#i already had a very very short draft (more like. ten lines with a 'maybe????????' as title) and then luluxa posted. THAT art piece.

[fruitybashir]

husbands taking care of bojan🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

i know its a trope thats been done many times before but god if im not so fucking weak for it though.................................

[chameleonspell]

HTDC commentary - 1: numb

[Looking back at HTDC after nearly ten years: comments on lore, character notes, influences, art, whatever. May contain spoilers for later chapters.]

chapter text: 1: numb

This chapter has had the most edits over time, as my writing skills increased, and I got ever more annoyed at the state of the opening, which ought not to be the worst writing in the fic, if I wanted anyone to stick around. It still needs work, but I was not made of infinite energy. I largely just tried to improve what was already there, rather than do what I really ought to have done, which is do some proper scene-setting. None of the early chapters have much in the way of description, especially of places. I was very much working on the principle that it was fanfic, and the whole point of fanfic was that I didn't need to do that. My assumed reader was intimately familiar with Seyda Neen, because my assumed reader was myself. I was absolutely writing only the bits I enjoyed writing, which was dialogue.

I'm still torn on the first paragraph, because in trying to make it more interesting, I mostly only succeeded in making it florid and purple. The reason I let it stand is because of a favourite excuse of mine for slightly ridiculous writing - it accurately reflects the mental state of the protagonist, i.e. tangled and confused. I will use this excuse again.

(See, maybe there's no description because Iriel's really out of it, and can't register anything! Bad writing is diegetic if the characters are having a bad time!)

Iriel was dragged

Not the exact wording of the original first-draft opening line, but I edited it in for symmetry, after I wrote the last words of the last chapter ("Iriel moved forwards").  Which was, according to an email I sent at the time, in June 2015, so less than three months after I wrote the first words? That seems crazy. I do remember writing a first draft of the ending chapter quite early on, but... that early? Gosh.

When I say I wrote the ending three months after the beginning, I mean that I ONLY wrote the ending. I then spent two more years, filling in the 198 chapters in between.

The contrasting significance of the beginning and ending lines was expanded from something Philip Pullman said about making sure the first and last words of His Dark Materials were both "Lyra", because it's her story, and she encompasses it.

the guard had seized the elf by his bony wrist

A running theme of Iriel's physical trauma triggers: grab him by the wrist and he's liable to shut down completely. A jail thing, of course - make sure the magic user can't cast spells.

His bare toes snagged between the planks of the jetty

Every time I read this, I flinch, and feel the exact sensation, because it is such a terrible, terrible sensation. I know I do worse things to Iriel later, but I might hate this one the most.

Oh gods. Come on, Ire.

Many people have told me they found they were pronouncing Iriel wrong, when they read him sound it phonetically in chapter 90: "Iriel. Eye-ree-el." I can see their point, but in that case, I want to know how they were pronouncing "Ire", the shortening he gives, right at the start! Which is an English word, pronounced like the Ire in Ireland, so I hoped that implied the pronunciation of Iriel

Regarding Iriel's name: I chose it because it was visually short, having a lot of long, thin letters in it, and I liked the symmetry of the capital I and the lower-case L at the end. The shortened version, Ire, is even more featherweight, barely more than a pronoun. This is a real boon for a protagonist name that's gonna turn up in almost every sentence - you can throw it in a lot, for clarity, and it doesn't look awkward. 

I think I found it in a name list on uesp.net, and I don't think it was specifically feminine-coded at the time? ESO was only just out, so I refuse to be blamed for things it added to canon, such as two female NPCs called Iriel. My personal headcanon is that it's a unisex Altmeri name and the first i is pronounced short when it's feminine, and long when it's masculine. In his not-strictly-canon tumblr bookclub with @quickchangeartist's OC Moraelyn, Iriel says of his name:

P.S. i rolled my eyes gently at your “dear little bird” bit, but did you actually know my name is avian-derived, or was that an adorable accident? an iriel is a very pretty but sadly extinct type of finch (I am less pretty, but also less dead, a condition with which i am (on good days) content.) My mother selected the name in order to make me more matrimoniably palatable to her bird-mad noble friend. So mercenary

Iriel’s eyes jittered from surface to surface. “I was in the hold! I didn’t see anything! I don’t know anything about boats! I mean, the sail’s clearly square-rigged, but a brig should have at least two masts, I really have no idea what you’d call it, I didn’t get a chance to examine, I… I was in the hold. I don’t know anything.

In draft one, all Ire said was that he didn't know anything about boats. Then I reread it later, when it had been established that Iriel's dad was a fisherman, Iriel knows how to sail a simple boat, has absorbed a fair amount of nautical terminology, and, in general, KNOWS ABOUT BOATS! Which, I have to warn you, from a writer's perspective, is a fucking terrible thing to have your character know about. The research is a nightmare. Never have a character know anything about boats!

Anyway, I decided it was much funnier if he reeled off a bunch of technical stuff about boats, while still claiming he didn't know anything about them, because... he's just that confused? His reflexive paranoid guilt makes him deny knowledge under questioning on general principle? He doesn't think of himself as someone who knows about boats, in comparison to his dad? Yes.

someone a head taller than he was

I forget at what point I established Iriel's precise height. He's 6'4", which is below average, for an Altmer, but tall for Morrowind, a shift of identity and perspective he never quite adjusts to.

“Oh. Well… my name is Iriel of Lillandril. Which is far too many Is and Ls in one name, and really, you’d think my parents would’ve known better. We Altmer use loconymics, as I’m sure you know, so–”

Again, I chose Lillandril more or less at random from the Summerset map, based on it having a lot of Is and Ls, which felt right, all tall and Altmery, and a little bit ridiculous. Say it three times fast and you're basically yodelling. Later, I established Lillandril as Fantasy Wales, accent-wise, which made it even better.

ESO might have since established something different with Altmer surnames, lore-wise, but I don't know or care. Loconymics (being named for the place you come from) seem the norm for Altmer in Morrowind, and I like that.

I made up "loconymic", though googling now, there are other uses. I probably should have used toponym, as loconym is a greek-latin mix, which is bad practice. But I wanted a word for "named after a place" where the meaning was easily inferrable, without knowing either Greek or Latin, and "locus" is more familiar from words like "location" than "topos" is. I was trying to keep my linguistic technobabble vaguely intelligible!

In the very first draft, Iriel claimed he was a foundling in this line mentioning his parents, which was my attempt to stick to the exact terms of the whole Morrowind "uncertain parentage" thing. But I very quickly retconned it, realising there was far more mileage in having Iriel know he was connected by blood to his parents, and all the Altmeri angst he has over that. Only the first of many, many in-game "facts" I decided to bend or outright contradict! But it took me a while to realise I was allowed to do that, now, that I didn't have to keep to canon, as long as everything hangs together. In this case, I justified it later, by saying that the Empire had recorded Iriel as having unknown parents, because that's what he told them when he was arrested, in a futile attempt to prevent his family finding out.

pale-gold Altmer face, amber eyes and soft brown hair.

I had read something that advised writers to give hot, fiery angry characters warm colouration, and cold, reserved characters cool colouration, and I thought that was stupid. Iriel's not exactly cold (just numb), but Altmer in general are seen as cold, especially in contrast to fire-themed Dunmer, and... anyway, I wanted a warm-toned Altmer, because why not? Amber eyes is pretty, but not extravagantly so. I didn't want him to be exceptional, in any way - he's someone who can easily vanish from sight and memory, after all. So, he gets the most "boring" hair colour, mouse brown, which I have a soft spot for.

@Sinilakki sent me a picture very soon after I posted this chapter, and I was delighted, because clearly my limited physical description had worked - it was perfect. My first ever picture of Iriel, and it's still one of my absolute favourites.

“You are male, aren’t you? Hard to tell with you elves.” Ire racked his addled brain for the sort of lacerating response he would have given to that, in better days, but failed miserably.

The first thing to produce an actual spark of defiance in Iriel, even if he doesn't manage to act on it. Ire's experiences of Imperials having offensive ideas about elven gender will reoccur, once he's in a fit state to lecture about it.

Ire squeaked, and shifted as best he could, stumbling towards the door and struggling with the handle until it finally obeyed him.

All this is so early Pratchett, isn't it? Rincewind, but younger and gayer. Make a wet, nervous wizard and give him problems.

previous: 0: intro next: 2: labels

[yesireadbooks]

Writer Questions Tag

This is gonna be loonggg... haha. Thank you @starbuds-and-rosedust for the tag!

Gently tagging: @the-chaotic-writer @holdmyteaplease @enne-uni @ashwithapen and an open tag for you!

1) What motivates you to write?

Ok, this is a very philosophical one. I've always had a lot of stories but never the right audience to tell them. So, I began to write. This was an on and off thing going on for a while and was basically a thing I did during holidays. But, now that school is a bit easier and the work load lighter, I can start telling my stories. So, whilst the need to tell my stories is one motivation, I also want to write something which would leave an imprint on the reader(s). Something that would either someone finds relatable or opens up someone's perspective.

2) A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)

Ooof, so, there is this one opening I'm in love with. Mainly cuz it attacks me haha. This is from Experiment 615.

Word on the streets is that if you see a scientist and a policeman together, you are either the next experiment, or the last one is near you. But no one thought of a story for when five policemen, two scientists and ten soldiers and two army generals arrive at the Chromia State High School. So, here is one.

3) Which OC makes you smile every time you think/talk about them and what are they like?

This one undoubtably goes to Hoshito, whom you might already know cuz I rant about her like a lot. She is a toddler, speaks only Japanese and an adopted child following the death of her parents during a car crash (I'm sorry, little one). She is so adorable and sometimes instead of writing, I just keep smiling at my screen.

4) What process of writing do you enjoy the most?

This is a quite hard one; I've never thought about it. But now that I did, I think my favourite part is reading through the second or third draft, which would ideally be the best version of my wip.

5) What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)

Ouch, this one hurts my self-depreciating personality. I think I am good at conveying emotions via psychiatric reactions. That is becuz I tend to find ways to info dump in my wips and this is the way I info dump Psychiatry. That helps me write some realistic foreshadowing as well as maybe comical hints.

6) What is something in the writeblr community is most enjoyable?

I love the engagement and encouragement of the community. Because, after my English Teacher, this is the only community that has actually said something good about my writing. Academic and Fictional.

7) A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)

I find notepad very very useful in my writing. I use LibreOffice Writer for normal writing but sometimes when I have only sketch ideas, or poems, I first write it in notepad and then, cross edit with multiple tabs open.

8) A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)

Ooohh, now I won't bombard you with this, I have @scalmropia for that, but I will rant about the royal attire I made for the Monarch and Princess Admiral.

9) What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?

This is something I often tell myself. Take a moment and do something else, like maybe draw an OC or make a map or maybe even do something crazy like writing a national anthem or an army skit. That way, you can help yourself immerse more in the wip(s) while also reducing the pressure. Personally, doing this has made me think up better character dynamics, flow of story and even some new pre/sequel or unrelated wips.

Also, try unrelated short stories and poetry. That helps to stretch and loosen you brain muscles (not literally haha) and in the long run, help with your main writing.

Also, doing something else also might push you for balancing wips and other creatives. It did that to me.

10) Tag some people whose works you love/have been your biggest supporters:

Well, it goes without question that @holdmyteaplease is my biggest supporter while @enne-uni @sanbukk3t @anonymousfoz @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @starbuds-and-rosedust are some of my biggest supporters. Thank you so much y'all, much love and appreciation! Then when I comes to people whose works, I love, I cannot stress this enough, I LOVE ALL OF YOUR (plural) WORKS.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk..!

Clean question set under the cut

1) What motivates you to write?

2) A line/short snippet of your writing that you are most proud/happy of. If not maybe share a line of someone else's work you love (just please credit them)

3) Which OC makes you smile every time you think/talk about them and what are they like?

4) What process of writing do you enjoy the most?

5) What part of writing do you think you are the best at? (Yes stroke your own ego it's okay)

6) What is something in the writeblr community is most enjoyable?

7) A writing tool/device you use that helps you with writing? (It could be speech to text, a writing program etc)

8) A piece of worldbuilding that you like in your own story? (It could be the magic system, a particular place in the story, a law etc)

9) What piece of advice would you say to encourage others to write if they are having a rough patch?

10) Tag some people whose works you love/have been your biggest supporters:

[alchemicallymoon]

Commentary for my latest fic!

I liked explaining my thoughts the last time I did a commentary, so I did another! As always, feel free to ask if you have any more questions or things you'd like to know!

Link to the fic here https://archiveofourown.org/works/52146427

As mentioned in the tags of the fic, this has no connections at all to my other fics. I try to keep a consistent lore with my Splatoon fics, in terms of timeline and characters. There was no way that this fic would fit into that. I planned on making it separate from the beginning, though, it wasn’t a problem that I wanted to fix.

This fic was probably 90% done when I posted the first chapter. That’s partly because of how in depth my draft was—I knew exactly what I wanted each chapter to look like. But it’s also because I didn’t write it entirely in order. I would write scenes for chapters 2 and 3 before finishing chapter 1. It was mostly a “I need to write this idea immediately because it sounds so perfect in my head” situation, followed by “maybe it wasn’t so perfect, I should edit it.” I would write notes, but they ended up being so long and detailed that it was better to just write the whole scene.

Ch 1 I had a few goals with this chapter, and after thinking about it, it’s more of a prologue than anything. One goal was to make it clear that both Four and Eight use she/her pronouns. People use a variety of pronouns for their Agent OCs, (for my consistent lore, Four uses they/them,) so I thought it would be good to make it clear, even if the tags and category already say that. Side note: It’s such a chore writing two characters with the same pronouns together, because you either have to overuse their names or risk being ambiguous.

Another was showing that Eight is still new to the surface, and inkling culture. One way I did that was by having her really take note of things that inklings might take for granted—like the view from the café. If she were still in the octarian domes or the metro, she wouldn’t be able to see so much of a city from so high up, nor have it be lit by real sunlight. Another thing I did was having her forget inklish, or speak in odd ways. The two most obvious parts are the coffee scene, and the fact that she doesn’t use contractions. I avoid going too far with writing language learners unless it’s a more central part of the plot.

I wanted to make it clear that they were not already dating (again, even though the tags already say that.) I think not mentioning that they are dating is a good solution, considering the intro of the fic. The intro is a short backstory of why they live together, and it makes no mention of them dating. If they were, then it would be an important thing to add. Besides that, I use the terms “friend” and “roommate” to describe their relationship.

Finally, I wanted to include the line “Dear, sweet, precious Eight.”

Ch 2 So, I was going to complain about how many times I used the word “movie” for this chapter. Then, I had the idea to count exactly how many times I used it. Luckily, the writing program I use can automatically count word repetitions. Unluckily, it searches every single word from every document in a project by default, and I keep every fic plus a few other things in the same project. So, that was a very slow loading bar. But at least now I know I’ve used “four” 920 times in total, making it my most used word right after Marie. (It went up to 980 since writing that last week.) Oh, right, the original point! I only used “movie” ten times.

There was a pretty big tone shift in this chapter—it was the comfort part of hurt/comfort. I tried to ease into it with the beginning paragraph, so that it wasn’t an immediate 180°. The tone shift made it easy to start with the romance part of the fic, as the last chapter didn’t have room for that. It’s relatively subtle and there isn’t much of it, but my goal was to portray it as both of them having a crush on each other, but being too embarrassed/shy to admit it.

So, I had a very strange and minor problem with this chapter. Of course, the Splatoon universe is set ~10,000 years after humanity is extinct. That means that they have their own language. I didn’t want to include the term “Ferris wheel” because it’s named after the person who invented it in real life, and there would be no reason for it to be called that in Inkopolis. But, lucky for me, there is Splatfest stage dialogue in Splatoon 2 where Pearl uses the term (followed by Marina flirting <3) Thank you Inkipedia!

Chapter 2 ended up being longer than expected. I just had a lot of fun writing it, and there were a few key points that were important to include. That also meant writing transitions to and from those key points, though. I could’ve shortened the movie watching part, but I wasn’t really aiming for it to be short—sometimes chapters are just a little bit longer. The chapter was very full of humor compared to my other fics, and I’m happy with how it turned out!

Chapter 3 Eight’s thoughts are very overblown and give too much blame to herself, which I did on purpose—it’s panic. But, chapter 1 explains why she reacted in that way. Inklings don’t like octolings, I mentioned that a few times. I also mentioned that Four is not like that, so why that reaction? Well, that was the part of her reaction that wasn’t overblown. Other people would judge them if they were in a relationship. And even though Eight knows that Four is nothing but loving, there is always that doubt in the back of the mind. The regular embarrassing romantic aspect contributes to her reaction, but it isn’t the main focus.

Four’s reaction is also panicky, but for a totally different reason. Half a fear of rejection, and half because she technically didn’t ask before kissing. Valid concerns, but not really on the same level as Eight’s. Four doesn’t even consider the inkling-octoling part of their relationship. It isn’t something she thinks about, as an inkling.

I guess there isn’t much to say about this chapter that isn’t already in the chapter itself. I did want to say what I said in the first part, though, it’s relevant to the fic as a whole. The chapter turned out to be shorter, but more heavy than I expected. I like the way it turned out, though, and I think the kiss at the end is a good conclusion.

[opalesense]

more than friends

kaeya & gn!reader

2k words • ~15 min. read

summary: feeling down in the dumps on a lonely valentine’s day evening, you are met with a pleasant surprise from your close friend, kaeya.

warnings: just pure lovesick fluff!!  shy kaeya my beloved... <3

notes: i defrosted this draft from valentine’s day aahhh hope you like it!! ;^; p.s. shoutout if you can spot his canon voice lines in this hehehe

SITTING WITH MY BACK ON THE FOUNTAIN WALL and watching the rotating blades of the windmills in Mondstadt was not how I expected to spend my evening on Valentine's Day.

   To be honest, Valentine's Day was never that big of a deal to me.  For the past few years, I always considered Valentine's Day to be a day where vendors could get a boost of profit by exploiting the gift-giving aspect of the holiday and selling their wares to cheesy couples who wouldn't know any better.  Why was there a dedicated day to be sweet to your significant other?  Couldn't special gifts be given at any other time of the year?

  Despite my indifference to Valentine's Day, I couldn't help but feel a little lonely this year.  My back purposely faced the couples of Mondstadt who would walk by now and then on their way to their dates and instead I had windmills to accompany me along with a book to pass the time.  I figured my evening stroll outside wouldn't make me feel so disappointed in myself, but I was proven sorely wrong.  I couldn't even look at other people today without feeling sorry for myself.

   "[Y/N]?" a familiar voice drew closer behind me, interrupting my lament and startling me.  "What are you doing here all alone?"

   I turned my head to see my close friend and neighbor Kaeya approaching me, carrying a small leather pack along with his sheathed sword on his waist.  I realized he probably finished his shift at the Knights of Favonius headquarters and was just about to head home.  The sight of him eased some of my worries knowing that despite my usual solitude, at least I would talk to one person today.  "Just reading a book," I held up the cover of my book for him to see.  He gave a small nod to the title as I put it back down into my lap.  "How did you even spot me here?"

   "I can see you from my office," he pointed at a window on the wall of the headquarters, "You chose quite an odd spot for reading, dear friend. You must be uncomfortable on the ground like that.”

   I nervously laughed, not wanting to admit that I sat behind this fountain to avoid looking at how much fun everyone else was having.  My gaze turned to the sky, a vibrant orange that now began fading into a shadow of dark blue sprinkled with stars.  Dusk was approaching. “I suppose it is getting a little late for reading, now that I think about it.  I think I might head home now."

   "Allow me to accompany you on your walk home.  I’m headed that way, after all," he quickly offered as I began to prop myself up to my feet.  He held out his hand to help me on my way up, the sudden physical contact sending a shiver down my spine.  As clearly touch deprived as I was, my hand quickly pulled away once I was standing and dusted off my clothes, which were wrinkled from sitting for so long today.

   "You are too kind, Kaeya," I grinned, earning a grin back from him.  Maybe this is my loneliness speaking for me, but I swear that smile might have made my heart skip a beat.  Although I may have had a crush on Kaeya for the past few months, there was no way I’d ever let those thoughts resurface now.  I've done a good job of repressing the feelings for so long, whether I was around him or not.  At least, I thought I did.

   As we walked, it suddenly dawned on me that the feelings never truly went away.  They were persistent for months, despite being suppressed.  He was my closest friend for quite some time now.  So maybe it was a sign that it was meant to be...

   Chills ran down my spine at this realization.  And once the truth had settled in, the feelings I thought I had managed to stow away suddenly flooded my mind in a storm of emotion.  The more we talked during the walk home, the more eager my heart was to open up and let the thought of him fill the cavernous, lonely void inside.  My eyes nervously turned to our feet, which stepped together in perfect sync.  My attention darted to the hand at his side, which I ached to touch once more.  The more I tried to fight this longing, to forget about it and keep it isolated, the more it fought back in an effort to stay alive.

   "[Y/N]?" his sultry voice snapped me out of my delusion.  Do NOT let your emotions take control of you, I scolded myself.

   "Sorry," I shuffled my feet towards his figure, which had stopped a few meters away.  The world seemed to stop when I was lost in thought, and with each step I took towards him, the world slowly resumed from where I mentally left it.

   "Is something wrong?" he asked, now concerned.  "You know you can talk to me."

   "No, no.  I'm fine," I gripped my book, fighting the urge to break in front of him.  "I'm just a little lost in my thoughts."

   "Well then, what's on your mind?"

   "Kaeya, you won't make fun of me if I’m being honest with you right?" I started to speak without thinking.  No, no, no!  What are you about to say?!

   "What makes you think I would?  C’mon, [Y/N].  We joke around a lot but you know I'm good with secrets."

   What are you doing?!  Don’t fall under pressure like this!

   "Well...  I’ve felt quite lonely today.  A little part in me hurts to see so many people enjoying Valentine's Day, knowing fully well that I live alone and spend most of my days alone...   I guess what I’m trying to say is that it was very kind of you to go out of your way to talk to me today, Kaeya.  It means a lot more to me than you know."

   The silence that followed that regurgitation of thoughts was lethal.  Kaeya didn't even stop.  We just kept walking.  I ignored the instant regret that pounded the walls in my head.

   "So you didn't have any plans today?" he asked, as if he had just ignored everything I told him.

   "Not at all.  I was taking a stroll to find a good reading spot for today but seeing so many couples together...  I guess it was like pouring salt into the wound.  That's why I was sitting turned away from everything, if that answers your question from earlier."

   Now you've just told him too much.  If he didn't already think you were sad and lonely before, he definitely thinks so now.

   "You shouldn't isolate yourself like that, [Y/N].  We could've– forget it, actually," he chuckled and rested his hand on the back of his neck as we finally approached our residential complex.

   "Hey, spit it out!" I nudged him with my elbow, "I poured out my thoughts for you, don't get all shy now.  It's your turn."

   We stopped at my front door, exchanging small chuckles.  The space between us was killing me. If only I could get enveloped by his warm embrace now... No!

   "How about I tell you later?  Meet me here in around ten minutes."

   "What?!" I scoffed, "Now you’re just toying with me."

   "Ten minutes," he gave me one last grin and a short wave before jogging away towards his own house.  I shook my head as I turned the key to my door, feeling the slamming of my heart against my ribs and the sloppy mix of awe, nervousness, and regret boiling in my stomach.  His smile was frozen inside my mind like a photograph capturing a memory. It hurt to like him this much.

   A knock on my door ten minutes later pulled me away from tending to my plants on my balcony.  I set the watering can down and rushed to the door, straightening out my clothes once more before opening it.  Contrary to my expectations, Kaeya stood in the doorway with a shy grin, his hands obviously hiding something behind his back.

   "I thought you were joking when you said ten minutes," I scoffed and crossed my arms, looking up at him to meet a pair of soft eyes.

   "Still don't have plans for tonight?" his eyebrows raised with the question.

   "No.  What, are you about to take me out on a date or something?" I said in jest.  He chuckled and uncrossed his arms behind his back with slight hesitation before revealing a dainty bouquet of calla lilies tied with a silver ribbon.  My jaw dropped slightly in shock with the sight of the charming white petals.

   "I am, actually," his voice was gentler and sweeter than usual.  "These are for you."

   He motioned for me to take the bouquet, which I gladly accepted.  The subtle fragrance reminded me of his own scent, which made me smile.  I secretly wished my entire house would smell like this unforgettable aroma – this unforgettable man.

   "[Y/N]," his words were laced with hesitation, "I have been waiting weeks to tell you this but...  you are constantly on my mind.  Whenever I see you my heart jumps and..."

   He chuckled with nervousness.  That grin never fails to make my chest light up.

   "...and I know you're not going to believe me because you say I smooth talk everyone, but I promise you, [Y/N].  I know you see that I’m nervous right now – that doesn't happen to me with anyone else.  This feeling hasn't gone away for months.”  Instant regret suddenly painted his face, which I quickly took notice of.  I stepped closer to him and lifted my hand to gently cup his warm, blushing cheek.  It was my way of telling him to keep talking without interrupting him.

   "[Y/N]..." he blushed more at the touch and sighed, "you are so special to me and... I’ll get straight to the point. I want to be more than friends. I really mean it.”

   He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited eagerly for my response.  I was no longer thinking properly.  My heart had taken over my mind, and for once, it was for my benefit.

   "Kaeya," my voice cracked with a million emotions at once, "you have no clue how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.  I am so in love with you it makes me sick," I admitted lightheartedly.

   He laughed with relief, taking another step closer to me and shrinking the space between us.  He lifted his hand to grab mine and intertwined our fingers together.  The mood shifted from nerve wrecking intensity to reassurance and gentleness the instant our palms met.  He caressed my hand with his gloved thumb for reassurance, chasing all my troubles away.  "I promise I will never let you feel alone ever again."

   We stood there staring into each other's eyes for a few moments, exchanging so many mutual emotions in mere seconds.  A blush began to creep up my face as well when he gave my hand a squeeze accompanied with a proud smile.

   "Well, now that we're both blushing messes in love with each other, how about we finally go out tonight?"  Our friendly dynamic finally returned to clear the thickness in the air once he broke the silence.  "I have to admit, I was feeling a little lonely myself and was just going to drink at the tavern with some of the other Knights tonight.”

   "Not anymore, I hope?"

   "Definitely not.  I’d rather spend the evening holding your hand and taking a stroll through the city so everyone knows I’m finally yours."

   This man sure knows how to say the right thing.  I glanced at the bouquet in my arms, partly to hide my reddened face but also to ask, "Could I put these in a vase first?  They're beautiful, by the way. I really love calla lilies.”

   "Oh yes, of course. But they’re not as beautiful as you, cutie," Kaeya said with no reluctance.

 There's the flirty Kaeya that I know.

 I let out a shy laugh as he let go of my hand, the loss of touch making me pout.  As I turned to put the flowers away, he leaned on the doorframe and let out a deep breath.

    "Well, I'll be here.  Don't make me wait too long, now."

[wienerbarnes]

A Certain Romance (6/6)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,609

Warnings: happy ending😁

A/N: another series in the books... hope yall enjoyed it as much as i did<3 thank u to everyone who liked/reblogged/left comments/read in general!

MAIN MASTERLIST | A CERTAIN ROMANCE MASTERLIST

Seven months go by before he sees you again.

A month after that double date, Sam asked about you, about what the two of you have been up to. He realized then that you hadn’t told Sam anything about the fight. You hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t said you’d “broken up” or even just came clean and explained the whole thing. You went on pretending the two of you were dating; did you do it to keep Sam off your back? Did you do it because you thought that’s what he would’ve wanted? He didn’t care about any of that, all he cared about was you. 

He told Sam himself about a month after that. He told Sam everything, about making the deal with you, how you were both feeling about the dating situation. He told Sam about the nights at your apartment, the meals shared, the stories told. He explained the fight that happened the night of the double date and how he’s still trying to get over his feelings.

Sam hasn’t set him up on another blind date, and he assumes he hasn’t set you up on one, either.

Five months after that conversation, he thinks he’s getting better. He thinks about you everyday; how you’re doing, what you’re doing, if you think of him. The only difference between now and seven months ago is that he doesn’t feel the same pain in his chest when he thinks about you.

For a long while it made him so sad, the thought of not being able to talk to you, not being able to see you, not being able to drop by your apartment and share dinner with you. But as much as it pained him, it was what you wanted. You wanted time and you wanted space, so that’s what he gave you.

He misses you, though.

He finds himself in your neighborhood as he approaches the coffee shop he’s been frequenting since he met you. You had gotten him coffee from there once and had him hooked. Perhaps he goes there because the coffee really is that good or because it was you that had showed him the place in the first place. He doesn't think about it.

He walks in and stands in the small line at the counter, not quite taking the time to observe the place and see every single person there as he normally would.

After ordering his regular coffee and placing the change from the ten dollar bill he gave the barista into the tip jar, he stands off to the side to wait for his name and order to be called.

And all it takes is a look to his left to see you sitting there, already staring at him with a surprised expression, for all his progress to disappear.

You look so beautiful.

He stares at you for a second, mouth slightly open before his tongue pokes out to lick at his now dry lips. He clears his throat and stands up a bit straighter to compose himself, or at least make it seem like he’s done so.

“Hi.” He says, a tad awkwardly, but in his defense, he wasn’t expecting seeing you here. He’s come to this same coffee shop in your neighborhood at least once a week for months now, and has never run into you here, even when you were on speaking terms. Of course he’d see you today; he should’ve worn a different shirt.

Your mouth opens to respond with a greeting when Iced black coffee for Bucky interrupts you. His head snaps towards the counter to retrieve the drink before walking slowly back over to where you sit at the counter against the wall.

“Hi.” He repeats again, the only word he seems to be able to say right now.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” You ask him, voice gentle and light, just as he remembers it always used to be. He’s glad that you’re not upset at the scenario of running into him, instead welcoming the interaction; a much better play of this happening than what he was thinking in his head.

He wasn’t sure how the first interaction after not seeing each other would be like, or if there’d be one at all; if he’d ever even see you again.

He was hoping for the movie reunion, spotting each other from a long distance and running into each other’s arms in slow motion, an 80′s love song playing in the background. He feared it’d take an opposite direction, you spot him from afar and walk up to him only to slap him across the face and spit on his shoes. He’d have nightmares about that last scenario.

Neither of you say anything for the first couple of minutes of your walk.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you that night.” You finally speak.

“You have nothing to apologize for -”

“No, Bucky, I do. I should’ve spoken to you about everything, even if we got angry, even if we yelled, but instead I ran away, and I’m sorry.” You tell him.

A moment to take in your words, “Well, apology accepted.” He forgives.

Another minute of silence. He’s not sure how to proceed. While an apology was given, nothing’s actually been resolved. There’s still tension, still wondering of what you’ve been up to all this time, still his own feelings for you that he realizes now after seeing you again for the first time in seven months have not dissipated at all and are very much real in his heart.

He sees in his periphery that you’ve stopped walking on the nearly empty sidewalk and he stops, too, turning around to look at you, a worried expression on your face.

“The truth is I was scared.” You say.

“Of me?”

“Of my feelings.” You clarify.

You inch a bit closer to him, “I was growing feelings for you, and that scared me.”

All he can do is stare as you open your mouth to continue.

“I told myself that I wouldn’t put myself in a position to be too vulnerable. I wouldn’t open myself up as much to people, I wouldn’t get into any more relationships, I wouldn’t do any of that because the last time I did, it fucked me up. And I know you’re nothing like him, but it still scares me shitless. It scares me that you waltzed into my life and made me feel this way in such a short amount of time. It scares me that you made me want to forget all those promises I made to myself. It scares me that you made me want all of that; that you made me want you.” You explain.

He takes a step closer to you so that you’re face to face and you can smell his cologne.

“I want you, too.” He whispers, unable to find the words to say anything else.

You look up at him, “It’s going to take a lot of time, and - and a lot of patience -”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it all for you,” He promises, the hand that’s not holding his coffee reaching up to cup your face, your free hand laying on top.

He slowly leans in, wanting to kiss you; he’s been wanting to kiss you for seven months. He feels your breath on his lips as you speak again, “Please take care of me.” You tell him. It’s not a question, but a plea.

“I promise.” He whispers back, finally touching his lips to yours, and putting every emotion in it.

A single press of your lips to express how much he missed you, how much he’s thought about you, how much you’ve thought about him. How many times each of you came close to calling the other, unaware of the hope waiting for them to reach out. How many times he dreamed about you, dreamed about taking you out, about kissing you and touching you, about talking to you and wanting you to talk back, if only to listen to the vibrations of your voice in his ears.

Oh, how he missed you.

An afternoon he was planning to spend filling up his time with pointless tasks as a distraction is instead spent holding you in the bed in the back room of his apartment. The soft sheets and plush mattress not all that bad when he has you in his arms to share it with. Embarrassing confessions of how much he’s thought about you, including his breakdown of smashing your plant, which he can now laugh about. Tears shed as more apologies are shared among both parties, love sprouting in the place of fear of a new relationship.

How lovely it is to have you. To have a person he can be authentic with, tears and anger and happiness and laughs included. To have a person who he can take away their troubles and insecurities knowing they will do the same. A feeling he never thought he’d feel; a feeling he always assumed was reserved for the version of James Barnes that never got drafted into the army, the version of James Barnes that survived the fall and went home, or the James Barnes that never fell at all. He never thought he’d find the puzzle piece for his heart, but here you are.

It was a certain romance for two people who never thought they were deserving of love, who thought it just wasn’t in their cards. Maybe in a past life, or a future one, but not this one, not in the lifetime they just happen to be present in at the exact same time.

Perhaps it was a certain romance, or perhaps it was fate, acting through Sam Wilson on that night in that pretentious restaurant.

Which reminds Bucky, he should call his friend and thank him.

[aristidetwain]

The Shared Dalek Universe of the 1960s: A Case Study

In 2011 (a little over ten years ago!), El Sandifer cited my dearly-beloved 1960s Who Annuals as examples of stories which ended up influencing the TV series many years down the line despite making an unrepentant hash of continuity. 

Her first example is that the Doctor is called Dr. Who, and that he alternates between being from Earth on one page, and not being from Earth three pages later. I would point out that TV was doing much the same thing in those days, and went on flip-flopping basically until Jon Pertwee, so it’s not a terribly good argument to begin with.

However, she spends more time pondering the Daleks of the comics. These Daleks, she notes, are very different from those on television at the time. There are hordes of them, they travel in fleets of saucers, and they’re ruled by the Emperor. This contradiction, she argues, later fed back into the TV series in the RTD era, when huge fleets of Daleks became the norm and, earlier but still well after the first burst of Annuals, in the form of Patrick Troughton facing a very different Dalek Emperor in The Evil of the Daleks.

In no way do I wish to undermine Sandifer’s ultimate conclusion that “canon” in the sense of diegetic consistency is a red herring of little importance, and what matters for any sane definition of ‘canon’ is whether a story is referenced at all, not whether it’s contradicted. 

However.

Having gone back to 1966′s The Dalek Outer Space Book, I have made a very startling discovery, in the story entitled The Secret of the Emperor. The rest is after the cut; I will leave you with a delightful panel from this story, showing the “bewildered” Dalek Emperor being bullied by knights at the Battle of Agincourt. (This is one of my favourite Doctor Who images ever, and if it doesn’t put a smile on your face I am not sure I want to take you seriously.)

So, famously, when he debuted in the comics, the Dalek Emperor was not the giant, static Dalek later shown on television in The Evil of the Daleks and The Bad Wolf of the Ways; instead, he was golden, squat, and had a bulbous head; to house all the ego, one expects. 

Thus, most people will point at the fact that when the Doctor met “the Emperor” in The Evil of the Daleks, he resided in a huge tower-like casing in the Dalek City, as evidence that although ideas received a first treatment in the comics which later made it to screens, no direct continuity was intended; the comics’ Emperor was an alternate, a first draft, to be discarded once a more definitive TV portrayal emerged. 

And yet, of course, it is somehow appealing to think of the two as the same Dalek, isn’t it? John Peel (Dalek writer voted most likely to be a 19th century Victorian man who stumbled into a time eddy; it’s mostly the remarkable sideburns) spent a lot of time in his Dalek novels establishing the life story of the Dalek Prime, the First Dalek Ever, who transitioned from the globe-headed casing to the towery Evil one and then deeply regretted it, what with the “getting killed by his own infighting troops with no way to escape”.

But this is usually viewed as a retcon. A cute retcon, an admirable retcon even, but a retcon. My good friend and esteemed fellow canon-welder, @rassilon-imprimatur​, espoused such a view four years ago:

Well, all of this is, if you’ll pardon my French, bollocks. John Peel didn’t make anything up, except for the snappy name of “the Dalek Prime” as a designation for the individual. The Dalek Emperor in Evil of the Daleks was always the Emperor of the 1960s comics, and there is a very good reason for his seemingly-contradictory change of appearance. What’s more, I am not talking about murky authorial intent: these are things that the discerning Dalek fan in 1967 was meant to have known.

Let me wind back the clock to 1966. A Dalek master-plan is unfurling, a multi-media agenda spanning several years, more ambitious perhaps than even Time Lord Victorious in its scope; for the ultimate aim of a small cabal of men including David Whitaker, Terry Nation and Brad Ashton is nothing less than spinning the Daleks out of Doctor Who and into their own non-BBC TV show — to be made in America, and in colour, if you please! 

For over a year now, a Dalek story arc has been running in the pages of TV Century 21, tracking the early rise of the Dalek Empire and its early interactions with 2060s humanity. Though the Daleks encroach over other parts of the book, including the headline stories, the bulk of this story arc comes in the form of weekly one-page comics making up one long serialised history of the Daleks, under the minimalist title of The Daleks.

Also under the solo brand of “The Daleks”: Annuals, an exclusive audio story, and, of course, toys. Time for Phase Two. It is time to end the Daleks’ endless confrontations with Dr Who on television, and set the stage for a new status quo able to support the TV series Nation dreams about. 

Important background: Terry Nation, famously, does not like the Dalek Emperor. Whitaker made him up without consulting Nation, who maintains that the highest rank in the Dalek hierarchy should be the Dalek Supreme. The Emperor was hard to do away with in the comics, since he was basically the protagonist of the TV21 strip, but one imagines Nation was keen to jettison him from the world of the planned TV series. 

I am speculating, of course, but I picture Nation sitting in his office, pondering the two great thorns in the side of the Independant Daleks Masterplan. 

Thorn one: the Daleks are entangled with the Doctor both diegetically and symbolically; unless something can be done, the Daleks will remain “the Doctor’s enemies”, and a show where they commit evil and the Doctor fails to show up would ring false with the kids watching. The Daleks must be removed from Doctor Who in a sensational and definitive manner, or the whole enterprise is a nonstarter.

Thorn two: I, Terry Nation, have foolishly allowed David Whitaker to shape the lore of the Daleks, and he has made this Dalek Emperor guy very central to early Dalek history, leading up to the 22nd century Dalek Invasion of Earth that most of the Doctor’s subsequent conflicts with the Daleks have stemmed from. But I do not like the Dalek Emperor. I wish I could get rid of him in my new status quo. 

…………Aha.

A triumphant Terry Nation adds a post-it note to the ever-widening corkboard representing the multimedia Dalek Masterplan setting up the TV series, which must already include things like “convince Jean Marsh to come back as Sara Kingdom”. Notes distilled from this corkboard will form the backbone of The Dalek Outer Space Book, this year’s Dalek annual, which exists principally to set up the prospective main characters of the new TV series: Sara Kingdom and Agent Mark Seven, of the Space Security Service. 

The new post-it note reads:

Construe the Daleks’ enmity with the Doctor as a personal enmity between the Doctor and the Emperor, a la Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty. Have the Doctor triumph over the Emperor on TV in a big ‘event’ story. 

Result: the Doctor-vs-Daleks storyline is over; the Emperor is dead; I get everything I ever wanted. 

(Except maybe a pony.)

Then he phones David Whitaker, smirking all the while like an evil genie preparing to grant a badly-worded wish. 

“Good news, old chap, I’ve decided you can write a new Dalek story for the BBC, all by yourself. I promise I won’t interfere.”

*confused and delighted David Whitaker noises*

“ And you can even bring in that Dalek Emperor of yours. Yes, you heard me!”

*Whitaker enthusiasm intensifies*

“Ahhh, but there’s a catch. The Dalek Emperor must DIE.”

Of course, like all good Faustian bargains, this is irresistible even though it is ruinous and the victim knows it to be ruinous. Whitaker agrees to the scheme. He and Nation begin planning out the events of the great finale of the Dalek-Doctor confrontation, which will hit the screens in 1967 as the mildly racist, but otherwise quite well-loved, ‘The Evil of the Daleks’. 

Quickly enough, it is decided that Patrick Troughton crouching to berate the short and bubble-headed Golden Emperor would look silly. If the Emperor appears on TV, alongside human performers, then it should tower over them. Besides, this is to be the archvillainous Dalek Emperor’s last stand, and certain traditions must be followed.

Hence another task is added to the bucketlist of the Dalek Outer Space Book: tell the story of how the Emperor transformed from the globe-headed dwarf to some huge and terrible towering form under the Dalek City, for the Doctor to stumble onto later. This rebuilt Emperor may be teased, but must not be truly seen or truly defeated in the book; that would defeat the whole idea. 

Hence, The Secret of the Emperor, a story which sees the Emperor becoming self-conscious about his own efficiency and letting the Scientist Daleks rebuild his casing from scratch. The final page is a splash panel, a delightfully nonsensical diagram of the mechanical components of the new casing. 

The almost surreal array of colours and shapes is so arresting as to obscure an important detai. Many have seen this page over and over, and yet still missed it. The recent(ish) ‘Anatomy of the New Dalek Emperor’ artwork from Time Lord Victorious clearly looked at this page for reference, in spite of the fact that the TLV Emperor is much more inspired by the old Emperor than the rebuilt one.

Let me spell it out for you: look at the Scientist Daleks in the top right and centre-left. Look at them.

The new Emperor is huge.

And what else? 

That Scientist on the left is plugging huge wires snaking from the wall into the tower-casing. 

He now resides in the Great Hall of the Dalek City.

The background wall is a weird checkered pattern.

In addition, the following facts are seeded throughout the earlier pages of The Secret of the Emperor.

The point of moving to the new casing was to grant the Emperor increased brain capacity (suitable for concocting masterplans).

He acquired said increased brain capacity to help the Daleks attempt to overcome humanity once and for all. 

The Emperor has recently had a trautmatic but eye-opening experience with time travel. 

Ignore the fact that the Emperor was here depicted with what appears to be a still fairly bulbous, and golden, head, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is very, very direct setup for how the Doctor finds the Dalek Emperor in The Evil of the Daleks — tower-like, in an imperial throneroom in the Dalek City, with a checkered wall pattern, planning out a complicated scheme to harness time travel as a means of defeating humanity once and for all!

Yes, the designs don’t quite match — but how could the artist behind the visuals of Secret of the Emperor have known precisely what Shawcraft would build, a year later, based on the same basic description by Nation & Whitaker? The parallels far outweigh the minor differences in execution. (It’s worth noting that elsewhere in the Outer Space Book a different artist drew what was clearly intended to be the Golden Emperor as a large, golden, but normally-proportioned Dalek, so it’s not like the visual descriptions of these scripts were exceedingly precise…)

The rebuilt Emperor is never seen in the Outer Space Book outside of this ‘dissection’: he is heard throughout The Brain Tappers but kept carefully off-panel, and his new and dangerous new casing is pointedly not destroyed in the story’s conclusion. Well, of course not. That’s what Dr Who is for.

tl;dr: it is not a post hoc retcon, or even a secret, that the round-headed Emperor of the comics became the Dalek Emperor of Evil of the Daleks. A holistic view of the state of Dalek media in 1966-1967 shows that, in fact, it was the whole point that this be the Emperor of the comics; and that the comics had begun setting this up long before Patrick Troughton encountered Edward Waterfield on TV.

And thus, to circle back to Sandifer’s 2011 post, it is not enough to simply say that the “seemingly non-canon” comics inspired the show down the line. In fact in this instance, what appeared on Doctor Who existed for the benefit of the Daleks spin-off — not vice-versa!

[bbyboybrock--archived]

You’re Home (Colby Brock Imagine)

Summary: Sequel to To Pluto and Back. After months back home in Bar Harbor, Maine during quarantine, you have had enough of the being away from Colby. You spend the next few driving across the country just to go home to him.

Written: 2020

Word Count: 2,754

Warnings: A lot of fluff, swearing (minor)

Masterlist

“Call me every day while you’re on the road.” My mother says as she squeezes me tight.

“I will, I promise. I should be back in La in five days, a week if I decided to take in the sights while I’m driving. Are you sure you don’t need me to stay? I can cancel everything right now.” I place my hands on either side of my mom’s face.

“I’m positive. Your brother and sister are nearby if your dad and I need help. Besides, I don’t think I can take any more of you moping around the house. Go home to your boyfriend and friends.” My mom kisses my forehead and goes to stand on the porch so my dad and I can talk in private.

“Got everything you need? Your clothes, GPS, snacks, full tank of gas?” My dad asks with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I packed up my bedroom. I have the ice chest in my car, I’m going to get snacks, gas, and ice right now. Mom packed me to lunch and a few snacks. I have all of my chargers, my spare tires, my overnight bags for when I have to spend the night in a motel. My location is on for you, mom, and my friend in LA. My wallet, phone, and all my little necessities are in the front seat along with chargers. I have the number for a tow company just in case. I also have my mace and whistle. I’m going to be okay.”

“I’m just making sure. I’m your dad, I’m allowed to worry. Here, take this.” My dad hands me a folded up bill.

“Dad, I don’t need money. Keep it.” I try to push his hand away, but he’s insistent.

“Just take it to ease an old man’s heart.” I hesitantly take the money and put it in my pocket.

“Fine. I love you guys and I’ll call you when I’m home.” I wrap my arms around my dad and kiss his cheek. He gives me a soft, yet tight hug back and kisses the top of my head. He lets go and my mom joins him as I grab my filming camera off of the top of my trunk and hop into my car.

****

I’ve been down in the dumps since I sent Colby that care package. He sent me one back after and I filmed that video last week. I’ve been moping around the house since then with the new stuffed animal he gave me. I knew that going back home to Maine to help my parents out with the quarantine would be hard, but it’s taking longer than I thought and it’s been taking a serious toll on my mental health. I only came home because my brother and sister are older with their own families, I knew they would help out our parents when they could, but I knew that they needed me to help too. The three hour time difference doesn’t help either. I’m just so used to being with Colby since I moved in with him two years ago. Being away from him truly feels like I’m missing a part of myself. My mom finally saw how sad I was being away and basically kicked me out of the house. After a few days of thinking, I finally packed all of my stuff to head home.

“Hey, guys, Y/N here! Today, I’m taking you guys with me on a road trip. To make a long story short, I’m going home to LA to surprise Colby and finally move into the house. The only one who knows is Sam, who is helping me make sure Colby doesn’t do anything rash like fly over to surprise me. Because of the virus and all, I’m trying my best to limit my human contact. Unfortunately for me, that means taking a 50-hour road trip across the country by myself. But it’ll be worth it in the end. I’m at the gas station to fill up my tank and get some provisions for the next few hours. When I get back I’ll give you guys a little car tour!” I turn off my camera and grab my bag before heading into the convince store.

I only told Sam because I figured he could be the only one to keep Colby in line while I drove. He’s been talking about coming down to Maine to stay with me for a bit, and knowing him he would actually do it. I would have told Jake and Corey, but I feel like they would let it slip that I’m coming. I told Sam that he could tell them when I’m 5 minutes from the house. I’ve worked really hard planning this perfectly so that Colby won’t suspect a thing. I pre-filmed and edited this week’s YouTube video. I made a whole bunch of TikToks all over my parent’s house so I could post a few while I’m on the road and he would think I’m still there. I took a lot of selfies and boomerangs to post Instagram and to send to Colby. I even drafted tweets in case I got too tired to think of something after a long day of driving.

The only issue is when Colby wants to FaceTime; which is every day. I could probably get away with texting and calling him for the next few days. Despite the time difference, we like to fall asleep and wake up together. Well, I’m always asleep and awake first because of the time, but you get the point. We were THAT couple for the past four months.

I get some shots of me getting gas and filling the ice chest with snacks. This is going to be a long trip, but I made sure to only get a few snacks. I did get a lot of iced coffees just in case the gas station I stop at every morning doesn’t have the brand or flavor I like. You only make that mistake once.

“Okay guys, It’s 8:30 in the morning on a Monday, and in all honesty, my goal is to be in LA by Friday. Unless I drive for 5 days straight, that’s not going to happen. I think I’ll barely make it out of Maine today. Realistically, I probably won’t be home until next Monday, maybe even later. I do want you to know that I’m going to try to be safe and smart. All of my travel clothes are light and comfortable. I’m not going to be driving more than 8 hours a day. I’m going to get to the motels around 5 pm so I can get dinner and relax. I’m going to take a break every two hours to stretch my legs, eat, go to the bathroom, etc. I have compression socks to prevent blood clots. I have no real plans for this trip. Honestly, I don’t care how this goes. All I care about is getting home to Colby. I know that I’ve been talking about how depressed and lonely I’ve been without him, but I know that he feels the same way, maybe even worse. So I’m mainly doing this for him. And bub, if you’re watching this, I love you.” I close the camera again and turn on my GoPros to get some shots of my driving.

****

“Did you hear they might extend the quarantine again?” Colby says on the other line. I’m eating breakfast in my car. I spent the night in Denver. I have two more states to drive through before I’m finally in California. The trip is taking a bit longer than I anticipated. It’s Friday and I’m a quarter of the way home. I’ve already driven through ten states, but the fact that I have about three to four more days until I can be in Colby’s arms again is what’s keeping me going.

“I didn’t hear about that. I’ve been trying to spend less time on the internet lately. That sucks. That means we’re not going to be able to see each other until like next year or something.” I can’t help by smile. Sometimes when I lie I have the urge to laugh. I’m generally good at hiding it, but I keep thinking about the look I’m going to see on Colby’s face when I see him.

“Don’t say that. This is the longest we’ve been apart since we started hanging out. It’s already been killing me the past few months. Maybe I could come down to visit you for a few weeks.” He’s been saying that so often, I’m afraid he’s going to sneak out of the house to surprise me in Maine.

“I would love that, babe, but we talked about this. I don’t want to risk you getting sick. I know it’s hard, but we need to wait this out, I promise everything will change soon. Very soon. Oh shoot, I got to get my laundry before my mom gets upset. I’ll call you tonight. I love you.”

“I love you too, princess.” I hang up and just stare at my phone for a bit. A picture of Colby that I took before I left is my lock screen. I didn’t technically lie about the laundry. I brought only a few days worth of clothes and I needed to wash them. So I grabbed breakfast near a laundry mat so I could kill two birds with one stone. I’ve also been texting Sam to keep him updated. We still don’t know how I’m going to surprise Colby. We agreed to talk about it when I’m closer to California so we don’t jinx anything. He’s had to stop Colby from buying a plane ticket a couple of times. I’m so glad that I told him or else this whole trip would have been for nothing.

By the time I get to a motel every night, I get so anxious that I want to start driving again. The only thing keeping me sane is editing parts of the video and stopping at gift shops in every state I drive through to get souvenirs for everyone. I get something specific for Colby and me and then a bunch of cute $1 items for everyone else so they can choose what they want. Our friend group is too big for me to buy bigger things for each of my friends. I’ve already spent close to $300 on gas on this trip so far.

****

“Hey, is anyone near you?” I ask Sam as I pack my stuff back into my overnight bag.

“I’m in my room and everyone is either asleep or getting breakfast, what’s up?” I hear Sam moving in the background.

“I’m definitely going to be in Los Angles today. I have four and a half hours left, give or take, until I’m at the house. Are the plans for today set?” I double-check that I have everything before heading out to my car. I load my stuff into my car and head to the front desk to check out. I pay and return my key before finally heading back to my car.

“Yeah, I mean there isn’t much we can do. Thank God the shops are finally, open. I can distract Colby by going to the mall or something. Jake and Corey are going to be home to let you in and help you get your stuff. I’m going to see where Colby is and tell them right now. Hopefully, they don’t let anything slip.” I hear a door open in the background.

“Yeah, I would definitely kill them myself if they did. Anyway, I have to start driving. I’ll text you when I’m about halfway there and then call you when I get there. Keep me updated on your end please!” I start the car and plug in the address into my GPS app.

“Will do. Drive safe and talk to you later.” Sam hangs up the phone as I readjust everything. I turn on my road trip music and get ready to get breakfast.

Last night when I was talking to Colby, I was texting Sam. We finally settled on how I was going to surprise Colby. Sam is going to get Colby out of the house while Jake and Corey sneak me into the house. They’re going to also help get my stuff out of my car. While Sam and Colby are out, I’m going to get a quick tour of the house and change out of my gross road trip clothes so I can look like a decent human. The three of us are going to hang out downstairs. When they get home we’re going to call them into whatever room we’re hanging out in and boom, surprised boyfriend.

****

Jake and Corey help me set up the last few cameras so I can get Colby’s reaction. They also helped me hide my car. Not that Colby would notice, but I didn’t want to take any chances. They showed me around the house a bit, and honestly, I almost didn’t recognize it from when I was looking at the house with them months ago. Seeing the house in person feels so different than seeing it in videos and FaceTime chats with Colby. Being here makes it real. Sam texted us saying that they were around the corner. That’s when we turned on the camera. I brought lunch for everyone so the three of us are just eating in the kitchen and catching up.

My heart is racing. I don’t even know why I’m so nervous to see my own boyfriend. Maybe it’s because I have no idea how he’ll react. I’ve been kind of giving him the cold shoulder the past few days because I’ve been driving. We haven’t talked as much as we have been for the past four months while I was in Maine. I don’t why, but part of me feels like he’ll be a different person.

“We’re home!” I hear Sam call out from the front of the house. My heart immediately drops to my stomach from nerves. I tightly grip the counter that I’m sitting on to keep myself from falling off.

“We’re in the kitchen. We have lunch for you guys.” Jake responds. I stop breathing for a second.

“I’ll be there in a second. I have to go put my things down.” Colby calls out. I’m so glad that we hid my stuff. I had a feeling Colby would go to his room first. Maybe he’s still the same Colby I left here four months ago.

Sam walks into the kitchen while putting his phone away. He walks over to me and gives me a quick hug. We all wait, whispering, for Colby to join us in the kitchen. The nerves don’t leave my body as he takes longer to come back. Eventually, we hear his footsteps on the stairs.

“Sorry I was… Y/N?” Colby stops dead in his tracks when he sees me. He blinks a few times before a huge grin creeps on his face.

“Hi,” is all I can manage to squeak out. I managed to lose my voice at the sight of Colby.

“Y/N, is that really you? What are you doing here?” Colby starts walking towards me. I hop off the counter and meet his halfway.

“I’m home,” I whisper as I hug Colby, “I missed you so I came home.”

Colby hugs me back for a second before letting go and placing both hands on either side of my face. He looks deep into my eyes and I can’t help but start to cry. I haven’t seen Colby in so long, I can’t believe that I’m standing right in front of him. He kisses my forehead and engulfs me in a hug. I squeeze him tight like he’ll disappear if I let go. I’ve been gone for so long that I forgot what it felt like to hold Colby in my arms.

“I can’t believe you’re here right now. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Colbs. I missed you so fucking much it hurt. I finally feel whole again.” For the first time in months, Colby leans in and kisses me softly. Everything feels right in my world again now that I’m here. Even though I’ve been back in LA for at least 20 minutes, I didn’t feel like I was home until this very second: in Colby’s arms.

[goldencuffs]

fake dating au part two

Whenever Laurent was overwhelmed, or feeling the kind of loneliness even a good cock couldn’t cure, he would sneak off into the library in the north wing of the Palace, where most of his mother’s official portraits were displayed.

Laurent loved all of them; Hennike was smiling in every single one, blonde hair curled perfectly, and teeth a stunning white. The colouring of her gowns and crowns were so bright, even painted, they seemed to shine in the dullest light. Laurent didn’t really know her; she had died three days after giving birth to him, but he had watched so many interviews and home videos of her, he felt like he had. She had been beautiful, well spoken, and everyone had been shocked when she had fallen for Al, because she had been betrothed to someone else.

Laurent liked coming down here to talk to her. It helped to have her listen to his dramatic tirades. He had started doing it when he was thirteen, when Auguste had enlisted in military training and left him alone, but had stopped a few months later, when Al caught him, his face ashen as he’d watched his youngest son babble to his dead wife.

After that, Laurent made sure to only come down in the dead of night, when he was absolutely desperate.

Which was clearly now; Laurent’s head had been spinning since the dinner at Heston’s. Even dessert hadn’t cheered him up — Heston, the absolute cretin, had served only four options of dessert and not a single one had chocolate in them. Not even one! It was like people intentionally went out of their way to put Laurent in a foul mood. Laurent had already drafted a wordy letter about Heston’s appalling lack of class and hosting abilities on the way home, and he was going to send it to the local tabloid first thing in the morning.

Laurent paced around the library, addressing his favourite portrait of his mother. It was her wedding portrait, and he loved all the detailing in it. The blush pink flowers in her bouquet matched her lipstick and her blush, and the tiara she was wearing had 588 diamonds in it. It was called The Laurent Tiara, and when Laurent had found out it had been Hennike’s favourite crown, he’d cried into his pillowcase for an embarrassingly long time.

“If I tell Al the truth now, he’ll kill me,” Laurent wailed at an appropriately low volume; he was very considerate of the sleeping guards when he threw his tantrums. “Or worse — get me married! Oh god, he’ll set me up with that idiot Torveld and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hearing about his coin collection. Who even uses cash anymore? And what exactly is the point of having money if you can’t use it? And has Al even considered the aesthetics of our coupling? How are we supposed to wear matching outfits if Torveld looks rubbish in Egyptian blue and azure? Hello! Those are my signature colours!” Laurent sunk down on the lumpy sofa and buried his head in his hands. “Maybe death really is the better option.” He looked up at Hennike’s green eyes. “Is heaven overrated? Where would you personally place it on a scale of one to ten?”

She didn’t answer him, obviously. It was no use, anyway; Laurent was definitely not getting into heaven.

*

Laurent woke up irritated and unrested, and not for his usual, fun reasons. He hadn’t come up with any sort of solution to his dilemma and he had had a very strange dream where Damianos punched him while Al watched on. Then the scene had changed, and Laurent was on stage accepting his tenth Oscar for Best Actor, even though he had yet to star in any films.

“I’m thinking of becoming an actor,” Laurent told Al later that night during dinner.

Al’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a sharp line. “What?”

“I mean, I have the looks, obviously. And really, how hard is acting anyway? Clearly you don’t even need to be very good at it to star in a movie — look at Channing Tatum. I’m sorry, but it’s very obvious his height was the only thing that got him into Hollywood, and even then it’s not that impressive.”

Al put down his knife and fork. “Can we —” He sounded very strained, “have a normal conversation for once.”

Laurent considered this. “I don’t think we’ve had enough conversations to statistically find out what constitutes a normal one,” he said. Al went red, so he continued, “So you don’t think acting is for me? Shall I try directing then? Or maybe —” He sat up excitedly in his chair. “I could write movies! I have so many ideas! Why, for instance, has no one considered a gay version of The Princess Bride? What would that even be called? The Prince Groom? Ugh, no, that’s terrible. Oh, who am I kidding — with my face and my body I have no choice but to be on camera. Otherwise, it’d be such a waste.”

The vein in Al’s forehead was throbbing. If he had been wearing his crown, it would have gone unnoticed, but like this, it was rather unflattering.

Al said, “Laurent,” in a sombre tone. “I really hope you’re joking.”

“About The Prince Groom? Kind of. But the acting thing — would it really be that bad?”

“You are a prince,” Al said, teeth clenched. “If it is the glam and glitz you want, you have more than enough here.”

Laurent, uncomfortably, thought of his room, the only place in the Palace that was truly his, devoid completely of personal artefacts. He swallowed. “Yes, well.” He tried a smile. “Maybe I should borrow another crown from the royal archives. I don’t think I’ve worn one with emeralds yet.”

Al resumed eating. “Speaking of crowns,” he said, completely glossing over Laurent’s last statement. “I’d like you to wear the Crown of Naos when King Damianos arrives.”

Laurent’s mouth dropped open. “As if! Al, the gold colouring on that completely washes me out! Not to mention the fact that that thing weighs like, five kilograms!”

Al’s nostrils flared at the word Al. He said, “The crown is a gift from Damianos’ great great grandfather to yours. It will be an appropriate and symbolic gesture if you wear it.”

“But why can’t you wear it? Or Auguste?”

“I am not the one having an affair with the King of Akielos,” said Al.

Oh, right. Laurent had forgotten about that. But what was the point? It wasn’t as though Damianos would recognise the gesture. If anything, he might think of it as inappropriate.

Instead he said, “Well, gee, Al, I didn’t peg you as a romantic.” Laurent fluttered his lashes a little.

Al pushed away his plate. “I’m done, thank you.” A servant immediately came to clear away his food.

Al left the dining hall, his shoulders tight. Laurent wished Auguste would hurry back home already.

*

In the morning, on the way back from the stables, Jord said, “Looks like your wish came true.”

Laurent stopped dead. “Oh my god — is Pierre-Alexis Dumas here? Is he finally going to collab with me?”

“Who’s Pierre-Alexis Dumas?” said Jord.

Laurent whirled on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Sorry.” Jord said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. The audacity! “But look.” He pointed past Laurent, to the front of the Palace.

Laurent looked. There was a nondescript black limousine parked on the long, gravel pathway. Laurent would have dismissed it, if he didn’t spot sight of Jeurre, Auguste’s chauffeur, leant up against one of the doors, smoking.

Laurent gasped. He passed on his bridle to Jord, who fumbled to catch it, and ran inside.

Auguste and Al were in the plate room. Al was sitting on the large, velvet throne, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It wasn’t even noon! And he was baring his teeth in that weird way — smiling, as he called it.

Auguste was standing in front of him, hands behind his back. He had gotten very tan, and his hair was much darker, a strange golden colour that made the blue-green of his eyes more appealing.

They both turned when Laurent entered. Al’s mouth was already drooping at the sight of him, but Laurent only had eyes for his brother, whom he hadn’t seen in eight whole months.

Laurent wanted to hug him, which surprised even himself. Laurent was not a hugger. He wasn’t much of a toucher, either, unless it involved getting laid.

Auguste gave him a nod. He sometimes acted so much like Al, it disgusted Laurent; the only difference was that Auguste’s eyes were always kind.

Laurent peered at him closely, shocked. “What have you done to yourself? Are you having a mid-life crisis? Should we call Paschal for a yearly psych evaluation?”

Auguste laughed. “It’s a moustache, Laurent. It’s very fashionable in Kempt, you know.”

“It’s horrendous!” Laurent cried. He stared at the thick hair above Auguste’s top lip in horror. “Right. I’m officially ruling Kempt out as a holiday destination this summer if all the men are growing that.”

Al’s eyebrows furrowed. “I like it. It’s very refined.”

“Oh god, now we have to get rid of it,” said Laurent, which made Al frown and Auguste laugh. Auguste squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. He was always mindful of Laurent’s boundaries. “I think you’ve grown taller.”

“I haven’t,” Laurent said. He showed off his riding boots. “See? It’s three inches of heel.”

“Very impractical,” Al said under his breath, which was not a very Kingly thing to do.

Auguste was still smiling. “I like it. It matches the piping of your coat.”

“Yes, exactly!” Laurent was so happy in that moment, he leant forward and hugged Auguste. It was very short, but Auguste looked so pleased afterwards, Laurent wished he had prolonged it.

“Did you get me anything?” he asked, to cover the embarrassment following his sudden burst of affection.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Laurent. You’re not going to ask me about my classes or my rather excellent Anthropology professor?”

Laurent scrunched up his face. “Are you stalling because you didn’t get me anything?”

Auguste smiled. “There’s about fifty boxes of Grand Cru chocolate in your bedroom.”

Laurent’s sound of ecstasy was too loud; Al spilled some of his whiskey onto his pants. Auguste clapped him on the back in commiseration.

As the servants laid out a small meal —  roses of smoked salmon on cucumber slices, macaroons, thin slices of cured meat and cheese, crunchy shrimp salad on crusty rolls, grapes and strawberries and mango and pineapple, individual strawberry shortcakes, that kind of thing — Auguste said, “Father tells me you’re having an affair with the King of Akielos.” He said it casually enough, but Laurent could see he wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

Laurent swallowed his last bite of sandwich and placed a hand on his heart. “Al! You should know better than to gossip, shame on you!”

Al just sighed, a long, suffering sound, and Auguste glared openly at him. “I thought you promised to stop disrespecting Father like that.”

Laurent’s stomach pooled with an uncomfortable tightness. Being told off by Auguste somehow was always worse than being told off by Al.

“Fine,” Laurent said shortly. He said to Al: “Oh dearest Father, Papa, Your Majesty, light of my life, the man who impregnated Queen Hennike, so I, your glorious creation, could be born to bring some joy to this bleak, bleak world: stop gossiping immediately.”

There was a very long pause. Then Auguste laughed. “You are such a shit.”

Al sighed again. “He’s becoming more and more insolent by the day.”

“Thank you so much,” Laurent said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Auguste barked another laugh. Al sipped more whiskey; a very good sign. Laurent was going to take advantage of this; he wanted a new watch.

Auguste continued his questioning a few minutes later. “So. You and the King — it’s true?”

Laurent flapped a hand. “Oh, you know how it is. He saw those pictures of me from Aimeric’s birthday party where I wore those silk shorts that were just long enough to be tasteful and the poor darling had absolutely no choice but to slide into my DMs and woo me.”

“What’s a DM?” asked Al, and if the question had come from anyone else, Laurent would have found it adorable. He probably would have tweeted it as well.

“Texting,” Auguste said. He seemed contemplative. “Aimeric’s birthday — from last September? It’s been a bit more than a year.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. He tried to say it as wistfully as possible. “He bought me a Ferrarri.”

“Really?” Auguste sounded impressed. “The 1954?”

Laurent grinned. “Do you want to drive it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Auguste said, then quickly cleared his throat and looked at their father. “I mean, yes. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”

Al shook his head, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal. Well, he didn’t say anything to Laurent. He really was in a good mood.

*

Having Auguste back had Laurent so distracted it wasn’t until a few days later that he realised how frantically the staff were cleaning the floors and walls and painting frames.

In fact, he became so relaxed doing less than nothing all day, since Al was too busy doing this and that, or fawning over Auguste, he didn’t comprehend why the chefs needed fifty boars delivered fresh on Friday morning, until Al told him before their weekly Council, “I want you to wear your red high neck blouse tomorrow.”

“Why?” Laurent asked, checking for any fine lines in the shine of the armour of one of the propped knights in the hallway.

“It is the colour of the Akielos banner. I am trying to seem as diplomatic as possible.”

Laurent went very, very still. With dawning horror, he said, “The — Damianos is coming tomorrow?”

Al’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not waste my time asking stupid questions, Laurent. You know how much I despise it.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said quietly, real fear settling into his bones. Damianos was going to murder him tomorrow. He would need to get a facial tonight, to ensure he was the most beautiful corpse the human eye had seen. And then something much more horrific occurred to him. “Wait! I can’t wear the red high neck with the Crown of Naos! Those colours completely clash!”

Al seemed to age a few centuries in a blink of an eye. With a shake of his head, he walked into the Chambers, leaving Laurent alone in the hallway.

Laurent frowned. One of these days, he was going to be the one storming out. It was only fair.

*

Things only got worse.

Laurent’s last minute facial broke him out, so he threatened to sue and smashed one of their stupid reclining chairs.

Laurent had honestly thought that was going to be the worst of it; the pimple along his jawline was easy to cover up once he got the local dermatologist to inject something in it.

But on the morning of Damianos’ arrival, Laurent was in a terrible mood. He hadn’t slept at all, worried about his pimple, his horrible outfit, and the fact that a man who was the size of a small house — Google said Damianos was 6’6”, but he was definitely way more, no arguments — was going to viciously kill him.

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped at the servant dressing him, who had been pulling too sharply at his laces for the last six minutes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered meekly, and continued fumbling about.

When a few more minutes passed, Laurent looked down at him. “Okay, seriously, this is ridiculous. You usually get me dressed in ten minutes or less. What is the problem?”

“I —” The servant looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Your Highness, the laces — I can’t do them up. It’s uh — it’s too tight.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes. “This fit perfectly a month ago.”

“Yes, well —” And his eyes slid over to the bed, where an empty, open box of chocolates was stacked against many other empty boxes of chocolate.

Laurent saw red.

It took three guards and then Jord and Lazar to keep Laurent restrained enough to not kill him. In the end, he yelled until his throat was hoarse and the servant broke down, running out the room with his face covered in tears.

Afterwards, Laurent attempted to do up the laces himself, because he was not fat, and he definitely had not gained weight; he was svelte and sexy and desirable.

In the end, he could only do his trousers up, and only just. If he let out a particularly deep exhale… well, breathing was overrated anyway, Laurent had always thought so.

“Oh, forget it!” Laurent howled, miserable and on the verge of tears himself. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, Your Highness,” Jord assured quickly. Too quickly.

Laurent glanced at himself in the mirror. His ass was practically suffocated in these trousers — and that was his best feature! He ran a hand down it forlornly. “It’s too tight.”

Jord’s eyes followed his hand with avid interest. He was drooling.

“Could be tighter,” said Lazar, leaning against the bedpost.

Laurent flung himself on the bed. “No it couldn’t. I need to lose about three kilograms in the next —” He checked the clock, “half an hour. Oh god. Just tell Al I died. It’ll make his day, go on.”

“Orgasms help with weight loss,” said Lazar. “I could fuck your face.”

Laurent sniffed “Don’t be so stupid.” He looked at the clock again. “Obviously, riding you will help me lose more calories. Both of you get on the bed, quick.”

*

Laurent did not lose three kilograms in half an hour. As enjoyable as the sex had been, it had only made him tired and anxious.

Jord suggested that Laurent should just let the laces at the back trail, and cover it up with a coat, even though it was far too hot in the year to wear one. Laurent obliged anyway, knowing how difficult Al would be if he showed up wearing undiplomatic colours. He changed his trousers into a different pair, making sure it had an elastic waistband to stretch accommodatingly.

When the crown was placed on his head, he staggered a little. It really was unnecessarily heavy. His great great grandfather must have had a head the size of a watermelon.

Laurent walked unsteadily down the hall, towards the Palace steps where Auguste and Al were already waiting. His insides became so twisted with the thought of seeing Damianos, he had to make a detour and hide behind a tapestry to have a panic, but only a little one.

Outside, the sun was blazing. Auguste clapped him on the back in greeting, and Laurent winced, the material of his blouse sticking to his armpits. Al’s lips curled at his outfit, but Laurent couldn’t care. He hoped he looked beautiful enough — just enough — so Damianos would reconsider his murder. At the very least, Laurent hoped nothing happened to his face.

“Alright?” said Auguste. “You’re sweating.”

“Shut up,” said Laurent, mortified. He was a prince; he did not sweat.

Auguste’s response was cut off by the sound of the gates opening and rolling tires on gravel. Laurent’s heart was in his ears; he swallowed, but it made him feel more sick.

The sleek, black car was parked in the driveway. Several seconds later, Damianos stepped out, tall and handsome.

Laurent whimpered. It was one thing to see photos of Damianos on the internet, walking briskly down the street or shaking hands with Al, and it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh as he walked down their driveway.

He was so tall. And he was built like a tree; all thick arms and chest and thighs. Laurent had such a weakness for thighs, they were really the best part of a man’s body, how they framed the groin and the cock and —

Laurent realised, suddenly, that he had not prepared at all for how he was going to greet Damianos.

Lovers kissed each other, yes? Laurent didn’t think he could do that without being punched but god, would Al think it was weird if he didn’t at least attempt to kiss Damianos? Maybe he could pretend to suddenly be shy, too coy to look into Damianos’ eyes in front of everyone — yes, yes that sounded perfect.

Damianos came up the stairs, smile wide and straight. His teeth were amazing. Were they fake? Laurent didn’t think so; he ran his tongue over his own, nervous, heart still thumping in his ears.

He greeted Al first. Laurent’s head was spinning. What if Al said something? What if Auguste did? What if Damianos said something that alluded to the fact that this was technically, the first time he and Laurent would be speaking to another?

And then Laurent couldn’t think of anything else, because Damianos was standing right in front of him.

He reached out, one large, dark hand to shake Laurent’s. Laurent staggered forward, into his chest, and closed his eyes.

*

When he opened his eyes again, Laurent saw the most beautiful angel.

“Wow, you’re hot.” Laurent poked a very hard, very strong bicep. “Heaven’s pretty cool.” He was dead, obviously,  because people this good looking didn’t exist in the mortal world.

“You’re not dead, Laurent. Can you sit up?”

Laurent thought about it. He wasn’t dead? That was good news. But he felt like he was dead because he couldn’t move his body at all.

“Here, can you follow my finger?”

“Hmm.” Laurent said and stared unblinkingly at what he assumed was a finger. It was quite blurry.

“I think he’s concussed.”

Laurent giggled. The stranger’s accent made it sound like he had said cock-cussed. It made Laurent want to suck cock.

He said, “If I’m not dead, I’d like to be. Jord, get me my blue Prada scarf. I want to be buried in it. Lazar, get your gun out.”

“He doesn’t seem concussed.” That was Al. The compulsion to die was suddenly much stronger.

“We should take him to the hospital,” the hot angel said. Laurent was in love.

He said as much: “I really love you,” he told the blurry figure. Then he rolled over onto his side and threw up.

[twiceblackvelvet]

One Night Stand

A/N; someone requested this but for some reason i can’t find the ask in my drafts among all of the other requests but hopefully they find it anyway. enjoy me writing way more than i expected and ending things on an open note in case people become interested and i get to write a second part.

Nights like these very rarely happen. In fact, they never do. Usually, you’d be sat at home with a glass of wine, binge-watching yet another drama, and stuffing your face with whichever snacks you could find in the cupboards. An unhealthy combination, sure. But it’s what comforts you the most after spending way too long dealing with people during the day. 

But tonight, your friends have practically dragged you out of the pit you’ve created in the middle of your sofa that you tried endlessly to convince them had not in fact molded to the shape of your body, it just looks like that naturally. Apparently, a new bar opening offering free entry is enough reason for you to break your usual habits and let your hair down instead.

It’s been so long since the last time you went out to a nightclub that you’d forgotten how much work goes into just getting there and looking somewhat acceptable. Spending hours on end searching through your closet for a dress that you had been told must cling to your skin and not look like something a librarian would wear. 

Maybe, it’s just time to get some new friends who won’t rip your everyday style to shreds for a quick laugh. 

You’re not even sure why you agreed, really. The thought of drunken slobs throwing themselves all over anyone within proximity in the hopes of getting lucky at the end of the night is not something you’ve ever found appealing, thus, you’re yet to gain your one-night stand card. Not that such a thing exists, but according to numerous sources, or rather just all of your friends it’s an important step in the life of an adult. You’d rather keep both feet firmly outside of that circle and never dip your toes into the daunting pool of regret and possible after-effects of bedding a complete stranger. 

Despite the lingering feeling deep down that this night would not end well, after a few pre-drinks to get you in the mood, excitement soon washes away any worries. Even the one’s telling you that you’d likely spend half the night pulling your friends away from anyone they find attractive only because they’re wearing beer goggles.

Stepping out of the cab and into the cold night air makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and brings about your first regret. The short black dress you decided upon makes it impossible for your body to find any warmth as you walk toward the queue hovering outside waiting to get inside. It’s shorter than you expected, which you’re all grateful for but there’s still a good amount of people there.

After a few minutes of pacing on the spot, your teeth have begun to chatter and the alcohol that had previously warmed you up has started to lose its effect. 

“How long until we’re in?” You decide to ask, aimed at no one in particular, just hoping for a positive answer from anyone that the cold suffering will end soon.

“It’ll be about ten more minutes babe, don’t worry.” One of your friends shouts from behind you. The loud music from inside blaring out into the street makes it impossible for you to know which, you’re just grateful it’s not going to be too long before you can get inside and feel warmth once again. 

Bodies begin to shuffle closer towards the door and soon two burly men dressed head to toe in black come into sight, the words security plastered across one side of their chest. One of them, more muscular than the other and with a far more intimidating face places his meaty hand upright in front of you to pause the steady flow of patrons being allowed inside. 

“Do you have any identification?” The smaller of the two men who now that you’re closer is in fact still huge in comparison to you croaks out, his voice not matching his appearance. You notice he has a cut above his eye, likely from someone drunkenly thinking it’s a good idea to fight the hulk’s cousin after one too many. 

Your hands roam around inside the small clutch bag you’d decided upon pairing with your outfit and pull out your driver's license and point it towards both of them. They eye it suspiciously, but you can see the cogs in their heads quickly trying to decipher whether your year of birth makes you legal to enter or not.

“Great, thanks. Go right ahead.” The larger man speaks and ushers you toward the door. 

Before stepping inside, you turn in place to face your friends who are also being inspected head to toe. A strong breeze gusts past all of you and without thinking too much about upsetting them, you walk in alone and leave your friends to the freezing weather. You quickly holler that you’ll meet them inside, but it’s unlikely that they heard it. 

Walking through an extra set of doors, you’re greeted by a dark interior with painted black walls,  a bar placed dead in the center of the room with low lighting hung above it. Red seats line the counter and one half of the room and your feet move without you thinking about it towards one of them. The other half is an open dance floor full of people moving along to the music, some less on the beat than others but they’re trying. 

A small woman, no taller than 5’2 with brown short hair appears out of nowhere in front of you, a sharp smile placed on her face which you easily recognize as the fake customer service greeting she’s likely learned from years of experience handling people in an intoxicated state.

“Hey! What can I get you?” Her voice is soft, too soft to be working in this kind of environment.

You decide to look further down the bar at some of the other people seated next to you and spot a woman holding a glass filled with a light blue liquid. Truthfully, it looks like something you’d clean your kitchen floor with, but it’s calling out to you for some reason. 

“I’ll have whatever that is.” You point toward the girl and the bartender gives a quick nod before heading off to pour the potentially poisonous concoction you’ve just ordered on a whim. 

As you watch a couple of people throw down some moves that would be acceptable if they were from a five-year-old child, not a grown adult, small hands wrap around your waist that startles you for a second until you come face to face with your friends who’ve finally made it past the two roadblocks patrolling the doors.

“Here you are, this place is nice, right? Have you gotten a drink yet?” 

“Yeah, I just ord-” 

Before you can finish your sentence, the bartender returns and places the drink down in front of you. 

“The first one is on the house, have a good night!” Her words are far more excited than previously, probably more than they should be for someone offering out drinks for free during opening night. Part of you wonders if this is her way of flirting or maybe just hoping for some extra tips.

“Thanks for the offer, really but I’ll pay, I’m not looking to date anyone right now and you’re not my type, sorry.” 

Her eyes widen the more you speak and you realize that perhaps you’re the one who is in fact sat in the very wrong tree and barking like an idiot.

“I’m one of the owners here, the flyer outside says the first drink is free for everyone. Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I don’t swing your way.” 

She’s already turned around on the heel of her foot before you can force out an apology. However, her swift exit doesn’t stop your cheeks from heating up and a mild headache from forming out of embarrassment. Your friends’ laughter all around you isn’t helping the situation either. 

“Next time, maybe save that for someone who bats for your own team.” A husky voice from beside where you’re seated speaks lowly into your ear. 

As you swing your chair quickly to face where the words came from, all you find is flowing brown hair trailing off toward the dance floor. You watch the body strut away, and by watching, you definitely saw something far more appealing than a kind yet uninterested bar owner. Her hips sway casually as she floats in between several bodies moving to the music and enters the bathroom without waiting in the line formed outside of the door. 

A few angry customers shout after the girl, but she doesn’t bother to listen to their calls informing her of the queue. Whoever she is, her attitude is one of not caring about anything other than herself. Usually, this would be a major red flag under any other circumstances, but something is drawing you towards her even though you have no idea who she is or what she looks like other than her back profile. 

Your friends order their drinks one after the other, all of which is a cocktail of sorts that will definitely cause the world’s worst hangover for each of them individually, however, that’s their problem. The lights near the dance floor quickly change colors to strobe blindingly through the crowd that’s formed, drinks have been spilled already causing some already inebriated bodies to crash land on the ground only to rise up once more to sway from one side to another. 

You can’t help yourself from watching the bathroom door every few moments, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystery woman and confirm whether she’s everything you’ve managed to imagine in the few moments since she decided to teasingly whisper into your ear. But, the line outside quickly moves and disappears meaning she has already left and you’ve missed it. 

Before you know it, several hours have passed, numerous drinks have infiltrated your liver and your sight has become less and less able to make out whether the person in front of you is that close or if they’re actually halfway across the room. Your body has been dragged to the center of the dancefloor and whilst you are trying to keep up with the rhythm of the music, your loose limbs have a mind of their own and sure enough, you too end up looking like an inflatable tube blowing in the wind in any direction you decide to throw it. 

At least two of your friends have decided that ramming their tongues down someone’s throat is a far better way to spend their time. You’re strangely quite envious of them.

Just as you’re about to stagger off back to the bar to relieve your throat of the dryness that has formed and maybe rid yourself of some of the sweat you’re unsure of which belongs to you or someone else, a hand slides it’s way around your waist and pulls you backward. Your body now pressed against another in a tight embrace that had you been sober you’d struggle to get out of, however, in this state, it’s even more difficult to break free.

“Why didn’t you follow me?” 

When the words hit your ears, you recognize the voice from earlier and a cold shudder settles itself throughout your spine. The mystery woman has somehow managed to find you amongst the full capacity crowd whilst you couldn’t even keep up with her in the midst of a small bathroom queue. The teasing tone still there but her husky voice now replaced with a more hoarse yet sultry one.

Without even thinking about it, you force your body further into her own and spin around all at the same time. Turns out, that was a mistake as it sends both of you flying toward the ground at a pace that makes it impossible for either of you to break your fall. You may not have gotten to see her face previously but in your current position of laying on top of her, you’re now offered a close up to what your drunken mind can only describe as perfection. 

Her wide eyes bore into your own, they’re a dark shade of brown and intensely eye you the same way in which you’re doing to her before quickly flitting toward your lips for a split second. Your own eyes can’t help but do the exact same to her in return. Pink plump lips that are daring you to take them in with your own, but you manage to resist, or rather, she pushes you upward and stands before helping you off the ground too. 

She’s taller than you first thought. A loosely fitted blazer covers a black crop top that lies just above an abdomen that threatens to bring tears to your eyes from how toned it is. Dark pants tightly hug her long legs that you’re sure would look better without the material hiding them. You’re having difficulty removing your eyes from her magnetic form when she cups your chin and raises it so she can meet your eyes once more.

“You didn’t answer me.” She says sternly this time. 

“I didn’t know you wanted me to follow you.” No thought goes into your response, you’re simply on auto-pilot mode and hoping she doesn’t vanish once more. 

“Well, I did. But, your loss.” 

She begins to stride away, once again. However, your arm flies out and grasps hold of her wrist before she can escape. Despite having way too much to drink, your strength still exists for a split second as her body ends up bumping into your own, hips clashing with one another.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“Who are you?” 

The airy way in which the question leaves your mouth makes it sound like you’re asking something far more prophetic, or as if you’re expecting her to give you her life story in the middle of a packed nightclub. Truthfully, you’re just after a name. 

“Come with me.” Her words should be a question, instead, they sound like a command and you’re helpless to it as you trail behind her without worrying about the consequences or thinking about what it is you’re going through with. Placing in your trust in someone like this is not something you’d ever dare to do previously, but this feels right, somehow.

The two of you step outside of the club, her strides are way too quick for you to keep up with as she wanders down the street away from the loud music and your friends who you’re quickly trying to type out a text message to tell them not to send out a search party for you, though, you still don’t even know this girl’s name so perhaps that isn’t the smartest idea. You send it anyway and hope your blind faith in this godly woman who keeps checking you’re still behind her every few seconds is correct.

Her arm raises at the end of the street and a car pulls up. Everything about this feels wrong, yet, you get inside the vehicle with her anyway. 

“Sooyoung.” She bluntly states. The confusion your face makes it obvious that you have no idea why she’s saying this suddenly. “My name… is Sooyoung.” 

It could just be the alcohol talking, but you’re sure that it is the prettiest name to exist. 

“Do you have one? Or am I supposed to guess?” She follows up after watching you mouth her own, something you hadn’t even realized you’d been doing. You quickly slur out your name that makes it only barely comprehensible and Sooyoung just chuckles in response.

You can’t help but let out a small laugh yourself when you consider your thoughts earlier in the night about your entire crisis of still clutching tightly onto your one-night-stand card and how this complete stranger in front of you is about to snatch it away, no doubt.

“What’s so funny?” The teasing tone is back in place as one of Sooyoung’s hands rests carefully atop your thigh. Her hand is cold yet despite only just finding out her name, you feel safe with her placing it there. It feels like she’s trying to steady you with it.

“Nothing, I’ve just never done this before.” 

“You’ve never used Uber?” She cocks one of her eyebrows as she looks at you with an amused smirk. 

“Very funny.” 

Her face straightens out and turns serious for the first time since you’ve been graced with looking at it. You can tell she’s thinking about something but unsure of whether or not to speak it into existence. The ability to read people so far hasn’t disappeared no matter how much tequila you’ve consumed. 

“I guess you meant it when you said that Haseul wasn’t your type.” She quietly lets out after a few moments. She spots the confusion once more and continues. “The bartender, her name is Haseul. You told her she wasn’t your type.”

“Oh, no. She definitely is my type. I just… wait, what exactly do you think I meant by saying I’ve never done this before?”

Now it’s Sooyoung’s turn to feel lost by the conversation as she tries to decipher where things have gotten lost in translation between you both.

“Well, girls. You didn’t pick up on me wanting you to follow me and now you’re telling me on my way back to my place you’ve never done this before. I’m assuming that your usual type is the two meatheads working the door stopping people from smashing the bar up.” 

Loud laughter fills the small space of the car. The driver even looks into his rearview mirror to see what is so funny that you’re doubled over in pain from Sooyoung’s assumption. 

“Oh that’s good. You know, trying to take a straight girl’s home is a massive stereotype.” You’re not sure if the look you’re receiving from Sooyoung is of her being offended or still lost. “I didn’t mean I’ve never slept with a girl before. I meant I’ve never gone home with someone that I just met hours before.”

Everything suddenly clicks into place for both of you and Sooyoung bites her lower lip, likely feeling that same embarrassment that you did earlier with the woman you now know is named Haseul.

“I didn’t think you were straight, by the way. That’s not why you’re here with me. I just assumed from what you said.” 

The two of you continue to laugh at just how crossed you’ve managed to get the wires in the few minutes you’ve been traveling towards her home which was longer than you thought as soon enough, the driver is pulling up and asking you both to leave a good review. Sooyoung politely tells him that she will before helping you out of the car.

Had you known that going back to Sooyoung’s apartment meant that you had to conquer stairs, you may have turned her down. Well, you wouldn’t have because she’s the personification of flawless. But you’d have prepared your legs to feel less like jelly and more capable of completing the trek up to her front door.

She slides a set of keys out of her blazer and opens the front door inviting you to step in first. You do and are greeted by a  space with hardly any furniture. Sparse is the only word that fits her home. Anyone with a knack for home design would have a field day if they were to be welcomed in too. 

“I know, it’s not much. I just moved here from the city and I haven’t had time to finish decorating.” 

All thoughts about how Sooyoung could still be a serial killer who has lured you away from your friends to her apartment that is lacking any form of personal touch evaporates with her explanation. You set yourself a mental reminder to never drink whatever that blue liquid was again, it makes you feel way too trusting.

You move further into the apartment and see that it’s spacious and open planned. The kitchen is well lit with brand new appliances that look like they’ve yet to be used. A television far bigger than the one you own sits on the wall of the living room. Sooyoung sits casually on one of the two white leather sofas as she plays with the remote and turns it on to a music channel. A door blocks off both the left and right side of the apartment, likely leading to a bedroom and bathroom. 

“You can sit, you know. I don’t bite.” Sooyoung pats the space beside her as she speaks. “Well, unless you’re into that.” 

There’s a confidence to everything that Sooyoung says, it makes you feel envious that she’s able to pull it off without being cocky. If you tried, it would likely come out sounding pretentious. You sit beside her, though, there’s probably more space between your bodies than she was hoping for as she shuffles closer toward you. 

“So, what now?” Once again, words are leaving your mouth without you thinking about it. But, you can’t help in feeling awkward that she’s seemingly not made a move beyond putting her hand on your thigh since you agreed to leave the nightclub with her. 

“What do you want to happen now?” 

Truthfully, your lack of experience with the whole one night stand thing had led you to believe that people didn’t even get the chance to scan the person’s apartment that they’d decided to sleep with. Part of you expected Sooyoung to just tear your clothes off the second you walked through her door. Part of you wanted her to do that, then you wouldn’t find yourself in this semi-uncomfortable situation. 

The logical side of your brain that is screaming for you to listen to it is instead and telling you that Sooyoung is not a threat. She’s teasing, flirty, and probably thinking about all of the former things your mind has listed, but she has been respectful thus far and it doesn’t look as if that is going to change anytime soon. 

“I’m not sure, I told you… I’ve never done this before. I thought I’d be back inside another Uber on my way home by now.” You finally reply.

“Are you accusing me of being a five minute hit it and quit it kind of girl?” Once more, that look of being offended without actually being offended overtakes all of her features. Features you can’t help but admire in the clear lighting now rather than the darkness of the club. 

Her face is lacking any blemishes whatsoever, and despite being ready to enter her bedroom, you also wouldn’t like seeing her bathroom just to know what kind of skincare routine she has going on. The same plump lips you wanted to touch with your own are still inviting, but you restrain yourself once more.

“No…  But why would you want me to stay once we both get what we’re here for.” 

This time, it does offend her as your words hit her like a slap to the face and she huffs out a deep breath. 

“Maybe, and bear with me here because it could be a concept you’re unfamiliar with, but just maybe, I like you beyond tonight.” 

She stands abruptly and shuffles towards the kitchen area, her footsteps heavier than previously and shoulders slumped. You consider following her to apologize and ask if she wants you to just leave now, but she returns with a glass of water in one hand and a box in the other. 

“Here, take this.” She opens the box to reveal a strip of tablets and pops two out of the metallic packaging placing them down on the table in front of you both. “Painkillers  for when you wake up, your head is going to feel like hell no doubt.” 

She moves away once more toward one of the closed doors but again returns quickly, this time with a pillow and blanket in tow. She lays the pillow down gently and offers you the blanket to hold onto. 

“As much as I’d love to spend the night with you, and I would have by the way, had you followed me earlier in the night when you still had some sobriety about you. I’m not much into sleeping with drunk girls.” Despite not having a clue who Sooyoung was prior to tonight, you can’t help but feel both happy and hurt by her words. Happy she isn’t willing to take advantage of people in your state. But hurt because by god you’d love nothing more than to wake up next to her after a night of being beneath her. 

She turns on her heels to leave you once more but stops herself upon reaching the bedroom door. 

“But hey, I’ve always had a thing about morning sex, so, who knows? Maybe you’ll still get lucky.” She offers you a quick wink before closing the door. 

This time, she doesn’t return and you’re left to wonder about just what the morning with Sooyoung might have in store for you.

pt.ii

[aphrodites-law]

A Bit of Clarity 🍂 (7/?) The visions had started last autumn, a year ago now. It had caused a bit of chaos for some, a bit of clarity for others. Two days ago, Clarke Griffin had been perfectly fine managing both her Café and her stress. But now she was curious - so deeply curious about the vision of herself entwined with the aloof Lexa Woods that it was leading her to complete distraction.

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6]

Clarke usually went straight to the café, but the past few days she'd started taking a detour. Since the article in the Gazette, Finn's Coffee & Bagels had taken a serious hit. Costial was a city with a deep-rooted pride for small businesses; mom-and-pop stores that had earned their success and customers' fidelity. Hard work and honesty were appreciated - shortcuts and lies were not. In just the one exposé, Finn's shop had lost half its patrons. Other outlets had jumped on the bandwagon and word had spread very quickly that anyone who bought his food or coffee might as well buy it in super stores for the same mass-produced quality at half the price. Finn had lost the support of his backers, but, more importantly, the Mayor had publicly condemned his son's business tactics.

To be perfectly honest, Clarke took some joy in the fall of Finn's plans. She had no doubt he would come up with another project very soon, perhaps in the theater sector, but at least his future in restoration was bleak. Clarke knew gloating wasn't a good look on anyone, but she wasn't ready to climb down from her cloud just yet. She was sure something would soon come along to knock her down a few pegs, but these days she was feeling pretty confident.

The café had been busier, which Clarke and Wells planned to capitalize on with the right promotion. Today he'd surpassed himself with some mini marble cakes, one of which Clarke had shoved in her mouth as soon as he'd shown her. It was the perfect time to look more seriously into new hires, which Clarke had pushed back for far too long. Gaia and Harper had been noticeably excited by the news. Wells would vet any additional help in the kitchen, but she could tell it was a relief for him too. Their café was small, but the workload wasn't.

Clarke was drafting the job application at the end of the counter when she heard someone clear their throat. She looked up and closed the laptop with a mischievous smile, her heart doing its now familiar dance.

“Lexa.”

“Clarke.”

Lexa had her dark green raincoat on, hiding the plaid collar Clarke only associated with her now. It didn't seem like she'd ordered anything yet, bypassing the two people in line to find her.

“Have a good weekend?” Clarke asked.

“I did. Had a long chat with Semet actually.”

“And?”

Lexa smiled at Clarke's interest. “You’ll find my observations in the Gazette... eventually.”

"Nothing world-changing though, I take it?"

Lexa shrugged. "I think the world's seen most of the changes already."

"I'd knock on wood if I were you."

"Why? Wary of change?"

"No, but a break for… oh, the next five or ten years might be nice. I miss going about my day not wondering when aliens will come crashing."

Lexa laughed. "I assure you Semet's experience didn't give any indication we might soon meet our celestial neighbors."

Clarke glanced at Gaia and Harper, making sure they still had everything under control with the orders. 

“So um, I had an enlightening weekend too.”

“Oh?” Lexa asked, nonchalant.

“Yeah. I was thinking we could... discuss." Clarke bit her lip. "Maybe over dinner?”

Lexa's demeanor visibly shifted, not as casual as she'd been just a few seconds ago. “Is that really what you want?”

“Trust me, it’s become crystal clear what I want.”

Lexa seemed a cross between reticent and eager, like she was a wild animal in a cage and the door had just opened, but she didn’t quite know what might come from stepping outside- freedom or punishment.

“Clarke. Maybe we should... slow down.”

That was surprising. Clarke frowned. “Slow down from a glacial pace?”

“Just days ago you weren't even sure what to think of me."

“But then we- I thought the rooftop-" Clarke's cheeks felt warm. "I was under the impression we were on the same page."

Lexa looked away and Clarke felt her morning's happiness wither away. So much for staying on her cloud. She took in Lexa's demeanor: tense shoulders and the obvious inability to catch her eyes. Clarke truly didn’t understand her. It was frustrating - bordering on humiliating.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Clarke-"

"No, no. I don't know what game you think this is, but I'm not playing it."

Lexa seemed panicked. "It's not a game."

"Then what the fuck is it?"

Lexa looked toward the door as two people came in. Harper greeted them cheerily, waiting for their order. This was neither the place nor the time. She looked back at Clarke with pleading eyes, unable to offer an explanation.

Clarke shook her head, tired of the silence. "I told myself I'd stop sitting around and waiting for things to happen, but I won't waste my time on someone who can't decide if I'm worth the chase. You clearly don't want any sort of relationship-"

“It’s not that simple,” Lexa argued.

“It is that simple," Clarke gritted through her teeth, feeling both stupid and angry. She'd fallen for Lexa's charm again only to be disappointed once more. It felt like being doused in ice-cold water. "You either want someone or you don’t. So which is it?”

Lexa shook her head imperceptibly. There was something on the tip of her tongue, Clarke could tell, but she couldn't get it out.

Clarke glanced at the front door when it opened, a family of three walking in. She swallowed her disappointment at the turn in her morning before giving Lexa a hard stare.

"I have to get back to work."

"Clarke-"

“You need to figure out what you want,” Clarke snapped lowly. “Preferably without stringing people along while you do so.”

She took the family's orders with a smile, trying her hardest not to look toward the door as Lexa walked out with hunched shoulders.

* * *

Clarke posted the application on their website and several job boards in the afternoon. Resumes came fast, but Wells wanted to be a part of the process - usually less involved in the business side now that most things were squared away - so they'd set some time aside on Wednesday to reach out to applicants. Wells even planned to speak to a couple smaller theaters over the weekend to expand their partnership program.

And yet, the more good news and exciting plans came their way… the more frustrated Clarke became. Clearly she wasn't incompetent and had a firm handle on most aspects of her life, but for some reason her romantic aspirations had turned into a complete disaster. Was that really all that was in store for her? Had she somehow agreed to a bustling café in exchange for an empty home? Professional success so long as she slept alone? The exchange with Lexa had left a bitter taste in her mouth, like it'd been a cosmic reminder her happiness would always be short-lived.

She kept busy to avoid blowing the lid off her anger, forcing smiles while she chatted with patrons, made coffee, and watched the mini marble cakes disappear one by one. There were so many reasons to be elated, but not even Finn's fall from grace could lift up her mood anymore. He'd get on with his life eventually - people like him always did.

Maybe Clarke had made a mistake with Niylah. She was sweet and charming in her own way. They got along great and were certainly compatible in bed. What they had was easy and uncomplicated - Clarke had never given herself a headache trying to figure out Niylah and Niylah had never chased after her only to run the opposite way. She was straightforward and easygoing; eager to share every aspect of her life Clarke might be curious about. Niylah was a Costialite through and through: honest, hardworking, and kindhearted. She didn't make her heart race or take up her thoughts, but she didn't make her feel like a tightly coiled spring either.

Which meant Niylah deserved better than her. She deserved someone who looked at her like she was the only person in the room. She deserved someone who wanted everything with her. Clarke knew it wasn't their sexual relationship she missed, but rather that period of time when she hadn’t cared as much about her loneliness. She missed the whirlwind of planning and opening the café, the breezy attitude that had carried her through so many problems.

One vision had changed it all, and Clarke couldn't say it was for the better.

* * *

Wells was already gone before closing time, the kitchen immaculate and the next day's ingredients already prepared. Clarke didn't know how he did it - as if he had ten hours more in the day than the rest of them. The last patrons trickled out until eventually there was no one and Gaia turned over the OPEN sign on the front door.

"Go home; I'll clean up," Clarke told her, putting her hair up while Gaia grabbed the broom from the back room.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, give Poppy a good cuddle for me."

Gaia took her coat and purse. "You should come over soon. Give her those cuddles yourself."

Clarke smiled tiredly. "I do miss those big ears."

Gaia had the sweetest beagle she took on long hikes every weekend. She'd been born with one ear much longer than the other, but her lopsided anatomy only added to her personality.

"You haven’t even seen my new place yet," Gaia pointed out.

She'd moved into her mother's second building a few months back, the one on the same street as Lexa's, which only reminded Clarke how poorly she'd neglected all her relationships. 

"One day soon I'll pop in with wine and a pizza and you won't be able to get rid of me," she promised.

Gaia smiled brightly as she shouldered her purse. "Holding you to that, boss."

"See you tomorrow," Clarke said as Gaia walked out.

Clarke dimmed the main lights, wiped the last few tables and put the chairs up. She straightened out the coffee mugs and cleaned the front of the display case, giving herself a few more minutes before she headed home. The rush hour traffic outside was slowing down, giving Clarke some needed quiet.

To hear their small bell ring as the door opened was more than a surprise. Clarke turned around and stilled, watching as Lexa pulled down her raincoat’s hood and looked at her across the room. Her hair was out of its braids, damp and frizzy.

Clarke felt her anger roar back to life and stoke the fire inside her. Her heart pounded, furious that Lexa had had such an effect on her mood today. But she wouldn't back down. She wouldn't look away until it was Lexa who was forced to do so.

"We're closed," she told her coldly. It was so unlike her to be so curt.

Lexa didn't move, didn't even open her mouth to attempt a reply. It was infuriating.

"What do you want?" Clarke asked harshly, echoing her question from this morning.

Lexa's eyes flashed with similar ardor and her jaw locked. Then, in four strides, she was in front of Clarke and kissing her.

Clarke felt her hands on her waist first, and then the heat of her mouth against her own. She gasped, fisted her hands in Lexa's collar and then unraveled. She kissed Lexa back with the force of her anger, pulling and pulling until Lexa had her pressed against the display case and her body flush against hers. Her tongue felt like silk when it brushed the tip of hers, when it took a risk and was rewarded. Her hands felt like embers, leaving a trail of fire wherever they touched her, first on her waist and then lower, on her hips, until they became more dangerous and cupped her ass while she pressed tight against her. Desperate and possessive.

Clarke moaned loudly, overwhelmed by the sudden force of her desire. She needed Lexa to take her, to be inside her, to fulfill her incessant need for release. She couldn't imagine a second away from Lexa's lips, a second where Lexa didn't touch her.

“God, I thought of this,” she moaned between kisses, eyes closing when she felt Lexa's mouth down her neck. She smelled like the rain; felt like a storm.

“I think about you all the time...” Lexa breathed in her ear, almost like she hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Clarke pulled back, cupping Lexa's face to make sure she wasn't imagining this again. After a beat, their next kiss turned hungrier. Clarke wanted nothing more than to pull Lexa in the back room. She didn’t need romance or a bed. She needed Lexa’s fire to consume her and for the world to stop existing for just a moment. At the same time she was content staying there, pinned between glass and Lexa's body while they kissed into the night.

But her imagination was kinder than reality, as a car suddenly honked at another outside, startling Lexa. She ripped away from their embrace with wide eyes, stumbling back like she was dizzy, the reality of the situation catching up to her.

Clarke could read it all on her face: the surprise at her own actions, the realization of where they were and what they had almost done so publicly. She could've cried when Lexa suddenly looked like a deer in headlights.

It was the same expression from this morning. Clarke shook her head at her, begging her not to run. But a part of her knew it was futile - Lexa had already made up her mind. Still, she had to try one last time.

"It's okay."

Lexa's bottom lip trembled. "I shouldn't have done that. I thought I could, but-" She pressed her hands against her eyes in frustration. "I'm so sorry, Clarke."

Clarke's chest felt heavy. "Please don't go. Help me understand."

"I won't bother you again."

"That's not what I want," Clarke replied in frustration, stepping closer.

Lexa shook her head. "You don't want me."

"Why not?"

To Clarke, Lexa seemed broken. Like something in her had finally shattered.

"You started looking at me after your vision," Lexa whispered. "We never spoke until… until you had it. And I never realized it was you in mine until I saw you drawing."

"What does it matter?"

"You don't know me," Lexa told her, voice cracking. "If you did, your vision would never become true. You'd want nothing to do with me."

"Don't you dare put words in my mouth," Clarke snapped.

Lexa stopped short, so Clarke took a deep breath and stepped even closer.

"Lexa. I don't need to be protected. You're right, we don't know much about each other. So let me learn and let me make my own decisions afterward. Please. You can't pretend there's nothing between us - you can't."

"The visions-"

"I don't give a fuck about the visions," Clarke told her stubbornly. "Maybe it opened my eyes, but it didn't create feelings out of thin air. That's not possible."

Lexa still looked skittish, ready to bolt at any moment. Clarke reached out for her hand, relieved when Lexa took it. It was so different than the rooftop, where Lexa had grabbed hers so confidently. How could a person be so torn?

"Maybe you were right this morning," Clarke said softly. "We've skipped a lot of steps. So let's start over."

Lexa finally caught her eyes. "I hurt people, Clarke. I don't mean to, but inevitably it's what I do."

Clarke knew that was all she'd get out of Lexa tonight. Hesitantly, she cupped her cheek.

"How about this? If the rain lets up, I take you to the river this weekend. We bring some drinks, some snacks, maybe some hiking shoes. You can tell me about the Mountain Men and I can tell you about the weird resumes I'll inevitably get this week."

Lexa let out a chuckle, which made Clarke smile hopefully. "Doesn't sound too scary, does it?"

"No. That sounds nice."

Clarke felt hopeful for the first time. "Just two people hanging out, getting to know each other."

"I'd like that." Lexa glanced at her mouth and swallowed. "I do want you, Clarke."

Clarke pressed her index against her lips. "I know. Nobody kisses a friend like that. But…"

"Fresh start?"

"Right.” Clarke still had to speak her mind: “Lexa, you can't keep running away without telling me why. I'm patient but I'm not a saint. I get angry too. I get scared."

Lexa nodded quietly, looking down at their hands before she glanced around the room.

"You were closing up."

"Yeah, did you not notice the chairs on the tables?"

"I was preoccupied. Can I help?"

"Lexa… I think maybe you should go home."

Lexa looked down. "I'm sorry, I must be giving you whiplash."

"Just a little," Clarke smiled.

"I'll see you this weekend?"

"I didn't mean you can't swing by for a quick hello and a cup of coffee. Or not coffee. Wells is baking up a storm, it'd be a pity if you missed it."

"That sounds nice."

Clarke accompanied her to the door, where she noticed the rain had become heavier. It was incessant these days, washing down the streets of Costial and keeping the coffee shops and movie theaters busy. Nothing unusual for the season. She grabbed one of the forgotten umbrellas in the stand by the entrance, giving it to Lexa.

"That's alright-"

"Take it. I don't you want coming in sneezing and sniffling this week."

"Thank you, Clarke." Slowly, hesitantly, Lexa kissed her cheek. "Goodnight."

After Lexa walked out in the rain and turned the corner with one last glance over her shoulder, Clarke stood in the dark for a moment. Then, she walked to the back room and slid down the wall until she was sitting on the ground. She clutched her heart, eyes closing as she let the last few minutes rush over her. Whiplash didn't even begin to cover it.

In the resounding silence, she tried processing what had just happened. She could still feel Lexa's kiss, everything she had imagined and more. But then Lexa had pulled away. It felt like she was two different people, one aching with desire like Clarke, the other convinced it would hurt them both. But why?

Clarke thought back to when she had first noticed Lexa. Courteous, quiet Lexa who had placed her order and sat near the weeping fig tree for hours while she worked. What could have driven her to Costial? It couldn't be the job opportunities - she didn't work in theater and the Gazette was no more reputable than their neighboring cities' newspapers. Family was the obvious guess, but then why not come earlier? What kind of life had she left behind that still haunted her today?

Clarke wasn't sure she'd be able to shut up this weekend, too wrapped up in Lexa's mystery to keep herself from asking questions. She wanted to know everything but knew she had to be cautious. Still, spending time together was a step forward. She was relieved Lexa hadn't run after all, but it would be difficult to forget the pain in her eyes. Despite the uncertainty of their relationship, if it could even be defined, Clarke had a feeling it would be worth fighting for.

-

[part eight]

[smol-and-grumpy]

Sky Full Of Stars - CH06

Sequel to Something Just Like This

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: He’s Dean Winchester, ex mobster boss, still a little cocky, less ruthless and not at all short tempered anymore. Instead, he thinks he’s hilarious (she doesn’t agree, though). They both try to live a quiet life. And Dean hopes, very hard, that his former life won’t come knocking at their door.

Warnings: NSFW, fluff, and okay, maybe this one is a little more angsty because Dean needs someone to hit him over the head for not telling her the truth.

WC: 3445

SERIES MASTERLIST

It’s a month later that they’re invited to Sam’s birthday party and it’s actually the first outing with Ella. 

They’ve held an open house on one weekend where friends would drop by throughout the day to come see them. It was actually Dean’s idea and she agreed because it sounded better than scheduling visitations with all of the people who would want to meet their newborn girl. 

Even Linda dropped by and that woman was all over Ella, didn’t even want to let the little girl out of her sight and held on to her for the whole time she was here. Truffles followed them around either. Poor boy was afraid that Linda would take Ella home with her. 

Sam lives just outside the city, in a suburban big white house with white fences and landscaped garden. It looks picturesque and pretty. It’s a total contrast to their home. It’s more modern, fits more into the lifestyle Sam has. A lifestyle Dean left behind.

Dean carries Ella, of course he does, was the first out of the car and hurried to take Ella out of her car seat, fearing that she’d reach their child first. He grins cocky when he sees Y/N schlepping the diaper bag and a gift for Sam.

She rolls her eyes for the dramatic effect but she smirks, because it’s cute how proud he is. 

Jess sits with Y/N out on their porch while both of them are holding their babies and chat. It’s the second time that Ella meets her cousin Jack and Anna joins them later with Elijah. 

They talk and laugh, complaining too because Anna’s the closest in getting back into her old shape while Y/N still struggles with her flabby stomach the most. 

Dean doesn’t seem to mind her body change at all. Doesn’t seem to mind the excess skin, the stretch marks. Because every time she’s naked, she wants to hide from him, but he’d make her show him, looks at her like he always did, makes her feel like she’s his fucking world. Last time was this morning while Ella was still asleep when they took a bath together and he made sure to touch every inch of her. Brushed his hands across her stomach, let his fingertips trail along her stretch marks. He kissed her shoulder, the nape of her neck, she could feel him hard underneath her. 

They haven’t had sex yet since she gave birth. She wants to wait until she feels comfortable again and he was okay with it, never pressuring her into anything. They did all the other things which doesn’t involve him sticking his cock into her pussy. 

Dean has the patience of a saint and she really doesn’t know what he sees in her. She still has these doubts, can’t help it, even if she knows that she shouldn’t. 

The men are talking together, drinking beers, laughing. And she thinks it’s good. This life is definitely good. 

But then something shifts, she can see it in Dean’s eyes, can see it in the tense of his shoulder when he follows Sam inside. 

They didn’t stay away long, maybe five minutes, ten tops. When they return, Dean looks relaxed again and she’s not sure if he’s pretending like he always used to or if he’s genuinely smiling. Can’t really see if from this far. Sam excuses himself, goes to talk to other people and then she sees Gabriel joining Dean and Cas, sees them sticking their heads together, talking without moving their lips too much. 

Other people might not notice anything wrong or different, but she’s not other people. She’s trained to notice little details and she can’t lie. It’s worrying her.

 *

 Back home she nurses Ella and tells Dean that she needs a quiet moment to paint. Just like Dean uses pottery to find his center, she uses painting. She’s painting every day now, their garage is full with her paintings.

She spends about an hour in there and walks out after, takes a quick shower and slips into one of Dean’s shirts. They’re the most comfortable at the moment and he loves for her to wear them so there’s a win-win right there. She leaves the top four buttons open, it’s easier to get in and out for nursing either. 

It’s already late and she wants to lie down but decides to see what Dean’s up to. She walks down the stairs, but Dean’s not in the living room. She only finds Bubbles while Truffles is at his new favorite place, with that place being right in front of Ella’s room. 

Y/N sees light spilling out of Dean’s study where the door’s standing ajar. 

“Hey,” She pokes her head in, sees Dean sitting in his chair, a black manila folder with a couple of papers splayed on it. The baby monitor propped right where he can always see it. 

He notices her, looks up from the desk. He’s startled at first, but then his lips spread into a warm smile. She guesses that it’s the shirt she’s wearing that does all the trick. 

She walks in and he pushes his chair back, makes room for her to climb in on his lap and she sits on one of his thighs, hooks her arms around his neck and kisses his scruff. “Watchu doing in here?”

Her eyes trail along the desk, sees the papers, a lot of words are written on them. The sight of these little words alone makes her head spin.

Dean takes the stack and hands it to her, “Read it,”

She really doesn’t want to read anything right now but does it anyway of course because she’s too curious. 

Last Will & Testament 

“Dean, no,” She mumbles as soon as she reads the first line.

He noses at her temple while she reads it, kisses her cheek, “Dean, yes,”

She goes on to read more.

In case of my death or disappearance.

“Disappearance?” She asks, it seems like a weird clause to put in and then her jaw drops. She feels some kind of anger, pushes herself away from him, gets up and paces around the room while Dean only watches her, his expression hardens.

“Y/N,” He starts to say, his voice is deep, low. It’s steady and calm like he doesn’t want to raise his voice but putting his foot down. She hates when he does that. It makes her feel like she’s the unreasonable one in here when he’s the one who fucking drafts up a fucking will.

“Are you planning on disappearing? Is this what it is?” She spits out, it comes out more accusatory than she intends and she adds, a little softer, because she doesn’t want to fight because of that, “Are you going to leave us?”

“Jesus,” Dean groans, clasps a hand over his face, scratches at his scruff like he always does when he’s trying to say something so she would get him, “I could never,” He leans back in his chair, looks at her like he always does, like she’s the world, like the world is his to touch and he reaches out a hand for her to take, “But you know what I was. Who I was. You know what I did. People tend to disappear in my old line of work.”

She doesn’t take his hand, and paces around some more, for fucking good measure because she’s fuming mad. She lets out a frustrating sound that comes out of the depths of her throat, “What do you mean? Do you know something I don’t know? Is someone coming after you?”

“No!” Dean shouts, squints his eyes because it came out loud and they shouldn’t be loud if they don’t want to wake up Ella, “No, I’m just trying to cover all bases because you never know what could happen,” 

Y/N waves with the papers in her hands, exhales loudly and walks up and down. When she’s close enough to him, Dean grabs a hold of her, pulls her into him. He hugs her tight, and she knows that he’s not letting her go.

“Read it,” He’s voice is much gentler, his lips close to her ears as he whispers the words.

She sighs before she goes on with reading.

“You’re leaving everything to me?”

“Yeah,” He says and then he moves her, makes her straddle him, his hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear that got loose from the bun on her head, “I trust you to use it in Ella’s best interest.” 

Her eyes get teary. She doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to even think about a life without him. 

“You’d have to sit down with me, though,” His voice is soft, calming. Rational even. Which means that he thought this through, “There’s a lot of paperwork that we have to do because we’re not married.”

She thinks about his words, lets them sink in before she speaks, “Would you want to? Still?” She asks, and adds, “Marry me, I mean,”

Dean lets out a chuckle, it vibrates underneath of her. “More than you know,” His fingers play with the buttons of her shirt, “But I don’t want to pressure you. I understand if you wouldn’t want to.” 

She swallows her tears down. 

“It drives me nuts to have fewer rights just because we’re not married,” Dean sighs, “If something happens to you, I don’t even get to be at your side all the time and vice versa. You don’t get to decide anything and it actually terrifies me that even though you only have me in your life, I still can’t be with you when worse comes to worst.”

His words hit her differently. She never thought about that. Never thought about what Dean has probably been thinking for weeks or months. And he’s right, she knows he is. It makes more sense now since they already have a child together. It’s in Ella’s best interest. She knows that, too. 

Y/N places the stack of paper blindly back on the desk and cradles his face, the scruff prickles on her palm. She leans her forehead on his, pecks his lips, their noses touch. 

“If you want it, then let’s do it,” She whispers, kisses him once more, harder, deeper and Dean breathes into the kiss.

“Baby, you don’t have to,”

“I know but I want to,” She smiles then, kisses him again to shut him up. 

She feels him grinning into the kiss, his hands holding her tighter, and they stroke down her back until he has her ass in the palm of his hand.

Their kiss grows heavier, like it always does. Everything builds up so quickly.

“Then we do it,” He laughs when he breaks from the kiss and she nods her head, kisses him again, can’t quite get enough of him. She sucks on his tongue, making him moan out.

She’s wet down there either, and she grinds down harder, searches for friction, is met by his hard cock. 

Dean helps her grind on him, guides her on him with his hands on her ass. 

“Fuck,” He breathes out, kisses her cheek, her jaw, nibbles at her throat, “Wanna fuck you so bad,”

“I want that too,” She says almost breathlessly and Dean kisses down her throat, stopping short to look up at her. 

“You sure?” He raises one eyebrow at her and she nods, smiles a reassuring smile.

“Fuck,” He curses again, and then his hands come down on her ass, spanks down and makes her yelp up with a laughter. 

Dean stands up with her still in his arms, “Hold on,” He says and she does, hooks her legs behind his waist and he leans down, picks up the baby monitor and clears his desk with one clean swipe before he lays her down on it and places the baby monitor back so they would know when Ella starts to cry. 

She frowns at him, because now everything’s on the floor.

“Always wanted to do that once in my life,” Dean laughs before he kisses her again, works his way down her throat, sucks at her pulse point, making her arch her back. He doesn’t lose time in unbuttoning her shirt, pulls at the seam and her breasts are free because she left so many buttons undone in the first place. 

Eagerly, he sucks at her nipple, probably tasting milk because she leaks it without meaning to. He kneads the one he’s not kissing, and she moans out at the sensation. She’s so fucking sensitive. 

While he still kisses her chest, his hands trail down, hooking his fingers around her panties and pulling them down. He abandons her chest shortly to take them off and she whines at the loss of contact. Dean kneels down right after, kissing and biting his way up her thighs. One thigh first and then the other, teasing her. 

“Dean,” She calls out, wanting him to stop teasing her. His teeth scraping along the inner of her thighs and she writhes.

“I got you,” Dean breathes hot air against her soaked pussy, and he takes his finger, threads it through her slick before he rubs at her clit.

It’s awfully silent and she comes up to her elbow, sees him staring at her pussy, as if it holds all the answers to his questions. It makes her blush to see him staring at her most private part like that, “Dean,”

“Christ, you’re so wet,” He whispers and then he realizes that she’s still waiting.

His eyes meet hers and he holds her gaze, sticks out his tongue and licks a broad stripe up from her pussy to her clit with his massive tongue. Dean pauses and swallows, “Jesus, can’t get enough of your taste.”

Dean begins to lick and suck at her clit and opening, breathes through his nose as he does it, the hot air hits her right and she arches her back, pushing her cunt against his face. 

Her hands fists in his hair, and Dean licks faster, sucks harder, her knuckles are turning white, blunt nails digging into his scalp. 

And he looks up at her, crinkles deep because he is smiling and humming. 

“Dean, I’m—”

She didn’t even finish her sentence, spasms around him, thighs pressing together, trapping his head and he lets her. Lets her grind against his face until she comes down from her high and releases her grip around his head.

Dean chuckles when he comes up again, kisses each of her thighs, sucks at each of her nipples in passing, leaving a wet trail from there to her mouth. He claims her lips, pushing his tongue into her, lets her suck her own taste from it.

She breaks the kiss, leaves her forehead on his, her hand brushes at his lips, his scruff. He’s soaked.

“I almost died down there,” Dean’s still a little out of breath, “Good thing I made a will, huh?”

She rolls her eyes at him and he grins, thrust his clothed cock against her wet cunt, making her laugh out loud. 

“Fuck,” His voice is deep, “Can I fuck you now? I can barely hold myself together.”

She smiles at him, nods her approval, “Please,”

Dean’s grin widens, pecks her lips once more and pushes himself up, and she watches him hurriedly losing his jeans, just enough so he can pull them up again should Ella require his attention. 

He jerks himself three times before taking a step closer to lean over her, the head of his cock rubs against her slick cunt. He coats it with her wetness, rubs it up and down and she squirms.

“I’m excited,” He smiles with that golden boy smile, showing his teeth before he pushes himself forward and sinks in, both of them groan out in unison. 

It has been so long for her to be filled so fully, “Shit,” She curses out and Dean stills when he bottoms out. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, kisses at the crease between her eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” She nods, “I— fuck, yeah, I’m okay. So full, but good, oh my god, I’ve missed this,”

“I know,” He starts to thrust, his hand taking one of her legs, lifts it and braces it on his shoulder. The angle changes and she’s moans, “You feel so fucking good, still so goddamn tight— fuck!”

“Harder, Dean! Please,” Because it is what it is. She’s missed it, missed how his wet balls slaps against her ass when he fucks her hard and she wants to feel just that.

He picks up his pace, fucking her harder likes she demands of him.

“God you’re so deep,” She closes her eyes and bites down on her bottom lip.

“Should I not go de— Jesus!” 

She wraps the one leg that’s not on his shoulder around him, pulls him closer, making him go even deeper and it hurts. It hurts so good. She loves the pain. Her hands go down her body, tweaks one of her nipples and the other hand goes further down to rub at her clit. 

“Dean, choke me,” Her voice is strained, already so fucking close again.

“You sure?” 

“Uh-huh,”

“Uh-huh?” His hand travels up her body, slaps down on her tits on his way up and then she feels it, feels his big hand clawing around her throat, “You’re close, ain’t you, baby? Fuck— I—, you’re squeezing me.” Dean puts pressure on her throat, squeezes down on it, “Come, baby. Come on my cock like you used to,”

Y/N feels her toe curl up, pins and needles traveling up her legs, settles at her center. Her eyes roll back into her head and she convulses, shaking all over when she comes. 

Dean pushes himself over the edge with her, too, releases his grip on her throat and leans down, buries his face into the crook of her neck, sucks at her throat when he releases himself into her with a grunt.

He leaves little kisses on her throat, her jaw, her chin, kisses her between chuckles, “You look so goddamn beautiful when you come,” He props himself up a little then, hovers above her, steals a kiss, and one more. “Shit, I haven’t asked if you take your pills again,”

“I don’t,” 

“Baby, no!” 

She can hear the panic in his voice and has to hide her smirk, “Why? You don’t want another baby?”

“I do, I want a whole bunch, and you know that,” Dean says, and adds, “but I also want your body to have time to breathe.” Dean frowns and she cranes her neck, kisses him in between his eyebrows where there’s a deep crease.

“Relax, Dean. We’re good. I was joking,” She can’t hold back her laugh anymore.

“You little minx,” Dean growls, kisses her nose and pretends to bite it off, “I almost had a heart attack, Jesus! You’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that, right?”

She’s still laughing and he joins her, but their laughter stops abruptly when they hear the baby monitor coming to life. Ella grunts through the speaker. 

“Shhh,” Dean hushes and touches his nose to hers, “Maybe if we pretend we didn’t hear she’ll stop,”

She giggles at that and he nuzzles his nose along her cheeks. 

Ella’s not stopping though, grunts some more and then she cries softly. They can hear Truffles barking from upstairs.

“Ugh,” Dean sighs, pecks her forehead and pushes himself away from her, “I don’t think we need a baby monitor, Truffles does all the work,”

He slips his dick out of her, is half hard again, she can see, she doesn’t think he’s been soft at all, at least it didn’t feel like it inside of her. 

Dean helps her up, “I’ll go see what she needs and you take your time,” He pulls his jeans back up, doesn’t bother to zip up or anything. He picks up her panties from the floor, holds it out for her to take before he places his hand on the back of her neck, draws her in, “We’re really getting married?”

She smirks a little, because that’s so Dean. He asks because he wants for her to be sure. She nods, smiling, “We are.”

“Okay, then I’m going to see what our girl needs now, future Mrs. Winchester,” Dean smiles, bright and white and leaves a last lingering kiss before he walks out. 

There’s a flutter in her chest when she watches him go, the name feels alien to her when she’s called that, yet it does feel right, too.

CH07

[takoyakitenchou]

genesis ch.1

i started a next gen fic called Renaissance w all my oc’s but i realized i need to provide context so now i’m writing this in tandem. endgames for this fic are pretty much set but i’m more than willing to experiment. i’ll post chapters for both fics initially on tumblr and then transfer them to ff.net for ease of accessibility (scrolling to find chapters etc). also i never proofread so bear w any mistakes lol

Long before thoughts of graduation were even on his mind, it had come to the attention of Yukihira Souma that after a few years of first-handedly witnessing the evolution of Sakaki Sake, there was nothing that could faze him anymore.

But as he fiddled with the honors cords around his neck and watched Nakiri Erina take the stage to deliver her first seat address — the same stage where he’d announced his plans to take the top spot three years prior and improvised his second seat speech five minutes ago — he was automatically thrown into a kaleidoscope of frustration and wishful fantasy, both of which he thought he had effectively shut down. It wasn’t about the fact that he hadn’t been able to take her first seat away from her; she had belonged there and both of them knew it.

He’d taken her to Shino’s Tokyo for their one year anniversary two nights ago and when she started her usual nitpicking about his work habits, or lack thereof, he’d finally come clean and admitted that the reason why he’d spent the better part of second semester abroad was because he’d been in Helsinki, talking with investors and contractors about his restaurant space, stuffing his menu with specialties, carefully selecting sous chefs and house staff, paving his path to becoming the first owner chef of Totsuki’s 92nd generation. His flagship was set to debut in four days.

Then she’d broken up with him.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to ask her if she was down to go with him to Finland and be his co-owner chef while she was halfway through a mahi-mahi specialty he’d given Shinomiya in exchange for exclusive rights to the best table in the house, but at the time he’d been way too excited to think twice.

We’re of perpendicular worlds, she’d said. We just… happened to cross. It didn’t… 

Mean anything, he’d finished, feeling his heart break. You’re right.

“Good morning, graduates of the 92nd generation. It’s been six years since we all stood in this very amphitheater with our middle school division acceptance letters and yet I remember everything as acutely as if it were just yesterday. I suppose that only goes to show how fast time has flown…”

She had perched herself precariously on his lap in his office at Legislation, laughing and sharing the Smirnoff they’d stolen from Kurokiba’s locker, his arms around her waist as they bounced ideas off of each other. The final draft, completed ten minutes before it was due for approval with her grandfather and the board, seemed like a valedictorian address, but at its foundation, it was a testament to all that they had achieved as the pinnacle of the academy.

“… It is impossible to overestimate the changes that our generation brought to Totsuki. Our impact stretches from Legislation at the peak of the mountain all the way down to the front gates at its base, and in a way we have left a legacy on the rest of the culinary world that will endure for the eras to come…”

It’s impossible to overestimate the changes that we made to this school, bubs. You and I altered the course of Totsuki forever, and our legacy… I guess we’ll have to trust the process. But I know we’ll see it through side by side, because you’re Yukihira Souma and I’m Nakiri Erina.

“… I will always treasure all the memories we have made and I trust that our futures will remain intertwined. I trust that this will not be the last time we are gathered together to celebrate our achievements. We made it this far. We overcame — no, we conquered every obstacle this school threw our way. So let us strive forth, reach for new heights, and venture into the world that has already long since been ours. Congratulations, everyone.”

Let us strive forth, Yukihira, and drive ourselves further into the wasteland, knowing that as long as your hand is in mine we will reach the end of the storm.

Is that a promise, bubs?

Of course it is, you idiot.

Stop hitting me. I love you, too.

“Good job,” he said when she returned backstage, his voice thick with memories.

She gave him an unreserved smile reminiscent of their past and the tension strangling his heart started to abate. Just barely.

“Yukihira, will you take me home after?”

Souma stared at her in surprise. “Would you like me to?”

A single nod.

-

Erina managed to not fall off Souma’s scooter on his way to the Nakiri Mansion. She had, against her better judgment, asked him for expedited service, and he was one hell of a speedster when he wanted to be.  

“This is it, then,” she said. She fought to keep her emotions from seeping into her voice, her eyes from lingering on the short hair protruding from under his graduation cap. Everything was driving her insane; the sooner she got out of there, the better.

But she made no move to go.

Souma nodded, paused, took a breath. “Can you make it to the opening? I… I’d want you there, if no one else.”

She ignored the last part because he meant it. To dwell on the feelings that were still very much animate between them would only impede their futures, and to keep each other from reaching their goals would be a sin after everything they’d been through. “Maybe if you delay I could show up near the end, or maybe at closing just to say hi… I don’t know.”

It had always been like this, both of them making promises they’d never be able to keep, no matter how hard they tried. They’d tried. They really had.

He nodded in acceptance and she could sense his despondency. His gaze flitted down and then back up, and in that short span his expression had cleared of melancholy.

So many things she wanted to say but not enough time and no way to say them. Erina looked into his gentle honey eyes, regarding the way they glittered with an invitation to recross the blurred lines she’d slashed between them.

But that would be wrong. 

So instead she extended her hand diplomatically; he took it with a chuckle, and before she knew it her ex boyfriend was holding her close against his chest. Erina pressed her nose to his neck, knowing she would no longer have the guilty pleasure of smelling the scent that clung to him at all times, some unique blend of laundry detergent and whatever spices he’d been experimenting with last. She felt his hands shift behind her, briefly letting go and then coming to rest gently in her hair and around her waist. 

“Good luck, Yukihira.”

“See you, bu—Nakiri.” To make that mistake would be unforgivable.

Then he let go, and she was glad because she had been slipping back into the familiar sensation of his comfort and doing absolutely nothing to stop herself. Erina watched with the ghost of a smile on her lips as Souma’s receding figure melted into the lazy spring afternoon.

Only when he was long gone did she realize that he had slipped his mother’s white cloth around her neck before he left.

[alarawriting]

The Cold At The Heart of the Light: Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” she mumbled.

“Do you know who I am?”

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

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

She smiled wanly.  “Yeah.”

“Let me have your hands.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Non-monetary?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mommy? Can I play outside?”

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

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

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

“Sure, Mommy. We can do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Constitution guarantees the right to bear arms.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re blackmailing me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

But here’s the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because you know we’ll stop you.”

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

“Then why did you bring it up?”

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

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

Wait, what?  Dying?  

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

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

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

“Dying of what?”

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

Oh, God.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sapphire blinked.  “Wait.  You are coming?”

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

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

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

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

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

[sonicrainicorn]

Patton is Berry Done

Part of the Berry Done AU

Words: 4092 Desc.: Logan gets drunk for the first time in his life, and Patton realizes it’s not as fun to be on the other end. TW: Alcohol, cursing, a lot of throwing up (it’s only ever mentioned tho bc ew)

The idea came to me when I was working on the one-shot that was actually supposed to be published. whoops. Hope you like drunk Logan, anyway.

///

One Friday night, Damien invited Patton and Logan over to hang out. Patton, who was very much well aware of what his brother meant by ‘hang out’, asked Thomas if he was willing to babysit. Well -- he asked Logan if he could ask Thomas. Patton was sure that asking Thomas for anything would end in his funeral. Which he understood completely. Though, if you told him last month that Thomas would genuinely threaten to break every bone in his body, he would have thought you were joking. Thomas was the nicest person he knew.

Either way, he agreed and Patton and Logan thanked him again before leaving. When they got there, Damien had already started drinking.

“Rough day at work, then?” Patton asked with a raised brow.

Damien glared at him and let them in the house. Emile and Remy were sitting on the floor, using the coffee table to play a card game. By the looks of it, Emile was winning. And by a lot. A random TV show was on that no one paid attention to. Background noise, then.

“Hi, guys,” Emile chirped. “I win again, by the way.” He flipped the dealer’s -- also known as Damien’s -- card over, nonchalantly taking a sip of wine.

In a great feat of theatrics, Remy fell back and let out a short yell. “How the hell do you win every time?”

“I told you not to play blackjack with him, but you insisted.” Damien rolled his eyes and gathered all the cards. “You should probably stop before he wins everything you own.”

“Damn bastard already has everything I own,” Remy grumbled under their breath.

Emile smiled sweetly at them.

Damien tossed the card pack at Patton, who almost didn’t catch it. “Work did suck if you must know. And I need someone to get drunk with. Remy can’t do it because they work tomorrow and Em doesn’t like to get drunk so...” He looked at Patton like it was obvious. “You definitely weren’t my first option.”

Seems someone was still a little mad. “Why don’t you just go to a bar?” Patton sat next to Emile.

“Because I want to wallow in self-pity in the comfort of my own home.” He crossed his arms. “Will you do it or not?”

“No thanks.” He started shuffling the cards.

Damien groaned dramatically. “You never give me what I want.” A buzzed middle child who was in a Mood didn’t make for good conversation, as it turned out. He turned to Logan. “What about you?”

Patton expected the answer to be the same, he had no reason to doubt otherwise, but then Logan -- Logan who took one shot on his twenty-first birthday and then never drank again, said, “Yeah, I don’t see why not”

“Oh God, yes. Finally.” Damien rushed to the kitchen with a large grin.

Patton stopped shuffling to stare at Logan with what he assumed could be translated as what the actual fuck all over his face.

It seemed to catch Logan’s attention. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You don’t drink.”

“Well, out of the two of us, I’m not the one known for doing regrettable things so I think we’re safe.”

Ooh, yikes. Yeah, that was a hundred percent called for. Patton shifted in his spot and diverted his attention back to the cards. Turns out he didn’t have any more to say.

Emile glanced between them, a small thoughtful frown on his face. He erased it with a shake of his head. “So what are we playing?”

“Poker.”

Remy sat up. “Great. I actually have a chance at this.”

“Did you want to join us, Logan?” Emile sent him a small smile.

“With the way D’s going to drink tonight?”  A sly grin slid across Remy’s face. “ I think he’ll have his hands full already.”

Right on time, Damien came charging back into the room. In his arms were various supplies such as shot glasses, vodka, tequila, and a few different chasers. He set them all on the table. “Wanna match me shot for shot?” He held up the bottle of vodka with an inviting grin.

“No.” Patton snatched it out of his hand.

He made an offended noise akin to a child getting their toy taken away. “Why not?”

“Because I know how many shots you can take and I don’t want you giving my husband alcohol poisoning.”

“Ugh, fine.” He took the bottle back. “For every shot you take, I’ll take a double.”

Patton’s, “That’s not what I meant.” versus Emile's, “You’re already tipsy.” did nothing in comparison to Remy’s much louder, “Do it bitch, you won’t.”

“Alright, bet.” He sat at the unoccupied side of the table.

Emile hit Remy’s shoulder and gave them an ‘are you kidding me?’ look. They simply shrugged in response.

“C’mon, Logan, let’s see how fast we can regret this tomorrow.” He started pouring out the first shots and chasers, eager to get started. The only time Damien was eager to do something was if it caused damage -- be it to property or livers.

Logan sighed, shrugged to himself, and sat next to Damien. Patton watched wearily as he took his first shot. His face screwed up as it burned its way down. Patton could feel the phantom burns in his own throat. Straight vodka wasn’t his favorite, but it was always common at college parties. He knew the motions well. Take the shot, let it burn -- but don’t act like it burns, then sip a chaser if there happens to be one. (Though, if there was one, it was always alcoholic.) Logan didn’t know the ‘etiquette’ of drinking well enough. He reached for the chaser of cranberry juice almost as soon as it went down.

It didn’t matter though. How you took a shot was just style points. At a party surrounded by onlooking strangers? You’re going to need maximum style points for that. At a bar with some friends? Depending on the friends, style points were still important. At home just trying to get drunk? Style wasn’t the point. Besides, Logan wasn’t a drinker so his reaction to straight shots was bound to be expected.

“Oh, yeah, this is gonna suck.” Damien took a sip of his own chaser. “Ready for another round?”

Sometime after the second shot, Logan started getting a little more touchy. He placed hands on Damien’s shoulders, his arm, Patton was sure there was even a thigh at some point. And Damien was all grins and flirty compliments. Patton knew Damien’s drunken states pretty well. He flirted with anyone that wasn’t a brother of his and generally had his charisma cranked up to ten. On the flip side, he also acted like moody a sixteen-year-old. So, really, drunk Damien was just sober Damien with even less of a filter. Logan’s drunk states, on the other hand, were new territories.

By the third shot, Logan was mostly giggles. He and Damien tried to have their usual debates (also known as a normal conversation for them), but they dissolved into Logan laughing over something vaguely related and Damien testing out a pick-up line based on the topic. On the fourth, Logan kissed Patton and called him “the most beautiful man in the world”. Damien got comically offended and insisted that Logan was breaking his heart. Logan laughed, cradled Damien’s face, and called him beautiful too. As soon as the fifth went down, Logan was completely plastered. He put all his weight against Patton with a loose hand around Damien’s wrist. He started talking about how great everyone was, though he struggled to find more than three adjectives and slurred all his words.

“Nope, that’s enough.” Patton tried to take the bottle out of Damien’s hands when he went to pour another shot, but he couldn’t move with Logan at his side.

Remy took the initiative. “Unfortunately, I have to agree. Logan can’t handle anymore.”

Damien pouted and put his head in his hand. “Boo.”

“That actually took a bit longer than I expected,” Emile admitted softly.

“Yeah -- damn, Logan.” Remy put the cap back on the bottle. “For someone who doesn’t drink you sure held out for a while.”

Logan held up a peace sign.

“Okay, I think we better get going.” Patton lifted Logan to his feet. It was a bit harder than it sounded due to Logan’s apparent lack of bone structure. He refused, or maybe simply couldn’t, move or stand on his own. He kept all his weight on Patton the whole time.

“I think that’s a good idea.” Emile wrangled another bottle out of Damien’s hands. “Stop. Any more and you’ll be asking Logan to marry you.”

Damien snorted. A lazy grin slithered on his face. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Patton frowned, holding Logan a little closer to his side.

Emile sighed -- an annoyed, almost aggressive sound. “Yeah, okay. Come on. We’re done for tonight.” He dragged Damien into the kitchen, ignoring how he almost face planted.

“Ignore him.” Remy shook their head like a disappointed parent. They gave Patton a small smile. Not a grin or a smirk -- a gentle, genuine smile. “Anyway, want some help? Seems like you could use it.”

“That would be nice, actually.”

Logan clung to Remy like a koala to a tree almost as soon as all his weight was transferred over. Right away he started saying all the great things he thought about them and the good things they did. Remy just nodded and agreed while gently coercing him into a better walking position. Patton silently apologized and opened the front door.

On the short walk to the car, everything Logan said was followed by a soft, “I know, Logan.” or an, “Uh-huh.” much like someone would do when they’re half-listening to a child while focusing on another task. Patton would argue that the comparison was more than apt since most of the stuff Logan said seemed to be the first draft.

Patton opened the passenger side door and Remy helped Logan in. They went to close the door, but stopped when Logan said, “I love you.”

They laughed, borderline composed giggles, and responded, “Love you too, pal.” They shut the door. Logan waved at them through the window, and they gave him a little wave back. “Wow, he is fucking trashed.” They turned to Patton with a wide grin. “I’m surprised he’s still conscious.”

“Guess we’ll see how long that lasts.” He looked at Logan, who gave him a bright beam. “I should go before his body realizes he hasn’t thrown up yet.”

“Oh, yeah. Drive safe.”

“Will do.”

Almost as soon as Patton got in the car, Logan blurted out, “If you could drive straight up at sixty miles an hour, it would take an hour to get to space.”

Patton didn’t even have the door closed yet. “W... what?”

He repeated it a little slower, though that seemed to leave a lot more room for errors and slurring. “If you could drive your car up-ards it would take an hour to getta space.”

He blinked. “That’s, uh, that’s really interesting, bumblebee.” He shut the door. “Could you maybe put on your seat belt before telling me more facts? Unless you need some help.”

“M’not five.” Despite his statement, Logan struggled with the necessary coordination for an absurd amount of time. After failing to get the buckle in the right spot (following an embarrassing number of attempts), he gave up with a small pout. “I can’t do it.”

Patton smiled a bit. He looked like a grumpy toddler. “Let me help, hon.” He buckled him in.

Once they started driving, Logan did not stop talking. He told Patton he loved him five different times, asked nonsense questions followed by silly answers, and pointed out whatever he saw looking out the window. He also insisted on having a hand near Patton at all times despite Patton saying he needed to focus on driving. He was so much more open and bubbly and touchy -- very touchy. A near 180 of sober Logan.

They only had to stop for him to throw up on the side of the road once, which was a lot more impressive than the first time Patton ever got drunk. At least from what friends told him. He didn’t remember anything about that night, but he was told that he threw up several times before ever reaching his apartment. To be fair, he was eighteen at the time and trying to impress someone cute. He didn’t remember if it worked or not.

After his little vomit issue, Logan was a bit less energetic. Understandably so. Throwing up always sucked. But throwing up after a night of drinking was even worse. It didn’t stop him from saying how much he loved Patton, though.

When Patton pulled in the driveway, he cursed under his breath. He forgot about Thomas. With Logan drunk out of his mind and extremely pliable, there was no doubt Thomas’s protective older brother instincts would take over. Patton tried to figure out what to say that wouldn’t result in his head on a pike.

“Come on, hon.” He helped Logan out of the car. Once again, all of his weight was against Patton. “Your brother’s gonna kill me for this, isn’t he?”

There seemed to be a magic word in there that caused Logan’s energy to return tenfold. A large grin split across his face and Patton could have sworn there were stars in his eyes. “Thomas is here.”

Okay, Logan getting excited to see Thomas was actually pretty cute. Patton smiled. “Yeah, baby, Thomas is here. Did you wanna see him?”

Logan nodded, almost cartoonish in nature.

“Let’s get inside, then.” While Patton wasn’t at all prepared to see Thomas, he couldn’t deny Logan what he wanted. That would just be cruel.

He struggled to open the door with Logan hanging off of his arm, but he managed. Thomas was laying on the couch watching Parks and Rec on a low volume. His attention diverted from that rather quickly. Almost right away, he was on his feet to reach Patton and Logan. Patton didn’t know why he was surprised. He had to admit that it was a little obvious Logan wasn’t his top-notch self.

Logan detached himself from Patton and all but collapsed into Thomas’s arms before anyone had a chance to say anything. “Thomas,” he said, a little too loud, “you’re amazing. You’re the best -- best brother I could ever ask for. And I... I love you so much.” He squished Thomas’s face with his hands. “I apre... pre-shate all you ever done. You’re so ‘mazing. I owe you so much. You a’ways make me ‘appy a-and you stick by me no matter what. You’re -- you’re just really great.” He gave him a tight hug.

Thomas stared at Patton, dumbfounded. “What... did you do to him?”

Patton held his hands up in defense faster than he could blink. “This was his own doing. I played no part in it.”

“Damien and I took shots,” Logan answered, partially muffled by Thomas’s shoulder.

“You did what?” Thomas pulled him away to look at his face. “How many did you take?”

“Five,” Patton answered. He knew full well Logan lost track.

“Five?” Thomas struggled to keep his voice down. He cradled Logan’s face. “Logan, you don’t drink. What are you doing taking five shots? Shots of what?”

“Mostly vodka.”

If Thomas’s eyes could get wider, they would have. “Vodka? Straight? Dude, how the hell are you still standing?” He checked over Logan as if the answer would be there somehow. “Why would you do something like that?”

Logan shrugged. “Damien wanted’ta get drunk.”

Princess Leia wandered into the living room, shaking herself out of her sleepiness. Her tail wagged as soon as she saw that her other owners were home.

Logan gasped loudly. “There’s my baby.” He fell to his knees to give her attention. “You’re such a good girl. Yes, you are.” He continued to coo and give her pets and scratches.

“I’m... I’m gonna scream. I’m going to actually scream.” Thomas ran his hands down his face. “There’s no way I’m leaving.”

“Leia, no. Go back to the boys.” Patton pried Logan away from her. “Go. Now.” He pointed out the doorway.

She obeyed after visible hesitation.

Patton worked on lifting Logan to his feet. “Look, I’m going to keep an eye on him. You’re free to stay if you want, but I promise I’m going to make sure he’s okay.” He kept him at his side. “I won’t let anything happen to him. He’ll be fine if you leave.”

Thomas crossed his arms. Patton recognized the face he made almost immediately. It was the same one Logan made when he weighed all possible options. That hard, calculating gaze was something they shared well. “Fine. But I’m calling first thing in the morning.”

Holy shit. He actually agreed? This was the greatest achievement of Patton’s life.

“If I find out anything happened, I’m pushing you down a flight of stairs.”

“If anything happens, I’ll fall down the stairs myself.”

Thomas smirked a little. “I’ll hold you to it.” He patted his pockets to see if he had everything. “Alright. The twins were lovely, as usual, and I look forward to the next time I get to see them. Goodnight -- keep my brother safe,” he pointed at Patton, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Logan sounded like a sad little boy who was told he couldn’t get the one toy he wanted for Christmas.

Thomas sent him a small smile. “I’m afraid so, bear. Patton’s going to be looking after you, okay?” He brushed Logan’s bangs to the side and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

Logan watched him go with the most disappointment Patton had ever seen on his face. He half expected Thomas to change his mind because of it.

“Okay, sweetheart, we’re going to get you some water then you’re going straight to bed.” He led them to the kitchen.

Unfortunately, Logan had to throw up one more time. Or a few times, rather. That seemed to be the end of the fun alcohol adventure. Patton made sure he was finished before giving him more water. On their way to the bedroom, Patton was stopped by a sleepy voice.

“Dad?” Roman called. He sounded half-asleep. “S’everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Your daddy’s just a little sick. Go back to sleep.” He made sure there wouldn’t be any more questions before continuing. He closed the door to the bedroom so Leia wouldn’t get in. As much as Logan loved to have her in here, she wouldn’t be very helpful.

He helped Logan into a clean shirt and guided him to bed. “I’ll be next door if you need something, okay, dear?” He slipped off his glasses. “Get some sleep.”

“Don’t.” Logan caught his wrist before he could leave. “Can’t you stay?” He looked at Patton with such vulnerability it sort of hurt to see.

“Only if you want me to.”

“Please.”

God, Patton couldn’t say no to that face. He slipped into his side of the bed for the first time in way too long. Of course the one night he’s allowed back is the one night Logan isn’t fully cognizant of his actions. In a way, it was almost poetic.

Logan buried his face into Patton’s chest almost immediately. He sighed in contentment, one arm thrown over Patton’s waist for good measure.

Patton hesitated before bringing him closer. The anxious part of his brain insisted that Logan would somehow snap out of this and scream at Patton to get away from him. After all, Logan didn’t invite him back sooner for a reason. But that didn’t happen. Logan seemed more than happy to be so close.

“You know,” he began, already sounding sleepy, “I love you a lot. Maybe too much. You could hurt me all you want and I’d still take you back. If you say sorry. And maybe that’s bad, but I think that’s what I would do. I love you too much to let you go.”

Oh, no. Oh, Logan. Patton kissed the top of his head and tried not to break down into tears. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear at all. He hoped, maybe, it was some sort of drunken nonsense, but he had a sickening feeling it wasn’t. He hated knowing this. He hated knowing that the crap he pulled -- that stupid, idiotic mistake that broke Logan’s heart -- wouldn’t have been the nail in the coffin of their relationship. As angry as Logan was, as upset as he was, he always planned to give Patton a second chance. It wasn’t comforting to know that.

If Patton was a lesser man than he already was, he would have used that to his advantage. He would have screwed Logan over, again and again, knowing he would be able to come back if he acted sorry enough. But someone already did that before, didn’t they?

Patton didn’t want to be anything like that person. He wanted to be as far away from them as he could get because Logan deserved someone so much better than that. Maybe the person he deserved wasn’t even Patton at all, but Patton was the person he chose. The least he could do was be a good husband. Logan deserved that and a million more things. He deserved to think more highly of himself, for one. One problem at a time, though, the most immediate problem would be the hangover tomorrow.

Patton woke up with a start. 

For a moment, he didn’t believe he was in his bedroom, but then he recalled the night before. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He still had his clothes and glasses on. Then he noticed he was alone. Before he could come up with a possible scenario, he heard throwing up in the bathroom. Uh oh. It wasn’t even morning yet.

He hurried down the hall. “Are you okay, bumblebee?” He asked from the doorway.

Logan glared at him from his hunched-over position. That answered that, then.

“Is Daddy okay?”

Patton turned to see Virgil, asleep on his feet. “What are you doing up?”

“I lost rock paper scissors.” He yawned.

“Daddy isn’t feeling well tonight. He’ll be fine --” he caught himself before he said ‘tomorrow’. There was no way in hell Logan would be functional tomorrow -- “later. Now go back to sleep. I have it handled.”

Virgil didn’t need to be told twice.

Patton sat with Logan until he finished throwing up. He knew from experience what a miserable time this was, but that also meant he knew how to make it more manageable. He gave Logan things to settle his stomach then practically carried him back to bed. They both fell asleep in no time at all.

When morning came, Patton called out of work. He also called Thomas to take the twins and Princess Leia. There was no way he was leaving Logan’s side today. Judging from the late-night vomiting, and heavy sleeping, this would be a rough first hangover. He decided to sit in bed and scroll through random apps until Logan decided to wake up.

“Oh my God,” Logan groaned. He rolled over so his face would be in his pillow.

Patton couldn’t help the smirk that played at his lips. “Well, good morning, sleeping beauty. How do you feel?”

“I think I’m dying.”

“I can assure you you’re not.” He put away his phone and laid back down. “It’s just a hangover. You’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Logan groaned again. He moved his head to look at Patton. “How do you never feel like this after drinking?”

“Years of practice.”

“Oh, well, I’m definitely not getting that.” He flipped over and threw an arm over his eyes. “That’s the last time I drink anything ever.”

Patton smiled in amusement. “How much do you remember?”

“Honestly? I blacked out after the second shot.”

“That explains why you kept going.”

Logan shot up, eyes wide. “I kept going?” That clearly wasn’t the right move. He grimaced and curled in on himself, a wounded sound leaving his throat. “Why the hell didn’t you stop me?”

“Do you really think I’m in a position to stop you from doing anything?”

“Fair point.” Logan laid back down as slowly as possible. “God, this is the worst.” He bumped his fingers against Patton’s.

“Well,” Patton took his hand, “I’m here to help you through it.”

~~~

@actitus-hypoleucos

[gryfon-spanish-werewolf]

So You Can Always Find Me

Couldn’t disappoint @elsa-agdardottir when they’re such a great enabler. Unfortunately the fic in which I want to put the astronomical ring isn’t quite ready to be published yet, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging, especially when you asked so nicely xD. Soft inspired by @vago-art‘s piece here also.

Rating: M

Tags: Blood and Injury, post-Frozen 2 derivative

Words: 4,119

Characters: Anna, Elsa, Olaf, Kristoff, Sven, Nokk, Gale, Earth Giants, Bruni

Hook: “Now we can’t fail,” Kristoff jokes, trying to ease the tension. “He’s counting on us. Literally.”

“And so is Elsa.” Anna looks out into the forest that yawns before them, then digs the ring out of her pocket. She holds it out before them like a compass needle, the flickering hues of her sister’s magic leading them on.

Wind whips past Anna’s cold-numbed ears as Sven picks up speed, galloping across the snowy trail. They couldn’t risk traveling by lantern light, so she and Kristoff were picking their way through the darkness by the gleam of a blue-glowing bauble - a ring with an expanded center that whirls like a pinwheel as they race headlong into the night.

“Stop Kristoff, right here!” The little glint of magic in the center ring has just swung wildly to the left, leaning away from the delicate chain being gripped firmly by Anna’s hand.

She swings herself out of the sleigh before Sven even stops moving, catching herself with one hand on the ground. The magic pulses, dimmer this time.

“Anna?” Olaf’s voice is weak, so unfamiliar in comparison to his normal jubilance. His little stick arm waves above the rail of the sleigh. “Are we here? Did we make it?”

“I... I think so Olaf,” Anna calls back, palming the ring and putting it into her travel cloak. 

“Then I’m coming too,” Olaf says, and she hears him trying to get up.

“Whoa whoa there,” Kristoff warns, laying a hand down into the sleigh. “You stay here. Someone has to make sure Sven doesn’t wander off.” He chucks a thumb over his shoulder and Sven grunts what he thinks about that comment.

“He’s right Olaf, you need to rest.” Anna approaches the side rail, heart squeezing in her chest.

Olaf had started flurrying hours ago.

They’d been preparing for bed. Olaf was picking out a book to read and was reaching above his head, one hand holding his other arm up way high, when he suddenly dropped the book and more came tumbling down after. Anna was about to shake it off as typical Olaf clumsiness when the snowman didn’t immediately burst out of the pile with a laugh. Instead they had to unbury him, and when they did Anna had grabbed Kristoff’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. 

She couldn’t do this again.

Olaf’s snow had turned the color of roadside slush, tossed up by carriage wheels and horse hooves. He did sit up, but slowly, gently, as though he were exhausted. Little snowflakes sloughed off his form and twinkled in the candlelight. Olaf and Anna exchanged a wordless look and Anna had bolted upright, digging in the nightstand drawer for the ring.

The one heavy as a lodestone in her pocket.

She leans over Olaf and kisses him on top of his carrot nose. “You sit tight, we’ll find her,” she sniffs, smiling through her tears. “We’ll be back so quickly you won’t even notice we’re gone. Ten minutes, tops.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Olaf smiles back. Then he started counting backwards from six hundred.

Anna turns away and wipes at her eyes. A warm arm falls over her shoulders and pulls her in for a hug. “Now we can’t fail,” Kristoff jokes, trying to ease the tension. “He’s counting on us. Literally.”

“And so is Elsa.” Anna looks out into the forest that yawns before them, then digs the ring out of her pocket. She holds it out before them like a compass needle, the flickering hues of her sister’s magic leading them on.

It had been a gift from Elsa. She’d commissioned it ages ago, soon after the Great Thaw, but the right materials had to be procured, the right master craftsman located, and the right price named. The last part had mattered the least, but the rest were very normal, worldly things and as time passed Elsa had worried the perfect gift would somehow not arrive on an auspicious enough occasion. In the end it was meant to be a birthday gift, but with the events occurring in the third year of their reconnection, Elsa could really see no better time like the present. Elsa had bestowed it on Anna after her coronation ceremony, the castle asleep, Olaf and Kristoff making sure everyone had gotten home for the night. She had hidden it behind her back in a charming black box lined with velvet.

The ring was gold, carved with Arendelle’s famous crocuses and the sunflowers Anna loved so much. Immediately Anna had insisted she put it on, but Elsa stopped her. “Open it,” she said, guiding Anna’s fingers to the multiple, overlapping edges. With a quick flick the ring popped open in the palm of her hand, revealing a free turning, miniature astronomical globe made of smaller, concentric gold rings. They were also engraved: marking signature constellations, runes, and star signs. “And one more thing.” Elsa tapped the ring and Anna saw beads of her magic coalesce to one point, drawn from the metal like rolling beads of water. Elsa stepped to the side, then further away. Anna sat transfixed as the glowing blue orb shifted along golden curves, skipping between rings as it tracked Elsa around the room.

“So you can always find me,” Elsa had said as she placed the ring and its accompanying necklace over Anna’s head.

Now, Anna rebinds the chain around her wrist, the metal cold against her skin, hoping against hope that Elsa had spoken the truth.

This part of the Enchanted Forest is unfamiliar. Dark trees stretch and claw at the overcast sky. Snow crunches underfoot, louder than it ought to. Anna keeps a close eye on the ring, watching for any new signs. Elsa’s personal snowflake spins slowly in the center, silent. They walk without speaking, the quiet around them stifling.

After a few more minutes Kristoff nudges Anna’s shoulder and points ahead. A faint shimmering is coming from the trees a short distance away, winking in and out like fireflies. They dash ahead, coming to an obstacle of unwelcome familiarity. A mist wall billows before them, an opaque curtain taller than the peaks of Arendelle castle, nebulous and shifting with each draft of bitter wind. Anna checks the ring and her heart drops. The magic still urges them onwards, but now their path is blocked.

“What’s all this?” Kristoff nudges a snowdrift with his boot. Footprints are scattered in every direction, twigs are snapped and dead leaves poke through large indents in the snow, as though something warm had lain there. Though it must have been only briefly, because all the footprints led away from the wall, many of them in a hurry. Even more curious was the strange gap between the wall and the prints themselves, as though some force had pushed whoever had been here away and not let them closer.

“I don’t know,” Anna replies, “but I don’t like it. These aren’t Northuldra shoes, they’re too heavy.” A chill went down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Elsa was able to get through this before,” Kristoff scratches the back of his head, “but she’s on the other side now.” He puts his hand up to the mist, not deep enough to bounce back, just enough to let it coat his gloved fingers. Anna understands his frustration. Family -  the weird, lopsidedly happy thing they’ve made over the last few years - is beyond this wall, and behind, fading away in a sleigh, both far from home. And they’re helpless to do anything about it.

“She just,” he makes a whooshing noise while his hand skates upward, “and it lifted. I really hope it wasn’t some spirit thing because I wouldn’t even know where to start trying to find the others.”

“Maybe,” Anna gazes upwards. The edges of the wall dissolve into the clouded night sky, seeming to go on forever. “Or maybe that’s exactly what we need.”

She tentatively pushes her hand forward, cautious of the repulsion effect that seemed to sling things out as quickly as they were slung in. A smile burst forth when, incredibly, the wall didn’t immediately reject her. An opening appears, not as tall or grandiose as the first time, but enough of a tunnel for her to walk through.

“Anna…” Kristoff breathes, voice low in wonder. “How did you do that?”

Anna shrugs sheepishly. “I’m half spirit? Blood related to one? A bridge has two sides?” she offers, but then shakes her head. “I’m not really sure, it was just a feeling. I remember how you and Olaf were repelled by the first wall, but I never actually got to touch it. Elsa did, and the whole thing opened up for us.”

“Well I’m glad it did.” Kristoff extends his arm and gives her the lead, “We should move.”

Anna takes his hand and they enter the tunnel single file, the entrance closing behind them.

Time disappears. They could have walked for seconds or hours, but there was nothing around them that indicated that the outside world as they knew it existed at all. The tunnel continued before them at the same rate that it ended behind them. Then, a blue glow shone from Anna’s cloak. “The ring!” Anna fumbled with cold fingers to pop the device open, and when she succeeded it cast an eerie glow on the walls around them. She holds it up with both hands; it’s brighter than before, and the snowflake spins just a little faster. “Elsa must be close,” Anna says, and takes a step forward.

A section of the ceiling falls like a stone, landing between them in a plume of vapor.

“Kristoff!” Anna whirls, already feeling the skidding of her feet as the mist pushes her away. She sees it pulling at him too, his body already obscured by thick vapor, but in the opposite direction.

“Find her, Anna!” Kristoff yells, trying to cut through the barrier with great scoops of his hands, but to no avail. His voice fades as the distance grows larger and he cups his hands to his mouth, “Bring her home!”

More mist descends and the force is stronger, shoving her along as Anna tries to keep her balance. The ring bobs ahead of her, turning the mist into a galaxy of stars, whistling past her ears. Her journey ends abruptly when Anna is thrust back into the forest at high speed. She takes a moment to steady herself, and puts the ring on her finger, before looking around.

Her throat closes up.

If the forest had seemed dark and full of shadows before, then this was a nightmare.

Large ice walls loom overhead, their edges windswept and sharp. Entire tree trunks are frozen mid-snap, suspended by the thick ice that encases them. Swords, hatchets, lances, and crossbows litter the ground, bolts are buried in trees and ice, and broken against the side of boulders. Helmets sit upturned and waterlogged, banners drip with the acrid smell of seawater. Weapon sheaths, coats, and boots hang from the uppermost branches of trees, wayward and wild in their adornment.

“A fight? Here? And whatever it was,” Anna says, stunned, “it must have been something for the spirits to react so… violently.”

Her pulse has been pounding since she first saw evidence of battle, but now it kicks into high gear because everything: every water trail, trough of upturned dirt, scattered debris, and far flung ice bolt, radiates from a common center, and she knows who she’ll find waiting for her.

“Anna,” she says. “You came.”

And it’s crazy how, after everything she’s seen, after everything she’s been through, what halts Anna in her tracks, freezes her in place the way being an ice statue never did, is the sight of her sister covered in her own blood, on her knees in the center of a clearing of her own making.

Elsa is not well. Her eyes are clouded and she cradles her middle. Her dress bleeds red, the hems sodden with it. Between her arms are tiny rivers of her life, slipping across her forearms and pooling at the crooks of her elbows.

Anna sprints forward, skidding to a halt on her knees before Elsa, kicking up snow and dirt. Her hands hover everywhere and nowhere, unsure where to begin.

“How did you know where to find me?” Elsa lifts her head, and it takes effort. “The mist wall… the spirits… We couldn't find a way out after the- the fight.”

Anna, breathing hard, mind racing, rips the ring off her finger and shoves it close to Elsa’s face. Her fingers tremble as she undoes the clasp and the astro-globe unfurls. Elsa’s snowflake shimmers into existence, but flickers like a guttering candle flame. The edges of the ring become blurry from tears.

“Ah,” is all Elsa says after a long moment. She clutches herself tighter. “I should have known.” Then she smiles. Beams. Pain gives her eyes new creases. “Not exactly how I thought it’d be used, but I’m glad it worked.”

“That’s all you have to say for yourself!?” Anna can’t keep her voice down, even when it makes Elsa flinch, but she tries. “What even happened here?”

Elsa’s breathing is shallow and erratic. “We were… I was… attacked. Ah-!” She grips her abdomen, fresh blood leaking between her fingers. She bows her head, face shielded by her hair.

“Alright okay, know what? I know I asked but tell me later.” Anna shifts so she’s at Elsa’s side. “I need you to lie down, can you do that for me?”

Elsa nods slowly and lets her head be guided onto Anna’s knees. Her skin is flushed and feverish, radiating heat even as Anna retracts her palm in surprise. Elsa’s pulse thunders in her throat, and while normally that would be a good sign, Anna knows it’s wrong. She’s seen her share of cuts and scrapes, most of them on herself, but this was something else.

And the smell…the wound had already started to turn.

Anna shucks off her cloak and begins folding it lengthwise.

“Anna,” Elsa croaks. “No, you’ll freeze.”

“Save your breath Elsa,” Anna replies quickly, looping the garment under Elsa’s back,  “and… lift your arms when I ask.” She tries to stop the shaking in her hands. She needs to be precise. “Now.”

And she… doesn’t look. Her hands work by themselves, wrapping and tugging and bundling it all up into a knot on Elsa’s left side. Elsa gasps and her eyes shut tightly at the new pain and pressure but Anna can’t risk making the bandaging too loose.

“Can you stand?” Anna supports Elsa with a hand on the small of her back. Elsa’s legs tremble as she attempts to put weight on them, and Anna has to catch her when she barely makes it halfway up. Elsa stares at the ground between her legs, panting.

“No, I... ,” she shields her eyes with a hand. “My head is… hot.” Goosebumps form under Anna’s fingers as Elsa actually shivers.

It’s bad. Real bad.

“Where are the spirits?” Anna asks.

“On guard. Waiting. Looking for a way out.” She senses Anna’s confusion. “When I was injured, there was a great sound from above, and the mist came from nowhere to shove the enemy back. I think it was Ahtohallan.”

“It trapped you in here?”

“Unintentionally, but yes. It sensed that I was in danger, but not the cause.”  Elsa winces as she shivers again, grabbing Anna’s shoulder for support. “It knows that I still am, but not… the nuance. But you, you seem to have gotten here just fine.”

“It pushed Kristoff away, so it might still give us trouble.” Anna bit her lip, thinking, “But we need to get you out of here, now.”

“Call them Anna,” Elsa says, her voice low. “They will listen to you.”

“How?” Anna chokes because she’s never seen Elsa look so weak. She’s leaning on Anna almost fully now, her eyes half-lidded.

“You already know.” Elsa’s head falls to Anna’s chest, and Anna can feel her rapid breathing like it’s in her own chest. “Just… wish, and they will come.”

And Anna doesn’t know how Elsa makes it seem so effortless, so natural and elegant, because the only thing she can think of to do is slam her hand into the ground and beg.

Nokk bursts out of a standing puddle of water a few meters away, whining and bucking with fervor, it’s nostrils flared and head tossing. Gale descends from the clouds and whistles around them, the leaves and snow in it’s form comforting as it caresses her face. She feels the giants long before she sees them, but they emerge above the trees, craggy faces downcast and concerned. Anna casts her gaze about for the telltale magenta-purple flames of Bruni, but he’s nowhere to be found. A shame, because while she can’t think of a practical use for his talents at the moment, he never failed to bring a smile to Elsa’s face.

Anna addresses them. “I’m bringing her back to Arendelle, she needs medical attention and I need your help to get her there.” There was a pause. Gale bobs in a somber vortex, Nokk’s tail flicks back and forth, and the giants look at each other. Then they all advance at once, each trying to pick Elsa up or move both women from the ground in distinctly unskilled or uncoordinated ways. “Wait, stop!” Anna cries, and they cease immediately, backing up. “You have to be gentle,” Anna says firmly. “She’s hurt. Badly.”

This time, they wait for her direction, and Anna’s voice rings out so confidently commanding that it almost sounds foreign. “Gale, can you lift Elsa up and put her on Nokk’s back? We’ll travel back to the others and get her onto something more solid.” She turns to the giants, “I want you to look for the people who did this. Gale will help you pick up all the- well, everything here. I don’t want it to stay in the woods and become dangerous for the wildlife. You’ll have to wait until we’re further away though, since your footsteps shake the earth and will jostle Elsa.” Their faces fall and Anna summons her warmest smile. It came easier than she expected, knowing they genuinely cared. “I know you want to do more, but I promise, your job is very important.” Her eyes sharpen with her tone. “They can’t get away with this.”

Gale, who has been hovering over Elsa while Anna spoke, finally lifts her off of Anna’s legs, so slowly and tenderly that Anna almost starts crying again. Nokk presents it’s side, watching with it’s imperceptible gaze as Elsa is lowered onto it’s back. Elsa’s eyes are closed but when she is nestled against the horse’s neck she stirs, frosting the water horse below her into a solid form.

She meets Anna’s eye and smiles softly, a little more light in her eye than before.

They begin walking to the mist wall, stepping carefully around trees, ice barriers, and weapons buried in the snow. Anna keeps her hand on the Nokk’s flank, trying to judge the sway of the ground beneath it’s hooves and steady Elsa when necessary. Gale drops objects from the trees behind them, and every clatter of metal and muted thud of cloth and leather widens the scope of the attack for Anna.

“There were so many of them,” Anna remarks. She looks down at her sister, “I’m sorry you had to fight, Elsa.”

“I don’t know what else they expected,” she replies, a tired half smirk on her lips. “I could understand not knowing about the spirits, but the whole Ice Queen thing has been public knowledge for three years.”

“I… can’t believe you’re cracking jokes right now,” but Anna smiles back nonetheless. It disappears just as quickly. “I’m serious though Elsa. I know you,” she hesitates. “I know you never want to use your powers like that. Against people.”

Elsa looked down at Anna’s cloak around her middle. Anna’s heart skips a beat when she realizes a small but growing patch of red has started to appear. “They didn’t give me a choice.”

She extends her arm towards Anna, limp against the Nokk’s side. Anna shifts her hand on the horse’s flank to take her sister’s. She fights the shudder of revulsion that snakes up her arm; Elsa’s hand is slick with her own blood, but Anna can’t deny her, or herself, the comfort. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Elsa says quietly.

Pride and remorse clash between Anna’s ribs. If anyone could beat back an unknown number of assailants while still barely putting a scratch on them, it was Elsa. But Anna regretted that being the case at all. Not for Elsa’s sake, who she knew would lament even one ounce of hurt, but for the ones who dared to even think about harming her family.

They deserved much, much worse.

She was going to need more boats to punch people off of. Though others had told her later that Hans had gotten off easy, attempting to slay royalty and really only getting a black eye for his troubles.

Elsa’s thumb running across the back of her hand reeled back her train of thought. “One thing kept me going though, through the madness of it, even after I got hurt.” She flinches and her other hand presses delicately against the red fabric. She clutches her sister’s hand, “I told myself to be brave, just like you Anna.”

“You mean to tell me you weren’t afraid?” Anna’s laugh is stilted.

Elsa breathes for a moment. “Were you?” she asks quietly, “When you were freezing to death on the fjord, and running across the dam?”

Anna squeezes back and her voice shakes. “I was terrified. Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not trembling in fear. It just means you have the resolve to stand up and keep going.”

“...I was so scared,” Elsa whispers, a single tear falling down her face. “I'm still scared.”

“I know,” and this time Anna’s voice breaks. She presses a kiss to Elsa’s temple. “I know Elsa, and I’m so sorry. Please hold on just a little longer.”

“Anna, I’m so tired,” she says faintly, the wind liable to steal the sound completely. “Please, may I sleep?”

“O-Of course.” Anna combs hair away from Elsa’s face, her own slick with tears. “Rest, Elsa, you’ve been through so much already.”

Elsa shudders through an exhale, her forehead pinching up as even the simple need to breathe inflicts pain. “Be there… when I wake?”

Anna couldn’t help herself now. A sob bursts from her chest and she clutches Elsa’s hand like a lifeline. “Always. I’ll always be here, Elsa.”

The barest trace of a smile turns the corner of Elsa’s mouth up. Then her whole body goes slack. Her hand loses its grip and for a full, heart-pounding moment Anna thinks she’s lost her, but then she sees Elsa’s chest rise and fall and knows she’s alive, just unconscious.

She cries all the way back to the sleigh.

Kristoff meets up with her after clearing the mist wall, which disappears as soon as they finish crossing. He pulls her in for a hug so fierce she can scarcely breathe, but she needs something solid right now and let’s him even though it aches. Bruni chirps sadly on his shoulder, pattering this way and that to get the best look at Elsa he could. Kristoff explains that he found Bruni outside the wall, huddled under a rock. An apple-sized singe mark on Kristoff’s chest speaks to how the little spirit was when he found him.

Anna had tried her best to ignore it, but when Kristoff’s face goes pale she has to check and see how much worse it’s gotten. Somewhere along the trek back blood had started to seep into Nokk's body, like drops of sickness in pure water. They snaked deeper into the horse’s belly, meandering red tendrils suspended and animated with every movement.

The moment Gale lifts Elsa off Nokk it crashes to the ground, no longer solid, splashing loudly into the snow and ice. Anna feels Nokk go and sends her thanks, even as it leaves a red trail behind. Elsa is laid next to Olaf, who reaches, “...2...1…” and then opens his eyes. “Elsa?” he says softly.

Elsa’s eyelids flutter as she wakes. Her eyes are still clouded, but brighten just a little when they catch sight of Olaf. Her voice strains then she speaks, “You’re still here.”

“I’m still here,” he nods. “Can’t… get rid of me that easy.”

As Anna gets into the sleigh to keep watch and Kristoff snaps Sven’s reins, she sees Elsa reach across the small space between her and Olaf. His twig hand meets her halfway and they hold each other like that, both weak and exhausted. They drift off almost immediately, which Anna is grateful for, despite how it also ties her stomach in knots.

The trip back home is long and silent.