.

*I needed these today. Thanks.*

*No problem, boss man.*

Today was finally Friday, and Delta was more thankful than she had ever been. She could barely contain her excitement to leave the office and join her friends for drinks at the pub down the street. It was much needed and quite frankly deserved after all the extra work she had been putting in. There were only a few more files left to go through when her desk phone started ringing, making her jump and scatter come papers across her desk. Delta rolled her eyes at her own clumsiness before reaching for the phone.

“Delta Wyse, how can I help you?” She placed the phone between her ear and shoulder, shuffling some of the pages back together on her desk.

“Delta, it’s Trudy at the front desk. You’ve got a delivery up here.” The sweet blonde receptionist stated excitedly.

“Me? Are you sure?” Delta stopped what she was doing and listened intently.

“Definitely! Come see!” Trudy hung up the phone, leaving Delta a bit confused.

She stood up, straightening out the skirt of her fitted dress. The dark green color complimented her skin so well she couldn’t resist buying it with her first paycheck she had received last week. Her heels clicked across the marble floor as she walked through the aisle of desks, all eyes suddenly on her. Did they know something that she didn’t? Trudy was practically busting at the seams when Delta finally reached the front desk, a look of pure surprise and fear washing over her features.

Sitting on Trudy’s round desk top was a huge crystal vase of at least three dozen white roses. Delta was breathless as she approached the vase, touching the petals softly and smelling the beautiful aroma. She looked around a moment before she found a small card sticking out of the top of the flowers. She plucked it out quickly and opened the tiny envelope and pulled out the card.

Come see me after everyone has left. We should talk. -C.H.

Delta felt all the oxygen leave her body in one swift motion. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Did Calum Hood just ask her to stay after hours? And for what? She couldn’t imagine what he could possibly want from her. Delta swallowed thickly, shoving the note back into the envelope and quickly putting it out of sight.

“Who are they from?!” Trudy asks, looking at Delta expectantly.

“Just…just my mom. Yeah, she’s so spontaneous with this stuff.” Delta forces a laugh, picking up the vase, and spinning on her heel to get back to her desk without having to explain anymore. She could feel panic setting in as everyone in the aisle of desks looked at her with wide eyes.

She sat the roses directly on the front of her desk, blocking her view of the rest of offices eyes that had followed her. Delta looked back at Calum’s door, she could hear him inside talking on the phone but couldn’t see him, thankfully. The thoughts consuming her brain were all she could focus on. She picked up her phone, debating whether or not she would text her friends and let them know she would be a bit late for drinks. She could easily just leave when everyone else did, pretend that she didn’t see the note with the flowers.

The sweet smell from the roses wafted into her nose again, reminding her of their presence on her desk. They were beautiful, and if Delta was being honest with herself, it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. The least she could do was hear what he had to say so she could at least know of his intentions. The consequences of starting some kind of relationship with Calum Hood were not something she really wanted to mess with. She could end up being seen as the girl who worked her way up by sleeping with her boss, and Delta didn’t work her ass off for 8 years to end up that girl.

---------

Delta watched as everyone slowly trickled out of the office, making her grow more and more nervous. And when Olivia began packing up her briefcase and slipping on her jacket, that’s when Delta really began to panic. Was she really going to go through with this? Maybe he wasn’t happy with her work and the flowers were just something to soften the blow of firing her. That was the more likely scenario. Delta felt her shoulders slump a little.

“Aren’t you coming?” Olivia asked, walking to stand in front of Delta’s desk, scoffing at the giant bouquet of white flowers practically blocking the entire view. Delta blinked her tired hazel eyes a few times, trying to come up with something to say.

“I just have a few more things to finish up. I’ll be out of here soon.” Delta said, forcing a straight mouthed smile and pretending to organize some papers.

“Right…see you Monday.” Olivia’s eyebrow rose curiously, but she finally turned and walked towards the exit of the office.

“Get it together, Wyse. Be professional. You are not letting him fire you.” She spoke to herself under her breath, standing up on shaky legs and picking up the vase of flowers. She had no idea what she was going to say, but she needed to say something to make sure Calum Hood knew that she was an asset to his firm.

Calum’s door was open, and Delta carefully held the vase in one hand while she knocked softly with the other. She looked around the flower arrangement into the office to see Calum standing in front of the wall of windows again. This time, his shoulders were slightly slumped and she could see that his black silky tie was hanging loosely around his neck. His hair looked a bit disheveled, like maybe he had been running his fingers through it over and over.

“Calum?” Delta said quietly, she didn’t want to startle him with her presence. Calum looked back over his shoulder, and once his eyes had met hers he started moving slowly back over to his desk.

“You don’t like them.” It wasn’t a question when he said it, more of a statement.

“No, no, I do. I just…can’t accept them.” She sits the vase down on the corner of his desk and takes a step back.

“Why?” He slumps lazily down into his chair, turning it so he can face her.

“Because…it’s not appropriate. And if you’re going to fire me then I want a chance to defend myself.” Delta crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin slightly.

“I’m not going to fire you, Delta.” Calum puts his hand out for her to take, his legs opening up and inviting her step between them. “Come here.”

“I think I’m fine right here.” Delta took a half step back away from his outstretched hand. Calum rolled his eyes, his long fingers reaching out a little further to grip the back of her thigh and pull her forward. Delta’s eyes widened as her feet stumbled a little.

Calum brought her to stand in front of him between his legs, sliding her ass across the desk top until she was right in front of him. Delta felt frozen but brought her hands up to balance on the edge of the desk. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as Calum’s hands slid from the backs of her thighs and up over her hips where they stopped and rested. His lips were set in a sad pout and his eyes appeared tired and unrested.

“What is it?” Delta whispered, her hands itching to lace into the black curls on his head. His thumbs gently rubbed at her hip bones through her dress while he released a long sigh. Calum’s head lulled forward causing his forehead to rest against Delta’s soft lower stomach. She looked down at him in surprise, not sure what to do now.

“I lost that Klein case today.” He finally mumbles. Delta knew how much that case meant to Calum. He had been working day and night on preparing cross examinations and making sure he had everything plotted out just right. Calum was so good at what he did, his confidence was unmatched. But seeing him this way, so vulnerable was heartbreaking for Delta to see.

“M’ Sorry. I know how much you wanted that win.” Delta lightly digs her teeth into her bottom lip, no longer being able to resist the urge to bring her fingers into his hair. He hummed appreciatively at the feeling, letting his nose skim around her stomach a moment before his forehead is resting back against it.

“This is all I wanted all day today. Just you.” His hands leave her hips and come down to the bare skin of her calves and inching back up the backs of her thighs. Goosebumps erupt across her skin in a heated frenzy.

“Why me?” She asks, her eyes rolling to the back of her head when his palms flatten against her skin and she can feel the metal of his silver rings brush against her.

“You make me feel like everything is going to be okay.” Calum’s fingers drop down to the backs of her knees and pull her until she’s falling into the straddling position on his lap, finally looking up when her face is just above his, Delta’s hands still in his hair. “And I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want you.” His lips are so ungodly close to hers that Delta can feel his hot breath against hers.

“We shouldn’t…” Delta tries so hard to resist, but her body is betraying her in every way possible. There’s a primal urge coursing through her veins telling her to let him take her any way that he wanted.

“All you have to do is tell me to stop, angel.” His lips press a searing kiss to the middle of her chest. Delta is certain that he should be able to feel how hard her heart is beating against the confines of her chest.

When his eyes come back to hers, Delta brings her hands to cup each side of his throat. The internal debate of whether or not she should be doing this is quickly fading away. She knew that she wanted him too, she couldn’t deny that in the slightest. She wished she knew the aftermath of what she was about to do, wished she knew what would happen next. But instead of dwelling on it like she almost always did, Delta brought her lips down to his. They were soft and full, better than she had imagined they would feel. Calum kissed her back instantly, he had been waiting for her to come out of her own head and give into the feeling that they both felt.

Calum’s hands slipped just beneath the hem of her dress, pushing up the material until it settles below her hips. His tongue came out to part her lips and Delta welcomed the warm muscle all too willingly. His taste was intoxicating and Delta was consumed. Calum settled his hands on her hips using the slightest bit of pressure to pull her down against him so she could feel how absolutely crazy she was making him with just her kiss.

“You’re doing that to me, sweet girl.” He said against her eager mouth. He lets one hand slip between her legs and push her underwear to the side. Calum can already tell that she’s absolutely soaked, and it makes his cock twitch in the confines of his pants. “Fuck, I want to be inside you.” Two fingers disappear inside her heat, making Delta take her lips off of his and throw her head back with a drawn out moan.

Delta almost felt embarrassed by how wet she was for him, but she couldn’t resist swiveling her hips and grinding down against his fingers. Calum’s eyes fell down to where his fingers were slipping in and out of her and watching the way she moved against him. She was sublime in every way.

“More, Calum. Please.” Delta wasn’t one to beg for anything, but she needed him to give her relief. Her walls clenched around his fingers, making Calum growl deep in chest, leaning up to attach his mouth to her neck.

“Are you going to cum around my fingers, Ms. Wyse?” Calum said against the shell of her ear, making her clench again. “Give it up, baby. Let me have it.” His voice was deep and sultry in her ear and Delta felt the knot in her stomach come undone. Her head fell against Calum’s shoulder as she came down from the highest high she’s ever had.

“What just happened?” She whimpered as Calum removed his fingers and brought them to his mouth. Delta watched as his eyes fluttered shut at the taste. He took them out a moment later, a pink tint to his cheeks as he looked up at her.

“You’re amazing. That’s what happened.” He smiles, the crinkles by his eyes showing as he sits up straight to kiss her again. This kiss was sweeter, but still just as warm.

“I should go.” Delta said quietly between kisses.

“Never.” Calum’s strong wrapper around her waist and held her tightly against his body. It made Delta laugh and kiss him more.

“I’m meeting friends for drinks. They’ll wonder where I am soon.” Delta smiled against his swollen lips, pecking them a few more times before she stood up from his lap and started straightening out her disheveled dress.

“Will you at least agree to let me take you out some time?” Calum stands up, stepping towards her and placing his hands on her hips again.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Calum.” Delta sighs, her lip pulling in between her teeth.

“What are you so worried about?” He asks.

“The fact that I’d be sleeping with my boss. Everyone thinking I fucked my way into a job opportunity. That’s not who I am, Calum.” Delta tried to step away but he kept his grip.

“You know that’s not what this is, don’t you? I’m going to offer you a job because you’re a damn good lawyer.” His fingers push some stray hairs behind her ears.

“That’s not how anyone else would see it if they know somethings going on between us.” Delta shook her head and then scrunched her eyebrows together when she finally processed the second part of his sentence. “Wait…you’re going to offer me a job?” Her eyes go wide and come back up to his perfectly brown ones.

“Of course I am. I’d be an idiot not to.” He says.

“I’ve only been here a month.” Delta breathes, not believing what she’s hearing.

“If the rest of your time here is as impressive as the first month, then the offer stands. But I have no doubt that it will.” Calum wraps his arms around Delta’s waist just as she practically jumps into his arms.

“Thank you.” Her face is buried in his neck as she speaks, happiness completely overwhelming her.

“Go get drinks with your friends, sweet girl. I’ll see you on Monday.” He presses a quick kiss to her forehead.

“Do um…do you want to come with me?” Delta asks.

“You mean like a date? Similar to the one I just asked you on and got turned down?” Calum raises a perfect eyebrow at her teasingly.

“I didn’t turn you down. I just…I still don’t know what I’m doing to be honest.” Delta runs her hands through her hair and huffs out a sigh.

“I’ll come out for a drink.” He says, hand coming up so his thumb can brush over her bottom lip.

“You will?” Delta wasn’t sure what she had wanted that answer to be.

“I will.” He leans forward, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips, before letting her go. Delta watches as he takes off his tie completely, undoing a few buttons on his shirt and using his fingers to fluff the curls on his head. She was in awe of him again. “You coming?” He asks,

“Yes.” Delta shakes off the awed feeling and follows Calum out of the office and into the busy city street.

“Lead the way, Ms. Wyse.” He says, offering his arm for her to take while they walked.

“Yes, sir.” Delta teases.

“Don’t call me sir.”

Tag list: @maoricth @slimthicccal @bbycal @kinglyhood @sugarcoated-pain @shower-me-with-roses @c-dizzle-swizzlex @calumculture @sugarcoatedcalum @calthesensation @cheyenne-in-wonderland @softboycal @moonlightcalum @unconditionalcalum @irwinkitten @singt0mecalum @angelbabylu @5sosnsfw @aspiringwildfire @myloverboyash @cal-puddies @lashtoncurls @kchillout @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles

#5sos #5 seconds of summer #calum hood #ashton irwin #luke hemmings #michael clifford #5sos imagines #5sos blurbs #5sos fics #5sos smut #cth #afi #mgc #lrh #calum hood smut #ceo!calum #its kind of cliche but i love it lol #tell me you love me #make sure you tell me what you think too!

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icecreambeach · 5 years

Note

Hi! If you still have some mchanzo prompts open, may you please write “meeting in the park like that scene in 101 Dalmatians where they get tangled by their dogs”

I’m a huge sap because I ran away with this like Jesse’s dog is about to. Thank you for this excellent fluffy prompt

- - -

Jesse loves seeing dog owners who resemble their dogs. The park is especially full of them today, probably because it’s spring and everyone is out with their loved ones, eager to take part in the grand transformation. He sees a young, stocky man with his crew and a strapping young Rottweiler waiting for a frisbee to be thrown. There’s a family with a tiny, excitable daughter holding the leash to a prancing Papillon. A nervous-looking older man in a turtleneck clings to his leather brief and a lanky gray Weimaraner. There’s even a pair of old ladies with two equally old Westies, both of them wearing matching tracksuits. The dogs and the ladies.

But there’s no way anyone wouldn’t look at Jesse and Ria and make the same correlation. For a tall half-gringo with brown hair, brown eyes, and an unmistakably Western aesthetic, a lanky mutt that looks more like a coyote than any known breed of domestic canine works just perfect. Even their meeting seemed arranged by fate. Jesse picked her out of his dumpster one night and almost got his other hand bitten off for his trouble. After a few weeks of leaving out food and talking nice and soft, they became wary friends. A few more weeks, a few more treats, and Ria had her name and access to Jesse’s lumpy leather couch. Few women or men have ever taken his heart so easily. For a lonely ex-gangster turned soldier turned bounty hunter, Ria is more than Jesse feels like he deserves: fun, loyal, and a good listener, especially when it comes to the kind of dark sins he could never confess to anyone else. He has his suspicions, giving Ria’s wild nature and the manner in which they met, that she has her own rough and tumble past, but she only ever looks at him with big honey-colored eyes. Yowls for his attention, yowls at passing cats and squirrels. Yowls for any damn reason at all.

She’s doing it now at some tense Border Collie that caught her attention for whatever reason. Jesse gives her a gentle tug – he got the retractable leash to give her some freedom but, much like her owner, it’s impossible to know when she’s about to run. “Easy, girl.”

Ria stops at his voice but stays alert, tail swishing. Ears perked. The other dog owners steer their Collie away with distrusting looks and Jesse can’t say he blames them. Even without such a wild-looking dog, Jesse’s prosthetic arm and rough face are enough reason for most city-dwelling civilians to give a wide berth. He certainly wouldn’t want to see either he nor Ria locked and loaded and staring to kill. Even if he did tie a bright red bandana over her collar to cute her up some.

But he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t sting a bit. “Back up, now. C’mon.”

Ria comes back to the path and Jesse hands her one of the twisty-treats he keeps inside a baggie in his back pocket. Then he loosens the retractable leash to let her lead. A responsible dog owner shouldn’t give her so much freedom, but he can’t help it. He knows the scars on her paws and muzzle, figures she’s earned an easy life. A younger McCree would never have been so soft, but time and miles make suckers out of even the toughest old gunslingers.

Jesse tilts his hat up to see where they should head next. There’s a reservoir in the center of the park, but everyone tends to head that way. There are climbing rocks and open meadow up ahead, but there’ll be a lot of small children and running dogs for Ria to chase. They could just keep to the smaller paths, maybe get an ice cream or a hot dog. It’s not what Jesse would choose for either of them, but he’s got a big yard. He can run her at home. The walks are for the novelty and the people-watching anyway.

But, not surprisingly, Ria has other plans. She barks, loud and rapid-fire, and Jesse looks up to see the new object of her fancy.

It’s an Akita. Not one of the smaller ones either – a burly, heavy-boned type of spitz that Jesse recognizes from when he used to research breeds for the Blackwatch K-9 unit. He can’t remember ever seeing so fine a specimen, even from all that reading. This dog is powerful beyond its stature. Its black-and-white coat is more a top layer of dark gray wash, as if watery ink had been spilled over paper, like those sumi-e drawings from ancient Japan. The fluffy white underside is pristine along with the rest of the dog, bright, healthy – obviously well-taken care of, with a shiny leather collar to boot.

The Akita’s near-black face is also pointed right at them. Its front legs are braced in a defensive position. It lets out a disgruntled huff and suddenly all the notes about the Akita’s intolerance of strangers comes shooting back to Jesse. He’s never seen a dog that wasn’t at least a little intimidated by Ria, but this dog is squared up.

And so is the owner. Jesse’s eyes widen. It’s practically absurd at this point, but this man also looks exactly like his dog: stocky, powerful, impeccable in expensive athleisure gear. His jet black hair is tied in an elegant knot with smooth shaved sides, his nasal bridge piercing matches the studs in each ear. An intricate tattoo peaks out from the half-rolled sleeves of his sweater and his obviously ripped physique is just as proud as his dark, hawk-like eyes.

Jesse can’t remember the last time he saw such a handsome face, let alone on such an obvious yakuza. It completely distracts him from the situation at hand until Ria jerks against the leash.

“Easy, girl!”

The man and the Akita may have stopped, but only for a moment. Once the man seems to recognize that Ria is controlled, he grazes his eyes over Jesse and then goes on his way. The Akita follows dutifully, not even stressing its short leash.

Jesse sighs with relief. That could have been bad. Ria is more friendly than aggressive, but he can’t say the same for any other dog, and that one didn’t look like it’d have the patience for her shenanigans.“Let’s go home, girl. I think you need some ball time in the yard.”

Jesse turns. With relief still flooding his system, his hand is slack. And he may or may not still be recalling the handsome face that had looked him over so cooly, so confidently.

It stands to reason that Ria would take advantage of that.

She bolts. Jesse whirls around, high-alert, but his finger hesitates on the retractable leash. At her pace, she’d most likely strangle herself if he stopped it now.

“Fuck– Ria! Stop!”

So he does the only other thing he can and chases after her, hoping to at least match her pace so he can ease her back.

“No, girl!”

Ria isn’t listening. She moves like a fish taking line and makes a B-line for the Akita. By the time Jesse has retracted more leash, the Akita has pranced away, and there’s still a lot of slack line – enough for Ria, chasing the Akita, to wind around Jesse and the strange man’s legs.

“Oh, hell–” Jesse tries to push away from the other man’s chest but they both nearly lose their balance in the process.

The other man reacts similarly, but staggers at the last second, keeps Jesse at bay with his hand around his phone. “Nanndayo–?”

Jesse tries to steady him, yanks his hands away. “Fuck, oh, I’m so sorry–”

The man grabs at Jesse’s jacket, releases him, staggers again. “What the hell are you–fuck, oh–”

“I’m sorry, oh– she’s just– dang it, Ria–”

“Get your– damn it–”

“Fuck, don’t–!”

“Stop pushing, you will–!”

But Ria keeps tugging, and the Akita keeps evading her, and then Jesse and the man are falling over one another into a heap of wildflowers. A few people laugh in surprise, some gasp. Jesse releases the retractable leash entirely as both men scramble away from one another and it sucks up line after Ria, untangling around their feet as she bounds after the Akita.

Luckily, the other dog simply stops to sniff her. Unluckily, the damage is done. Jesse pushes back his hat to see bright yellow pollen all over the stranger’s expensive outfit. When he curses in Japanese, bits of leaf and petal and dirt fly off his ruined hair. A few people who’d asked if they were okay take one look at the yakuza’s face and keep walking.

“Ah, shit… I’m so sorry, she ain’t usually that– let me help you–”

“Get off,” the man sneers, clamoring to his feet, “Look what you’ve done, you fool.”

“I’m sorry, I really am, I…” Jesse keeps his offered hand hovering, the other removing his hat. “She’s never bolted like that before, honest. I couldn’t be more–”He stops when the stranger looks right at his face and snorts with suppressed laughter.Jesse can’t help but smile back – he had no idea such a serious face could make such a handsome grin. “What?”The man points. “Your beard.”

With a swipe of his hand, Jesse realizes what he means. His fingers are smeared with pollen, which means his beard must look like he dusted it with yellow powder before leaving his house. And with brows as bushy as his, he assumes they look much the same way.

“Well…” Jesse drifts off, unable to suppress his own snort of laughter. It descends into raucous snickering, which the stranger also seems to find funny, because he answers with an actual laugh, a low scoff-chuckle that is still subdued but definitely genuine. He reaches out and plucks an actual pink flower from Jesse’s beard and Jesse loses it, throws his head back and guffaws, takes the flower with a tip of his hat, “You shouldn’t have,” and the stranger barks out a laugh that carries for a mile.

The dogs have since relaxed and now sniff and circle each other, both tails wagging.

“I really am sorry,” Jesse says once they’ve both calmed down. “I can pay to have it cleaned–”

“Feh,” the man waves him off, “It is nothing.” He dusts the pollen off of himself, glancing up at Jesse a few times. “A retractable leash is not appropriate for such a willful dog. You reward her for pulling by allowing her to get where she wants to go.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Jesse mutters, ruffling his beard to get the pollen out. “Only had her for a few months now. I been soft. She’s had a hard time.”

“Hn. As has mine.” The man loosens his hair, letting it spill past his shoulders, and strokes it clean with his fingers while eyeing Jesse like a lord. “But she would benefit from a firmer hand.”

“Yeah, well…” Jesse smiles that smile he knows people like, slings his thumbs into his jeans waistband. Maybe it’s just springtime, but something’s got him feeling a bit dopey. “That makes two of us.”

The stranger raises a brow, looks away, but Jesse can see a coy smile playing at a corner of his mouth.

“What’s’name?”

The man looks to his dog, then to Jesse. “Choco.”

“Oh, ah, no – I meant, what’s your name?”

The man straightens his shoulders, looks Jesse up and down again. “Hanzo.”

“Nice to meet you, Hanzo,” Jesse extends a hand (clean) and takes Hanzo’s firmly. Hat still pressed to his chest. “I’m Jesse.”

Hanzo seems pleased with the polite gesture. “Pleasure.”“Hey,” Jesse grins again, “Anyone ever tell you that you ‘n Choco kinda–”

“Resemble one another?” Hanzo finishes with a smirk.

They both smile at each other, then look down at their dogs, both of whom are now looking back up at them.

Jesse leans over to take Ria’s leash, gives her a look that is equal parts exasperation and gratitude, then looks at Hanzo with what he hopes is a relatively confident smile. “Well,” he adjusts his hat back on his head, “He’s a real good-lookin’ dog.”“She is.” Hanzo fixes him with an almost-smile, one hand in his pocket. He still hasn’t reached for Choco’s leash.

Which just makes Jesse’s nerves vibrate even harder. “Real well-trained, too.”“Thank you.”

“And I… I dig that collar.”

“Not as handsome as a red bandana.”

Jesse chuckles, thumbs his jaw before he remembers that it’s probably still got pollen on it. When was the last time he felt this flustered trying to ask someone out?

“Well, uh…”

Hanzo just stands there, still sort-of-smiling. Even with grass poking out of his loose hair, he looks like a million bucks. He also looks like he’s either waiting for a sign or looking for a place to bury a knife.

But Jesse knows how to bait a wild animal. “Guess I outta get lil’ Ria here some obedience training.”

“I doubt you need go to such lengths,” Hanzo replies. And then, right on cue: “I could give you some guidance, if you like. Do you drink coffee?”Jesse grins. “I love coffee. My treat, o’course.”“Of course.”Hanzo whistles and Choco comes trotting up to his side. He bends to take her leash and Jesse swears he can see just the briefest flash of a pleased smile.He nods down at Choco. “That Akita is one loyal breed, huh?”“Yes,” Hanzo effortlessly smooths his hair back up into its knot. “If their trust is earned,” he drops his hands, looks at Jesse, and smiles at the ground as he steps back onto the path, “They can be very loyal indeed.”

Jesse tries to mask the thrill that rockets over his face by dipping his chin, boots stuttering onto the gravel. Ria stays close by his leg this time, lets out a happy bark. Without taking his eyes off of Hanzo, Jesse dips a hand deep into his back pocket and gives her a whole fistful of treats.

“Good girl.”

#mchanzo #mchanzo fanfic #mchanzo prompts #overwatch fanfic

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odysseywritings · 5 years

Text

2 Friends go to a Halloween Party for Possible Dates

A woman in her mid-20s with chin-length dark brown hair and adorning a white collar shirt sped-walk her way to her apartment with a mixture of glee and anxiety. She sped up her way up the stairs as she called out someone’s name excitedly.

“Izzy, Izzy, Izzy!” she whooped. “I got some great news!”

She banged on the door a few times. Happiness giving way to irritation as she knocked some more.

“It is open, Rose” a slow feminine voice from the other side chimed.

Rose opened the door to find Izzy, a woman with long curly black hair and wearing a purple robe, sitting down in the middle of the room with her eyes closed. The room was blackened except for several candles lighting various areas.

“I was close to contacting a spirit named Jeremiah,” Izzy said without turning her head. “I hope you understand that.”

“The occult stuff can wait,” Rose waved her hand. “Right now, I got something to tell you!”

Rose turned on the light as Izzy sighed and looked at her with a serious look.

“So I overheard some coworkers, I wasn’t eavesdropping about one’s DUI situation by the way, and one of them brought up a Halloween party downtown.”

“I hate parties. And since when have you ever enjoyed scary things?”

“Hey, I’ve seen plenty of scary people at work. I just need a breather from horror movies.” She sighed and composed herself. “Anyway,” She continued with a smile and twirled her hair. “There’s a certain coworker that I’m really liking… And he said he’d be there!”

“Ah. Well, hope you have a good time.” Izzy said as she closed her eyes again.

“And he mentioned having a sister who’s also single~”

Izzy turned her head. “Go on.”

Rose grinned as she was relaxing and ditching her work clothes for casual wear.

“If she’s like her brother, then I feel she’d be laid-back,” Rose added. “Which thank God, I get so tired of assholes every day. Only I’m allowed to be high-maintenance!”

“Don’t I know it,” Izzy quipped. “What’s their names?”

“Cosmo and Maddie Peters,” she continued. “He’s kinda stoic and sluggish, so I thought he was going to be cold and lazy. But he’s very reliable, covers the other guys when they can’t make it, and lightens up the mood if I’m feeling especially pissy.”

“Yin-Yang, huh?”

“His sister’s the same I think,” she sat down on the couch wearing a red t-shirt and maroon shorts and turned on the TV. “He says she’s really upbeat and into a lot of alternative junk. Not bad things, just out-there things. So you and her can talk about counter-culture stuff.”

“I already love her energy. Carefree and unchained by social constraints.”

“That’s the spirit! I want this to be a natural, authentic experience.” She whipped out a list with an eager grin. “So I made a list of things we should do before, during, and after the party!”

Izzy stared in utter befuddlement. Any snark coming to her were failing as Rose was about to commence talking her ear off.

“Why not,” Izzy began, “we just start with costumes to where and go from there?”

Rose blinked. “You are so right. Oh, I need to write down what I’d look good as.”

Izzy sighed and slumped back, content with something morbid and gruesome in her head.

The women exited their building with their costumes completed. Rose went with a classic black cat costume complete with black marker whiskers and fake fangs. Izzy conversely went with a zombie look with make-up used to have her skin appear rotting and her eyes discolored through gray contact lenses. Sunset’s orange and violet coloring closed in on them as they headed out, Rose having a purposeful stride as Izzy followed with a calm gait.

“So how do you think we should break the ice,” Izzy inquired.

“First thing’s first,” Rose said. “We compliment their costumes no matter how weird they look to us.” She looked at Izzy’s zombie get-up. “Or just to me.”

“Maybe ask what they like, too.”

“Yes! Then we just have to be our normal selves. Mostly. In acceptable doses.”

“You are really overthinking this. I’d just be glad if the sister is even looking for someone like me.”

“I met a lot of picky guys, alright? But you’re right, he doesn’t seem like the type to be judgy.”

They approached a sign attached to a street light that welcomed guests to a ‘frighteningly fun time’ with cutesy skulls and pumpkins decorated on it with a 21+ disclaimer underneath.

“This is it, Izzy,” Rose affirmed. “Rember. Acceptably weird.”

Izzy looked at her and shrugged.

“While we look for them let’s enjoy ourselves with some games,” Izzy maintained. “Wait. How am I going to know what they look like if they’re wearing costumes.”

“Oh, Cosmo will probably wear something strange.”

“Wow, you’re right. That really does help narrow it down.”

“Just trust me! We’ll find them soon enough.”

Without looking, Rose bumped into a man considerably taller than her wearing a dark green cloak. The man gave her a wretched look with his intense blue eyes.

“Oh my god!” Rose gasped. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

The cloaked man glared at her and raised a finger.

“Watch your step, you idiot.”

“Watch your mouth, micro-nuts,” Rose chided.

The man was too perplexed to make a comeback and only looked at her again before the two girls headed off.

“The nerve of that guy!” Rose went on. “Grr! Let’s just find them and get it over with.”

“You’re not going to get on the boy’s good side with that attitude,” Izzy retorted. “Let out some steam and play a game.”

“Right, yeah,” Rose grumbled and sighed.

One of the stands had a pumpkin carving contest and Rose took up the chance to use her frustration on a vegetable. She sat on a free chair and readied herself as Izzy went elsewhere. As time went on, the pirate-dressed judge was impressed by the contestants but was frightened by Rose’s intense carving and her creation of a screaming face. The clock rang, and the judge gave the winning prize of a candy basket to a person with a witch carving. Rose slumped, but at least the energy was out of her.

“Well,” she started. “That was a good game anyway.”

“I’ll say,” a baritone voice said from her right side.

The sound made her eyes widen and she turned to see a light heaired man wearing a wizard robe and hat smiling with a glazed look as he slowly waved.

“H-Hi, Cosmo!”

“Hi, Rose. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Me neither.” She paused. “I mean- It’s a nice surprise to find you here!”

He nodded. “I liked your technique of stabbing the hell out of the pumpkin. It’s a dying art I feel.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I got a bad mood from a jerk earlier. But I’m much better now.”

She looked at his carving with a raised brow.

“I like the… carrot?”

“Spaceship.”

“That was my second guess.”

They both laughed, though Rose’s loud cackle dominated his mild chuckle.

“By the way,” Cosmo continued. “My sister’s here too. I think she’d get a kick out of you.”

“Oh, what a coincidence! My friend is here, too. We’re like sisters in a very loose way.”

“You could say that,” Izzy interrupted from behind.

“Jesus!” Rose jumped and clutched her chest. She breathed heavily until she cooled down. “Uh, Cosmo. This is Izzy Watson. Izzy, Cosmo Peters.”

The two strangers looked at each other with mild expressions.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Excellent,” Rose mumbled. She looked at Izzy who gave her an expectant reaction. “Oh! You said your sister was here? We’d like to meet her if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He stayed in his chair for a good while as Rose tapped her foot anxiously.

“Cosmo?”

“Oh, I don’t know where she is. But we can find her.”

“Ngk. Sure, that’d be fine.”

The trio searched around until they saw a redheaded woman excitedly bobbing for apples in vampire attire.

“Found her,” Cosmo said.

“How can you tell,” Izzy replied.

“Because redhead vampires are really rare.”

Izzy was stunned by his nonchalance and decided to just accept the answer. The woman waved to Cosmo with the apple still in her mouth as she jogged to them.

“He~y!” she bubbled. “Cosmo, who are these lovely ladies?”

“Mattie, this is my coworker Rose Nakano.”

“Hey, how are ya!” Mattie burst.

“And her friend Izzy Watson.“

“Hi, there,” she cooed. “That zombie make-up looks really cool.”

Izzy’s frown lifted slightly and thanked her as she pushed her hair back. Rose in turn was smiling at the two getting along.

“Hmm,” Rose pondered. How about we travel together for a bit? We never get much chance to talk outside of work, Cosmo. And Izzy actually wants to talk to someone.”

Cosmo tapped his chin. “Yeah, all right.”

The 4 traveled around, with Rose initiating conversations with Cosmo about music tastes.

“Get out!,” Rose exclaimed and playfully shoved Cosmo. “You like Thunder Star, too?! I love their riffs and goofy music videos!”

“Same,” Cosmo softly said with a small smile. “Johnny Fingers is the best rock bassist. I love how you can hear him. It’s really melodic and cool.” He smiled more as his face reddened to Rose’s delight.

On the other end, Mattie talked with Izzy about horror movies they saw recently including a folk horror movie about 17th century New Englanders.

“And there’s a lot of historical accuracies and everything,” Mattie blurted. “I think the focus on paganism being evil is really cliche, but the movie is so tense that I completely let it slide!”

“If you like horror,” Izzy smirked. “You’ll really like ‘Grid’. It’s about a serial killer in a town that loses all its electricity in one night.”

“Ugh, I hate that image, but I want to see it!”

“I can rent it for us to watch sometime.”

“Count me in,” Mattie replied as she twirled her hair.

Eventually the pairs split off to do various games as fog was covering the outdoor party, having a blue coloring that was mostly ignored by the 4 in their joyous moments.

#pretty long read #halloween #romance #F/M and F/F #perhaps something spooky later on?!#ooooooo #writeblr #njm

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miriamandvictoria · 6 years

Text

Fun character bio

@ocprompting Fun Character Bio Victoria

Name

What is it?

Victoria Willsson

Does it mean anything, who gave it to them and why?

It doesn't have a specific meaning, but was given to her by Catherine Willsson, the woman who originally adopted her when she was two months old. Catherine died when Victoria was five, and her name is one of very few thing she has left of her.

Do they like it?

Yes, but sometimes they wonder what their biological mother might've called her

Is it a common name for their setting/culture, or is it obscure?

It's common

Other basics

Age?

Species?

Human

Personality traits

What are their most defining traits to their personality?

Absolutely past giving a shit about anyone, compassionate and protective, and very intelligent

What sticks out as soon as you meet them, what kind of first impression do they make?

First anyone would notice is that they are very creative. It shows in their clothes, in the way they act, everything. A real free spirited artist. They usually make a good first impression, but they can quickly be stereotyped as a 'quirky artist'

What are their good traits?

Creative, compassionate, intellegent, dependable

What are their bad traits?

A bit too artistic, not the best at socializing, naive (not in bussiness, but personal relations), strong fight or flight reflex (run away when things get over her head), proud

Any other traits?

Fiercely protective of her family

How do they describe themself, how do they view themself?

They see themselves as a grounded, dependable person with an a creative side. They don't have the best self-image, especially not when it comes to close relations, and often second guess themselves in pretty much anything they do, but they try to act proud and unwavering.

How do others describe them, how do others view them?

Others see them as a nice, dependable person and a good mother. They are often impressed by her determination to not give up on her creativity and artistic calling, even if they have to have a regular 9 to 5 job as well. Sometimes their uncertainty about close relations show, and it can be a bit unsettling because it appears to go against their confident and dependable nature.

What parts of their personality always prevail and are always present no matter what the situation is?

Her creativity and dependableness. She is always quick to come up with inventive solutions even in terrible situations, and even if she can sometimes be umcertain about close relations she will be there when you need her no matter what.

Are they a different person when you first meet them than when you get to know them, does it take them time to open up? Or are they an open book from the get go?

They are pretty much an open book from the get go, though you sometiems underestimate how complex the story is. The more you learm to know them the more you learn that there's a complecity to it that doesn't immidiatly show from the outside.

Appearance

Height?

About 185 cm

Body build/shape/weight?

Tall, lean and wide hips & larger breast.

Facial shape - What are their eyes like? How about their nose, or lips? Shape of cheeks? Eyebrows?

They have green eyes that are rather cat like - some of her friends claim they glow in the dark. Thin lips and nose. Sharp, downwards pointing eyebrows that can make her look angry even if she is just sad or concerned.

Hair - Is it short? Long? How is the texture/shape? How is the style? Do they wear it different ways or only one way? What colour(s) is it, and is that natural or changed?

Her natural hair colour is auburn, but they went gray in their mid-20s and coloured it a chocolate brown colour until her mid 30s. They had long (down to stomach, little longer) and straight hair until their late 20s. Since then it's a little past their shoulders in length, and it has it's natural texture which is wavy. They also curl it occasionally with quite good results.

Skin tone?

They're white (American)

Anything such as glasses? freckles? dimples? scars? any wrinkles?

She got slight crows feet and small wrinkles around her mouth. She also have dimples. She got reading glasses, but use them less often than she should. She has scars on her fingers from when she first learned to play guitar, because she didn't know how to tune it. She also has a c-section scar from having her daughter.

Do they look younger, average, or older than their age?

Physically they look a bit younger than their actual age, but their grey hair tend to 'give away' their real age.

How do they feel about their appearance? Do they like it, do they dislike it, is it mixed, or do they not place much value on their looks?

It's pretty mixed. They have good and bad days, like most people. She decidedly dislike how she look with glasses though.

Is there anything they would want to change about their appearance? Is there anything they refuse to change about their appearance?

When she was younger she definatly wished that she hadn't gone grey so early, and solved it by colouring leticoulesly and never letting any of the grey show. It was rather hard on her hair and she first started trying shorter hairstyles to make it easier for her and her hair. Nowadays she strictly tells herselg she is perfect the way she is, and leave it at that.

Gender identity/etc

What is their gender?Are they intersex or perisex (non intersex)? Or does their culture not even have different “sexes”? Are they cis or trans? Or does their culture not even assign genders?What are their pronouns?

Perisex cisgender female, she/her

Orientation/attraction (if oc is aro and/or ace, skip the ones you feel not applicable)

Sexual orientation/Romantic orientation?

Bisexual with a heavy preference for women

Are they dating anyone? Are they married? Do they want to get married? Or do they prefer ‘one night stands’?

They aree married to a woman called Miriam Willson-Paul. She met her when Miriam had just turned twenty, and she was twenty-six. They fell in love rather quickly, but it took 15 years before they got married, both due to trouble in the relationship and because it was not legall in either of their home states.

How do they react when they first fall for someone?

She's a head over heels kind of person. She falls in love quick and hard.

How do they react when they first begin being intimate with someone?

At first they can be worried and uncertain. They're not really very trusting when becoming intimate with new people, even if they love them dearly. This has however grown away a bit as they got older, and got more secure in themselves and the fact that it is not their fault if people chos eto leave, as logn as she doesn't do anything bad to the relationship.

How do they react further on down the relationship?

They get much more secure in themselves, and though they always fall hard from the get go, it truly starts to show when they get comfortable further down the line. Her wife once described it as 'the eruption of the emotional volcano'.

Do they change or do they stay the same but stronger feelings?

They stay the same. They're head ove rheels for the getgo, sp the only thign that happen is the feelings become more solid.

Do they have a lot of dating experience, a little, or none?

Only a little. A number of one night stands and two true loves in their life.

What ways do they express intimacy or love? Hugs, Kisses, Giving gifts, Doing favors, Creating things for them, Verbal flattery, etc?

Creating gifts, verbal flattery, favours and hugs & kisses

Are they casual or intense in the relationship?

Intense, once they dare to show it

Do they value the relationship as important and lasting, or just fun and fleeting? Are they fast or slow in their relationships?Are they dominant or passive in the relationship? Do they take the lead, let their partner(s) take the lead, a mixture, or is there no lead in their relationships?

They value it as important and lasting, they're fast in their head but pretty slow in reality. Once they're comfortable they are definatly dominant, though it rarely show because they got a more dominant partner. Usually its a mix of who take the lead. They got their insecurities and their expertises, and take lead accordingly.

Do they enjoy sexual aspects to their relationship more, or romantic aspects more?

They enjoy both equally, but they have a Demisexual partner who do not enjoy sex as much, so Romantic has come to be most important.

Do they have any sexual interests that they do with their partner(s), either for themself or for their partner(s)?

Not really, they like sex as such but they'r enot very adventurous and their partner doesn't much care for sex.

What do they do if there is something upsetting in their relationship, how do they handle slight turmoil in their relationships? (as in, not abuse, but a small/singular problem)? Are they confident when with a partner, or are they insecure? If they are confident, how do they feel about confident partners? How about insecure partners? if insecure, then how do they feel about confident partners? or insecure partners?

Usually they try to run from the problem. She and her partner are terrible at communicating, and especially when they were younger she could spend weeks sleeping on the couch in a silent stand-off. Omce they get comfy, they are very confident but their wife is even stronger, which sometiems make them look insecure in comparising. However, small issues can make them both dissolve into insecure messes, so it's really individual to the situation. They do, however, like someone who is confident in a relationship.

Do they have a 'type’? Personality wise, what do they enjoy in a partner(s)? Looks wise, what do they enjoy as well?How well do they handle heartbreak?

They do't have a type, but prefer women over men and do find hair very fascinating, so women with longer hair and more elaborate hair styles are more intresting. They are terrible at heart break! They still have a lot of emotional scars & unproccessed trauma from their first real heart-break. It was an on and off relationship with a married man who abused drugs and alcohol. It also included a triangle drama with his jelous wife, her girlfriend of the time and several assorted women that he played with. It ended with the man killing himself with drugs and alcohol, and Victoria still carries a lot of deeply rooted issues from it.

Platonic relationships

What kinds of people do they make friends with? What kinds of people DON’T they make friends with?

They caan make friends with just about anyone, but will drop you if you are not faithful to your partner or talk shit about people who are mot present.

What kinds of things do they enjoy to do with friends?

They lile to sing and play music with their friends, as well as paint and sculpt. Their own hobbies, but with others. Otherwise just going out fir a beer or to the movies is fine too.

Do they like to chill at home, go out somewhere exciting, hang at a quiet coffee shop, etc? Do they enjoy a large friend group or small? Would they rather a few great friends, or many good friends?

They like to go out, but can stay home too. Its fine with either for her. She has a few trusted friends that she stick to, and a large group of shallow aquintances.

Do they make friends with anyone easily, or are they selective? How long does it take them being around a person to consider them a friend? How do they handle a fight with a friend? How do they express their friendship? What kinds of things do they do to/with friends to let them know they care for them?

They make friends easily, but to really have a strong bond with them will take years and years until you can be accepted a 'proper' friend. They handle fights terrible. People usually avoid fighting them because they know how bad it can get. They express their friendship through unwavering lpyalty and dependability. They will always be there.

Animals

How do they feel about animals as a whole? Do they view them as friends, helpers, tools/rescources, equal companions, annoyances, or enemies?

They love animals!

Do they have a favourite animal, for any reason? A least favourite animal?

Favourite animal are dogs. No least favourite.

Do they have any pets? Have they formally had pets? If no pet, do they want one?Are they good with animals or are they bad with them?

They are great with animals! They have three dogs, their wife has a cow and a horse, and their son has a cat.

Food/Diet

What kinds of food do they enjoy? What kinds of foods do they not enjoy?

They like hardy homecooked comfort food. They dislike sleak, fat free upscale resturant food.

Do they eat a little, a lot, or somewhere inbetween? If a little, Do they only eat a little due to being poor/conserving, or is there another reason such as culture/religious/etc? If a lot, do they do so due to money/abundance of food, or would they still find a way to eat a lot even if poor?

They eat a lot when their wife has cooked for them, but left alone they eat very little both due to having had little money growing up and early on in their adulthood, and due to not really mich experiencing hunger.

Do they have any food allergies, or restrictions such as vegetarian/vegan/pescetarian/etc? If the latter, is it a personal belief, a cultural belief, a religious belief, due to allergies, or something else?

No allergies

Do they view food as just sustenance or as a pleasure? Or balance it out? If given a big plate of food, do they eat their fav food first or last? If given a big plate of food, do they eat it all at once, or save some for later?

Again, if someone else cook its pleasure, otherwise its sustenance. They eat their fav food last always. If given a big plate they'll take it all on the spot. They were raiaed with the principle of 'clean plates equal respect for the cook'.

How do they feel on sweets? How do they feel on sour foods? How do they feel on spicy foods? How do they feel on bland/basic foods?Are they good at cooking/baking, or do they instead just buy premade meals? Do they cook basic storebought foods or do they make food from scratch? Or if rich, do they pay someone else to prepare their foods?

They like sweets, but prefer savoury food. Sour is not a taste they care much for. Spicy food they've come to like because their wife likes cooking spicy mexican cuisine. Bland/basic foods work well for them if theyre cooking for themselves. They're rather mediocre at cooking but will do simple form scratch meals for themselves rather than buy preprepped.

Social/political beliefs

What are their views on social groups?

They think that the society is way too segregated as is today.

Are they open minded or close minded? Are they progressive, or do they dislike if their society changes?

They're open minded, and are posetive to a lot of changes since they're youth since its made it easier for her and her wife.

What is the government like in their setting? Do they like the way it is set up, or not? Do they like their current leader, or not?

They live in modern day America. They do not like the leaders and think the system could be better.

Fashion

What kinds of clothes do they like?

They're a real redneck and like shirts and cowboy boots and jeanse most the time.

What kinds of things will they include in every outfit?

There is always colour. They would never dress all black, white or grey

What kinds of clothes do they dislike? What kinds of things would they refuse to wear?

They dislike smart suits and you can never get them to wear fancy fabrics like silk, cashmiere etc

Any accessories they always wear, like a bracelet, hair tie, ring, locket, etc? Does it have any significance?

They often wear earings. They always have their wedding ring, even if they may not admit its a wedding ring.

What is their relationship with clothing? Do they wear what’s comfortable, what they aesthetically like, what is easy to work in/what fits their profession, something formal, something casual?

They're pretty casual and artsy. They care a lot for aestethic, but will always make sure they are practical and comfortable too.

Do they view clothes as just fabric to cover their body, or do they consider it an important/integral part of their identity, or somewhere in between? Do they prefer to have less or more skin exposed in their outfits? Do they wear as little as possible, or maybe do they use clothes to hide something about themselves?

Its an important part of their identity. When they were young they could be pretty skimpily clad, but have become more and more prudish with the years. Especially her C-section scar is something she is keen to cover at any cost.

Do they live somewhere with the same temperature/weather all year, or does the climate change? if it does change, do they change their clothes by the changing seasons, or do they stick to their “brand” no matter what? if it doesn’t change, do they like having the same style clothes all year or not?

They live in an area with relatively predictable weather, but will stick to their 'brand' no matter what.

Disabilities

Do they have any physical disorders/ailments/etc?

Do they have any mental disorders/ailments/etc? What about, are they neurodivergent?

They quite possibly have PTSD as a result of traumatic events in their past, as well as some abadonment issues from being abadoned as a baby, and having her first adooted parent die when she was five, but has never been to a psychiatrist. They are not neurodivergent.

Hobbies and talents

Do they have any hobbies or recreational interests? Do they practice them a little at a time/during whatever free time, or are their hobbies more time consuming and take up a good deal of their day/week/etc? Is their hobby to de stress, to bring fulfillment, to build up a skill, or another reason?

They paint, sculpt, sing and play rythm guitarre. Painting and sculpting take a lot of their time in the week. It is both destressing and a thing that fills her with personal fullfillment as it is a skill since shes had since a child and she feel successful as a person as she develop it.

Why do they do their hobby? What made them pick up/do this hobby? Is their hobby something done in their alone time, or something done in a group setting/with friends?

All theur hobbies are things that has come naturally to them since childhood. Thry love doing it with others, but their subject and the contents might vary a lot deoending on who is presemt/watching.

What kinds of talents do they have? What are they good at? Is it something more well regarded like singing, dancing, painting, etc.. or something more obscure like quickly organizing things alphabetically, remembering what kind of flowers their friend likes, or another skill that isnt as widely seen as a typical “talent/skill”?

Painting, sculpting, singing and playing guitarre are their skills. All widely regarded skills that are taken seriously.

is there any type of hobby they detest and would never partake in? Is there any sort of skill or subject they are just completely bad at? Is there a hobby they wish they could try? Is there a skill they wish they had?

Not really. They are a well rounded person who is not completely horrible at snything really, even if they defiantly have their owm expertise. They are also willing to try most things if someone want them to.

Are their hobbies or skills more practical and useful in a job or career, more suited for social life/aspects, more creative and for fun, or do they serve a different kind of purpose in their life?

They use their hobbies as a career, but most freely they handle it as a job on the side of their normal job.

Religion and spirituality

Are they religious?

No, they are an atheist. They only partcipate when their wife, who is religious, ask them to.

Where they raised on their faith, or did they convert in later?

They were raised christaim, but a very liberal type of christinaity that did not include visiting the local church as their mother found it too negatibe and restrictive compared to her take on christianity. They decided they were atheist around age fifteen.

financial status/job

What financial class do they belong to? Are they a ruler/royalty, nobility, upper class, middle class, lower class, or poor as can be?Were they born in to this class, or came in to it later on?

They are normal middle class citizensbut was raised in a finacially limited family.

What is their job, if they have one?

They're an art teacher on a middle school level. They sell art and sculptures on the side.

How do they earn their money, or at least things like food and other necessities? Do they enjoy their work, do they only work for the money, or do they detest their job?

They do not much like their normal job but love selling art and sculptures and doing paid jobs as a preelance artist. Their favourite thing is doing album covers.

Is work something enjoyable or is it stressful?Is this their dream job, or is there something they’d like to be doing more?

Its stressful and definatly not the dream job to be a teacher - they want to be an artist full time.

What is stopping them - do they not have the social class, do they not have the money or ability to achieve it, or do they maybe just not believe they’re capable?

They do mot become an artist fulltime because they've had three kids to look after and did not think it was economically viable evem if they do make some money on it on the side. As they grow older and the kids move out, they're considering going straight at it.

Phobias

Do they have any phobias or fears?

They have a fear of abadonment that can be triggered by foghting with friends and family, amogn other things

After escaping the situation, how do they recover?

Lots of tlc with family or friends.

How long does it take to do so?

Between a few hours and a few days. Usually it last until the trigger that started it is resolved.

Is their fear easily able to be overcome after facing it once or twice, or is it something more chronic and they have the same response no matter how often they experience it?

Its chronic

Does their fear come from a frightening life experience, or is it more 'random’ and not 'derived’ from anything?

It comes from being abadoned as a baby of two months, her first adooted parent then dying when she was five.

Fun/misc

When playing truth or dare, which option do they take when asked?

Dare!

If hypothetically stranded on an island for a week, what three objects and three people would they take with them?

Pocket knife, waaterbottle with cleaning filter and their wife

If given 3 wishes, what would they wish for?

More dogs, to meet their Bio. Mum and for their first love not to have died.

What’s their fav music genre?

Folk/Country

What’s their fav tv/book genre?

Fantasy & historical fiction

Fav video game genre?

They don't play videogames

Do they like board games, or do board games frustrate them?

They get frustrated, but they still played it a lot with their kids

Do they sing in the shower? Do they sing when they cook? Do they sing when doing chores?

Yes on all 3

How do they react to having an annoying song stuck in their head for 3 days?

They play it 24/7 until its out of their head

Are they good with kids?

Yes

What’s the quickest way to make them smile/laugh?

Remind them of something embaressing they did once.

Quickest way to make them cry/break their heart?

Pick a fight and walk away before it can be resolved/fail to accept apolegise/explanations

Quickest way to get on their nerves/piss them off?

Cheat on your partner

How do they sleep? Light sleeper, heavy sleeper, do they snore? do they toss and turn or are they a brick?

They toss around a lot, and is quite a light sleeper. Snore a lot.

Do they own a comfort object?

Yes, a rag doll in the shape of a White bunny with a blue dress.

Do they own a sacred object?

A 1950s J-200 Gibson Guitarre

Do they own a useful object? Any sort of thing they own that they heavily rely on for something?

Their painting/sculpting equipment.

Zodiac sign?

Libra

Do they care about this sort of thing?

How do they react to/act when they are sick?

They try to get through it but often end up covered in blankets on the couch while their wife looks after them

How do they react to/act when in pain?

They get aggressive

How do they react to/act when hungry?

They rarely notice and it doesn't affect them much when they don't eat.

Any tropes that apply? Or, what is their basic “character type”?

Nope

Faceclaim:

#ooc #victoria #about my ocs

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wwwmyrandomfanfictionwritings · 4 years

Photo

What is your definition of dirty, baby?

Ben Solo is the notorious, famous Hollywood director. He is also secretly a very popular Star Wars fanfiction writer. He writes sexy BDSM stories under the name of Kylo Ren. No one knows who he really is or even that his heroine Kira in his stories is really his wardrobe assistant Rey Nima. She must never know he secretly wants to do what he writes about to Rey for fear that she will think him a perverted creep. Rey eavesdrops on Ben talking to Poe about his feelings for Rey. Rey then realises she wants Ben to do everything he writes about to her and more.

Disclaimer: The rating is NC 17. Please do not read if you're offended by this type of relationship. I assure you it is a loving relationship but with some spice. I love reading all of your Reylo fanfics so much I thought I would try my hand in it. Lol. This is my attempt. I hope you like it. Also, this isn't beta read. I am editing as I go. If someone wants to beta-read this me let me know. And thanks. Lol.

REY-

Last night I dreamed of Ben Solo again. All of studio 42 is empty except for the director, Ben Solo and i. Everyone is else is at lunch. I am alone in the wardrobe dept. Spending my lunch hourputting the finishing touches to the leading ladies vintage antique gown costume for the coming scene. A lightning storm producing no rain rages outside making the tall walls tremble with each strike. I turn to a voice calling outside from the showcase only to find Ben Solo standing there.

He stands in the middle of the large tall three-way mirror. His image reflects back his tall dark figure and pale angular face; tripling him. He is staring at me. A small smirk tugging at the corner of his full red lips.

"Gwen is not here," I say."She went to lunch."

"I'm not looking for Gwen, Rey," he replies. His voice is low a dark.

A flush heats my face as his dark whiskey eyes begin to scan down my body. I look down at myself. I am wearing a comfortable black exercise bra and tight gray sweatpants. I'm barefoot. My black ballerina shoes were thrown in the middle of the room. My chestnut-brown hair is tied up in a messy bun and I'm not wearing makeup.

"Did you feel safe wearing that outfit around me today, Rey?" he asks.

His voice is smooth like melted chocolate as he steps away from the mirrors and starts to walk toward me slowly.

"What?" My lips part in surprise. I feel my breath come out in short gasps as he walks closer to me.

"You heard me, Rey, " he answers." Did you feel safe wearing that outfit in front of me? Thinking maybe I wouldn't react to it?"

"I...iiii? " I answer. He steps up to me. All of his 6'3 of him look down at me. He is so tall and so close my neck hurts looking up at him. I look up at his face. His angular but beautiful face looks at me and I feel my whole body flush as his full red lips lift into a predatory smile. I suck in a breath when he licks his lips and leans forward bringing his full lips close to my ear.

"Cat got your tongue, Rey?" He whispers.

" No. I... l" I answer.

"Did you think I was harmless, Rey?" he whispers. I shudder as I feel his hot breath on my neck.

"No. I....." I stutter. I can't think. My mind is reeling; melting down to only primal thoughts such as wants and needs.

"Yes. That's it. Is it?" he sighed."You think of me as just your boss. But I am only just a man who's craved you for so long, little Rey. I want you so badly I can taste it."

I release the breath I was holding and feel myself literally go boneless. I feel like I am about tocollapse until Ben Solo's strong muscular arms wrap around me keeping me from falling. I hear Ben chuckle softly in my ear.

"Ever since I first met you, Rey" he moaned."It's you and only you. Never Gwen."

I hear Ben's deep chuckle and my breath catches as I feel his fingertips slide slowly down my body to my hot center where he lays his hand flat. I gasp as I feel his two long fingers rubbing my clit through my gray sweat pants. I groan then and reach out to grasp the front of his black t-shirt when his fingers pick up speed faster and faster.

"Open your legs for me, Rey," Ben rasps. I spread my legs a little wider, letting out a moan as he continues to whisper. His breath hot and heavy in my ear.

"Yes. That's it. You're soaking through your sweat pants, Rey," he moaned. "Come for me, Rey."

I close my eyes when Ben's thick fingers encircle my clit through my sweat pants even faster making me release a low deep, moan. Then he stops. I open my eyes to find Ben smiling down at me. His sexy crooked smile making me even hotter.

"Not just yet, little Rey," he said breathlessly."I want to feel you come on my hand."

"Oh?"

Before I know it Ben's two thick fingers are inside my sweat pants and up and over my panties,knuckle deep and moving inside me. I gasp and whine. l reach out to grasp his broad shoulders as he pushes his fingers further up inside me moving slowly at first and then picking up speed. A crook of his two long fingers and a bright white light then flashes behind my closed eyes. A low moan escapes my lips as my whole body shutters as I bathe Ben's hand as I come.

"That's a good girl, Rey, " Ben whispered."You came so good for daddy."

I moan lifting my head from Ben's broad chest. I feel myself coming back to the world around me as I let out another low deep moan.

"Even more beautiful than I had imagined, " Ben says smiling down at me.

His dark eyes turning a deep dark amber under the bright stark white lights of the wardrobe room. His full red lips turn up into a wide smile showing his crooked white teeth.I lower my lashes feeling myself blush all over from my orgasm. I cry out in surprise as Ben suddenly bends down and sweeps me up in his huge arms.

"Wanna take you home so I can play with you more," he growls.

"I will not do the scene again Ben Solo. It was perfect the first time."

I blink twice bringing myself back to reality and sigh as I walk into studio 42. I work as a wardrobe assistant to Paige Tico. I sip at my coffee while carrying another. The second coffee belongs to the star of the film Gwen Phasma. I break out into a long yawn. The erotic dream I had about Ben Solo is a result of the BDSM Star Wars fan fiction I read last night. I imagined Kylo Ren as Ben Solo and Kira as myself. The woman he secretly loved and couldn't live without. Kylo needed her as well as he wanted her. It felt so real. I touched myself a couple of times before finally falling asleep. But I know it was only fanfiction. Ben Solo is not secretly in lust or love with me in real life and never will be.

"No, it wasn't! You missed a line. Do it again."

"I did not! I never miss lines and you know it, Ben Solo !"

I break out from my thoughts at the rising voices. Gwen Phasma's Posh English accent arguing with Ben about something again. God! I think its foreplay for them. I notice him staring at us as Gwen and I were walking toward the food crafts table yesterday. He was wearing his dark sunglasses never taking them off; so I couldn't really see who he was looking at. I only saw him finally shake his head and look away. I knew he was most definitely looking at Gwen. Gwen; the leading lady is a tall gorgeous blonde with ice blue eyes, a thin waist, ample breasts, and very long legs that go up to her shoulders. She doesn't just reach only to the middle of Ben'smassive chest like she does. Gwen is the same height. We are the total opposite. I am a petite athletic brunette where Gwen is a tall, slender regal blonde. So, I know Gwen is more Ben's type, not me.

However, despite this reality. I have a soul-crushing crush on Ben Solo. Well, at least I can still dream about Ben Solo making me come again and again and using me like a sex toy. Making love can come later. I chuckle at that thought and blow out a breath. I sip at my Ice coffee mocha latte. I lick the cool foam from my lips as I feel it cool my body down. I take a breath and watch Gwen and Ben. Gwen is sitting on the huge black leather couch while Ben stands over Gwen. I sigh as I wait for the conversation to end to give Gwen her coffee. I find myself staring once again; captivated at Ben. Ben is so tall. I would say maybe 6'3. He is massive with large broad shoulders and a wide well-defined chest. His pale arms are not overly muscular but big with large hands and long thick fingers. He has a Marine Corps tattoo under his long sleeve shirt leftover from his days as a Marine. He signed up at nineteen and was discharged when he was injured in battle.

The tattoo is on his upper arm. I saw it once at a barbecue/pool party Poe Demeron threw for the whole cast. It's so sexy. My eyes rise to look at his face. His dark brown eyes are focused on Gwen completely. His face is interesting. He's more boyishly handsome than handsome. He has a pale, white complexion with a face that is angular. A long nose and crooked mouth with pouty red lips. His mop of dark brown hair curls around the collar of his baby blue dress shirt opened at the neck which exposes his throat and some of his chest. My eyes follow the pattern of his tiny dark birthmarks. They are mesmerizing on his white complexion. They look like perfect formed constellations that run from the base of his neck to splash a little over his cheek. My eyes then drop to the black leather belt of his dark dress pants only to see an outline of a huge bulge there. I raise my eye quickly and feel heat flushing my face. Last nights dream repeats in my mind as a fleeting thought creeps into my mind.

What would happen if I asked Ben to do all those things I read in the sexy Star Wars fanfiction to me? How would he answer? Stupid Rey! Ben Solo wouldn't look twice at you if he can have any starlet or female star he wanted at his command. So Shut up and forget it. Well, at least I can imagine what Ben Solo would do, at least. I sigh at the thought.

"I fed you the line three times and you......" Ben's baritone voice answers.

Ben lifts his dark eyes from Gwen to look at me. His brow furrows. He's not wearing his dark sunglasses today. I can see his eyes. They are a the color of amber under the very bright lights of the film set. His jaw shifts slightly as he stares at me. It is a hard stare I can't read. It makes my throat dry. I swallow hard. Ben then looks away and hangs his head, sighing in frustration.

"Damn it! I forgot what I was going to say!" he mutters.

Gwen on the couch turns her head to see me and frowns.

"Rey," Gwen whispered.

I smile a huge smile.

"Your coffee." I stick out my arm that holds the hot beverage Gwen wanted.

"Thank you, " Gwen answered. "I think I'm going to need it." She lifts herself up from the couch and walks around it to me.

"Yes. I think so, " I chuckle as I give it to her.

Gwen takes the coffee, lifting the white plastic lid, and takes a sip. A low moan of pleasure escapes from her red pouty lips as she closes her eyes. I smile watching her as another low groan escapes her full scarlet lips.

"I didn't call for break yet Gwen," Ben yells. "Kid, What part of only the actors are allowed on my set while I'm directing don't you understand?"

I feel my face grow hot embarrassed as Ben glares at me prompting me to relive scenes of my erotic dream of him again in my mind. I feel a heat of arousal wash over me again. I have to defuse this tense situation. It is my only defense.

"Is that what you just forgot to say?" I reply innocently. Gwen laughs and coughs into her fist. beside me. I felt his dark eyes scan my face for a minute as a small smirk plays around his full lips only to disappear a second later. Did I just imagine that smirk?

"I guess not, " I answer breaking the silence between us. I wince and swallow hard.

"There is to be no visitors on my set when I am directing a scene!" Ben barked. "So please leave now!"

"Right. Because I'm a non-actor."

"Yes," Ben grumbled. "Gwen get back on this couch and do the scene again."

Ben clenches his large hand Into a fist and hits the large black leather couch hard; creating a huge bang that resonates through the set. Gwen and I jump at the huge sound. I feel my heart speed up and I myself getting wet in my private parts at the action. I imagine Ben relentlessly spanking my ass with his large hands making her ass get beet red with each spank. I gasp at the thought.

"I best go," Gwen said. "You better go back too, honey."

"You're right." I whispered."I better go before he calls security to throw me out."

Gwen nods and laughs. She lifts her coffee to me.

"Thanks for the coffee, Rey."

"You're welcome," I nod.

"Phasma! I'd like to finish this film before the end of this century!"

I watch Gwen walk back to Ben and take the same place as before.Gwen on the couch and Ben standing tall above her discussing the scene with her until his eyes meet mine once again. His stare cold and penetrating.

"I'm leaving! I'm leaving!"I gasp."Big bully!"

I spin on my heel. I can still feel his eyes on me as I make my way back to the wardrobe room.

"Wait! Rey, " Ben calls out.

I spin on my heel and turn to face Ben.

"Yes. My lord and master?" I answer.

Ben's expression changes from annoyed to wide eyes and full lips parting in surprise as he stares at me. I bite down on my bottom lip at my answer as I feel myself grow hot with embarrassment. Shit! Last nights dream is invading my life.I gulp.

"Ha, Ha, just kidding boss, " I answer.

I laugh nervously again at my joke. Meanwhile, I could feel my upper lips begin to sweat as Ben's dark amber gaze penetrate my soul. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife until Ben finally clears his throat loudly and speaks. His eyes narrow.

"Bring me the gown Paige finished for Gwen, " he orders his voice deep and smooth.

The low sexy rumble of his voice brings me back to last nights dream. I swallow hard.

"Yes sir!" I answer. I turn to find Amir Hux; the leading man of this film smiling at me. His emerald green eyes shining. He winks at me and I practically run to the wardrobe dept to get the dress.

I return with the beautiful dark blue and white vintage ball gown circa 1800s cradled in my arms. It is a pre-civil War ball gown recreation which she and Paige worked hard on most of this year. I present to Ben. His dark amber eyes roam over my face for a minute making me feel nervous. Then they lower to examine the dress.

"Good, now bring me Gwen's walking dress, " he orders.

I nod and sprint back to the wardrobe. QI return out of breath carrying the walking dress for the afternoon scene. It is a deep marine blue wool suit made for walking in the park during a winter afternoon. I watch Ben cross his muscular arms across his huge broad chest and glare at me. Ben's glare is intense enough to make me weak in the knees but I don't turn my eyes away from his. Instead, I lick my full bottom lip and lift my head defiant. An eyebrow arches over Ben's right eye.

"Lay the dresses on the couch, Rey, " he orders.

"All right." I nod slowly. I walk to the set and lay the dresses gently on the black leather couch. I

turn to find Kylo right behind me looking at me like there was something else he wanted to say. Iwait to hear it. Finally, Ben's full lips turned up in a wry smile.

"Thank you, Rey, " he said."You can leave my set now."

I nod again and walk away. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. My thoughts jumbled with all the salacious sensations Ben invoked in me ordering me to get those dresses. His deep voice so forceful. I stop myself and roll my eyes.

"I need to get laid!" I sigh. I wrinkle my nose as I count how long it's been since I'd gotten laid. Three, four months? That's too long.

"Hey Rey!" a voice calls out behind me.

I turn at the small and narrow corner entrance to the wardrobe room to find Armi Hux running towards me. A huge smile on his full lips. I put on my best brightest smile as he steps closer to me.

"Are you free tonight?" Armi said.

I stop to think if I have anything to do tonight and shake my head at Armi.

" No, I have nothing, " I answer.

"How bout you and I go to a movie and then dinner?" Armi proposed.

I open my mouth to answer Armi when Ben Solo's voice thunders loudly to the second wardrobe assistant Rose Tico.

"Rose!" take the dresses back with you to the wardrobe dept."

"Yes, I love too, Armi, " I answer.

I step closer to him as a smile brightens his freckled face. Armi takes a closer step towards me only to be stopped by a light cough. Armi and I turn our heads to see Rose carrying the dresses in her long arms wanting to pass through us to get to thewardrobe room.

"Excuse me please, " Rose said. Her voice apologetic.

We both step back to our corners to let Rose pass and close the gap when she passes.

"Thank you." Rose sings.

I smile and wave at Rose as she walks down the hall.

"When can I pick you up?" Armi asks.

I turn my head to Armi to answer him when Kylo' Ren's voice yells for Rose again.

"Rose!" Bring back the ball gown!"

Rose appears once again. An apologetic look on her sweet pretty face.

"Excuse me guys, sorry."

Armi and I separate again and let her pass. My brow furrows as I watch Rose walk away from us back to set.

"So when I can I pick you up?" Armi repeats. I take a breath to answer only to hear Kylo Ren's once again bark out an order for Rose.

"Take the ball gown back to the wardrobe and bring me the walking suit. "

I sigh and roll my eyes as I see Rose walking back towards us. Her expression already regretting about interrupting once again.

"Excuse me, guys."

Armi and I separate to let her pass. My brow furrows as I watch Rose walk away.

"Excuse me again, guys." Rose said interrupting my thoughts.

"Oh, yes, sorry, " I apologized.

Hux and I break apart once again to let Rose pass. I caught Hux's brow wrinkle watching Rose walk away.

"What?" I ask wanting to know what he was thinking.

"It's just weird, " Hux exclaimed. "I've never known The great Ben Solo to be so indecisive."

My eyebrow raised as I press my lips together. My eyes narrow. Is Ben Solo deliberately sending Rose to interrupt Hux? But why? To be an asshole that's why! Then I remembered what Ben Solo really is an arrogant, pompous, asshole, peacock. God Rey, Wake up! Ben Solo is never going to be your hero. I open my mouth to say something when Rose once again appears carrying theaforementioned wool marine blue walking suit in her arms.I move away from Hux to let her pass. Rose broke out in a laugh as she passed.

"Enough of this!" I growl.

I reach to grab Hux's hand pulling him away from his narrow corner and into the wardrobe room with me.

BEN-

I feel the corner of my mouth lift into a smile as I watch Rey and Hux separate to let Rose pass them for the third or is it the fourth time. Doesn't matter. They shouldn't be having their little tryst standing in the middle of the hallway anyway. This isn't a bar at happy hour for fuck's sake.

" Hux! " I scream. "Get your ass back on this set now!"

"They just ran into the wardrobe room, boss!" Finn, my assistant director said.

"What!" I yell."Get him back here now!

Finn sprints into action running to the wardrobe room. I spin on my heel with a growl; turning my back on that freakin' hallway that leads to to the wardrobe room. I said no none actors on my set when I am filming and I meant it. Rey, she is a distraction taking my attention away from what I need to do; direct. This film will never be made If Rey Nima keeps distracting me. Her laughter, her smile, her smell. Everything.

I keep my eyes from following everywhere she goes her whenever she enters a room or comes out of wardrobe. I always have to keep myself concentrated on what I'm doing. Whether it is talking to someone or reading the script. I can feel her presence when she enters the room. Oh, Fuck! What is wrong with me? I am a grown-ass man, not a love-sick teenager. Rey is my employee she wouldn't want my baggage being an ex-marine. The PTSD I still struggle with continuously. No. I'm safer here taking in Gwen's classic Chanel then Rey's delicious smell of green apples. Seriously, she smells like green apples. I overheard Rey tell Gwen it's expensive body lotion which she indulges in when she can scrape the money together. I smelled green apples sitting next to me one day and looked up expecting a set of pretty hazel eyes only to find Gwen's sky blue eyes instead; smiling at me. I hide my disappointment and force myself to smile back at Gwen. I later found out that Rey gave Gwen the body lotion for Christmas that year.

It is for the best though if I pay more attention to Gwen then Rey. My thoughts wander to my films leading lady. The beautiful and statuesque Gwen Phasma. I am not stupid. I know everyone on this set thinks I'm sleeping with Gwen. That we are secret lovers. Let them think that. It's good for publicity. The truth is I know Gwen wants to be more than just friends again. Gwen's propositioned me many times and I always tell her no. It is my policy since I began as a filmmaker to never get involved with the leading lady. However, she keeps trying to get me back; leaving me little sexy notes and kissing me on the cheek whenever she can. Asking me for dinner, lunch, etc. I join her only to just get away from seeing Rey walking around on the set. I cover my face with my large hands and sigh heavily.

God, I got it bad. Rey is 13 years younger than I am and is my employee. But still, I have to hide my feelings for her behind dark sunglasses. I wore my dark glasses yesterday to hide the fact that I secretly watch her. She and Gwen were walking to the sets crafts table to find something to eat. I watch as Rey snatched an apple from the table and took a big bite. I shuddered as my eyes followed the juices when they spill down Rey's soft pink lips down her chin to her white blouse. I couldn't take it. I shook my head and turned away. I had a hard-on that lasted all-day yesterday. I deliberately left my sunglasses at home today and blew up at Rey to not make the same mistake I made yesterday. I didn't need the distraction. All was fine until Rey answered me with My lord and master and I was done. I was in shock by those words coming out of her pretty pink mouth. I only could stare at Rey, my cock hardening as she immediately backtracked from what she said making it as if she was joking.

I wonder if she was really only joking. If Rey only knew how those words affected me; if she knew my secret lifestyle? That I would act as her lord and master making her do everything I ask. Rey Nima is too young and too sweet for the dirty, nasty things I think about doing to her everyday. She will definitely slap my face and call me a pervert never wanting to talk to me again If she ever finds out I write BDSM erotica under the name of Keylo Ren. Shit. Forget it, Ben. I don't know when I started to feel differently towards Rey Nima: when I began to notice the flecks of green and blue in her hazel eyes and her soft pink full lips, her sun-kissed skin. Her accent. Jesus! That English accent. It's so sexy. I could sit and listen to her talk all day. Her sense of humor. Rey is a smart ass. I had to keep from smiling and laughing out loud whenever she says anything snarky back at me. I can't laugh at her quip or I would expose my feelings for her. How much I passionately admire and love her. Shit! Ben! You're 36 years old and she's just a kid. She's 22, or is 23? Too young anyway, I feel old, suddenly, and perverted. I wipe my whole face down my one huge hand.

I turn back to my actors in front of me. They are in a cluster, discussing something I can't hear. I clap my extraordinarily, huge hands together creating a sharp loud clap making everyone jump. I've always hated my huge disproportioned features; my big nose. My big hands until now.

"Time is money people! Let's get this scene done!" I yell out at my crew.

They stare back at me and then go back to their places and back to work. I sigh and make my way back to my director's chair. I glare at Hux as he finally appears running back to the set out of breath. I suck my teeth annoyed as the many reasons why Armi Hux is out of breath play out in my head. The main one being he was locked in a passionate kiss with Rey. I grind my teeth at the thought. Rey has never shown any interest or attraction towards me in the six years I've known her. She's only been friendly , kind. Teasing me when I'm in a bad mood. Calling me an asshole under her breath when it is warranted. Which is often. I take a breath letting it out slowly shoving the urge to wanto punch Hux's pretty-boy face to a pulp. Wanting to destroy something pretty. Jesus! All of this Is enough to fill all the pages of my personal diary my therapist instructed me to keep after I wasdismissed from the military after an injury. I'm too old. Rey's too young and easy-going.

I'm too serious. Idiot! So, all this angst and longing is definitely one-sided. I sit down with a sigh and lean forward to look into my camera lens. I'm bringing my big bulldog moose to the set tomorrow. He is my comfort to me and keeps me from going insane. The set and the actors are all in their places waiting for me to call ACTION!

"ACTION!"

I try to concentrate on what's happening in front of me as the scene plays out through my camera lens. Except all I can think about is my therapist and what his opinion would be aboutmy infatuation for a much younger woman who is also my employee. Maybe it is an infatuation and will go away as soon as it had arrived. Maybe even sooner than that. Maybe I should date again or just get myself laid? Or try with Gwen? Maybe that's the cure. Maybe.

"SHIT! I blew it!" The shout brings me back to the present and I lean back from the lens.

"Cut! What happened?"

Armistan Hux lifts his eyes from Gwen to meet mine. His small pale blue eyes squint up at me.His pink thin lips pressed together.

"Sorry, Ben, " he said. "Take it again."

I glare at him.

"This is the fourth take, Armistan " I grumble. "you'd better get this one right."

Armistan glares at me.

"That better be a smile on your mug, Hux." I said coldly. My voice low and threatening. Hux, eyes grow wide and he straightens his back. I watch as he swallows and focuses on me.

"Ok. Go."

The scene plays out this time with no more mistakes.

"Cut!" I yell. "Ok, everyone take ten." I keep my eye on the camera lens watching my actors as they separate and go in different directions.

"Poe! Check the scene, " I order. I feel a presence behind me. I turn my head to see Gwen standing next to me.

I pull away from the camera.

"Do you want something Gwen?" I sigh.

Gwen stares at me for a second only to reach out with her one hand to grab the back of my head and pull me toward her. Gwen's soft lips then land on mine. We are both still as our lips press together for a second before Gwen opens her mouth and sucks on my full lips. I let out a grunt. Gwen pulls me closer against her and wraps my arms around her slender waist. A low sexy groan escapes from Gwen's mouth as I feel her long pale white arms wrap around my neck. I feel Gwen opening her mouth and her tongue snaking out and dance with my own deepening the kiss. I feel my cock getting even harder and heavier in my pants. It feels like its going to burst out of my pants so I reach out and pull Gwen harder against me. I feel her large breasts crush against my chest and I feel myself about to lose control if I let it. It's been six years since I've wanted any women like this. Totally devoted to my job; I think of nothing else until Rey. But Rey is not here. Gwen is and she's a warm body since I can't get what I really want.

The loud squeak and crash of a chair falling over breaks the moment. Dazed Gwen and I look up to find Rey standing over a cast chair tipped over its side. Her mouth wide open and her face rosy red with embarrassment as she stares back at us.

"Oh. I.i.i'm sso sorry!" Rey stammers. "I didn't mean to interrupt. "

Silence as we three just stare at each other.

"I'm just going to leave now." Rey turns to leave when Gwen speaks up.

"Thanks, Rey, "Gwen answers."I just want to have some time alone with my honey. We've both been so busy lately this is our only time we can grab for some alone time."

My jaw twitches as I feel Gwen's hand on my chest; possessive. Stating her claim.

"Yes. Of course." Rey answered.

Rey looks at Gwen and nods as a new shade of red blossoms her face. She looks away every time I try to attempt to meet her eyes. I don't blame her. I would be embarrassed too if I walked in scene like she did. A brief flick of my eyes then look down and I quickly catch Gwen's wrist when I feel it begin to go further down my shirt heading for my pants belt. I lift my eyes again to find Rey's eyes now staring down at my pants. I look down to see what she is looking at only to remember I have a huge bulge in the front of my pants. The outline of it now prominent. Shit!

"I'll tell Paige you'll see her after lunch for your fitting, then," Rey murmurs and spins on her heel to leave.

Helpless; I watch her leave. I want to run after her and tell her this is not what it looks like. Gwen and I are not together. I want to be with you, not Gwen. However, I know it's useless. She's already gone around the corner and out of the studio. Also, she will not believe me. The rumors of Gwen and I having a secret affair is proven true today after Rey caught us in a passionate kiss.I feel Gwen's hand slide slowly up to my chest. She leans forward to whisper in my ear. Her lips pouty and wet.

"Good. We're finally alone," Gwen chirps. "Last chance to come with."

"What?" I answer. My voice clipped.

"Last chance to come with me and Poe to the spa," She explains chuckling. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"No. Gwen," I reply. My voice deep and threatening. I have no time for spas. I just want to finish editing the scenes I filmed today. Go home and drink Rey away from my thoughts and dreams. That's all I want.

"Oh, come on," Gwen insisted."It will make you feel good and will take all your problems go away. I promise. It's like therapy. Please? For me?"

I sigh. Gwen knows about my past. She knows I have anger problems and PTSD. She knows allabout my therapy and my journals. Maybe she is right. Maybe I do need a change a pace; get away from my regular routine. I know my therapist would recommend it. Why the hell not? It's better than going home and pining for something that will never be.

"Ok, you got me!" I reply. "Let's go."

I almost become deaf by the ear-splitting triumphant yell Gwen lets out before wrapping her arms around my neck and hug me.

To Be continued-

A/N I know it's been a long while since I've posted anything. This is my attempt to write Star Wars sequel fanfiction. Reylo. I will be posting this here on my blog as I write it as well as Wattpad. It is a work in progress so do t get to angry with me. Lol. Please Aim your fire arrows or hearts and flowers to me. Lol. I hope you like it.

To be continued....

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terresdebrumestories · 7 years

Text

Chapter 2/22: Demon

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: The Shadowhunters Chronicles RATING: Mature. WORDCOUNT: 6 281 words PAIRING(S): Clary Fray/Izzy Lightwood, other pairings to be revealed as the story goes. CHARACTER(S): Clary Fray/Fairchild/Morgenstern, Alec Lightwood, Izzy Lightwood, Jace Wayland/Morgenstern, Magnus Bane, Maryse Lightwood, Robert Lightwood, Jocelyn Fray, Luke Garroway, and most of the other canon characters. GENRE: Urban fantasy with a dash of coming of age and lesbian romance. TRIGGER WARNING(S): - NOTE(S): - SUMMARY: Clary’s life plan from her eighteenth birthday onward is fairly simple: do her internship with her mother at Moonlight Tattoos, become a world-renowed tatoo artist, and find herself a girl she can spend the rest of her life with, pretty much in that order.

The part where she tries to save a girl from a would-be rapist and ends up having to fight demons kinds of throws a wrench into that, though.

(Or: This is what I wish we’d had in City of Bones.)

[Also available on AO3]

“Going out already?”

Clary stops on her way to the front hall, and answers her mother’s worried look with a reassuring smile.

“I’m up for it,” she promises with a gesture at her face and general demeanor, “see? All rested. Besides, you know Aminata’s going to kill me if I miss her first reading.”

Clary has been following her friend to Java Jones’ poetry readings for almost as long as she’s known her, mostly because words are as essential to Aminata’s well-being as pictures are to her own. That spot at the microphone is too much of an accomplishment to let it pass now, especially when the entire country is about to wedge itself between them.

“You only woke up two hours ago,” Jo points out, “are you sure you don’t want to stay here and rest some more?”

Dismissal is Clary’s first reflex—she has, after all, slept more than long enough to feel completely refreshed—but the frown on her mother’s face, when she actually pays attention, is far too deep to be only about that. Clary’s eyebrows rise with understanding, and she makes herself smile again:

“It’s the middle of the day, mom, and it’s not like Pandemonium is right next door. I’ll be fine. ‘Sides, if I stay here I’ll just be in your way—you’ve been on the phone ever since I woke up.”

“With Cat and Luke,” Jo admits with an odd little smile, “I took a day off. More importantly, Luke and I were talking about what happened to you. We think it’d be a good idea to set up an appointment with Dr. Neba.”

“Today?” Clary protests—almost whines, really—before she can think better of it, “But I—”

“No, he’s out of town until Monday,” Jo says in a tone of voice that leaves very little doubt as to her feelings on the matter, “and we wouldn’t book it behind your back, anyway. I just wanted to know if that was alright with you?”

“Oh! Sure,” Clary says with a breath of relief, “no problem. The EMTs said I should get my wrist checked anyway.”

“Thank you. You should also talk to Luke soon. He’s—worried.”

Clary frowns a bit at her mother’s pause, but Jo smiles and, well. It’s hardly the first time she stumbles over English after using Canti with Luke for a while.

(Clary tried to research the language on the web once, but it has to be the most obscure dialect in the world because she never could find anything about it, even after several hours and getting two different librarians involved. Sometimes it almost feels like Luke and Jo made it up between them.)

“Okay,” Clary agrees, mouth stretching over a surprise yawn, “I’ll call him as soon as the poetry meeting is over. Can I go now? I’m already late.”

“Fine, abandon me, you ungrateful child!” Jo mock-whines with a dramatic hand to her chest.

Clary rolls her eyes with a chuckle, checks her purse—keys, water, aspirin and her sketchbook, useless though it’ll be today—and hurries down the steps and through the front door, so focused on getting to Java’s before Ami’s poem she doesn’t even pause for her customary eye roll when her mother yells ‘I love you’ at her from the parlor window.

{ooo}

Running, as it turns out, makes Clary’s wrist throb with pain. It’s not a pleasant sensation, and she ends up walking to Java Jones, the only upside of that being that she gets there mostly sweat free, and she can slip into the cool micro-climate of the coffee-shop with a contented sigh rather than a shiver.

Aminata may be the one who dragged her to the poetry readings, but Clary practically grew up in Java Jones. This is where her mother would take her for treats on the weekend: they’d hole-up in the age-worn couch next to the toilets’ door and Clary would spend entire afternoons alternating between playing with her toys and watching her mother sketch out customers, sometimes adding antlers and wings and scale just to make Clary laugh. Clary’s first subjects, when she started learning to draw, were found here, whether they were customers, the chalk frescoes her mother created for the giant blackboard, or the soft lines of flower-shaped lamps.

Java Jones has a decidedly Art Nouveau feel about it. Curving greens and flowering yellows fill the space above earth-colored wood panel and hardwood floor, and even with minimal furniture it’s impossible not to pretend the place is some sort of liminal space, the entryway to a magical fairy realm.

The difference being, of course, that no one has ever been trapped into the shop after eating their food, but aside from that Clary is pretty confident in the comparison.

She gives Aminata a quick wave when she spots her—nervously biting her nails on the same couch Clary learned to draw on—and walks up to her favorite barista as he serves a couple of coffees. He got a new tattoo—some kind of brown, fur-like thing dripping blood on his biceps from where it pokes out of his shirt sleeve. Clary wrinkles her nose at it when he’s not looking, but she refrains from commenting and just waits for her drink in silence.

At last, she makes her way over to Aminata with a white chocolate frappé freezing her fingers and a reassuring smile on her lips, unsurprised when her friend’s first move is to grab for her elbow and almost spill her drink in the process.

“I thought you wouldn’t make it,” Aminata hisses, the tremor of nerves in her voice almost palpable, “where on earth were you?”

“Had a talk with my mom,” Clary replies as she extracts her arm from Ami’s hands, “she wants me to see our doctor about this.”

Aminata’s face turns contrite when Clary waves her splint in her field of vision, but Clary doesn’t let her fall into guilt and shrugs instead. She’s still nervous, it’s true. Despite her reassuring words to her mother earlier, she couldn’t helps but look over her shoulder on her way here, as if the guy with the blue hair were about to pop out of a side-street and start beating her any moment—but this is Java Jones. She’s known the shop and its regulars all her life, there’s no reason to think anything should happen to her here.

“So,” Clary starts, putting extra cheer in her voice to drive out the awkward silence, “did I miss anything interesting?”

“I think Eric Levinsky’s poem was about you again. You know, ‘fire hair’, ‘concentrated temper’, the usual.”

“Still confusing bad temper and not being a doormat, I see,” Clary mutters, and Aminata snorts.

The guy also fails to grasp the concept of lesbianism, but then he’s hardly the first, won’t be the last, and Aminata isn’t quite as invested in that topic anyway. It’d take too much fun out of the snipping if Clary ended up being the only one with a gripe, here.

Besides, there are plenty of other things to enjoy here. The shop smells like ground coffee and honeysuckle, swaddled in the tang of hot asphalt pervading the afternoon air and slipping inside by some kind of almost-miracle. From the outside, light and shadow play over the crowd, spotting them in warm golds and cooler greens as they mill about the shop with varying degrees of attention for the poets on stage. Even the coming and going of customers toward the toilets isn’t too bothersome tonight. It’s drags at Ami’s nerves, that’s obvious enough, but it’s mostly kept quiet, and the couch is still the best spot for people watching.

Clary sits with her friend in silence and lets the poetry wash over her while Ami’s fingers grip and then slowly relax around her forearm, the lull of words and crowd noises dragging Clary down into the couch and out of her shoes in record time. She’s almost asleep by the time Aminata jostles her elbow on her way to the stage, the host encouraging the crowd to applaud and make some noise for a shy but promising newcomer.

The speech is nice—though the praise would be more meaningful if Clary hadn’t heard it about every beginner poet performing at the readings—and it gives Clary just enough time to readjust her ponytail and straighten up to full attention before Aminata starts reading.

Then a hand lands on her shoulder.

She freezes, back painfully rigid and heart picking up the rhythm as if gearing up for a race, and she has to swallow a whine when she realizes Aminata is too focused on the crowd of listeners to realize what’s going on in the corner. Slowly, without moving her head, Clary glances down at the hand—wide, firm, wrapped in dark, petrole blue leather—and blinks tears out of her eyes. There’s a barista close to her, serving a couple at the next table over, and Clary somehow manages to catch her eye.

The girl—Sarah, her name tag reads—gives Clary a funny look but walks over anyway. The hand on Clary’s shoulder tightens and tugs, and Sarah frowns.

“Everything alright miss?”

“Can you tell this person to leave me alone, please?”

To Clary’s horror, Sarah’s features go from concerned to a confused frown, the shadows on her face turning the white of her skin almost gray when she asks:

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t bother,” a light voice says, a little above Clary’s head, “she can’t—”

“That boy,” Clary insists, jerking a thumb over her shoulder, “please tell him to let me go.”

“See me,” the boy finishes while Sarah schools her features into polite disbelief.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t see anyone there.”

Clary wants to tell Sarah her joke is just about everything but funny, but somehow it doesn’t feel like that would make anything better. She breathes in deep instead, and winces in pain when the knot in her throat stings on the way down. Don’t panic, she reminds herself, think.

Maybe she’s just hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all, and she’s probably stressed enough for a migraine to come through. She felt fine a second ago but it’s still possible. Besides, she’s never remembered her hallucinations before—they could involve leather clad men for all she knows. She’s probably just being needlessly paranoid and looking like an idiot for no valid reason but...still.

The hand on her shoulder feels real—heavy and strong in a way she doesn’t think she could fight off. There’s nothing here she can use to protect herself, except maybe her ring, but even with that, she’d have to land a punch. she’s not trained enough to take that risk.

In her throat, her heartbeat speeds up and presses against her windpipe until the edges of her vision grow dark and she all but topples forward with a whine.

Sarah yelps.

“Careful!”

“Woah, Fray!”

“How do you know my name?”

Clary does her best to look angry more than scared as she twists around to stare at the stranger. He’s wearing a face mask, and the hood poking from under a black leather jacket obscures the rest of his face, making it impossible to distinguish in the low light of Java Jones. Clary takes a step aside, toward the exit, and hears someone hissing for her to shut up and sit down.

There’s a ripple of murmurs and whispers behind her, and an odd silence where Aminata’s voice should be, but Clary is too busy trying to go through her parents’ teachings to care.

Back to the exit? Check. Hands into fists, thumb over the finger? Check. Stalling for time until help gets there? On it.

“How do you know my name,” she repeats, raising her voice as she backs another step toward the exit.

“Does it really matter?” The guy asks, “Calm down, people are starting to think you’re nuts.”

“I don’t care!” Clary repeats, more forcefully, “I’ve never seen you before in my life—”

“Wha—oh, yeah, didn’t see my face, but I—”

“How the hell do you know my name?”

There’s an aborted sound, like the stranger was about to get frustrated and then decided it wasn’t worth it—then he jumps over the couch, hands reaching for Clary’s left wrist.

She manages to shove her splint into the face mask through sheer dumb luck, and dodges under his arm while he’s distracted. She barrels through the toilets door before anyone thinks of stopping her, both the guy’s and Sarah’s voice hollering after her.

She shoulders her way past a couple—one of them swear as they hit the ground—and doesn’t realize her mistake until she’s slammed the ladies’ restroom door shut behind her. Crap. Trapped in. Crap, crap, crap.

Clary drags her eyes around the room, breathing loud in her ears as she takes in the closed cubicles, only just waiting to burst open and reveal people yelling ‘surprise’ at her in an instant—but her shoulder still burns with the heat of a foreign hand, her wrist throbs with pain from hitting that guy, and all of it feels so real—and how would she know the difference? How do you even tell hallucinations from reality when they’re about things that could conceivably happen?

She’s got to call Jo. Preferably before she can throw up with fear.

She’s reaching for her back pocket when the door shakes behind her back, the handle digging into her back with bruising force. She yelps in fright, heart in her throat, and bites her lips hard enough to hurt when the guy growls:

“Come on, you can’t hide in there forever, you know that right?”

Clary clamps her good hand against her mouth and screws her eyes shut. Her throat, her eyes, her lungs are burning—her heart’s trying to choke her and her brain keeps supplying every horror story she’s ever heard about black girls in her position. The entire world seems to swim around her, and when the door rattles again—harder this time, like something heavy was thrown against it—Clary stumbles to her knees faster than she even whimpers.

Think, Clary. Think.

Forcing her eyes open, Clary blinks tears out of her eyes and tries to have a coherent look at the room. There’s no other door here, no safe exit—that’s why Lucy Teruko got stuck here for almost fifteen minutes on that horrible date of her until—the window!

Clary crawls to her feet—has to catch herself with her good hand before she falls flat on her face on the tiles—and throws herself into the last cubicle to the sound of a door banging open against the wall.

The window above the seat it barely large enough for someone to go through, and for once Clary thanks genetics for her pocket size, before climbing on the toilet seat. The porcelain is wet, and she ends up with one foot in the water and a painful ankle before she can regain her footing, but she does get the window open and her upper body through it as the first cubicle bangs open.

One after the other, doors slam against the walls of empty stalls. Clary forces herself to stay quiet and calls on long-unused monkey cage skills to hang on the windowsill with her hips, push her lower body forward, and land on her feet with a painful jolt to her ankle. Loud cursing follows her toward the main street.

Summer-hot asphalt burns at her feet as she runs, and people turn to stare as she races down the sidewalk, jumps over a golden retriever like she’s in the middle of a track meeting, and manages to cross in all the wrong places, terror pushing her to speed she’d only ever dreamed of before. Her entire body burns by now—feels like she’s going to collapse and start retching if she even thinks of slowing down—but she keeps going anyway.

She does have to stop, eventually, bending over a bunch of tired-looking hydrangeas about three quarters of the way to her place and emptying her guts over the stems, careful not to put too much weight on her left foot. She braces herself against a concrete wall while the nausea dies down, and makes herself take deep breaths while her brain slowly collects itself and analyses the situation.

She’s barefoot, blisters growing so fast she can almost feel them form. Her left ankle is busted. Her purse—with her money, her phone, her ID—is still at Java Jones, hopefully with Aminata, but it’s not like Clary is about to go back there to confirm.

In short, Clary probably looks like a maniac who doesn’t have the brains to put shoes on, with no way to call anyone in or prove who she is or the truth of what she say. Assuming, of course, that the whole thing isn’t just happening in her head.

She’s so screwed.

If she looked better—if she couldn’t feel rivers of sweat rolling down her back, feel the frazzled state of her ponytail against her back—she’d ask for help. Maybe. She’s heard horrific stories about black people asking for help and getting trouble instead though. Not all of them get out of it alive...and let’s face it, she doesn’t look good.

She just ran three blocks like somebody was out to kill her—which may or may not be the case—without shoes, and she doesn’t need a mirror to tell it shows. Frankly, she’s rather not risk it. Her ankle hurts, yeah, but it’s not broken, and it’s not like there’s much to do about blisters beside taking things easy and resting. Besides, even if the guy is real, Clary probably lost him by now, thank God for Jo and Luke’s insistence on track training.

Slowly, with a careful limp, Clary starts back toward her home, determined to get there, get back in bed, and not move for the rest of the weekend.

It’s hardly surprising that it takes her much longer than usual to get home, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. It takes effort to ignore the staring passersby, and some more to keep herself from wincing at the heat under her feet. The sun is getting a little less unbearable at this time of the day, but asphalt is stone. It keeps heat.

It sucks.

The good news is, although no one offers to help Clary, no one becomes a problem either, so by the time she reaches the little square in front of her home, she’s just about ready to weep with relief. The white little twins from two houses down are playing in the fountain, like they always do. The pug from across the square fell asleep in the shade again.

Clary steps up to her own building with the odd sensation of leaving what little was left of her energy behind, the wisterias from the facade wrapping her in its perfumed embrace long before she reaches her front porch, glad all of this happened on one of her mom’s home days.

She limps through the reception room without even a glance for the door that leads into Dorothea’s apartment and climbs up the stairs with her mother’s name half on her lips already.

She stops dead in her track when she notices the smear of blood at the top.

Her mouth stings when her hand slaps against it, but Clary doesn’t care. She swallows a frightened whine and keeps going, stomach heavy when a couple more steps reveal a long, bloodied shard of glass next to the gutted frame of one of Jo’s watercolors, and then Clary is actually high enough on the stair to take a good look around.

To the left, the parlor and the door to the art room both look undisturbed. To the right, on the other hand, the busted glass is far from the only damage. The sad remains of the living room door half-hang from the hinges, the bottom half lying on the floor like a mangled corpse, and stepping up to the landing to peer inside the room does nothing to reassure.

It’s like a hurricane went through it: the dinner table is on the ground, half a leg broken and abandoned next to the hallway door, a broken plate scattered all over the room. When Clary limps around debris and reaches the other side of the table, she finds large gouges in the wood and a bloody tooth on the floorboard. There are bloody hand prints on the threshold to the back hallway, and the largest kitchen knife lies on the ground with blood all over the blade.

No trace of Jo anywhere.

The twins’ laughter filters in through the open window, and Clary wonders how a house can possibly get turned into such a mess without the rest of the world being any wiser about it. Don’t they know something horrible just happened? How does the world even keep working around this? Clary’s legs sure don’t, at least, and she has to sit in the hallway before she ends up in a heap on the ground.

Stop panicking, Clary tells herself—she’s heard those words so many times in Jo’s mouth, in Luke’s voice. If you’re in danger, don’t panic. Think. Get helps, first. Panic later.

Get help first. Think first. Clary isn’t in a state to brave the phone yet—not if she wants to sound even vaguely coherent for the call. So, she thinks.

Clearly, someone broke into the house without being seen—maybe they used the back door. Just as clearly, someone got hurt. Probably Jo. Most likely Jo—oh, god, please let her be alive, let her—stop. Stop. Think. 911 has to come first.

There’s no way Clary can deal with all of this on her own, and there’s no guarantee Luke is even back in the city yet.

Police it is.

Clary stumbles to the kitchen on shaky legs, and stumbles over the undisturbed Fire Box on her way there. Her mother’s laptop is here, too, and Clary saw the silver candle holder on the ground when she crossed the living room, so either the people who came here weren’t after money, or they did a really poor job of it.

The aloe vera was thrown to the ground, along with most of the cutlery drawers, possibly in search of the kitchen knife. Clary has to look away from the fridge and its open door—like Jo forgot it, or maybe was stopped in the middle of something—and focus her sight on the land line to calm the tremors in her hands.

She keys the number in with bile rising up her throat. Forces herself to practice what she’s going to say. Breathes in deep to steady her voice. Screws her eyes shut when the movement of Jo’s screen-saver catches her attention.

She wants to go to bed—pretend none of it is happening and that Jo’s going to come in through the door any time, now, and take things in hands like she always does.

The hopeless fantasy shatters when Clary raises the phone to her ear, and nothing happens.

No sound.

No voice announcing the line is currently busy.

No dull beeping.

Nothing.

Clary sobs. Wipes tears out of her eyes. Does it again, and gives up when her lungs turn her breathing into full blown sobs. They cut the phone lines. The Wi-Fi router is intact, Clary’s seen it, but still. They cut the phone lines. Why would anyone cut the phone if they didn’t expect to find someone in? And why would anyone organize a robbery when there’s someone to witness them? Picking empty houses is just less work, isn’t it?

So, whoever came must have known Jo was here.

Maybe they even came specifically for her.

What if they’re here because of Clary, though? What if the rapist she saw in Pandemonium was some kind of—of gang member or mob boss or something? And he didn’t like Clary’s intervention and decided to take it out on her and managed to discover where she lived?

What if he sent the guy at Java Jones too, what if Clary was meant to be with her mom right now and the only reason she isn’t is because she went out and got stupidly lucky? What if all of this was only meant for Clary and Jo took the fall because she wasn’t there?

She shouldn’t have gone out. Should have listened to her mom and stayed in—she could have negotiated then. Begged for whoever came to spare Jo. After all, if this is all because of Pandemonium, she’s the only responsible one. She’s the only one who should pay for it, right?

She wasn’t there, though, and now Jo is gone God knows where in God knows what state and going through God knows what all because Clary couldn’t use her brain and stay out of somebody’s business and now she’s stuck wondering what’s happening and Luke won’t be here for hours yet and there’s no phone and no police and Clary’s panicking, she nows it, she knows, but knowing it doesn’t help and she ends up sitting in the dirt in the middle of the kitchen while sobs tear out of her louder than she even thought possible.

It takes her a long time to calm down—for her body to exhaust the tears and her breathing to slow down—but eventually, she does. She’s not even sure how. It’s not like anything’s changed. It’s just—it kind of feels like the attack putters out on its own, like a car running out of fuel.

It leaves Clary aching, her body back to throbbing in pain in ways she wouldn’t even have thought of as possible.

It also, thankfully, leaves her a little more coherent, like her mind got aired out.

It’s not much—it’s not a solution in itself, at any rate—but it does leave Clary coherent enough to remember Dorothea and her hermit ways. The woman so seldom leaves her apartment Clary used to be convinced she was a witch, so chances are she’s in...which means Clary can use her phone! All she has to do is get downstairs and ask politely—maybe negotiate a little but that’s negligible. Then she’ll call the police and Luke, and let him take over.

He’ll be far better than she is at this sort of thing, anyway. Clary has never seen either of her parents lose their head in a crisis, and wherever they learned this—it might be an innate sense of calmness but Clary finds the theory a little hard to swallow—Clary is presently very, very glad for it.

So, get downstairs. Get Dorothea. Get Luke. It all sounds so simple, compared to the rest, that it makes Clary’s head swim and she trips over her own feet on the way to the back hallway. Not a problem in itself, except when it’s followed by a heavy scrapping sound.

Clary freezes. She’s alone in the apartment. At least, she’s pretty sure she is. Jo would have signaled her presence if she was there, wouldn’t she? Unless she was—no, Clary isn’t even going to think about that one. And anyway, scrapping isn’t creaking. Creaking could have meant the neighborhood stray cat getting in through Clary’s open window again.

Scrapping means someone dragged heavy stuff on the floorboard.

Logically speaking—assuming Clary’s logic is somewhat functional at the moment—it’s probably not someone out to get her. Probably. A kidnapper would be more discreet, right? They wouldn’t be stupid enough to make a mistake even an unprepared teen can spot.

Right?

It’s probably not Jo either. Clary wasn’t exactly trying to keep her noise levels down when she came in earlier, so if Jo were here, she’d have signaled her presence. Probably. And if she were too weak to call out, she’d be too weak to produce that kind of sound as well. Not Jo, then.

But in that case, who? An attacker? A kidnapper? Or worse, someone to finish the job and finish Clary off?

With her heart in her throat, Clary takes another, far more careful step toward the hallway, and steps around the creaking boards near the back staircase to reach for the kitchen knife and its bloody blade. Hopefully, having her fingerprints on it won’t get her in trouble later, but she’ll get to that problem if and when it poses itself. For now, not dying has to be a priority.

She tries to step around the glass again, but her legs are still numb from her panic attack, and clumsy with fright. She hisses when the sole of her left foot lands on a particularly nasty shard, and has to land on her heel with a heavy thud to avoid falling flat on her face—or worse, her knife.

In her bedroom, Clary hears something scrape again, and a sudden jolt on the circular handle makes her jump something like a foot in the air. Thankfully, she doesn’t freeze this time—slips past her bedroom to the closet door and flattens her back against it while she ignores the pain in her right wrist to try and open it without a sound.

Her door’s handle stops moving.

For a heartbeat, Clary thinks this might mean safety.

Then the door bursts outward and slams into her.

Clary barely has time to realize she’s in pain—sharp, stabbing pain in her left side where the handle hit, hot pulsing where sticky warmth floods down her nose—before she collapses to the floor, pure luck the only thing preventing her from impaling herself on her improvised weapon. When she manages to remind her eyes of which way is up—her head must have taken a bigger hit than she thought—Clary finds shoes first.

A battered pair of once-varnished shoes leads up to the sad remnants of faded black suit pants, and Clary has to struggle in order to keep following the line upward. She finds a shirt dirty enough that it barely retains the memory of white, the whole thing filled with really, really thick arms. Clary’s blood freezes in her veins long before she manages to find her aggressor’s...head.

There’s no face there—only a mess of purple-and-red scars like earthworms, features obliterated by thick, painful-looking tissues that barely part wide enough to reveal destroyed eyes. In he mouth—what was once a mouth—blackened shards mark the spots where teeth used to be.

A thick, bruise-purple hand reaches for Clary’s ponytail—flails for a second against its unexpected volume—and drags her off the ground by the hair, a scream flying out of Clary before she can fully process the gesture.

That seems to be the wrong reaction, thought, because the other hand appears in Clary’s field of vision, aiming for her throat in a way that makes Clary kick, squirm, scream as hard as she can until she remembers the knife in her hand and swings it around until it catches at the suit’s arm.

Clary falls to the ground with a thud and scrambles away from the—the—whoever or whatever the hell it is, half-crawling and half running toward the living room and front hallway until her right shoulder refuses to move and yanks her entire body back with it. She hits the other’s chest with a pained huff, tries to use the knife again, but this time all it gets her is enough of a slap in the face that the world starts spinning—and then a hand on her throat.

There’s a vague, stiffening feeling of déjà-vu when a gloved fist collides with the mangled vestiges of a cheek, but Clary doesn’t have time to process it before she’s dropped on the ground, next to a pair of thick leather boots.

“Get outta here!”

Clary’s feet get the message before she does, and she’s already jumped over the living room table by the time she recognizes the voice. Turning around reveals the same silhouette—wide shoulder, stocky built, clothing alternating between black and deep dark blues—except this time the hood is down, short cropped frizzy hair and a black-skinned face poking from behind the face mask as the guy tries to fight Clary’s attacker off.

He doesn’t seem to have much luck there. Clary smothers a panicked shout when the creature slams the boy to the ground—from there it’s like the world turns into a collection of details.

The kitchen knife in Clary’s good hand—shiny and bloody and bigger than it should be. A gasp, filling the room even through the louder grunts. Something like fear in amber eyes, surrounded by a familiar shade of brown. Clary’s hand raising.

Dull shock all through her arm.

The creature, clutching its knee, wailing like a wraith.

The boy—the man—coughing as he struggles to his feet. Turns to Clary. Panics—only for a moment, a short second, but Clary sees it—and shoves her away from him, into the front hallway.

“Get out of here! I’ll be right there!”

Clary spins on her heel so fast her twisted ankle doesn’t even have time to protest, shoots through the living room door, slips on the broken glass there, and rolls into the staircase.

It’s like the world skips a beat. One second Clary is running away from a fight to the death, the next she’s sprawled on her back in the reception room, unable to focus on anything but pain and holy hell there’s no air, no air, need air—

It occurs to her, after a while, that the fish-out-of-water sounds popping in her ears come from her. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes things worse—drives home how bad her situation is and sends her into overdrive—makes her legs and back and stomach and head pulse harder under the flesh, burning with the heat of sudden pain even as she tries to turn around.

There’s a series of loud thuds upstairs. Hurried steps.

“Don’t move!”

Clary stops her effort, but even going limp hurts—there’s something warm on her upper thigh and a harsh, stabbing burn somewhere up her left arm, but she doesn’t dare looking around to assess the damage. Overhead, the stairs tremble with the weight of her savior’s steps, although he doesn’t make a sound, even when he jumps over the last few steps and lands into a crouch next to Clary, eyes roaming over her while his hands rummage into his jacket.

“Is it bad?” Clary asks, even though she knows the answer to that one already.

It’s still less scary to ask ‘is it bad’ than ‘am I going to die’ because she doesn’t want to—she doesn’t, really—but wet warm spot on her thigh is growing and the boy—man—whichever he is—sounds panicked where he throws foreign words into a phone. Clary’s head grows lighter, even a the rest of her seems to triple weight in an instant, black spots dancing in front of her and growing more numerous with every blink—of course it’s bad.

Really bad, if the way her would-be savior looks at her is any indication.

She’s already crying by the time he takes her hand, ready to tell her a bunch of reassuring things that may or may not be true—but when he finally grasps her injured hand, his features go from worried to shocked.

“Where did you get that?”

“What?”

Clary’s trying to follow his second answer, she really is—even through the darkening edges of her vision the urgency on his face is obvious, but there’s not enough blood left in her head for that to work. He must realize it as well—his face hardens,and he reaches for something on his side with something that may or may not be an apology.

He brings his hand to Clary’s thigh, and the world bursts into pain.

She thinks she screams. At some point, the man all but sits on her to stop her from moving away from him.

Pain, pain, pain.

Nothing.

Sharp, stinging pain on her cheek, and then words in her ears—urgent, and raw, and way louder than anything she’s ready to bear.

“Thank the Angels,” her savior says, “I thought I’d killed you!”

Clary tries to speak, but it doesn’t come out quite right—at the very least, she can’t make out more than a garbled sound, like her mouth fell asleep and refuses to wake up. Her general state of mind must be obvious enough, though, because a gloved hand comes to rest on her cheek, and golden eyes shift from relief to reassurance:

“It’s okay, Fray. You’re my sister. I’m gonna help you. I’ll take you back home.”

Clary is already home, mutilated though it is, and she tries to convey the message through the pained whine that escapes her. The guy shushes her, too dry to be soothing, and then he picks her up like she weighs nothing, bridal style.

In some distant corner of her mind, the more sarcastic part of Clary wonders when her life turned into an action movie.

“It’s okay,” the man says, “it’ll be a while before we get there but I glamoured us. You just go to sleep, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Well. At least Clary got herself a nice kidnapper.

Eventually, she does fall asleep.

#TMI fic #Clary Fray #Isabelle Lightwood #Clizzy #The Immortal Cup #Immortal Instruments

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cloudninedreamer · 8 years

Text

The Demon in the Mansion

Based on this post about gay Beauty and the Beast

Just ignore it and it’ll go away. Unfortunately for Laurel, that advice worked better for bees and wasps than it did for stupid straight boys. She leaned against the wall, waiting for her ride as she prayed for this wasp to go away.

“And then I finished the dude off! You should’ve seen it, I am a master!”

“Mmhm. Veeeery interesting, Chad.” Laurel nodded absentmindedly and returned to the book in her hand. But no matter how hard she tried she just could not get immersed in the fantasy world. The pest was too distracting.

Some had told Laurel they couldn’t believe she kept brushing Chad off, and she could kind of see it. His hair was golden like the sun, his eyes a similar color He had a strong jawline and golden-tanned skin, fairly dark for a boy who spent most hours indoors playing games, but still much, much lighter than Laurel’s dark brown tone.

There were a few problems with the possible match up though. Number one, he was rude and a know-it-all and didn’t understand the word “no.” Number two, he was a man. Not that he could figure out that she wasn’t into men. Even now, as Laurel continued to try and block him out, he was prattling on about his latest… Magic tournament? Honestly, he claimed to be the top in so many games Laurel couldn’t keep track.

And then help arrived in the form of an old rusty pickup truck. “Laurel!” Its driver called as they stepped out. “Time to go! C’mon!”

“Wait, Laurel,” Chad said, grabbing her arm. “I was just thinking, maybe we could go—”

And Laurel’s savior grabbed her other arm. “Sorry, Romeo, but her sister’s waiting. Gotta go, bye!” And they yanked Laurel their way, breaking Chad’s (practically nonexistent) grip and hurried Laurel to the truck.

“Welp,” the driver said as they climbed in, “I just saved your life.”

“I was fine.”

“Yeah, but seriously. You should just tell him to fuck off. It’s just two easy words. Or two other easy words: ‘I’m. Gay.’”

Laurel laughed, but said, “He wouldn’t believe me if I told him.” She tucked a strand of long black hair behind her ear. “Thanks for the rescue, Soph.”

“Any time. Now let’s go. Belle will be at your house soon.”

Sophia was an interesting friend. Pale skin, tall and wiry, they were loud where Laurel was quiet. For starters, Sophia’s hair was bright teal, always tied back in a ponytail. They had a multitude of piercings including, but not limited to, their ears, lip, nose, and navel, and their makeup was always done with winged eyeliner and blue lipstick. Not to mention the ripped jeans and too-small shirt that showed said navel piercing, and the tattoo on their back, though Laurel had never had a really good look at it before.

“And thanks for picking me up.”

“Least I could do. You don’t drive, Belle’s at work for another thirty minutes, and she gives me free food. Win-win-win.”

“Is food all you think about?”

“Of course not.” Sophia gasped dramatically as if wounded. “But I’m a hungry college student. You’re a college student too. Don’t you understand me?”

“I’m a well-fed college student,” Laurel corrected. “If you budgeted better, you would be too.”

“Blah, blah. I don’t have monthly funding from my parents and a working big sister like you.”

The two drove on, finally reaching Laurel’s home. It was small, two bedroom, one bathroom, but it felt like family. As Laurel dropped her bag in the living room, she noticed a casserole on the kitchen counter with a note.

“350 for 20 minutes. See you soon!”

Laurel fired up the oven. As she returned to the living room, Sophia had already made a home on the old couch and was watching after-school cartoons.

Laurel shook her head as she sat next to her friend. “Aren’t we a little old for this stuff?”

Sophia whipped their head around to stare at Laurel, aghast. “Never!” Then, as if to prove a point, they turned the volume up a few clicks. Laurel sighed but didn’t protest.

The front door opened as Laurel was pulling out the casserole, and in walked her older sister, Belle. Belle looked exhausted, with a few bags under her dark eyes, but a smile was on her face. She was still in her simple white and gray office clothes, and her black hair was done in cornrows tied into a low bun.

“Hey, Belle!” Sophia greeted, spread along the couch. “How was your day?”

“It was fine, thank you,” Belle replied. “It’s good to see you again, Sophia.” She looked toward the kitchen. “Hello, Laurel.”

“Hey, sis.”

“Don’t serve it yet. I just gotta change and I’ll be right back out.”

A few minutes later, Laurel had gotten out plates and silverware and a coke for Sophia and a water for Belle and was in the middle of grabbing some iced tea when Belle reappeared, now in a simple purple sundress.

“Alright!” She said, beaming. “Dinner!”

Dinner was a simple affair. It was just each person grabbing their drink and a plate of food and sitting on either the couch or the floor (Sophia had given their spot on the couch up for Belle’s sake) and they watched more cartoons.

Sophia left shortly after dinner, leaving the two sisters to talk.

“So tomorrow’s Saturday. Any plans?” Belle probed.

“Nope.”

“Any girls?”

“Nope.”

“Well what about boys?”

Laurel just shot her sister a look as Belle cracked up.

“Sorry. I just keep hearing about this one guy… Chad… what is his last name?”

“I don’t know. ‘Wiltsfordshire’ or something like that.”

Belle snorted again.

“He’s an asshole anyway,” Laurel continued. “Wouldn’t date him if I were straight.”

“I know the type. You should just tell him to fuck off.”

“Sis.”

“What? It works. I’ve had to tell boys to fuck off before.”

Laurel sighed before changing the subject. “What about you, sis? Anything?”

“Work. Same as always. Probably will have to work late. But you’ll have a casserole in the fridge and you can invite Sophia over if you want as long as they don’t cause our neighbors to complain.”

“When should I expect you then?”

“No later than eight.”

It was nine o’clock the next evening when Laurel started to really worry. She’d started pacing at eight-thirty, but traffic sucked a lot. Maybe she was stuck there. But at nine, it was nearly panic mode.

And that’s why five minutes later she called Sophia.

“What’s up?” Sophia asked.

“…My sister hasn’t come home.”

“Didn’t she say she’d be at work late?”

“She told me she’d be home an hour ago, and if something had come up, she’d have called me.” Laurel took a deep breath, steadying her nerves. “Look, I just need a ride.”

“What for?”

“I tracked her cell phone.”

“Uh, what?”

“We have permission to in emergencies. This is an emergency.”

“So you want me to drive you to wherever Belle’s phone is.”

“It’s just outside of town,” Laurel said. “Please, Sophia.”

Silence for a moment, then, “Alright. I’ll be there in five.”

They found Belle’s car next to an old mansion.

Everyone knew of the place. Years ago, it had been home to a rich family, but now they were dead and the mansion was left to rot. And now, it was said, the place was haunted by a monster and ghosts. It was all dark and windows were broken and various statues that had looked elegant in the past now looked sinister.

Laurel took a quick once-over of the car before she found why her sister had stopped. “Flat tire,” she told Sophia. “Shredded, really. She’s probably nearby.”

Sophia nodded. “I’ll check surrounding houses. You look in the mansion.”

“Why the mansion?”

“Well the nearest house is a good minute while driving away, and it’s chilly. It’s probably warmer in there.”

That was fair logic. So the two split up, Sophia returning to their truck and Laurel slowly entering the mansion.

“Hello?” She called. “Belle?”

Silence, then almost what sounded like a voice. Belle? “Sis? Are you here? You never answered my texts, I was getting worried!”

The voice moved, so Laurel hurried toward it, following the sound through a few hallways before coming to… a parlor?

“Belle?” She called, and a figure moved inside.

“Laurel!”

“Sis!” Laurel threw open the door, rushing into the room and her sister’s arms. “Belle, I was worried.”

“I know, but you have to get out of here!”

“What do you mean? We’re both going. I saw your car, but Sophia can—”

“No, Laurel. Listen. The stories were true and now you have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Laurel, listen—”

The door slammed shut. Belle’s breath hitched into a sob, and Laurel slowly turned to see a figure right in front of the door.

“Who are you?” A voice hissed, gravelly and breathy.

“I—my sister. I came for my sister.”

“She can’t leave,” the figure growled. “She’s my prisoner.”

“Wh-what? But…” Laurel swallowed. “Please, not Belle. She doesn’t deserve this!”

“It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I…” A thought crossed Laurel’s mind.

Belle noticed. “Laurel!”

“Take me,” Laurel offered.

“No!” Belle exclaimed. “Leave her be! I—”

The figure seemed startled. “You would take her place?”

“Please. Just let her go,” Laurel begged.

“Very well. But you can never leave.”

Belle was protesting, but Laurel just said, “Let me see you first.” And the figure stepped closer, into the light.

White. That’s all Laurel could see. This creature, this demon, its skin was paler than the moon in a sickly, paranormal way. Spider webs of cracks were all over its skin, most prominently along its shoulders and right cheek. Dark spots covered its body wherever cracks didn’t. Wings spread out from its shoulders, dark as night and leathery like bat wings. It had fangs that were long enough to hang out from its mouth, also black, and had a deep-set brow. It had hair in patches along its scalp, matted and dark in color. The only thing vaguely normal were its eyes, which were a more human green-gray in color, but its pupils were slit like a cat’s.

Laurel gasped, afraid, but spoke. “It’s a deal.”

Belle was screaming. “Laurel! No! You can’t do this! Spare her! Spare her!”

“You will leave,” the demon growled, “or you will face an even worse fate than hers.” The demon dragged Belle from the room and, Laurel figured, the entire mansion. Alone, in a quiet, dilapidated mansion, Laurel fell to her knees and sobbed.

Laurel didn’t know how much time passed before there was a quiet tap at the door. Startled, she looked up as it opened and in walked four people. People. Laurel almost started crying again knowing she wasn’t alone.

There were two men, one tall and muscled, his skin a warm russet brown, the other shorter, thinner, with gingery curls, an older woman with short white hair and a soft face and a young woman maybe Laurel’s age with blond hair braided to the side and a wary look.

The old woman knelt beside Laurel. “Oh, dear. Are you alright?”

“My… my sister… that thing… it…”

“I know, we saw. We heard. That was very brave.” The woman turned to the man with red hair. “Timothy, get her a cup of tea.” The man, Timothy, nodded and hurried out the door.

“Let us introduce ourselves,” the young woman said. “My name is Rose, Timothy just left, she’s Marie, and this is Carlos.”

Carlos nodded. “We’ll apologize on our Lady’s behalf, but I know it won’t do much.”

“Lady?” Laurel asked. “That thing is a Lady?”

“Doesn’t act like it now,” Rose said.

Timothy returned with an old china teacup, handing it to Marie.

“Here,” Marie said softly, “drink this. It’ll help you feel better.”

Laurel took a sip, and the warm liquid did soothe the ache in her throat, and she felt herself calm a little. “Thank you,” She said. “…Are you trapped here too?”

“Of a sort,” Timothy answered. “We’re the servants of this mansion.”

“Servants? But if your master’s a demon, then—”

“Oh, we’re basically ghosts,” Rose said. “Watch this.” And she completely vanished from sight. Laurel almost dropped her teacup, taking another sip to calm herself as Rose reappeared.

Marie tsked. “Rose, we want our guest to feel welcome, not afraid.”

“I figured we’d get that out of the way.”

Marie turned back to Laurel. “What is your name, dear?”

“Laurel.”

“Well, Laurel, it’s almost time for dinner,” Timothy said. “Carlos, have you started?”

“Sí, cariño.”

Laurel recognized the language as Spanish and understood the yes, but not the second word, nor why Timothy was suddenly blushing. Before she could mull on it further, Carlos was gone. Laurel had a feeling she’d have to get used to the servants appearing and disappearing at will.

Marie looked to Rose. “Rose, could you go get our Lady for supper?” Rose nodded and disappeared as well.

“She’s going to eat with me?”

“She should,” Marie said. “She should at least try to be civil to you.” A thought crossed her mind. “Is that not alright?”

Laurel took a breath. She was going to be stuck here. She would not cower before that thing. Better face her fears sooner rather than later. “No, it’s fine.”

“If you’re sure.” Marie bowed, and Laurel gave a soft protest. Laurel was just a commoner too. But Marie waved her off. “Follow me to the dining room.”

When they arrived, Timothy and Rose were already there. Marie approached them. “Is she—?” Rose just shook her head.

“It looks like you’ll be eating dinner alone,” Timothy told Laurel.

That was fine enough for Laurel. Put off facing her fears. Just a few minutes later, as Laurel was seated, Carlos came out of the kitchen with the food. It was basically a feast. Steak, turkey, and ham cooked to perfection, delicious mashed potatoes, fresh baked bread, carrots and corn and fruits of all kinds. Laurel ate as much as she could and dessert, a simple but extraordinary chocolate cake.

“It was amazing,” Laurel said to Carlos. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. It’s been ages since I’ve been able to cook.”

“Well, you’re welcome, then.” Laurel wiped her face with her napkin, and a thought crossed her mind.

“Are you going to sing?” She asked Carlos.

Carlos seemed startled by the question. “Where did you get the idea for that?”

Laurel shrugged. “Just a story I read once.”

“Well, I can.”

But before he could open his mouth, Timothy was covering it with his hand. “Please don’t encourage him. He cannot sing.”

“Tim! That’s not fair. I can!” Carlos protested. “You’re embarrassing me in front of our guest.”

“Okay, fine,” Timothy relented. “He can sing, but he really shouldn’t.”

Timothy and Carlos then began to bicker a bit, English and Spanish flowing between the two, sounding liked a mix of terms of affection and straight up insults. Marie rolled her eyes at the two and asked Laurel, “Did you enjoy your meal, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“That’s good. How about we get you to your bedroom then, hm?” She turned to the other servants. “Timothy, is the room ready?”

“S—I mean, yes Marie,” Timothy answered and then returned to his conversation with Carlos without a beat, now completely in Spanish.

“Since they’re so busy, I’ll show you the way. Will you need anything else? Tea? Milk?”

“No, no,” Laurel replied. “I’m just… really tired. Some rest will help.”

“Well, here’s your room. I’ll wake you for breakfast.”

“Thank you, Marie.”

Marie bowed. “Sleep well.” And she was gone before Laurel could protest. She found the room was in fact ready, with a freshly-made bed and clothes in the closet that more or less fit. Laurel changed and crawled into bed, falling asleep as her head hit the pillow.

“Honestly, you’re being a child,” Rose said, glaring right at the demon.

“What does it matter?” The demon snapped. “It’s not like being kind would make a difference. She didn’t ask to be here.”

“Kindness makes all the difference. The others and I have already won her over by being kind and talking to her and trying to make her feel welcome.”

The demon only growled.

“Don’t you want to break the curse?”

“Of course.”

“Well you’re running out of time. It’s been forty-nine years already.”

“So?”

“So if you want to break it, you need to foster somebody’s love, and love takes time and it might take a year and guess what, the only one here is Laurel.”

“Laurel?” The demon was actually confused.

“The girl’s name. Which you might’ve known if you’d come to dinner.” Rose sighed, moving her hair out of her face. “Listen. This is your last chance. If you don’t want to break it, then go ahead and let me and the others know so we don’t get our hopes up. If you do, you better clean up your act, control that temper, and show the girl some civility.”

The demon recoiled as if physically struck, and Rose relaxed. “Alright. I’ll leave you then. Good night, Lady.” And Rose disappeared.

“This might sound weird, but do you have a library?” Laurel asked Marie.

“Of course we do. Shall I take you?”

Laurel nodded, and followed the spirit through the halls. The paint was old and chipped, the carpets shaggy and rough, splintery wood… Laurel wished to know what it once looked like, when the mansion was new and beautiful. More startling were claw marks along ceilings, as if something—someone—had crawled along them. Laurel had a good idea who.

Finally, they arrived at the library, a large room filled ceiling-to-floor with books. Laurel couldn’t hide the awe and splendor from her face.

Marie smiled at the girl’s reaction. “If you need any help, or get lost, just yell for us. Someone will show up and help you.” She turned to look at a corner, above the shelf. “Have a good time. Alone.” And she was gone with a bow.

Laurel had run to a shelf already, scanning along the books. Then, a few rows above her arm’s length, she saw Pride and Prejudice. She looked around for a ladder or stepstool or something.

When she turned back toward the shelf, the book was being held at her eye level. “Here.”

Laurel screamed, falling on her butt, and she realized it was the demon. It—she—was in the air, using her wings to hover, and had a startled look on her face. Laurel picked herself up and managed a dignified expression, taking the book. “Thank you,” she said, and turned and walked away.

“W-Wait.” The demon flew over Laurel’s head to reposition in front of her. “I-I wanted to talk.”

“I don’t.” Laurel turned away again, going to sit in one of the chairs in the library.

The demon watched her for a moment, but just said, “Very well.” When Laurel looked back, the demon was gone.

It happened the next day too. This time, Laurel had picked one in her arm’s reach, The Count of Monte Cristo, but the demon reappeared.

“Um, what are you reading?”

Laurel didn’t speak, only lifting her book so the demon could see the cover. The demon nodded quietly. “I… I wanted to apologize about… a few days ago. I was rather monstrous and cruel and…” Laurel had returned to her book. “Right. You probably didn’t hear me. I’ll leave you be.”

The demon was leaving, but picked up a soft, “I heard.”

The demon came to see her once every day, while Laurel read. Every day she asked what Laurel was reading. Of Mice and Men. The Important of Being Ernest. Books like that. Some, Laurel knew were happy or sad. Some she’d never read before. Ernest was such one, and Laurel had a new story to add to her favorites.

Fifty-one books she read. The fifty-first was The Great Gatsby. She’d had to read it back in high school, and was one of the few she’d actually enjoyed from that year.

The demon approached her, as she did every day. “Hello. It’s… a lovely day. Not too hot either. I…” Laurel was still silent. “Sorry. I’ll leave you be.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What?”

“If you want to speak to me, you may,” Laurel said.

The demon seemed taken aback, but sat in a nearby chair, telling her how the leaves were green and the sun was bright and the view was beautiful from the mansion.

“I guess I’ll have to go outside later today,” Laurel said.

“May I… accompany you?”

Laurel swallowed. The demon had huge fangs, terrifying claws. Laurel could be killed in an instant by the demon. “I’d rather be alone for that.”

There was no anger, just a little sadness. “Very well,” the demon said.

“But you can stay for now,” Laurel offered.

The demon did. They had conversations most days after that. And the outside was a beautiful view.

Sixty-three books later, she was reading The Little Prince as the demon hesitantly took a seat near her, a book in her own hand. Laurel glanced up to see the demon was reading Pride and Prejudice.

The demon started to become a welcome presence, much to Laurel’s shock. They would read their books, sitting next to each other. The demon would every so often gasp or laugh and tell Laurel the quote or scene that had gotten a reaction.

Sixty-five books later, the demon was reading The Count of Monte Cristo, but this time growling softly at the book as if it had offended her firstborn.

“Is something the matter?” Laurel asked.

The growling stopped and the demon hunched over slightly, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… the words are so small in this book.”

Laurel nodded. “Sometimes they are.” Laurel placed a bookmark in her book, setting it aside. “If it would help, maybe I could read it to you?”

“Uh…” The demon took a moment before nodding, handing over the book.

“Where should I start?”

The demon again looked away. “The beginning?”

There was no mockery, no insults. Laurel just calmly opened the book, and began reading aloud.

After that, somedays she’d read books to the demon. Other days they’d just read in silence together. Laurel was honestly startled at how normal this felt, but… she felt like the demon was her friend.

During one of these readings, Laurel told the demon she forgave her.

Sixteen books later, it was Romeo and Juliet, when Laurel had a thought. She stopped reading aloud, in the middle of a soliloquy, and the demon looked up at her.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing bad. I just never realized. Do you have a name?”

“…Yes.”

“What is it?”

The demon was silent, afraid. Afraid of judgement. That honestly was mostly likely not going to exist. Finally, she relaxed enough to speak. “Caroline.”

“Caroline.” Laurel smiled. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Laurel.”

Caroline grinned back. “I know,” she said, clearly appreciating the humor.

So, Laurel went back to reading aloud.

A few hours later, they’d finished reading, and lunch was served. Caroline had started eating with Laurel after book seventy-three, and after book one hundred twenty-seven, meals were commonly filled with laughter and conversation, to the servants’ delight.

After lunch, Caroline left to go to her quarters and the servants started to clean up.

“Is there something I can help you with, Laurel?” Timothy asked.

“Yes, actually. I had a question.”

“Yes?”

“Why does Caroline have a human name? I thought she was a demon and most have… terrifying names.”

The servants had gone quiet, before Marie sighed. “I’ll tell you.” She walked over to Laurel. “Lady Caroline wasn’t always a demon. She used to be human. We all were.”

Laurel nodded. “I… sort of had a feeling,” she said. “But how did it happen?”

“Long story short?” Rose said. “Magic.”

“Yes,” Carlos agreed. “But it’s a bit more complicated than that.

“I’ll tell the story,” Marie told them. “Lady Caroline was born a human, to wealthy parents. A Lord and Lady,” she began. “But they died when she was young. In their will, they said that the four of us would take care of her through her childhood. As such, she was…” Marie paused as if to think the right word.

“Spoiled. Greedy. Selfish,” Carlos supplied.

“Carlos!” Marie scolded.

Carlos shrugged. “It’s true.” He set down the plates and turned to Laurel. “So it was a dark night. Cold, rainy. We’d just finished supper. So we were all cleaning up when the doorbell rang. Everyone had their hands full. Marie, and I were cleaning up, and Rose and Timothy were preparing the fireplace, so we asked Caroline to answer the door for us. Almost threw a tantrum over that request.”

“She did, though, after some persuading,” Marie took over. “She answered the door. And there was a woman begging for shelter. She had nothing to give and was a bit… unsightly. So Caroline refused.

“And… well, this is according to Caroline, so it’s hard to say how accurate, but the woman transformed into an enchantress with hair like snow and a wine-red dress with roses designed upon it.”

“As the enchantress prepared her spell, Caroline begged forgiveness, but it was too late. And she laid a curse upon Caroline. She became a monster and the rest of us lost our physical forms. Cursed to stay the same, never changing even as the world does, until it’s broken.”

“But how do you break it?” Laurel asked. “I want to help.”

Marie and Carlos exchanged looks. “It’s not our place to say. Frankly we’re pushing it telling you the story, but I think Caroline will understand that.”

Laurel nodded, sighing. “But,” Carlos said, “you could ask Caroline herself. We can’t promise she’ll tell you, but maybe she will?”

“That does sound like a good idea.” Laurel stood up, smiling at the spirits. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” As Laurel turned away, the two faded from sight and a quick glance allowed Laurel to see the dishes still moving, being washed, by an invisible presence.

She reached Caroline’s room relatively quickly, and knocked on the door. “Caroline?” She asked. “Can I come in?”

It only took a moment for the door to open, and Rose stood there. “Caroline says yes. What is it?”

“I was hoping to speak to Caroline,” Laurel said as she entered, then quickly added, “Privately.”

“Of course.” Rose bowed to Laurel before she could protest then disappeared as the door swung shut behind Laurel.

“What is it?” Caroline’s voice rang out. Laurel followed the sound to find Caroline sitting on her bed. “Laurel?”

“Y-yes. I mean, hi.” Laurel took a breath. “I just wanted to talk.”

“What about?” Caroline tilted her head quizzically. She patted the bed beside her so Laurel sat down.

“I heard the story,” Laurel started. “About your… curse.”

There was silence save for a few deep breaths from Caroline, though Laurel didn’t know if she was calming herself from anger or panic.

“And?” Caroline finally asked.

“Well, they said it could be broken. But they didn’t tell me how. They said it wasn’t their place.”

Caroline sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean? But I want to help!”

“The curse can be broken, yes. But it’s basically impossible.” Caroline sounded so defeated, broken.

“Then I’ll make it possible,” Laurel vowed.

Caroline made a sound, maybe a breath of laughter? She spoke again, “Maybe. If you can break the curse, you’ll know when it happens I guess.”

Laurel sighed, knowing protesting wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Can I ask another question?”

“Hm?”

Laurel bit her lip, unsure of how to phrase it without angering the demon in front of her. She’s not a demon, she reminded herself. She was cursed. Finally, she spoke, “why are you so specific about the… woman’s… appearance?”

“Because it’s not,” Caroline replied. “That’s all I can remember. Hair white as the snow and a red dress with rose designs. But I want to remember more. I hate her! She ruined my life! Made me… this, and I can’t even remember her face!” There was a thud and Laurel flinched. Caroline looked to her hand to see she had dug her claws into the bedpost and quickly retracted them. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not my bed,” Laurel replied. “It must hurt that someone did all that to you.”

Caroline nodded. “It does.” She sighed. “I want to be me again. With all my heart. But I know it isn’t going to happen.”

She looked so broken. Laurel’s heart ached at the sight and she gently placed a hand on Caroline’s shoulder. That was enough for Caroline to break, and cry. She cried and Laurel just held the demon—the cursed human—through the night.

It was fifty-four books later that Caroline realized she loved Laurel.

“Timothy? Carlos?”

“Yes, Caroline?” Timothy responded.

“I need to do something special.”

“What is it?” Carlos asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s for Laurel. I’m… I’m going to tell her I love her.” She paused as her servants gasped. “So, it must be special. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well you could go for the traditional,” Carlos offered. “Flowers, chocolates, promises you don’t intend to keep…” The last was accompanied by a pointed look at Timothy.

Timothy gave Carlos a hard nudge, interrupting. “You know her best, Caroline. What would she want?”

Caroline thought. She thought about their time together, the books shared. The way Laurel would read them aloud and then stop and sigh at… That was it!

“I’ve got it.” Caroline told the servants her idea. At their enthusiastic nod, she went through the mansion and told Marie and Rose so things could be prepared. Then she went to find Laurel.

She found Laurel in a tree. Caroline almost missed her at first. Then she was wondering why the hell Laurel was in a tree.

“It’s a good reading spot,” Laurel answered, still nestled against a branch. “Plus, the blossoms smell nice.”

“Well, I… um… I wanted to talk to you.”

“Go ahead.” Caroline couldn’t see her face, but she knew Laurel was smiling, listening, even with her nose stuck in a book.

“…Face to face?”

Laurel stretched. “Catch my book,” she said, and dropped it into Caroline’s awaiting hands. Laurel then grabbed hold of the branch she’d been resting on moving to hang off it before dropping to the ground. She turned to Caroline. “Yeah?”

Caroline felt her nerves again. So much could go wrong. Sure, she was willing to call the two of them friends, but that didn’t necessarily mean… She took a breath, calming herself.

“I was wondering if you would join me for dinner tonight,” she finally said.

“Of course,” Laurel said. “We eat dinner together every night.”

That wasn’t what she meant. “No, I mean…” Caroline thought the words through. “A special dinner. The two of us all… dressed up like those dances you’ve read about.”

“Oh. Well, I’d love to,” Laurel said, her face turning gloomy, “but I don’t have a fancy dress.”

“That’s… not a problem. I have one I think should fit… and if not then Marie could fix it up quickly… if you want.”

Laurel was silent a moment and Caroline could breathe. She was scared. What if Laurel said no? What if she hated Caroline? What if—?

“Okay,” Laurel finally said. “That sounds wonderful.”

Caroline couldn’t hide her smile. “Great. Great!”

“You pulled me out of a tree just to ask you for dinner?”

“I wanted to ask to your face.”

“You could’ve come up. You can fly.”

“Not that close to branches. And I can’t… I wasn’t allowed to climb trees.”

Laurel took her book from Caroline’s hands. “Do you want me to show you?”

Marie found them both nestled in that tree across from each other, Caroline reading aloud to Laurel. She reminded them that dinner would be soon and they should start getting ready before returning inside to continue preparations.

When it was time for Laurel to start getting ready, she washed, and Marie came to the room to do her hair, only tying back a lock of hair in the back. And Rose arrived with the dress. She bowed to Laurel again, (Laurel was convinced that Rose was just doing it to spite her now.) and the two servants left the room for Laurel to get dressed.

The dress Caroline had picked for her was bright yellow and sleeveless, with clear gems all along the bodice that Laurel didn’t doubt were real. As she slipped it on, the skirt flowed loosely around her legs and was floor-length. It was beautiful. It was perfect. As soon as she put it on, Laurel felt like a princess, taking a little bit to twirl for her mirror.

Finally she called in Marie to help with finishing touches. Luckily only a little stitching of a hole or two was needed, and then Laurel could accessorize and meet Caroline for dinner. Laurel only put on a silver bracelet for jewelry. Slipping her feet into flats, she took a breath and wished herself luck.

That was the moment Rose appeared, knocking on the wall gently. “If you’re ready,” she said with yet another bow, “Caroline is waiting.”

Laurel nodded, standing. “Do I look okay?” She asked.

Rose smiled. “You look amazing. Wait until she sees you.” Laurel nodded and followed Rose out of the room.

Caroline was pacing. She was ready, but nervous beyond belief. What if Laurel didn’t come? What if she hated the outfit? What if…?

Caroline was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of footsteps. She looked up to see Rose, who bowed and said, “Lady Caroline, Miss Laurel.” And she was gone, leaving Caroline to look at Laurel and suddenly feel inferior in her looks.

Caroline’s dress was a dark blue, contrasting greatly with her white skin. Her dress had short sleeves in order to hide the rather large cracks along her shoulders. Unlike Laurel’s Caroline’s dress only fell a little past her knees, keeping the skirt above her hooves so she didn’t trip. A silver necklace hung around her neck, and she was twisting her hands nervously, not looking, at her, waiting for Laurel to speak.

“You look…” monstrous, disgusting, terrifying… “Lovely.” Caroline hadn’t been expecting that. Her head jerked up to see Laurel beaming at her. And she… oh, Laurel, she was absolutely stunning. Caroline quickly told her so before the thought left her. Laurel laughed softly, bringing her hand to her mouth as if to quiet it, and Caroline plunged deeper.

The nervousness was dissipating. Caroline approached Laurel. “Dinner?” she asked, offering Laurel her arm.

Laurel took it. “Only if we dance after.”

“D-Dance?” Caroline asked. “I don’t know if I can dance. I haven’t since—”

“Don’t worry,” Laurel said, “I’ll show you.”

But first, dinner. Carlos really had outdone himself, Caroline could tell from the smell. Laurel sat across from Caroline and the two made some simple small talk. Both of them gave their compliments to Carlos just as Marie showed up.

“Lady Caroline, Laurel,” she said with a bow. “I tuned the grand piano in the ballroom if you were wishing to dance?”

At the word, Laurel’s face lit up with Caroline sunk lower in her chair. Laurel just laughed lightly, standing up and moving to pull Caroline to her feet—hooves.

“I-I don’t think I can dance,” Caroline protested.

“Please? I won’t judge,” Laurel said.

Oh no. Caroline couldn’t say no to that face. She finally nodded and with a slight squeal, Laurel led Caroline to the ballroom, brimming with excitement.

As they arrived, Marie sat at the piano. “I’ll start with a simple waltz,” she said.

Laurel took Caroline’s hand, resting it on her shoulder. “I’ll lead first.” Caroline almost jumped as Laurel placed her hand on Caroline’s waist and took Caroline’s free hand in the other. “It’s okay. Just follow me.”

The music started, sweet melodies filling the air and Laurel took a step. Laurel was flowing to the beat so smoothly, so perfectly, and Caroline was stumbling along like an animal. Laurel didn’t seem to mind, only murmuring, “relax.”

The song ended and Caroline almost lost her balance as Laurel stopped.

“I’m sorry. I told you, I’m no good.”

“No, you’re doing great. Just don’t think about it so hard.” Laurel motioned to Marie and music started again. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

So Caroline did. Her steps smoothed, she was flowing, and the two floated around the ballroom as if they were flying. Laurel twirled Caroline, then kept their floating. Caroline wasn’t thinking. She was feeling. The music with its soft beats, the light with its warm glow, her own heart, filled to the brim with love.

As the song ended, Laurel asked, “Would you like to lead?” And Caroline did, twirling Laurel close to her body, letting the two spin and float and fly around the room until both were beaming like the sun. As the last song ended, Caroline gazed into Laurel’s dark eyes, sparkling like stars.

“Laurel? Would you like to go to the balcony?” Caroline asked. Laurel nodded, and Caroline could feel the smiles of her servants behind the two.

Outside, the moon was shining brightly and stars danced to their own heavenly melody. Now was Caroline’s chance. She had to say it, she just had to. “Laurel? Are you happy here with me?”

Laurel nodded, but there was sadness in her eyes. “What is it?” Caroline asked.

“My sister. I haven’t seen Belle in so long, she must be so worried. I… I miss her.”

Laurel was so hurt. It reminded Caroline of her hurt, longing to be human again, longing to be loved. But Laurel could never love a demon, and her hurt could be remedied.

“You should go to her,” Caroline said.

“What?”

“Go to her. You’re free.”

“I… thank you.”

“I just hope… you remember me.” Caroline swallowed a sob as Laurel hugged her tight.

“I’ll never forget you. I’ll… I’ll come back. I promise.” That was the last touch before Laurel hurried away, to her home of humans and people she loved who were human.

When her servants demanded why later, all Caroline could say was, “Because I love her.”

Laurel was in a bit of an awkward position. She had changed into the clothes she arrived in and prepared to leave when it hit her. She had no way of going home herself. She knew based on the time that Belle was probably asleep. Left her with only one option.

Laurel turned on her phone for the first time since she arrived at the mansion and dialed a familiar number.

“Sophia? I know this is a weird time. Could you pick me up?”

Laurel had been right about Belle being asleep, but she was very awake when Sophia’s noisy truck pulled up, and even more so when Laurel hopped out.

Belle ran up to her sister. “Laurel? Is that really you?”

“Yes, it’s me sis.”

That was enough and Belle pulled Laurel into a warm embrace. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I know.” Laurel tightened the hug and the two stayed that way until Sophia cleared their throat.

“I know this is a great sister reunion and all but maybe we should get inside.”

The three did so, Belle sitting Laurel at the couch. “How did you escape? That… thing…”

“She let me go,” Laurel replied.

“She?”

“The… demon… it’s hard to explain, but… she changed. And she let me come back to you.”

“Well, whatever happened,” Belle said, “I’m just glad you’re back, and okay.”

“Yeah… for now, at least. I…”

“Wait, Laurel,” Sophia interjected, “you mean you wanna go back there?”

“The reason Caroline—that’s her name—is like that is because she’s cursed. And not just her. The servants there are cursed too. And I promised I would help break the curse.”

“Oh no,” Sophia said to Belle, “she’s determined.”

“We can talk about that later. For now, you are staying here, with me, and I don’t have to worry about losing you.”

Belle wrapped her arms around Laurel, pulling her close. Laurel had missed this feeling. She didn’t know she had been, but now, in her sister’s arms, Laurel was just at peace. Sophia slipped out before long, and the two sisters fell asleep like that, snuggled close, each knowing that her sister was safe and sound.

That lasted about a day. Sophia called the next evening. “Laurel?”

“Soph?”

“So, word is out that you got back.”

“Really. How did that happen,” Laurel said sarcastically.

“It wasn’t me!” Sophia protested. “Anyway, your ‘knight in shining armor’ found out and realized you were in that creepy mansion the whole year?”

Chad. Ugh. Laurel really didn’t want to deal with him anymore. “What’s your point, Sophia?”

“He’s decided the stories are true and he’s going to kill the monster of the mansion.”

That got Laurel’s attention. “What?”

“He wants to kill the monster—Caroline, you called her? Um… you might want to do something…”

“Well, give me a hand then. Or a ride.”

“I can’t. I’m nowhere near your place and you need to get there fast.” Sophia’s voice had changed. Serious, somber, wise. But it slipped Laurel’s notice as the door opened and Belle walked in from work.

“Bye.” She hung up, and hurried to the oven, which she turned off. “Belle, I’m sorry. I know I just got back, but I think Caroline’s in trouble.” Laurel took a breath. “Please take me back there. Please.”

Laurel didn’t look at her sister’s face until Belle placed a hand on her shoulder. And when she nodded, Laurel decided she had the greatest sister on the planet.

Laurel and Belle arrived at the mansion quickly, Laurel jumping out of the car to see… a bunch of boys covered in cardboard? It was hard to tell in the lack of light, but finally Laurel could make out a few swords, shields and the like. They were wearing cardboard armor. LARPers. And they were all trembling, talking among themselves in hushed whispers.

Laurel approached one she vaguely recognized, tapping him on the shoulder, he jumped at the touch, whirling around with fear in his eyes. Then he relaxed when he realized it was Laurel.

“What are you doing here?” Laurel asked.

“Chad told us to come. He said we’d fight some demons. He’s… one of the leaders of our group, we figured it was a roleplay… it’s not. There are real monsters in there.”

“Okay. Where is Chad?”

“He ran in, fearless.”

With her information gathered, Laurel returned to Belle. “Belle, I have to go in. You don’t if you don’t want to…”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Belle replied.

Laurel shot her an appreciative smile, and rushed off toward the door. The boys around were too scared for themselves to notice or try to stop them. Laurel knocked on the door. “Rose? Marie? Timothy? Carlos? It’s Laurel!”

There was silence for a moment, the boys having finally noticed and staring. Then the door creaked open.

Rose stood there, shocked. “You came back!”

“Of course I did,” Laurel said, hurrying through the door. “Where’s Caroline? Where’s Chad?”

“Chad?” Rose asked as she closed the door behind Belle.

“The leader of those guys. Tall, blond, perfectly punchable face…”

“I thought we chased him out. He was in here, yelling about killing the demon. About…” Her head shot up. “Caroline!”

“Where is she?” Laurel demanded.

“Her quarters. I… I’ll get the others!” And Rose was gone.

Laurel meanwhile, had taken off. She ran as fast as her legs could take her and accidentally left Belle behind in the process. She didn’t notice. She didn’t care. She had to get to Caroline before…

Laurel burst through the door to Caroline’s chambers. There was no one inside, but there were things overturned and the window was open. Laurel ran to the window, looking to the roof. It was hard to see, but with what light Laurel had, she could make out two figures, one of them having skin pale as the moonlight.

“Caroline!” She screamed. “Chad! Stop!”

The thinner, taller figure looked up when Laurel first screamed. “Laurel,” she breathed, and turned her attention to her attacker. The man, Chad, had old weapons, a sword and a dagger. He may had been overpowering her at first, but now… Caroline had something—someone—to fight for. She raised up, spreading her wings and overall making herself look massive. Then she snarled and jumped at him.

Claws raked his skin, but not deep enough to kill. As Chad ducked forward, Caroline leapt into the air, landing behind him and shoving him to the ground. His sword clattered on the roof, out of his grasp. She could do whatever she wanted. She could kill him, digging claws into his throat until he choked on his blood, but a stronger part, a newer part, called for mercy.

As Caroline made her decision, she heard footsteps. “Laurel!” Caroline looked up to see her love, her life, an expression of pure unadulterated joy on her face.

And Laurel watched as that expression twisted into one of pain. Chad let out a laugh. He’d stabbed Caroline in the stomach with a dagger. Caroline winced, yanked the dagger out, and glared at him.

All at once, Chad’s triumphant smirk turned into fear. “You think you can kill me? You can’t,” Caroline hissed. “Get out.” Caroline tossed the dagger away. It didn’t take long before Chad was gone, face white as a sheet, and the sounds of whimpers trailing behind him.

Laurel quickly hugged Caroline. “Thank God. You’re alright.”

Caroline pulled away uncomfortably, holding a hand to her stomach. Laurel looked down to see red leaking from between Caroline’s fingers. “W-Wait. N-No…”

“…I may have been faking. This actually really… hurts… I…” Caroline took a breath and fell to her knees. Laurel knelt beside her as Caroline sunk down, resting her head in Laurel’s lap. “I’m sorry, Laurel.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Caroline just looked up at Laurel as if Laurel was the most precious treasure known to humanity. “At least I got to see you again… one last time.”

“No… please…” Laurel begged. Caroline’s eyes closed, her breath stilled.

And Laurel sobbed. “No! You can’t leave me like this! Please! I… I love you, Caroline…”

And then everything was white. Light filtered from nowhere, so bright Laurel couldn’t see and had to look away. But she felt the weight of Caroline’s figure disappear. Before she could act, the light vanished, leaving Laurel to look frantically around before her eyes settled on a person lying on the ground in front of her.

Laurel couldn’t move, could only stare at the young woman. Her clothes were too large and torn, so it was difficult to properly see her figure, but she was slim, slimmer than Laurel was and maybe a hair taller. The woman’s hair was bright red and her skin was very fair and covered with freckles. And the woman stood up shakily, as if unused to standing on two feet.

The woman ran her hands over herself, silent, standing still as if in awe, and then she looked up right at Laurel. Her eyes brightened and she smiled a gapped-tooth smile and stepped toward Laurel. Laurel stiffened and the stranger stopped moving.

“Laurel?” The stranger asked in a soft voice, higher than Laurel’s and lilting like a bird’s song. “It’s me.”

Caroline? But it couldn’t be… Caroline was gone… wasn’t she? Nervously, Laurel stepped forward, slowly reaching a hand to the woman’s face. Had Caroline turned back into a human? Laurel pondered the thought quietly. But how could Laurel recognize her? Everything was different. The woman’s face had a squarish shape, with cracked lips, a flatter nose, and round eyes that were… Laurel’s breath hitched. They were a soft green-gray color. And the way they looked at Laurel. Laurel recognized that look.

All at once, Laurel let out a sob and tightly hugged Caroline, who stiffened for a moment before hugging Laurel back. “It’s you. It’s you.” Laurel murmured like a mantra.

“It’s me, Laurel. It’s me. I’m okay. Everything’s okay now. I love you.” Caroline had never told Laurel before.

Laurel released her in surprise before smiling. “I love you too.” And she leaned in and kissed her. Caroline seemed taken by surprise, but only for a heartbeat before she kissed Laurel back. As they parted, she rested her forehead against Laurel’s, taking in the moment.

“This is you,” Laurel breathed, both a question and not at the same time.

Caroline nodded, beaming. “Yes. You brought me back. You saved me.” Her smile widened and a laugh escaped. “It’s a miracle!” And they kissed again.

“So Laurel, it’s good to see you’re back from that haunted mansion all safe.”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, Chad,” she huffed. “It’s not haunted.” That wasn’t even a lie. With the curse broken, all the servants had returned to human forms and most had gone their separate ways. Laurel quickly noted that Carlos and Timothy had been all too eager to run off together, just as she had suspected. Marie and had left as well, leaving Rose who wanted to stay with Caroline. And with the remaining fortune left within the mansion, Laurel’s household and home grew significantly larger almost overnight.

“Sure…” Chad said. “I know what I saw. I saw a demon! With my own two eyes. I faced it down, fought it, and lived! Pretty brave, huh?”

“Probably a figment of your imagination,” Laurel replied, turning away.

“Hey!” Chad grabbed Laurel’s arm. “Laurel, c’mon. You know that—”

“—Is there a problem?”

Laurel sighed in relief as her savior appeared, while Chad only huffed. “No thanks. Laurel and I were just talking. Go along.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m just here to get Laurel. Belle’s waiting for us, after all.” Caroline was smiling, slipping a hand into Laurel’s. “Now if you could let go of my girlfriend so we could go, that would be perfect.”

Chad dropped Laurel’s arm in shock. “Girlfriend?”

Laurel smiled as well. “Yes. This is Caroline. My girlfriend.”

“But you aren’t gay!”

Laurel stifled a chuckle, and she and Caroline walked off hand-in-hand, leaving Chad to mutter on repeat, “but she’s not gay.”

Laurel released her giggles once they turned a corner. “Did you hear him? I think he finally gets it.”

“He’s still in denial,” Caroline laughed. “That was great.”

“Yeah.” A kiss. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Anytime.”

Caroline was going kiss Laurel again when a voice called, “Laurel! Wait up!”

Sophia ran up in a hurry, slightly out of breath and laughing as well. “Did you break Chad? He’s going off about how you’re not gay.”

Laurel laughed again. “Yeah. I introduced him to my girlfriend. Oh! You haven’t met! Sophia, this is Caroline, my girlfriend. Caroline, this is Sophia, my best friend.”

Caroline smiled and shook Sophia’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same to you.” While Sophia’s face looked happy, there was something else unreadable in their eyes that quickly faded as they studied Caroline. With introductions complete, Sophia turned back to Laurel. “I just wanted to ask. I think he may finally leave you alone.”

“If not now,” Laurel said, “a few more times seeing me with Caroline should knock it into his senses.”

Sophia nodded. “It’s good to see you so happy Laurel. You deserve love. You both do.”

Caroline stopped a moment. There was something about the way Sophia said those words, as if they knew Caroline and cared about her just like they did Laurel.

Before she could ask, Laurel said, “We better get going. Belle’s waiting for us. See you later, Sophia!”

“Goodbye,” Caroline said.

“Bye!” Sophia waved as the two turned around, but Sophia made no move to leave yet, just watching them. They were so happy, the way they leaned into each other, smiling brightly, the way their gaze lingered. The way Caroline’s arm was wound around Laurel’s waist as if she were the most precious thing she’d ever found.

It had worked. They knew she was running out of time. It was a gamble, setting the chain in motion. Who knew if Belle would go in the mansion, if Laurel would take her place, if Caroline would fall in love… but she did. She’d learned to love. And she gained love. They both found their happy ending and deserved it. And now it was time to let them go.

Then, in between blinks, Sophia disappeared. But if someone had been watching them that whole time, hadn’t blinked, they may have glimpsed teal hair turn to pure white curls and street wear change into a long red dress with embroidered roses just before Sophia disappeared. Perhaps you would call it witchcraft. Perhaps you would have called them a witch.

It didn’t matter though. Because that witch, that enchantress, was gone, leaving only a handful of rose petals where they had stood.

#beauty and the beast #my writing #ugh this went soooo long #I was expecting this to be half as long #enjoy I guess

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