#have this grainy ass photo of me in a bar

[shenergyx]

[krisseycrystal]

rated: t

fandom: Gravity Falls

prompt: “Locked in a Freezer” + Stan & Dipper (& Ford)

requested by: @trashgoblinonyourporch

SO MY AMAZING FRIEND PAX SENT ME AN EXCELLENT CHALLENGE because i have never written a Gravity Falls fic before, w/ my choice of Stan, Dipper, or Ford locked in a freezer and I like to challenge hurt myself even further so i picked Stan & Dipper and had Ford cameo at the end

it’s a Time

hope you enjoy! if you want more angst, feel free to request something! i still have four prompts available on this bad boi alsdkjflkjsf

- o - o - o -

Gelid [Read on AO3]

- o - o - o -

“HEY!”

Maybe the first thing Stan should have felt when the thick door swung shut at their backs was panic. Maybe stupidity--he knew that ugly bastard with the toothpick between his teeth was lyin’ when he denied that there were ghosts in his quote-unquote “historic” bar; he knew it--but instead, all Stan can feel is a ravaging, crater-deep guilt. 

“Grunkle Stan?”

It was his idea to invite the twins along on this summer trip to the East Coast. It was him who first said, hey, whaddya know, we’re passin’ through their part’a town, Ford. Whaddya say? Let’s pick up the kiddos, have ‘em stuff their duffels in the back and let ‘em tag along on our haunted haunts tour ‘long the New England coast. They’re probably all goofs, anyway. What’s the harm?

This bar.

With its fucking deep-ass freezer.

That’s the harm.

After frantically pulling on the long handlebar once, twice, then heaving as hard as he could and throwing his shoulder into the door, Stan finally steps back and wraps his arms around himself. His faux-gold rings with their cubic zirconia catches on the cloth of his sleeves as he vigorously rubs his forearms. “Kid, do you wear anything else other than those dumb shorts and tee-shirt?”

Dipper’s already mimicking him, smart kid, but his teeth are chattering. Not a good sign. “It’s not like I have access to my bag right now to change! If I’d known some ghost was gonna lock us in a freezer, then I’d have worn something a little warmer!”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Got that fancy new cell of yours, don’tcha? Just call your sister!”

Dipper’s eyes light up. Had he forgotten he had it? Go figure. Shermi’s daughter had been so hesitant to give the twins cells, but after they turned thirteen, well…he’s sure Dipper and Mabel worked their own case pretty hard. It certainly paid off. It’s going to pay off.

It has to.

It only takes a few seconds tapping on the screen with shaking fingers to make Dipper’s face fall. “No service.”

“What? Let me see that.”

Dipper doesn’t fight when Stan swipes the dinky device out of his hand. But he does watch, unimpressed, tiny hands rubbing his arms, as Stan pretends to recognize what the hell it is he’s looking at on the screen. Fuckin’ tiny-ass white blobs. What do those things mean? Is that a percentage? Is 35 good or bad?

He tosses it back, grumbling. They need to get out. Fast. What’s the first thing to get frostbitten? How long does that take?

“Look, kid,” Stan huffs, his breath a white cloud glittering in the dark. “I’m putting you on cell duty. Your job is to think of a way to tell the others we’re down here so they can come rescue our asses.”

Are Dipper’s cheeks pinkening because of the cold, or because Stan cursed in front of him? Hard to tell. “Right.” 

Dipper bows his head over his phone, the bill of his blue pine-tree hat obscuring his face. His thumbs tap madly away; how the hell does he do that so fast? Then he turns, tremblingly striding the length of the walk-in freezer back and forth. At each corner, Dipper stops, raising his cell high above his head with a tight grimace. He stretches onto his tip-toes, waves the device right and left, and with a look of consternation, begins the process over again in a different corner. 

Stan watches his hands for a second more before it clicks.

“Dipper, take off your socks.”

“My what?” 

“Your socks.” Stan hurriedly bends over to do the same, peeling off his holey socks from his shoes before shoving his feet back inside. “Put them on your hands. Your dumb fingers are gonna get frostbit before anythin’ else and that ain’t gonna take more than two minutes.”

“B-but, Grunkle Stan, you just told me to I gotta use--”

“--do you want to lose your digits or not, kid?”

Is it a mercy or a worry that Dipper doesn’t fight him on this?

With his mouth set in a thin line, Dipper hands off his phone to Stan and squats to untie his shoes. Every passing second, the kid’s teeth chatter harder and harder; his fingers shake so much, he fumbles with the strings, pinching them and dropping them over and over again. He tugs and tugs to undo the shoelace, but it doesn’t budge. “G-Grunkle Stan, I can’t--I--”

There’s a terrible, terrible break in the kid’s already squeaky-ass voice.

Like an echo, a ricochet, something else breaks and cracks in the center of Stan’s chest.

He shoots forward, falling to his knee before he thinks better of it. His weary bones scream in protest, but not as badly as his skin does. It only takes seconds for the wet chill of the freezer floor to seep through his pants. He shoves Dipper’s phone in his pocket and doesn’t see the way the screen lights up as he does.

“It’s okay. I’ve got ya, kid,” he mutters and yanks the Converse laces loose himself. 

When Dipper’s hands are covered with twin stinky, middle-school white ankle-socks, Stan breathes a sigh of relief. Standing, he finds, is much worse on his creaky body immediately after kneeling.

“Remind me not to Cinderella you again, kid,” Stan groans, placing a sock-mittened hand in the center of his back.

Dipper chuckles, but it’s weak. The kid’s eyes shine a little too brightly in the dark, unshed tears making his eyelashes sparkle with frost. “Y-yeah. That was…awkward.” He clears his throat and holds out his socked hand expectantly, still shivering uncontrollably.

“Hm? What? Oh.” Stan fishes the kid’s phone back out.

Dipper’s face lights up at the same time as his screen does. “Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan we did it! We got a message through!”

“What?”

Dipper hurries over, pressing close to his side, and shoving his phone in his face as if he’s supposed to be able to read the tiny black font printed inside those grey boxes. 24%. There’s a funny, probably candid, photo of Mabel beside each one. Her cheek is pressed up against a wooden table with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, her face the utter look of someone who has eaten far too much cake and has icing all around her mouth to prove it. Does she even know Dipper took that picture? Who cares; it’s priceless.

“What am I supposed to be lookin’ at?”

“What Mabel said! She and Ford are on their way! They’ll be here in fifteen minutes!”

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes.

“Kid, you tell her to tell my brother to step on it. We could be popsicles in fifteen minutes!”

“Y-yeah, but--”

“--and then as soon as you're done, come over here.” Stan didn’t want to have to do this, but it looks like he has little choice. He turns around, hunting for loose, broken-down cardboard boxes or crates and finds a stash of them pinned between a steel shelf and the wall. Hell yeah. “If we’re gonna last ‘till then, then we gotta hunker. No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.”

“H-hunker?”

Stan throws several sheets of unfolded cardboard on the floor and covers the floor as much as he can.

“Hunker,” he confirms. 

- o - o - o -

The first five minutes aren’t horrible. Dipper is reluctant to huddle close and wants to stand and move around instead of sit down on a makeshift mat of cardboard. The kid admirably performs a few back-and-forth laps of high-knees and jumping-jacks before exhaustion kicks in and his body shivers too hard to do a single rep more.

Stan doesn’t even need to say anything. He holds out an arm and Dipper comes stumbling over back to him, shaking so hard, skin wane and pale, he might be as blue as his hat.

The second five minutes are spent clutching at each other, shivering tightly in a teeth-chattering huddle. In the end, Stan burrito-wraps his jacket around Dipper and pulls him over to curl against the pudge of his front. His socked hands run up and down, up and down the kid’s back as quickly as they can.

At the end of the third five minutes, Dipper begins to cry and Stan knows it’s because some part of him--his nose, probably--has frostbite setting in because it’s settling in on his nose and ears at the same time.

“Shit.”

“I-it--” It’s damn near pathetic the way the kid can barely talk. “--i-it h-h-hurts, G-Grunkle S--”

“--y-yeah. I know; I know…” 

Dipper’s breath is thin and quick under the tightness of his tears. He gasps for air, breath puffing up over and over again against his face. It’s pathetic. The way his thin shoulders are pulled up to his frozen ears; the way he can feel the tremors wrecking the kid in the middle of his hold. This entire damn thing is pathetic.

…and so is he, he thinks.

“I-I’m sorry,” Dipper stutters, voice so small. “I-I shouldn’t have--w-we s-shouldn’t have c-come here--I w-was stupid to th-think that--”

“Nope. None of that,” Stan clutches the kid tighter. “Shut up. Now.”

Dipper’s socked hands dig into the thin fabric of his button-up. Whether or not Stan actually meant to bring him to silence, that faltering apology is the last thing Dipper tries to say.

Twenty minutes pass.

- o - o - o -

Ford’s voice, when Stan finally hears it or thinks he hears it, is distant, like a dream. It washes over Stan with all the cotton-balled effect of damaged stereo speakers. Or maybe that’s just his hearing aids going out.

There are mittened hands on his shoulders, separate from the ones trying to pry away the huddle locked against his chest. As soon as the loss of a kid finally registers in his dumb, befuddled head, he writhes and fights. He rears up a socked fist to throw it--but it’s easily caught in a broad, six-fingered hand.

“Stanley. Stanley. It’s me. It’s okay.”

It takes monumental effort to crack open his eyelids and peer up. Something chilled and grainy falls down his cheeks. “Poindexter?”

“Stanley,” and the relief is so great and thick that any bitter anger Stan had in his chest at their belated rescue fizzles. “Oh, I’m so sorry. The ghost was…trying, to say the least. Mabel and I had to exorcise it before we could even get down to the basement. It…the entire process took much longer than it should have. And that never should have…I’m…” 

Dipper is pulled away from him and this time, he doesn’t resist. He can see the cool blue-black of police uniforms and the yellow jacket of paramedics.

“We tried to call you, but I suppose Dipper’s phone must have died. It went straight to voicemail.”

“Can it with the s-stupid apologies, will ya?” Stan sighs and his body shakes hard before stilling. “T-tired of it. Shit h-happened. W-we got locked in a f-f-f-fucking freezer. Just…get us the fuck out of here before I th-think about h-how I might sink s-some cruise ships.” 

Ford’s smile is rueful and exasperated. He looks over his shoulder at the paramedics that approach with a thick blanket in hand.

“I’ll make sure to keep you away from oceans, for a while, then.”

“W-water and ic-c-c-e in general. Th-thanks.”

“Noted.” Then the humor slips away and something else, something soft, gentles Ford’s face. It’s disgusting. Just like the blanket the paramedics wrap around Stan’s shoulders. “You’re going to be all right, Stan.”

“Yeah…” Stan’s eyes slip left, looking at the freezer’s now-open doorway.

“Dipper, too.”

Stan sniffs. When the paramedics pull Ford back to reach out and take his arms, he nods at his brother in wordless thanks. 

[zankivich]

Neighbors: Shawn x Plus Size Reader Chapter 10

a/n: don’t get mad at me. She’s long af. but this was incredibly important for me to write and I wanted to do it justice, and that meant take the time to let this character feel and allow the space to feel pain and to feel defeated. I wanted to show that even the most confident of people can and do struggle under scutiny and that being a confident fat woman isn’t any different. Shit’s hard ya know? Idk I love this a lot. so I hope you love it too? K bye.

*y/n’s pov*

“I don’t know. I don’t like it. I don’t like the lace, I don’t like the length, I don’t like the belt; I don't like anything about it.” You huffed.

Stu nodded. “Baby girl we’ve been at this for hours though. I once saw your boyfriend suck your face because you yawned too cute. I don’t think the dress is going to matter.”

“Ugh, men. You could not be more wrong right now. The dress means everything Stu!”

New Year’s is quite the ordeal. Instead of having it at the apartment it gets switched to a bigger venue in toronto. All of a sudden it’s a lot of industry people and all of Shawn’s family and friends. And it’s beautiful and wonderful, but you can’t help but notice that your part of the guest list is significantly smaller. You invite some friends from the office, and Stu and Bryan of course. At the time, when Shawn had asked, You had said yes with no hesitation, but it hadn’t occurred to you that things were a little more complicated than that. This was the official presentation of you as a couple. Shawn’s performance though pre-recorded, meant buzz, meant there were gonna be a lot of people just looking in your direction all night.

No one still really knew who you were. You and Shawn had never been seen together outside of Toronto and besides the occasional grainy selfie, you were still very much a concept more than a person for a lot of people. The world knew Shawn Mendes was dating someone, they didn’t know that someone was you, and you knew in your heart that this night was going to change all of that.

“You know people are gonna be confused.” You sighed plopping down beside your best friend on one of the couches outside the dressing room.

“Confused about what?”

“Confused about why American Canadian sweetheart Shawn Mendes is dating some fat marketing exec with a baking problem.” You mumbled picking at the material of dress number fifteen.

He sighed. “Is that all you are? Do you think that’s all that matters?”

You groaned in frustration. The problem with being a confident fat woman is they want you to always be a confident fat woman. Even if that’s an expectation that they never have of anyone else. You gotta be a hundred percent always. You were flawed in more ways than one.

“No. Of course not. And I don’t...I don’t care what the world fucking thinks of me. I just want him to be happy and I don’t wanna make his life more difficult. And yea maybe I don’t wanna see the internet rip me to fucking shreds. We know more than anyone how ruthless people can be, Stu.”

“Yea, I know.” He murmured leaning his head against yours. “If the dress needs to matter today, then we can let it matter okay? I just want you to be happy, kiddo.”

“Thank you….. Thank you.”

You go to a different store in between a mini crying session in the dressing room, and shared pretzel bites. There’s a dress that’s all sheer and sparkly rhinestones. It’s black and it’s seethrough and the neckline comes up around the neck almost like a choker. It’s much more adventurous and risque than you feel in that moment so there’s a big hope that it’ll somehow just work itself out.

Back in your apartment however, Shawn sat perched up on your couch playing guitar without a care in the world. You definitely spent more time in Shawn’s apartment, but something about seeing him in your space always made you feel warm inside. And when he put his guitar to the side and pulled you to straddle his lap instead, you simply melted before him. Ugh.

“How was shopping?” He murmured lips pressing staccato, gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder.

You snorted. “I’d say it was the worst experience ever, but every time I go shopping is the worst experience ever so.”

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing. Store’s just aren’t really designed for me. I usually shop online but I wanted this to be special. My mistake.”

He frowned, fingers kneading softly into your back, over your ass, and down to your thighs. God was he annoying and perfect.

“I’m so sorry. Do you want me to make you a new store?” He asked. “Cause I would.”

You grinned reaching to cradle his face in your palms.

“You do a really good job of making me feel like my worries are really dumb. Have I ever told you that?”

“You haven’t. But you also don’t tell me your worries very often. You wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged your shoulders softly, lips jutting out stubborn as you imagined a child probably would.

“Mmm.” You mumbled.

“Mmm?” He smirked mimicking you. “Please? I just wanna help.”

“You didn’t tell them.” You admitted softly.

“Tell who, what?”

“You never told the world that I’m big. And tonight everyone’s gonna know.” You sighed.  “And I don’t care. At least I’m trying not to but I just...they’re not gonna think I’m good enough. I know they aren’t. And they’re gonna be confused and probably disappointed. And I’m just...I don’t know. I don’t know what I am. I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” He breathed tugging your chin down so that your eyes met. “It’s okay. You never have to apologize to me about how you’re feeling.I didn’t think about how public tonight would be. I’m sorry for that. I just want you to be with me, because I love you, and I wouldn’t want to have this night without you. If you don’t feel comfortable going, we don’t have to go.”

You snorted. “Shawn, it’s your party.”

“It’s our party, first of all. And second of all everyone’s showing up for the booze and the food anyway, I doubt they’d notice our absence. I’ll do whatever makes you happy. I told you I don’t want my life to be a burden on yours, y/n.”

“You’re not a burden to me, ever.” You promised. “I’m not skipping either. I don’t let shit like this get to me. I guess it was just on my mind. And I couldn’t help it.”  

His arms snaked around your waist, chin coming to prop on your shoulder. He looked at you with kind and gentle eyes, your heart soaring at the sight. Rude.

“It’s okay. I always want you to tell me what’s on your mind. You know that right?”

You nodded softly nuzzling  your nose against his.

“Can I see your dress though? I wanna know how pretty my baby’s gonna look tonight.”

It gets your mind off of the negative, which was almost definitely his aim.. And instead of going back to playing guitar he wrestles you down to the couch in favor of playing you like his favorite instrument instead. And when his head falls between your thighs, he spends extra time loving the very parts of you you’d found problem with an hour ago. His hands traced lovingly at your stomach, thumbs touching stretch marks, molding to the curve of your skin. Shawn didn’t make you feel beautiful. Instead he seemed to hold a mirror to your very core and ask you to see yourself as you were, as he saw you. He showed you a beauty that had always been there, and only made it more special because you knew he was always willing to help you remember when you forgot. That meant everything to you.

“Can’t wait to kiss you at midnight.” He murmured hands skipping along the waist of your dress. “I’m gonna be the luckiest guy in the room tonight.”

You were standing in front of the mirror back pressed firmly to his chest and you smiled at his reflection.

“You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve it.”

“On the contrary, I think you deserve the world.”

At the door Shawn helps you into the beautiful, sleek trench coach that he got you for Christmas. You help him into the similarly beautiful burberry wool trench coat you got him. You like to think that the two of you look very mature and badass standing side by side. It’s a nice thought.

The venue is full of black and gold balloons. Cheap, cheesy decorations cover every inch of the bar and dance floor. The room is already full of classic New Years energy and there’s barely anyone there yet besides the people still setting up and Shawn's family who somehow made it before even you.

“Babe come see the photo booth!” Shawn murmured excitedly tugging at your fingers until you stumbled towards the booth.

He plopped you onto his lap and quickly smothered your lips in a kiss to stemi any protest you surely would have given him. His hands grabbed at your thighs and he nuzzled your head softly towards the camera.

“Don’t argue with me honey, just take a picture with me.”  He hummed.

Rude.

Suddenly there’s more people there than you think you’ve ever met in your life. Shawn is like the popular guy at school, which is genuinely comical because he’s the dorkiest man you’ve ever met, but everyone wants a piece of him. He spends an hour taking pictures with people you’ve never seen before. Some of them seem like good friends if the way he hugs them and laughs with them is anything to go off of. Women in scantily clad outfits grip him a tiny bit longer than necessary, or smile in a way that seems to push their bodies closer towards his. You don’t find yourself nearly as jealous as you did at the bar on halloween. Something about knowing you’re together and knowing where you both stand allows you to be a little bit more of a grownup. He loves you and you know that and so there isn’t any reason to be jealous. Especially not when he’s drunk and soft and affectionate and all of that gets directly thrown at you and no one else.

You were standing at the bar nursing this very delightful long island when a hundred and sixty pounds of Canadian attached itself to your back.

“Babe!” Shawn snickered directly into your ear. “Baby, I missed you so much.”

Stu had a very amused expression on his face that was full of sass and was very annoying.

“I just saw you thirty minutes ago. What the hell did you drink since then?”

“Brian wanted to do a round of shots. I did three.” He giggled.

Jesus.

“Wonderful. Remind me to get Brian to carry you to bed later.”

“I’d much rather you carry me to bed. But that’s beyond the point. I’m ready to dance with you now.”

This gave you pause. You turned to your boyfriend, tugging his arms from around your neck and took his face carefully in your hands.

“This is important, Shawn. Listen to me. You may have been roofied.”

He snorted. “I wasn’t roofied. I just...I know tonight means a lot to you, and I know it’s scary being here with all these people and I wanna--I wanna even the playing field. I wanna dance with you.”

It is maybe the sweetest thing that anyone has ever offered you in your life. So much so that you’re sort of at a lost for words. You’d never really thought about dancing with Shawn. It wasn’t something he was interested in and that was okay. Stu was a total slut on the dance floor and dancing the night away with him was often the best nights of your life. But, here he was, this annoyingly perfect man offering to do what you wanted to do for literally no other reason in the world than to make you happy?

“What factory did they make you in?” You mumbled fingers reaching up to skim his chin.

He only smiled wider. “Maybe I was made just for you. Now come show me how to dance.”

He stumbles on the edge of the last step to the dance floor and it occurs to you that perhaps there’s a reason Shawn doesn’t dance. And maybe even on top of that, adding alcohol is not going to make things go any better . . .

You’re right. Holy shit he was awful. Some people dance like they have two left feet. Shawn on the other hand was dancing like he had a third foot that had somehow got added. But he’s drunk and he’s happy and he’s just trying to make you smile so literally none of it matters. Because when he notices that a six foot tall man doing the cabbage patch dance bring tears of joy to your eyes, he only does it longer. Because it makes you happy. Because he makes you happy. And he’s not thinking about all the people in the room or what they might think of him because this, this thing that’s happening right now is just between the two of you. And that feels really fucking special.

“Hey!” You shout over the music pulling him into your arms to stop the dancing. “I love you.”

“I love you too!” He beamed. “Only wanna make you happy.”

He’s sweaty and his curls are flopped in his eyes and his cheeks are so red and so soft and you’re so gone on him. How are you this gone on him?

“You do.” You assure him putting your head playfully against his. “Jesus, you do.”

“Will you do something that’ll make me happy?”

He eyed your mouth and without even mentally registered you worked to wet your lips.

“Of course.”

“Will you come drink with me? Need you to get on my level right now.”

Your hands mapped playfully at his broad chest as he seemed to rock you both back and forth on the dance floor as opposed to any sort of synchronized movement.

“How come?”

“Because I wanna have fun tonight. I want to have fun with you tonight. Please?”

Well when you put it like that?

“Tequila?” You grinned.

“Tequilla!”

What’s the worst that can happen?

*Three hours later*

“MY LONELINESS IS KILLING ME--”

“AND I!”

“I MUST CONFESS I STILL BELIEVE--”

“STILL BELIEVE!”

“WHEN YOU’RE NOT WITH MY I LOSE MY MIND”

“GIVE ME A SIIIIIIIIIIIIIGN! HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!”

You slapped your boyfriend’s ass in front of his entire family and all of his friends. His very rich, powerful friends.  Your boyfriend also very much bent over to receive the slap that you were administering. Tequila, friends.

“Babe, hear me out… I think we should go on tour together! We sound incredible.”

“Holy shit you’re right!”

You both bust out laughing because it’s clear that you sounded absolutely terrible. But, you’re drunk and happy and in love, so who gives a fuck? After karaoke time, you wind up back on the dance floor. Shawn is completely in his element, the big, goofy man you’d fallen for, and it’s so much fun. You’re not thinking about any one around you. Not the beautiful women, or the music executives, or the snapchat stories. It’s just the two of you, and some friends, and music. The way it should be.

It’s barely eleven o’clock when you’re both collapsed in one of the booths back away from all the commotion. Tequila really was a hell of a liquid, and probably should be kept far far away from people. It really made you do ridiculous things. Like straddle, your more than happy boyfriend in the middle of a public ass party. He grinned dopely at you and held you against him, his large hands grabbing wonderfully at your ass. What a shit show.

“Hey,” He sighed head flopping against your shoulder. “Thank you so much for coming with me tonight. I’m having so much fun.”

You giggled and kissed his forehead.

“Yea?”

“Yea….Look I--I always care what people think about me, and I always worry about everything around me but...when I’m with you I don’t care about any of that. So, I don’t care if I look dumb, just as long as I’m with you.”

“Well you don’t look dumb. You look happy. It’s a really good look for you. I just want you to be happy.”

“Then stay with me.” He mumbled pulling you even closer. “Stay.”

“Mkay.”

It wasn’t midnight yet, but you and Shawn worked on some fireworks of your own. It felt right to sit there, plum on his lap with his hands drawing circles into your back, or holding your face preciously in his hands to kiss you better. It felt less sloppily dunk, and more loving, more passionate. Like just being together was nourishing for the both of you. Like there was no reason to be partying when you could just be together instead.

When the clock strikes midnight you’re actually just tucked away in a corner, completely wrapped up in one another. If it’s any indication of how the new year will be, you can’t help but think maybe things will be alright after all.

*Shawn’s point of view*

The first day of the new year finds her in his bed and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. They’re less hungover than the first night they met, no vomiting to be had, so he can’t help but plaster himself against her body. She’s still naked from when they’d stumbled inside, drunk and hungry for each other. There’s a bloom of blues and purples on the side of her left breast and down the side of her stomach where he’d hadn’t been able to get enough. His mouth touches lightly at the skin watching her slowly wake up for him.

She hummed softly legs falling open for him to slide between. The skin of her stomach and thighs is so soft and smooth, his spine straightens when he slides against her.  She’s just staring at him with sleep and lust filled eyes. How is he already hard?

“Morning.” She whispered a smile touching her face.

“Happy new year.”

Her fingers grace his hip before wrapping firmly around his hard on, and it feels just as good as it always does.

“Hmmm, again?”

“Sorry.” He whined hips bucking into her hand. “I just can’t get enough of you. I’m not usually like this, I swear.”

“Are you apologizing for wanting to have sex with me?”

“No? Yes? Maybe? I cannot think straight when my dick is in your hand, woman.”

“Yea? Would putting it in my mouth help at all?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should definitely give it a try!”

She gives him head in a way he’s never had before. For something she claims not to love, it is truly magical the way she moves her lips. Her mouth is warm and wet and she sucks him firm and sloppy. And every now and again, she’ll touch a spot right beneath his balls that without fail always makes him nearly blow his load. It’s so rude. And so fucking good.

When she slides off with a squelching plop and peers up at him with spit glistened lips, his brain completely melts.

“I’m wet as hell right now. Get in me.”

He nearly tumbles out of the bed reaching for the condoms in the bedside table. It would’ve been almost embarrassing if not for the immediate dread that descends upon him when there is nothing in his bed side table but an empty box. Fuckin tequlia.

“Goddammit!”

Her legs came up to wrap around his hips and her tongue is tracing his nipple like she’s painting a fucking work of art and WHY ARE THERE NO CONDOMS?

“What’s wrong baby?

He groaned tossing the box to the other side of the bed and gripping firm at one of her thighs around him.

“We’re out of condoms.”

She sucks a mark into his left pec, teeth grazing his nipple again, as if he did not just tell her the worst news in the whole wide world.

“Baby, did you hear me?”

“Mhm. Let’s just do it without one.”

His eyes widened quickly leaning his body above her to see her face better.

She giggled. “I love it when you plank on top of me.”

“I’m sorry, did you just suggest we have sex without a condom? You? The sex health queen? You once yelled about contraception to a bunch of random people in the club.”

“Trust me they needed it. And whenever I’m with new partners I always use condoms. Always. However, I’m on the pill too, and at this point I think I know you don’t have anything, so...why not?”

“I...I’ve never done it without one before.”

“I hear it’s pretty great. But we might not ever know as my vagina gets a little dryer every second we sit here talking about it.”

He bit his lip, hips dipping to skim against hers.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m so sure,” She hummed. “Put it in me.”

His friends had told him stories. They were dumbass stories and he’d never quite believed them. Something about the pull out method and the fact that without the condom it was supposed to be this otherworldly experience. He thought they were just idiots who were too lazy and stupid to put a condom on. Honestly he’d probably still stand by that rational but… the moment he slips inside of her is maybe the greatest physical pleasure he’s ever known. And he’s got no fucking clue how to handle it.

“Holy fuck, y/n.” He whimpered face digging desperately into her neck. “It feels so good.”

She giggled, just simply giggled, but the way it moved her body had him clenching up and grabbing roughly at her hips.

“W--Wait don’t move! Goddamn.”

“Are you close right now?”

“Y/n...I have never been this close in my life.”

She laughs again and without any conscious understanding he covers her mouth with his hand.

“Baby you can’t laugh, I’m gonna cum.”

Her eyes widen and she clenches down on him and he’s pretty much done for then.

“I’m sorry!” She sighed as his hips stutter again. “I didn’t know you covering my mouth would get me going, although that is definitely something we should explore at some point.”

He clenched the blankets in his fist and tried to take deep breaths, but even the way she was blinking at him was hard to watch. He felt like a teenaged boy all over again, completely not in control of his own body. It was all her, and her glorious, magnificent body’s fault.

“Look it’s okay. Just take care of yourself right now. I can tell you need it. We can worry about me later.” She hummed.

He snorted. As fucking if.

His girlfriend was a woman of many needs. And as sweet as it was to think she might grant him an orgasm, he knew better than to ever not reciprocate. So, he did only what he could. He attempted to make her have a mind shattering orgasm in five minutes or less.

He gripped so tight at her hips that there were bound to be marks when he was done, hips shuffling around in small instances trying to locate her g-spot much earlier than he usually would. Similarly, her fingers held roughly at his ass guiding him where she needed him to go and singing his praises when he did. Usually their love making was a little gentler. He was really into passion and holding each other close and orgasms that had them crying out into each other’s mouths. This. This was different.

Even in a state that felt like he was constantly one thrust away from losing it, he still was so her centered. It wasn’t about him getting to “finally”  cum. It was about how good he could make her feel. And something about the time crunch meant he was more focused on her than ever. He just wanted her to feel the way that she made him feel.

When he finds that spot that has her toes curling against the back of his thighs, he grits his teeth and leans up to grab the headboard as he slams into her in a way he’s never done before.

“Holy fuck!” She gasped legs sprawling open in need. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”

He bit his lip in concentration, slotting his leg over her thigh for leverage and pushing deeper into her body. A shiver racked her entire being and it was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen. Her skin was flushed, lips swollen and wet, breasts bouncing with every slap of his hips against hers. He’d never wanted someone so much in his whole life.

She grabs at his ass again and lets out the most sinful sound when he rubs that spot inside of her that causes her back to arch out, and once again his whole fucking world is rocked.

“You’ve gotta cum for me.”  He grunted. “I need to see this pretty pussy cum; babe, please.”

“Close. Really fucking close. Make me cum!”

Like that’s not what he’d been trying to do the whole goddamn time.

There’s a moment where he releases the headboard and grabs at her ass instead, flesh spilling from his palms as he gives her everything that he has. There’s a noticeable difference. Her moans get higher and more fragmented. She breathes harder and faster. And then her eyes roll back in her head and she stops breathing all together as she squirts all over his dick and her thighs. And try as he might, which he didn’t, there was absolutely nothing he could do at the sight of that but pull out of her just as he came his fucking brains out. He collapsed beside her each of them limp, sweaty, and covered in each other’s bodily fluids.

For a while they just pant and stare at ceiling. He wonders if she’s as fucking mind blown as he is. He wonders if she’s ever squirted for anyone else before, because she’d certainly never done it for him. He also sort of wonders how soon before she’ll let him have a crack at it again, because holy shit.

“Yo….what the fuck was that?” She giggled finally breaking him out of his own thoughts.

He peers over at her and she’s smiling, and just like that he wants to cuddle her into the mattress and never let go. How?

“Did you….was that…?”

She bit her lip. “You made me squirt. No one’s ever done that before.”

“Yea?” He murmured trying not to show just how happy that made him.

“It didn’t like...you’re not grossed out by it are you? Cause that’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”

His eyes widened and he quickly shook his head at her.

“No. No, I’m not grossed out at all, babe. All I’ve been thinking about since you did it is how much I wanna make you do it again and again and again.”

She whined. “That’s so fucking hot. Get away from me.”

God he loved her.

When she eventually peels herself off the sheets and scratches at her sex-crazed hair, the bed almost feels emptier at the prospect that she might leave. There’s a small part of him that wants to pull her back, to be whiny and needy and desperate, maybe it’s bigger than he even wants to admit. But, he let’s her leave mostly because he still hadn’t regained all of the function in his body yet.

“I’m gonna make breakfast. You want?” She asked pulling an oversized sweater over her body when the fluids have been wiped away.

He nodded smiling softly. “Will you make those cinnamon swirl pancakes?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You always want the complicated shit. I’ll make you pancakes if you wash my hair for me in the shower.”

“How sweet of you to think I wouldn’t want to wash your hair anyway, but deal.”

She walked to the kitchen, her thighs--and the delightful little limp in her step--still a beautiful reminder of what they’d done just moments before. As soon as he regained feeling in his legs, he was going to go kiss that girl silly.

He was lying there still in eternal bliss when her scream came from the kitchen. And he tumbled out of bed yanking on boxers and grabbing the nearest weapon he could--one of his AMA awards--because surely someone was trying to break into his apartment with a scream like that. He slid into the kitchen on socked feet only to find his girlfriend staring at the TV with her hands over her mouth.

“Jesus, you almost gave me a heart attack!” He groaned setting his award down. “What is going on?”

She simply points at the screen as if that will tell him everything. And unfortunately it sort of does.

“Shawn Mendes and his new boo were seen very snuggled up at the popstar’s New Year’s Eve party. An eyewitness from the party says they were all over each other. And from the looks of these pictures, they definitely were!”

It’s a super intimate moment of them in the corner. She’s straddling his lap and he’s grabbing her ass in a way that has all of his media training running down the drain. E! News is doing their very best job in making sure their audience can see as much detail as possible. The zoom ins, the continue flash of picture after picture. Who ever had snapped the shots had obviously taken them with the intent to sell, because why are there so many fucking shots of one moment of the entire night?

There’s video of it. Of them kissing. Of her apparently groping him in a not so friendly manner. It’s a PR nightmare for sure. But then it only gets worse.

“Fans were incredibly surprised to find out teen heartthrob Mendes was dating someone not famous, and some were even further confused by the woman’s appearance.”

And then it starts. And they start rolling tweets of these “fan” accounts saying the most awful shit. It’s like her worst nightmare right there in front of her and it’s all his fucking fault because every account has some aspect of him attached to it. Whether it’s his face as their profile picture, or his name in some random order in their twitter handle, it all feels like him. Like he might as well be standing in front of her yelling these terrible things at her.

When Shawn start dating fat girls tho?

I’m so confused???????? Shawn deserves better!

Damn y’all Shawn really out here dating anyone. Maybe us ugly girls got a shot after all?

He can’t turn the fucking tv off fast enough. But she’s just standing there, frozen, like it’s still on. Like she can hear what every piece of shit on the internet had ever said about her. And honestly he knows the feeling. The first two or three years of his career had been hell on his self-esteem, if he’d ever really built one up at all. Every time someone called him a girl, or made fun of his braces, of his hair, or his acne, or his body. The shit ran deep. It cut deep. But, he signed up for that. She didn’t. And that was the difference.

He wraps his arms around her when the first teardrop falls from her eye to her lip. His throat feels like it’s full of cotton and he gulps desperately as her pain finds its way to his heart. She’s shaking. And she seems smaller than he’s ever seen her. Like she’s caving in on herself. And why wouldn’t she? It didn’t matter how strong you were, or how confident you were about yourself. When all of these strangers on the internet are telling you something completely different? It’s only a matter of time before that seeps into your conscious.

“I’m so sorry.” he whispered squeezing her tightly. “Please don’t cry, baby? Please?”

He tried to pull her face into his hands, but she just shook her head at him. She was in pain. And it was all his fault.

“I love you so much. That was all bullshit, you don’t need to listen to them. Just listen to me, right now. Please?” He chanted steadily. “I love you. You are so incredibly beautiful to me. And you know that. You know how beautiful you are period. You’re a complete and total badass!”

Her nose was red, and her whole face seemed to be warming by the minute. He was prepared to go all night. To rattle off every single thing in this world that he loved about her, and there were many. But then, out of nowhere she just...stopped. She bit her lip and took a deep breath, and the tears might as well have soaked into her skin. All of that emotion. Gone. It was maybe the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen her do.

“It’s fine.” She whispered, voice hoarse. “I uh...I need to go home for a little bit, okay? I just--I’ll make your pancakes later, I promise.”

“Y/n,” He mumbled reaching for her as she pulled away from him.

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. Hell, it barely reached her lips. it looked more like a grimace.

“It’s fine. Shawn, honest.”

“Why would you lie to me right now? Just let me help. Don’t close yourself off from me because of this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just need to go home for a little while.”

She stopped making eye contact, started gathering her stuff instead. And his heart breaks every time she picks a piece of herself up and tucks it a way. There’s a very scared, insecure part of his mind that wonders if she’ll ever come back. He was so far outside of his element and outside of his knowledge base, that he genuinely had no idea what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort her, he didn’t know what to say to make any of it better. And for that reason, he let her go, let her leave. No matter how much his body itched to hold her close.

He walked her to the door, his chest tightening with every step she put between them, and he tried one last time to get through to her.

“Will you please just...call me if I can help? If I can do anything. I--I can’t even begin to--I’m so sorry, y/n.”

She reached out to cup his cheek in her palm and he immediately fell into the warmth of her touch, gripped desperately at her wrist like it might somehow stop her from leaving him.

“It’s not your fault.” She whispered.

He bit his lip feeling the tears that were brimming angrily at the edge of his eyes.

“How come every time you tell me it’s not my fault, it feels like it is?” He chuckled dryly.

She doesn’t answer.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Can I at least hug you goodbye?”

She paused. “I don’t...I don’t really wanna be touched right now. If that’s okay?”

He’s never wanted to cry so much in his life.

“Y--Yea. No, of course. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

And then she’s gone and it’s like she took the sun, and the moon, and her touch, and everything else good with her too.

****

@shawnmendes: friendly reminder that if you’re saying terrible things about my loved ones, I don’t consider you a fan. At all.

His phone and email had been going off all morning, but he figures if he never leaves the gym, he never really has to answer them. His girlfriend hadn’t answered a single text in hours. If he wasn’t getting answers, neither was Andrew. The E! News story had gone somewhat viral and it was definitely a thing now. She was hurting, and despite her explicitly telling him it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t been able to rid the image of her face crumpling in the kitchen from his mind. He pushed the the incline on the treadmill up another level and adjusted his speed to make it harder, trying to fill his head with literally anything else but her suffering. He’d been down in the gym for two and a half hours and nothing was working. He just needed her.

His phone lit up and buzzed for the umpeenth time that morning only this time it was one of two people he’d actually answer for. He let the treadmill come to a grinding halt and picked the phone in his hand.

“Hey mum,” he panted. “Sorry! I’m at the gym.”

“Oh. Sorry to bother you, do you want me to call back later?”

“No. I uh--I’ve maybe overdone it a little bit today. I could use your voice in my head.”

The gym was completely empty so he didn’t feel so bad sliding himself down against one of the mirrored walls to talk to the only person who might be able to make it better somehow.

“Yea...Andrew called us today. Said he hasn’t been able to get a hold of you.”

He sighed. “Did he tell you why?”

“He did. How is she doing?”

The fact that she asked about his girlfriend made his mangled heart a little less damaged. His mum was just incredible in that way.

He pulled a little desperately at his sweaty hair and knew that he probably looked as defeated at he felt.

“She...I’ve never seen her look like that mum. She’s been so scared this whole time that people were gonna judge her, or think that we shouldn’t be together. And I kept spouting her this idealistic bullshit that no one would care, that it wouldn’t matter. It’s all my fault.” He muttered pinching his eyes shut as the tears came again.

“Oh Shawn you can’t take all that weight onto yourself, sweetheart. You only have power over yourself and over your actions. You don’t dictate how the world responds. It’s not your fault.”

He sniffled angrily. “But if I wasn’t who I was, she never would’ve looked like that. She never would’ve cried like that. I just wanna make her happy, but these people only want to hurt her because of me . . . Mum she wouldn’t even let me hug her this morning.”

His chin trembles a little bit and so he hides his face in his arm despite the fact that no one else is around.

“You and I both know that’s not what that was about.” She hummed softly. “Now listen to me. This morning was probably very hard for her, just as I imagine it was for you. And i think if you wanna be there for her right now, you’re gonna have to forgive yourself for whatever it is you think you did wrong. That pain that you’re feeling in this moment? The love that you have? That’s good, Shawn; that’s beautiful. Focus on that, not on what some box on the internet with your face attached said. That’s not you. The person with their heart on their sleeve is you.”

His mum was his rock. She had been his entire life, and a moment like that just solidified it. Sometimes when he’d been anxious when he was first starting out, she would just call him and talk to him until he could breathe normally again. And this felt like that. This felt like he was a little kid again just waiting for his parent to make it all okay again. The magical thing was that she actually did.

“She left this morning.” He murmured when he could find it within himself. “And I’ve wanted to go to her ever since. But I don’t...I don’t wanna make things worse than they already are.”

“I get that. Do you think she really wants the space?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I know every thought she’s ever had. Other times I think I’ve never known anything in my whole life.” He admits.

“Why don’t you go to her. Show that you’re there if she needs it. She’ll tell you what she wants. All you can do is respect that. I’ll tell Andrew to maybe take it easy on you today okay?”

“Okay.”

“In the meantime, I think he would appreciate it if you stepped away from social media until your head is clear.”

He snorted. Andrew was lucky the initial draft of him quoting a Brendon Urie tweet that had in so many words told everyone who was rude to his loved ones to fuck off, hadn’t made the cut.

“Yea I’ll make sure to do that. . . Thanks mum. I love you.” He breathed.

“I love you too darling. Come visit us when this all gets cleared up, eh?”

“We will.”

It’s a long trek back to his apartment. There was a strain in his thigh, that told him he’d over done it. He almost went straight to her door only to catch a whiff of himself and quickly steered his way back to his apartment. The washing is rushed and half hazard. All he wanted was to get back to her. To be there with her. Nothing else really mattered in that moment. Not the label. Not Andrew. Not twitter. And for maybe the first time in his whole entire career, not even the fans. He was really experiencing tunnel vision, and that meant something incredibly important to him, because never had he ever felt that way before. That she was everything. But, she was everything.

When he gets to her door, he freezes. Despite the soothing voice of his mother, there’s still so much uncertainty that it’s startling. He didn’t know what he would do if she asked him to go away. It had only been maybe four hours, but it had felt like days. Every moment that she was hurting and he wasn’t doing anything about it felt like his own personal failure. So he just had to try to give her everything that he could. She deserved that much of him.

He knocked hesitantly and waited with bated breath. It’s perhaps the longest wait of his life.

When the door opens, his eyes do their best to take in her every atom. Her eyes are still red. She’d been crying within the last hour at least. She’s wearing a hoodie he bought her when he’d left Toronto for too long to not bring a gift back, back when they still had zero clue what they were to each other. It’s fluffy and white and the sleeves of it seem to be drenched in tears if the malformations in the fabric are anything to go off of. The lights inside her apartment are off. She still smells like lavender and lime from the night before. She sorts of looks like hell, but even then hell had never looked so good. His whole body ached to move forward, to grab and hold and touch, but he remembered the last thing she said to him and knew that it wasn’t his place at that moment

“Hi.” she mumbled hoarsely. “You made it five whole hours.”

He twisted anxiously at the ring on his finger.

“I’ve been in the gym the whole time. My legs hurt very much.”

Her eyes do that thing where they sort of brighten at any sign of danger. Her eyes look him over for any sign that he might be hurt and he almost wants to laugh, or cry, because who the hell cares about him right now?

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Not really. Are you?”

“No.”

“Can I come in? I don’t need to be in the same room as you, if that’s not what you want right now. You don’t have to say a word to me at all I just….I just wanna be here. With you. Please?”

Her lip started to tremble and so she bit anxiously at it. She twisted at the door knob and blinked rapidly as her eyes welled up all over.

“Remember when I said I didn’t want to be touched?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

He doesn’t know how to quite describe the look on her face. It was like a crumpling. Like the skin of her face just caved and folded in on her self revealing this profound sadness that she’d been trying to lock away from him, from maybe herself. His heart broke like a scab bursting to let all of the pain and the ugly out again. She brought her hands up to cover her face and mumbled out through her sobs:

“Will you just hold me please?”

It’s the fastest he’s ever moved in his life, scooping her up in his arms that way. He exhaled this long, heady breath just feeling like he was sinking under the weight of her pain. She cried into his shoulder for a long while, so he cradled her there against his chest and just breathed. And he breathed and he breathed as if it might help anything, like it might get her to calm down.

When her sobs turned to hiccups he steered her gently in the direction of her bedroom pushing her softly beneath the covers. She liked to have as many blankets as humanly possible, and usually it had him sweating in the middle of the night, but for now there was no question. She stared at him with wide eyes when he didn’t immediately crawl in after her, so he reached for her hand and squeezed firmly.

“I’m just turning the aromatherapy on okay? I’ll be right back.”

It’s a little water diffuser that sits on top of her dresser. He’d gotten it for her for Christmas, when her old one broke. Eucalyptus quickly filled the air as he made his way back to her. They often times had tried to get as close as two humans physically could. Shawn liked to think they were sappy in that way, but today is a whole new level. He’s never held her so close. Never failed to see where his legs ended and hers began. Never intertwined their fingertips with such ferocity. But she needs him. And so he’s there. It’s just that simple.

“Will you do me a favor?”

He peered down at her, big brown eyes doing him in immediately.

“Anything.”

“Will you just sort of….smother me?”

“I’m sorry? N--No. No I am not going to smother you. I would never do anything to hurt you, ever.”

She snorted. “Not in a harmful, with a pillow kind of way, Shawn. Jesus! I meant more like in a  put all of your body weight on top of me until I feel like I’m rooted to this earth again, kind of smothering.”

They’d had conversations before. Usually when they were high. She would tell him about this concept of floating. It was a defense mechanism apparently. The body experiences trauma and so it sort of leaves itself. It shuts down to protect the brain, so that you don’t remember. She’d experienced that sometimes in her life, but she never really knew how to come out of it. Her body sometimes didn’t want to. So, when she asks him to help root her, he gets it immediately. And he feels like an ass for making it seem weird, or like something he shouldn’t have to do. Of course he’d root her to the bed, if that’s what she needed.

“Oh. Oh, of course. Yea just...just tell me if I’m doing it right okay?”

She nodded moving slowly to her back and parting her legs for him to slide between. He was nervous that his long awkward limbs would squish her. And he kept trying to find ways to settle against her without hurting her. Eventually she must’ve gotten tired of his bullshit, because she tugged at his shirt until he lost balance and toppled on top of her. Before he could even find it within himself to be terrified, she let out her first giggle since that morning.

“See that’s all I wanted.”

*five hours later*

“I wanna shower.”

It’s the first thing she’s said in hours and it startles him a little bit, but there’s no way in hell he’s ever gonna tell her no.

It surprised him that she asked him to follow, asked if he’d still wash her hair for her. She’s still quiet throughout most of the process, but it’s like she’s waking up, slowly.

The next time she speaks is when she’s sitting on her bed brushing through her hair to detangle the strands.

“I wanna get a piercing I think.”

He’d just pulled on his underwear, but quickly plopped down beside her on the bed.

“A piercing?”

“Yea. Would you go with me?”

“Of course I would. When do you wanna go?”

“Now. And can we get food afterwards?”

He peered at her for a second trying to understand exactly what was happening. Was it a coping mechanism? Was it her way of saying fuck you to everyone? Was she covering her emotions up again? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t help but remember his mum telling him that all he could do was be there for her if she needed and wanted it.

“Can I?” He murmured pulling her brush gently from her fingers and resuming in detangling the strands. “I wanna understand better about what’s going on here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just...You didn’t talk for hours, babe. Which is fine. I want you to do whatever you need right now, but then all of a sudden you’re up and moving and the first thing you wanna do is get a piercing? I feel like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle here. I just want to understand.”

Her fingers reached for the necklace at the base of her throat, and it made his heart feel warm to see the swallow there.

“I just need to not think for a while. And I thought this might be a way to do that.” She whispered. “I didn’t meant to scare you.”

“I’m not scared. I just want to be there for you. If you want to get a piercing, let’s go get a piercing.”

She smiled shyly and and tucked her head against his. “And food?”

“And food.”

So they do. He takes her to some random shop in Toronto. She spends a long time looking at different studs and different rings. She points them out and asks him what he thinks and even if they all sort of look similar to him he tries to find the differences that might make her happy. She picks out this pretty rose gold flower and this tiny hoop. Suddenly she’s getting her nose pierced and a forward helix on her ear. It’s kind of badass.

“Are you gonna get one?” She asked as they waited for a worker to become available.

His eyes widened. “Should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know...What would I get?”

“Hmm…”

And that’s how he ended up getting a piercing to make his girlfriend less sad.

“How does it look?” She asked wiggling her nose at him.

He grinned and ran his thumb gently along the bridge of her nose. They’d watched a Star is Born recently, and he kind of wanted to run his finger along her nose ever since. She closed her eyes and scrunched her nose and then whined when it hurt to do so. His heart fucking soared.

“You look adorable.” He murmured taking her face in his hands. “So pretty.”

She brought her hands up to cover his and smiled shyly at the ground.

“You sure you’re not just saying that?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

“Mkay….Now it’s your turn!”

It hurts like a bitch. She grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers, and he assured her he’d be fine, but like….fuck.

The worker goes to get them cleaning solution and she runs her finger gently along the length of his ear where the helix now sticks out.

“I’m gonna be completely and totally honest with you right now. This is really getting me going.”

He chuckled hand resting on her hip. “Really?”

“Like...really, really. You could totally pick me up at a bar right now.”

“Are you insinuating that before this piercing I couldn’t have picked you up? You’re literally my girlfriend.”

She shrugged. “Yea, but like before the piercing who knows if you would’ve had the guts to take me. And now it’s like...damn daddy. You know?”

“No. No I don’t know. But I have a feeling you and my fans would get along much better than you think.” He snorted.

Shit. It didn’t even hit him that what he was saying was wrong until her face dimmed again.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Babe, look at me; I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think. I need to think more.”

She was still wearing the sweater he bought her and pulled gently at the sleeves till they covered her hands. She shrugged gently and played with the fabric.

“No biggie. What am I supposed to ask you to never bring them up again, just because they think I’m some hideous, fat slob. They’re at least a third of the way right.”

The worker comes back before he can try to dissect what she just said there, and his phone is ringing, because the world hates him.

“It’s Andrew. I’ve been ignoring him all day.”

“Go, take it. I’ll finish up here.” She assured him.

He reached into his wallet and handed the woman his card, squeezing softly at his girlfriend’s hand when she protested about him paying. Suddenly his phone call was a little more important.

“Hey.” He breathed stepping outside into the cold air. “I’m sorry I went ghost. I just...It got bad.”

“Yea, I talked to Karen. She kind of filled me in. How’s she holding up?”

He looked back through the window of the shop and he racked his brain for a way to explain it.

“I--I think we’ll be okay. I don’t know, her coping mechanisms are much different than mine. She secludes where I just wanna talk about everything. So I’m just trying to understand. And trying to figure out how this isn’t my fault, I think.”

“Shawn--”

“I don’t really wanna discuss it right now. If that’s okay?” He mumbled.

Andrew laughed softly. “Kinda contradicts what you just said, now doesn’t it?”

“Yea. Yea, I guess maybe she’s rubbing off on me a little. But like...this isn’t about me, Andrew. It’s about her. And she’s hurting right now. So, it feels like I should be doing everything in my power to make sure that’s not the case anymore, ya know?”

“I understand. We can be okay with that. Do you want me to update you on what your schedule looks like in the next couple of weeks though?”

“Sure.”

She comes outside while Andrew is speaking and wraps her arms around him. He runs his fingers along the bridge of her nose again, and she smiles.

“I have you back in California next week to begin tour rehearsals and Grammy rehearsals.”

“Next week as in when?”

“As in Monday, bud.”

He looks into her eyes and shakes his head.

“Can we push it back?”

Andrew sighed. “Shawn. Grammys are really important here. Miley was prepared to begin on Monday.”

“I will call Miley and personally apologize. I’ll send some flowers or something. Please, push it back, Andrew.”

“What are you doing?” She whispered eyebrows hitching upward.

“I can try to get you there Friday, but that is the latest I can do. You have to be in California.”

He smiled at her and kissed her forehead, but didn’t answer.

“Friday. I can be there by Friday. Thank you. How long am I in California?”

There are fittings to be had. Photoshoots. Tour meetings. Sound checks. Studio sessions. Meetings with the label. Meetings with Andrew. Meetings with the merch people. Meetings with his stylist for tour outfits. And somehow he was gonna have to to make it all happen. It was just different now. She was different.

He made a promise to talk to Andrew later before quickly getting off the phone. He wrapped his arms tightly around her nuzzling their heads together.

“So, dinner? I guess we kind of missed breakfast and lunch.”

“Don’t do that. What did you just do right now?”

He shrugged. “I chose you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I decided that I wanted to prioritize our relationship over everything else. I decided that you mean more than the meetings or the flights, or the endorsements. You come first.”

She bit her lip. “Shawn you don’t need to do that for me. I know I lost my cool today, but I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

“It’s not just  for you, honey. I just...I’m just doing what my heart is telling me is right. And my heart is telling me that I’m supposed to be here, right now. Not California. Not in some rehearsal room. Not in a fancy music exec’s office. But with you. So let’s get some dinner, okay? And try to salvage what is left of this day.”

She looks up at him with inquisitive eyes like she’s trying to find a hidden meaning somewhere. But there isn’t one to be had. He simply loved her. That was all. It couldn’t get more honest than that.

“I don’t ever want to get in the way.” She murmured squeezing the fabric of his shirt between her fingers. “I want music to always be what you need it to be, Shawn. I--I’m just learning. I’m trying to mold myself to this life that you have here. And it is...really fucking hard if I’m being honest. And I get why. I knew going into this, that what I am might not make sense for you.”

“Don’t say that. You make all the sense in the world.” He told her fiercely. “I love you. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

She smiled sadly. “I think so. I want it to be so. But, I say all of that to say that...I wanna like, be a part of your life. And so I’ll figure out how to adjust. Just, please be patient with me. You don’t need to change your life for me.”

He let his fingers come up to skim along the length of her neck before he gripped softly at her cheek. Her hand came up to rest over his and all he wanted was to kiss her until the sun came up.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind. Just as long as you keep in my mind that I’ve never met anyone more deserving of changing life around for.”

“Okay.” She mumbled, the corners of her mouth dipping slightly up.

He smiled. “We should probably stop somewhere and get condoms too, because as beautiful as this morning was I’d like to last more than ten seconds with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Awww you lasted at least twenty, babe.”

Funny.

Taglist: @kitykatnumber @lou-and-me​ @ourlittleshawnie @mutuallynotmutual @wanderingmendes @peacedolantwins2 @chels-nyc @@illloveyouforever1​ @justbeingoceana @grittyisathot @hayyitsfayy​ @claredolphinbear24​  @september-lace @grittyathot @literallyshawn @mchutchmendes

[alphawave-writes]

Evil actions and good intentions final chapter: ‘Gravitationally locked’

Synopsis: In the aftermaths of the final battle, Harold reflects on the future of himself, Overwatch, and the world.

Read it here or find it on AO3. You can find me on twitter @alphawave13 or on my Sigrold discord server. 

It’s been a wild ride writing this. This story didn’t turn out the way I initially planned, but I think that’s a good thing. Change, I think, is the biggest thing about this story, especially in how Sigma and Harold grow as people. I’m probably gonna stick to one shots from now on while I recover from long fic fatigue. 

It really means the world to me that you guys supported me as much as you did throughout this journey. I got fanart, and more fanfics, and a Sigrold week, and a lot more smut than I expected, and I’m so glad I contributed as much as I did. It’s not goodbye, just a farewell for now. So thanks for reading, and thanks for all the space dads. In Harold Winston’s famous words: Never accept the world as it appears to be. Dare to see it for what it could be. 

-

For many different reasons Overwatch doesn’t put Harold on missions. His leg still needs time to heal, that is the most immediate excuse, but in truth the mission to Horizon had made some things complicated. Namely, the fact that Dr. Harold Winston is legally dead for the second time in a row. And honestly, Harold has had his fill of excitement for the time being. Action-packed fighting and running is all well and good, but he’s not built for it. Still, there's no way he can't be involved, so Winston convinces him to becomes a handler during the missions. If he’s honest with himself, he’s good at it. He keeps calm under pressure and he’s able to pick out the little details in the grainy surveillance data. Surveillance work like this isn’t too different from the work he did decades ago in Horizon. The difference is that it'll help the lives of many, rather than a few gorillas and some uptight Horizon scientists.

Siebren insists that being a handler is Harold's true calling, and he wants to agree, but he’s sure sooner or later he’ll feel that itch, that desire to help people more directly, to be there with the other Overwatch members in the thick of it. Until then, he’ll stay here and do what he's good at.

With a few exceptions, Siebren doesn’t go on missions either. He’s continuing his research into gravity and the nature of his powers, which has now expanded to include wormholes. Symmetra is helping him out on that matter in the hopes that perhaps his work could be incorporated into her hard light teleporter. It is a little bit of a shame he doesn’t go on more missions, because Harold always likes the way Siebren looks in his armour, especially the way that harness of his digs perfectly into his thighs. Then again, given the choice, he’d vastly prefer Siebren not wear his sexy armour and stick around the base. Who else is going to push his wheelchair and dote on him?

From the outside, there is the impression that Watchpoint: Gibraltar is having one of its slow days. An insider like Harold, however, knows that it’s never not busy. On his end alone, he’s been reading and re-reading his original research into his nanobots, searching for ways to improve the design. If he’s not doing that, he’s souping up his wheelchair with Torbjörn and Reinhardt to make it fly, and if he’s not doing that, he’s doing physical therapy with Mercy and Genji. And on the few instances he has free time, it’s usually spent with someone else. Often times it’s with Winston or Siebren. Occasionally it’s with Tracer or Mei or Sojourn.

Today, however, he’s expecting someone else. Someone he’s spent a lot of time tracking down and a lot more time convincing to come over.

At the edge of the base, a mech in the shape of a sphere rolls over, moving to a sudden stop in front of Harold. Siebren is holding onto the bars of Harold’s wheelchair, shaking his head incredulously while Winston laughs happily. The top of the mech pops open, revealing a large hamster wearing a small vest. The hamster waves.

“Hammond, it’s good to see you,” Winston says.

Hammond makes a series of squeaks. After seeing the blank stares from Harold and Siebren, he rolls his eyes audibly, and then punches something on the console of his mech. “THE HAMSTER IS HAPPY TO SEE YOU ALL TOO.”

Harold grins proudly. “I’ve heard you’ve been up to some trouble while I was gone.”

Hammond makes some discontent squeaks, eyebrows rising in surprise and shame. He crosses his arms and turns his head to the side with a huff.

“A pity," Harold smirks. "I’ve been looking forward to see what kind of trouble you can make with us. What do you say, little guy?”

Hamond makes a questioning squeak to Winston, who nods his head. His little cheeks bunches up into a wide smirk as he makes a series of confident squeaks. “THIS SMALL MAMMAL WILL SHOW YOU WHAT KIND OF TROUBLE HE CAN GET UP TO.”

Siebren is still shaking his head. "This little rascal is going to be the end of me."

Hammond proves himself to be a rebellious little creature, and has a lot of fun messing with others while he’s not in his mech. Aside from Siebren, Harold, and Winston, no one else seems to have caught on that the pilot of Wrecking Ball is a genetically enhanced hamster. When he’s not working on his mech, he revels in pranking the others. His favourite victim is Torbjörn, moving things around in his workplace and modifying his gadgets so they work differently. No one questions the strange ball mech becoming a new member of the reformed Overwatch, and no one ever asks about Wrecking Ball’s true identity. Soon, Hammond becomes a member of this strange interspecies family, albeit a rebellious one who very much doesn’t like to be showered with affection. In other words, typical behaviour not unlike that of a human teenager.

If Siebren has any opinions about suddenly being a father figure to a hamster and a gorilla, he doesn’t say anything. Privately, Harold thinks Siebren is beginning to like the strange new relationships he’s forming, not that he’d ever say it out loud.

-

Overwatch expands over time. New operatives from unlikely places arrives to join the fight. Hanzo, Genji’s brother, arrives to quiet fanfare, and keeps mostly to himself, taking his time to warm up to his new comrades and to his new life under Overwatch. Much louder and much more destructively is the arrival of Junkrat and Roadhog, whose explosive entrance made more than a few people question why Winston allowed the criminals to work under their banner, even if they were trying to go "legit". Symmetra and Mei were both especially vocal against Junkrat’s stay in particular, but while Mei continues to remain icy to the Junkers after their first meeting, Symmetra has slowly warmed up to the pair, to the surprise of everyone.

Orisa and her creator, Efi, both don’t show up in person as they are still protecting Numbani, but they are also made Overwatch agents through a long-distance call. Pharah pledges her allegiance and offers her support, but says she has an obligation to lead her own team in Helix first and foremost. Baptiste arrives suddenly one day with Sombra, making snide complaints about the lacking facilities like it’s an average day for them. Their reasons for joining are purposely vague whenever they’re questioned, and Harold suspects they’re ultimately self-serving, but they help with their respective talents and don’t push too many buttons.

One day, when he’s sure she’ll least expect it, Harold hands Sombra a framed photo. Her nose scrunches up.

“What’s this?” She asks.

“You asked me to get you some pictures. Turns out I had some photos in the data I retrieved up there. It’s old, but hey, you wanted a photo from space, right?”

For once, Sombra is silent, cradling the photograph gently like it’s made of the most fragile crystal. She observes the graininess of the photo, the pitch black of Space and the shimmering blue Earth, big and wide and beautiful.

Her lips thin. “I was joking, you know.”

“I know. But I found it, and you asked for it, so I thought, why not?”

Sombra smiles softly, a rare warm look that makes her look more youthful and vibrant. Like the flash of a camera, it's there for only a second before her warm smile turns into a colder smirk. “Things like this,” she waves the photo, “are why men like you get killed.”

Harold shrugs. “I came back from the dead twice now. And that's not counting all the other times I've nearly died in the past few months already. I almost used up all of my nine lives.”

Sombra snorts. “You’re not a cat. And this is a boring photo, you know. I’m not in it.”

“It’s a picture of the Earth. Everybody’s in it. Everyone's together.” He smiles. "That's the best thing about looking at Earth from the moon, I think."

Tracer will later ask Harold why Sombra is acting so nice for the rest of the day. For Sombra’s pride, he fakes ignorance. No one else needs to know.

-

As the nights grow longer, Harold finds himself retreating to his bedroom more often. Siebren is often there before him, helping Harold into bed before curling up next to him. He remembers those little moments in their past when they used to have playful arguments about who gets to be the little spoon. The good thing about being handicapped is that he gets first preference. Soon, warm, hairy arms surrounds his midsection, a hooked nose presses into his neck. A soft sigh breathes onto the sensitive flesh, making him shiver.

“Heard you had a fun day with Reinhardt,” Harold smirks.

“Don’t remind me,” Siebren groans. “My arm is sore from that arm-wrestling contest. Look at it.” He dangles it in front of Harold’s face. Harold lightly pushes it away.

“It’s your fault for accepting that challenge when Brigitte told you not to. She literally said that Reinhardt's super competitive and he doesn't hold back.”

“You say that after it is easier to look the cow in the ass,” Siebren mutters. “He was bragging to everybody about how he beat me so easily. It’s not my fault I do not regularly participate in such childish competitions of physical strength. If I used my powers, I could’ve won easily.”

“Sore loser.”

“Know-it-all.”

“Showoff.”

Siebren laughs. “Cute.”

“Handsome.” Harold chuckles when he lifts his arm, reaching behind to rub Siebren’s head. Siebren makes a sound in between a purr and a sigh, which makes Harold think of that time he worked with an animal shelter back when he was young and fresh out of university. Bony fingers crawl underneath his shirt, smoothing over his stomach. Harold can’t help but smile a little. “Siebren,” he warns.

“I’m not doing anything. Not tonight. I just want to feel you.”

Harold giggles incredulously. “You do realise what that sounds like in English, right?”

“You know what I mean,” Siebren scoffs. “I just…I need a reminder every now and then. To know you’re here. Even after everything we’ve gone through, you being by my side feels like a dream.”

“And what if it was? How’d you dream I’d end up here?”

“In my dreams, you wouldn’t end up here. We’d be together, have been together for a long time now.” Siebren smiles indulgently as he gazes up at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t have your accident, and neither would I. We’d be healthy and happy and content. We’d still be conducting research, but our progress will slow over time. We’d have a home somewhere far away from the hustle and bustle, with its own workspace for us to do any projects we so choose. Knowing you, you’d have convinced me to let us have a pet or two, or seven, or fifteen. I would not be surprised at all if our home turned into a literal zoo by this time.”

Harold giggles. It does sound like something he’d do.

Siebren continues, “I’d like to think we’d be married by that point. We’d have beautiful wedding rings and a photo album for the entire ceremony. I do not know if we’d have children—you care far too much about Winston and Hammond to not consider them as such—but I don’t think I would have disagreed if you desired to adopt or not. You would have worn me down by that point.”

“Funny how life goes,” Harold whispers. “Is that what you want?”

“Children? At my age? Absolutely not. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think that’s possible anymore if we take our current circumstances into consideration.”

“Not that. I’m talking about marriage.” He takes Siebren’s hand away from his stomach to the bed, entwining their fingers together. It’s impossibly warm and a bit sweaty. His eyes glance down to Siebren’s ring finger. “Given the chance, would you ever marry?”

Siebren gulps, trying to grasp the individual words—or perhaps even sentences—that came out of Harold’s mouth. His throat sounds dry. “I…m-marriage? It...it’s impossible, Harold. You’re legally dead for the second time in a row and I do not dare find out whether I'm officially alive or not. And even if we had rings and a ceremony and guests…” He trails off, no doubt fantasizing about what such a ceremony would be like. Harold tries to do the same, but can only imagine Winston in an ill-fitting tux and Hammond in a strangely fitted three piece suit. Suddenly, Siebren clears his throat loudly. “You and I, it’s…it’s not possible anymore.”

“I never said if it was possible now, or if it was with me. I’m saying, if you had the chance to marry anyone, and I mean anyone, right now, would you?”

Siebren slowly turns Harold to the other side so they’re facing each other. His smile is gentle and soft, in stark contrast to his sharp features. His piercing blue eyes look at Harold like he’s the most fascinating thing to ever exist in the world. Like he’s stardust, and complex mathematical equations, and the complete musical works of Erik Satie, and the secrets to gravity, all wrapped up with a bow on top.

Siebren smirks. “You already know the answer.”

Harold smiles bashfully. “You want to know my answer if you asked me that question?”

“No need,” Siebren chuckles. He presses a soft kiss to Harold’s jaw. “I know the answer to that too, my treasure.”

A nervous chuckle bubbles out of Harold's throat, a crimson blush overtaking his cheeks. His head is swimming and his body feels like Siebren's used his powers on him, making him drift higher and higher in the air. From anyone else it’s just a statement, but from Siebren that’s as good as a confession, a hidden promise of things to come or things he wishes would come. It’s hard trying to imagine how they’d be like if they were married because as beautiful as it might be, it doesn’t seem real. His reality is here with Overwatch, helping them travel across the globe to fight terrorists and save people. A peaceful life with Siebren by his side is out of his reach, not that he cares anymore. Reality is often better than fantasy, after all.

Siebren’s smiling at him. “You’re thinking again.”

Harold puts his hand on Siebren’s cheek. His eyes are focused on the space between their bodies. “Would you change anything about your life? Anything at all?”

Siebren’s lips fall as his gaze goes glassy. He thinks, seriously thinks, for several seconds. “There are things I wish did happen. I wished I didn’t lose my mind in my accident. I wish I didn’t have to hold the fragile pieces together. I wish I didn’t spend years mourning you when I thought you were dead. But I wouldn’t change anything. The law of entropy and the cosmic censorship hypothesis suggests that my current circumstances are the most optimal path my life could take.”

Harold smirks. “Just admit it. You like this, being the hero, saving people and fighting off the bad guys.”

Siebren rolls his eyes. “Perhaps I do.”

“Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive.” Harold quotes without thinking. “I wouldn’t change anything at all. If I did, I wouldn’t be alive. Literally and metaphorically.”

Siebren nods. “Dr Harold Winston is dead, just as Dr Siebren de Kuiper is dead. We’re different people, taking on their forms, living on with their faces but not their lives.” He runs his hand over Harold’s cheek, trailing over the catheter. “I’m Sigma, and you’re Charon. Let Dr Winston and Dr de Kuiper be the star-crossed lovers they were meant to be, up in the dark realms of space. Let us dare to see the world for what it could be.”

Harold smirks. “Should I call you Sigma now? Are you going to call me Harold?”

“I don’t care anymore. You should ask yourself those questions.”

“What, should I call myself Charon now?” Harold says incredulously.

“If you want to,” he replies. “You know who you are. And I can assure you, names do have power. Whatever you choose to call yourself, that will affect who you are and what you become.”

It’s easier said than done. It’s harder for him to let go of Harold. It is him, or at least a part of him, and it’s hard to think of himself as a different person or a different entity. He’s changed, he knew from the beginning that he has changed, but it wasn’t enough. That’s what he thought, but then it only takes a few little changes to become a different person. The man in front of him right now is a prime example of it. Is it possible that it applies to him as well? Can he be a different person, even when so much of him still feels like Harold?

Siebren is staring at him. “Well?”

Harold’s eyes lower. “Do you think I’ve changed enough?”

“What do you think?” Siebren asks.

For an instant Harold sees his reflection in Siebren’s glimmering eyes only to find himself staring at someone else. It’s not Harold Winston that Siebren stares so lovingly at. It’s a different person. A better person.

The corner of his lips quirks upwards. “You know what?" He says, "I think I finally have.”

-

The Orca drops down like butter in front of a desecrated Ayutthaya. The buildings that line the streets are old and crumbling and the streets are wide and filled with people. Stalls in the local market have been abandoned alongside the many vans and pick-up trucks. Many people are hiding in the ruins of the buildings. Others are trying to lead others to safety. In the distance, near the tourist traps and the temples stands a massive omnic, red lights scanning the horizon, hundreds of smaller omnics surrounding it.

The doors to the Orca open and four step out, the Overwatch emblem standing proud on their person. Tracer’s voice leaks through the comms.

“Alright chaps, we’ve got us a big ol’ Omnic. Government wants to preserve the temples so we gotta lead it away to the forest nearby. I’ll try and do it from the ship but you guys gotta be prepared to take this thing down yourselves.”

Sombra’s voice chirps in. “You know I could hack this thing, right?”

“So why aren’t you here?” Tracer grumbles.

“Ay, it's too hot there. You go have fun in Thailand."

Tracer’s eyeroll was practically audible. “You ready, Winston?”

“I’m ready.” He turns his head. “What about you, Hammond?”

“THE HAMSTER WANTS TO GET THE BALL ROLLING ALREADY.”

“Sigma?” Winston asks.

“Sigma present,” he declares.

“Charon?”

He fiddles with the ring on his hand, his eyes glancing at Sigma’s neck, where an identical ring rests on a simple chain necklace. It took a lot of people by surprise that morning, waking up to find the rings on their person, sipping coffee side by side. There was no grand ceremony, no big reveal. One day they were just two people. The next, they have decided to considered themselves married husbands. It's not official, and the rings are cheap and symbolic, but as long as they believe it, that's all he cares about.

It’s still a bit weird to consider Sigma his husband. Until that word doesn't taste so strange from his tongue, he'll say it again and again, and even when it does taste sweet, he'll say it some more. It's weird in so many ways, but it feels so right.

As perfectly right as being in this moment is, with his new found family, despite the danger.

“Charon here, ready and waiting for someone to get themselves injured.” He glances mischievously at Wrecking Ball.

“DIAGNOSIS: I PRESCRIBE YOU WITH WHINY [REDACTED] DISEASE.”

Charon smirks. “And here I thought I brought you up to be a polite little boy.”

“ANALYSIS: YOU MADE THIS SOFTWARE. CONCLUSION: DEAL WITH IT.”

“Settle down, you two,” Winston says. “We have a job to do. The world needs us heroes.”

Sigma scoffs lightly. “Do we count as heroes?”

"What, don't think we're heroes?" Charon asks.

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm just confirming how much collateral damage we obliged to make today," Sigma says.

Charon lets the back of his hand brush over Sigma's hand. This close, Harold can feel the strings of gravity tug at his fingertips, eager to pull him into its orbit. Inside his bloodstream, the nanobots activate, coursing through his body. He closes his eyes, savouring the sticky humid air and the thundering steps of the giant omnic and this feeling of completeness, being so close to his loved ones. He opens his eyes, dark brown irises flickering into gold. The last traces of Harold Winston leaves his body, and in his place Charon emerges.

By his side, everybody readies their weapons. With practiced hands he checks the jet injector and the backpack on his back filled with golden serum. He lets out a quiet gasp when he feels something grab onto his hand. Gloved fingers wrap around his, squeezing tightly before letting go. The man it belongs to nods his head towards the omnics and smiles. Are you ready? Sigma asks.

There's no doubt in his mind. Charon nods, smiling proudly. I'm ready. Silently, the four of them leave the ship and approach the Omnics, ready to fight and save the city.

He's dared to change himself for the better. Now, it's time for him to do the same for the world.

-

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about.

Haruki Murakami – ‘Kafka on the Shore’

[leahlisabeth]

The Shop Across the Street

This is my pinch hit for @icecream-is-an-ok-fruit for the @aftgexchange.  I went with the Minyard-Josten Rivalry with a Coffee Shop twist.  Hope you like it! Fic is under the cut.  Or read it on AO3!

Neil looked up as the bell in the entrance rang.  “Ugh, Kevin, you need to take the trash out again.”

“What?” Kevin popped out of the kitchen where he was plating up the premixed kale and arugula salads.  “I just took it out ten minutes...oh, hi Andrew,” he said as he caught sight of their newest customer.

“Kevin,” Andrew nodded.  “Cooked anything with flavour lately?”

“I’ll have you know that our chili chocolate granola bars have been selling very well,” Kevin practically yelled, eyebrows drawing down and sparks burning in his eyes.

“Oh yeah? I’ll buy one then,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes off Neil.

Neil didn’t break eye contact as he leaned down in the display case, pulled out one of their granola bars and put it on a plate for Andrew.  Andrew strode closer, set the plastic bag he was carrying on the counter and snatched the bar off the plate.  He held it out at arm length and crumbled it in his fist, spraying granola all over the floor, the counter, and Neil.

“It’s a little dry for my taste,” Andrew smirked.

“What did you come here for anyway?” Neil glared as he kept Kevin from leaping across the counter and throttling Andrew.

“Can’t a guy just pop over to bring a Christmas gift from my coffee shop to yours?”  Andrew opened the bag to reveal a white cake box.

“Is this meant to kill me quickly or slowly?” Neil asked.  “Did you use cyanide or just your normal levels of sugar and refined carbs?”

Andrew rolled his eyes and opened the cake box.  On the top, exquisitely done in modeling chocolate and icing was a tiny elf dressed in green with both middle fingers sticking up and a santa in his suit, turned around, bent over, and mooning everyone with the words “fuck you” written on the ass cheeks.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Neil said, putting his hand on top of Santa and pushing him down into the cake until it broke apart.  He put his hand to his mouth and licked the icing off his fingers, once again holding Andrew’s level gaze.  “Cloying and grainy, as usual.  And the almond extract is burning in the back of my throat.  If i ordered this in a restaurant, I would send it back.”

“They say Christmas is the time to share your true feelings.  I think this cake says it all,” Andrew replied, bowing deeply and turning to leave the coffee shop the same way he had come.

Neil turned to his customers, catching them putting their phones quickly out of sight.  “Kevin, trash that cake and post it on our instagram.  And I think it’s time to change the name of our hot chocolate.”

Neil took a break a few hours later, sitting in the back to escape the steady stream of customers there to try their new drink.  He looked at the shop’s instagram to see that Andrew was also marketing a new drink, a sweet caramel latte with a cinnamon sugar rim and an...anatomically detailed marshmallow floating on the top.  It was appropriately titled the “You First, Josten.”

Neil laughed, shaking his head and commenting a string of knife emojis below the photo.  Kevin pounded on the door yelling that they had another rush of customers and that Thea had to leave for a doctor’s appointment and there was no one to man the counter.  

Neil sighed and stood, tying on his apron once more.

By the time Allison and Matt showed up for their evening shift, Neil was half asleep on his feet.  Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that he had chosen to live on the opposite side of the city and not within running distance.

The lights were on in the living room and a delicious smell wafted to him in the entryway.  The cats greeted him at the door, mewing as if they hadn’t been fed in years.  Neil just rolled his eyes and headed toward the good smells.  The TV was on low playing one of those cooking competition shows that his partner insisted he hated but watched every episode of.  The coffee table was spread with Neil’s favourite chicken alfredo and garlic toast.  There was even a hastily thrown together Caesar salad on the table.

“You must have come home early today,” Neil commented, dropping tiredly onto the couch and propping his feet up in the other man’s lap.

“That’s disgusting,” Andrew said, engulfing Neil’s feet with his warm hands and beginning to work out the soreness from a long day standing.  “I guess people preferred the ‘Fuck Off, Minyard’ to the ‘You Too, Josten.’ We were slow and Renee had it handled.”

Neil groaned as Andrew found an especially sore spot in the arch of his foot.  “I thought for sure they’d be heading over to you to see how I’d retaliate.”

“Who can predict what the vultures will do?” Andrew said.  

“True,” Neil said, leaning over to serve himself some pasta.

They ate quietly for a while, the silence occasionally punctuated by a disgusted grunt from Andrew when one of the contestants did something particularly stupid.

Neil eventually set his plate on the coffee table and lay back, eyes closed.  He drifted for a while.

“I wonder what they’ll do when we come out,” he says, half to Andrew, half just musing out loud.

“Depends how we do it,” Andrew said, his hand tightening around Neil’s ankle and shaking just a little.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.  You can go on pretending to hate me forever if you want,” Neil said, afraid suddenly that he had assumed too much.

“I’m never pretending,” Andrew said, relaxing his grip on Neil’s ankle.  “I hate you with every fiber of my being.”

Neil looks at Andrew and he knows the look on his face is unbearably fond and Andrew is going to call him out on it in a moment.

He doesn’t.  “Have you thought about it? How you’d want to do it?” He asked, focusing his attention back on the TV.

“A few times,” Neil said, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.  His feet were cold.  “Maybe you could just come in some time and kiss me instead of flipping me off.”

“Or I could propose,” Andrew said quietly.

Neil laughed.  “We’d have to get a ring and everything.  Otherwise people wouldn’t believe us.”

Andrew fumbled at his side for a moment and tossed Neil a velvet covered box.  “What about this one?” he asked.

Neil opened the box to see a simple band of platinum with a stripe of jet black obsidian running down the center.  He was about to laugh again but he looked at Andrew again.

Andrew’s eyes were soft and his hands were shaking again.

“Andrew,” Neil breathed.  “Is this?...”

“Yes or No, Junkie?” Andrew’s voice broke on the ‘no.’

“Yes,” Neil said, gripping the box so tightly his knuckles went white.  “Always yes.”  He couldn’t think of a single time in his life that he had cried from happiness, but he tasted salt in the kiss that followed.

[sinsofafangirl]

Chapter Three.

"You're just a stupid little girl who has done nothing but ruin everything I've ever worked for - your father would be ashamed"

"I'm glad your father's dead, he doesn't have to see what a wretch and a cancer you've become"

"Police Academy?! Ha! Maybe I'll get lucky and someone sensible with half a brain will shoot you like your failure of a father"

Ava woke with a start, her body jolting upright, her eyes still heavy with sleep unable to focus on her unfamiliar surroundings as her heart pounded erratically and her chest heaved as she struggled to shake off the remnants of the all too familiar dream. Too caught up in regaining her composure she never noticed the bucket of water or the person throwing it until she was drenched and spluttering. Her hands came up to rub her eyes in an attempt to once again clear her vision before throwing a glare at the offending person "'bout time you woke up, almost thought you'd died and saved me a whole lotta trouble" a roll of her eyes indicated she'd heard him, she just refused to give him a reaction. Of fucking course it'd be Jacob Seed to get her wet in the frosty early morning air and not in the good way. "Fuck off, Seed" came her irked reply mentally slapping herself for actually responding to him "someone wake up on the wrong side of the cage this morning?" a question asked without an ounce of genuine care and a smirk so fraudulent it made her old Barbie dolls seem a hundred per cent real in comparison. Ava didn't reply and instead huffed in annoyance; she was exhausted and her entire body ached from having to sleep on the dirty floor all night so she was in no mood for being patronised by an asshole choosing to focus on trying to untangle the mess of brunette hair with nothing but her fingers - unsuccessfully I might add which only worsened her already sour mood. Refusing to give up her hands continued as best they could to untangle some of the easier knots and avoiding the still tender area of where she'd been struck a few hours earlier.

Cerulean blue eyes watched as she stubbornly refused to give up enjoying the small huffs of frustration he'd hear occasionally. If he was any sort of gentleman he'd offer her an extra set of hands but he found watching her struggle much more entertaining. Instead the former army marksman took the opportunity to study the young woman sitting awkwardly in his cage; always know your enemy he thought as his gaze wandered over her. Now that it was daytime he could get a good look at her; hair a chocolaty brown and even though it was currently a mess you could see she took care of it, she must have been about 5"2 and a hundred and five pounds if that which surprised him considering she put quite a bit of force into the kick to his face last night - not enough to hurt him too much but she still managed to draw blood. That didn't mean anything to him though, she was still weak and he looked forward to putting her through her paces and beyond but for now his studying continued now noting her eyes that were a sea green "you getting off on this, Seed?" then there was that mouth of hers always too quick with a smart remark and a sarcastic comment - that would soon change, he'd break that bad habit first. "You could have avoided all of this if you and your friends had just walked away" which was true but Ava wasn't about to admit that especially not to Jacob who currently sat upon a metal chair, his large arms folded across his chest whilst his legs stretched out before him crossing at his feet; dickhead came to mind as she finally gave up on trying to tame her unruly hair and turned her attention to the eldest of the three siblings. Easier to see him properly within the early morning rays of sunshine peeking through. The photos provided within the manila folder didn't give much detail; too grainy to actually make anything out but now in the morning light she noticed just how beautiful his eyes were and yes, she hated herself for admitting it and yes, she almost threw up in her mouth but she couldn't deny that they were strikingly beautiful and one of the first things she'd noticed. His scars and his burns weren't even on her radar as she casually studied him whilst his attention was momentarily elsewhere, of course they were noticeable and of course she was curious about them; how had he gotten such severe scarring? Did they bother him? Then she snorted realising what a stupid thought that was - it was Jacob Seed as if anything bothered him.

Her snort caught his attention and his eyes snapped back to her making her look away "somethin' funny?" completely ignoring his question Ava rose to her knees and shuffled until she was at the front of the cage "to answer your previous statement. If you and your freakshow of a family acted like decent human beings none of this would have happened" she spat venomously, her facial expression twisting into something that conveyed hatred. Within an instant Jacob's demeanor changed from one of mild amusement and boredom to that of white hot rage, his hands came up to slam on the bars of the cage as he shot forward making the young woman fall back in fear and shuffle as far back as possible - everyone knew not to slander his family in anyway but apparently Ava didn't get that memo and instantly regretted running her mouth as she saw the sheer anger in his glare and the way his hands gripped the bars hard enough to turn his knuckles white. She wasn't afraid to admit that she was terrified right now but her wide green eyes couldn't look away "don't ever talk ill of my family" his voice despite being low was filled with rage and a fierce protectiveness that almost sounded like a growl, it made a chill run down her spine. If making situations worse by running your mouth was an Olympic event Ava would get gold everytime, it was a talent and right now it was one she wished she never had.

His gaze lingered on her for a few more moments as if contemplating his next move and Ava just prayed to whatever higher power that existed that it didn't involve him opening the cage. Instead Jacob released his grip, stood swiftly from the chair and moved towards two of his Chosen; unable to hear what he was saying Ava closed her eyes and made a mental note not to mention his family again. When she reopened them she noticed Jacob had headed inside the Veterans Centre and the men he'd been talking to heading her way "time to get cleaned up little lady, brother Jacob's orders" cleaned up? Wonderful she thought knowing it wasn't about to be a warm bubble bath waiting for her. When she hadn't moved quickly enough the cage door was wrenched open and a dirty hand grasped her hair making Ava his in pain as he dragged her kicking and screaming across the compound "quite ya flappin' girly, it ain't doin' ya no good" she didn't listen and despite her ankle throbbing she managed to get a lucky hit on the shin of the second man who cursed loudly before regaining his composure and back handing her for the trouble making her head swing back, almost seeing stars from the impact.

Ava was thrown unceremoniously onto the hard floor of a dimly lit concrete room, her hands and knees stinging from taking the brunt of the impact, this made her glance over her shoulder and glare at her two 'knights in shining armour' but they'd already left leaving her to her own devices for the time being. Her mind wondered what their version of 'getting cleaned up' was because judging from the state of them and the smell she had to endure on the way over they hadn't bathed in quite some time; hypocrites.

Ava noticed the medium sized drainage hole in the middle of the room and the large hose pipe hanging neatly on the wall near the door but her muddled mind didn't put two and two together and paid no attention to it, instead she focused on the door and wondered if they'd been stupid enough to leave it unlocked. It couldn't possibly be that easy to get off here, right? As if she'd be able to just open the door and go? Seeing as she was cold, exhausted and hungry Ava didn't think she had much of a choice and even with a bad ankle she could suffer through the pain long enough to get away from this place.

Without hesitation she slowly pushed herself up off the unforgiving floor and hobbled towards the door; her ankle protesting every step she made but she wasn't about to let that stop her when her freedom was so close that she could almost taste it.

A shaky hand reached out towards the handle, her fingers brushing it gently but to her horror it moved and the door began to open making her recoil from the fiery haired brute who had just stepped inside "goin' somewhere, pup?" he asked, his face showed no emotion and neither did his voice which didn't bode well for the brunette now sat on the floor - the momentum of trying to move away quick enough meant she fell ass backwards and her ass had no padding so no doubt that would be yet another bruise for her.

"Strip" came his clipped demand, his gaze fixed and hard on the woman in front of him. His arms were folded across his chest again and Ava wondered if that was a natural stance for him or if it was to stop him from possibly murdering her. Her brows furrowed in confusion at his demand "what?" "you heard me, I said strip" again, his tone was short and clipped but that didn't stop Ava who scoffed and point blank refused. There was no way she was going to strip for him "and if I don't?" she asked raising an eyebrow as if to challenge him which with all things considered was probably pretty stupid on her part but up until this point her life had been a series of stupid events so why not continue?

It was then she realised her mistake and her eyes widened in absolute fear as Jacob stormed across the room and it was in that moment she saw that rage within his eyes from earlier and prayed that whatever death was coming it'd be quick. All of a sudden she found herself pinned to the cold, harsh floor with one of his hands around her throat, his grip hard enough to leave bruises whilst his other hand pinned both her wrist above her - she had nowhere to go because her legs were useless at this point and even they weren't she doubted she'd have enough strength to fend him off long enough to reach the door. His face was now right above hers, his breath hot on her face as she struggled to for air "you'll learn why I'm the best at what I do and you'll either play nice and fall in line remembering that you're nothin' more than meat that's expendable" as if to emphasize his point his grip around her throat became that much tighter that she'd started to squirm beneath him, panic mode had kicked in as her vision became cloudy. She truly thought she was about to die and in the back of her mind she found she was okay with that because that would mean she would finally meet her father. In her current situation she was completely powerless to stop him from choking the life out of her and snapping her neck like a twig but apparently he wasn't feeling that murderous today and released his grip just enough for her to gasp for air " - or you'll be culled, tied up and used as live target practice for my Chosen, so what will it be, princess?"

Ava gasped and spluttered again fighting for air unable to give him a physical answer Ava weakly nodded as much as his grip allowed making a cruel smirk replace the scowl he'd been wearing previously" good girl, you know what to do" within an instant he'd relinquished his grip on both her wrists and her throat and had returned to his previous position. His gaze hardened and cold as watched her pathetically regain her composure.

With no other option but to do as she was told the young brunette cautiously and fearfully began to slip out of her deputy uniform as shaking hands fumbled with zips, buckles and buttons. His never wavering gaze didn't help her much either and not knowing if he would strangle her again also didn't help but soon enough she'd managed to discard her uniform leaving her in nothing but her bra and underwear; surely I can keep these on, right? This made Ava look over towards him and in return he merely nodded making tears spring to her eyes as she tentatively reached for the clasp of her bra at the back to unhook it before letting it drop to the floor. Ava gulped down the feeling of nausea before scrunching her face in pain as she winced - her throat would be sore for a good while and no doubt the bruises he left will last weeks before they fade.

Refusing to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her cry, Ava thumbed the elastic of her underwear before tugging them down over her hips, thighs and legs before discarding them with the rest of her clothes. Every part of her was open to him, she felt extremely vulnerable wished she was anywhere but here. Her earlier bravado had been stripped from her and now she naked and exposed in front of him. A face full of cold, harsh water soon broke her train of thought as the force of the pressure slammed her against the nearest wall making her cry out but this only resulted in more coughing and spluttering from the woman. Not that she could see but she could already tell that her skin had probably turned a nice shade of red if pain was anything to go by.

No matter how hard she tried to cover herself from the onslaught of water it just never made a difference, instead she gave up and pressed herself against the cold wall waiting for it to be over.

After what felt like an eternity the water stopped and she was left sore, drenched and very, very cold if her shivering was anything to go by. It's the type of cold that works its way into your bones and then it's icy tendrils wrap itself around your core and you genuinely wonder if you'll ever feel warmth again. "Get dressed" a flurry of definitely used clothes that consisted of ratty dark jeans and a fade flannel shirt hit her but Ava was that cold she would have worn a garbage bag to get warm at this point so she hurriedly threw them on making a note of just how big they were on her, not that she was about to complain especially if it meant being stripped again.

By now Jacob stood in front of what he could only assume was a drowned rat, her hair now forcefully untangled hung dripping onto the flannel she wore as he grasped her jaw he noticed how she flinched but said nothing, his grip just hard enough to have her attention and possibly leave bruises "when you behave yourself you get privileges like clothes but if you keep running that mouth of yours and misbehaving those privileges get taken away and you'll get punished. I'm sure my men out there would love to see the sight that I just saw and I mean, who knows what would happen if I'm not around" his not so subtle threat was quickly understood; the possibility of getting raped wasn't something she wanted "have I made myself clear?" "y - yes" Jacob quirked an eyebrow and gripped her jaw that little bit harder; more bruises to add to the collection she thought as she painfully cleared her throat "y - yes, sir" her voice was hoarse and it hurt to talk but her answer seemed to satisfy him because relinquished his grip and strode to the door, an arm keeping it open as he glanced at the sorry state of a deputy.

"Time for your trainin', let's go, pup" Ava meekly nodded; too tired and too fearful at this point to put up a fight. Her stomach filled with dread as she made her way towards the door.

It couldn't get any worse, right?

[etherealblasphemy]

Light At The End Of The Tunnel

hmmm, real talk: I hate this chapter with a burning passion because it was so difficult to write, I scrapped what I wrote a camp ‘cause that was trash, and the only reason I bear with this chapter is because it has so many callbacks to past chapters  (one exact line is used in a different chapter, too, hint hint).

anywho, onto the story!

TW: Mild language, imprisonment, hallucinations, questioning of sanity (yeah, this one gets kind of dark)

    Dark. Cold. Dirty. Sore. Afraid. They didn’t know where they were. They didn’t know how they got there. They didn’t know how to get out. All they knew was pure, unadulterated terror.

   They rolled over on their side, clutching their head in pain as a dull pounding suddenly exploded into searing fire overtaking all senses. Whimpering, they gripped their wrists hard enough to leave bruises in an attempt to fight off the swelling nausea rising through their throat. Their breathing was erratic, audible inhales and exhales disrupting the eerie silence. It felt like their lungs were collapsing, like the walls were closing in around them, like they were drowning in their own panic, like they were going to die.

   Their vision was slowly clearing, forming walls out of death-mongering shadowmen and cell bars out of spears pointed at their throat. The panic didn’t- couldn’t- subside as they realized they were in a dungeon. Trapped. They ran through a list of enemies who would imprison them upon capture, and felt their heart sink into the deepest pits of Chaos, knowing that no matter who captured them, they all lead back to one person- Draven.

   Hard footsteps echoed down the hallway, cold and heartless. They held their breath, willing the slowing steps to hasten their pace and move on. Luck wasn’t on their side; the doom-filled echoes fell silent as a figure cloaked in darkness and deceit emerged in front of them.

   “It’s been a while, Pirate.” The deep, smug voice confirmed their fate.

   Through the panic, they spat out, “I have a name, Draven. It’s Calrex Going-To-Kick-Your-Ass Bennova.” The sharp, incredulous laugh that followed forced their sharp tongue to fall flat.

   “Oh, darling Calrex. I know who you are. For me not to know the being that is you, why, that is unacceptable!” They shivered as a breeze of unknown origin swept through the dingy cell, never breaking the gaze of the lying king. “I’ve waited a long time to be able to speak with you without having a knife at my throat.”

   They scoffed. “And why would that be?”

   Draven crouched down to be eye level with them, a small smirk on his lips as though he saw them as a child who didn’t fully comprehend what was happening. “You’re so naïve, aren’t you? You know nothing, yet you think you understand every single secret of the universe simply because it sings your praises. You, darling, are exactly what I need. You hold the secret. I know you do. And you’re going to give it to me, darling, because there’s no way out of here, and there never will be unless you give up what I most desire.”

   They could hear the fringes of paranoia and obsession borderlining on insanity in his voice. The false ruler had changed since their last encounter in the alley behind Sleeping Stars, even more so since he had first walked into their life. The Draven they knew, the one they could predict like the path of the stars across the heavens, was poised, calculated, and cold. This one was different. This one seemed in control, but was in reality feeling their grip come loose. This one seemed all but a puppet.

   And that hardly explained what he meant by “what he most desired.”

   Their silence was something Draven apparently didn’t want as a response. He grabbed their ankle by the cell bars and jerked them towards him as they yelped in pain, hot tears springing to their eyes. “Answer me, Blood of Calypso!”

   “What the fuck are you talking about?” they replied, their voice missing its usual edge. “What secret? And, the fuck you mean ‘the universe sings my praises’? Thanks to you, I can’t stay more than a week on a planet without someone recognizing me.” Once more, a bitter laugh sliced through the chilly dungeon air like a razor.

   “Stupid girl,” he hissed, digging his nails deeper into their skin as they cried out. “I’ll get the secret out of you one way or another.” With that, he turned on his heel, his cape swishing behind him, and stalked away, the tread of his feet nothing more than echoes of a bad dream. They drew their legs close to them, cradling the one Draven’s nails had sunk into as though he was a predator on the verge of making them their prey.

   At last, they were left alone in the cold, dark cell. Their eyes shot wide as their breath hitched. “Patton?” they called. “Anxiety? Logan? Roman?” The silence was their only constant. “Guys? Can anybody hear me?” Still no response. “Oh, Calypso, what has Draven done to you all?”

   Their eyes opened slowly, as if they didn’t want to confirm they were still here. More of their limbs were sore and covered in bruises from a night of unrest. They let their lids close for half a second, drinking in the peace of sleep before a cough from outside interrupted the slow pace of their heartbeat.

   “Unwanted One. I’d never expect to see you here, with all your talk of grandeur and bravery.” They froze, the shivers creeping down their spine not from the cold. Oh, Calypso above, they were screwed. They swallowed the bile rising in their throat.

   “And I’d never expect to see you anywhere, with all your stupidity,” they retorted, eyes gaining the jagged edge they were known for. Cato growled, slamming his open palms against the cell bars, sending vibrations through their new housing.

   “I wonder if Draven will let me cut out that ever-talking tongue of yours. I’m sure he would,” Cato laughed. They stilled, never to admit to anyone just how truly scared they were. “But that’s not why I’m here, of course. If I can figure out whatever you’re hiding, Draven says you can be my plaything when he’s through with you.”

   They felt their heart stop, breath quickening as they fought back the panic setting in. They had come so close to a year without any breakdowns. Old glimpses of an old life flashed through them, each one more nauseating than the last. An old friend whispered hellos, stroking at their mind with long, gnarled fingers that felt like moth balls and oblivion.

   “What’s wrong, Unwanted One? You seemed all too willing to talk earlier,” he mocked, reveling in their contorted face as they steadily lost the battle against their demons. They snarled at him as they hyperventilated, soft breaths audible in the unfriendly silence. “Will your friends make you talk?”

   Their head snapped up. “W-what are you talking about?” Cato’s cackle reverberated in the lonesome dungeon, foreshadowing the doom that was to come.

   He held up his hand, a grainy image appearing out of thin air like the holograms they had seen in Mericon. Their jaw dropped, their body convulsing as if they had been punched as they took in the image of their only friends, clutching each other as if whoever had taken the photo terrified them. Tears spilled down Patton’s face as Anxiety clutched a swelling bruise blooming across his left cheek. Logan’s eyes were blank, devoid of their usual mirth and good-natured sarcasm. Roman stared right into their eyes, wordlessly begging for help.

   “What have you done to them?!” they roared, launching themself at the cocky man behind the bars. “Don’t hurt them!” Cato merely chuckled, drawing away into the shadows.

   “We haven’t done anything just yet,” he told them. “And we won’t do anything, so long as you tell us exactly everything you know.” They stared at the man, bewildered.

   “Knowing you and Draven, you’ll turn your back on your promise and hurt them anyways. My mouth stays shut until you prove you aren’t hurting them and won’t hurt them if I tell you anything,” they snapped. Cato’s head tilted, the low torchlight giving his shadow the appearance of curved horns.

   “Too bad. We thought you would cooperate when the livelihoods of your friends are at stake.”

   Pain erupted at the base of their head and once more they slumped forward, eyes closing, unsure if they would ever open to see family and happiness again.

   They were suspended in the dark, groaning as they gained consciousness. The world around them was black as the void, no light to illuminate the shadows that could very well be nightmares. They forced themself to take deep breaths, easy and steady. They blinked, proving their dull eyes were open and not sewn shut like a doll cursed by the beast.

   Their eyes focused on a faraway patch of grey as it grew bigger and lighter, forming a little flickering flame approaching them. Against their will, their lungs took in a rush of air, disrupting the calm of their breathing, running it staccato.

   Fire spread through the darkness, an inferno of Chaos racing towards them as they flinched as sparks of white touched their skin. The fire, however, kept its distance from them, encircling them as though they were a noble at the stake. The flames came together, reaching up towards heaven, becoming a figure dancing in the dark like a ballerina.

   The figure turned its fiery head towards them, opening its mouth to swallow their misery whole.

   “Calrex…” it moaned. “Why did you leave us? Did your own parents not love you enough to make you stay?” The flames calmed, revealing a black-eyed woman underneath. They struggled against the lead in their limbs.

   “Mama?” The woman grinned, showing off bloodied teeth. “I didn’t leave you, I promise. I don’t- I don’t know what happened! I only remember the orphanage, I swear. Have you been alive this whole time?” They could feel tears pricking at the back of their eyes, even though they knew the woman they were talking with was not their mother.

   “Do you really believe that, you stupid child?” it mocked. “She hasn’t seen the sky in eons. I made sure of that.” They felt a scream of terror rip from their throat as the woman grew taller, distorting into a beast made of lunacy and pain. It seemed to rush at them; they flinched, shutting their eyes as they whimpered.

   “Oh, darling, darling, darling,” the beast said, its citrine eyes wide and always watching. “How can you expect to save anybody when you can’t even save yourself?” it asked.

   They opened their mouth to answer and found they didn’t know how to.

   “Just give up, and everything will be alright,” it promised. A tear slipped down their cheek and they fell limp. The fear was so overwhelming. “Go to sleep, and everything will be fine without you.” They sighed, blinking away tears as they let their eyes slip close. “They don’t need you.”

   They were back in the dark void as soon as they fell asleep the next night. Luckily, no-one had come to start discourse, though they felt the loneliness clawing at their back. They’d have to face it sometime.

   This time, they could move. They were on their knees, craning their neck to see if they could find anything to tell them where in Chaos they were. They heard footsteps and shut their eyes. They didn’t want to know what disillusion they would see this time.

   “Calrex.” They couldn’t help the sharp gasp that left them as they whipped their body around, tears springing to their eyes almost immediately as they saw the crew of the Sanders Yersinia. Their friends.

   “Guys,” they breathed in relief. “I thought Draven had done something awful to you. I’m- I’m so glad you’re okay.”

   “We know,” Logan snapped briskly. They furrowed their eyebrows, unsure if they had heard him correctly.

   “What do you mean, ‘we know?’”

   “You’re such a pathetic, spineless wimp it’s not hard to predict whose loyal bitch you’ll become next,” Anxiety spat, scoffing as he smirked, a hand on his hip. They nearly choked as they drew a breath, taken aback by his words.

   “Don’t worry, though,” Patton comforted in a voice that sounded sweet yet poisonous all the same, “we’re fine without you.” The image of them flickered for a fraction of a second, something eldritch replacing them for that moment.

   “What are you talking about?” they asked, the tears in their eyes no longer of relief.

   “You know what we’re talking about, Calrex,” Patton told them, his eyes cold and emotionless.

   “We’re simply projections of your mind,” Logan explained sullenly. “That said, we can only speak what you already know yourself.”

   “And when we say we’re fine without you,” Anxiety added.

   “It means you know you have no place our ranks,” Roman finished. “We’ve been travelling together for years now and we’ve been fine. So why should anything change when you decide to walk in our lives like it’s no big deal?” They clapped a hand over their mouth, muffling a whine.

   “You mean nothing to us, Cal.” They stared at Logan, refusing to believe his words. “So give up.”

   “Besides,” Roman interjected, “you’ll be doing us a favor.”

   “...what?”

   “You told us yourself, you’re the one Draven’s hunting down with, oh, what was it? Ah, yes. ‘Every resource he has.’ You’re a threat to us. Now that he has you, he’ll leave us alone. Isn’t that what you want? For us to be safe?”

   “Well- well, of course I want you guys to be safe, but…” They swallowed thickly. “...I don’t want to lose the only family I have…”

   Patton burst out laughing, shaking his head. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as he cackled. He stilled, standing suddenly, his eyes now golden. “Stupid child. You have no family. We’re certainly not it.” They choked back another sob.

   “If you really do love us, Calrex, you’ll stay far, far away, and give up. We don’t need you,” Anxiety assured them. A third sob wrangled its way out of their throat.

   The tears in their eyes overflowed, streaming down their face, leaving heartbreak and a headache as their friends faded away. They were all alone. Sob after sob bubbled up as they wallowed in despondency and despair. All they could do was whisper the myth of Calypso, and hope they would fall asleep soon.

   “Dear little Pirate, whatever has you so troubled?” They cringed at the sound of Draven’s voice, wiping away the dried tears on their face. “Could it be a nightmare?” They kept their mouth shut, clinging to the ratty blanket they had been given as if it was all they had left in their miserable life.

   “I wonder what your friends will think of you when they see you looking so glum?” A painful pang shot through their heart as they bit down on the blanket, determined to not cry.

    Still, they could help but voice the worry growing deep inside them. “What if they don’t come back?” they asked, quiet and meek and not at all what Draven had been expecting. As he recovered from shock, a grin full of nothing but wickedness spread across his face. “They’ve survived- fuck, they’ve thrived for years without me. I’m not important to them. I’m just a charity case, and a dangerous one at that. If they know what’s best for them, they’ll be clear across the universe while they still have the chance.”

   “Now, Calrex, do you really believe that?” Draven prodded, his voice full of glee and trickery. The Janus-faced king watched them carefully, analyzing what his next move should be.

   “What if they don’t come back?” they repeated, lying limp on the dirty stone floor of the Vasryian dungeon. “What if they don’t come back?”

   Draven’s smirk grew wider. They were ready.

   He led them through a torrent of passageways decked with long windows, the sunlight blinding them from days without any hope at all. “Just follow me, and everything will be alright,” he swore. They let him lead them like some stable horse, dazed and eyes unseeing.

   “Blood of Calypso, don’t His whispers conquer you. Stay strong, and prosper.” They inhaled audibly, turning around, expecting to see someone right behind them, whispering in their ear. There was nobody. They felt their mind break just a little more, unsure what was reality and what was a well-dressed lie. “Believe in your Generals. They’ll come.”

   They shook their head as Draven hurried them along. They reached a pair of grand, elaborately carved door; two guards standing sentry- they recognized them from the Treasury- opened the door to reveal a massive throne room, a rich red carpet leading to the ebony seat of power. As they passed by one of the guards, he took their hand, shaking it firmly.

   “It is an honor to meet you, Blood of Calypso.” They felt something in their hand as they pulled away. Draven took the lead once more as they blindly tailed after, discreetly unfolding the crumpled piece of paper.

   “Don’t let Draven’s lies get to you. Me, Dominic, and Jamahl can get you out of here,” it read. They froze, covering their tracks with a stumble as they shoved the scrap into their mouth, swallowing. Draven grumbled as he yanked them to the center of the room, where a circle had been drawn in chalk. Inside, a diamond had been traced, a perfectly straight line cutting it horizontally in half. At each point of the diamond, a golden candle had been placed and lit. Around the circumference of the chalk circle were meaningless squiggles they assumed translated into the Vasryian language.

   They slowed their pace as Draven began speaking. “Oh, you’ll be a most exquisite test subject. Terrence!” The guard who had shook their hand ran in, saluting as he stopped dead. “Go get the ragar,” he ordered. Their heart skipped a beat. Oh, Calypso, they were going to battle a monster to the death! Draven, meanwhile, hummed happily as his eyes met theirs “Stand in the center of the circle, darling.” They had no choice but to comply.

   They waited for the guard named Terrence to return. He came back, not dragging a beast with him, but holding a vial. Inside, clouds of yellow and green mixed together in some toxic fashion. They gulped.

   Terrence delivered the vial to the noble, backing away as quickly as was polite, shutting the doors behind him. Draven studied the gases inside for a long time, examining each and every inch of the glass bottle. His eyes glanced up at them, still as a statue in the circle. “Would you like to test it out, my little Pirate?” They sighed, thinking back to the nightmare reality that had confronted them the night before.

   “...If it means the safety of my friends… yes.” Draven smirked wickedly.

   “This ought to be interesting.” He turned the vial over in his palm, scrutinizing for one final moment before throwing it up in the air. They watched as it fell in slow motion, arching up from Draven’s outstretched hand, falling down towards them. They threw their hands above them as time sped up again, the bottle crashing on the floor.

   Nothing seemed to happen immediately. The gases leaked out of the broken vial, seeping into the air. It smelled like smoke. Still nothing happened.

   They relaxed their arms, staring down Draven as they sneezed twice. Their arms fell limp. Draven’s eyes bored into their soul, surveying them and the gases that seemed to disappear as soon as they reached the border of the circle. “Shall we test it out?” he asked, lowering himself onto the throne, crossing his legs nonchalantly. They tilted their head, their mind filling with haze.

   “What are you-” They sneezed again, relaxing further, as though they were a marionette controlled by strings.

   “Tell me what happened when you and my bastard nephew, and those… inferior creatures broke into the Treasury,” the disingenuous king demanded. Their mouth opened against their will. It was like they were seeing through someone else’s eyes, all but a spectator. They couldn’t control their body.

   “We broke in through the kitchen, and used the passageways behind the walls to get to the Treasury. We split up; I was alone, Patton and Logan went off; and Roman and Anxiety were together,” they said monotonously. Trapped inside their mind, they cursed, thinking ahead in the story. If they didn’t stop now, they would reveal the identities of the guards who had helped them. Who knew what Draven would do to them?

   “What happened next?”

   “I found strange stone that intrigued me. I ended up spending more time than necessary looking at it. Roman and Anxiety stole the Halo Sword, and we-” They were cut off by Draven’s furious roar.

   They were breathing heavily, trying their best to keep their mouth shut. They had to protect those guards. “They have the Halo Sword?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his perfect hair. “What else happened?”

   Their mouth opened, ready to give away the true identity of the three guards. I won’t let them get hurt. I won’t talk. I won’t talk. I won’t talk.

   “Answer me,” Draven ordered, his eyes full of rage. A bead of sweat made its way down their temple as they struggled to keep silent. “I said answer me!”

   I will not talk. I will not talk. I will not talk. They let out a cry as they fell to their knees, eyes glowing as silver as Calypo’s. “The beast does not control me!” they screamed, throwing their head towards the heavens as the walls shook.

   A blue beam of energy shot through one of the walls, ripping through a tapestry of the mendacious king and his citrine eyes. They lay on the floor, their lungs convulsing as spasms tore through their body. Stones began to fall, creating a gaping hole in the wall. Draven howled obscenities as he commanded the guards outside to help. They came in, running for them.

   “Run. Flee to Legion, on Honua. Find the one called Wonderling. You shall be safe,” they whispered to the guards in their daze, only half-aware of what was going on. The guard Terrence nodded, grabbing his friend and racing for the damaged wall, using the friendly fire to protect themselves from Draven.

   “I should have killed you in that putrid alley when I had the chance! At least then you’d rot with your kind!” he raged, stalking towards them, his cape fluttering wildly about. He hissed as his form slowly changed to that of a serpent looming over them. They blinked, and suddenly they were back in the orphanage all those years ago, terrified by their tormentors and Cato’s serpent form sliding towards them. Their eyes opened and they were back in the throne room.

   They curled in on themself, ready for all this to be over.

   Someone was shaking them, telling them everything was going to be okay, they just had to get on their feet and they’d be back on the ship in no time. They drowsily pushed themself off the ground as the person jerked them to them, pulling them out of reach of Draven’s lunge as he spat venom at them. “Let’s go, Cal.”

   They mindlessly followed the voice. “Mama?” they murmured. The person didn’t hear them.

   They were led onto the ramp of a ship as someone kept firing into the throne room. “Just follow my voice, Cal. That’s it. You’re going to be okay. Kiddos, let’s get this thing airborne!” Patton.

   Oh, Calypso, Patton. The thought of last night crowded their mind and they stopped, staring blankly at the floor. “Cal?” Patton was asking. “It’s alright, just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Good. You’re doing great, kiddo,” he instructed as they followed his directions. They were free of the fog and fear in their mind long enough to realize they were headed for the med bay.

   Patton unhesitantly unlocked the doors and ushered them to a nearby cot, where they all but collapsed on it, letting their eyes shut. They jacked their knees up against them, wincing as their sore muscles cried out in pain. Patton soothed them, sitting on the floor and holding their hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “It’s going to be okay, Cal. It’s going to be okay.”

   They felt the ship rock as it rose into the air. Patton gave them a small smile, reassuring them that everything was going to be okay. They let him believe it.

   As soon as they felt the ship level out, Roman’s voice came over the intercom, telling them he and the others would be there in a minute. True to his word, the doors opened half a minute later, Anxiety being the first one to rush through and go to Cal’s bedside and they curled in further on themself.

   “Cal. You’re- you’re okay, right?” he wheezed, panting. Roman appeared behind him, squeezing his shoulder comfortingly. “Draven didn’t hurt you?”

   They didn’t know how to explain what had happened. On one hand, they knew it had been nothing but an illusion, a hallucination, but on the other hand, it had been too real to be just a vision. There was truth in it, they believed. Logan took notice of their silence.

   “Calrex, are we behaving too overbearingly?” Their eyes widened, fearful, and they rapidly shook their head. “If you have any concerns, please, voice them.” Their eyes fluttered about like an ave, searching for the strength to tell them they had to leave or risk putting them in danger yet again. They were scared of the aftermath that would follow.

   “...I’m sorry,” they whispered, the back of their throat burning as bitter tears leaked from their multicolored eyes. The others pulled back in shock. “I saw the truth in the dungeon. You guys are fine without me.”

   The silence that followed was unbearable. “Calrex, what are you talking about?” Logan inquired incredulously. They shut their eyes, tiny tears escaping from underneath their lashes.

   They wanted to not say anything and just disappear, or perhaps sleep forever. But they at least owed their friends an answer. “I’m so sorry. I never should have stayed. I’ve only put you all in danger. I know you all hate me, so you don’t have to hide it. I’ll leave whenever you want me to, just like you told me to.” They focused on the floor, knowing their faces beheld unwanted pity.

   “Cal… do you really believe that?” Roman gently asked in disbelief.

   “...yes.”

   “Cal, you’re wrong. We love you very much; you’re like a sibling to me!” he said. “We rescued you because we care about you.”

   “I don’t know what Draven did to you,” Anxiety cut in, “but we’re going to fix it. We’re going to help you get better.”

   “Indeed. Though my word may not amount to much, being a robot that cannot replicate emotions and such, I do care for you, Calrex. These past few weeks have been extraordinary, thanks to you,” Logan added sincerely. All eyes turned to Patton, who was fighting back tears.

   “You’re like a child to me, Cal,” he began. “I love you so much, don’t ever forget that. I would do anything if it meant your safety.”

   “You’re lying,” they said weakly.

   “No, we’re not, and we’ll prove it to you. Every day, we’ll prove it until you believe that you, truly, are our best friend,” he finished.

   They wanted to believe him, they did, but this was something they had harbored since the beginning, only fully manifested by the loneliness of the dungeon. Patton, Anxiety, Logan, and Roman had nothing to prove to them, nothing to convince them of.

   “I promise you, Cal, we’re not leaving you,” Patton swore as they let out a sob.

   “That’s what Cassie said, and look where she is now!” they yelled as they threw the cot’s blanket over them, hoping to drown out the world that never stop kicking them into the mud, even when they had just regained their bearings. “Everyone always leaves me. Just go now. I’ll be doing you all a favor.”

   They felt the tears begin crawling down their face, silent and miserable. They heard footsteps leaving the room. There. They were leaving, just like they should. Their heart cracked just a little further.

   “It’s just you and me Cal. You can talk all you want.” A rush of air filled their lungs. Patton hadn’t left. There was still hope for them. “I’m not leaving you until you’re better, got that, kiddo?” He squeezed their hand once more, still cupped in his own. “It’s going to be okay. No matter how long it takes, me and the others will stick by your side. We’ll get through this, we just have to take it one step at a time.”

   They turned their head, able to see his sad smile from under the blanket. They dared to pull the blanket back from their head, offering Patton a ghost of a smile. He returned the smile, feeling his heart swell with hope. It was a start.

   “Remember, Cal, there’s always light at the end of the tunnel.”

yeeet

Thank you guys so much for taking the time out of your day to read Starbound! It means so much to me that people, if only a few, actually enjoy the trash I call my writing, haha.

This one was kind of dark, so the next one will be a bit of a breather (there’s still some plot, don’t worry). Luckily, this one’s already been written, as it’s been planned out for a while now. It might be up soon as Wednesday, but knowing me I’m going to forget to upload it. You won’t have to wait two weeks, though :)

Tag List woot woOT:

@asofterfan

@alix-the-skeleton

@hufflepuffsscrewdriver

@v-blue-writer

@sanderssidesstuff

thank you guys for reading!

[greekowl87]

Fic: Midnight Blues

Sequel to (Tried and True).  I am tempted to maybe do a small series with this for early MSR since I don’t feel like I write it enough. Anyways, enjoy. Post ‘Beyond the Sea’ and ‘Lazaurs’. Tagging @today-in-fic .

Scully was a forensic pathologist. She studied death. She examined, recorded, and cataloged it. She can give the dead voice. She spoke from beyond the grave when they no longer could. But experiencing death, on a personal level--well, nothing was easy about it. She had hoped her objective, rational scientific views would make the blows easier, waging a war against her own emotions that threatened to swallow her. So far, she had been winning but her defenses were waning.

The death of her father and seeing a vision of him right before the news of his death had been delivered. Jack coming back from the dead not as himself. They were still fresh on her mind, the barest disturbance sending pain through her inwardly. She had witnessed and experienced things she could not understand despite her attempts to explain it through science. Scully was beginning to have a lot of days like that, especially when it came down to working with Spooky Mulder. Except he wasn't spooky or weird. The more time she spent with him as her partner, the more he pushed and challenged her, the more she grew as a person. He respected her and treated her equally. The more she realized the rumors about Mulder were just that: rumors. But after the latest incident of Jack not claiming to be Jack, kidnapping her, that deranged woman, dying...she could not make head or tails of it. Jack's death and also ravaged her still healing grief of the loss of her father. Both weighed heavy on her like the cursed albatross around her neck.

So that Friday, when the clocked ticked to five o'clock on a Friday afternoon with the promise of a case-free three day weekend, Mulder perked up and smiled. "No cases, Scully and a three day weekend!"

"Huh?" She blinked and shifted her focus to him. "Oh yeah. Big plans, Mulder?"

He paused before answering her. Mulder had a lot of difficulties reading Scully. She kept her cards close to her chest and rarely let her emotions show except 'I'm fine, Mulder.' He had glimpsed at the woman named Dana Scully briefly when the FBI SWAT team stormed the building in her rescue but she was quick to recover. "You okay, Scully?"

She forced a smile that could have fooled almost everyone but him. He was slowly learning her tells. "I'm fine, Mulder. Just going to catch up some errands and work on a journal article. You know me, living it large."

Another thing that Mulder had noticed that Scully thought she hid from him was the dwindling social life that she used to have. He was not stupid. He heard things and he could make the connections. His late-night calls and dragging her across the country was beginning to take its toll. Only a month ago they were ready to kill each other over space worms on top of the world and somehow, someway, something shifted and sparked between them, a very primordial trust. Maybe it had been born the night she came to his hotel room in Bellefleur, but something had changed on top of the world and somehow, despite his crusade, she was becoming a very important aspect of his life.

"Nothing with your family?"

"I kind of wanna be left alone," she shrugged. Her blue eyes shifted towards her briefcase. "I have a lot to get done."

"I'm sure," he deadpanned.

"What about you?" There it was. That false cheerfulness.

"Oh you know, hanging out in chat rooms, talking conspiracies and what not."

Scully had finished packing her things. "Well, don't get into any trouble so I have to save your ass. I want a quiet weekend."

"Yes, ma'am." He gave her a playful smile and she returned it with a slight quirk of her lips. "Have a good weekend, Mulder."

"You too, Scully."

She took a deep breath, sighed, and walked out into the hallways, her heels clicking against the sterile floors, each one making Mulder wince as he could only imagine what was going on through Scully's head.

. . . .

Scully had sat in her car in the parking garage beneath the Hoover Building for a half hour trying to decide what to do. She watched random agents pass, even saw Mulder loosening his tie as he jogged to his car, and she sat there wandering her place in the universe. Etha left after her first case and the first late-night call. Probably for the best. After seeing Ellen at her son's birthday and Tom Colton being a prick, what had been her social network absolved into one person, not including herself. Although she was annoyed with the late night calls, she enjoyed them. She enjoyed verbally sparring with Mulder and how he saw her as an equal. She kind of wished that he would call her tonight but she told him not to. But what were the odds he would listen? Then again, he looked awfully happy. Maybe he had a date. She was aware of what the female agents and sectaries said about him. As she shook her head and pinched her nose, the grief came back as a tension headache, like a spike being drilled into her skull as punishment for her father's and Jack's death.

Fuck it. She needed to numb it. She needed to numb those threatening emotions that wanted to drown her. She was going to treat herself tonight.

. . . .

What many people did not know about Dana Scully is that she was a woman of simple taste. Her FBI persona screamed ice queen and her apartment declared itself worthy of a photo shoot in a home decor magazine. But deep down, she liked to be comfortable. Comfortable clothes, comfortable food, comfortable atmosphere.

After she left the Hoover building, she headed home to change into a pair of jeans and sweater. She grabbed her jacket and purse and left her phone. She drove to a dive bar at the other end of Washington near to Alexandria and let herself unwind. It started with a glass of cheap chardonnay in a wine glass that seemed to be made of plastic or cheap glass. She sipped it tentatively, trying to prolong the eventual buzz the alcohol would produce, but she grew hungry instead. Throwing her habit of eating healthy and dieting to the wind, she ordered a burger with onions, bacon, mushrooms, and cheese, and of course, onion rings, the obvious choice. As the bartender took her menu away, she chuckled to herself, imagining what Mulder would say if he could see her at this moment.

She took a deep breath and tried to visualize the moment. Her head was already lightheaded from the wine. The bar was smoky. She could smell someone smoking pot somewhere (those were the college days). The leather stool was too plump and made her feel like a child. She expanded her hands across the grainy, splintered wood of the bar trying to purposely get a splinter and forget at the same time. The grief was too much. To feel was too much. Maybe she should call Melissa tomorrow.

Suddenly there was a chuckle, loud and very familiar. She opened her eyes and clutched the short wine glass and bowed over her drink. She could not let Mulder see her like this, outside her armor and so exposed.

"Scully?"

Shit.

She closed her eyes and straightened her back as she felt a comforting hand graze her shoulder in greeting as he slid into the barstool next to her. She forced a smile and turned to him. Mulder smile faded as he read her face.

"You here with a date," he teased, knowing she was alone.

She swallowed and nodded curtly. "I was but he ran off. Some big meeting or something."

"Those can be annoying."

"They can." Silence ensued and she played with the wineglass uncertainly, fidgeting, something Mulder had never seen before. "I don't want to keep you from your friends."

"They'd understand."

"Mulder!" A short man with glasses called. "You coming, amigo?"

"Come on, Mulder!" A tall lanky man with blond hair and glasses added.

Scully closed her eyes and turned down her head, bowing as if in prayer. At that moment, Mulder still to this day does not know why felt bad...he felt sad...he felt the need to comfort his greenhorn partner who was supposed to spy on him but had, unknowingly, become his friend. She played with the wineglass. "I'm fine, Mulder. Really. Have fun. I'll see you Tuesday." He could hear how her voice strained to keep from breaking. "I'm fine. Really."

Mulder looked to Lone Gunmen and with a simple shake of his head and a frantic wave of his hand, they left grumbling. "You don't seem fine," he stated softly.

"Is that the profiler in you?" She gulped her wine and grimaced. "Am I that pathetic?"

"No," he spoke softly. "You're not."

He rose his hand and ordered a Shinerbock quietly. The bartender asked about food. "I already ordered," she supplied weakly. "A burger."

"You want to halves like we usually do?"

She nodded slightly, unable to keep her defenses from crumbling. Why was she acting like this? She kept quiet, trying to figure out how to regain control of her emotions in as Mulder ordered the fried veggies basket and cheese sticks for them. Why now, she pleaded, was she coming undone? The bartender passed him the beer and walked away. Mulder gazed at the tv, watching the late night basketball scores scroll across the screen. "This seems very unlike you."

She shrugged. "You get to see a side of me that no one usually does."

"Beneath the Ice Queen is a warm center?" She glared him in annoyance and he gave a warm smile. "Sorry but not sorry. It's nice to see you so..."

"Normal?" She sighed in exasperation and rolled her head. "I hate when people automatically assume that I don't have feelings."

"I didn't mean that, Scully."

"I know, Mulder." She sighed. "I just needed to mix things up."

"How so?"

"Are you asking as a shrink or my partner?"

"I'm asking as your friend."

The forbidden word slipped between them like a grain of sand in an hourglass. Insignificant but still so powerful. Scully gulped and cleared her throat. "We're friends?"

"I...I like to think so."

She nodded and focused on her wine. There was a long silence before she spoke again. "It's the deaths. My dad and Jack. I can't...I can't explain it, Mulder. I know I shouldn't feel guilty but I do. I feel like it is my fault." She finished the rest of her wine and Mulder grabbed her wrist lightly. "What?"

"For once, let go?"

"What is that suppose to mean?"

"Don't behind those walls I see every day," he spoke softly. Scully's eyes lingered on him cautiously. She had heard the same voice from on top of the world. "Come on, Scully. I can see every day how much it hurts you."

Fucking alien worms and the top of the world. Scully waved her hand and ordered a vodka soda with an orange slice. Mulder ordered himself a second beer. "You really want to hear what I have to say?"

"I'm better than a preacher," he told her, crossing his heart.

She bit her lip and suddenly just surrendered. She surrendered to her emotions and to feel. She submitted to being the perpetrator of her father and Jack's deaths. "It's my fault that my father and Jack died," she confessed softly. "If I had not joined the FBI my father would still be alive. If I had acted quicker Jack would still be alive." She snorted as her bartender brought her drink. "I'm supposed to be the brave daughter, the dutiful one. Dad had his hopes long ago that I was going to make the family proud and be a doctor at a famous hospital. I shattered him by joining the FBI. Jack. Oh, Jack, what false love." She downed her vodka in a few quick sips that left Mulder stunned. "I've always been attracted to powerful men. And with Jack...I don't know what I felt, Mulder, but I know it wasn't love. I never loved him." Scully had tears in her eyes. "It's my fault they died. If I had done something different, maybe they'd be alive. It's all my fault, Mulder, all of it."

It must have been the alcohol talking, Mulder mused because his Scully would never be this open. But he reached out and took her hand. When was the last time someone had touched her so...purposefully? Intimately? Would she trust him? Not emotionally of course. No, she had built stonewalls that no siege could penetrate around her inner self. However, underneath all that, the warmth between them. But at the base level, her hear knew. The warmth of his hand swallowing hers and vibrating through her entire being spurned a memory and she recalled being held on top of the world. That after everything, she could trust him.  Without thinking or control of herself, Scully threw herself uncharacteristically into his arms and cried. Mulder stood in shock, if he moved, something would go wrong. Not knowing what to do, he patted her shoulder and tried to speak soothingly. It was the briefest minute that seemed to last a lifetime. Quickly, as if coming out from under a spell, Scully reclaimed herself. She wiped her tears and looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry for my outburst," she eventually admitted as the bartender brought her a third drink, more vodka for the pain and for her embarrassment. She was averting her eyes, fixated on the gnarled wooden bar top. "It's not like me."

He reached out to reclaim her hand and squeezed it quickly, a sign of solidarity. As she shifted her gaze to their joined hands. Mulder coughed and quickly withdrew it in a weak attempt to hide a cough. "Scully, you're okay. What do you say? Stay here a little longer with me? I'm starving and haven't eaten dinner yet. We have all those food coming and I'd hate to waste it."

"I get first dibs on the cheese sticks," she mumbled.

"It wouldn't be right if you didn't."

About twenty minutes later as Mulder and Scully in silence, their food arrived. The scent of greasy and unhealthy foods mixed with the atmosphere of the dive bar caused Scully hummed appreciatively. Without thinking, Mulder plucked one of her onion rings. They continued to ear in silence as the clock ticked and Mulder could really study the rare relaxed and causal Scully.

"You want to talk about it?" Mulder pushed the cheese sticks towards her.

"Not really. I don't want to be reminded how depressing my life has become." She shrugged. She reached for a cheese stick, dipped it in marinara, and took a healthy bite. "Their deaths reminded me how alone I really am. My life is the work and that's it. No time for social lives or anything else. You remember when you were chasing the Jersey Devil and I was on that date? I was hoping that you would call so I could go away. I would rather go chasing monsters with you than some lousy date."

He weighed his words carefully unsure if it was the alcohol or her talking. "I...I know this has taken a lot from you, and I know you consider me a little arrogant."

She scoffed. "A little?"

He gave bet a boyish smile. "A lot." She finished her drink and ordered another one. "I just want you to know I appreciate you and everything you've done."

"What have you done with Mulder and who have you replaced him with?"

"Haha, very funny."

Mulder cut the greasy burger in half without asking and deposited part of it on his own plate. "You really went all out. Mushrooms, onions, bacon, and cheese? I should ask if aliens abducted you?" he chuckled.

Scully was just beginning to feel the warmth in her cheeks, knowing her pale face was already flushed. But sitting her with Mulder, some other warmth was working through her. The way Mulder just reached into her personal space without asking, how normal it felt. Maybe wasn't truly alone. "Do you know the probability of us both being replaced by aliens would be, Mulder? Besides, you know little green men don't exist," she dismissed, reaching for the ketchup.

Mulder paused and smiled slightly as Scully slipped into the comfortable thing they had, whatever it was. "Yes, well, if you are a replacement, your previous version at least knew how to share." He took some of her onion rings as well and pushed the fried veggie basket towards her. "I hope I didn't order this for nothing. You know I only eat the fried pickles."

She smiled softly and picked up a fried mushroom cap. She dipped it into the ranch sauce and took a bite, hissing slightly at how hot the food still was. He chuckled at her and she slapped his bicep. "So, did I steal you from those strange little people?"

"Hm? Oh, the Gunmen? No."

"The Gunmen? Are they a band or something?"

"Something like that," he smirked. He took a large bit of the burger and spoke while still chewing his food. "I'd much rather spend it with my partner anyway."

Scully was surprised by the admission and she knew he was telling the truth. She gave a knowing smile and looked down at her own food. It wasn't one of his late night calls that she got but this was so much better. He looked up to the TV and frowned. "I can't believe they're already talking shit about the Yankees and it isn't even spring training," he cried foul.

"You like baseball?" she asked, wondering what else she did not know about him.

He nodded and flashed her another smile (there are a lot those tonight) and she somehow knew they were just for her. "Yankees fan and Knicks fan are the main two. What about you, Scully?"

She shook her head slowly. "I really never had an interest or time to watch sports, Mulder."

"Really? Huh. Well, maybe we can go to Camden Yards and watch a game this spring." He shrugged absently. "Let's play twenty questions. You asked me one, I'll ask you. Who's your favorite author?"

She blushed and shoved an onion ring in her mouth to give her time to think. "Truman Capote," she said, still chewing the food. She swallowed the onion ring and smiled. "My turn."

. . . .

In a cab, she slept blissfully against him in thanks to the alcohol. It was two a.m. and in a rare change of routines for him. Friday nights, if he was not on a case, were either spent bullshitting with the Gunmen or drinking a local bar alone and passing out. But tonight...there must have been a blue moon or something. When he saw Scully sitting alone at the bar, he had been moved by pity. How many nights had he spent in the same position? So he went to check on her. Then he was moved to make her feel better. Caught between the guilty of death she should not carry and loneliness, he stayed with her. Something must have changed in the few short months between them that he couldn't explain. But he ended up staying, splitting dinner, talking and laughing, learning things about the small redhead agent that was sent to spy on him who he, at the end of this night, considered a likely friend and guaranteed ally in his quest. She only sought to help him and he would return the favor however he could. Right now, that was being the pillow to his drunk and passed out partner.

She murmured something and snuggled against his side as the cab slowed to a stop outside her Georgetown apartment. Mulder quietly paid the cabbie, ignoring the smirkful glares and got out of the car first. He did not have the heart of wake her so he fished for her keys and grasped them lightly in his hand as he bent back into the cab and lifted her easily. She really was small, he smiled slightly. Carefully he maneuvered her up the wake way and down the hall to her apartment. He unlocked the door with some difficult and closed the door with his foot.

Unsure of what to do and spying a blanket on the back of her couch, Mulder carried her into her bedroom and lay her on the bed. This was completely unknown territory for him and also very out of character, but somehow, she was bringing things out in him that he thought he no longer had. He strolled out into the living room, grabbed the blanket, and draped it over her. She murmured something in her sleep and he smiled. Taking a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, his fingers lightly traced the shape of her cheek, and he smiled.

She murmured something, waking up in a haze. The darkness hid their faces but she somehow knew it was him. "Mmph. Where are we?"

"At your apartment," Mulder spoke in a low voice. Scully closed her eyes, remembering when he held her at the Icy Cape and how his chest rumbled when he spoke like that to her. She let the memory wash over her like a wave. "I'm going home. Call me in the morning okay?"

"Mm 'kay," she yawned. "Mulder?"

"Yeah, Scully?"

"Thank you. For everything tonight."

"It's nothing, Scully."

"To me it is." She yawned again. "Not alone. Got you."

"You're talking nonsense."

"'M smarter than you. Know what I'm talking about." She blindly groped for his hand and gave it a quick, light squeeze. "Take my apartment key. I have a copy. Meant to give that to you last week."

Mulder was touched by the additional gateway into her personal space. "Okay. Call me tomorrow when you wake up to let me know you're okay. I'll have a copy of my key for you, Monday."

She nodded. "Call you. Got it." He hesitantly reached for her face again and gently traced her cheek before getting up. "Thanks, Muler. Still got you."

"Always, Scully," he spoke softly. He bowed his head and smiled slightly. Quietly, he left the bedroom door and shut the door behind him.

[thatbluegibson]

CH 41

“If it were any warmer, this would be Malibu,” Dave bent to pick up a shell at his feet before looking it over and handing it to Liz.

“What a fresh hell that would be,” she scrunched up her nose and looked down the beach, counting just a few other people with their dogs on the mile long stretch of sand. They were completely alone at the far sound end of the cape and a mild breeze came in off the waves, but it was warm enough to walk barefoot in the sand. Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she pulled it free.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he would go straight to the bar.

She sighed and tapped out a reply to Travis.

It’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting him. We’re cool.

Liz put her phone in her sweatshirt pocket when Dave bumped his shoulder into hers. “Travis says he’s sorry,” she said.

Dave shrugged and looked over her head to the rock sea wall behind her. “If you weren’t in any danger then he has nothing to be sorry for, right? Isn’t that all he signed up for?”

Liz was surprised he understood the situation so well when she barely grasped it herself, “Are you my voice of reason now?”

“I’m just saying that if you have that reaction every time you’re around the guy you’re supposed to be co-parenting with, I’m going to die an early death. A very happy early death, but early all the same.”

She flipped the shell he had given her around her fingers, smiling at his words. “I just wasn’t prepared for it,” she muttered. It wasn’t the sight of Kyle that freaked her out as much as it was him seeing her with Dave. She wasn’t ready to have the ‘who is he to you’ conversation with someone she had been devoted to for an entire decade and she wasn’t even sure what Dave was to her. After the night before, she felt like they had evolved into something more than whatever it was they had in LA, but it had been so long since she had dated that she wasn’t sure what exactly it was. On top of all that, she didn’t know how Kyle would react to her moving on. It had always been Kyle leaving her for someone else that inevitably lasted a couple weeks, maybe a month before he came back and she stupidly let him back in. And Kyle had a bit of a temper when he felt threatened which Liz was really trying to avoid. 

“Is that a ship wreck?”

Dave’s question pulled Liz from her thoughts and she looked up as they approached a point in the cape that reached out into the sea making a natural sea wall between two beaches. The tide was receding, revealing several blackened tree stumps in the water.  

“That’s the ghost forest. We only get to see it when a bad storm comes through,” she turned back to the rock point and looked for any signs of storm damage.

“A shipwreck would have been cooler,” Dave replied, turning away from the waves to put his arms around Liz.

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, “Those tree stumps are 4,000 years old! There’s a wreck just north of here, but a storm is coming.”

Dave looked out to the clear, bright horizon, “I think whoever predicts the weather smokes far too much weed.”

“Give me his number so I can send him some product,” Liz mumbled into his sweatshirt before looking up at him, “For real, we should head back.”

*

“How the hell did you know a storm was coming?” Dave yelled over the wind as they ran up the steps to her house.

She unlocked the door and hurried inside, rain dripping from her clothes as she flipped on the gas fireplace. “My collarbone was screaming at me,” she grimaced, rubbing her shoulder a bit. “Doesn’t your leg hurt when the weather is about to change?”

“I guess it hurts a little, but I figured it was from walking, you weirdo,” he peeled off his soaked sweatshirt, giving her a quizzical look.

“I was told it’s something to do with the pressure in the air, but I like to think that the guy that my bone graft came from was a meteorologist,” she laughed a little and jumped when large gust of wind crashed against the house.

“You have a dead guy’s bone in your body?”

“That’s what she said,” she grinned and grabbed his sweatshirt from him, crossing the tile floor to the hallway that the laundry room was in.

Twenty minutes later they were bundled into her bed in their underwear, listening to the wind and rain outside while Dave flipped through the channels on the TV.

“Ugh,” Liz grumbled as her face briefly flashed across the screen.

“Ooo what does the outer world have to say about you today?” Dave teased, flipping the channel back. She lunged for the remote, but he held it above his head and out of her reach as video clips of Liz on various red carpets and in interviews played in rapid succession.

After finalizing her divorce in May of last year, she was seen cozying up with several different men throughout the summer…

“Slut,” Liz grumbled sarcastically as a series of candid photos of her in various social situations vaguely near another famous human male appeared.

Ben Affleck

“Producer of the last movie I was in and also, no thank you,” she shook her head, annoyed.

Chris Pratt

“I buy beef from his ranch... not a euphemism.”

Jason Momoa

“Fuck, I wish,” Liz laughed when Dave glared at her.

Aaron Rodgers

“He bought me a drink and I told him Russell Wilson is my favorite quarterback.”

Valentino Rossi

“His interpreter didn’t believe me when I said I ride and I almost fought him.”

The pictures then changed from candids to two separate photos stitched together and Liz rolled her eyes, “Now they’re just grasping.”

Leonardo DiCaprio

“I’ve literally never even met that man.”

Harry Styles

“I… don’t know who that is.”

Pictures of Liz and Johnny at their many Disney premieres scrolled by.

But the actor and sometimes rocker that claimed most of her attention last summer seems to have fallen out of favor for a different rock star…

A grainy cell phone shot of Liz and Josie staring up at the stage at Dave’s show appeared, then immediately changed to a blaring commercial. Liz looked up at Dave, but his eyes were glued to the screen.

“And here I thought my only competition was Radar,” he muttered, flopping back against the headboard.

“Please tell me you don’t honestly believe that dumpster fire of a show,” Liz said, sitting up on her knees beside him.

Dave just shook his head, but he was beginning to fully understand what Taylor had meant about the unwanted media attention. She was a big deal right now, one of the most sought after celebrities and her disappearing from LA the week before the fucking Oscars only made the media more blood thirsty. It wouldn’t be long before they were pounding on his door asking about her.

“That,” Liz jabbed a finger towards the flat screen mounted on her bedroom wall, “is not me. That’s not anybody. They have twenty four hours of air time to fill so they make shit up.”

“I know.”

“So stop looking at me like that.”

He again remained silent as the commercials ended and Liz’s picture popped back up on the screen.

… Colbert seemingly left the Hollywood rebel in the dust while falling into the arms of the ‘Nicest Guy in Rock’

A picture of Liz and Depp on set gave way to a closely cropped version of the picture of Dave and Liz in the hotel lobby before Liz gently took the remote from Dave’s hand.

No sightings of Colbert as Oscar week heats up and sources say she’s hiding out to prepare for her next big role which is already generating Oscar buzz for next year. Here’s hoping the Best Actress favorite appears before they announce her name on the big night.

“I’m quitting the industry,” she said quietly, pressing the mute button.

Dave felt his heart skip a little, “What? Why?”

“I hate it. I hate that,” Liz tilted her head towards the TV, now displaying paparazzi shots of Dave and Liz leaving the show on Saturday, her neck still streaked with red scratches. “I like acting, but it’s not worth it.”

“What about all the projects you have coming up?”

“Most of them are so far out that I can bail without legal consequences, but I have hard commitments to the next three films.”

“And how long will that take?”

“At least a year and a half,” she sighed, leaning back against the headboard next to him. 

“Principle photography starts in London in three weeks on the first one, the other two are in Vancouver.” She looked over at him when he remained silent. “And you? Any big plans?”

“Just my usual post-album depressive state. Taylor, Chris and Nate have other projects lined up, so we’re on hiatus for a bit.”

“You’re breaking my little fan girl heart, Dave,” she cried, clutching her chest with a smile. 

“It’s fine. I’ll take the girls to Disneyland every other day and pretend like it isn’t eating my soul from the inside out.”

“Hey, those soul sucking Disney trips paid for this house!” Liz laughed. She was happy to change the subject, but didn’t like where this was headed. 

Dave looked down at the sheets between them. “I’ll probably write, maybe call Josh and Jones to do something,” he shrugged.

“Dave,” Liz said, suddenly serious, “Are you telling me you’re making another Vulture’s album?”

He looked over at her, a shadow of a smile on his face, “You’ll have to force that one out of me.”

Liz narrowed her eyes at him, “Challenge accepted.” She slid off the bed and disappeared in the walk in closet, returning a moment later and tossing a small bag and lighter onto the sheets next to Dave.

He picked it up and suspiciously eyed the professional packaging, “Selkirk Cannabis Company.”

 She climbed back into bed and sat across from him, taking the bag from his hands and tearing it open. “This is a late season harvest,” she mumbled, slipping the joint between her lips and lighting it. She inhaled slowly before handing it back to Dave.

He stared at it for a moment before laughing a little, “The last time I smoked, Taylor fucking Swift had to come save my ass.”

Liz exhaled sharply with a smile before taking the joint back from him. “I heard about that,” she mumbled, her voice a little raspy from the smoke and crawled up the bed until she was inches from his face. “She’s a customer of mine,” she said, slipping her arm around his neck and taking another long drag.

“She smoked out Bieber that night,” Dave replied distractedly, his eyes focused on her lips. He was fascinated with how she could go from adorable to seductive so quickly.

Liz smiled and dipped her head, shotgunning her drag to Dave. He pulled her closer as soon as their lips met, running his hands up the backs of her thighs.

“I can almost guarantee it was my weed she did it with,” Liz said when she pulled away, smiling when Dave took the joint from her hand.

He took another drag, tasting her vanilla chapstick on the paper and leaned back against the headboard, “So how does one grow good weed?”

Liz shrugged. “Years of trial and error, I guess. It all comes down to sex.”

Dave’s eyebrows shot up and he coughed a little, “What?”

“Female plants produce the bud and what they want is a male plant to send them some pollen, so they produce more sticky resin to try and capture any that might be floating through the air.”

“O… kay?” Dave took another drag, trying to follow along.

“So I did a little experiment in college and found out that if you have a male plant nearby, but not close enough to pollinate, the female plant goes crazy and produces more and more resin. Therefore, sexual frustration equals great product.”

“Very scientific,” he replied, already feeling his head swimming a little.

“If you call a bunch of broke and stoned college kids scientific,” she laughed, watching his eyes close just slightly. “You ready to tell me about that album yet?”

“I’m not saying a word,” he laughed.

“Oh, no?” Liz smiled and took the joint from his hand, leaning over to set it on a glass tray on the nightstand before reaching back and unsnapping her bra. She slowly pulled the straps off her arms, holding the fabric to her chest to keep it from falling, “How about now?”

He grinned and shook his head slowly, relaxing back into the bed. His smile faded as she tossed her bra aside and his hands shot up to touch her, but she grabbed his wrists to stop him. Her slow smile returned and she kissed him lightly before snaking her way down his body. Dave sat perfectly still in Liz’s bed, his eyes wide and staring straight ahead at the fireplace mantle as he felt her hand slip into his boxers and her hot breath against him, “We’re making another Vulture’s record.”

[queenofchildren]

The Spy Who Yelled At Me

I wrote a Minty Spy!AU a while back and then immediately decided to do a companion piece for Bellarke. It blew up a little bit, but now it’s done. Please enjoy, and don’t be scared off by the fact that Clarke is being a bit of an ass in the beginning.

[also on ao3]

"Your new boyfriend does what?"

Sitting on one of the two bean bag chairs that double as a sofa in Jasper and Monty's apartment, Clarke has just heard the craziest story ever. If she heard it from anyone else, she'd think they were pulling her leg. But this is Monty, who's always been the most grounded one of her friends, so she has to admit defeat and accept that this is in fact a true story.

"He works for an intelligence agency. International."

"He's a spy."

"I'm not sure if that's the official term…" Monty starts, then cuts himself off when she glares at him. "Yes, he's a spy."

"And he didn't tell you?"

"Well, when we first met he was actually in the middle of doing his spy thing, so he assumed I knew. And then… I don't know, I guess he never found a good moment to bring it up."

"Well, he should have looked harder for one!"

"It's not that big a deal, Clarke." Monty starts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Is it?"

"He lied to you!" Clarke explodes. "You've been dating for four months now and he failed to mention that, oh, he's a spy."

"Technically, we weren't dating the first two months," Monty starts, but Clarke is too fired up now to accept his apologies. Her friend, who is honestly the smartest, sweetest, best person she knows, got lied to, and she's not going to just let that go. Not even for a guy who probably knows about a dozen ways to kill her with his bare hands.

"And what does that even mean, he's "in intelligence"? Does that entail listening in on people's conversations? Toppling foreign governments? Assassinations?"

Monty twitches his shoulders, a little helpless.

"He couldn't go into details but… Nate said that he's had to do things he didn't like."

"Oh, he had to, did he now?"

"Look, Clarke, I know it's a lot, but things aren't always as black and white as you think they are…"

"And sometimes they are! Spying and possible murder aside, he still lied to you. Is that what you want in a relationship?" Through the haze of anger in her head, Clarke is aware that she's possibly projecting her own insecurities on the issue. She too has been lied to by someone she trusted, and it has fucked her up. She doesn't want Monty to go through the same thing.

"Monty, I know you really like him, but this is a big deal. If he's keeping that from you, what else is he holding back on?"

Monty sighs, then nods defeatedly. "Maybe you're right."

Clarke hates seeing him like this, hates having to talk him out of dating a guy he's been crazy about for months now. But she's sure that, in the long run, it will be for the best.

When Monty texts her, later, that he broke up with his spy boyfriend, Clarke thinks that will be the last she hears of the international spy community.

She couldn't be more wrong.

It's about a week after Monty found out about his boyfriend's whole spy deal and broke up with him, and Clarke is beginning to wonder if telling him to ditch the spy boyfriend was really the best course of action. Because Monty is suffering, quietly but unmistakably, and Clarke doesn't know who to be more angry at: Spy boyfriend for lying to Monty, or herself for convincing him to cut his ties. But then, she didn't really have a choice, did she?

So when there's a sharp, angry knock at her door one evening, Clarke is just worried and distracted enough to simply open the door without looking through the peephole first - only to find herself face to face with a whole lot of tall, angry, startlingly handsome man.

"You're Clarke?"

She nods dumbly and squints at him to assess if that's an actual tuxedo he's wearing or just a very fancy suit. Either way, it's a lot to process - and reminds her with sudden mortification that she opened the door wearing threadbare pyjama pants and a big, fluffy sweater.

Not that the stranger seems particularly interested in what she's wearing.

"You're the one who broke up Miller and Monty."

The ferociousness of his voice alone is enough to tear her out of her haze and back to the reality of having an angry man standing in front of her - but it's the nature of the accusation that really gets to her.

"I didn't break them up! I protected my friend from getting hurt." At least, that was the plan.

"Well, you hurt my friend in the process." His tone makes it clear that he considers this a grave sin.

Then he actually pushes past her into the apartment, ignoring her cry of protest. Never mind the intrusion though - she's been accused of being a bad friend, and that cannot stand.

"Then maybe your friend shouldn't have lied his ass off for months," she says, determined to hold her ground.

"He had good reasons for that, okay? We can't just go around telling our life story to everyone."

'We' – so apparently she now has a spy buddy of Monty's spy ex standing in her living room.

Lovely.

"Oh, but you apparently have no problem with dating unsuspecting civilians and telling them a bunch of lies."

"Just like you apparently have no problem meddling in your friend's life and telling him what to do."

Clarke huffs. The impossible man actually blames her for the whole mess when clearly, it's all spy boyfriend's fault for lying in the first place. But how did he even get to that conclusion? Did Monty tell Miller? It seems unlikely.

"How do you know what I told Monty?"

"Your texts are not encrypted. They're out there in your messenger app for all the world to see." He stops himself, grins smugly. "Well, all the world with the right tech."

"You spied on us?"

"It's literally what I do for a living,"  he deadpans, apparently not the least bit sorry.

Clarke tries her best to convey just with her eyes how very much she's going to kill him, no matter how many concealed weapons he's got on him right now.

"Well, if your friend put you up to that, I'd say I did the right thing telling Monty to ditch him."

"He didn't. Coming here was my idea. And where the hell do you get off making those kinds of decisions for other people?"

"Sorry if I don't want my friend dating a murderer!"

Impossibly, his face darkens even more.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

Probably not - and she can't say that she particularly wants to know. Because tuxedo and model hair and chiseled features aside, the man before her is dangerous. She may not feel like she in particular is in any danger from him right now, but there's a darkness in his eyes that makes her wonder what they've seen him do.  

She suppresses a shiver - she will not let herself be intimidated.

"Get out, or I'm calling the police." It sounds a bit like an empty threat, all things considered - who knows how many of the forces that be turn a blind eye to his agency's activities? "If you're even answering to them in the first place."

He rolls his eyes. "Of course we answer to them."

"Well, then you'd better leave now."

He looks like he wants to protest, then decides against it and storms out instead.

Phew, Clarke thinks as she closes the door, locks it twice and attaches the little chain too. Hopefully that really will be the last she hears of international spies with no idea of the concept of boundaries.

She buys one of those text encryption apps anyway, just in case.

Two days later, super spy is standing before her door again, angrily waving around a Manila envelope.

"Go away," Clarke growls through the door - this time, she remembered to check before opening it.  

"I won't."

"Well then have fun standing in the hallway, because I'm not letting you in."

"You realise I can get that door open in about 3.5 seconds? Faster if I just kick it in."

"Way to get me to trust you," Clarke calls back. She tries to sound unimpressed, but nevertheless, she quickly darts over to the kitchen to grab the pepper spray she hid in her junk drawer.

There's silence for a moment, then he's apparently decided to change tack.

"Look, I didn't come here to threaten you. But Miller's been miserable since Monty broke up with him, and I have a feeling the only person who can do something about that is you. At least let me explain what we do before you judge him, okay?"

It's a terrible idea, of course, and every brain cell interested in her self-preservation is telling her so. But there's something in his voice, in the urgency of it, that makes her want to trust him.

She opens the door.

...and regrets it almost immediately, because he swoops in, slaps the envelope on her kitchen table, and barks: "Sit down and listen."

And although she should be angry, or at the very least indignant, about being ordered about like this, Clarke actually obeys and sits down. Because spy guy, it turns out, is very good at ordering people about, and has just the voice for it too.

She forces herself not to follow that particular train of thought and actually focus on the photos before her.

The first picture is a grainy mugshot: a pale, bald man holding up one of those identification signs with an angry expression and scarily cold eyes.

"White supremacist," spy guy explains in a hard voice. "His organisation was planning terrorist attacks in several big cities."

Clarke gasps and presses a hand  to her mouth as he slaps down the next picture, this one of a couple exiting a run-down house.

"They led a human trafficking ring."

Clarke shudders but doesn't get a break as he keeps slamming down pictures before her, each with a short explanation: Fraud. Arms deals. Drugs.

By the time the folder is empty, Clarke has tears in her eyes, and spy dude is breathing hard.

"This is what we do. And you can look down on us from your high horse, but fact is: the world is better off without these people. So if you'd prefer to be the one getting that filth behind bars, by all means, step up."

Clarke doesn't know what to say.

Nodding grimly, he swipes the pictures back into the folder.

"That's what I thought. Now, I get that it's a lot to wrap your head around. And I'm not saying we're saints - far from it. But we're not the bad guys either. Miller is doing a tough job, and Monty was the best thing in his life. He made him happy, and he deserves that." There's something in his eyes, a wistful edge in his voice that makes her wonder if he thinks that he too deserves to be happy, or if that's something he reserves for his friends.

"It's not about the spying, you know. Not entirely." Clarke swallows hard. "It's about the fact that he lied to him."

"He would have told him sooner, if he could have. But he had to make sure he could trust Monty first."

"Well, now Monty can't trust him anymore."

"Monty can't, or you can't?" Clarke bristles, annoyed at how quickly he managed to pierce through this issue to the soft, wounded place within her. But before she can get her bearings, he's speaking again, softer this time and a little resigned.

"Listen, I think it's great you're looking out for your friend, I really do. But Monty's a grown man. He's got all the information he needs to make his own decision. You need to let him do that. And you need to give Miller a shot."

"Does he have all the information?"

"He knows what he needs to know. Some things, it's safer for him to be in the dark about."

"So you admit it will be dangerous for him to keep seeing your friend."

Super spy swallows hard.

"The biggest risk is that he'll lose the person he loves." He lays a hand on her arm, a calming gesture and one that she thinks might be a practiced one - but it works nonetheless. "I promise, I'll make sure nothing happens to your friend."

"You better."

"I will." With that, he gathers up his folder and walks to the door. He's almost there when something occurs to her.

"How do I know I can trust you? I don't even know your name."

"It's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake."

Then, after a moment of quick thinking, he grabs the pad of sticky notes and a pen off the side table by the door and writes something down, then hands it to her.

"There. Now you know where I live. If you ever think your friend Monty is in danger, you can come yell at me."

Then he's gone, and Clarke is standing in her kitchen, clutching a pink post-it note and wondering what the hell just happened.

She tries not to think about the mysterious Bellamy Blake much after that, except for small moments where she sees his haunted eyes before her, as if that short moment alone had been branded into her mind. But she does ponder the encounter long enough to come to the conclusion that he may be an ass, but Bellamy was right about one thing: Monty can make his own decisions. After a fruitless evening spent trying to find any trace of her visitor online, Clarke finally gives in and calls Monty instead.

Soon, Monty and his spy boyfriend are back together and, Clarke has to admit, nauseatingly happy. When Monty actually introduces her to the boyfriend in question, she has to admit that he seems like a pretty decent guy. She still can't help but prod him a little bit, to try and get a feel for him - but in the end, if Monty's decided to trust him, she'll have to do the same.

Apparently, seeing Monty and Miller back together appeases her super spy visitor as well, because she doesn't hear from Bellamy again, and soon almost forgets about him. In fact, if it weren't for the address still stuck to her fridge on a pink post-it note, she'd start to believe the whole thing never happened at all.

Until the day, that is, when Monty disappears.

At first, Clarke doesn't even make the connection between Monty's recent entanglement with the spy community and his not picking up his phone or replying to her texts. She's got a hectic day herself, and, well usually she and Monty are not leading the kind of life where dangerous situations are a frequent occurrence.

But as soon as the thought occurs to her, Clarke is flooded with the most horrifying images, inspired in no small part by her love for campy action movies - dark basement rooms and abandoned warehouses, scar-faced gangsters and brutal interrogations and oh fuck she needs to find Monty, now!  

Just before panic engulfs her, she has one last clear thought: Go find Bellamy.

Which is how she comes to be standing in front of a sleek, modern apartment building, biting down tears as she rings the doorbell.

"Monty's gone!" She practically yells into the intercom as soon as she hears it crackle on the other end. She's aware that she must sound pretty hysterical, but she doesn't give a fuck right now.

"Clarke?" Bellamy's surprised voice replies through the intercom. For a moment, Clarke is impressed by the fact that he correctly guessed her identity from her screeching, then she spots the beady eye of a camera above her head.

"What's going on?"

"Monty's gone, that's what's going on. And you promised to keep him safe!"  

The door clicks open and Clarke storms in, energised by the prospect of having someone to yell at, and someone as deserving as Bellamy no less.

She doesn't let him get one word in before she's planted herself right before him, chin raised and brows furrowed, to poke him in the chest with one merciless finger.

"You promised to keep him safe! You promised!" That seems to be the only thing she can focus on, so she repeats it once more, teary-eyed and wobbly-voiced. "You promised."

He puts up with it for a surprisingly long time before snatching her hand out of mid-air and pulling it against his chest, effectively immobilising it. She briefly considers continuing the action with her other hand, then thinks better of it.

"Calm down."

"Easy for you to say," she fumes, nowhere near calm.

"Just breathe." He actually demonstrates, breathing in and out exaggeratedly. She can feel his chest rising and falling with the movement, and to her own irritation, her breathing slowly falls into a rhythm with his, much slower and deeper than it was when she first got here.

"Now," he adds when he's apparently satisfied with her oxygen intake, "tell me what happened."

"What happened is that I can't reach Monty."

"And that's unusual?"

She nods. "He usually calls or texts back within an hour or two."

Maddeningly, Bellamy's face does not give away if he finds this at all worrisome. He does, however, drop her hand and steer her over to the couch with one hand to her lower back.

"How long has it been now?"  

Clarke looks at her watch. "Six hours."

"And Monty would never leave you without a reply for that amount of time? What if his phone battery died?"

"He always carries a power bank and a charging cable with him. And there's always his ipad." Bellamy raises an eyebrow skeptically. "He's a total tech addict."

"Alright. So when was the last time you spoke to him? Did he say anything about his plans for today?"

Clarke thinks for a moment, Bellamy staying patiently silent as he waits for her reply.

"He was planning some kind of anniversary brunch with Miller, but then he also wasn't sure if Miller would have to work today, so I don't know what happened with that plan..."

"So when you texted him, there's a chance he was simply distracted."

The question is irritating - or rather, the assumption that she didn't think of that herself is.

"I'd assume so," Clarke replies tartly, "which is why I didn't call in the first place."

Bellamy nods, prompting her to continue.  

"It wasn't urgent and I was pretty busy, so I didn't look at my phone for a few hours. But when I checked again around noon, there was still no answer. So I called after all, because I figured even if he was with Miller, they were probably done with their brunch. No answer. I tried again about every thirty minutes or so..."

"Persistent, aren't you?"

Clarke rolls her eyes at Bellamy's interjection.

"I'm not always like that. But I got last minute tickets to a play we'd been planning to go see for a long time, and I knew Monty would kill me if I took someone else."

"Alright, fair point. So when you couldn't get through to him did you reach out to any of your other friends to ask if they knew anything?"

The interrogation continues like this for what feels like ages, Bellamy asking ever more specific questions and Clarke trying to answer them as precisely as she can. She has to admit, his calm demeanor makes it easier to keep it together herself, but the hint of worry on his face when he's finished cross-examining her still makes her stomach clench.

"So? What do we do now?" She asks, a little scared he'll say "Nothing".

But instead, Bellamy looks her in the eyes, steady and determined, and says: "Now we find him."

He gets up, presumably to fetch some sort of spy gadget that will help them, and Clarke takes the opportunity to look around the room.

The large open-plan apartment is clean and uncluttered and looks like the home of a person who isn't really home all that much - a look she knows from her apartment, even if it tends to be a lot messier. There's a kitchenette along the far wall, a bed in one corner and a rack of weights and other fitness equipment in the other. Everything is utilitarian to the point of being spartanic, with one glaring exception: the bookcase, facing a worn leather sofa and practically overflowing with books. Squinting, Clarke tries to read some of their titles, curious to know what an international spy would read in his free time. There's a lot of history and mythology, biographies and memoirs, and a smaller section of non-fiction - politics, psychology, sociology.... He's definitely a well-read spy.

Bellamy returns just then, but the piece of tech in his hands is nothing more than one of those bluetooth headsets douchey guys usually wear in order to have loud conversations on the subway. He slides it in place behind his curls, looking surprisingly non-ridiculous, then gets out his phone and starts tapping on it.

"You're going to find him with just your phone?" Clarke can't help but ask, because honestly, this is a little underwhelming.

"Quite the opposite." He flashes her a short grin, cocky but somehow reassuring, "I'm bringing out the big guns."

"Literally or figuratively?"

Again that flash of a grin. "Both."

Then he presses the call button on his phone and she hears it ringing, getting fainter as he walks towards the bookcase and pulls out a book. Clarke briefly wonders if he's gone mad - but then the entire right side of the bookcase slides sideways to reveal an actual hidden closet full of guns.

While Clarke is still trying to process this - she's never even seen one gun up close, for crying out loud, let alone a good dozen! - Bellamy starts talking, explaining to someone on the other end of the phone call that he needs help in finding a missing person. There's a brief pause as the person seems to be asking a question, then Bellamy explains again.

"Miller's boyfriend."

Another pause.

"I would, but he's still on assignment."

Filling in the gaps in this one-sided conversation is an irritating task, but it keeps her from freaking out about Monty, so Clarke keeps listening intently, wondering if she should tell Bellamy to just put the stupid phone on loudspeaker. But he's currently taking guns out of his secret murder cupboard, and Clarke decides that maybe now is not the best time to question his phone etiquette.

"A friend of Monty's showed up worried because he's been missing for eight hours."

Again the crackle of the voice, too distorted to make out the words.

"I know that's not much, but apparently they're close and Monty's pretty good about answering his phone..." The crackling voice on the other end cuts him off. "No she's not hysterical. Worried, yes, but she's pulled herself together, and her story makes sense."

Wow, Clarke thinks sarcastically to herself, what high praise.

But Bellamy is apparently getting as impatient as she is, because he barks into the headset: "Just look for the damn number, Raven!" and the voice actually falls silent.

Suddenly, Bellamy is standing next to her, taking off his headset and putting it on her head instead, carefully tucking aside her hair so that it doesn't get caught in it.

"Tell her Monty's number."

But of course, she doesn't know the number by heart, and has to fumble around for it in her phone. And just when she's managed to navigate to her contacts with trembling fingers, a sharp female voice whips at her ear:

"Bell? What the fuck is taking so long?"

"Sorry, just looking for the number now."

"Ah. The friend." The woman sounds less than enthusiastic about having to talk to her.

"Yes, I'm the friend", Clarke snaps, irritated once more with these rude people. "And I'm trying to help, but I'm not dealing with potential kidnappings and fucking gun closets every day, so excuse me for needing a moment to adjust."

"Ah. The gun closet. That means he's trying to impress you."

Clarke almost drops her phone.

"He what now?"

The woman actually cackles. "Just wait until he gets out the motorcycle. Bellamy Blake, glamorous super spy...."

Suddenly, the headset is yanked off her head, and Bellamy's face is right next to hers as he growls into the microphone: "Will you please shut up and focus on running the goddamn number!"

"Yeah, yeah," is Raven's muffled reply, and Bellamy puts the headset back in place on Clarke's head. "Alright, hit me with the digits."

It takes Clarke a moment to get her bearings even as Bellamy steps back, because he was right there just then, almost nose to nose with her, and even now that he's gone back to towering over her and glowering darkly, there's a little hint of red on his cheeks, and she wonders despite her frayed nerves if Raven was right about the gun closet.

She shakes her head to clear it. Monty, she reminds herself, he's the only reason she's here. Voice steady, she dictates his phone number to Raven, then waits as the other woman falls silent and all she can hear is the rapid click-clack of a keyboard on the other end of the line. Clarke entertains herself with watching Bellamy for a bit as he decides which guns to take with him, following the play of the muscles on his arms and back as he slips on one of those shoulder holster belts she's seen on TV cops and slips a gun into the pouches on each side. Then he grabs a leather jacket off a hook on the wall beside the bookcase and shrugs into it, causing his shirt to ride up a little so she can see the sliver of tan skin between his dark shirt and his belt.

She's brought back to reality, hard, when Raven says: "Shit." Then, urgently: "Hand me back to Bellamy, will you?"

Clarke obeys, and watches as Bellamy's face darkens within seconds of Raven's explanation.

"You sure?"

Raven's reply is short - most likely affirmative, because Bellamy's frown deepens.

"Alright, I'm heading out there. Can you get me eyes on the building?"

Another short reply as Bellamy pushes a book back in place and the secret weapon's closet slides shut again, firmly ignoring Clarke until she can't take it any longer.  

"What's going on?"

"Raven traced the phone signal."

"I figured. And...?"

"And it leads to a warehouse owned by the Wallace family. One of the biggest players in all sorts of crime in the area."

"Wait, the Wallace family - as in, Dante and Cage?"

Bellamy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You know them?"

"Very little. They're one of the biggest donors at my hospital, so every once in a while we all get drafted into leading them around and telling them about the great things we've been doing with their money. They don't really seem to care much though."

Bellamy snorts. "I bet they don't. Their charity is most likely for tax reasons."

Bellamy grabs some car keys off a rack by the door, then turns back to her with his hand already on the doorknob.

"Alright, I'm checking out the warehouse. You can stay here, and text me as soon as you hear from Monty."

"No way. I'm coming with you."

"Like hell you are."

"He's my friend, Bellamy. I want to be there when you find him. And what if he needs medical attention? Wouldn't it be good to have a doctor there?"

"Maybe. Or maybe the doctor gets hurt too and I'd have two dead civilians on my hands."

Clarke can practically feel the blood draining from her face, and Bellamy flinches.

"Sorry. I didn't mean... I'm sure your friend is still alive."

"How can you be?"

He hesitates, looking at her as if trying to decide something.

"You want the ugly truth?"

She nods.

"Because whoever took him, it makes no sense for them to kill him. Either they took him to hurt Miller, in which case they'll need to actually let Miller know they have him. Or they think he knows something and they want it - which also takes time."

He doesn't need to spell it out for Clarke to understand what he means.

The thought alone is enough to make the fear in her stomach turn to hot, heavy anger. No one is going to lay hands on her best friend - not while she's got a super spy with a motorcycle and a gun closet and, she hopes, deadly combat skills.

"Let's go get him then."

There really is a motorcycle, but Clarke is too distraught and angry to take much notice of it, or to spare more than a fleeting thought to Raven's earlier words about impressing her. She does, briefly, marvel at the fact that his broad shoulders provide complete coverage from the wind, and that, with her arms around his waist, she feels a lot safer than she probably should while sitting on a motorcycle with a stranger. But that's all the distraction she allows herself from the problem at hand: Someone wants to hurt Monty, and she's not going to let them.

In any case, they only ride a few blocks on the motorcycle before Bellamy steers them into the dilapidated backyard of a dry cleaning business that looks like it's seen better days.

"Alright, Princess, your carriage awaits," Bellamy comments snarkily as he parks his bike, then leads her over to a delivery van parked at the back of the lot. It must have been blue at some point, but has now taken on a slightly rusty tinge, and there are several dents and scratches along its sides.

"We'll need to stake out the place without being seen," he explains, a little less snarkily, and Clarke nods and clambers into the passenger seat.

Then they're off again, heading towards an industrial area near the harbor. This time, when Bellamy pulls into a loading dock, she knows they've reached their destination. Beside her, Bellamy is calm but tense, attentively looking around as he navigates them to a somewhat concealed spot near the back of the loading dock and kills the motor.

He fumbles around under his seat for a moment, and suddenly the wall of the driver's cabin swings open towards the back of the van. Bellamy clambers through and motions for her to follow, and suddenly, as if she'd stepped into a parallel universe, Clarke finds herself surrounded by monitors and keyboards and a variety of gadgets she can't even begin to imagine uses for.

Clarke gasps, and Bellamy turns around to give her a small smile - although one that fades again quickly.

"I borrowed one of our surveillance vans."

Clarke is still looking around, stunned, while Bellamy gets out a little black case and fumbles something into his ear. Then he holds out a second, similar piece. Fitting easily into the palm of his hand, it looks like a hearing aid.

"Put this in your ear. You're staying in here while I scope out the place, but if you notice anything happening out there, you tell me."

Clarke nods in understanding and carefully pushes the soft piece to her ear, wincing as it emits a high-pitched feedback whistle.

"Sorry," Bellamy says curtly, snapping shut the black box and turning to the array of monitors. He presses a few buttons and the monitors turn on, showing her a comprehensive view of the area as well as one infrared view of the building before them. She can make out several human shapes, one of them sitting down while flanked by two others.

"Monty!" She breathes out excitedly.

"We can't be sure of that yet. Not until I have visual confirmation. So you," taking her by the shoulders, he pushes her down on the little folding seat before the monitors, "are going to stay here and wait while I scope out the area. Now these,” he points to the earpieces they're both wearing, “have a microphone built in, so if there's anything happening here, you tell me."

One glance at the monitors to make sure there's no one right outside the van, then he opens the door.

"And whatever happens, do NOT get out of the car."

The door slams shut, and Clarke quickly locks it from the inside before sitting back down again, watching on the monitor as Bellamy quickly makes his way to the warehouse before them. Pressing himself against the wall, he peers inside one of the dusty windows, checking that the air's clear, before he quickly smashes the window and lunges through it on a flying roll, miraculously without so much as touching the jagged glass sticking up from the windowframe.

The microphone on the earpiece must be pretty sensitive, because Clarke can hear everything: Bellamy's quiet breathing, his careful steps as he advances further into the building, distant clanging and groaning further in the bowels of the warehouse complex... and, eventually, voices.

“Do you see them?”

“I said tell me if anything happens out there, not use the mic to pester me.”

“Sorry,” Clarke breathes, swallowing her childish indignation. He's getting himself into a risky situation, alone, to find her friend. The least she can do is be quiet and not distract him.

Clarke sticks to that resolution as she listens breathlessly for any sign of Monty or his kidnappers, eyes carefully scanning the monitors just like Bellamy told her to.

Bellamy must be getting closer to whoever is in the building, because the voices are getting louder and clearer, and suddenly, she can make out words – and one in particular that makes her gasp in shock.

“We'll get that bastard Miller if we go through him, I'm sure of it.”

“But we don't have him, do we?” The annoyed, drawling voice sounds vaguely familiar even over the microphone.

“We have his phone. We know where he lives, what he does. He's some kind of nerd, probably won't even put up a fight. Just say the word, boss, and we'll snatch him up.”

Clarke feels her heart stutter in her chest as she figures out who they're talking about – and then speed up again as it occurs to her what it means.

“They don't have Monty?”, she hisses into the headset, careful to be quiet so as not to startle Bellamy into giving up his position.

“No.” Bellamy's reply is short, no doubt due to the need to be quiet.

“But they want to kidnap him to get to Miller,” Clarke adds, still piercing together what she just heard and what it means.

“We won't let them,” Bellamy growls. “Now stay quiet.”

She does as she's told, listening anxiously as the man addressed as “boss” - whose sleazy voice she thinks she has correctly identified as Cage Wallace's – tells his goons to go through with their plan, then turns his attention to other matters.

Clarke doesn't really listen to the next matter discussed, however, because she's disctracted by a sudden flurry of activity in the docking yard. A truck is pulling up to the warehouse, two men jumping out to quickly unload a few crates and boxes while three big, burly men come out of the warehouse to take the cargo and inspect it.

Clarke holds her breath, wondering if this constitutes something she needs to tell Bellamy about, but after a short, aggressive conversation, the two delivery men get back into the truck and drive off again.

She's just about to let go of the breath she's been holding when one of the muscle-packed goons stops in his tracks and looks straight at her van.

Then he calls out to the other men and points at the van, and Clarke's blood seems to freeze in her veins as they set down their cargo and start walking towards her.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, deciding that this is definitely a development he needs to know about, “there are some guys out here getting pretty interested in the van...”

“Have they seen you?”

“No, but they're coming closer.”

The men are now circling the van, rattling on door handles and debating amongst themselves. One of them walks back towards the warehouse, and Clarke prays that the others will lose interest in her and follow him back inside.

She has no such luck, however: The man returns with a crowbar in hand, and now Clarke really starts to panic.

“I think they're going to break into the van.”

There's muffled cursing in her ear, then Bellamy's quiet voice. “Don't make a sound. I'm coming to distract them.”

True to his word, just as the driver's side door of the van creaks under the force of the crowbar, Clarke sees Bellamy emerge from the warehouse and lunge at the man nearest him. The man is down on the ground after a short tussle, but the two other are already turning on Bellamy, and despite the fact that he seems to be doing a lot of damage with quick, precise hits, the two are nonetheless closing in on him. And then the third man picks himself up and jumps on Bellamy's back, and soon he's pinned against the side of the van, and Clarke stifles a scream when one of them punches him hard in the stomach and he doubles over.

Time to act, she decides.

Looking around, Clarke's eyes fall onto what she first assumes is a police baton - until she sees the little prongs sticking out at its tip.

Perfect.

One last look at the monitor, one experimental push of the button on the side of the baton, then she throws open the back door of the van, sticks out her arm, and jams the baton into the side of the nearest attacker. Fist closed around the grip of the baton so tight her fingers hurt, she presses down on the button until the man goes down, body twitching with electric aftershocks.

The two who have been pinning Bellamy against the van look over and let go of him for a moment, and even though he's bleeding and clearly a little dazed, Bellamy makes use of the distraction to push them off and throw himself in the driver's seat.

"Close the door!" Bellamy yells and Clarke complies just in time before the van screeches off and she can be thrown out the back door.

For a moment, she just sits pressed against the side of the van, trying to get her racing heart to calm down – although actually, it turns out, it's her head that's the problem, because it currently has trouble catching up with everything that's happening. Monty isn't here, and she is being followed by a car full of armed and dangerous criminals.

And before she's even begun to try and process these facts, there's a loud bang and the whole car rocks. Another bang follows immediately after, and another, and finally Clarke understands what's happening.

"They're shooting at us!" She yells in Bellamy's direction, as if there was a chance he hadn't heard the ear-splitting noise yet.

"I know. I'm trying to shake them off.”

"I don't think it's working," Clarke yells back, and now there's definite hysteria in her voice.

Bellamy swerves hard, then turns abruptly into another direction - to no avail: on the monitor showing the rearfacing camera, their pursuers are still hot on their heels.

Another volley of bullets hits the back of the van, leaving clear dents in the steel, and Clarke throws herself through the door to the driver's cabin.

Bellamy glances only briefly in her direction.

"You okay?"

"I'm not hit, if that's what you mean."

"Good," he says, and suddenly she's pulled into his lap, squished between his chest and the steering wheel, "cause I'm gonna need you to drive."

"What?" Clarke squeaks out.

"You know how to drive right?"

He doesn't wait for her answer, which Clarke takes to mean that she doesn't really have the option of not knowing.

"Alright, take the wheel." She does as she's told. "Now put your feet over mine on the pedals. On 3, I'm moving away, and you're moving your feet into place and pushing down as hard as you can." Bellamy says it with such certainty, like he knows that everything will happen exactly as he orders it to, that Clarke can't help but believe him. Then he counts down, squeezes himself out of the seat, and Clarke slams down her feet.

Next thing she knows, Clarke is driving the van, hurtling down the street at 90 miles an hour while Bellamy leans out the window to shoot at the car behind them. She barely manages to identify the parts of the city rushing by, but she has just figured out that they've reached the harbor and are racing towards the basin.

That's when Bellamy cries out next to her and throws himself back into his seat, clutching his arm with a pained expression.

“Did you just get shot?”

“Just a little. Keep driving.”

With that, he turns back and leans out once more, but another volley of bullets forces him to retreat inside the car again.

“Dammit, we're not shaking them.” He seems to be thinking for a moment, before he abruptly says: “Turn left.”

“Left?” She's racing along the edge of the basin now, with warehouses and loading cranes to her right – and nothing but ships and water to her left.

“On the next pier, yes.”

“How is that helping us?”

“Just do it.”

The next pier comes up, branching out from the harbor wall and broad enough to drive onto it with a car. It is possible to drive onto it – she just doesn't understand why.

But next thing she knows, Bellamy's hand is on hers on top of the steering wheel, slick with blood.

“Do you trust me?"

Does she trust him? Before her mind can decide on an answer, her hands turn the steering-wheel and they make a sharp left onto the pier, the wooden planks rattling underneath them as they keep racing along – and their pursuers, she sees in the side mirror, are doing the same thing.

“What now?”

“Now we jump out.”

“Right now?”

“One second. Get ready.”

He leans out the window once more and shoots, and in the mirror, Clarke sees that a sail from an anchored boat has come loose and is slowly drifting down behind them, shielding them from view of the other car.

“Now!” Bellamy yells, and Clarke opens the door, takes a deep breath, and pushes herself out.

She just makes it past the wooden edge of the pier, leg grazing the planks, and hits the water hard. It shoots up her nose painfully and she makes the mistake of gasping in response, so now her mouth is filled with dirty harbor water as well. When she comes up, coughing and sputtering and spitting out water, she's immediately pulled backwards, into the shadow under the pier – Bellamy has made it to her side, pulling her along with one arm and paddling with his feet while his injured arm drags uselessly through the water.

The thought of the sheer amount of bacteria getting into his wound is enough to get her focused once more, at least enough to understand Bellamy's instructions.

“Stay under the pier and swim back towards the harbor wall as fast and as quietly as you can.”

She nods and starts swimming in earnest, fearfully glancing up for a sign of their pursuers above them. A large shadow indicates they're passing beneath the thugs' car, and Clarke speeds up to make it to the stone wall at the end of the pier. She used to be a fairly good swimmer, but with her current hours, she doesn't get much time for any sort of workout, and by the time Clarke finally reaches the wall, she's already fairly exhausted.

Luckily, there's a small stony ledge in the wall, just high enough to keep her head and shoulders out of the water when she stands on it, and a very convenient metal bar she can hold on to so as not to slip off the slimy, algae-covered stone.

Bellamy reaches her a few seconds later and follows her example, simply clinging on to the metal handhold and breathing hard for several seconds. It worries her to see him so winded, because he's obviously in much better physical shape than her. His wound must be getting to him, and the temperature of the water, while not outright freezing, is still too low to allow any prolonged stay, especially for someone who's losing blood rapidly.

“What now?”

“Now we wait until they believe we went down with the van.”

“What if they don't? We can't stay here long. The water's too cold, and you're bleeding."

"I've noticed. We won't have to stay here long. Raven knows that we were pursued and drove the car off the pier. She'll do something to draw them away, and hopefully send backup as well."

She takes a moment to study him. He looks unnaturally pale, no doubt due to the blood loss, and at this rate it won't be long before he passes out. Making a decision, she fumbles off her belt with one hand.

"I need to do something about the bleeding, at least."

But while getting off the belt with one hand was possible, if a little fumbly, attaching it is not. The moment she lets go of the bar to use both hands, she slips off the algae-covered ledge and underwater.

She propels herself upward and grabs a hold of the metal bar again, clucking her tongue irritatedly – there's no way she's going to be able to properly apply the tourniquet with one hand.

But just as she's pondering this problem, Bellamy swings over towards her, trapping her between the wall and his body while holding on to the bar above them with his uninjured arm.

“Now you can work with both hands. I'll keep you from going under,” he explains, and when Clarke tentatively lets go of her handhold, she realises he's right – she's pinned safely in place.

With that taken care of, she can get to work on his arm, but it's a fact she has to actively remind herself of: for a moment, she's simply frozen in place, overwhelmed by the sudden knee-to-hip-to-chest contact, by the discovery that his freckles are much more numerous than she previously noticed and the fact that his lips look soft and kissable and she wants to wipe away the dried drop of blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth from where he must have received a hit earlier.

The sight of blood finally brings her back to her senses and to the task she should be focusing on, and with heat crawling into her cold cheeks, she frees her hands from where they're pinned between them and gently takes hold of his arm.

He hisses in pain and a fresh swirl of blood is released into the harbor basin, and Clarke does her best to move slowly and carefully.

“I'm sorry, but this is gonna hurt for a bit.”

“I know,” he grinds out, and she wonders how often he's sustained injuries like this. If she went through with the fleeting thought of taking off his clothes, how many scars would she find on his tan skin? She's afraid of the answer.

Pushing aside the thought, Clarke wraps the belt around his arm just above the bullet wound, careful not to jostle it too much, then pulls it as tight as she can.

She can feel Bellamy jerk against her as the remaining blood is pressed downward in his arm, can feel his body tense against hers in pain. Tying off the belt as quick and as tight as she can, she lowers his arm so that it rests on her shouder, then loops her arms around him and soothingly strokes down his back until she can gradually feel him relax against her, his head coming to rest on her other shoulder as he takes a few deep, steadying breaths.

“I'm sorry.”

“Had to be done.” His words are muffled, but his breathing is normalising once again – she can tell by the puffs of warm breath hitting the cold skin above her collarbone every time he exhales.

She thinks she should probably want to push him away, but the reasoning behind it, which must have made sense at some point, doesn't really manage to make it through her fuzzy head. The thing that matters is that he's in pain because he tried to keep her alive. If he needs a moment, he'll have it. She continues her soothing motions and asks:

“Do you get banged up like this often?“

“Pretty regularly, yeah. It's a side effect of the job."

“And let me guess, you always say it's just a scratch and refuse to be properly treated.“

He lifts his head to look at her, surprise written on his face.

“I get that type a lot in the ER, and you seem to fit the bill. You need to be more careful with your health, okay?“

“You work in the ER?"

That's not really what she wanted him to take away from this conversation, but Clarke is starting to feel the cold from the water, so any distracting conversation is welcome.

“I do. I was thinking about getting into a more specialised field after my internship, but then I realised I kind of love working in the ER – helping people right away, without the time for long consultations; it suits me. I think I'm too impatient for anything that works at a slower pace.”

Bellamy cocks his head to the side to study her, and Clarke suddenly realizes that the reason he's still so close she could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose is because he's still holding them both above the water, which must be incredibly taxing. Overcome with guilt, Clarke lifts a hand up to the metal bar above to hold herself up, and Bellamy swings sideways again once he realises she can stay on the ledge on her own once more. She takes his injured arm and places it on her shoulder once more to keep it out of the dirty harbor water, but that's the only point of contact between their bodies now, and cold water rushes at her so suddenly Clarke almost regrets her decision – for no other reason than that he was doing a pretty good job of keeping her a little less cold, of course.

“Well, your ER experience certainly came in handy today. Not only are you keeping me from bleeding out, you also kept your head in a dangerous situation. Not many civilians would have.”

Clarke's mouth drops open at the unexpected praise. “Why, Agent Blake, are you complimenting me?”

“Just accept it,” he says gruffly, but she thinks she sees a splash of color on his pale cheeks.

Still, just because he blushes adorably doesn't mean she'll let him off the hook for being a condescending dick before.

“Well, it's not as flattering as hearing how I'm not even being hysterical...”

He makes a playful grimace.

“You can't hold that against me – I didn't even know you then.”

“That was like three hours ago. And I'm pretty sure you knew a lot about me from your spying.”

“That's not the same. Now I know what you're really made of. And that you can administer medical aid under pretty weird circumstances. And that you're a kickass driver.”

It's pretty blatant flattery, but he looks and sounds sincere, and Clarke has to admit she does feel a little proud of herself right now, for being alive if nothing else.

“Stop, my ego will get out of control.” She's trying to sound sarcastic, but Clarke can't help the little smile tugging at her lips, or the unguarded laugh bubbling up inside her.

“I'm trying to be nice here,” Bellamy chides, but his pout is as fake as the way she rolls her eyes.

What's real is the fear shooting through her when the planks of the pier above them creak along with the sound of footsteps, and Bellamy tenses with sudden wariness beside her when the footsteps stop right above them.

“Blake? You down there?”

Clarke freezes, her breath coming in shallow gasps at the thought that the Wallaces' goons figured out Bellamy's identity and their hiding-place.

But when her eyes find Bellamy, he seems calm, if a little green.

“I am, Sir,” he yells upwards, and a second later, she hears movement up on the pier as his response is apparently heard.

“It's my boss,” Bellamy explains, and she's thankful for the confirmation that she can stop fearing for her life now.

“So we're safe,” Clarke realises, insides soaring with relief.

“Well, you are. I am in big trouble.”

“What? Why?”

“For one thing, I took an agency vehicle to go on an unauthorised mission with a civilian whose life I endangered in the process. And also because when Miller messed up his assignment to go on a movie date with your friend Monty, I bet him that I'd never fuck up like this for a civilian. So now I owe him fifty bucks.”

“Oh well, Monty's pretty awesome. Everyone would fuck up because of him.”

Bellamy looks at her silently for a moment, a flash of hesitation on his face followed by determination.

“It's not him I did this for. Not really.”

With that, he pushes off the harbor wall and starts paddling out from underneath the shadow of the pier, leaving her behind to gape at him as she figures out what he meant.

By the time she does, Bellamy has reached the rope ladder that is being lowered into the water from above and is pulling himself up, struggling to hold on to the rope with one hand. Clarke follows immediately, as if hanging onto the ladder below him would in any way enable her to help if he loses his grip. As irrational as it is, she still feels the need to make sure he's alright. Doctor's instinct, she tells herself, nothing else. And certainly nothing to do with the fact that he apparently risked not just his life but his boss' goodwill just to help her.

As soon as she clambers onto the pier, Clarke is surrounded by people: Paramedics wrapping her in a blanket and asking her if she's hurt. People in suits, presumably from the agency, with more questions about what happened and how. Someone handing her a bottle of water and guiding her to a bench to sit down.

But through the whole chaos, all she can see is Bellamy, being guided to sit down on a stretcher by a nearby ambulance as two paramedics take in his blood-stained shirt and the way he gingerly holds his arm.

Pushing away the nearest suit, she makes her way over to the ambulance.

“He's been shot in the left arm, a through-and-through. I only managed to apply a tourniquet and stop the bleeding several minutes later, so there might still be significant blood loss. Plus, we were in the water for several minutes,” she informs the paramedics, then steps aside to let them do their job.

“You applied first aid while hiding from Wallace's men?”

The surprised voice belongs to the man she saw talking to Bellamy earlier, and judging by his apparent seniority, she assumes it's his boss.

“Well, he could hardly do it himself, after he was shot trying to keep me safe.”

The man smiles, transforming his severe face into a much warmer expression.

“Don't worry, Ms. Griffin – as Agent Blake's superior, I promise I will go easy on him. There will be some sort of disciplinary action, of course, but all in all, your little adventure today gave us valuable insight into the Wallaces' plans.”

Clarke nods, relieved, and doesn't protest when one of the paramedics comes over to check up on her. Apart from a case of very mild hypothermia, she survived the whole ordeal without a scratch, and gets some good news on top of it:

“We managed to get a hold of your friend Mister Green as well. It turns out he and Agent Miller had left for a spontaneous trip to the mountains and neglected to inform anyone. They're both on their way back, and will be brought to a safe house until we're sure they're not a target anymore.”

While Clarke is still processing this, not sure if she's more relieved that Monty's safe or pissed that he failed to tell her, Bellamy's boss tells her that she's free to go home as long as she comes in for a full statement the next day.

“I'll give you a lift home,” he offers and starts to gently lead her over to a nearby car.

But Clarke hesitates, looking back towards the ambulance where the paramedics are helping Bellamy onto a stretcher for the ride to the hospital.

And looking at him, Clarke realizes with sudden renewed energy that there's one more thing she needs to do before she can go home and rest.

“Just a second,” she tells the man, then turns and strides back towards the ambulance.

“Wait,” she calls out at the surprised paramedics, stopping them from closing the ambulance and clambering inside instead. Bellamy frowns when he sees at her, as if the sight of her makes him expect more reasons to worry, but there's only one thing she has to say.

“Thank you, Bellamy. For helping me find my friend, and for keeping me alive.”

With that, and with the kind of courage that can only come from surviving trigger-happy gangsters, a high-speed car chase and a drop into the harbor basin, Clarke pulls him close by the back of his neck and kisses him.

Bellamy stays completely still for an awkwardly long moment before he finally brings his uninjured arm up to her waist to pull her close, his lips opening under hers on a sigh, and Clarke deepens the pressure of her lips on his and thinks that, excitement-wise, kissing Bellamy Blake surpasses even the most adrenaline-fuelled car chase.

A discreet cough behind her makes her draw back eventually to catch one of the paramedics grinning openly, the other looking rather impatient.

But Bellamy is smiling, and the sight is more impressive than all the cool spy stuff and quick fighting moves in the world.

“Find me when you're done being patched up,” she says, then finally jumps down from the ambulance. The last thing she sees before the paramedics close the door is Bellamy bringing a hand up to his lips with a rather dazed look, and she giggles at the sight – badass super spy, indeed.

She can't wait for their next adventure.

[whotookmyusernameidea]

Just an outlet.

My head throbbed and my vision was blurry I could barely tell which one of us was shouting though I was almost certain it was me, Things weren’t going the way I had hoped, in fact they were getting worse by the minute.

“FUCK OFF!” I heard Link shout through the roaring in my ears, I shouted something back but even I couldn’t make out what I said, by the look on Link’s face I had went too far though.

Link glared at me and pointed towards his door “GET OUT, RHETT JUST GO!” he took a step towards me and I didn’t back down, instead I stood firmly in place until he was standing in front of me, face red from anger. “I SAID GET OUT OF MY HOUSE” he pushed me and I stumbled only an inch.

“YOU BETTER WATCH IT, NEAL” my throat felt as though it were on fire, my vocal cords were strained and I knew by tomorrow there was the possibility I would have no voice at all. 

He pushed me again and I reared back as if I were going to hit him but the look on his face stopped me and I let my arm fall limply to my side before I turned and stormed out slamming his door so hard the glass rattled in the window beside it. “FUCK” 

I slid behind the wheel of my SUV and sped off in the direction of home, along the way I stopped by the liquor store and picked up a few things I knew I would be needing. Once at home I stretched myself out on the couch and began to drink, by 9 pm I had downed two bottles of wine and four glasses of scotch, I could feel my anger ebbing away into something deep seated and unpleasant.

By ten I felt as though the walls were closing in around me and I couldn’t take it anymore, I called for an uber and went upstairs to change into something more appropriate, I ran some pomade through my hair and tossed on a pair of skinny jeans, my maroon button up and to top it off I slid into the new leather jacket I had purchased recently. I checked myself out in the mirror one last time before heading back downstairs.

The uber arrived and escorted me to the local gay bar, I’d only been there one other time but the atmosphere was nice and comfortable and no one he knew came here so I was safe to just sit at the bar and drown myself in more alcohol.

I sat down on one of the many barstools that flanked the battered wooden bar and raised my hand to call over the bartender, he was a middle aged guy with a greying beard and warm hazel eyes, his nametag read “Arnold” and had a tiny rainbow in the corner. “Just a beer please” I said when he asked for my order and he pulled one from the cooler below the bar and handed it to me.

I had been there around 30 minutes when a man around my age with blue hair and tattoo’s sat down next to me, he looked friendly but intimidating. “Howdy” I said by way of greeting when he sat down his knee brushed my own and I felt my face grow warm.

The bartender came over with a whiskey on the rocks and sat it in front of the blue haired man, Arnold addressed him as Willow and I had to admit the name fit him well. Willow nodded to Arnold and then turned to me, his brown eyes locked onto mine and I felt myself grown warm once again.

“Having a rough night?” Willow asked me with a softer voice than I had originally thought he’d have. “It’s okay, don’t be shy sugar, tell Willow all about it” He’d urged kindly.

I found myself opening up to this complete stranger about Link and I’s fight, the way I had went over to his house and tried to tell him what I had been hiding from him since college, Link hadn’t taken the news well and I honestly shouldn’t have expected him to. “How would you react if your best friend of over thirty years had been hiding the fact he’d fucked your roommate while you slept on the top bunk since college?” I’d asked at some point and Willow just shook his head.

“Honey, It sounds like you need to blow off some steam” He’d said once I was finished dumping my sorrows on him, I raised my brow and he waggled his accompanying the action with a delighted giggle. 

I looked around and contemplated my next actions. Did I really want to go sleep with this stranger I’d known for only about an hour?. The answer was yes apparently because before I knew it I was on my knees in a bathroom stall with my lips around this strangers cock, sucking it like it was the only thing keeping me alive. The only thing that kept me from stopping though was the images in my mind, images of Link gripping my head the way Willow was now, his lithe body quivering as I sucked him off. If I hadn’t been imagining him I never would have been able to do it.

Once Willow was close he’d pulled me up by my hair and kissed me, I tasted him on my lips and shuddered, I hadn’t kissed another man since college and it was an odd sensation, I could tell he sensed something was up but that clearly didn’t matter. He turned me around and pinned me against the stall before yanking my already unzipped pants down, He didn’t seem to mind all of the times I cried out Link’s name and I was thankful for that.

I lay in my bed with my eyes closed, my head throbbing even more so than it had been during Link and I’s fight the day before. Willow had brought me home from the bar and slipped his number in my pocket, telling me to call if I needed his help again.

I was about to doze back off when my phone chirped notifying me of a text message, it was from Link.

“We need to talk, Now” I read the text three times before finally replying.

“Come over then”

I didn’t get a reply so I assumed Link was on his way, I forced myself to get a quick shower and pull on some sweat pants before he arrived. Finally I heard the knock at the door I had been anticipating for the past 25 minutes, he must have taken his time getting here considering it usually took him 15 minutes to arrive.

I opened the door and he pushed past me holding his phone in his hand tight enough his knuckles were white. “What?” I asked when he whirled around and pointed at me.

“What in the fuck is this!” he shouted as he fumbled with the phone for a moment before holding it in front of my face, he was absolutely seething as I looked at the image on the screen. My blood ran cold as I realized what it was, the photo was grainy but unmistakably me being led to the bathroom of the gay bar by Willow, his hand firmly on my ass. 

“H-How did you...” I sputtered, heart racing. “I don’t..I don’t understand”

Link looked at me with a pained look on his face and dropped the phone onto my coffee table. “I was there, Rhett” he said quietly , I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly but I didn’t ask him to repeat himself.

“I was outside your house last night, Rhett. I had come over to apologize for my behavior but then the uber showed up and I followed you to the bar...” His eyes were downcast now, he sounded a bit ashamed and I felt like hitting him and holding him all at the same time.

“How long...um, How long were you there?” I asked shakily, afraid of the answer. He looked up at me with a crooked smile, he looked haunted and beautiful.

“Long enough, Rhett. I watched you two talk from across the bar, I couldn’t hear what was being said of course.” He shook his head and let out a humorless chuckle. “Would you have continued to fuck him, or be fucked by him if you had known I was there?” he asked me but didn’t let me reply. “What about if you had known I was in the stall next to you, listening to the wet sounds of your lips around him, or the sound of you screaming my name as you were being filled hm?”  

I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t wrap my head around this information. Link had been in the bar, but not only that he’d been in the stall beside me while I was pretending he was in the same one with me, fucking me like I was just his toy.

“Does that turn you on, Rhett?” Link had gotten closer to me and was now running his finger up and down my heaving chest, eventually he brought it down my torso and stopped on the bulge that strained against my pants. “Ha, you don’t need to answer that, your body is answering for you” his eyes were clouded with lust as he groped me through my sweats.

“L-Link...I-Fuck!” I gasped as he dropped to his knees and quickly replaced his hands with his mouth, the warmth of it seeped through my pants and made my cock twitch. 

“Strip” Link ordered me as he stood back up wiping saliva from his lips and chin, there was a wet patch on my sweats which he rubbed one finger over before stepping away from me, allowing me room to move about.

I quickly obliged by yanking my pants down around my ankles before kicking them off entirely. Link rolled his eyes at my hastiness then grabbed me by the hips and forced me to turn away from him, then he pushed me down onto all fours. 

“You want me to fuck you, Rhett?” His voice was right in my ear and I could feel him leaning over me. “Want me to fill you up like that guy at the bar hm? Dirty boy” he chuckled when I nodded eagerly and let out a whimper.

I heard his zipper slide down and then the rustling of him removing his jeans, I risk a glance back and saw he had not worn any underwear, his cock bobbed enticingly and I could see a bead of pre-cum already coating his tip. “F-Fuck me, Daddy” I whimpered pleadingly, he must have liked it because he growled deep in his throat and began to stroke himself.

“Daddy’s going to fuck you so good baby, just you wait” He panted and forced himself to stop stroking, I had never seen him look so hungry, so ready for anything in his life. “Relax for me, come on” 

I did as he instructed and began to relax, I turned my head back towards the wall and closed my eyes. I was shocked when his finger pressed against my hole and began to spread lube over me. “Gotta get you ready” He said gruffly and pushed his finger into me, I shouted as it hit my prostate and he let out a hearty laugh.

Once he was convinced I was loose enough for him he knelt behind me and lined himself up with my twitching hole, I bit my lip when I felt him slip inside, he was bigger than Willow despite being a good 7 or 8 inches shorter in height, his cock felt thicker and veinier and had absolutely no trouble finding my prostate.

“Oh fuck, Link fuck fuck fuck” I panted wantonly as I rocked my hips back to meet his every thrust, He was so deep it felt like if I’d looked down I could see a bulge in my stomach even though I knew I wouldn’t. “P-Please Daddy” I begged though I didn't know what I was even begging for.

Link slapped my ass hard as he thrusted into me over and over mercilessly. “You don’t get to cum before Daddy, you better hold on” Link barked and yanked my hair. “You love this don’t you, Rhett. Love me using you like this” it wasn’t a question but I whimpered out a yes anyway.

Link’s movements began to stutter and I knew he was close with one final thrust he froze and I felt his cock pulsate inside of me spilling his cum deep within me, I felt so incredibly full, I cried out as my own orgasm rocked through me and I sprayed rope after rope of cum onto my hardwood floor. I shouted his name just as I had the night before but this time it wasn’t someone else filling me up, making me theirs. It was Link, my best friend, my Lover and I never wanted it to end, but it did and Link pulled out of me causing me to whimper at the emptiness I felt now that he wasn’t buried inside. 

“Fuck that was...” I trailed off as Link helped me up and led me to the couch, we both crumpled onto it in a heap of sweaty limbs. 

“I’m sorry we fought yesterday, I was..I was jealous, Rhett” Link admitted quietly. “I wanted you so bad back in college but I never, ever thought you’d be into guys and then after all these years I find out you fucked Gregg, while I was right there in the room.”

I felt so stupid, had I known Link felt that way towards me I would never wasted time on Gregg, Gregg was just an outlet, the same as Willow had been the night before and I explained that to him as we tried to calm our breathing.

Link forgave me but only on one condition, I wasn’t allowed to be with any other man, I had to be with him and him alone. I would be lying if I said that it was hard to agree, but it wasn’t, it was the easiest thing I’d ever agreed to.

[fatal-fic]

Dear Hanni [Part L-is-for-lesbian]

So basically I should never be allowed near a keyboard ever again. This is part of the monstrosity based on my darling @blind-inviting-alleys​ prompt for an AU where everything was the same but Hannibal wrote an advice column for The Baltimore Sun called “Dear Hanni.” Last part is here. AO3 is here.

Thank you to everyone who has been so incredibly kind and supportive! I <3 you.

-

H. Lecter [2:23]: Is there something you wish to discuss?

W. Graham [2:28]: No, why?

-

A. Bloom [5:38]: I’m not much for clubbing, but there’s a Louise Wheatley exhibit at the BMA I’ve been meaning to see.

B. Katz [5:40]: Who?

A. Bloom [5:48]: She does tapestries.

A. Bloom [5:49]: They’re beautiful.

A. Bloom [6:01]: I’m not actually very good at this.

B. Katz [6:05]: Neither am I, obviously.

B. Katz [6:08]: Omg, I just looked it up and there’s a Guerrilla Girls exhibit, too! I’m so in.

A. Bloom [6:10]: I’m free on Saturday.

B. Katz [6:13]: I am, too, as long as no one gets murdered.

A. Bloom [6:15]: Let’s hope no one gets murdered.

A. Bloom [6:16]: I mean, not that I’d normally want people to be murdered.

A. Bloom [6:17]: I just especially don’t want them to be murdered on Saturday.

B. Katz [6:20]: I got ya.

-

B. Katz [1:23]: …so about that…

[http://www.tattlecrime.com/story/2134…]

A. Bloom [1:38]: Shit.

-

CHESAPEAKE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN!

Tattle Crime EXCLUSIVE! by Freddie Lounds

The FBI has really gone to the dogs, once again giving the Chesapeake Ripper free reign to terrorize citizens. It must have something to do with resident psychopath Will Graham’s established hard-on for his favorite killer. Now that Graham is out of commission, perhaps the FBI will use real agents to put an end to this mockery of an investigation.

Sources familiar with the case say FBI reject Will Graham is being hospitalized with encephalitis, a condition that can cause mood swings, hallucinations and violent outbursts. Delivery specialist Cindy L. spoke with us about Graham’s erratic behavior at his Wolf Trap, Virginia home:

“He was freaking scary,” she said. “All I did was try to deliver some flowers. Who doesn’t like flowers? Boss had to give the guy his money back. He’s blacklisted now. Do you know how hard it is to get blacklisted by a florist?”

Nurses responsible for his care confirm Graham’s unstable behavior, as well as further floral deliveries from an as-yet unidentified boyfriend, who must be willing to look past his multitude of personality disorders.

Putting aside Graham’s many issues, this latest murder is a doozy. Louisiana resident Teddy Boudreau was found early Friday morning in a New Orleans animal shelter—that is to say, parts of him were found.

(Read more…)  

-

J. Crawford has sent an attachment. [Click to download]

W. Graham [5:14]: What the fuck, Jack? It’s 5am and you sent me someone’s heart on a platter.

W. Graham [5:15]: Literally.

W. Graham [5:20]: …Is that dog eating what I think he’s eating?

J. Crawford [5:21]: Yes.

J. Crawford [5:22]: I need to know if it’s him.

W. Graham [5:24]: Who?

J. Crawford[5:25]: You know who.

W. Graham [5:30]: A grainy cellphone photo isn’t much to go on.

J. Crawford [5:31]: Great, I’ll bring you the hard copies.

W. Graham [5:45]: Aren’t you afraid I’ll see little green men?

J. Crawford [5:50]: That was hitting below the belt. I apologize.

W. Graham [5:55]: Because I’m useful to you now.

W. Graham [6:01]: If you’re coming, you’d better bring fucking coffee.

-

J. Crawford [6:15]: I need access to Will Graham.

E. Pritchard [6:25]: How did you get this number?

J. Crawford [6:26]: I’m FBI. Your nurses are hampering a federal investigation.

E. Pritchard [6:30]: Is Mr. Graham a suspect?

J. Crawford [6:32]: No, he’s a highly valuable resource.

E. Pritchard [6:35]: He’s not going to be anyone’s resource if you don’t leave him the fuck alone and let him recover.

J. Crawford [6:36]: What part of federal investigation do you not understand?

E. Pritchard [6:43]: The part where you don’t have a warrant.

-

E. Pritchard [7:01]: You were right. Fucker tried to wake Graham up at ass-thirty in the morning.

H. Lecter [7:05]: You barred him from entry?

E. Pritchard [7:11]: With pleasure.

H. Lecter [7:15]: I appreciate your commitment to Mr. Graham’s recovery.

E. Pritchard [7:35]: Anything for a friend.

-

Dear Wit,

I am sure you are more complex than the manner in which you have presented yourself. There is certainly no shame in appreciating the finer things in life. You sound like a gentleman of distinction.

It is clear that you have made every effort ensure your colleague feels safe and desired. However, romance requires two, and your colleague is an unknown factor. If he is indifferent to your advances, you may drive him away by forcing the issue.

Or perhaps it is fear that motivates him. Many hesitate to cross the boundaries of propriety, believing incorrectly that a safe and comfortable life somehow surpasses a life thoroughly lived. Perhaps he guards his heart knowing that it is both softer and bloodier than he wishes to believe.

You have done all you can. The ball is, as they say, in his court. Does he have the courage to play? That remains to be seen.

Yours,

Hanni

-

((In case this wasn’t clear, Will was being a sasshole by impersonating Hannibal in the last “Dear Hanni” letter. Hannibal is responding to both Will and Will’s perception of Hannibal… as well as Hannibal’s perception of Will’s perception of Hannibal… and also—okay, I’m gonna stop now.

P.S. - Louise Wheatley and Guerrilla Girls are actually on display at the Baltimore Museum of Art right now if you’re in the area.))

[thejabberwokk]

I wandered through Google docs and all I found was this...

So slept all damn day... But it was OKAY!   Because I had a dream.

And in this dream, My boyfriend and I were living in a post apocalyptic wasteland that was like Diablo 3, Skyrim and Borderlands all in one.  And and... he wasn’t actually a human.

He had this mask on most of the dream that covered the lower half of his face. Totes magotes was one of those skull like bike masks. The neat leather ones that are all molded and carved. HE never would tell me why he wore it, and I never saw him take it off for like... ever.  Then we get to this one town and he’s all

‘I have to see a person about a curse,” And i just roll with it. And the person trying to break the curse is like “yah gotta take that their mask off so I can see the damage.”  AND HE TAKES OF THE MASK HE”S NEVER TAKEN OFF FOR YEARS.

(This was very important to my dream self. Cuz damn did I love the man but I knew something had to be up. Doesn’t eat in front of me, doesn’t give kisses.)

So he gets all flustered cuz this lil old wild west lookin lady is telling him to take his mask off and I’m just sitting there like, yes. take that damn thing off. So he does, and it’s the neatest/weirdest visual my brain has ever given me.

His fucking mouth is literally floating in front of his face like a hologram. All jittery and grainy and just weird. Like there's no hole in his face, it's all smooth. From the side you can see this projected mouth floating but from the front it's flush like a snapchat filter.

He’s all super self conscious and I’m just in awe and like, Oh, this is why you don’t kiss. Western lady just waves me off and i leave them to their task.

Then some other bull shit happens. (mainly me defending his honor when a dick steals his mask, then later having to rescue him and a bunch of other significant others from a psychotic doctor that pissed off all the womenfolk in town. Lots of blood and death, because I can’t ever just have a pleasant dream.)

After I get my man back from the ass hats that kidnapped him we head back to where the old lady had her shop. It’s apparently now an inn of some sort and we chill at the bar. I’m not really feeling it after having to kill the assholes in the murder house/doctors office.  I keep asking him if it made me as bad as them. Which according to him I wasn’t. I apparently always went into situations without weapons, because I thought that meant I was performing premeditated murder, so if someone attacked me and I grabbed the closest pointy thing, it was self defence and the protection of others.

As I continue to mope he keeps trying to comfort me- rubbing his hands across my shoulders and up and down my arms, Pulling me into his side trying to hug me while we sat on the stools, nuzzling the top of my head and placing little kisses on my forehead.

Yup, that got my attention and startled me out of the funk. I turn to him with eyes wide and just stare. My brows furrowing as I can’t quite grasps that I’m seeing him without his mask. Or rather that after seeing him earlier with the floaty mouth, that I’m seeing his face looking I suppose, normal. He looks sheepishly at me and rubs the back of his head as I just let my face fall into a glower. I felt stupid for not noticing he was looking  ‘normal’ and just couldn’t deal with it.

He got up from his stool and held his hand out to me, mentioning we should go get some rest. I just stared at his hand, then back to his face. My gaze kept falling back to his mouth, and I knew he knew because he just kept giving me this cheeky little grin.

I flung myself from my stool at him and as he caught me, I wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and kissed him thoroughly. (Somehow he could not only catch me fat ass but could carry me, which in waking world I only weigh like 15-20 lbs less then him lol.) My momentum, and the suddenness of my affectionate assault cause him to step backwards into a wall with a thud, so he just leaned back and kissed me fervently.

Next thing I know we are on the floor making out, the old lady tells us to go to our room, so he scoops me up all bride style and we go upstairs. My mind actually didn’t let me watch my own smutt.

After everything though, I’m laying on his chest as he runs his fingers across teh skin of my back.  I’m all sorts of relaxed but I’m curious now. SO I ask him what was up with the curse.

“Well, I apparently pissed off some chick years and years ago and she had her mom curse me with an interdimensional portal for a mouth.” I snorted as he said this and looked up at him, brows arched.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he just shakes his head and leans his face down towards my ear.

“It didn’t work right though.”

“No shit.”

“I’m not exactly human. So it did that floating thing instead of a gaping hole.” Now I look up at him, and due to him being so close we bump noses.

“I had a feeling that was the case. I’ve never seen you eat.” I screwed my face up thought. “What are you then, handsome?”

He chuckles softly, hugging me close. “Close your eyes and I’ll show you.”

I complied and rested my cheek against his chest, listening to the odd rhythm of his heart. “Am I going to freak out in a bad way, or in my normal ‘this is awesome’ way” I asked softly, I could feel his body shift beneath me. COuld feel his body temperature increase then go cold.  If suddenly felt like I was too small, my legs wide trying to straddle his waist.

He let out a hiss of breath and low rumble shook me through his chest.

“You can look now.”

I braced myself instead. My hands glided up what had been his chest, but now felt like his waist had elongated. Fingers brushed against taunt muscle, muscles that were much larger than I could recall. Finally my hands grasped his shoulders and I pulled myself slowly up his body, hoping that when I opened my eyes, we’d be at least eye-mouth level.

Fangs in a slightly wider version of that cheeky grin I had only earlier been introduced too. Those were the first thing I saw. I close my eyes again quickly looked back over my shoulder, trying to see what exactly had happened there too. While he was lanky before, he seemed more so now, though all the lank was muscled like a great cat.  Taking in a shuddering breath I felt him run his hands down my back, and what felt like claws gently tracing his fingers path. All the way down to my hips, where he let them lay, gently kneading my flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut and turn back forward, my lip caught between my teeth as I prepared myself.

I think it was the way his eyes were glowing, yet pitch black that made my heart flutter.  They were like looking at old photos of black holes, and watching in the videos how they consumed their neighbors. I brought a hand up and traced his jawline.  All the angles of his face were different- more angled, more sharp. But I still saw the man I’d been with for ages, especially when the corners of his eyes crinkled as he leaned his face down to rest his forehead against mine.

I couldn’t help but swallow hard and blush. I looked at him through my lashes and quirked a brow.

“So, you’re still hot. What the fuck?” He just laughed and leaned back on the pillows. I pulle dmy hands under my chest and pushed up from his.

“And you have horns. That’s not fucking fair.” I crossed my arms against my chest and huffed in mock annoyance. I felt so silly being this enamored with him in this form, but I guess after the time we had been together, one of us getting a style/physical level up was a bit more then I could handle. He laughed again, then ran his now dark blue tongue across his lips, his thumbs pressing into the crook of my hips. I dropped my arms and rested my hands on his, rubbing my fingers across his knuckles. His fingers felt much longer and as I watched him watching me, I give him a slow smile.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I finally asked. He let out a snort and shrugged.

“Honestly, I haven’t been back in this form since before I met you. That curse kinda screwed things up.” He sat up then, pulling me close as we shifted positions. I nuzzled my face into his neck and sighed.

“It’s not fair.” Bringing a hand to my face he shifted me so I was looking at him.

“I’m sorry, pretty lady.”  He kissed me softly and I sighed against his lip.

“I want to have a hot, cool form too.” I mumbled as he hugged me to his chest and pulled me back down onto the bed. He buried his nose in my hair and let his fingers wander my body.

“You can go back to the other form, right?” He hummed an affirmative and I snuggled closer. “Good, cuz I might not always be in the mood to be out shone by, whatever it is you are. But considering our entire relationship has only ever been cuddles, and screwing, I’m happy you have a mouth.” I can feel im laughing in his chest and join in. It was ridiculous.

[shutupxdance-blog]

THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES! 3

『♬♬♬』

It’s the FUTURISTIC SPACE YEAR OF 2002, and a HIGHWAY TO HEAVEN logo bounces around the sky behind Cíoroc, as pixelated stars shine above a poorly 3D-rendered city. “And in the end, it turns out that all Arno Cyberspace 2, the evil one, ever needed, was to be loved, and also for the evil AI that he made for some reason to be destroyed because nobody had thought of doing that before. But enough about our serious lore, and on to what really matters: the characters. They’re what we’re all here for, after all. That’s what some of our producers forget sometimes, you know? What we’re really here for. Welcome back to another segment of 『THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES!』” He pauses. “It’s a pun this time.”

“When I was younger,” Horang’s, or rather, Chan-yeol’s voice begins in the interview footage, “I would look at kkachi horangi paintings, which were totally weird looking, but fun at the same time. They meant something back then, but I don’t remember what.”  A young boy and his slightly older sister sit alone in the house, while a festival goes on outside. The footage, no longer as grainy as the VHS footage from previous segments but now afflicted by screen tearing, pixelated noise, frame skipping, and a wide variety of other playback glitches, switches to two adults, clearly the parents, gambling away in a smoky room. “Tigers are known to keep evil away and good luck in, which is what I fucking need. I’m not that superstitious,” Chan-yeol continues as the young boy gets older, attending high school, walking curiously down the streets of a red light district, surrounded by adverts for strip clubs and bars, “But taking on the name might give me something at least. Maybe at least confidence.”

“It sounds over the top and glittery,” STELLAR —Seishirou — says from across the table, green hair in stark contrast to Cíoroc’s pink, as a young boy in the low-res archival footage is shoved against a well by a trio of larger boys, a glitch obscuring the screen before he’s left wiping a bloody nose and being comforted by another boy as he cries, “I’m really into that.”

“What’s your price, baby?” Cíoroc asks, voice crisp and clear, winking behind his shades at the unfortunate souls on the other side of the table.

Chan-yeol walks into a cabaret, music thudding, drunk patrons cheering, someone dancing on stage. “The cabaret, as it is. My boss... y’see...” After the show, he approaches the dancer, the words they say to each other inaudible as the voiceover takes precedence, but a few months later he’s back, waiting tables, and even later than that, the footage flickering as it fast-forwards, everything advancing at an incredible pace, he’s a singer up on the stage, getting money and spending it as soon as he gets it, an unending cycle of fluorescent lights and the bottom of a bottle. One day, he comes in, and the man who he talked to on his first night is nowhere to be seen, a number of people hurrying to show him a pile of paperwork left on a table which he stares at with bleary confusion. “He ran away after signing my name under everything. All of it. He was the piece of shit who got me here in the first place and left me behind.” Meetings with unsavory people, men in black suits, midnight drives. “I... can’t keep a whole business afloat and worry if these people are gonna die because of me. I can’t live with that. “

Seishirou’s voice is as calm and conversational as ever, the version of him in the glitchy archival footage studying late nights, getting more and more confident as the years flicker by, the same boy who comforted him by his side the entire time. “Simply put; my medical license.” Seishirou is wearing a white coat and a smile as the voiceover continues, studying even harder. “It was more than just a piece of paper. It was even more than the proof of some years spent at school. I can earn it back if I make it through, of course, but nothing will replace that… physical proof that I survived.” He walks with his friend, the two happily talking, when all of a sudden the boy, now a man, is struck by a speeding bus. As the Seishirou in the footage runs over, forcing his panic aside to begin performing medical procedures, the voiceover is calm, if a little wistful. “That I didn’t kill myself and got to study what I love. The reminder of everything Hideki has done to help me… It meant a lot to me, that silly piece of paper. But Hideki means so much more to me.”

There’s another glitch, strange colours and dead pixels radiating out from the center of the screen, the sound alert of an error message playing over and over again, layering over itself until the voiceover is now Memory’s voice. Meri’s voice, cheerful and lighthearted. “Hmmm....Aha, you caught me there!” A building collapses violently on screen, an accident that must have killed dozens or hundreds and that likely doesn’t cross the mind of the young girl, no more than a toddler, being delivered to the front door of an elderly couple, far too old to be her parents. She doesn’t mourn, she doesn’t cry, she just goes about her life, going to school, talking to her grandparents, and going up to her room to use her computer, a cycle that just repeats over and over again, each brief conversation barely worth a frame of video. “I just thought it sounded cute…but I suppose I could say because I’m very reminiscent of the past, haha.”

A young Meri does make a friend, walking everywhere with a girl, wearing matching outfits, and then one day, she says something, her posture making it clear what it is: a confession. The girl shouts at her, recoiling, and leaves. Meri looks crushed, and the next few years of her life are dull, colours drained from the footage, going by in a low-res blur. The cycle continues, a non-existence, until she starts taking photos of herself in different outfits and a screen tear causes the audio to jump; when the video resumes, Meri is posing for the cover of a magazine. “My medicine. For my illness, that is,” she says, as the magazine crumples and falls out of view, Meri now dressed not in any designer outfit but in a hospital gown. “Haha. It was only important to me...like...physically. To keep me alive. I don’t really give a shit about them. Without them, I’ll probably die way sooner than expected. That’s fine though. I’d rather live a few weeks in happiness opposed to living like this for another miserable decade.” An IV is hooked up to her arm and she lies in bed, checking her phone, refreshing repeatedly before putting it down. “I can’t keep living like this anymore.”

The footage is crisp and clean now, right from the show, ad banners running along the bottom of the screen, and Seishirou, Horang and Meri are talking, laughing together, sharing a moment. A roll of distortion obscures them and then Seishirou is standing over his friend, lying with his eyes closed in a hospital bed, another doctor saying something that can’t be made out, vague electronic beeping the only indication that this footage ever had audio. “It’s nothin’ more and nothin’ less than the knowledge needed to cure,” the doctor keeps talking, and Seishirou’s posture gets tenser and tenser,  “Full body paralysis, specifically, irreparable nerve damage, anything I need to know to prevent unexpected complications. I want to-... I need to be able to do it myself. I can’t fail again.” There’s a skip, another barrage of error messages and for a few moments a frame of Seishirou’s friend lying, against a storefront is interposed on a frame of Meri sleeping in a hospital bed and then with the rapidly flickering images of Horang and Seishirou’s bodies. “Why? Maybe because I’m selfish. Maybe because I can’t let go of someone I care deeply about. Of course, Hideki is the only thing on my mind most of the time, but… That doesn’t mean I can’t keep using that knowledge for good after, right?”

“Everybody wants to feel secure, right? Everybody wants to feel like they can take care of themselves in the future. That they don’t have to spend their rent money on food or lose it all because... ha. They gambled it all away.” That’s Chan-yeol’s voice, of course. The scenes of footage are brief. Dancing. The bottom of a bottle. Singing. Wads of cash, thrown at him. A meal at a restaurant. Gambling. Dates with a number of different people; a graphical glitch seems to blur them all together at one point. “I just want to finally... settle my debt. I want loan sharks off my ass. I want my name off of any papers I didn’t actually sign. I just want to get out of the fucking underground.” The cycle repeats and it doesn’t stop, but soon there’s conversations with shady-looking men, and the dancing and singing are replaced with carrying strange packages, a man in a too-nice suit helping him go over paperwork. “I could... buy back jobs. Build a new cabaret. I could send my sister money. Ji-min... I could fund her whole life for her, if she wanted me to. Fuck, I’ll even send my parents to a retirement home in the future.” The lights of the red light district pulse and throb like the lights of the faerie world. “I just. I just want control, for once. Money has always been control.”

Chan-yeol is sitting in a casino, and then there’s a wipe and it’s Meri in a casino, faeries each jostling for her business, wide smiles and glowing eyes and eclectic outfits. A text box offers GLIMPSES OF THE FUTURE and she smiles at the faerie behind the table, who holds up a deck of cards enticingly. “I don’t actually care about modelling all that much. I just want the fame I used to have before it was taken away from me.” Archival footage is intercut, a girl who looks just a little but not quite like Meri wearing outfits like hers, smiling like hers, on the cover of every magazine. “Everyone who admired me. I want them back.” Back to the show, and Meri is staring into the distance, shellshocked. In her room, she puts on a mask. “I’m scared to die alone,” she admits in the voiceover, as the Meri on screen grips a sword tightly in her hand. “My career...The fame that came with it...it’s the only thing that’s ever made me truly happy. It’s the only thing that made living feel different from being dead for once.” There’s another digital glitch, and Chan-yeol — or should that be Horang? — goes down, blood staining his clothes. “I’ve never felt that before..besides when I found out I was dying and lost all that I cared about. Then dying felt much scarier than living. I don’t want to die afraid and alone.” Seishirou’s eyes widen as he looks at the scene — Meri turns to him and says something, the movement of her lips blurred out by errant slides of colour. “I want to die while I’m still happy. I want people to be sad. I want them to miss me. I don’t want my existence to be forgotten and meaningless.”

She’s talking to Cíoroc in the interview, happy, ready for the show to begin. “After all, I don’t have any family left to carry on my blood. I feel bad that...I don’t miss them like they deserve. I’m rather hypocritical for not wishing the same upon myself, huh?” Cíoroc listens, smile serene and implacable as always. Seishirou, or, well, STELLAR, bleeds out, expression peaceful. Horang lies on the floor.

Chan-yeol’s voice speaks as Horang Lee bleeds out on the floor. “...I visit my sister. I tell her... as much as I can about all the years we were apart. I don’t tell her about this show, but I tell her that some... big local talent show gave me a shot and I won. I tell her something, but bottom line,” and the footage begins to fade into nothing but electronic noise, “I spend the rest of my life taking care of her. I find everybody whose lives I ruined because of the cabaret and send them money. I buy a real apartment. Maybe I’ll get a cat. And I just... live as quietly and as peacefully as possible until I die. That’s my plan.” The lights of the red light district flash and pulse. It’s always the same; prices and prizes.

STELLAR and Meri… well, it’s Memory, right? — talk as the former dies. Instead of their voices, it’s Seishirou’s dub. “Help Hideki. He… Ahah, it’s weird. I know he wasn’t too keen on staying alive, especially the past years. How the tables had turned, right?” He looks serious as he gives the interview answer to Cíoroc. Far away, a man lies motionless in a hospital, hooked up to wires and monitors. “But I can’t… let him meet his end like this. Withering away in a hospital bed. Lucid but immobile. I want another chance at making him happy. Doing for him what he did for me. And, selfishly, I... don’t want to live without him. “ On the stage of HIGHWAY TO HEAVEN, STELLAR breathes his last breath. “After that, well… I just hope we can keep living. Together.”

The rest is familiar. Memory at the trial. The execution. Her smile at the interview table is bright and cheery. A glitch causes another screen tear, half of the pixels of the hospital bed visible onscreen instead of what should be there. “Live for however long I have left. Enjoy the admiration. Die happily and surrounded by people. Be remembered. I don’t care if it’s only a few weeks or so. As long as I...get it back. Hey, even if I don’t win though...hopefully I’ll be remembered- no, immortalized...through this show?”

And with that, it’s back to Cíoroc. He’s still smiling, but it’s a curious smile. It’s not a happy one. Is he, perhaps, actually sad? Nah, that’s impossible. “Hahahaha… it’s a funny thing, right? She’s just like me when I was younger. Oh, the good old days. Who’d have thought old Watershed from season three would end up a star like Cíoroc Mair, huh?” A pixelated portrait of Memory flickers into existence behind him inside an empty Paint window. “Don’t worry, Memory. Nobody’s going to forget a performance like that. Nobody. You don’t get the fame you wanted, but you’re not in bad company there, not with Kleos from season one, Taiyang from season two, Cathode from season five, Divinity from season seven, Gloria from season nine, Starlight from season ten, Parameshwara from season twelve, Sveca from season thirteen, Five from season fourteen, Yeong-gwang from season sixteen, Shirley from season eighteen, Ursula from season nineteen,  Bundy from season twenty-one, Uzuri from season twenty-three, Alexandria from season twenty-five, Glamorama from season twenty-seven, Shrine from season twenty-eight, Takibi from season thirty, Ganymede from season thirty-two, al-Aziz from season thirty-four, Zhuchiren from season thirty-six, and Blue from season thirty-seven!”

Although he names a lot of names, Memory’s portrait remains central, each portrait of another contestant circling hers in a curious sort of mosaic. After a few seconds, Cíoroc reaches out, taps the ‘save’ button, and continues as Horang’s portrait appears. “Wishing for money to get out of their problems we find Scoop from season one, Rat from season three, Cooper from season five, Marie Antoinette from season seven, Flashpoint from season ten, Don from season eleven, Real from season thirteen, Jinzi from season sixteen, Penny from season seventeen, Boxcars from season nineteen, Grendel from season twenty-three, Gatsby from season twenty-five, X from season twenty-nine, Rembrandt from season thirty-four, and Kisamata from season thirty-eight.” With another tap, a portrait of STELLAR joins them. “And wishing for the skills to save a friend or loved one, we see STELLAR joining up with Chaos from season four, Desperado from season eight, Bonnie from season thirteen, Sun Wukong from season nineteen, Gwydion from season twenty-five, and Sancho Panza from season thirty-two.”

He pauses. “This show’s been going on for a long time, huh? Kind of makes you wonder when it’s going to grind to a stop. Oh, wait, that’s right, never! The show must go on, and we’ve got an audience who wants to keep watching, right? Still, the longer we make it, the more it feels like everyone’s moving on. Even the people watching right now, you know? They’ve moved on in their hearts already. Showbiz, baby. It can be tough. See you all next episode, where we’ll be challenging our contestants to survive in the deadly wilderness of an on-studio location with a full camera crew! Constant scenery changes keep things from getting fresh and stale by letting characters interact in new settings, you know? That’s just a little showbiz secret!”

Cíoroc then proceeds to make robot noises for the entire remaining thirty-minute duration of the broadcast.