#just some thoughts rattling about my brain while i make spaghetti

[little-mouse-adventures]

Sometimes I forget just how dedicated to his job Butler is, but like...that's a hardcore part of his character.

Book 1 it's obvious, he breaks a man's hand without looking and without second thoughts. Sure, "scared is better than dead," and he shows a soldier's honor when dealing with LEP Retrieval One, but he still obliterates them with only a moment's hesitation.

Even Book 4 makes sense ("But Butler was only paid to protect one thing, and it was not The Fairy Thief.") He's lost his memories of the People, of course he'd default to "Protect the Principal."

But then we see his job take precedence over everything else again and again even with his involvement with the fairies. Book 3, that sound grenade could have easily killed or maimed people. He didn't hesitate to use it. Book 5, even with his memories of the fairies intact, owing them his life, and knowing the risks of letting the demons be discovered, he is unapologetic about his thoughts on the situation: "If I had to walk away from here, it would not trouble me unduly, so long as you were walking away with me." Would he have some regrets? Possibly. Would letting the demons be discovered introduce new difficulties to his job? Most likely. Would he let that stop him from walking out and getting Artemis to safety given the first opportunity? Not a chance. Book 7, his baby sister is in potentially mortal danger, and he still prioritizes Artemis's safety over his own convenience in rescuing his family.

Butler willing to help others, would go to the ends of the earth for those he considers friends, but at the end of the day, his job is to protect his Principal, and that is always always his highest priority.

[americasass81]

Peeling Back The Layers

Warnings:- Implied Body Image Issues, Fluff, M & F Smut.  Do not read if any of these warnings are upsetting.  Feedback is welcomed.

By proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

A/N:- This came about due to @saiyanprincessswanie love of Brock Rumlow, my dislike of him and a challenge to myself to see if I could turn him into a fairly decent human being with actual feelings.  Well Missy, let me know if I pulled it off.

Pairing:- soft!Brock Rumlow x Reader

Word Count:- 2,614

Leaving the shop after a successful day shopping, you were so wrapped up in the excitement of getting back out into the world that you forgot to take stock of the people milling around you.  Feeling the sudden push from an authoritarian looking woman with her nose so far up in the air it could probably injure some unsuspecting bird, you prepared to meet the ground and lose your precious cargo.  Catching your arm before you could fall however, your breath caught from fear or something else, you weren't sure.  Looking up into the hazel eyes of a gruff looking soldier type figure, your senses stopped spinning long enough to realize that not only had he prevented you from sustaining a horrible fall, but everything had happened so fast that your purchases were still intact. 

Smiling shyly back at him as he still held you while you pulled yourself together, you failed to notice the lingering looks he sent your way or vice versa.  Living a few houses apart, you would have to be blind and deaf not to recognize your would-be knight or remember the things the neighbors said about him.  Brock Rumlow, though slim, gruff and powerful, was someone you had noticed on those days you felt well enough to tend your beautiful garden.  Though by no means fragile, your health left you a bit exhausted from time to time, but it in no way diminished your appetite for life.  And this too was something Brock had noticed.

Finally composing yourself, you thanked him for coming to your rescue, but he simply flashed you what could only be considered a roguish smile before releasing you.  Afraid your legs were going to give out again, albeit for different reasons now, you decided to take advantage of your rumbling stomach and asked Brock if he would care to join you for lunch.  Agreeing straight away, he asked if you wanted to drop off your purchases at your car, but when you told him you had chosen to take a taxi, he came to your aid once again.

"Well now, that just won't do.  I was actually just on my way back to my car.  How about we drop your stuff off there, head to lunch and I can drive you home later.  We're both going in the same direction anyway." he offered and you had to admit it did make sense.

Thinking of how it would look coming home with someone considered to be pond scum, but then not really caring, you smiled back at him, nodded your head and walked beside him towards his car.  Talking and listening along the way, you soon discovered that the old saying of don't believe everything you hear could have been written with Brock mind.  Though looking like he could snap a man in half without breaking a sweat and having a reputation for going after anything in a skirt he, like you, actually loved nature and you could find your skin heating up a bit when he began heaping praise on your garden.

Finally having stashed away all your stuff, you headed off to one of your favorite restaurants where you both tucked into a glorious meal of spaghetti with red wine.  Surprised when Brock ordered the same, he chuckled while telling you he wasn't a complete neanderthal, all while regaling you with tales of his last trip to Paris.  Watching intently as his eyes lit up while he explained in animated detail his love of various parts of the city, a part of you wondered how this man, who seemed to hide a deep romantic side, was still single.

Forgetting your manners in the wonder of his conversation, you actually blurted this out, but he simply smiled a bit sadly as he told you of his last failed relationship and how since then he had been a bit more careful with his heart.  Shocked to discover that someone like him could also taste the sting of rejection and be so changed by it, you were quickly reminded that being human too, his heart and emotions could just as easily shatter.

Sensing a slight shift in the atmosphere, he easily lightened the mood by informing you that there had since become someone to whom he has taken a liking.  Returning to your meal as he told you of the strong, kind and beautiful young woman who now held his heart, you nearly choked on your food as this handsome mountain of a man reached forward, took your hand in his and kissed it tenderly before winking at you.  Staring back at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads, he held his hands up and chuckled once more.  "Oh, dear, I'm going to scare you away.”

"No.  No really . . . I'm fine." you reassured, taking a generous mouthful of your wine.

"Yeah?" he grinned, questioningly.

"I'm fine." you repeated, taking a few deep breaths to steady your racing heartbeat.  "It's just that I don't understand what someone like you could possibly see in . . . "

"A plain Jane like you?" he interrupted, parroting back the words you had only ever uttered to your reflection in those private moments when you were being overly hard on yourself.

Looking anywhere but at him, he reached out for your hand once more and ran his thumb gently along the back of it until you finally lifted your eyes to his.  Gazing at the light reflected in his golden orbs, you felt yourself sinking into him as you tried to respond to his statement.  "Ex-exactly." you stuttered.  "I mean, you've traveled the world, served your country, and I'm just the girl you loves reading and gardening.  Not exactly compatible." you added, slipping your hand from his as the waiter came to collect your empty plates.

Taking a moment to compose yourself while Brock ordered dessert, you found yourself staring a bit too long at the specimen before.  Rugged good looks in a not too obvious way, his hazel eyes and short brown hair had images flashing before your eyes of him gazing up at you from between your legs as your fingers nestled in his spiky locks.  Shaking your head and blaming the wine as you tried to remove the offending image, it didn't help any when you two were at last alone again and Brock could see the rattled look on your face.

"You doing okay there, gorgeous?" he asked and you nodded slowly hoping your expression wouldn't betray the thoughts your brain had been producing.  Groaning inwardly when the waiter returned shortly after with chocolate covered strawberries, you rubbed your thighs together under the table in the hopes of somehow relieving the sensation building in your core.

Smirking at you as he brought the delicacy to his lips before biting down on it, you wondered if he could somehow read what your body was hiding.  Chewing quickly before dropping the remainder of the fruit into his mouth, he then picked up another and reaching across the table, held it out before you.  Opening your mouth to take the offered dessert, he pulled it back playfully before moving it forward once again.  This time leaving it for you to reach, your tongue shot out and licked a streak of chocolate off the fruit and it was now his turn to groan at your wanton behavior.

Enjoying the rest of the dessert in good spirits, you bit your lip as you wondered if you should address the matter of his past.  Ever since he settled in the neighborhood, talk had been rife about the type of soldier he was and the things he had done.  Suspecting what was now on your mind by your anxious expression, he asked if perhaps this conversation could wait for a more private location.  Agreeing without hesitation, he then helped you from the table and paying the bill, walked you from the restaurant back to his car.

Driving in silence back to your house, he opened your car door before helping you carry your purchases indoors.  Walking up the path to your house, he stopped to admire your daisy path and you found it somewhat endearing as it really was your pride and joy.  Welcoming him inside as you both placed down your shopping, you offered to mix up some margaritas on the rocks while he wandered around your home, though remaining within your view.

Working seamlessly around your kitchen, you quickly whipped up a batch of the splendidly delicious beverage before joining Brock in the living room to find him running his hand along your over burdened bookshelf.  Handing him the glass, you took a sip while walking towards the couch before sitting down.  Following your lead, Brock joined you, though kept himself at a respectful distance.  Taking a generous mouthful, he nodded approvingly before setting down the glass and facing you.

Telling you all about his days as a government operative and admitting that some of the things he was required to do were the reason he was now an ordinary civilian, you suspected the guilt he obviously carried might also be part of the reason his relationships had crumpled.  Getting up to refill your now empty glasses, you returned and sitting down on the table in front of him, cupped his cheek and reassured him that his past was not an issue for you and did not define who he would be going forward.

Smiling up at your tender expression, he reached forward slowly and placing his lips against yours, he tentatively kissed you while waiting for you to pull away.  Remaining still as his soft lips met yours again while his warm, wet tongue seeked entry, his hand moving to your thigh released a moan allowing his tongue to meet yours.  Pulling you forward onto his lap as his lips and tongue explored your mouth and smothered your moans, his hands began to work under your top as your hands went to his shirt.

Pulling back eventually to draw some oxygen into your lungs, you both smiled at each other before reaching for your drinks and downing them rather quickly.  Removing your top, you maneuvered yourself off his lap before reaching out and taking his hand.  Gazing up at you through lust-filled eyes, you bit your lip under his intense gaze before speaking.  "Take me to bed and make love to me Brock.  Please." you begged and was thoroughly delighted when he rose from the couch, removed his own top and told you to lead the way.

Tossing you gently on the bed, he looked down on you in your bra and leggings as your chest rose and fell under his hooded gaze.  Licking his lips and winking at you as his hands descended to the waistband of his jeans, he swiftly undid his pants, pulled everything down and kicking off his shoes, stalked towards you.

Suddenly very self conscious of how you looked in comparison to this god, you reached for the throw only to find the task halted.  "Hey gorgeous, don't do that.  Let me see all of you." he pleaded as he coaxed the throw out of your slightly trembling hand.  Sitting down next to you, he then pulled you into a sitting position before speaking again.  "You've heard the worst of who I am and what I've done and you're still willing to give me a chance.  Let me see how beautiful you are."

Nodding your acquiescence, Brock pushed you back once more before claiming your lips once again.  Kissing you tenderly while his hands roamed over your body, you soon found his head resting at the top of your leggings as his stubble covered chin worked its way left and right across your stomach.  Laughing at the burn and tickling sensation he was creating, he took advantage of your distraction and peeled said leggings down your legs until he yanked both them and your shoes off your person.

Tossing the now useless items aside, Brock then proceeded to treat your lower body to the same treatment as your upper body and soon you were nothing more than a writhing, moaning mess beneath him.  Satisfied with his progress thus far, he then kissed his way back up your body, while his fingers found your panty clad core.  Peppering your tits, neck and lips with butterfly kisses as he worked his hand up and down your moistening folds, he didn’t stop until your body shook and you called out his name.

Grinning at you like some Cheshire cat, you swatted his chest, but being that he had just pulled you apart, your heart wasn't really in it.  Laughing at your feeble attempt, he placed his forehead against yours as he brought his moist fingers to your lips.  Smearing your release along your lips, he then sucked the excess off before kissing you once more.  "Has anyone ever told you you taste delicious, gorgeous?" he asked and you turned your head away to hide your embarrassment.

Moving his hand down to grab his shaft and push your panties aside, he coaxed you to look at him once more while he coated his impressive length in your juices.  "Tell me you trust me,  gorgeous." he said as his tip slipped in before returning to your folds.

"I trust you Brock.  Go on." you urged with a smile and a kiss as his tip entered you once more.  This time, holding your hips before leaning forward to kiss you gently, he sheathed himself within your heat in one powerful thrust.  Capturing your moan with his mouth, he stayed in place as he nuzzled his chin along neck.

Waiting until you could no longer take it, he chuckled when you whined out his name.  "It's okay, I got you." he whispered against your ear as his hips finally began to move against yours.  Thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace as his lips continued to suck and dance along your skin, he felt his past slipping away as his name left your lips in a worshipped chant over and over and over again.  Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think his name could be spoken with such love and reverence.  Eventually feeling your walls begin to clench around him as the pressure in your core tightened, Brock snaked his hand beneath your panties and finding your clit, worked his magic until you shattered beneath him and came like you never had before.

Trying to get your breathing back under control, Brock continued to work you through your orgasm while his cock began to pound into you in earnest.  Recognizing the stirrings of another release, this time as you cried out your protests, you both came together as wave after wave of bliss radiated throughout your body and Brock's cum painted every inch of your pussy.

Kissing you tenderly as his softening cock gently moved within you, he finally released you and leaving the room, returned with a damp cloth.  Too dazed to wonder where he got it, you relaxed against the pillows as he removed your panties and cleaned you up before placing you under the covers and sliding in beside you.  Closing your eyes knowing full well that Brock would be gone by morning, you drifted off to sleep totally unaware of the profound effect you had on him.  Laying there with you nestled safely in his arms, he finally felt like the parts of himself he hated could now at long last be sent into the aether as a bright new future stretched out before him with a woman who accepted and loved every part of him.

Tagging: @saiyanprincessswanie

[dc41896]

New Roommate

Pairing: Paul DiskantxBlack Reader

⚠️: Fluff, slight mentions of seggsy time

“We’re gonna have so much fun bubbas. We’re gonna go to the park, on hikes-oh! And the beach! I already know you’re gonna love it,” you beam rubbing noses with the two-month, blue nose pitbull who was trying to lick your face. “First though, I gotta get your dad on board.”

It’s not that your boyfriend didn’t want or like dogs. He always said how he’d love to have one someday when he was settled somewhere.

However that “somewhere” to Paul was a house with plenty yard space, an adequate amount of privacy, and maybe located in the suburbs. Not your recently renovated, two bedroom apartment you both just happened to move into about a month ago.

You made an agreement that you wouldn’t get any pets (well besides a fish, and a small one at that) to not risk messing anything up and having some sort of consequence, which would more than likely be in monetary form. Entranced by the short haired, too adorable for words pup though, you honestly could care less about the consequences.

Plus you just knew your little buddy wouldn’t cause any trouble. You could see that in his round, soft grey eyes.

“So, you’re gonna stay with your auntie Raye until I can work my charm on him okay?” The pup only tilts his head before letting out a small bark and making you pout as you hug him close. “I know but it’s only temporary. A night at most.”

Paul typically didn’t get home until later in the evening now that he was on a new case, so you had plenty of time to clean up any traces of dog left behind after Raye would leave and start cooking his favorite meal. As an added bonus, you also thought about your short, lilac, ruched number with spaghetti straps that always made his eyes light up when you wore it. He claimed it perfectly complimented your skin and made you look even more angelic as his hands always seemed to find your sides, the small of your back, or lower if you were right beside him (which of course you typically were).

However, hearing the familiar thud of boots journeying down the hall and rattling of keys, something told you that plan might not work now.

You quickly stand up, taking the probably confused puppy with you to the bathroom where you sit him in the empty tub, along with his new bone shaped chew toy, kneeling with a finger over your lips.

“Stay here and be really quiet okay?,” you whisper just as you hear the front door unlock. Quietly rushing to close the room door behind you, you muster your best ‘I wasn’t doing anything’ smile while you approached the tired looking man.

“Hey beautiful,” he greets, sweetly pecking your lips.

“Hey, you’re home early today.”

“Yea, we had a break in the case and went undercover to get the suspect which led to a chase, then a fight, and me having bruises forming as we speak.”

Dropping his bag by the dinner table, a sigh followed by a short wince leaves his mouth as he sinks into the leather couch cushions letting his head fall back and eyes close.

“Alright plan B it is,” you think to yourself moving behind him to gently massage his shoulders, occasionally letting your hands journey forward along his pecs giving them attention as well. Hearing a soft moan at his approaching relaxed state urges you to continue, knowing you’d soon have him exactly where you wanted.

“Aww I’m sorry babe. Where does it hurt?”

“My sides mostly, but my back a bit too.”

He helps you remove his fitted black shirt, a favorite of yours, letting out a short hiss from having to extend his sore muscles. Guiding him to lie down and placing one of the small throw pillows under his head, you straddle his lap letting your fingers drag along the red and light blue marks littering his sides.

“It doesn’t hurt when you breathe does it?”

“No.”

“What about this?,” you ask pressing down to feel him flinch under you.

“Ow! Babe-,”

“Sorry! Sorry just checking.” Watching him settle back into his comfortable position with arm draped over his forehead, you slowly bend forward, lips inches from his bruise looking up at your boyfriend through your lashes. “And this?”

You feel his low chuckle vibrate his muscular upper body as your gentle, open mouthed kisses scatter from each injury to eventually find the spot just below his ear.

“I feel better already,” he smiles tilting your chin so your soft lips could meld with his. Kiss growing deeper with each passing second.

“Hooked like a fish,” you thought, lips never ceasing while being brought closer to his body as he sat up with hands squeezing your hips.

“Baby wait,” he states slightly leaning his head back and making you pout. “Let me go shower first. I’m sweaty and probably stink-,”

“What’s the point when you’re just gonna get sweaty again?,” you smirk taking his now red, fuller bottom lip between your teeth.

“All the more reason for you to join me then.” You can’t fully enjoy the combination of his tongue and lips on your neck from your brain hurriedly trying to figure out how to stop this man from finding your little surprise in the bathroom.

“Your, um..sides though! You know it’s gonna hurt trying to shower so just stay here with me.”

“Is there a reason you don’t want me going in our bathroom?,” he asks detaching from your neck with one final bite to eye you suspiciously.

“No, of course not. I just missed you.” Batting your lashes, you nonchalantly let your nail trace a line from where his pendant sat down the middle of his abdomen and just above his buckle before he shifted, swiftly lying you on your back with one hand hooked under your knee bringing it around his waist.

Men. Always so easy.

Giggling as thumbs graze the lower band of your bra and lips return to their assault on your neck and collarbone, a high pitched bark along with scuffling makes you freeze as Paul lifts his head confused.

“You heard that right?”

“Y-Yeah. It’s probably from one of the neighbors. Speaking of dogs though-”

When the barks and scuffling become more frequent, you start to wonder if Raye would mind you staying the night since you’d surely need a place to stay with Paul being mad at you.

“Nah that sounds really close,” he replies unhooking your leg to go investigate for himself. The only thing you can do is sit and nervously wait for the inevitable hearing him open the bedroom door and eventually enter the bathroom. “Honey...!”

“Hmm?!,” you ask biting the corner of your lip, turning your head at the sound of Paul padding across the wooden floor holding the noisy pup.

“Mind telling me why this little guy was in our tub?”

“....Maybe he was a gift from the front office?,” you innocently shrug making him bring his free hand to his hip, sternly looking at you.

“Y/N...,”

“Alright. My coworker and I were bored one day and started looking through the pets the shelter had for adoption online and this little guy came across the screen and stole my heart.”

“Babe we talked about this. We can’t mess this place up.”

“I know and we won’t. Before you came home, we just hung out in here and he was so calm and sweet. Even in the tub he sat there like a good boy,” you smile standing up to scratch behind his ears making his tail wag against Paul’s side.

“That’s because he couldn’t get out since the tub is taller than him,” he retorts as you roll your eyes taking your new baby from his grasp.

“Cmon Paul look at this face and tell me you can say no.”

Holding the puppy at his eye level, there’s a few moments of silence as the two simply look at each other before the grey haired dog licks his cheek making him groan.

“You know I can’t say no. To either of you,” he softly smiles petting the short fur on his head. Seeing your pout as you bring your new friend next to your face, he lowly chuckles caressing your cheek as his lips find yours. “Alright he can stay.”

“Thank you!,” you excitedly squeal bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I already have the perfect name picked out.”

“What’s that?”

“Disco. After his dad,” you both laugh.

“Well, welcome to the family Disco,” he smiles taking him from your hands to place him on the floor where he began to sniff around getting acclimated to his new home. You’re caught off guard when you’re tossed over his broad shoulder, blood rushing to your head as you gently kick your legs laughing.

“Paul!”

“Disco, look after everything. Me and mom have some unfinished business,” he smirks closing the bedroom door behind him with his foot.

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[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 27: Vortex

Chapter 26

Read on AO3

Vortex: a mass of swirling water that draws everything to it

——

In late August, with September right around the corner, Claire and Faith were about to experience their first hurricane. Claire had experienced all levels of terrifying weather with Uncle Lamb out in the field, including floods, sandstorms, mudslides, and nearly every other manner of natural disasters. Hurricanes, however, had eluded them. They’d only gone to South America one time, and they’d merely seen some heavy rainfall.

Claire had been keeping her eye on the news, seeing how hurricane Matthew was affecting other areas along the east coast. She shuddered to think of them even losing power, let alone anything actually disastrous happening. All news and weather outlets were assuring that by the time it hit the island, it would have lost most of its power, so the storm wouldn’t be devastating, but it would do damage nonetheless.

Claire was doing another scan of the weather channel (which Faith did not appreciate) before work when her phone rang. Jamie.

“Sassenach?”

“This is she.”

“Good morning, lass. Sleep well?”

“I did, is everything alright?”

“Aye, fine. Just wanted to check in. The storm is gonna hit tomorrow; wanted to make sure ye were prepared.”

“Prepared enough,” Claire said, throwing a bar and a yogurt into her purse. “I’ve gotten the bread and milk, as they say. Stocked up.”

“Aye, that’s good. Are ye prepared for losing power?”

“Flashlights are ready with spare batteries and all. Portable charger for the iPad.”

“What about fer you?”

“Oh, I have to be at the hospital before it starts and then stay. It runs on a generator so I’ll be good with a regular charger.”

“Wait, what d’ye mean, stay?”

“Well, I’m considered an emergency worker so I can’t take off. I’m going to have to sleep there if the roads are flooded or blocked with trees.” Claire zippered her purse as she flitted back into the living room, then started pulling on her shoes.

“Ye could be there for days, Sassenach.”

“I know.”

“What about Faith?”

The little girl in question barreled into her as if on cue, waiting for her goodbye. “One second, Jamie. Yes, time for goodbye hugs.” Claire crouched down and gave her daughter a squeeze and a kiss. “Be good for Mrs. Lickett. Yes? Okay, bye-bye.”

With one final kiss and a farewell to Mrs. Lickett, Claire was out the door. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“What’re ye gonna do wi’ Faith while ye’re at the hospital?”

“Oh,” Claire said, opening her car and sliding into the driver’s seat. “I’m dropping her off at the Abernathy’s with a few provisions before work tomorrow. After I’ve taped all the windows, of course,” she added wryly.

“She’ll be alright?”

Claire sighed as she started the car. “She’s going to have to be.”

Her voice wavered, and she cursed herself.

“She’s never spent the night away from home. Will she no’ get upset?”

“I don’t really have much of a choice.” She was not defensive or angry, but resigned, sad. She didn’t want to leave Faith at someone else’s house, but she could not very well ask Gail to live with her toddler and child in her small apartment for an indeterminable amount of time. The fact that they’d opened their home to Faith was kind enough. She couldn’t very well ask it of Mrs. Lickett, either. Her children were older, but she still shouldn’t be away from them for that long during a potentially dangerous storm.

Jamie was silent on the other end, and as Claire turned onto the main road, something clenched in her throat. He couldn’t be upset with her, could he? He couldn’t be judging her decision, condemning her for planning to dump her child off during a natural disaster? Logic told her that of course he wouldn’t, but she was so god damned insecure about it all herself that she could not be calmed.

“You still there?”

“Aye,” he answered quickly. “Sorry, I was thinking.”

Claire swallowed. “What about?”

He paused again. “Tell me to shut my gab at any point going forward,” he began uncertainly.

Claire’s brow furrowed. “Ehm, alright…”

“What if…what if I stayed wi’ her. In her own home.”

Claire was gobsmacked. Her mouth actually dropped open in surprise.

“Please tell me no if ye’re truly no’ comfortable, Claire. I mean it. I ken it may be too soon, and I understand. I just thought to offer — ”

“Jamie,” Claire cut him off. “It’s okay…I…” She blinked away tears. “Would you really be alright doing that?”

“Aye,” he said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Anything I can do to make it easier fer her. It’s gonna be scary.”

Claire swallowed thickly. “She’s heard thunderstorms before.”

“I’m sure. But this willna be like anything she’s ever experienced. And Gail is lovely, truly, she’s a blessing fer ye both, but she’s…she’s no’ you.”

“And she’s not you,” Claire said, finishing for him what he likely was thinking but would never say.

“Claire, I’d never presume —”

“Well I would,” Claire said. “There’s no denying you have the experience that Gail lacks, Jamie. And Faith trusts you. And I trust you.”

He was silent, likely processing what she said. Claire turned into the employee parking lot.

“Besides,” Claire said with a chipper tone that was only slightly forced. “It’ll be good for her to have you all to herself. You’ve never been alone with her before.”

She heard him chuckle. “Aye. Ye think she’ll like that?”

Claire put her car in park, and her heart swelled, warming her from the inside out. “I really think she will.”

——

Jamie arrived the following morning with a duffle bag and a backpack. The sky was already gray, the air thick with the oncoming storm, the wind picking up. He’d half expected the skies to open up on his way there.

The door opened, and his heart cracked. Claire’s sweet, lovely “hello” included a smile, but he could see that frantic look in her eye. She was close to tears. He greeted her gently and then addressed the bouncing, squealing thing below them.

“Ah, yes, hello, wean.” He cupped her head gently to stop her bouncing. “I’m happy to see you, too, lass. Can ye fetch ballerina Minnie Mouse? I’d like to see her if ye dinna mind.”

Like a shot, she was off, eager to please Jamie, and Jamie pulled Claire into his arms. She clung to him tightly, breathing deeply into his neck.

“It’s times like these,” she began shakily, “that I believe Frank was right.”

His brow furrowed. “Whatever d’ye mean?”

“That I should’ve given it up, that I still should.” She sniffled. “I don’t know if I can leave her for several days during…during what they’re saying it’s going to be…”

“It’s alright, Sassenach.” He kissed the top of her head, and then Faith emerged from her room, waving the stuffed animal above her head. “Ah, thank ye, lass. What about…” He wracked his brain, trying to remember any of the dozens of toys she’d shown him. “Daisy Duck? Can I see her?”

She was off again, and Claire laughed wetly against him.

“Listen to me, Claire Beauchamp.” Jamie pulled far enough away so that he could tilt her chin up and look her in the eye. “Ye’re a doctor because it is what God put ye on this Earth to do. Ye’re a damn fine one, from what I gather. Ye’re going to help lots of people in the next few days, people that might have been much worse of wi’out ye.”

“What about the baby that He gave me?” Claire said hoarsely. “The baby with…so much that she needs from me…”

“It’s not just you,” Jamie said, with the most careful combination of firmness and gentleness he can muster. “No’ anymore.”

Claire rested her forehead against his, breathing deeply. “It’ll be alright,” he assured her, Faith puttering back in with the next toy. He praised her quietly, tucking Daisy under his arm with Minnie. “I will do everything in my power to see that she’s alright these next few days.”

“I know,” Claire said, then pressed her lips to his. “I know.”

Faith was reaching up, bouncing again impatiently. Jamie handed her back down her toys; evidently, she did not like them out of place for very long.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” Claire said, squeezing his hands. “I think I’d be beside myself if I left her away from home. Well,” she laughed dryly, “more so than I already am.”

“It is an honor to ease yer burden, mo ghraidh.” He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles fervently. 

Claire led him around the apartment to show him one last time where everything was kept; Faith’s vitamins and nighttime medicine, snacks, candles, spare batteries, matches. Jamie had remembered, but he let her show him all of it again to ease her mind. He knew it helped her feel like she had more control over the situation.

“Once the power goes out,” she said, gathering her own duffle bag with her overnight essentials. “Either soybean butter and jelly, cold cuts from that cooler that’s still in the fridge for as long as they’ll keep, or the spaghetti-o’s. Just pretend you’re using the microwave or something and she’ll never know the difference.”

Jamie nodded seriously, though he’d remembered all that, too.

“And watch her with the fridge. She’ll keep it open and stare in there looking for something which is bad enough when there is power. Make sure she doesn’t let the insulated coolness out if you can help it. Though if it’s gone for too long it’s a moot point.”

“Right. Got it.” Jamie nodded curtly. A large gust of wind howled outside, rattling the windows.

“Jesus.” Claire shuddered.

“Ye’d better get going before ye get stuck in the oncoming downpour,” Jamie said.

“Right.” Claire froze in the middle of the living room, her eyes glued to Faith, sitting cross-legged with Angus’s head in her lap, calmly stroking his fur. Jamie’s heart strained, and Claire looked like she might cry again. She exhaled heavily and crouched down next to Faith.

“Hey, baby.” She cupped her little head and smiled. Faith kept her attention on Angus, and Claire gently tapped her nose. “Can you look at me, Faith?” She did not, and so Claire took her hands off of Angus and held them between hers. Somewhat annoyed, Faith looked up at Claire, obviously waiting for her hands to be released. “Hi,” Claire said. “Remember what we said? Quiet hands, quiet feet, and quiet mouth for Jamie.” She pointed to each mentioned body part. “And listening ears on.” Claire poked each of her ears, one after the other. “Mummy will be gone for a few days, but Jamie is going to play with you, and keep you safe. It’s all going to be okay. It might get very dark, or very loud, and there might not be any tellie. But Jamie is going to make sure you’re okay. Yes?”

Faith moaned impatiently, and it was unclear if she was listening.

Jamie is going to make sure you’re okay.

Jamie’s chest involuntarily puffed out, and his back straightened. He silently and solemnly vowed to do just that.

“I’m going to miss you, lovie.” Claire cupped both of Faith’s cheeks. “I love you.” She held up the sign, and Faith mirrored her as always, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m going to call every day. I’ll talk to you on the phone. I promise.” Claire pulled Faith in  for a hug, squeezing her tightly. “Big goodbye hugs,” she whispered into her hair.

When Claire released her, she stood up with a heavy sigh. Jamie was holding her duffle bag, and he walked her to the door.

“Please be careful,” Jamie said. “Text me when ye get there.”

“I will.”

He kissed her deeply, pressing her tightly to him. When their lips parted, he looked into her eyes, those swimming pools of amber and honey. On his tongue was something he’d known, something he’d been burning to unleash from within him since April.

I love you.

Instead, he swallowed thickly and kissed her forehead. “Drive safe, Sassenach.”

With one final squeeze of his hand and a reassuring smile, she was gone. Jamie ran a hand over his face before peeking out the window to make sure she pulled out of the driveway. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her. Christ, he’d wanted to reply with it the second he watched that video; he’d wanted to tell her that day in the office, he’d wanted to tell her on the ferris wheel, the carousel, he’d wanted to tell her when she fell asleep and drooled on his shoulder halfway through The Godfather, he’d wanted to tell her when he’d finally positioned himself between her legs and entered her, and felt so completely fulfilled and complete, and every time he was in that position thereafter.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not until she was ready to hear it.

He knew she was scared; no matter how well this was going, he knew she was still worried and paranoid. He wouldn’t rush her.

A giggle pulled him out of that train of thought, and he realized that Claire’s car was long gone. It had also already started to rain, and it would definitely get nasty soon. He turned to see Faith grinning impishly down at Angus, who was licking Faith’s open palm over and over. This was something she did often, put her palm right at his snout and wait for him to oblige her. Jamie supposed she liked the tickling sensation. He smiled and made his way to the couch, sitting down and watching Faith with her loyal companion for a while.

Claire had given him a whole list of things that Mrs. Lickett usually does with Faith while Claire is gone for the day. There was play-doh, the big clunky legos (both good for fine motor), the flashcards for identifying signs, and of course coloring. On the list, Claire wrote that when Faith colored with Mrs. Lickett, Mrs. Lickett always — underlined several times — signed the color that Faith picked up. Color identification would be a big deal once she started school.

Something else that Jamie knew would come once school started was the school district-provided tablet for text to speech communication. Claire had been recommended speech therapies to get a head start on that, but she’d turned them all down, insisting that it was very important to her that Faith know how to sign before relying solely on the screen. And since Faith had proven capable, she’d stuck to that.

It amazed Jamie how Claire somehow just knew what was best for her child. Jamie saw all too often at the stables parents that had no idea what they were doing. Which was understandable and nothing to be judged about. But when he’d reach out, recommend additional services, hint that they might get more out of equine therapy if they approached certain things a different way, they didn’t want to hear it. It was hard to watch those kids regress because their parents weren’t willing to set their pride aside and admit they weren’t aware of something. But his reach only extended so far, and if he was going to sleep at night, he had to let those things off his conscience.

With Claire, if someone offered her advice, she could plainly tell them that she’d already researched that and had either tried it or decided it was not going to work, but thank you very much. Prompt speech therapy, for instance. If Jamie had a nickel every time Claire complained to him that yet another person had recommended Faith try it, he’d be quite the rich man. Prompt speech involved a lot of touching, and Faith would certainly not be okay with that. Even if it meant her daughter would never say a word, Claire would not put her through it. Not even an eval.

And Jamie admired the hell out of her for it.

After letting Faith continue with Angus for a bit, Jamie intervened and ushered her into the kitchen for some “structured play with learning benefits,” as Claire had referred to it. Faith, having never done any of the listed activities with Jamie, wanted to do every single one. They went on even longer than Jamie had anticipated she would sit still for because playing these games with Jamie was a novelty. They built a castle with a wall with her legos, made several snakes and desserts out of play-doh, colored, and worked on signs. Faith was not satisfied until every single card was flipped over and worked on. Jamie knew full well that she did not insist on such a thing with Mrs. Lickett. It made him grin smugly and melt at the same time.

It was pouring in earnest by the time Jamie finished getting through Faith’s stack of flashcards. Instinctually, he checked his messages from Claire, even though she’d told him hours ago by now that she’d gotten in safely. The wind was picking up, too, turning into a constant roar.

“Ye’re brilliant, Princess Faith,” Jamie said, giving her a thumbs up. “Ye did such great work today, lass. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled cheekily and then reached for her crayons and princess coloring book again. Rain suddenly pelted against the kitchen window, the wind having changed direction to blast the water right into the glass. Faith dropped her crayon with a startled cry and clamped her hands over her ears. Jamie had to admit it even startled him.

“It’s alright, lass,” he crooned, getting out of his chair to kneel beside hers. He stroked her back soothingly. “Just the rain. It’s alright.”

She kept her eyes squeezed shut and her hands on her ears, so Jamie switched tactics. He scooped her in his arms, cradling her to his chest. He brought her out of the kitchen and deposited her on the couch. If the wind was blowing into the window in the back of the apartment, perhaps a similar noise would not happen in the front windows. He called Angus over when Faith still would not move or open her eyes, and after a few minutes of deep pressure, she at least opened her eyes. Jamie was then able to coax her into picking a DVD. They were on borrowed time until they lost power, so he thought it best to take advantage of the tellie while they still had it.

She ended up choosing a Winnie the Pooh movie, jabbing at it with her elbow, hands still on her ears. She didn’t even take them off to put the movie in the player, though she stood by and watched every move Jamie made as he did so instead. As the DVD started playing the previews before the “play” screen, Faith got behind Jamie and started pushing against his legs. He took this as his cue to walk, and he allowed her to push him into her bedroom. He knew immediately what she wanted. He smiled widely as he stepped into the room and picked up the enormous “Pooh Bear” that he’d won for her at the carnival. Faith hummed in excitement and bounced a little as Jamie carried the giant bear into the living room and deposited him on the couch. She skipped back into her room and Jamie gathered the rest of her Hundred-Acre Wood friends, arranging them around their giant leader.

A few minutes into the movie, Faith finally took her hands off her ears and began enjoying the movie in earnest. The wind continued to howl and the windows continued to rattle, but the movie drowned most of it out for now, as did Faith’s giggling and humming along to the little songs. At one point, she moved all of the little toys into Jamie’s lap and tipped over the giant bear so she could lay bodily on top of him. It really was practically a mattress underneath her. She nuzzled further in, humming contentedly and smiling broadly, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Jamie smiled down at her, her eyes fixed on the screen, and then he brought his legs up on the couch, cross-legged, so he could fit every toy she’d given him in his lap, holding onto them with as much care as he would if Faith herself was in his lap.

The power went out before the movie finished, close to the end if Jamie deduced correctly. Faith immediately sat up, nearly toppling off the couch because of her uneven position on the bear. Jamie felt dread settling in his gut, and he immediately wanted to kick himself. He’d made the wrong move, and he was about to pay dearly for it.

Faith slid off both bear and couch and marched right up to the tellie. She began pushing all the buttons on the tellie and the DVD player, the volume of her whining increasing. Jamie set aside her toys and approached her tentatively.

“Faith, it’s alright. Remember what Mummy said? That there might be no tellie?”

With a great wail, she began slapping her hands against the television screen, and Jamie grabbed her wrists.

“No, lass, ye canna do that. No hitting.”

She began screaming in earnest, jerking against him with all her might.

“I’m sorry, Faith. The tellie is all done. I’m sorry.”

Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to pull against his grip on her wrists. He swiftly picked her up under the arms and deposited her away from the electronics. She pointed at the tellie, bouncing impatiently, wailing all the while.

“Aye, lass. I ken. It’s my fault, I’m sorry.” Jamie genuinely hated himself at the moment. He thought they’d have time before the power was gone, he thought that it would be good for her to be able to watch a movie that wasn’t downloaded to her tablet. He should’ve thought of this possibility, and he should’ve known that she’d be grossly unhappy if the movie was unable to finish. It would drive her mad for hours, knowing that the movie was sitting unfinished in the player. She couldn’t even get it out of the player to put away. One of her biggest OCD triggers had gone off, and it was his fault.

Jamie wracked his brain. Claire had said if she were melting down to either give hugs and cuddles, or to deposit her in her room and let her scream it out. That is if Angus didn’t do the trick. Jamie tried for the hug, but narrowly avoided a swinging fist. Clearly she blamed him for the tellie’s sudden malfunction. As she should, he thought miserably.

He called Angus over just as Faith started swinging her arms with abandon, and Jamie caught one of her fists before it collided with a picture frame on the table behind the couch. She pushed at his hand, punched his arm, pulled backward, but Jamie knew that if he let go, she’d dive right for trouble and possibly break something. Angus arrived just as Faith sank her teeth into the skin of Jamie’s hand.

He swore in Gaelic, and then he pinched her nose shut, causing her mouth to immediately open as a reflex. Jamie shook his hand, hissing in pain, but he didn’t skip a beat. He maneuvered himself to be behind Faith, and he scooped up the photos in her reach. He stood back and let Angus do his job, shoving his bleeding hand into the pocket of his shorts to avoid dripping anywhere else. At least if it stained, it wouldn’t be where anyone could see.

Angus kept hopping up on his hind legs so he could brush his snout against Faith’s screaming face, gently patting her chest with his paw before falling to all fours again. Every time, Faith pushed him away with an indignant yelp, but he kept trying until she sank to the ground with him, tightly squeezing his neck. Jamie sighed with relief when girl and dog were settled in a pile on the floor. He took the opportunity to put a bandaid on his hand before it soaked through his pockets.

When he returned after being in the bathroom for mere seconds, Faith’s screaming had been reduced to a heartbreaking, whimpering sobbing. Angus used his front paws to stop Faith from scratching and hitting her face or pulling at her hair, and he started licking her palms to keep them otherwise occupied. Jamie sighed and quietly made his way to the kitchen, where he could sit down and still see her through the doorway. He kept his eyes glued to her, his leg jiggling and his left hand tapping on his thigh. The urge to press her to him for comfort was painfully strong. Ignoring the urge to comfort was just as painful as it had been with her mother, all those months ago, before he’d ever really held her.

Jamie’s eyes must have glazed over, either with tears or weariness, because when he blinked, Faith was standing right in front of him, still weeping quietly.

“Hi, leannan. What d’ye need?” He restrained himself from touching her. Her hands were laced in Angus’s fur, sitting dutifully beside her. “What d’ye need, Faith? Show me?”

She inhaled slowly with a great tremor, and on the exhale, she put her arms up in front of her with a long, drawn out whimper.

I need a hug.

He heard her, loud and clear.

“Oh, lass…” Jamie’s voice broke, and he practically sprang forward. “Come here…I’ve got ye.” He scooped her into his lap and hugged her tightly, rocking gently. “It’s alright, now. Ye’re alright. I’ve got ye. Dinna fash, now. It’s alright.”

Claire had said that during a meltdown she wouldn’t want to be touched, but that perhaps after, she’d need to be held. Jamie had thought about it, then brushed it off. This was his fault. It was clear she’d blamed him for the mishap. She’d bitten him, swatted at him. She’d take her comfort from Angus until she was calm, and then she’d ask to be fed. That was what he’d thought.

But here she was, clinging to his shirt and sputtering into his neck, wetting his collar.

“I know, mo chridhe, I know…” he soothed. “I’m sorry, leannan. It’s alright. I’m sorry…”

He continued to whisper such platitudes, in both English and Gaelic, rocking her and holding her tightly. He knew how silly his train of thought had been. He’d seen with his own eyes this exact same pattern of kids coming back again and again despite how much it seemed like they hated their parents or guardian. He was always the first to assure a parent that it was never personal, that the child just could not see past their distress and only wanted to swat at whatever was in the way.

But even the thought of Faith resenting him had made him sick, however briefly it came to him. He couldn’t mess this up; god, he just couldn’t.

She burrowed in further, nuzzling her wet cheek against his neck, and then her hands came up to caress his beard stubble. Jamie smiled involuntarily. He knew she liked how that felt. He let her rub her hands and arms all over his cheeks, even shaking his head back and forth so she could feel it across her skin.

And then, after an indeterminable amount of time, she was quiet.

——

Claire [9:22]: Made it here alive. Just in time it would seem. Have a good day. xx

Jamie [9:25]: glad to hear it. stay safe. good luck. xx

Jamie [10:03]: cheerios and a banana for breakfast. made sure she had milk too.

Jamie [10:03]: not in the cereal, mind. I ken she doesn’t like that.

Jamie [10:37]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [10:37]: look at the size of that castle :)

Jamie [11:16]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [11:16]: “snakes. why did it have to be snakes.”

Jamie [11:16]: since i ken you’re too busy to answer, i’m just going to trust that you got that reference.

Jamie [11:17]: don’t panic, they’re made of play-doh. lol.

Jamie [11:56]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [11:56]: the art gallery we’ve created today

Jamie [12:32]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [12:32]: the gang’s all here for movie time. bet ye can’t guess what we’re watching ;)

Jamie [12:32]: got through a bunch of signs cards today btw. she did great. very proud.

Claire [12:46]: Thanks for all the updates. Faith looks so happy in all these. You’re amazing Jamie. Thank you.

Jamie [2:17]: power went out a bit ago. wee meltdown, but she’s alright now. eating soybean butter and jelly. already picked oreos for her treat.

Claire [2:18]: I saw the word meltdown. Do you need me to call? Are you okay? Any blood or bruises?

Jamie [2:19]: everything is fine. angus did a great job. i swear she’s perfectly content now. back to work missy.

Jamie [3:24]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [3:24]: needed to hold the flashlight while she did this so i couldn’t help. shame. i love puzzles. can’t believe how dark it got.

Jamie [3:24]: she’s got the headphones on now. wind is really loud. hope everything is ok by you.

Claire [4:04]: I’ll be able to call at 7:30. If she starts asking for me, tell her that.

Jamie [4:05]: aye aye captain

Jamie [6:02]: dinner promptly at six. spaghetti-os.

Jamie [6:55]: *photo attachment*

Jamie [6:55]: a wee faerie in her den.

——

Jamie tucked his phone back in his pocket after sending the latest message, smiling contentedly. The “faerie den” was a fort of sheets in the living room, tall enough for Jamie to sit up. Draped around the edges above their heads were battery powered string lights that Jamie had picked up a few days ago. He’d also blown up the air mattress that he’d known Claire had (with a battery powered air pump), put on a fitted sheet, and piled it with blankets and pillows from both Faith’s bed and Claire’s bed. Claire had told him to sleep in her bed, so he’d assumed the pillows would be up for grabs to do with as he pleased.

Faith was absolutely enamored with it. The smallness of the space made her feel cozy and safe, and it also made it easy to illuminate, so it was very bright in there in an apartment that was otherwise very dark. The worst of the storm was happening right at that moment, and it was dark as night at six in the evening in August. If Faith hadn’t been wearing her headphones, she’d be inconsolable at the sound of the wind, the occasional crack of a tree, the rattling of the windows. But she was blissfully unaware, petting her dog in her faerie den, tablet at the ready.

After Claire’s phone call, Jamie pulled out his flashlight and led Faith to the bathroom to brush her teeth. On their way there, she tried turning on every light switch they passed, growing increasingly distressed the more she encountered that would not work. When they reached the bathroom, she flipped the switch an uncountable amount of times and then started crying. No matter what Jamie did, she would not allow him to brush her teeth; she just sat on the floor with Angus and cried inconsolably. Jamie brushed his own teeth to the sound of her wailing, and she only got off the floor when Jamie pushed aside one headphone and she heard the words “faerie den” in her ear.

She calmed down very quickly after she was settled back in her bright little safe space. Jamie quickly shot Claire a text that teeth-brushing did not go very well, but that he’d snagged the Risperdal and dropper from the medicine cabinet so he could give it to her without reminding her that the lights weren’t working.

Apparently, she’d be sleeping in the fort tonight. Jamie had anticipated the possibility, which is why he’d included the mattress, blankets, and pillows. The question was whether or not he’d be sleeping in there.

The answer came shortly after when Faith had fallen asleep in his lap at the end of the movie she’d put on for them to watch on her tablet: Brave. Jamie couldn’t hear since she was using her headphones to continue to block out the storm, but he watched it playing, laughing when she did, pointing at the screen and signing to her occasionally. It was a whole new experience, watching her watch it rather than watching it with her. The only audio he got was from Faith herself, humming along to the music. It made his heart ache with love.

They were nestled in a veritable nest of blankets and pillows when Faith fell asleep in his crossed legs, head resting against his heartbeat. For a moment, he told himself he would simply stay in that position all night, that it would be worth it if it brought her a good night’s sleep after the chaos of the day. But then his hip started cramping in the open position, and he remembered he hadn’t given her Risperdal yet. So he had to move. 

Cradling her like a tiny infant, he lifted her off his lap and laid her gently atop a free section of the air mattress. He commanded Angus to lay beside her and left the fort to put on the sleep clothes he’d brought in his duffle bag. Just as he got his shirt off, Faith started whining. He quickly finished dressing and crawled back into the fort.

“I’m here, leannan. I’m right here.”

Right. So he was definitely sleeping in there.

After coaxing her to take the dropper of her medicine, Jamie swiped a pillow off the air mattress. She began whining again.

“Come on, lass. I’m no’ going anywhere. See?” He settled in on his pillow, facing the air mattress and looking up at her. “Go back to sleep.”

She did, and Jamie flicked off three out of the four strings of lights inside the fort before laying down again, getting as comfortable as he could on the floor.

——

Jamie [9:02]: she’s asleep. we watched brave in the fort and she crashed. made sure she had her medicine.

Claire [9:11]:  Of course you watched Brave. That’s the one she associates with you.

Claire [9:11]: I’m in bed now myself. These cots are not nearly as comfortable as my bed. Especially when you’re in it.

Jamie [9:11]: don’t start talking about me being in your bed. not when i can’t do anything about it.

Claire [9:12]: ;)

Claire [9:12]: Really though, I’m about to crash myself. Sleep well, darling. Give Faith a kiss for me.

Jamie [9:12]: what about me?

Claire [9:12]: I think you know exactly what you can give yourself. From me.

Claire [9:12]: ;)

Claire [9:12]: Goodnight, Jamie.

Jamie: [9:12]: goodnight sassenach

[whosscruffylooking]

Instinct Chapter 3-Act Natural (Spencer Reid x Female Reader)

Warnings: Brief confrontation between a male and female. Mentions of a break-in. 

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: I’m sorry it took me so long to get this out. In other news...I reached 100 followers! A small but deeply appreciated feat. I am celebrating this milestone over the weekend. Check out my pinned post on what I am doing to say thank you to everyone who has enjoyed my writing. 

"Act natural," the bony brainiac mutters to me.

"Given the current circumstances, I think that the most natural response here is to panic...thus I am acting natural," I retort.

"No, they are like predators. They will sense your fear. Act like this is any normal day for you."

"Well, to tell you quite honestly, my days as of recent have been filled with panic, so this is a typical day for me."

"Look, I'm the professional here. So, if you would listen to what I say and do as I tell you!"

"Is Dr. Reid raising his voice?"

"First thing you need to do is stop talking and let me think," he stresses as he rolls his sleeves up.

Enthralled by his sudden burst of authority, I express, "You intrigue me, Dr. Reid." 

-----*Three Hours Earlier*-----

The subtle ticking of the clock gradually crescendos into powerful drumming that reverberates throughout the room. The doorknob rattles and my eyes dart to the entrance as Agent Prentiss steps in, "We have some photos we'd like you to come to look at." Hesitantly, I step around the table and follow behind her into the main office. The men and women of the precinct watch as I wander over to the whiteboard that Dr. Reid is standing in front of.

Littering the board is photos of my brother. As I slowly move to get a closer look, my breathing hitches, my hands instinctually cover my mouth in shock and disbelief. "Y/N, can you confirm that this is your brother?" Spencer approaches me cautiously. I can't seem to bring myself to speak. I nod. "Is there anything you can tell me about these particular photos or dates," he asks, brushing his fingers over specific pictures and scribbles of numbers on the whiteboard.

A realization strikes me as I examine the images more closely, "No. But I do recognize the people in the background." "You do? Can you identify them?" Agent Prentiss advances towards me. I point towards one of the grim figures lurking in the background of my brother's photo, "That's the man who was in my apartment."

"You said you didn't know who your attacker was," Emily says, obviously not trusting my statement.

"I'd know those eyes anywhere."

"HOTCH!" Spencer shouts.

About an hour later, the team is on a call with their technical analyst. The local chief investigator is interrogating me. "Come on, Y/N, don't play stupid with me. You and Jeremy were inseparable. You cannot possibly believe that I would fall for this innocent little act of yours. You are harboring information on a notorious gang in this city!"

"Oh please, Castillo, you've been a cop for as long as I've been alive. The Nomad Boys have been around for just as long. Not once have you put this much effort into catching them. Is this because the big guns are here? You want to seem all tough and in control for them, but once they're gone, you and I both know you will go right back to hiding in your little office, ignoring the concerns of the people of this city," I oppose.

Castillo vehemently lunges forward, "You think that I am the only one putting up some farce, while you pretend to be the naive little sister here whose older brother can do no wrong. I don't buy it for one instant. You may have that little boy band member wannabe wrapped around your finger, but don't believe for one iota of a second that you can dive under my radar. This entire town knows that you are third-generation scum, and I can promise you that this kind of pattern will stop with my reign. Do I make myself clear? Or do I need to repeat myself for emphasis?"

"No need. I ignored you just fine the first time," I swipe at the detective.

He surveys my body language. I cross my arms, perhaps in the way of shielding myself from intimidation or in a manner of faining his lack of influence on me. Castillo opens his mouth to speak, and in a perfect streak of luck, Spencer comes over to save the day.

Nearing us, he speaks, "Y/N, we want to go to your apartment and see if we can't determine what the man in the picture was after. I'd like for you to come with us and give us some insight into whatever we find."

I agree to go and follow him and Agent Morgan to the car.

(Spencer's POV)

Quietness permeates the entire car ride to the apartment. Morgan continuously eyeballs me, and finally, my nerves get the best of me, "Would you stop that!?" Derek wryly grins and then glances into the rearview mirror to look at the Y/N in the back, "You know, kid, growing up, I ran with the wrong crowd by association too."  

She scans her eyes over the both of us, and her stare lands on me. Once again, her pleading eyes permeate my thoughts, clouding my reasoning. There is no place for her among the faction that we are investigating. If she is involved with them, it's against her better judgment...or even her will.

"By association?" Her nostrils flare, "My brother and I didn't--wouldn't run with the Nomad Gangs. Our father was ki-" Her voice tapers off as she pulls at the fraying cuffs of her jeans.

That can't be right. I've scoured her family's files, and the only information divulged about her father's death is that he was killed in a car accident in 2000.

"A member of the Nomad Boys killed your father, didn't he?" Morgan questions.

Looking back at her, I watch her slump against the seat and her eyes dull. The silence infiltrates the air once again. As the car arrives outside of her apartment, I internally thank the heavens for a break from the awkwardness. Motioning to my counterparts, we gather outside of the vehicle and trek into the residence building.

"I've lived here for five years now. I moved shortly after my brother died. My parents had an apartment in this building when they were newlyweds. The stories they shared with me about this place stuck with me, so when I was finally out on my own, this was the place I gravitated towards," the young woman says timidly, pulling the cuffs of her sleeves over her fists.

As we near the door to her apartment, she picks at her cuticles apprehensively. Her eyes concentrate keenly on Derek's movements as he inserts the key into the lock. The door creaks open, and we are met with a home left in shambles.

"Reid," Morgan turns around, "we did not leave this place looking like this."  

Stiffening up at the unsettling sight, I say, "They left the first time empty-handed. But, Y/N wasn't the only target. So, they came back to salvage what they could acquire. The question is, what was it?"

"And did they find it," Morgan adds.

Worried, I look back to see Y/N wide-eyed and trembling. I hurry to her side and brush my hands over her shoulders, "This is unsettling, I know. Take a moment if you need to, but we will require you to look over everything here and see if anything is missing or seems out of place. See if you can piece together what it is they were looking for."  

Raking her hands through her hair, she starts scouring every last inch of her apartment, picking up papers, knick-knacks, tearing apart whatever is left to ravage.

"We got a problem," Derek announces, peeking his head out of the front doorway, "Two unknowns headed right this way. Reid, can you identify them?"

I station myself next to him, cautiously leaning into the hallway, and I catch sight of them.

"She needs more time," I grab his arm. He nods, "I'll try and buy you some time."

Stumbling back into the home, I hurry over to the driven girl. "Two of the men seen following your brother are headed this way. I need you to keep looking just...faster. Once we run out of time, we need to get out of here without them recognizing you. Do you have some sort of hat or glasses you could wear out?"

She stiffens up as if frozen in place.

Nice going Spence, you've terrified her.

Attempting to remedy the situation, I do the one thing I can always fall back on, I rambling.

"Y-you knows, the fear response takes place in a section of the brain known as the amygdala, located in the temporal lobe or...in--in other words, the supercomputer part of your brain. It causes us to revert to the primitive senses of our minds. We often call this the fight or flight response. It manifests itself in a shortage of self-control and rash decision-making."

(Reader's POV)

I draw in a long breath, listening intently to his tsunami of words. At last, he stops to compose himself.

This man would kill on Broadway.

"So what you're saying is?" I probe.

"Act natural," the bony brainiac mutters to me.

"Given the current circumstances, I think that the most natural response here is to panic...thus I am acting natural," I retort.

"No, they are like predators. They will sense your fear. Act like this is any normal day for you."

"Well, to tell you quite honestly, my days as of recent have been filled with panic, so this is a typical day for me."

"Look, I'm the professional here. So, if you would listen to what I say and do as I tell you!"

"Is Dr. Reid raising his voice?"

"First thing you need to do is stop talking and let me think," he stresses as he rolls his sleeves up.

Enthralled by his sudden burst of authority, I express, "You intrigue me, Dr. Reid." He stills momentarily as if he's translating my statement from some foreign language.

Motioning to my closet, I suggest, "Take a look in there and see if you find anything that could work."

______________________________________

Tag list:

@chellybear98 @destiny-tsukino @wanniiieeee @sweetiecake180  @vampiracontessa @weexinling @spaghetti-dad187 @hothskies @star-stuff-in-the-cosmos @mac99martin @mcntsee @ssagube @yougottalovefandoms @halloweenwithreid @pancake2603 @theoldestguard @chazubagi​ @frogrrylovebot @weasleytwinsimpp @obsssedwithjustaboutanything @kenzies-mr-j

[m4st4rd]

the sugar bowl

author’s note: hello friends! the wonderful @guaxinimraccoon has let me use their equally wonderful characters, Brad, Toby, and Siri, to write a fic! please go check them out-- their art is super awesome. i ended up writing a lot more than i expected, but i still love it! this was super fun to make and i’m excited to see what you guys think :). enjoy!

warnings: mild panic & mild swearing but that’s about it

word count: 2.4k

part one | part two 

 “TOBY? ARE YOU READY?”

   After a fitful sleep, Tobias could barely stand to listen to the noise around him. It wasn’t much: the water rushing through the pipes, the skitter of the mice outside his home in the walls. And now, Siri tugging on his leg as he struggled to relax on his hacky-sack chair. 

   “C’mon, man,” she said, huffing a laugh. “You promised you’d grab some more paper and bread like, yesterday. And that you would get sugar.” Toby didn’t know why she even had the time to pick up a hobby as boring as drawing. There wasn’t much to draw in their little home. He’d rather just try and continue his eventful dream instead of getting dressed just for some scraps.

   But he had to. It was his duty as a borrower and as Siri’s best friend. 

   “Alright, alright.” He got to his feet and ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “But this means you’re making dinner tonight, right?” Before she could protest, he added, “Better start cooking that soup now.”

   Siri put on a pouty glare, but her pointed ears twitched with amusement. “Yeah. Whatever,” she mumbled. But she couldn’t keep her face up long. Soon, it disappeared into a grin. He wasn’t prepared when she threw her arms around his neck in an excited hug. “You’re the best, Toby.”

   Tobias couldn’t stop himself from smiling, too. “Yeah. I know.”

   She waved as he disappeared down the corridor. Neither of them could’ve known what was waiting for him.

***

   Ever since Brad moved out of his parents’ place, he knew only one thing: solitary. Not that he necessarily minded — he wasn’t the most extroverted person. Even in college, he would stay in his dorm with a pizza and Netflix while his roommate hit frat parties. In the two years they lived together, they must’ve only spoken a total of eleven words to each other. 

   But what he did mind was the endless, repetitive schedule. Wake up, check his phone. Have breakfast, take a shower, brush his teeth, pop an aspirin for his morning headache. Head to work and return to boxed mac-n-cheese dinner (or, if he was feeling adventurous, spaghetti). He wanted something exciting, even if excitement, for him, meant taking a different route to work. But he was too afraid of change.

   What he found on Saturday evening really threw a wrench into the gears of his brain.

   He got home to an empty apartment. Nothing special: a hand-me-down couch next in front of a 90s TV. He contemplated just napping on the couch for a bit before dinner, but he never did that. So instead, Brad took off his shoes, hung up his coat, and headed to the kitchen. There was some leftover tuna salad that he could munch on if he didn’t feel like cooking.

   Nothing special. 

   That is, until he stood up. 

   He probably wouldn’t have heard it if he was distracted, but it was real and oh-so-soft. A rustle from deep inside his cabinet. Brad could feel his heart stop. Did he have mice? No, that couldn’t be. He cleaned out his cupboard pretty frequently. Bugs? That would be even worse. 

   Shff. There it was again. It sounded too… heavy to be a roach. Whatever the little thing was, it rattled his cereal boxes. And then, the telltale clatter of the sugar bowl top falling onto the shelf. 

   Wait, what? Okay. That was weird. Brad took a deep breath. His interest had piqued. He had to see what this thing was.

   With a silent prayer, he opened the cabinet. 

***

   Paper? Check. Bread? Check. Toby was still dusting his knees off as he remembered that he was still missing something: sugar. With a groan, he got to his feet and shuffled over to his hook. “Damn Siri and her sweet tooth,” he muttered (though he’d never admit to her that he enjoyed something sweet every now and then).

   He didn’t notice the front door open and the giant enter. He was distracted by the looming jar in front of him. It was difficult getting the lid off, but with a sharp tug and a grunt, it fell to the floor of the cabinet and he prepared to dive in to get a cube. 

   But before he could get very far, the cabinet door swung open, and light invaded. 

   And Toby was face-to-face with the human of the apartment.

   Brad wasn’t sure what he was looking at. A little man…? A four-inch-tall person, not much bigger than his finger, was standing by his sugar bowl. Pointed ears, wild, electric blue hair, and even wilder eyes stared him down. A patchy bag sat at his feet, and patchy clothing hung off of his thin frame. Was he drunk? High? Did someone roofie his coffee?

   Whatever composure Brad had left him. “Wow,” he whispered. Just a breath seemed like enough to knock the little guy over. “Hey, there, du—”

   Toby didn’t hesitate to whip his needle out. “Back!” he tried to snap, though it was more like a squeak. God, he must’ve looked pathetic. His legs were jelly. Every bit of him trembled. “St-stay back!”

   The giant blinked. He shook his head of shaggy black hair, rubbed his eyes with unfathomably huge fists. Toby did his best to suppress a lame whimper when those hands appeared. “So I’m not dreaming,” he said, more to himself than to Toby. It took every ounce of courage not to cry. 

   The bean, however, seemed to notice his fear. “Wait, little dude, hey…” He eyed the needle warily. “You don’t hafta be afraid.” Toby didn’t believe him for a second. 

   The borrower looked suspicious. “Back up,” the little guy growled, and surprisingly, Brad obliged. He took a step away so he didn’t tower over him (and so he didn’t suffer the wrath of his needle). 

   How did Brad look right now? He wasn’t the biggest person around, but he certainly wasn’t the smallest in his family. Even so, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. He couldn’t even bring himself to squish spiders. He’d always trap them in a cup and usher them onto the balcony. This little person, though, didn’t know that. He held his needle-sword up high, his toothpick arms shaking all the while. It practically broke Brad’s heart.

   What’s this guy doing? Toby thought. Nothing was stopping him from snatching him up in a fist and stuffing him in a jar or a shoebox. Was he luring him into a false sense of safety just so his experiments would hurt more? Was he p—

   “Hey, man, you okay?” The bean’s thick brows were knit together with concern. “You’re looking a little pale.”

   “Wouldn’t y-you be?” Toby scoffed before he could stop himself. Man, I’m so dead. “I-I-I mean, someone as big as you is a little Goddamn terrifying! God knows what the hell you’re gonna do to me! ” He snapped his mouth shut. He’s gonna fucking kill me for real now. 

   “What I’m gonna d— No, buddy, I swear I’m n—”

   “Stay. Back.” Holy fuck, what am I doing?! Toby thought. The most he could do was poke the bean’s finger with his needle, but that would only make him angry. He contemplated running, but his thought dissipated when he realized the giant would have plenty of time to stop him.

   Brad’s jaw went slack. For such a little guy, he sure was brave. But after a beat, his words finally sunk in. “Wait. C’mon, man. I’m not— I’m not gonna do anything to you. I’m just. I’m just surprised. I mean, it’s not every day you find a little man in your cabinet.” With a chuckle, he asked, “So are you gonna start paying me rent, or what?” It didn’t immediately dawn on him that this tiny person probably didn’t know what rent even was.

   Toby frowned. What the hell is this guy talking about? More to the point, what game is he playing? 

   With a frown, Brad took another small step back so he didn’t smother the little guy and held up his palms. “Okay, okay, look. I promise I’m not gonna hurt you. Cool?” He didn’t respond, but his shaking arm did lower the needle a bit. That’s a start. 

   Brad heaved a sigh that ruffled Toby’s wild hair. “Right. Uhm. I’m… I’m sorry for scaring you, dude. I didn’t mean it. I swear.” He fiddled with his thumbs. A shy look crept over his face. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Brad. What’s your name?”

   For a moment, Brad was afraid that the guy was too terrified to answer. But then came the timid voice, so quiet compared to the man’s earlier jab. “Toby.” 

   Just play it cool, Toby thought. Do what he wants and maybe he’ll let you live.

   “Toby. That’s a cool name.” A set of teeth that could snap Toby in half without a second thought were bared at him in a wide smile. Toby could barely hold his ground without flinching. “Wait… You were here for food, right?” 

   Toby’s heart skipped a beat. “You… You’re not mad, a-are you?”

   “No!” Brad said, maybe a little too quickly, because the little guy— Toby — flinched. “I promise I’m not mad,” he added. “Y’know, I was, uh. I was gonna have dinner, anyway. How ‘bout you eat with me? You look like you could use a hot meal.”

   “Oh,” Toby said lamely. His head was going a million miles an hour. Was this Brad guy serious? He just found a tiny creature going through his food, and he’s offering him dinner? It’s gotta be a joke, right? Some weird, fucked-up joke. But instead, what came out of his mouth was, “Uh. S-sure.” 

   Brad couldn’t stop a grin from crossing his face. “Cool. Cool, cool cool. How does pasta sound?”

   “P-pasta sounds great.” My God, Siri’s gonna kill me if this guy doesn’t.

   “Awesome. Wait here.” The bean ducked out of sight, his footsteps rattling Toby’s entire world. 

   Is this a trick? Is he gonna put something in the pasta? Why, why did I say yes?! God, Toby, you fuckin’— It took him a while, but Toby finally came to his senses: the giant was gone. 

   The giant was gone!

   He’d left him to his own devices. Never, in all of his years, had Toby heard of a human who would do that. His parents had always told him that humans were malevolent giants that wouldn’t let you go the minute they got their hands on you. Clearly, they were wrong. At least Brad wasn’t like that.

   In spite of that, Toby was scared shitless. Every cell in his body begged him to leave, but his feet were rooted to the spot. But did he want to leave? After all, the giant did just offer him a free meal. And he was nice. He didn’t grab Toby, or even talk too loud. And he listened. 

   One thought trumped all of that: Siri. God, she was probably terrified, wondering where her friend was. On the other hand, she might’ve been ready to jump him when he returned after a talk with a human. Should he go home, or risk it all for some pasta and the chance that he might not die?

   Toby was at a crossroads.

***

   Brad was over-the-moon. Who would’ve thought that he’d be making dinner for a little, blue-haired guy? An unknown roommate, a potential friend? This was the kind of change he needed.

   With a triumphant hiss, he pulled exactly what he needed from his desk drawer: a spool of stiff art wire from his more creative days. He could bend together a little set of utensils so the guy didn’t have to eat with his hands. 

   “Alright, buddy!” he called as he returned to his kitchen. “It won’t be much, but I promise it’ll be ta— Oh.” 

   The cupboard was empty. All that was left was the tiny patchwork bag near the sugar bowl. Somewhere, deep inside his chest, Brad’s heart broke just a little bit. Why am I feeling like this? For some tiny dude I met ten minutes ago?

   He let out a defeated sigh. Not that he could blame him. Brad couldn’t imagine how terrifying he must’ve seemed to a four inch tall man. Toby wasn’t even the size of his hand. It’s not your fault. With that in mind, he grabbed a pot from under the sink and started boiling water for his dinner. A pasta dinner just for him. Not for two.

   At least he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

***

   Toby was out of breath when he finally reached his door. 

   It was late, but Siri was definitely still up and waiting impatiently. How was he going to explain his borrowing run to her? If he told her he was spotted, they would without a doubt have to pack up and leave, which was tedious. That, and they probably would have to live with a human that didn’t have good snacks.

   He took a deep breath. He would be honest. Yeah, honest. Brad wasn’t murderous or enraged when he found Toby looting for sugar. He was good, and nice. Siri would understand. He pushed the door aside and entered his home. 

   Sure enough, Siri was waiting on his hacky-sack chair. But when she spotted him, she looked relieved, not angry. “Good grief!” she cried, charging into him. Her hands shook from where they rested on his arms. “Shit, Toby, were you gone a long time. I thought you were dead!” Toby didn’t have the energy to respond as she looked him up and down. “Where’s your bag?”

   Fuck. My bag. He must’ve left it by the sugar bowl in his desperation to leave. “Rats,” he said blankly. What happened to being honest?  “I ran into a couple of extra territorial ones on my way back. I gave them my bag to distract them so I could get away.” He feigned an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Siri. I’ll go again tomorrow. Promise.” 

   He prayed and prayed that Siri would believe him. With a sigh, she shook her head.

   “No, Toby, it’s okay.” His friend patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve had quite a day already. Go on and sit down, I’ll fix you a bowl.” As she turned away, every muscle in his body relaxed. He could’ve died twice today and still he managed to come out unhurt.

   Still. He flopped down in his hacky-sack chair and blew his bangs out of his face. There was something missing, and it wasn’t his borrowing bag.

   Why did he feel so bad?

[brasskier]

Inspired by a prompt from @gods-no-longer-tread-here​, wherein Jaskier is tripping balls, Geralt is a recovering addict, and they’re both idiots. 

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. That was the point, he realized ironically somewhere in the murky crevices of his mind. The walls shuddered in careful tempo with his every stuttering breath, one of his friends mumbled about something languidly to his side, and if he stared long enough he was confident he might be able to count enough pixels to gauge the exact resolution with which he viewed the world. Colors melted into each other, into the music - Drake, maybe? He hadn't picked it - that floated somewhere in his periphery, into Jaskier himself. He was incredibly thirsty, so, so thirsty, and all he could remember were some cans of PBR and La Croix stocked haphazardly in the fridge that he wasn't sure he'd be able to tell apart anymore. He stumbled gracelessly, feet shuffling and knocking into each other.

"Jask?" His friend called to him - which one, he wasn't sure - and he froze, or at least tried to, pitching forward and catching on the doorframe. His friend faced him, and it was Essi. Or, it should've been Essi. Half of her face was gone, replaced by a black void accentuated only by an intangible flash of yellow where her eye should've been; the other half was skinned and charred, all blackened tendons and oozing blood. Jaskier stumbled back, tripped over the doorframe, sprawled his arms out in a clumsy, futile attempt to catch himself. 

"What the fuck," he panted, watching in horror as the black hole devoured the rest of her face until she was gone altogether. His breath heaved and caught in his throat while the walls continued to rattle with him. Time, already limping along sluggishly, seemed to screech to a halt completely. He ran a hand through his hair - it felt thick and wet like the black trash bags of spaghetti "intestines" they used to prepare in boyscouts for their annual haunted house. His heart bucked uncooperatively in his chest, and for a moment he thought he might just faint. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. And this was not a good trip.

No matter, no matter. Just get something to drink. If it's the seltzer it'll hydrate you; if it's the beer maybe it'll ease the comedown. He dragged his legs until they're beneath him and, brain buzzing about airily in his skull, gave up on walking and resolved to crawl his way to the fridge. Except, he just couldn't fucking reach. He jutted a hand out, fingers outstretched and grasping, but it's just past his fingertips. And every time he thought he'd drawn closer it was still just shy of his reach. He wanted to cry, but while the tears burned away at the corners of his eyes they refused to escape.

He needed to get out of that dingy campus apartment - fuck, was it his? Essi's? Was Valdo with them? - or at least have someone talk some damn sense into him. He staggered back to the living room, called out the names of friends that might be with him blindly, too afraid of what he might see if he dared look. He could see in 1080p, the pixels, he'd counted them, though he thought he'd read otherwise, but who was he to argue with his own math. 

"Look at it," a voice commanded somewhere, and he could just scarcely determine it was real and tangible and not a hallucination. "Don't you see it?" He tried to mouth the word no, but no sound came out. What was he even supposed to be looking at?

"Wanna watch something?" Another voice sneered. 

"Mmm, that Netflix show? That fantasy one, witches or something?" Jaskier didn't want to watch TV, he wanted to breathe again. He slid back, head resting on what he aimlessly realized was the couch. He could call an ambulance, but his fingers felt too rubbery and boneless to pull his phone out of his pocket, let alone actually command it. Besides, he couldn't remember the number. It's fine. He just needs to close his eyes and focus on his breath and he'll be just fine.

Jaskier was not just fine. Jaskier was tripping fucking balls. He needed to get the fuck out of that apartment, out of his skin, out of his head. He's suffocating, drowning - wait, no. Shit. He's burning. His skin is bubbling and his lungs choke on thick black smoke and he's going to fucking die. He tears off his thrifted plaid flannel, claws at his sweaty gray tee but can't manage to get it over his head. Stripping wouldn't help him. He's on fire. He needed to leave. He needed to go to the hospital.

The hospital. It's a fucking college town. Oxenfurt's sprawling university hospital is looming and unmistakable. He'd been there before - the bike accident where he broke his arm, the bout of pneumonia where the doctor successfully convinced him to quit smoking (only lasted a few months, alas), the alcohol poisoning he dared not speak of. He could find it. Just had to escape. Left foot, right foot, that's it. He fumbles with the door handle, stumbles through and onto the sidewalk. It was dark out, but the street lamps were the sun, sulfurous yellow glimmering against fresh snow. The apartment behind him was ablaze, melting even; he could still feel it, and this renewed urgency propelled him forward. 

He ran, or at least his calves felt like he was running, but time marched so slowly he couldn't discern one pace or another. The sky was so dark, black even, gaping and never-ending, but the lights of apartments and buildings and street lamps were blinding. There was a 7-Eleven, and then he needed to make a left. Or maybe a right? He needed to turn, and then keep pushing, and then he'd be at the hospital and he'd be okay. He could get his burns treated and hope the scars didn't render his hands stiff and immobile - he was a jazz trombone major, after all, and he needed those hands.

The 7-Eleven was in view. It had been in view for hours. He wasn't sure if he was close or far or on another plane of existence from it altogether. But it was there. Which meant he had to turn. Right was a dead-end. It had to be left. He just had to cross the street. He looked left, and then right, and vomited into the snow from the dizziness of it all for a moment before trying again. Right. Coast is clear. Just move.

There's a flash of light and a squeal of rubber on pavement, and Jaskier watched his pitiful life flash before his eyes. When he opened them, he wasn't in the street but on his side in the snow, and it felt beautiful and cold and practically holy against his skin. Had he been hit? Had he never even stepped off the curb? How long had he been there?

"Hey!" A voice cried, and he fought against his twitching muscles to roll over and face it. "You alright?" It was a man, tall and broad and built like a mountain, with silver hair pulled into a messy bun and amber eyes and a worried scowl.

"Fire," Jaskier managed to mumble, curling tighter into himself. "Am I dead?" Recognition seemed to shine in the stranger's eyes.

"What did you take?" He drew closer, crouched next to him, and Jaskier recoiled frantically. He held his hands out, fingers tightly curled and nails digging into his palm, batted at the man blindly.

"Mmm, no!" He gasped, shoulders heaving with the effort. "Fuck off."

"Look, man," the stranger dropped his voice, low and hushed and gravely. "I know you're tweaking. I've been there. Just tell me what you took so I can fucking help you." He reached a hand out, calloused and worn and firm, and rested it on Jaskier's shoulder. Jaskier jerked - the burns, he couldn't touch them, they'd get infected, it would hurt, he can't - fuck, wait. There are no burns. The stranger kept his grip on his shoulder, and he could just faintly make out the slightest hint of track marks peeking out from the cuff of the man's sleeve.

"Acid," he muttered finally, following it with a long, shaky exhale. There are no burns. His mind reeled over the memory of the tab, bright green and printed with the smiling face of Bernie Sanders before melting away on his tongue.

"What are you doing out here?" The gruff voice commandeered his attention. 

"Hospital. Apartment was on fire." The snow ebbed and flowed beneath him, altogether more like a boat on the ocean than a snowbank in the middle of Oxenfurt University.

"Right. I'll take you there." The man wasted no time waiting for a response from Jaskier, simply snaked his arms around him and yanked him up. Jaskier struggled against his grip as he carried him to his awaiting car, overcome by the scent of cedarwood from the man's deodorant. "Chill out." The movement stopped finally, and Jaskier felt altogether too hot and freezing cold all at once.

"Feel sick," he managed to grit out past a clenched jaw. The man managed to ease him back to the ground in time for him to heave unproductively for a few more moments. 

"Name's Geralt, by the way," the voice rumbled, vibrating in Jaskier's chest as he was once again hoisted up and then deposited into the back seat of an unfamiliar car.

"Jaskier." Focusing on what the man - Geralt - was saying was too much effort. He let his head loll to the side, idly watching the lights streak past his window in a burst of fluorescent color before disappearing into the dark.

Geralt knew a tweaker when he saw one. While he'd never touched the shit in his nearly two years of addiction, he knew plenty of meth-heads adjacently. So when he spotted a young man trembling on the side of the road, brown hair and Oxenfurt t-shirt clinging to his skin with sweat even in the cold late-November night, he could guess what was going on. He didn't want to stop, he really didn't. He was four months clean, just coming off a late night security gig, and those people were bad news. He knows; he was one of them. But the kid - and he really did look like just a kid, probably not even 21 yet - didn't look ravenous and mad. He looked scared and sick and alone. So Geralt stopped.

The kid's pupils were blown to hell and back, confirming his suspicions when he got close enough to really get a good look. His cheeks were flushed a stark pink against pale skin and red-rimmed and dark-circled eyes. The kid was combative, but not as much as he would've expected, and he could feel him relax when his eyes ghosted over the track marks on his forearm. If the kid wanted to view them as kindred spirits, as cut from the same cloth, so be it if it calmed him down.

Acid. Huh. So he was a little off base. Leave it to the ex-junkie to leap to conclusions. But acid, meth, molly, it didn't matter. Either way, the kid was shaking like a leaf and strung out of his mind and Geralt reverted back autopilot from years of crashing on bathroom floors and dirty backyards. 

Jaskier hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he woke to find himself being jostled, carried, and blinded by bright, buzzing fluorescent lights. He struggled for a moment until the arms carrying him tightened their grip and a disembodied voice hummed his name, and memory came flooding back. The acid, the trip, the fire, the stranger. Geralt.

"Geralt?" He mumbled sleepily into the man's chest. "Where?" He gave up trying to manage the full sentence, chose instead to hope he was understood nonetheless.

"ER. You're safe." Jaskier did not feel particularly safe, but he was too exhausted to do much about that, so he just let himself remain limp and pliant in Geralt's arms. Geralt and other out-of-sight strangers talked around him, but he couldn't follow the conversation, couldn't track them as he was moved about. Before long he was deposited into a bed, heard the scrape of metal and rustle of fabric as the curtain was tugged closed, and finally blinked his eyes open at the introduction of a doctor hovering over him.

"I'm Dr Chireadan." A mouthful of a name Jaskier realized he was far too tongue-tied to pronounce. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Jaskier." He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, choosing to ignore the mottled bruises and scrapes where his fingernails had dug into his palms. "Jaskier Pankratz." 

"Alright, and can you tell me what's going on?" Could he? Just the thought of recounting the events that led him to that moment sent panic drumming in his chest.

"Did some acid with friends," he explained shakily. "Thought the… thought the apartment was on fire, thought I was burning." The doctor nodded and hummed in acknowledgement. Geralt longued in a chair pushed against the wall, phone in his hand but not looking at it.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Now? Like I got hit by a campus bus," he quipped, enjoying the raised eyebrow it elicited from his new companion. 

"Well, that's not terribly surprising. Your temperature is a little elevated, but your heart rate is coming down nicely, so we're just fighting dehydration at this point." Jaskier bobbed his head as if he was really particularly processing his statement. "A nurse is going to swing by, take some blood so we can make sure nothing else was mixed in there, and then get you on some IV saline. That'll have you feeling much better." 

"Sounds good." Jaskier was sleepy, unsure of what time it was at this point, and still distinctly disoriented. The doctor moved back towards the curtain, swung it open but stopped with one foot still in the room.

"One of our social workers will be down to talk to you," he added. "Psych evaluation. It's mandatory." Then he turned his gaze to Geralt, gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and with that he was gone. Jaskier wasted no time before flopping to his side, curling up, and falling asleep.

He was roused again by a nurse gently tugging his arm free from where he had it wrapped tight around his middle. She was chatting idly with Geralt, and there seemed to be some level of familiarity between the two.

"There you are, honey," the nurse remarked, fiddling with syringes and vials and whatever else was laid out on the little steel tray. "Deep breath for me?" He obliged. "Alright, and a quick pinch." The needle disappeared into the soft skin on the inside of the crook of his arm, and he watched the blood flow out of his body in a trance. "How are you feeling? Stomach bothering you?" She nodded at the hand still clutching at his abdomen.

"A little," he admitted, diverting his gaze, counting ceiling tiles. "Just tired." 

"All done," she announced as she withdrew the last vial, hooking up the tubes that dangled from the floppy bag of clear liquid he could reasonably reckon was the saline. He returned to the fetal position, tucked his chin to his sternum. "Here. In case you need to be sick." He cracked an eye open, took note of cardboard basin now resting on the bed beside him, and offered little by way of acknowledgement.

"Thanks." Someone tugged the blanket up to cover him, and he didn't terribly care whether it was Geralt or the nurse. The pair, seemingly under the impression that Jaskier was asleep, resumed their conversation. 

"What are you doing, Geralt? You're supposed to be staying out of trouble."

"Trouble found me." Jaskier suddenly felt impressively guilty. What a fuck-up he was, dragging a total stranger into his stupid mistakes. "I couldn't just leave him there. You understand."

"You have to be careful," the nurse scolded him. Jaskier felt like a lame dog, the kind that most drive past, until eventually someone bothered to sweep him up, drop him at the vet's, and then go on with their life. Should've just put me down, the darker recess of his mind supplied, and he pushed away the thought as quickly as it had cropped up. "You can't jeopardize your recovery."

"I'm not," Geralt argued back. She tutted, and Jaskier could hear the sweep of the curtain again. He drifted back to sleep.

The hospital was on fire. He could taste the smoke and tears and copper tang of fear. He bolted upright in his bed, but - for fuck's sake - he was restrained. They thought he was crazy, bound his wrists and ankles in leather shackles. He jerked and pulled, thrashed about in the bed, kicked and screamed. Anything. He had to escape. He couldn't do this again. He had to get free. He had to--

"Jaskier!" That voice. He fought to find it, locked eyes with Geralt, and clawed his way back into reality. The hospital was not on fire. He was not restrained. Angry red scratch marks streaked up his wrists. "Breathe with me." Jaskier exhaled in a rush of stale air, a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, and rooted around blindly until he found Geralt's hands and clasped on. "Good. In four, out four." In four, out four. He could do that, it was no more than the breathing exercises he used to practice every day back when he marched drum corps. 

"Sorry," he choked once his breath had finally settled. He did not let go of Geralt's hands. "Nightmare."

"I know. Just take it easy." Finally, Geralt managed to worm his hands free of Jaskier's white-knuckle grasp, settled back into his dutiful bedside vigil while Jaskier dropped back to sleep.

The hours (were they hours? Time was still weird) passed in a dizzying barrage of dreams and nightmares punctuated by occasional bursts of lucidity. He overheard the nurses, the doctors - it sounded like Geralt was popular amongst the hospital staff. There was a phone call, an even deeper voice presumably belonging to Geralt's father on the other line, reminding him that he was supposed to stop messing with Jaskier's "kind".

The psychiatric evaluation was the worst of it, however brief if might've been. For whatever godforsaken reason he demanded Geralt stay, then limped through an explanation of his exhausted psyche in front of the virtual stranger. The very nice, very attractive stranger. (Shut the fuck up, Jask. Keep it together.) Yes, he had borderline. Yes, here's the self-inflicted cigarette burns welted into the flesh of his upper arm. Yes, he drank, but he was 22 (Geralt made a surprised noise at this revelation) and well within his right to. Yes, he dabbled with drugs, but why not when you're too numb most of the time to fret about the consequences? 

Eventually, finally, he was discharged. He still felt foggy and altogether not great, and he'd have to remember to email his professors and let them know he was taking a sick day before he went back to bed. It was morning light when Geralt helped him back to his car, a beat-up old Corolla probably as old as Jaskier himself. When they finally made it to Jaskier's apartment, Geralt fished around for a pen and scribbled his number onto the little Narcotics Anonymous meeting card the social worker had slipped him. Jaskier uttered his thanks, smiled fondly, and disappeared.

It was two weeks later when he found himself in a meeting, awkward and lingering in the back of the room, clad in his Conservatory of Music hoodie and black skinnies, cast in orange by the low light. Eventually someone managed to talk him into speaking, and though he young and naive and stupid he agreed. His mom always said he had a way with words, after all.

"I'm not addicted to acid," he began tentatively. "Or any other one drug, for that matter. I'm addicted to escaping. Even a bad trip is better than facing reality." He raked an unsteady hand back through his hair. "It doesn't matter the drug, I'll take it. Since I started smoking at fourteen, self-medicating a disorder I wouldn't even be diagnosed with until eighteen." He scanned the crowd of attendees, understood wordlessly he was in the company of addicts who probably had it far worse than he could ever know, who probably found his struggles trivial and petty. And yet, there was nothing but quiet understanding and empathy on their faces. "But now I can't get through a weekend sober. Can't write for my composition classes without getting high first." His gaze settled on Geralt, tucked in the corner, eyebrows knitted in sympathy. "So I'm not really too sure how I'm supposed to get clean when the problem isn't some drug, but my personality, who I am." He sucked in a deep breath, flashed the slightest smile at Geralt. "But I have to do something." 

He left as soon as he'd finished speaking, still reeling from the vulnerability of it, denim trucker tugged tight against the winter chill. A hand caught his wrist, and god, could he recognize those rough fingers anywhere.

"Jaskier." It was Geralt, just a step or two behind him. "Do you want to get coffee?" Jaskier's shoulders relaxed; at least he hadn't offered to get drinks.

"Yeah. I'd like that." He busied himself with fixing his jacket and hair, falling into step beside Geralt. He couldn't help but smile. So much for staying out of trouble.

[justthehiddleswrites]

Bah Hiddleston | Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Tamra Harmon) | Chapter 9 | Cold Feet On Christmas Eve

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Tamra Harmon)

Summary:  Tamra Harmon has no mind to mess with Christmas. All that talk about Christmas magic and the joy of the holidays is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But will a chance encounter with perennial Christmas lover Tom Hiddleston change all that?

This chapter:     Tom has to face Luke once again and where do they go from here?

Warnings for story: smut, oral sex, implied smut, vaginal sex, light angst

-

Tom tucked the phone into his pocket.

“Mum?! What on earth are you doing here?” Tom asked as Diana pushed into the entryway. She pulled a small suitcase behind her. “Planning on staying?”

Sweat broke out on Tom’s temples as his mother made her way to the living room. His mind raced on how to explain a young blonde woman making pancakes in his kitchen. Tom didn’t listen to a word his mother said.

“I didn’t want you to be lonely over the holidays.” she explained, the smile never leaving her face. “What is that delightful aroma?” She sniffed the air and headed to the kitchen.

“Mum, I can explai…” Tom started in as his hands ran his hair, a desperate attempt to disperse nervous energy.

Tom’s face dropped in shock as they entered an empty kitchen. Diana smiled as she turned to look at her son.

“Explain what, Thomas? That you have learned to cook something else for breakfast?” She gestured to the stack of pancakes and the plate of bacon.

“Eheheh, something like that.” Tom rubbed the back of his neck. Diana frowned.

“What are you hiding, Tom?”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

“Don’t lie to me, Tom. I recognize that nervous laugh anywhere.”

Tom opened his mouth to explain when the guest door creaked open. Tamra walked out, dressed in jeans and a sweater. She pulled her hair into a ponytail as she strolled down the hallway to smile at Tom.

“Now I see what you were hiding, darling.” she whispered at Tom as she pushed forward to greet Tamra. “Who is this enchanting young lady, Thomas?” she asked as she pulled Tamra into a hug.

“Mum, this is Tamra Harmon, she is a museum curator.” Tom responded, the color of scarlet rising from his neck to his cheeks and temples. Tamra suppressed a giggle. “Tamra, this is my mum, Diana Hiddleston.”

“Pleasure to meet you Diana. Tom has said such wonderful things about you.” Tamra smiled as she glanced over Diana’s shoulder to see Tom’s eyes pleading.

“I have no doubt he was charming. He has a tendency to do that.” she smiled up at him and Tom placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Now how do the two of you know each other?”

Tom paled at the question and Tamra swallowed hard. Their eyes widened as they searched for an acceptable story to tell. Tom found his voice first.

“Tamra is a friend visiting over the holidays. She needed a place to stay, so she has been crashing here for a few days.” Tom blurted. Not lying to my mother, not lying. he told himself.

Diana’s eyes darted between the two of them, her eyes narrowed as she sized up her son, but she did not detect any deception. Or if she did, Diana didn’t let on. “Well I thought you might be alone during the holidays but I am glad to see you have company.” They both smiled. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Tom nodded and followed her down the hallway. Once he settled her, Tom jogged back to Tamra and pulled her to his side.

“Where did you disappear to?”

“I heard the door open and hightailed to the bedroom. I thought it best. Once I heard you say it was your mom, I got dressed and then snuck into the guest room.”

Tom kissed her. “You are so clever. I adore you.”

Tamra’s stomach dropped for a moment but she ignored it. “Now about those pancakes…”

While Diana settled in, Tom and Tamra tucked into stacks of pancakes and pieces of bacon. Tom finished washing the last dish as his mom stepped out of the bedroom.

“So what would you like to do today, mum?” Tom asked.

“Oh I don’t want to be a bother. Just go about your day.”

“Well we didn’t have plans, did we Tamra?”

Tamra shook her head. “We could hang around the house.”

“Absolutely not! Thomas, you must show your friend all London has to offer.”

Tom blushed. “We have gone to several museums…” he pointed out.

“But there is so much more to the city than museums. It’s about the people. Thomas, you are being a bad host.” she scolded.

“Yeah, Tom. A bad host.” Tamra smiled as Diana took her hand.

Tom’s phone rang, he saw Luke’s name. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He stepped out into the hallway and answered the call.

“Never hang up on me like that!!” Luke’s voice boomed into Tom’s ear.

“When did we stop saying ‘hello’, Luke? My mother showed up.”

Silence.

“Oh, sorry, mate.”

“As you should be.”

“We still need to handle this photo business. Can you and Tamra meet at my office in an hour?”

“No. I can meet you in an hour, alone. I’m not abandoning my mother.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to let your mother have unfettered access to your brand new girlfriend?”

“Not my girlfriend.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“People don’t sleep with their friends, Tom.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

“One hour.”

Tom hung up the phone and spun to find Tamra and Diana staring him down.

“Who are you meeting in an hour?” his mother asked.

“Luke. And I need to get dressed.” he gestured at his pajamas. “Can the two of you entertain yourselves for a few hours?”

The two women exchanged looks then gave Tom wry smiles.

“I’m sure we can handle ourselves for a few hours.” Tamra sniped back, adding an eye roll.

“Very true. We are not some damsels in distress.” Diana added as she placed her hand on Tamra’s shoulder. “Now get ready. You don’t want to be late for Luke. That man likes to yell.”

Tom gave a small chuckle and headed off towards the bedroom. Luke’s comment about the two women nagged at Tom’s psyche but he didn’t have the time to dwell. His mum was right, he didn’t want to be late.

He hurried through a shower and dressing before heading to the door.

“Perhaps I can take the two of you to lunch afterwards?” He asked as gave a quick peck to his mother’s cheek.

“Sounds lovely, dear. Just text us when you get done.” Diana said, shooing Tom out the door.

The door clicked behind him and Diana turned to face Tamra. She linked her arm with Tamra’s and led her to the kitchen. Diana opened and closed the cupboards, tsking the entire time.

“This will not do.” she commented as she closed the last cupboard. “What on earth have you been eating?”

“Take out.”

“Figures. I love my son, but cooking is not his strong suit. He knows how to cook exactly two things.”

“Spaghetti Bolognese and a full English Breakfast?”

“Precisely. Let’s head out for groceries, dear.”

“Sounds like a plan, let me grab my shoes.”

“I’ll be right here.”

Tamra took off down the hallway and not thinking entered Tom’s bedroom, which did not go unnoticed by Diana. She let a small smile cross her face as Tamra returned.

“Ready to go?”

Tamra threw on her jacket. “Yep.”

And they headed out the door.

-

Luke looked up as his secretary ushered Tom into his office.

“Well, this is a surprise. You’re ten minutes earlier.”

“My mother pushed me out the door.”

“So she can grill Tamra no doubt. If she ever wants it, your mother has a job here. Managing you.”

“She passed that torch to you, years ago.”

“You’re right about that. Now about Tamra…”

“Yes.” Tom replied with gritted teeth.

“Can we at least establish the term to all this relationship? Is she your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my—”

“I’m not here to argue with you, Tom. But I need you to be honest with me and with yourself. I can’t do my job otherwise. Is this love or lust?”

Luke stared Tom down across the desk. Tom squirmed in the chair. He looked down at his shoes, stained with wet and snow. Tom tugged at his sweater, fidgeting. Luke presented him with the question he wasn’t prepared to answer. And now he figured out the answer, he feared saying the words out loud.

“I love her.” he whispered, not looking at Luke.

Luke craned his ear towards Tom. “I couldn’t quite hear you. Perhaps you can speak up.”

“I love her, Luke!” Tom shouted, uncrossing his legs and standing. “Is that what you want to hear? I fucking fell in love like one of those cheesy Christmas romantic comedy movies. And I am a bloody mess.”

Tom collapsed into the chair, cradling his head in hand, rubbing his temple in frustration. Luke took a deep breath before asking his next question.

“Does she know?”

“No.”

“Does she love you back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“I don’t know Luke! I didn’t exactly plan on this happening. I’m flying by the seat of my trousers. And I would appreciate a bit of support right now!” he snapped Tom’s nostrils flared and his face flushed.

Luke placed his hands flat on his glass desk and rose to speak at the man now folded into a small office chair.

“I am here to support you. But first I need to do some damage control. Fortunately, there is nothing too scandalous in the photos. I believe the story of Tamra being an old friend visiting from the States will work. But be careful in public from now on.”

Tom nodded. “I am having lunch with Tamra and my mother after this.”

“That’s fine, but no romantic dinners out.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Any other edicts, oh Great One?”

“Yeah, stop rolling your eyes at me, Thomas. This is my job.”

“I appreciate your work. Now if you don’t mind…” Tom stood to leave.

Luke rose and met Tom at the door to his office. He placed an arm around Tom’s shoulders and pulled the tall man in tight.

“Tell her Tom.” Luke said with a serious tone. “Tell her before something happens, before you fuck it up.”

Tom’s head dropped to his chest. “Thanks for the support. If I wanted to be harassed, I could just call Benedict?”

“But then what you pay me for?”

The two of them chuckled and Tom left the office. The meeting ended earlier than expected and he wandered the streets by the Prosper offices. Luke’s last words rattled around in his brain. Tell her before something happens, before you fuck it up. Easier said than done, old boy.

If Tom were younger, he would make a grand public gesture, profess his love and hope for the best. But time and fame made him much more cautious with his heart. It was his only one, and he did not intend to give it away on a whim. And yet, with her sharp wit and no nonsense attitude, Tamra stole his it before he realized what was happening.

He smiled at the image of her curled in the armchair in his living room, book in hand and Bobby at her feet. It was the home he always wanted but felt out of reach. Now it stood within his grasp, his fingertips brushing against the fabric and he was scared. Scared in a way he could not describe. Not to Luke, not to Ben, not even to his mother. What if he fucked it up and Luke was right?

Before he could answer the question, a sharp pain to his shoulder jostled Tom back to reality as a fellow pedestrian hit against his shoulder as he drifted across the sidewalk. Tom stopped to get his bearings and found himself in front of a small jewelry store. A particular piece caught his eye in the window, and he entered the store, purchasing the item.

He pulled his phone from his pocket to text the address of a restaurant close to here to his mother and Tamra and then tucked the small box into an inside jacket pocket.

“It’s a start.” he said to himself as he headed off towards the restaurant with a renewed sense of purpose.

-

Diana and Tamra walked to a nearby grocery store. Diana asked her about her travel plans and her family. Tamra answered each question with a smile. She found Diana’s company pleasant and was at ease in the woman’s presence.

“And how long have you been involved with Thomas?” Diana asked as she pulled a trolley out for their groceries. She didn’t even bother to look at Tamra.

Tamra stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Diana who turned to look at her. “Excuse me?”

“How long have been romantically involved with Tom, dear? I wasn’t born yesterday and while my son is a very talented actor, I’m his mother. I notice things.”

Tamra’s mouth dropped open.

“Like when came out of his room with your sneakers? Or that the other spare bedroom was spotless except for your suitcase?” She raised her eyebrows in a very familiar face.

“Please don’t tell Tom you figured it out. It’s only been a few days. I’m not sure how all this happened!” Tamra pleaded.

Diana giggled. “Your secret is safe with me. Tom must care about you very much. His privacy is sacred to him.” They headed into the store.

“I care very much for him. He is unlike anyone else I have ever met.”

“He has that effect on people. You must be something special yourself to catch his eye.”

Tamra laughed. “I doubt that. He ran into my shoulder at the airport and then shared a table at tea. He pointed out the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.”

“He loves Christmas.”

“And chocolate.” Tamra selected a package of dark chocolate biscuits from a shelf.

“Always the sweet tooth.”

“And my feelings towards Christmas are… complicated.”

“How so?”

“My parents split up around Christmas and I associate the holiday with their divorce.”

Diana nodded. “Parents often forget the scars divorce leaves on their children. Especially when they hide them so well, like you and Tom.”

“Tom?” She furrowed her brow. “He mentioned you and his father divorcing, but he seems well adjusted.”

Diana laughed as she pulled some ingredients off a shelf. “He hides his hurt well. But even under those sparkling blue eyes and that dazzling smile, braces I might add, lives a nearly forty-year-old single man. Coincidence, I think not.”

Tamra stopped again. “I never thought about that.”

“Most don't, which is why…” She plucked out some meat from a roast dinner. “… you are so special. You make him want more.”

Diana moved to the checkout queue and Tamra chewed on her words. Was she special? Did Tom want all that? Could she make him happy? They were big questions with no easy answers and Tamra feared that.

As they returned to Tom’s house and opened the door, both of their phones beeped.

“Punctual as always. It looks like Luke finished his tongue lashing of Tom, and Tom is ready to meet us for lunch. Let’s head out.”

“Lead the way.” Tamra gestured.

“Tell me Tamra, have you had the pleasure of meeting young Mr. Windsor?”

“Yes, at a Christmas party a few days ago. Tom didn’t seem to like me and Sophie talking with Luke.”

“That’s because Luke knows all his secrets. As do I.”

“Anything you would like share?” Tamra linked her arm with Diana.

“Let’s see.” she said with a signature twinkle in her eye.

-

When Tom arrived at the restaurant, he found Diana and Tamra sat at the bar, laughing as though they knew each other for years.

“Oh dear lord what have I gotten myself into?” Tom asked as he came up behind them.

Tamra choked on her sip of wine. “Tom!” She gave a quick hug. “How did your meeting go?”

“Shorter than expected. You two seemed to be fast friends. Should I be concerned?”

“Nonsense, Tom. Tamra is a delight.”

“I particularly enjoyed your Mother’s stories about your childhood.

Tom paled at the thought. “Mother…”

She held her hands up. “Nothing scandalous, Thomas, I promise.”

The host sat them down at a table towards the back and before long, they ordered their lunch.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Tamra said as she walked away.

“So…” Tom started as soon as Tamra moved out of earshot. “… out with it.”

“Don’t know what you mean, Thomas.” Diana sipped her water.

“Come on, Mother. You have an opinion on everything. Now go ahead.”

“She is a lovely girl and a wonderful friend to you. She is something special.”

“But…”

“… but I am wondering if you already know that, Thomas.”

“No comment.”

“Have your secrets. But listen to your Mother. Treat this one with kid gloves. She is fragile.”

“She is stronger than anyone I know.”

“On the outside, but on the inside she is a breakable as thin ice. One wrong move…” her voice trailed off. “… I would hate to see anyone get hurt.”

“She’s just a friend.”

“Who is sleeping in your bed.” Tom’s jaw grew slack. “I promise I wouldn’t tell. Close your mouth, Thomas, she is coming back.”

The rest of the meal they engaged in light conversation. Tom and Tamra laughed at Diana’s stories and they told her of their adventures over the past several days. They both left out any mention of romance and only Tom noticed the twinkle in his mother’s eye.

-

After lunch, they returned to Tom’s. Diana shooed them out of the kitchen and they settle onto the couch.

“I will handle dinner.” she chided, pushing Tom into the living room. “It’s Christmas Eve. Enjoy yourselves.”

Tom flicked on the TV, settling on a comedy panel show. Tamra tucked into the crook of Tom’s side, fitting under his arm. Tom allowed his fingers to trace lazy circles on her arm. Halfway through, Tom turned to find Tamra fast asleep. He

lifted her in his arms before rising and settling her flat onto the couch.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” his mother asked as he strolled into the kitchen to check on her.

“Asleep. When did you figure it out?”

“I had my suspicions when I saw the pancakes but when the guest room was spotless except a suitcase, I knew Tamra wasn’t sleeping in there.”

Tom hung his head.

“I love her, Mother. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I do.”

She raised a hand to his cheek. “I never doubt your love, dear. But it is not me you need to tell. It’s her.”

“I’m not ready. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I am just a fling? I couldn’t bear it.”

Diana laughed out loud. “You think too little of yourself, my son. And you are blind to what is in front of you.” She gave his face a soft pat. “Just use those words you love and all will be well. Now come help me.”

Tom smiled and nodded before tying on an apron to help with the meal. Neither noticed Tamra walk away.

-

After dinner, Diana saw herself to bed, leaving Tom and Tamra remained on the couch.

“Tomorrow’s Christmas. Don’t stay up too late or Santa won’t come!”

They both nodded before sneaking off to the bedroom.

“You were quiet during dinner tonight. Is everything okay, darling?” Tom inquired as he peeled back the layers of blankets to settle in for the night.

“Just tired.”

Tom nodded. “I won’t keep you up tonight, then.” He kissed her lips with a sweet tenderness.

She smiled. “Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, my sweet.”

Tom clicked the light off and settled against her, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her tight against his chest. Tamra let a single tear slide down her cheek as she drifted off to sleep.

-

Tom awoke the next morning to find Tamra’s side of the bed cold. He jumped out of bed, remembering today is Christmas. He fished the small box from the jewelry store and sought Tamra.

He found her note on the kitchen table. As he read the words, his eyes filled with tears and his hands shook. He lost grip of the box, which clattered to the floor. Its contents, a silver snowflake necklace adorned with small diamonds, laid on the floor forgotten.

“No, no, no!!” his voice broke as he begged. Tom gripped the table before falling into one of the chairs. His hands trembled as he held his head, tears flowing down his cheeks. A small but strong hand gripped his shoulders, shaking him.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” Diana asked, her brow furrowed and worry in her eyes.

“She’s gone… gone. She left.” he rambled, not focused on his mother.

She plucked the note from his fingers and sat down to read it.

My darling Tom,

When you read this, I will be gone. I can’t thank you enough my time in London. You made it special. But I am kidding myself to think you would ever fall for me. I am no one special and I can’t compete with your world.

I overheard you talking to your mother, who is a traitor by the way, saying you were not ready. I am sorry you felt pushed into this relationship. So I am removing myself from the situation to make things easier on you. I only wish I had the guts to tell you in person I love you. I love you in a way that scares me. And I believe I will always love you, even if you never love me back.

Tell Luke not to worry, I won’t say anything to the press. Thank you for letting you into your world however brief.

Merry Christmas,

Tamra

“Oh darling.” she held Tom’s hand giving it a tight squeeze.

“I fucked it up, Mum. She’s gone and I can’t fix it.”

“Nothing is over until it is over. There is always hope. I’m calling Benedict and Luke.”

“But it’s Christmas.”

“And you are in crisis. I’m calling them and then I am making us tea. I’m telling Ben to bring the kids and Sophie. We will need reinforcements.”

Tom nodded as Diana sprung into action. Tom remained seated.

“Do you think there is hope?” Tom asked, his voice hoarse.

“It’s Christmas. There is always room for hope and magic on Christmas.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Headless Halloween Special || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Halloween

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Some good stories are real, and there he is.

CONTAINS: mild gore, death

Stuffing cartons of milk behind dusty boxes of organic tea was a thankless job, and not a job anyone should be doing at all, actually. But Deirdre grinned wide and lopsided, proud of herself and hungry for more in the same breath. In any other month, she might have spared one pitying thought to the poor underpaid, overworked employee that would undoubtedly come across it and the acrid scent of spoiled milk. “What should we do next?” She beamed at Morgan, brilliant under the harsh grocery store fluorescents. For the better part of an hour, going around their usual shopping trip to cause what little bits of mischief they could, she had been bouncing on her feet, excitedly taking Morgan’s hands in hers and awarding her girlfriend generously with kisses and whispered affections. While delight of mayhem was nothing new, the season sparked a certain propensity inside fae, and especially for Deirdre--who had never gone this far into October without indulging a ring or two. “Oh but we do need---” Deirdre reached into the shelf and plucked a particularly pungent tea off the shelf--pungency known by way of trial--and dropped it into their basket. She was sure if she steeped enough teas together she’d be able to concoct a mixture that Morgan could taste. So far she’d blocked her own sense of smell and created something that had just a whiff of taste for Morgan. It might have helped to use something with more inherent flavor, but she was nothing if not determined. “There,” she grinned again, leaning in to press her lips to Morgan in another flurry of kisses. “Ooh, we should switch prices around! We can stick some ‘out of order’ signs on things too, I brought a marker! And--and--” Her eyes darted around, seeing a kaleidoscope of possibilities. In the end, she turned to Morgan and her grin softened as it so often did for her love. She wanted to know what Morgan thought, more than anything. It didn’t matter to her how many soda bottles they hissed out of their carbonation, only that Morgan was there with her. And just as her grins softened, her words were coded: “....you know I think we were actually supposed to get milk. Last I remember we were out.” This was one for I love you and no one moment would ever be enough.  

Following Deirdre down her impulse rabbit hole was like dancing blindfolded on Hanging Rock. Morgan could sense the edge just beyond her, in the side eye of the tired cashiers, in the double-take of a fellow customer as they took a can of what they thought was baked beans but what was definitely spaghetti-o’s thanks to Morgan’s deft re-packaging skills. But Deirdre, floating on the call of distant mushrooms and the buzz of All Hallow’s Eve, reeled her from exhilaration, to panic, and back to safety again with just a crook of her finger, a stretch in her smile, a whisper in her words. Nestled so close on their misfit misadventure, with Deirdre’s lips fluttering around her like so many butterflies, Morgan almost forgot her fear that this wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her, keep her.  Morgan fished out her notebook and craft tape from her purse and handed them off to her girlfriend; she had come prepared.

“I think that’s an excellent idea, my love,” she said, stretching up to kiss her back. “I bet you could switch the bathroom signs with the storage closet signs too.” It was going to make a lot of work for a lot of underpaid and undervalued workers, a pain Morgan understood too well, but whatever havoc they wreaked was better than losing Deirdre for two weeks and risking just as many people getting maimed and murdered with her mushroom brainwashing. So, really the universe should thank her for the mischief or keep its trap shut.  And even if Morgan was hesitant to admit it, the experience was a little thrilling, especially given the night. In trying to get nearer to Deirdre’s mindwave, Morgan was able to unglue herself from some of her concerns. Tomorrow, when the black and orange crepe went down and the skeletons folded into boxes, she would worry about the consequences. But here, under the dangling cardboard Frankensteins and Draculas, it was all hazy and not quite real.

Grinning, Morgan peeled off a sale sticker and moved it across the aisle before saying, “When we pick up that milk, we can take an extra carton to hide somewhere til it spoils in a few days?” She said. “Ooh! Or maybe by the heating vent, so it gets smelly faster and the smell circulates!” She steered their cart toward the refrigerated section. “Also, what are your thoughts on cream or eggnog? It’s so pungent, it might be good to try. But I want it to be something you like too, just in case.” She pulled open the frozen doors and took out some of the cartons they needed when the sound of shattered glass broke through the hum of the everyday. Morgan clutched Deirdre’s sleeve. “Babe…?” She said, voice shrill in a way that asked what’s going on?

Deirdre set about making her ‘Out of Order’ sign, the letters big and bold and straight, her best attempt at typeface. The idea to switch the bathroom and storage signs was genius, and she whispered as much to her girlfriend, aglow with affection for her. They hadn’t quite mastered pushing a cart around while stuck together the same way they had walking, but Deirdre tried it anyway, body flush against Morgan’s band and arms wrapped around her waist. She had her love sandwiched between her and the cart she commanded, delighted at the ease at which she could lean down and press her lips to Morgan’s neck. Eggnog by the heater was such a good idea, yes, she mumbled her praise there, equally as gleeful about the mischief they could commit as she was about simply being in the presence of her girlfriend. In fact, she could have left the mischief altogether, and basked in her love. The part of her that retained sense, questioned if Morgan thought this was as fun as she did. She hadn’t stopped to ask yet, and just as she parted her lips to do it, shattering glass cut across their conversation. Deirdre snapped up, trying to hear the residual ring of a scream---maybe Regan thought it was a good idea to shop. But there was no scream, just the murmur of confused humans around her. “Someone must’ve just dropped a jar…” She sighed, eager to get back to their fun. But as her grip snaked tightly back around Morgan, she considered that the crash was too loud to be a tiny jar. Was it a whole crate dropped? No, there wasn’t enough rattling for that. Deirdre knew her glass breaking well, and it sounded more like a window. Then, as she considered it again, did she really care about someone’s window? There was Morgan and the prospect of stinky eggnog and what did it matter to her if the window broke and---Deirdre blinked. She remembered Constance, and her rage and havoc, and frowned.  “Let’s go see, okay?” Her voice turned soft, “it might just be nothing, but there’s never anything wrong with going to check.” She took the cart from Morgan’s grip and took the lead as she moved them along.

She stiffened suddenly, shot up like an animal on alert. The cart slipped from her grip, crashing into the shelves, letting a few cookie boxes topple down into their cart. Deirdre thrust her hand into her pocket and fished out her enchanted choker, snapping it around her neck. She was aglow with something else now and she turned to her girlfriend with a toothy grin. “Someone’s going to die!” Deirdre took Morgan’s hand and sprinted to the scene---she couldn’t be late for the show, after all.

Morgan froze alongside Deirdre, her anxiety firing off one catastrophe after another in her mind. Constance loved breaking windows. If her classroom invasion was anything to go by, she was sure to like a grand production too. Maybe she’d gotten tired of waiting and she’d plough through the whole store so there was no one left to help her. Maybe she was trying to turn into a poltergeist on purpose, and reach that last bit of power she didn’t have yet so she could have all the fun she wanted. Or maybe this was some new eldritch horror. Maybe this was how the literal apocalypse started. Neither Deirdre nor her were going to know if this was where Morgan died. It wouldn’t be as peaceful as before. She wouldn’t be held or loved, she would just be here one second and gone the next, like that moment when you realize you’ve tripped and you’re about to fall. It would end with a gasp, and she would be all alone, and maybe… Deirdre fumbled for her choker and Morgan pulled her down as if for a kiss. It gave her something to hold on to, and if anyone was watching anything but whatever had just happened, they wouldn’t see the veins on her face. “You’re beautiful all the time,” she muttered, eyes flickering around them. Was it going to come when she turned around? Was it coming right now?

Then Deirdre pulled back, smiling like a kid in a Christmas special.

Morgan’s face pulled with confusion. “Uhh…” Before she could find the words for a question, they were sprinting down the nearest aisle to a cluster of humans holding out their phones to capture the mayhem.

“Deirdre—!” She hissed. “Wait! What if it’s—!” Dangerous? Potentially lethal?

A twenty-something guy stood in the middle, doused head to foot in blood. It was clumped all over his face and glasses, and running brown, ugly stains on his tweet and t-shirt combo. “Not cool, this was my grandpa’s vest! And you know what, he makes better fake blood than this! From the grave!” He pointed angrily and took off his glasses, trying in vain to wipe them clean while stained all over. Morgan followed his finger, still clinging tight to Deirdre so they wouldn’t be separated.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…” Morgan whispered.

The horse was darker than dark. Morgan felt sure he wasn’t even black at all, just that her brain didn’t know how to process the void of death turned into hair and lean, restless muscle. Its eyes seemed to glow beneath its long, wild hair. Steam rose from this nostrils as it sniffed and reared, looking for something. The rider was dressed to match his steed. Everything from his cloak to his gloves were black and brought to a shine. He—and it must have been a he, Morgan had seen the cartoon specials and the horror movies and the legends too many times for him to be anything else—clasped the bridle with one hand, assured and patient. She had never been more awed or scared of such calm. How could such menace be so still?

He turned to survey the store. How he could manage that with no head, Morgan couldn’t guess, but she felt someone, something’s attention on her and felt it fade again. He lifted a saber, bright as the glinting spurs on his boots, and steered the horse into the crowd of shoppers, already taking aim.

Morgan watched, too transfixed to look at Deirdre as she hissed, “Is that what you saw?”

Deirdre didn’t know how, when or why it would happen, only that it would and that it would be here. The sting of holding in a scream would be worth it to watch the last moments of life for herself, in person---as if a vision would spoil the surprise. If only she’d known who she’d be seeing, she would have let her scream rip across the store. She could imagine no greater honor than announcing him with a wail. “The Dullahan…” Her delight grew in invaluable measures. She pulled Morgan close to her, arms strategically protective of her neck lest the Dullahan have slippery fingers. She smiled at the argumentative human now marked for death, she hadn’t screamed for him just yet, but she committed his face to memory so she might watch him later. “Where the banshee screams, the Dullahan claims…” She whispered, gaze fixed on him. He was better than any story described him; horse darker than any words could commit to description, cloaked in finer material than her grandmother cared to describe, and more commanding than their mythic retellings did justice to. “Don’t worry,” she held Morgan tighter, just as she would were they cuddling together at home, watching a movie. “The Dullahan won’t take what he hasn’t marked.” Which meant she didn’t need to keep her body wrapped around Morgan like a protective sheet, but even knowing the Dullahan’s truth, she wouldn’t be moved from concern. “You don’t have to look but…” Her warning died on her lips, sequestered between her grin. She watched his spine whip clack to the ground, dragging along as he trotted slowly, saber raised in his other hand. Would he let her come close enough to touch it? Would he let her wield it, just once? Surely, he must know of her too. The banshees and the dullahan were always linked in her stories, in the way her family spoke of his legend. Should she snap a picture to rub in her cousin’s faces later? Enamored, she nearly missed the main attraction.

It was the old man’s head who went first, a satisfying swish in the air and then a dun-dun as it bounced dully on the floor--one short hop and then nothing. Then it was his wife, who hadn’t gotten the chance to finish her screaming. The small crowd murmured around them, the bloody college student groaned his disapproval. It wasn’t realistic, he said. Too much blood, he complained. Such unnecessary gore, he could do better. Deirdre wanted to see him try. The Dullahan’s steed raised into the air, whinnying, small plumes of fire snorted out as it turned and started the trot back. Glass crunched beneath its feet as the humans conversed amongst themselves; was it fake, was it real, did they get a discount now that their fruits were blood-covered? Deirdre reached for Morgan’s hand and tugged her along. “Come on, let’s follow him! I want to talk to him. I want to--Fates, there’s so much I want to do.”      

With Deirdre’s arms snuffing out the rest of the world around her, Morgan could almost imagine that she was watching some strange immersive play. The Dullahan’s whip was so finely articulated, she couldn’t catch how it held together except by magic. It glistened under the fluorescent lights in the supermarket, cracking louder than the rotation of 90’s pop hits wheezing through the speakers. The tune changed to “My Heart Will Go On” as the blade slashed through the air. Blood flew in one curling wave through the store to the tune of a romantic flute. Morgan covered her mouth, trying not to salivate as it bounced to the floor. Even with all she knew, all she understood about the world, finding out the headless horseman and all those Scottish legends were true sent her brain into some out-of-body experience limbo until the head rolled right to her feet as if it wanted to say hello. The brain inside was probably so juicy and firm, like a fucking burger fresh off the grill. Then came the second, the old woman’s scream cut off in favor of Celine Dion jumping into the next key. The bodies thunked to the floor, which ran slick and heavy with blood. They would be soft for an hour or two, the veins and sinew tender as spaghetti. Morgan’s stomach growled and begged for just one Halloween treat. Surely no one would notice, just one mouthful and--

Then they were running.“Deirdre!”

Morgan whined, missing her chance at just one cheat night from her diet, but she managed to call out a, “Totally just performance art, y’all! Sorry about your groceries!” Before they were too far away to be heard. They chased him through the parking lot, halting by the Subaru just in time to see the Dullahan’s horse launch itself onto a car and then into running traffic with preternatural ease. It was so bewildering she couldn’t help but start to laugh. What else was next? The Great Pumpkin? Morgan scraped a glob of blood from her cheek and sucked it off. “When were you going to tell me the Headless Horseman was real? And a what--ethereal banshee groupie? Banshee idol?” She asked. From Deirdre’s rapturous voice, she had a sense that she was at least close. “Come on, fangirl, you’re not gonna beat a horse on foot.”

“He’s not supposed to be real!” Deirdre beamed, committing the sight of his horse, whip, and headless body to memory. As a child, she only dreamed of him. There were paintings and pictures, of course, but none were like this. And though she often tried to bury the little girl that she was, she tried to awaken her now. She wanted to point and say there he is. Some good stories are real, and there he is. She met Morgan’s gaze, bright with glee. There was something else she could point to here, and she wished to stir her past awake again. There’s the Dullahan and a woman that loves you, both are real, both can be real. She would have been happier to know it. “Just a tale we enjoy,” she explained, giddily hopping around the parking lot. There was no horse of her own to give chase in, though she looked around as if one might pop up---the night was magical enough, it only seemed fair. She turned to Morgan and the Subaru, far from a noble steed but certainly...better than running. “Okay but drive really fast,” Deirdre bounced into the passenger seat, forging a seat belt and pushing down her window until she could stick her head out and watch the Dullahan. By luck, he seemed to be following the roads. “And of course I’m a fan,” she pulled her head back in, “have you seen him? His whip is made from spines! And fates I wish I could dump blood on the people I screamed for, or ride in to the sound of thunderous hooves. We’d dress like him with our robes and claim heads with our scythes but it really isn’t the same.” With a sigh, she fell back into her seat. “I don’t understand why he’s running away. I think by all accounts, he should really like me. Do you think I was too excited? I was too excited, wasn’t I?” When they caught up to him, she’d remember to tone it down.

Morgan’s dry incredulity melted at the sight of Deirdre’s childlike excitement. Four year olds in line to meet the ‘real’ Santa Claus couldn’t be any closer to joy than Deirdre watching the glint of that shiny whip in the evening. Morgan kissed her then, wrapping this moment in all its strangeness up and keeping it for later when needed to remember happy times. They had no trouble speeding out of the store. By now someone would have realized that the elderly couple had been killed, for real, and would need to stay put and give statements if they weren’t simply frozen with shock. Soccer moms and dads were most likely out inching along residential streets with their small armies of foam-clad superheroes, princesses, and monsters. College kids, already walled up in their parties. The winding freeway was quiet. The mist that rolled down was fine enough that the scant cars ahead were easy to spot and weave around, and down and down they drove, until Morgan could see the sparks flying up from under the horse’s hooves in the dark. “Oh, babe,” Morgan laughed. “No such thing as too excited. I want to remember you being this incredibly excited forever.” She gave Deirdre’s hand a squeeze, keeping her tethered down to the car. “Maybe he’s on a tight schedule. You should get your camera out, or throw him a gift to catch, or a scream, so he knows who you are.” Morgan’s hands tingled on the wheel as she spoke; she had that feeling of being on the edge again, whirling into somewhere unknown, like anything could happen next. It was enough to silence the worried questions at the back of her mind.  “Also, when we get back, you absolutely  have to tell me about the dress up games you played. And the stories. I know of human written stories about headless riders, including at least one female apparition, but I’ve only read Washington Irving and that silly Disney special that gave me nightmares.” She nodded at Deirdre encouragingly, there was no one around to endanger as far as she could see, and they were so close, she was almost on the Dullahan’s heels. “Go on. Let yourself have this.”

The Dullahan was a myth to her family no different from love, care, and humans of equal status. What did it say that she could see the Dullahan galloping away in front of her? That Morgan was holding her hand, speaking with laughter about her excitement. “Camera!” Deirdre exclaimed, wide-eyed. She searched herself frantically for her phone. Not that pocket, no that was a knife, that was also a knife, move knives---“Got it!” She unlocked her phone and found the camera app, a skill she had only recently learned. “Do you think he’ll want to take a picture with me?” She turned to Morgan, alight with possibility. Maybe he could come over? Would he come over? But as the car moved closer to him, Deirdre harnessed her chance and stuck her head out the window. “I LOVE YOU,” she screeched with inhuman power, too thrilled to contain herself enough to stop from cracking the Subaru’s glass. Web-like ripples shot across the windows, but Deirdre’s attention was on the Dullahan. He had no head to regard her with, but it seemed like he slowed, ethereal saber raised in one hand, whip cracked against the road in the other. Deirdre’s body lifted, she fell back into her seat a smile the widest her face could manage. “Did you see that!?” She laughed with bubbling energy. “I think he was waving at me!” She turned back to him, now at a loss for what to say. She held her phone up and snapped the best photo she could, a blurry piece of his whip, and savored it. “Are we going to follow him?” She asked. “I know we really didn’t get to look at the bodies back there, but I bet he’d let you have a snack from them, if he gets to another tonight.”  

Deirdre’s excitement was so infectious, it almost took the edge off Morgan’s brain cravings. “Babe, you have to hold the phone still long enough so it can scan—babe, tap and hold the center of the screen for better exposure, the thing that looks like a sun—“ Morgan was laughing too much to be very helpful. She fished in the cup holder for her phone and tried to arrange it on the dashboard to take a video. She thought she mostly had a set up going that wouldn’t get them in a wreck, when Deirdre’s voice broke in shrill, wild waves over the night. Morgan hadn’t been thinking about the windshield when she encouraged this. The glass shattered, bowing outward as if it couldn’t get away fast enough. Morgan swerved, ears ringing, and almost launched them off the side of the road. The ringing faded in moments and she slammed on the brake so they screeched to a halt on the shoulder, just in time to see the Dullahan rear his horse ahead of them, sabre slicing the air under the full golden moon. Morgan couldn’t help but stare in a daze of disbelief of her own—was he showing off? Then he launched onto the other side of the turnpike, pounced onto a passing convertible to cut another red splatter before diving into the trees to take his next bounty.  Morgan deflated, laughing deliriously. “What the fuck…!”  She looked sidelong at Deirdre, panting as if she were alive again. “What the fuck…” It was all she could seem to say. Morgan varied the inflections, trying to squeeze the buzz of gobsmacked sensation electrifying her brain into them. When even those words felt like nonsense, she finally managed, “This is the officially the craziest Halloween I’ve ever had, and we’re not even in our costumes yet.”

It seemed like the Dullahan was here, and then he was gone. Deirdre watched him leave with her body pressed against the dashboard, trying to catch the last glimpses of him. “He left,” she pouted, but in the still of the night, another excitement rose to her. She looked over at Morgan, hair tousled by the wind, cracked windshield beyond her, and crawled across the console. She took her laughter against her lips, trapping them in a kiss. “I love you…” she mumbled, spilling her own delight. The Dullahan was gone someplace away from them, and she still had a dozen complaints about that, but for now she’d only wanted to bask in their glow of adventure together. “It’s the best Halloween,” she rasped, breaking into laughter. “Fates, I love you so much. I don’t know how we got so lucky to see the Dullahan, but I feel like it’s all you---your magic. It has to be. You make everything perfect.” She grinned and kissed her again, and another time for good measure. “I can’t believe he left.” Finally, coming down from her height of glee, she pouted, half-crawled into Morgan’s lap. “I didn’t even get to ask him if he liked that offering I made when I was twelve. And I took such a terrible photo...and his whip! I wanted to hold his whip.” Deirdre leaned against her girlfriend, sighing. “You’re amazing...you know that?” With a chuckle and a grin, mischief in her voice, she kissed her love again. “Let’s get you something to eat and then go home, okay?”

Morgan welcomed Deridre’s kiss, scooping her the rest of the way into her lap. Her hands tingled, clumsy, and she hit the car horn trying to cup her girlfriend’s ass. A passing car honked back, the shotgun passenger flashing a middle finger. “Sorry! Happy Halloween!” Morgan cackled. She hid her face in Deirdre’s shoulder, pressing kiss after kiss until her laughter petered out into soft giggles. “I love you, too,” she sighed. “So much, Deirdre. Stars above, this wouldn’t be fun at all if you weren’t here.” Without Deirdre she would have been terrified, and then scarfing down the elderly in the middle of the supermarket and ending up arrested or meme-ified on YouTube. But her head was light and tingling, maybe from repairing some minor damage, but mostly from the strange thrill of following Deirdre’s company wherever it led her. As they kicked back the chair and Deirdre finally settled herself against Morgan’s body, the zombie felt herself falling back into the warm safety that was them.

With the Dullahan gone, the only sound was the woosh of cars speeding past them, the night song of hungry bugs and owls and bats. Inside the Subaru, cracked and dented again, the quiet was perfect. “I don’t have any magic left in me to summon your childhood heroes for you, babe,” Morgan said. “If there’s any kind of magic going on, it’s the two of us, together. Everything’s better when it’s you and me.” Sometimes better was just hurting less; sometimes, more delight and strange, incomprehensible wonder than she knew how to process. “If you ask me, he wouldn’t have waved—twice—if he didn’t think you were pretty great, Deirdre.” Maybe he was a menacing show-off by nature, but with Deirdre on her shoulder, the kindest reading of the night felt like the right one. “You’re amazing,” Morgan murmured, growing soft and quiet as the rush continued to peel away from her like so much traffic.

She snorted dryly at Deirdre’s suggestion and kissed her again. “You just want to get out of Linda’s costume party,” she teased. “I’ll just have the leftovers at home. And we’ll have our own fun and treats before we arrive fashionably late for the party. How’s that for a good time?”

“By Death, Fate, and everything there is to be in this world, I love you Morgan. With Fate’s command, I love you. I love you.” Deirdre’s prayers became a nonsensical jumble of ancient phrases and what she could remember of her family’s religious teaching. Her mother would have called it blasphemy to take Fate’s name and press it to the skin of a once-human, still wholly human. But Deirdre thought it was right, it was true. Worship of Morgan was one she would gladly take part in, even squished together in the same car seat at the side of the road. Magic was a good way of putting it; something so beyond natural order that it defied law and rule. Something freer than the wind, more nebulous than the stars. Something that was just the two of them, together and at peace and in love. “And if you ask me,” she started with a smile, lifted her teeth from where she had begun nipping at Morgan’s neck, “he wouldn’t have showed up at all if the world wasn’t kind and good, just like how you make it.” With a huff, she pulled her arm out from where it had gotten crammed between Morgan and the armrest and reached it up to cup her love’s cheek. “I wish someone would have told me years ago that good things are real; the Dullahan, nights like these...you. Ignorance might have helped convince me that there was nothing better, but I think the truth would have made life so much easier to get through. If I knew I’d be here, one day, my days would have been colored with happiness.” Just as they were now. She leaned down and kissed Morgan again, content to stay there, content to—Deirdre groaned, and then dissolved into laughter. “I was hoping you’d forgotten,” she breathed, “I don’t want this night to end, sue me.” And, well, as far as she was concerned, Linda’s costume party was a doomed event by concept alone.

But she knew, with resounding truth, that everything was better when they were together. Even parties hosted by their annoying neighbours. And so, she smiled and said simply: “that sounds perfect to me.”

[pinkmedusa6]

Burning Bridges

Pairing: Richie Tozier & Eddie Kaspbrak 

Read on AO3

An excerpt from this work: 

“Go back to sleep Rich. I’ll be back, I promise.” Eddie stumbles backwards and slips out the window. Soon the room settles into a lull like Eddie was never there to begin with.

The clock reads 3:35 am. Richie stays in his bed debating if he should get up and chase after Eddie but his consciousness makes the decision for him as he begins to fade into his dreams once again. Sleep overtakes him, thoughts of Eddie still swaying at the edge of his mind. Richie decides to talk to him in the morning. He will realize later that this was the worst decision of his life.Eddie 

Kaspbrak was never seen in Derry again.

Summary:  Richie is living the lonely life of a C-list comedian in LA until he suddenly is contacted by Mike Hanlon. 15 years after his disappearance Mike believes to have received a phone call from Eddie. The remaining Loser's return to Derry in search of answers and their missing friend. 

It had been a normal day for Richie Tozier. But that’s how all tragedy’s started, with normal days.

All seven members of the Losers Club sat along the bank of the quarry. The haze of a summer heat settling along the exposed edges of their skin. Beverly was skipping rocks along the water, trying to beat her record of 6 skips. Ben watched her like she was competing in an Olympic sport, the flick of her wrist catching his gaze. Bill, Mike, and Stan sat not far off, discussing amongst themselves.

Richie had taken to climbing up a nearby tree and hanging off one of the branches by the crook of his knees. While Eddie stood underneath him rattling off the possible injuries he could get by falling.

Richie was desperately trying to keep his glasses from sliding off his face as Eddie glared at him. “I’m not going to help you if you fall and bust your head open.”

“Aw would you still love me if I got brain damage Eds?” Richie grinned swinging carelessly back and forth.

“Don’t call me Eds. And you already have brain damage asshole.” Eddie huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

“And you still love me! How sweet,” He threw Eddie a wink. Richie thought he saw a hint of red creep around Eddie’s cheeks but wasn’t sure if that was just his own blood rushing to his head.  

“That’s why we’re your friend, can’t let the poor kid with brain damage play by himself.” Stan called over, not even bothering to turn towards Richie.

“You wound me Staniel.” There was a grunt as Richie heaved himself up and began his decent down the tree. About a foot away from the ground he lost his grip and fell landing on his back with a small thud. He barked out laughter as Eddie ran to his side to make sure his skull hadn’t broken like an egg shell.

“B-by the way, what electives did everyone ch-chose for the semester?” Bill said fully ignoring the commotion taking place beside him.

A chorus of answers rang around the group, from Bev shouting home economics to Ben quietly mentioning a poetry class. Stan said photography and Richie remarked that his teacher would get tired of every picture being a bird. Eddie sat quietly in his spot beside Richie.  

“What about you Eddie?” Mike smiled over at Eddie. He had also stayed silent during the discussion, there wasn’t much to say about electives when you were home schooled.

Eddie fidgeted from where he was sitting on the ground. “Ok I’ll tell you guys but you have to promise not to mention it around my mom she’ll flip.” There was a collective nod, “I uh decided to go for track and field.”      

“That’s fantastic Eddie!” Bev said.

“You’ll do g-g-gr-ugh.” Bill closed his eyes in frustration before starting again. “You’ll do awesome, you have always been the fastest of us anyway.” Bill smiled along with the rest of the group. He was right, Eddie had always been the fastest of the Losers club even when he thought his asthma was real.

“Fast on the track and in the sack that’s what they say right?” Richie laughed as he was shoved by Eddie but he didn’t miss the distinct dimpled smile.

After finding out his mother had been lying to him for years about his asthma, as well as several other illnesses, Eddie had abandoned most of his placebos. Only when his mother was watching did he seem to keep up his act, not yet wanting to confront her. Richie felt a certain kind of pride bloom in his chest. The kind that had always been there but seemed to grow with each act Eddie did. Sonia was controlling and every step that Eddie took seemed to defy the tight grip she had on him. They were coming closer to the end of their high school days and Richie was excited for the future. A future he hoped contained a great deal of Eddie.

Richie knew the way he felt about Eddie differed greatly from his feelings towards the other loser’s. He didn’t stay up late at night thinking about the curve of Beverly’s legs nor did he leave lingering touches along Stan’s arms, those were exclusive to Eddie. Calling it love would make it too real. He called it a crush because crushes were soft fleeting things. Crushes were easy to get over you could skip from one to the next. Love was a hard rock that sat at the bottom of your stomach. Yet Richie could barely contain the tightening of his chest with the way each freckle stretched over Eddie’s cheeks as he smiled. Just a crush Richie reminded himself.  

The losers club continued their carefree summer day at the clubhouse, reveling in one another’s company. Richie felt at peace among his friends, he wondered if this is how all his friendships would be or if this was something special.

By the time four o’clock had rolled around it had become Richie’s favorite kind of day, one where after spending time with all the losers Richie was able to squeeze in an hour or two of alone time with Eddie. After departing from the clubhouse the duo arrived at Richie’s home, eventually landing on his bed to read comics and bicker over trivial topics.

It was Eddie who brought up the subject of college, “Are you still planning on going to UCLA?” The question threw Richie off guard, especially since they just finished a heated argument over who was the better superhero, Captain America or Iron Man. But now Eddie sat on the floor of Richie’s room, his back against the bed and staring at the posters on the wall. His eyes seemed like they were searching for an answer in the Rush poster hung up haphazardly above Richie’s desk, a fruitless effort.

“Well yeah, its step one in my plan on becoming a famous comedian,” Richie turned to Eddie from where he sat on his bed. His eyes were still trained on the poster but Richie caught a glimpse of some unnamed emotion flash across them. “You should come with. UCLA has like a million majors to choose from.” Richie tried to say it as casually as possible and not like he would trade his left arm just to have Eddie in the same state as him. This was not the first time he had brought it up but he still felt the same nervousness tug at his stomach, like it was an encoded proposal.

“Like my mom would ever agree to me moving across the country with Richie Tozier.” Eddie finally returned Richie’s gaze, a somber smile on his face.  

“You’re right. You’re mom would get too jealous.” Eddie groaned “Do you think I could get Mrs.K to come with me to UCLA? I’m not sure she could survive till winter break without me.” Eddie took the comic book in his lap and rolled it up before smacking Richie on the head with it. Richie laughed, a shit-eating grin spread wide across his face. Eddie wavered in his scowling, eventually laughing along with Richie. Soon both boys settled back down into a comfortable silence as they read their comic books.  

As the evening sun slipped into his room it basked Eddie in an otherworldly glow, Richie wanted to burn the image into his brain. He wanted to record Eddie as he was now and replay the scene over in his head until that’s all he could see. He was almost grateful when Eddie said he needed to leave, the tips of his fingers burned with the urge to touch. But Richie smiled and pushed those feelings away, a practice he had grown accustomed to.

Richie walked Eddie to his porch, leaning on the railing as Eddie began to walk down the steps. “When will I see you again Eddie my love?”

“Jesus can you just say my name normally for once?”

“For you? No way in hell Spaghetti man.” Richie was grinning, a common occurrence when he was with Eddie. And Eddie would huff and roll his eyes at Richie’s antics but there was always a smile that followed and Richie would always chase it.

“Well Bill wants us all to meet up at his house tomorrow, his aunt sent him a board game and it can play up to ten people so now we won’t have to fight over who goes first.” Eddie said, hopping off the last step of the porch and turning to face Richie.  

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow when I show you my awe-inspiring board game skills.” Richie wore a cocky smile, it always gave him a special rush knowing exactly what buttons to push to rile Eddie up.

“Oh shut up you couldn’t even beat me at Clue.” Eddie crossed his arms, face already formed into a pout.

“Hey that’s not fair, you know I suck at those murder mystery games!”  

“Well it’s a mystery why I’m still friends with you” Eddie smirked as Richie let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest as if Eddie had shot him on the spot.

As he turned to leave down the driveway Richie shouted “see you tomorrow!” Eddie turned around briefly to wave at Richie before scurrying off towards his own house and out of Richie’s sight.                

           After dinner Richie went to bed peacefully, happy with how the day went. That was before he was awoken at 3:21 am.

           Richie was a heavy sleeper, he had always been since a young child. That night he did not hear a window creaking open or shoes shuffling on carpet, he wasn’t awake until a gentle hand began to stroke his hair. Even then Richie was still dancing between sleep and consciousness. He shifted, opening his eyes just barely only to close them again then repeating the process a few more times before comprehending that for a hand to touch his head it needed to be attached to a person that was presumably in his room. His eyes opened fully to see a dark figure standing over him.

           Shock would have set quickly into his veins if not for the hand still combing its way through his hair, daring him to sleep once again. He made a sound that was a mix between a grunt and a slurred “what”. The hand retracted as Richie grabbed his glasses off his night stand. While the figure was less blurry they were still just as dark and only after his eyes adjusted did Richie catch the face of the intruder. The sliver of moonlight peaking from behind the clouds illuminating just enough for recognition to kick in.

“Eddie?” Richie questioned, head feeling like it was stuffed with cotton.

Eddie jerked back slightly, his face still mostly shadows. Richie was having a hard time making the connections his brain needed to make. “Richie” Eddie said finally and if Richie were more lucid maybe he would have caught the distinct wetness Eddie’s voice carried. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Richie rubbed his eyes, “What are you doing here man?” He went to turn on his lamp but Eddie grabbed his wrist.

“No don’t.” Richie was taken aback “Sorry its just…“ There was hesitation in his voice and Richie started to wonder if this was a dream, it felt too weird to be reality. “I needed to see you.” There is another pause as Eddie let go of Richie’s wrist before kneeling down beside the bed. Richie felt the warmth of a hand on his cheek. “Richie I need you to listen carefully. I’m going to be gone for…“ he breathed in sharply “I- I’m not sure how long. But I promise you I will be back ok?”

“Eddie you’re not making any sense” Richie’s voice dripped with confusion as his gut started to tug at itself. This wasn’t the Eddie that Richie knew, this wasn’t the spitfire that always spoke his mind and was trustworthy to a fault. No this Eddie sounded uncertain and scared.

“I know, I’m sorry” Richie thinks he hears a sniffle, “I can’t….just remember I’ll be back Richie, please remember that.” Eddie leans forward and rests his head on Richie’s shoulder as he begins to shake.

Richie wraps his arms around Eddie, softly running his hand down his back. They stay like that for a moment and Richie starts to wonder again if this is an elaborate dream.

Eddie pulls back, “Richie I-“ he says it like something important is dancing on the tip of his tongue ready to dive, but he just shakes his head “I have to go” he slips away before Richie can protest. “Go back to sleep Rich. I’ll be back, I promise.” Eddie stumbles backwards and slips out the window. Soon the room settles into a lull like Eddie was never there to begin with.

The clock reads 3:35 am. Richie stays in his bed debating if he should get up and chase after Eddie but his consciousness makes the decision for him as he begins to fade into his dreams once again. Sleep overtakes him, thoughts of Eddie still swaying at the edge of his mind. Richie decides to talk to him in the morning. He will realize later that this was the worst decision of his life.

Eddie Kaspbrak was never seen in Derry again.

Thank you for reading! If you are interested please check out my AO3 as I probably won’t post anymore chapters on Tumblr. Feel free to leave comments and constructive criticism! 

[artificialqueens]

Let Me Take Care of You (Rajila)

This is my first ever fic. I love sick fics and needed some more Rajila in my life. Comments, feedback, and constructive criticism are appreciated, but please be kind.

Karl was officially worried.

It was now 11:36 and Sutan was supposed to be here over half an hour ago. Karl knew Sutan was always busy, but he had suggested this morning to look at Karl’s outfits for an upcoming show, and Karl just didn’t think it was like him to forget. Nor was it like him to be late. Not to mention that he hadn’t called or even sent a text saying he couldn’t make it, and he hadn’t answered any of Karl’s calls.

Karl decided to call one last time, pacing frantically as he waited for Sutan to pick up. Nothing.

Screw it, I’m going over there, Karl thought as he grabbed his keys. He ran his thumb over the key to Sutan’s apartment, which Sutan had given him years ago just in case.

He made the drive in about 15 minutes, trying to keep the worry out of his mind the whole ride. Maybe he’s just hungover. Or hooked up with someone last night. But why wasn’t he answering his phone? Karl forced his mind to focus on the road. He eventually gave up on trying to be calm and full-on sprinted to the apartment door, shoving his just-in-case key into the lock and trying to prepare himself for what he might find.

The kitchen looked normal, and so did the living room. The apartment seemed way too silent, and for a minute Karl was sure he was going to become the opening scene in a horror movie.

“Where are you, bitch?” Karl called out. “Did you bail on me, or is this an I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-get-up situation? You are an old man, after all,” Karl smiled to himself, the joke deflecting his real fear that something bad had happened to Sutan. He finally made his way to the bedroom, and the sight that greeted him wiped the smile off his face and made his heart constrict painfully.

Sutan was curled into a shivering ball in the bed, wrapped in almost every blanket he owned. As Karl got closer, he could hear a rattling in Sutan’s chest, like he was struggling to breathe. The edges of his hair were damp with sweat and even from a foot away Karl could feel the heat coming off him.

Oh shit.

Karl scrambled, trying to think of what he should do. Thermometer, he thought. See how sick he is, and then give him Tylenol or something. He ran to Sutan’s bathroom and rifled through drawers and cabinets, finally finding an ear thermometer and a bottle of Tylenol. He grabbed a water bottle from the kitchen and started back to the bedroom.

“Okay, I can do this,” Karl told himself. He didn’t have much practice with sick people. In the nearly ten years since he’d known Sutan, he couldn’t remember the older man being sick more than a few times, and definitely never this bad. Sutan was usually the one taking care of Karl whenever he was sick or upset about something.

He approached the bed slowly. “Hey, Sutan,” he said softly. Sutan was still shivering even though his shirt was soaked with sweat. Karl reached out slowly and placed the thermometer in his ear, hoping not to scare him. The older man didn’t even stir, which worried Karl further. After the beep, Karl removed the thermometer and looked at the numbers. 103.2. Fuck.

“Honey,” Karl said as he gripped Sutan’s shoulder gently, “Do you think you can sit up a little?”

One dark, bloodshot eye cracked open about halfway.

“Come on, I’ll help you. You need to take some medicine. You’re really sick.” Karl managed to get Sutan into a half-sitting position. He panted for a few seconds after the change in position, and Karl saw the glazed look in his eyes. He probably had no idea where he was or what was happening.

Karl rubbed circles on Sutan’s trembling back, hoping it would help soothe him. He felt the heat of the fever through the taller man’s shirt. Shit, he’s burning. Karl just prayed the Tylenol would work. Sutan finally turned to look at Karl, squinting like he wasn’t quite sure the person in front of him was Karl, or was even real.  

“K-Karl?” he rasped. “Oh, I hope it’s you. I had dr-dreams about you. You’re so beautiful.”

Karl froze, unsure what to say. He knew Sutan was probably too far in a fever-induced brain fog to know what was going on or what he was saying. He probably wouldn’t even remember this. Still, Karl didn’t want to say anything that would upset him.

“Yeah, honey, it’s me. I’m here. I really need you to take these pills. Do you think you can do that for me? They’ll make you feel better.” Karl continued rubbing Sutan’s back and brought the pills up to his mouth.

Sutan let out a harsh cough and clutched at his ribs. “A-anything for you, Karl,” he said, taking the pills and waiting obediently for Karl to hold the water bottle to his lips. He drank about half the bottle before pushing it away and dropping back to the mattress.

Sutan was so vulnerable, so helpless, that Karl could barely stand it. He just wanted to hold the older man and make him better.

“Get some sleep,” Karl told him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“I love you, Karl,” Sutan replied sleepily.

Unable to help himself, Karl dropped a soft kiss to his temple. “I love you too,” he said, unsure if Sutan even heard.

——————————————————————————————————————————–

Nearly four hours later, Karl flipped through magazines in a chair by the bed. He had removed some of the blankets to cool Sutan down, and it seemed to be working, as he had slept peacefully.

He was so adorable while he slept, even though his hair was sweaty and messy and his face was much paler than normal. Karl couldn’t help but marvel at how sweet he looked.

He dropped his magazine when he saw Sutan beginning to wake. Karl watched as his big brown eyes, a bit clearer than they were previously, went from confused to scared to panicked in a matter of seconds. “Where,” he croaked, struggling to sit up.  “What hap-who’s there?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Calm down.” Karl rushed forward, helped him sit up, and rubbed his back again. “It’s just me. Karl.”

Sutan squinted at the shorter man like he wasn’t sure what he saw was real. “Wh-how did you get here?”

“I came over earlier today. You, um, you were supposed to meet me this morning. To look at dresses? You never showed and you weren’t answering my calls, so I got worried and came over here,” Karl explained.

Sutan’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I made you worry and you came over here for me and wasted your whole day watching me sleep and I’m so sorry and I’m a burden and you must hate me.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Karl felt his heart break.

He rushed forward to wipe the tears away. “Oh, sweetie, no! I would never, ever hate you! First of all, being sick is not your fault. I don’t blame you and I would never be mad at you. I came here because I care about you. You’re not a burden, and I didn’t waste my day. I had no plans for today. You have nothing to be sorry for. Understand?”

Sutan coughed deeply and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies, bitch. I mean it.”

The older man laughed. “Okay.”

“Are you feeling any better?” Karl asked.

“A lot better, actually. Especially compared to yesterday. I legitimately felt like I was dying.”

Karl winced sympathetically. “How long have you been sick?”

“I didn’t feel well last week but I thought it was just a cold. By Friday I knew it was worse but at that point I was too sick to do anything about it. I think I just slept through Saturday. I had such crazy dreams, oh my god.” He started laughing. “Half the time I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep or if anything was even real. I had this one crazy-ass dream that Bianca Del Rio and Adore Delano went full-on Lady and the Tramp with some spaghetti. I know that wasn’t real.”

The two men burst out laughing. Part of Karl wanted to ask what Sutan had dreamt about him, but he wasn’t sure he remembered saying it and didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“You should have called me though,” Karl thought of how sick he must have been yesterday. “As soon as you started getting sick, you should have called. I would have taken care of you.”

“I thought about it. Before Saturday happened and I felt like I had smoked the shadiest joint in existence. But I didn’t want to bother you, and  I…I just didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Honey,” Karl reached over and grabbed Sutan’s hand, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin. “You know I would never think less of you,” he said softly. “Everyone gets sick. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help and you could never bother me, no matter how sick you are. So just let me take care of you. Please?” Karl pleaded.

“Okay.”

Karl sprang into action. After successfully taking Sutan from the mess he had been earlier to the mostly-cognizant state he was in now, he felt like a nursing pro. He took his temperature again, relieved to see it had gone down to 101.4. He helped Sutan change into a clean T-shirt, got him to take some more pills, and even coaxed him into eating a piece of toast and drinking some ginger ale. Nursing pro, indeed, Karl thought.

“Hey, Karl?” Sutan asked suddenly as he picked at his toast, “Did I, um, did I say anything about dreaming of you? I feel like I did but I’m not sure if it was a dream or not.”

Karl bit his lip as he thought of what to say. He didn’t want to embarrass the older man or force him into a conversation he didn’t want to have. But part of him couldn’t deny his own curiosity. Was Sutan only asking because he wanted to be more than friends too and hoped Karl felt the same way? What had Sutan dreamt of? Nor could Karl pretend that the sleepy I love you had no effect on him. Feelings toward Sutan he thought he had gotten over had now returned in full force. He felt bad for doing this to a sick man, but Karl wanted to find out what he had dreamt, if he remembered the I love you, if there was anything deeper behind his dreams and half-conscious words.

“Yeah, you did. You were pretty out of it, though. I wasn’t sure you’d remember,” Karl replied evenly, trying to keep the hope that maybe they could be more than friends out of his voice.

“Right.” It could have been the fever, but Sutan’s face suddenly looked redder. “I had so many I don’t think I remember them all. In one of them we owned a bakery! And in another we were dog groomers! But, uh, we were always together. Romantically, I mean. And it was really nice. I kind of started subconsciously hoping I’d have more dreams of us because I liked being a couple.”

Karl laughed upon hearing some of the dreams, then felt a sudden warmth as Sutan finished. “Are you saying you’d like to be a little more than friends?” He asked finally.

Sutan exhaled deeply. “I’m saying I would like to try. If you want to, I mean.”

“Oh, I do. I really do. And for the record, I’d groom dogs and run a bakery with you any day of the week, girl.”

Both men laughed, excited for what awaited them.

[howtohero]

Protecting Yourself From Psychics

The average person has at least four or eighty-three thoughts per day. Some of these thoughts are rather mundane: “what should I eat for lunch today?”, “what should I eat for lunch tomorrow?”, “how many ants would need to band together in order to lift me and should that number make me feel bad?” While others are vastly more important: “My pin is ****”, “I am secretly the superhero Captain Thunder”, “I hope nobody finds that embarrassing video of me drunkenly singing ‘Yo Ho A Pirate’s Life For Me’ whilst jabbing a plastic sword at a city bus.” You probably have a lot of important thoughts rattling around in your head. Thoughts other people might like to take a glance at. Well, unbeknownst to you there are dozens of people around you, listening to your thoughts, and judging you for them, on a day to day basis. So how do you protect yourself from that?

The easiest way to prevent someone from listening to or reading your thoughts is to never have any thoughts ever. Do everything solely on impulse. What are you having for lunch today? The first thing that comes to your mind at lunch time. Spaghetti! Pizza! A rock! Whatever the first thing you think of is what you’re eating. You can’t risk putting any more thought into it, if you do, a hostile psychic might know about it and poison your food. Any decision you ever need to make needs to be quick and at the last possible second to prevent your enemies from catching wind of it. Nobody should ever know what you’re doing before you do it. Not even yourself.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, because you haven’t finished reading this blog post yet: “Zach didn’t you once mention a device that could prevent mind readers from reading minds? Why don’t I just get myself one of those bad boys?” Gosh you’re a real idiot aren’t you. If you had any brains at all you would know that the device you’re talking about came up in our post about animal sidekicks and those mind-reading-deflector helmets were for animals. Humans have more complex brains than animals. These things aren’t going to work for you. So how about you never throw my past writing in my face ever again. You don’t know anything. You utter dingus.

ANYHOO if you want to be able to think freely the best way to stop people from peering into your innermost thoughts is to wear metal on your head. That’s right, all you robots, mech pilots, and armored heroes are totally safe and you guys can skip this post! Mind control beams (or whatever?) can’t get through metal, everyone knows that. It’s like how I can’t get through the doors at La Mardi because they have a very strict “no Zach Schechters” policy because one Zach Schechter once went in there and set off a bunch of confetti poppers in the middle of the dance floor and ruined it for the other Zach Schechters. When you’ve encased your head in a metal block, psychics can’t get past the bouncer.

But, a metal cap isn’t for everyone. Some superheroes are allergic to metal. It might clash with the rest of your costume. It might be too heavy for your head. So let’s take a look at some other options.

Some superheroes have been known to be so careful about guarding their secrets from mind readers that they actually use hypnosis or other forms of brain washing to repress or lock away their secrets so that they can’t think about them even if they wanted to. Since most superheroes’ biggest secret is that they’re living a superpowered double life, this sometimes results in them developing a split personality. One of their identities is mild mannered Whomever Jones while their other identity is superhero Power Jones. Due the hypnosis, the two identities will be completely unaware of each other so it would be impossible for either of them to have their minds read and for their secret identity to be revealed. (Note: I only used Power Jones here as an example. The man has one million powers, I’m sure one of them is mind reading immunity.) This might seem a tad extreme but hey, if you keep repressing your memories and secrets and splitting off parts of your personality, eventually one of your multiple personalities will be the kind of guy who makes better decisions! So that’s something to look forward to.

Another method you can try is to, every so often, think “hey mind readers! I know you’re there. Get out!” This serves two purposes, for one, you’ll definitely freak out any mind readers who happen to be nearby, causing them to both fear and respect you and your mind reading detection prowess. And secondly, such a declaration actually makes it illegal for any mind reader to continue to read your mind. (I feel like it’s always illegal for people to read your mind.) Well your feelings are both wrong and invalid!

If you’re bi- or multilingual, try thinking in a language that you don’t think anyone else in the room understands. Or think in abstract thoughts that only somebody with your experiences and context would be able to decipher. Sometimes preventing someone from understanding what they’re reading is just as valuable as preventing someone from reading your mind 

You can also try thinking entirely in lies. If you think a bunch of fake secrets then any psychics or telepaths or Professor Brain-Scrambler <*cough* hack *cough*> will be acting on faulty information. You can even use this method to set up ambushes to take evil mind readers off the board. Simply think up a fake location for your hideout and then lie in wait with your squad for some evil mind reader’s evil henchmen to attack the place. You’ll be able to round up a bunch of evil mind readers this way, making your city a safer place to think freely. 

You can actually use your mind to fight off evil mind readers in a number of ways. Here are some aggressive tactics you can use when you think mind readers are milling about:

Think of the most annoying song you know. In no time at all the annoying jingle that’s stuck in your head, will be stuck in their head and they’ll think twice before probing your mind again.

Whenever you enter a room that you’re reasonably sure has mind readers in it think up some absolutely devastating insults about every single person in the room. With any luck your mind reader will be so devastated that they’ll run off crying before they can get any useful information out of you.

Conjure up some really gross images. They’ll be so caught off guard by the disturbing pictures you’re projecting with your mind that they’ll start gagging and you’ll be able to apprehend them quickly and put a metal hat on their head to prevent them from reading any more minds.

Hijack their signal and read their mind. This is a little tricky but a neural passageway goes both ways and if you’re a skilled enough active thinker you can identify the intrusion into your mind and ride it back into the mind reader’s brain and read their thoughts. With any luck they’ll feel so violated by the experience that they swear off reading minds forever and you’ll have saved the day just by being your nosy, intrusive self!

Nobody wants their mind read. Well except for people who sometimes have a hard time articulating their thoughts. They might like having someone who can read their mind and explain to others what they’re thinking. Mind control definitely has its time and place. I guess that’s why the Psychic Fish is (somehow) so popular. But if you don’t expect to have your mind read it can be an intensely uncomfortable experience. Your mind is your haven, you should feel safe thinking your weird thoughts and housing your secrets there. So get educated, and protect yourself against mind readers. 

[eggscelsior]

A Brief History Of Andrew’s Protective Streak

Andrew learned to do stick-and-poke tattoos during juvie. Nothing fancy; he had always been good at sketching, so his line art was crisp, and he could do shading easily enough by filling in the design with less passes of ink. It was amazing how much cooler a pubescent teen thought he looked with a dragon jabbed under his skin in blue ballpoint ink, instead of just doodled on top. That was, in fact, one of the top requests. Andrew considered it distastefully ironic - Dragon, Draco, Drake.

He was amused by the idea of stabbing “Drake” hundreds of times in black and blue. But why would anyone want that permanently etched into their body? Andrew had given himself enough marks to remind himself of the opposite: that Drake was temporary, that he could be outlasted. Andrew’s marks were carved as a distraction, dulling one kind of pain by making a fresher, sharper, controlled version. They were for endurance, not aesthetic. He covered his marks with black armbands, not filled them with ink. They were necessary but nothing to be proud of. Andrew had no urge to give himself a tattoo. But the favors he garnered in trade for his skill were invaluable.

~~~

No one had ever kept a promise to Andrew (Cass had maybe tried), and with a lack of any real thing worth living for, he’d decided to create his own value by keeping promises to others, as long as he gained something from it. Andrew made a business out of promising tattoos and following through. He was good at them. And he was good at protecting his goal, because it got him out of the juvie facility one Friday a month for “away” games.

And he might be good at protecting people, if they were people he decided mattered, and that felt…slightly more worthwhile than anything else. There was something in the concept of being needed that made living a bit more tolerable, a bit less boring. He'd hated the idea of a carbon copy brother that had been needed by the woman that birthed them in a way that she hadn't needed Andrew. He'd wanted no part of that shit. He had Cass. Aaron was not his problem. Aaron did not matter.

But then Drake had gotten interested. "Let him visit." "I want to meet him too." "All three of us will be brothers." "Twins are every man's fantasy, AJ. "You'll look so perfect in my bed together.” And suddenly Aaron needed Andrew, even if he didn't know it. Andrew was shocked how vehemently this hit him, how important a priority it immediately presented itself as. The first person who genuinely needed him. It was up to Andrew to keep the carbon copy cleaner than the original. No one deserved Drake, and this was something only he could be relied upon to protect against.

The only way to prevent Drake from eventually convincing Cass to have Aaron come visit, with or without Andrew’s approval, was to remove himself as well. He was used to being hurt, and to hurting himself, so he could handle this loss. Cass wanted to keep him but she didn't need him, like Aaron. So he did what he had to do and landed himself in juvie.

Then he actually met Aaron. Aaron’s mouth listed off the name of some girlfriend – his identical twin was straight? Huh. – and the name of a high school and a position as backliner on the school Exy team, blah blah blah small talk, but Andrew took one glance at the long sleeves and jeans during California summer – there was the edge of a bruise at the collarbone – and the posture – defeated – and the behavior – jittery, twitchy, he’d seen too many inmates crashing to not know Aaron was on drugs that were both addictive and strong enough to kill – and he decided that this carbon copy needed continued protection, lest he end up as marked up as Andrew after all, just by someone else's hand than Drake's.

“Uncle” Luther wanted to help “save” him from juvie, but wanted to send him back to Cass. He needed to go where Aaron was, so he shared a truth that he’d never wanted to voice out loud. Luther did not believe him, immediately marking himself off Andrew’s list of people who had a chance to matter due to blood proximity. Instead he guilted a promise out of the minister to keep other children out of Drake’s reach “in case they’re as incapable as me at ‘judging brotherly affection’ and would come out just as traumatized” and drummed up a cavalry march in Luther’s meddling missionary heart to bring Andrew “home” to his “mother” and brother.

Then he called in a lot of hoarded favors from his tattoo business: “accidental” conversations held within earshot of wardens that painted him in a good light, or at least, in a bad light with the bad crowds. A staged fight that he broke up peacefully, with sharp words and sharper stares, instead of with the fists the wardens knew he was so good with and the shivs he’d only ever been suspected of having. He even had a couple of recommendations from guards that had been impressed enough with his art to get inked by him themselves.

Pristine behavior, a winning streak for the Exy team, and his list of favors wouldn’t take too long to rattle up a parole hearing.

~~~

He was out of juvie, and he was busy. He had joined Aaron’s high school Exy team to keep an eye on him; it was still difficult to pin down all the times Aaron managed to pop pills, so he required observation. Andrew had made a very pointed promise to Aaron’s mother and was arranging to keep his promise because she wouldn’t fucking listen.

~~~

Tilda was dead, finally. It had been ruled an accident, as planned. Aaron was no longer attempting to speak to him, which was fine. He did not require his brother’s approval, just his dependence, and Andrew had fulfilled the promise to protect him. Aaron’s unexpected grief over his waste-of-oxygen mother was annoying, so Aaron glowering from across the room was better than Aaron grieving loudly.

Now was a good a time as any to get Aaron sober. It wasn’t like his twin could fill any more of Tilda’s prescriptions now that she was dead, and Andrew didn’t intend to let him go questing for more sources. So Andrew locked him in a bathroom with canned food – he tossed in Spaghetti-O’s along with the soups and green beans because he wasn’t a monster – and a pillow and waited for sixteen days.

He met with the lawyer in the meantime and signed off for the life insurance payout - A. Minyard. Not a lie. He bought the cheapest cremation possible and tossed the urn on Luther's front lawn for the bastard to make funeral plans around. He bought a car to replace the one he'd made Tilda wreck and put the car’s insurance policy in his own full name. He left Aaron's off. Aaron could depend on him to drive them.

Aaron emerged silent, sober, and craving grease. Andrew drove them to Sweetie's. His twin said nothing about the car, and Andrew didn't offer the spare key of a ninety grand vehicle to a just-barely-ex-drug-addict. There was no point bolstering temptation with means and opportunity.

Then Nicky showed up from Germany. Interesting, that his brother somehow turned out straight but his newfound cousin had managed to worm a gay gene out of Luther and Maria’s chromosomes. Less interesting was Nicky being a fucking chatterbox, making up for Aaron’s blessed silence in a way that no one asked for, as well as Nicky’s complete inability to defend himself even as he assumed guardianship of the twins.

Andrew did not have time to exchange a promise with Nicky in advance, he was too busy beating these four men who’d dared hurt his cousin like they were every man who had ever laid a hand on Andrew without consent. There were a lot of those. That meant a lot of beating. He nearly lost himself in the all-consuming violence tearing out of his core, and came out of the incident with a string of therapists and a bottle of literal happy pills.

They fractured his emotions from his rationality. He spent days with his eyes opened to how amusing and engaging the world could truly be, and then slowly he started to recognize the sick feeling in his gut and the constant edge of a headache throbbing in the base of his skull to the tune of but why is it funny? It’s not. It’s not funny. Stop it. Stop laughing. Stop laughing. STOP.

He became the dead hollow space rotting out the inside of a laughing shell. Why was he living, again? Oh. Promises. Protection. That was about all his brain could hold onto firmly while he was trying to scrape the corners of his ill-fitting smile off his own face with his fingernails. Weeks of practice tamed the giggles down to silent, hard-edged smiles. He could hear the world around his own laughter again.

God, who wouldn’t he kill to stop taking this medication? His brother. He needed to be needed. His cousin too, apparently. The promise was silent but he’d already paid out, so Nicky was his now. The rest of the world could fucking burn.

Aaron was edging away, though, drowning in the misplaced grief he refused to get over. But then Aaron’s girlfriend slapped him, yelled at him for not paying enough attention to her, grabbed his wrist too hard and bruised it. Aaron’s eyes said he couldn’t hit a woman. Andrew didn’t care if it was moral or a psychological remnant of Aaron’s mother’s abuse. A new promise was forged. Aaron was cemented at Andrew’s side through graduation. Andrew broke the girl’s arm and delivered the same promise he’d made Aaron’s mother. The girl quit school.

There were several other girls. Andrew struck preemptively at each. Aaron was his now, he had promised. His to protect. Something to continue living for. Women were nothing but trouble. They turned Aaron into a useless victim. Aaron hated him for his proactive violence, but Andrew only needed dependence to give him a purpose in life, after all.

~~~

And then the fucking Sons of Exy showed up and delivered a grand invite to join the Ravens after graduation.

First of all, it was laughable that they thought he’d leave the brother he was protecting behind to play a worthless sport.

Second of all, he was solidly unimpressed by Riko and Kevin. They were obsessed with Exy, and Exy to him had started as a literal temporary escape from prison and ended up a babysitting gig for his beat up strung out brother. 

And third, their tattoos were tacky, unstylized computer font numbers, and unreflective of each boy’s potential in their chosen field. He informed Kevin of this quite pointedly, detailing his lack of interest in someone determined to make a career of coming in second, and the flash of fear in Kevin’s eyes at the implication of holding himself back to second place was…not quite amusing, and only vaguely interesting. It was not his problem. Kevin did not matter.

~~~

When graduation approached, Andrew paid attention. Nicky wanted to go back to Germany. Andrew hadn’t met and didn’t trust Erik, and wanted to delay that as long as possible. Worse, Aaron wanted to run off to college and be a doctor. Lofty goals for someone with shit grades after putting the high in high school several dozen times too many. He’d still try, though. He’d end up in a community college God knows where, no longer bound to Andrew’s side via their promise.

Andrew would not survive his medication without someone to protect.

When Wymack came knocking, Andrew seized the chance and reaped profit all around. Wymack agreed to let him bring his not-great-but-at-least-experienced family along on academic scholarship, and quietly agreed to let Andrew off his drugs for games. He’d seen tapes of Andrew before and after being assigned the pills, so he knew it was to his mutual benefit.

Aaron would get into college, shit GPA or no. The promise was reinstated another four years. Hopefully he’d learned his lesson on the last set of girls.

Andrew called in the favor for protecting his cousin and waited to see if Nicky would disappoint. Nicky waffled, he called his boyfriend-fiancé-whatever to get advice, and he finally caved and agreed a business degree would be good for him.

The drugs would wear off in two years. His promises would hold a little longer. Andrew had no fucking clue what he was going to do after that, but thinking about the future was a waste of time when he spent every spare minute keeping the Joker-laugh restricted to his face and out of his sane mind.

~~~

When Kevin showed up at Palmetto at the beginning of the spring semester with a shattered hand, looking as hollow as Andrew’s own chuckling corpse, he became a thing that mattered.

He promised Andrew a love of Exy – not feasible, but if protecting his goal could magically become a worthwhile purpose, then at least he’d have something to live for after his cousin and brother abandoned ship – and Andrew promised to keep him. Kevin’s life story was vaguely interesting, and Andrew wouldn’t mind breaking some parts of Riko permanently. He didn’t like abusers of his possessions. He stole Kevin’s phone, called up the prick, and made him some promises that involved ending up as bruised and bloody as his school colors. He hoped Riko wouldn’t listen.

~~~

When Neil Josten actually showed up at Palmetto after all promises otherwise, Andrew paid attention. Neil very quickly went from something pretty and mouthy that Andrew wanted to break for something akin to fun, to something he wanted to break to keep his protective promise to Kevin, and finally to something Andrew was going to keep for himself.

Neil's lies were aggravating. Trying to pick the truths out of the lies was interesting enough to keep him engaged. They made a game out of it. Neil was cheating; half the truths he said were not 100% truth. Picking those out was even more difficult. The idea of pushing Neil into full honesty – or at least approaching the asymptote, as one could only know another human being so well – was actually…more entertaining than he wanted another person to be. It felt like power over him.

He liked his foibles to be predictable: cigarettes, 20 to a pack, consumed at a speed he dictated. Crackers, consumed per the quantity that he ordered. Not Neil, who he always seemed to want more out of. More what, he didn’t know yet. He just knew that he gave away far too much information and far too much ground to this half-lie and what he got in return was not enough.

~~~

He was starting to understand what he wanted from Neil. He wanted another Roland. Lithe body, quick wit, good for occasional sexual impulses.

Except Neil didn’t swing, so that was out. It was a good thing Neil was holding Kevin anchored in Palmetto, or he wouldn’t be worth keeping, Andrew told himself.

And yet somehow Neil kept working more out of Andrew than he’d rightfully earned. An extra secret, on credit. Allowing Neil within closer-than-typically-acceptable proximity because he liked breathing Andrew’s smoke. Halloween with the upperclassmen. Dinner with Nicky’s worthless parents.

What the fuck was he giving so much away for?

The answer danced between them for a breath at Exites. He smacked a hand over Neil’s mouth and wasn’t quite sure which of them he was censoring, but the result was the same.

~~~

Drake. DRAKE.

He wasn’t even sure he was conscious. Everything was black, but that might have been a pillow? It was hard to breathe?

There, there was the old familiar pain. He was laughing. He watched his body react irrationally from the inside out. His hollow innards were infinite, pushing out against a heaving, giggling shell that was cracking.

~~~

Aaron. He hadn’t protected Aaron. There was blood on Aaron.

Aaron wasn’t hurt? Why was Aaron touching him. Why was he being touched? 

Luther. He made his speech to Luther. Words years in the making. 

The fucking drugs were sucking the vindication out of his voice, replacing it with a kind of sick, casual conversational pitch mixed with inane glee.

Sirens. He took off his knives. He already felt so exposed, and it had been only seconds.

Neil was touching him. Why?

No, the scars were personal. Neil hadn’t shared his, why the fuck should he be touching Andrew’s? A promise was delivered. Neil listened and let go. 

Huh.

People were talking and his head was going to split open. The drugs were winding down and he was retaining snatches of the hospital room that he didn’t want to keep. A rape kit. Why? Drake was caught in the act AND dead. Intrusive. No. He punched the orderly. He was cuffed to the bed.

Outside he grinned at the expressions on the faces of this group of men he’d kept. He wanted to wipe them all off. His. Theirs. Fuck his chemical smile. Fuck their pity. Men didn’t depend on someone they pitied, and that was all Andrew had to live for. Fuck the drugs.

Bee wanted him off the drugs. He knew there was a reason he kept her around. But…he had promises to keep, and that took precedence. He was used to pain.  

Abram. He challenged it just to be sure, but it felt true. He liked truth.

Oh. Neil let Andrew touch his scars, and wow. He’d survived a fair bit, it felt like. Those were true, too. Neil promised to keep Kevin alive, even though he was so prone to running himself, and Andrew thought of the way Neil had actually let go of his arm when Andrew told him to. It was just enough to make him trust, but only barely. Only temporarily. Only in the absence of any other viable solution.

It was time to get clean. Finally.

~~~

He fell back into old survival habits under Proust's hands. In the moments Proust “worked” on him, he distanced himself, like watching something bad happen to a stranger. He couldn't look away, but it wasn't happening to him. Afterward, he reiterated the promises Proust had ignored.

He spent group sessions silent and planning how to keep those promises. He spent individual sessions talking just enough to show them he was making progress towards release. He stole the absurdly heavy tungsten paperweight off the desk of the doctor weaning his drug dosage to aid the exercises he did in his room.

He got clean.

~~~

God. Fuck. The blue eyes were one thing, the hair was criminal. This was going to be a problem. Neil was still here, and he was pretty bruised up, so apparently he’d kept his promise against something without running away. Andrew was content with that. That story would probably be more interesting than a status report on the rest of the outside world, so he put it off till last and commanded Nicky to fill him in on everything else.

~~~

Neil had gone to Evermore. If he hadn’t outright broken his promise to stay by Kevin’s side and protect him, then he’d bent it over backward and fucked it with a rusted fork. Kevin had only been safe from Riko because Riko had been too busy with Neil.

Neil had marks from his past that he’d pressed Andrew’s fingers to, marks Andrew had considered intriguing but dismissed readily enough because it was before his time, before his promise. But this. He smashed the band-aid back against Neil’s cheek, unable to look at the tattoo any longer without needing to punch something, and Neil had been punched enough in the last two weeks to account for several lifetimes.

Andrew hadn’t protected Neil from this tattoo. Andrew couldn’t, because he was getting unfucked in the head and Neil had been a stupid fucking martyr. Proust. Neil had gotten this mark for Andrew, because of Andrew.

Neil had a tattoo that Andrew hadn’t put there. Riko had touched something that belonged to Andrew. Andrew hadn’t protected what was his.

Andrew scaled back the gaping chasm of rage. He wanted to slide out one of his newly-returned knives and carve the fucking tattoo off of Neil’s face. Neil looked like he wouldn’t mind. He scaled further back. He wanted to tattoo over it. Neil probably wouldn’t mind. He scaled further back. He would not do anything to Neil’s face right now because it would cause an adverse reaction from the shitstain roosting in Evermore.

Andrew was a creature that endured. He had patience. He’d kill Riko for this, eventually. For now he needed to focus on what was in front of him. He needed to focus on Neil, on making Neil promise to at least not purposely counteract his own safety.

“If it means losing you, then no.”

Damn the boy. He threw Neil’s keys off the roof and nearly threw himself off two minutes later when Neil wrapped his lips around Andrew’s cigarette filter. Andrew didn’t want a few of his skin cells touching Neil’s mouth, he wanted his tongue between Neil’s lips instead of that cigarette.

Neil’s auburn hair glinted in the sunlight and Andrew was not happy to realize that this was going to be different from Roland, if it was anything at all.

And it wasn't anything. How many times had Neil reinforced that he didn't swing? Neil wasn't flirting with that move. It meant nothing.

~~~

Abram, thought Andrew the first time he felt like touching himself after... everything that had happened in rehab. Abram. Cute old fashioned Christian name. Neil was probably circumcised. He wondered if Neil’s pubic hair had any of that pretty auburn tinge or if it was darker. He thought about Neil's lithe runner’s body and flat stomach and he pictured touching Neil's scars in a way that would make the boy shiver with desire instead of disgust. He wanted to see them.

He wondered how many practices he would get away with sabotaging before someone thought to try sending Neil on court to bargain with him.

Two, it turned out. He didn't hesitate to make his demand. Neil barely hesitated before agreeing.

~~~

He liked touching Neil’s marks of survival, but made sure to keep his touch impersonal. Andrew wondered which of them had more scars in total. Neil’s were obviously larger, and he found himself interested in their stories. The words leaving Neil's mouth were carefully measured and haunted, but they rang true. Andrew didn't feel like he was giving away more than he was getting, this time. He was getting closer to Neil's asymptote and it felt rewarding.

~~~

After admitting his physical attraction to the walking Exy disaster he’d been idiotic enough to keep - the miniature one, to clarify between the two - Andrew went through five cigarettes and spent Roland’s thirty-minute “lunch” break in the back room making out with and then blowing Roland close enough to heaven to yank out one of God’s omnipotent fucking leg hairs, and by the time he was done he had to admit to himself that he was picturing Neil the whole fucking time.

Neil was just a shiny new toy that he was being deprived of blowing. This was nothing.

~~~

It was probably nothing, anyway. At least the one kiss was nice, before Neil had a panic attack.

~~~

The kisses were very nice, actually, and touching Neil’s cock was very nice, and Neil’s orgasm face was actually kind of attractive, and Neil didn’t touch what he wasn’t supposed to. And when Andrew finally got bored, he could always go back to effortless, no-strings Roland.

~~~

This was nothing. This would never be a this.

~~~

“Anything,” Neil promised in return for something as silly as actual effort from Andrew at Exy. He could decide what he’d tattoo over Neil’s number after they won. He had a goal to shut down.

~~~

This would never be a this because Neil was gone, Neil was fucking gone, Neil was a hollow shell saying “thank you” but meaning “goodbye” and then HE WAS FUCKING GONE—

~~~

Neil’s tattoo was gone. Andrew wanted to vomit. Andrew also almost wanted to smile. Riko’s mark was gone from his property, his Neil. Fuck everything, Neil was alive, he could think later. For now, he had to keep the FBI’s filthy hands off his Neil and take him home.

~~~

~~~

~~~

Neil lay on his back in their bed in Columbia almost a year later. Andrew smoked by the window, watching contentedly as Neil drew lazy patterns against his own shirt.

“I’ve been thinking a lot…about getting a tattoo,” Neil said suddenly, but quietly, like it was a confession. It was almost a question. Andrew’s opinion obviously mattered, though Neil should be perfectly aware by now that Andrew’s interest would not be swayed by the quantity or type of marks marring his skin.

Andrew arched an eyebrow to indicate he should continue.

"I thought I'd never want one after Riko's, but the more I’ve considered it, the more I want to memorialize certain things on my skin. Marks I choose for myself, for once."

Memorialize. So help him, if Neil wanted his mother's name they were going to have a fight. Another useless, abusive female, surprise surprise. And people wondered why he didn't trust them as a rule.

“…A pair of crossed keys. The house key and…I haven’t decided which of the car keys yet, actually. The GS was “first” first, but the Maserati was the first one you trusted to me alone.”

Oh. Andrew exhaled a long stream of smoke in Neil’s direction as he considered this, watching it dissipate as it crossed the room. “Cars and houses change. The basic shape of the two key types don’t. Don’t be so specific. How badly do you want this?”

Neil thought about it seriously. “I’d get it today if I didn’t have one major problem: I’m not going to trust some random tattoo artist to look at my chest, and I want it here.” He touched himself to indicate.

Dead over his heart. Fucking romantic. Andrew sat up from where he leaned against the window, stubbed out his cigarette, and grabbed his laptop. He pulled up a YouTube video demonstrating stick-and-poke tattoos so that his skittish boyfriend wouldn’t bolt, and then walked out of the room to gather the supplies.

Neil was wide-eyed when he made it back to the room with a bucket of gathered up equipment and pulled out a new sewing needle, a pencil, thread, tape, and ink, along with sterilizing supplies. "You're not seriously suggesting I get an amateur tattoo with pen ink and a needle."

"Tattoo ink." Andrew shook the bottle at him, and then set it down to swab his desk off with a paper towel soaked in rubbing alcohol. "Much better than ballpoint, and I've done plenty of good tattoos in ballpoint. You're not getting an amateur tattoo."

Neil scooted over to the end of the bed by the desk as Andrew lined up his supplies. “You have no tattoos.” Neil had earned the privilege of seeing Andrew fully naked about seven months after moving into Andrew’s room.

“I did it ‘professionally’ in juvie, and I was good enough that some of the guards even wanted a free tattoo done, so they got me real tattoo ink. This is a sealed bottle,” he assured Neil, tapping the lid.

Neil considered all of this. “You don’t do anything for free.”

“No. But favors go a long way in a prison.”

Neil nodded and obediently took his shirt off when Andrew flicked his fingers. He lay back down again, but tensed when Andrew disinfected the skin with brisk scrubs of an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

"Relax," Andrew ordered. "I've done hundreds of tattoos." He could feel Neil's pulse thumping rapidly against his fingertips. He uncapped a blue marker and Neil wordlessly dug in his pocket for keys to trace. Andrew shook his head, though, and Neil went still. He'd meant it: they would share more than one car and more than one house in their lives. Neil was memorializing a concept, not specific key teeth. He freehanded a hardware store house key and an unbranded car key in an X over Neil's hammering pulse. “I’m planning black ink with bold lines and some minimal shading. Unless you want something different.”

Neil craned his head up from where he was laying to look. His expression was pleased.

"Any changes?"

Neil thought a moment, then dug in his pocket again. He selected the key to the Foxhole Court and laid it vertically between the other outlines. This one was specific, so Andrew traced the teeth carefully. It was also a hardware store copy like the house key, so he thought a moment, and then drew a fox paw on the head. Neil smiled, wide and soft.

Fuck. He'd had to stop counting months ago. The percentage was getting too ridiculously high. He hated... He hated how Neil made him feel out of control. For years his reason for living had been curating others' dependence on him. Having his own needs and emotions depend so heavily on another person was terrifying, but he'd resigned himself to it. 

And it was Neil. He could trust Neil.

“Can we make the paw orange?”

Andrew shook himself out of his own mind. “I’ll get some orange ink online. We’ll fill that in when it arrives.” He rubbed the design down with another alcohol swab followed by petroleum jelly, and then uncapped the bottle of black ink.

Neil froze again when he picked up the needle and sterilized it. He shot his boyfriend an unimpressed stare as he methodically wrapped thread around the tip, and tipped his chin sharply at a scar two inches north of his design. "You've literally been shot, Neil."

"Once. This is a lot of punctures, okay." Neil took a slow, steadying breath.

"It is not a big deal. I've tattooed twelve year olds that handled this with more grace."

"Then why don't you have any, if it's no big deal?" Neil shot back. "I've never even seen a tattoo artist with no tattoos."

Because I've never had anything worth inking, Andrew wanted to argue. But that wasn't entirely true. He'd had a few passing thoughts about the short list of things important enough to keep with him for the rest of his life. The things he was building his life on. Truth. And Neil.

Neil was actually quaking in their bed. He wanted this so much but was so irrationally afraid.

Andrew silently sat in the desk chair and lifted his left arm, propping his elbow on the desk. He gave his inner wrist a swipe with an alcohol swab, just above the arm band, drew what he wanted carefully, and then dipped his needle in ink and began.

It had been a long time, and it was an eye opening experience, marrying together the familiar resistance and yield of skin under the pressure of the needle with the small, sharp pierces that throbbed with his heartbeat in his wrist. On the whole, pricks hurt less than slices. It hurt, but it didn't bleed or linger beyond a raw throb. Neil would be fine. He saw Neil sit up in his peripheral vision, but Neil wasn’t watching the design, he was watching the angle of the needle. Andrew was done stippling the first layer in about five minutes.

“It’s shallower than I thought,” Neil commented when it was safe to speak without distracting Andrew.

“Deep enough to hold the ink, not deep enough to hit blood vessels or let the ink feather over the muscle.” He went over it again, making it darker.

Eventually Neil piped up again. “How did you learn? I thought tattoo artists generally practiced on themselves to figure it out. Who else would let them?”

Andrew kept his eyes on his work, dipping for fresh ink and falling back into the rhythm. Like riding a bike. He’d always been quite efficient and quick with his work. “You don’t learn on skin. You learn on fruit, like bananas and oranges. The peel has skin-like firmness.”

“And…does it hurt?”

Andrew stopped to wipe off the excess ink again, sending Niel a bored look. “Immensely. I am writhing in pain.” Neil shot him a look in return. “It’s just shallow pinpricks, idiot.”

After a third pass and wipe, he eyed it critically. "Yours will take a good deal longer than fifteen minutes because of the size and shading, but.” He twisted his wrist for Neil to see. “Nothing to it."

Copying was easy for him, with his memory. 'Abram' was written in Neil's handwriting.

There was not 'nothing' on Neil's face. Neil's breath hitched, and the sheer emotion in those pretty blue eyes threatened to drown them both.

Andrew covered Neil's eyes when he couldn't stand it anymore, but he bent forward for a lingering kiss at the same time. "Your turn," he murmured against Neil's lips, pressing his palm to Neil's design. Neil's heart was still pounding, though Andrew didn't think it was due to fear anymore. Good enough.

Neil shuddered under his touch and cupped a hand around his wrist, squeezing gently. Andrew let him, and didn't flinch, but he made a note not to touch Neil's tattoo when it was done.

He kissed Neil one more time, then patted his tattoo down with mild soap water, sealed it over with Neosporin and saran wrap. He re-sterilized and threaded his needle, and Neil let him begin to work.

[londone-fog]

Friday, Never Hesitate- Reddie Soulmate AU

AO3 Link

The next day, his mother told him to swallow a new pill. Oblong, slightly pink in color. It was bitter on his tongue, and he didn’t like it. The back pain went away after a couple of days.

But his Mama told him to keep taking them.

He didn’t want to upset her.

Chapter One- Monday

Eddie had been laying on the freshly mown grass of his back lawn, running his palms over the prickles, tickles taking over his nerves. The sky was an unmarred blue expanse, not a single cloud blocking his view. The gentle breeze ruffling his hair wasn’t quite cold, but warned of the coming season. He was seven years old.

His mother hadn’t known he was out there, taking in the lovely afternoon. He had just gotten results from his allergy test earlier that month, so he wasn’t allowed outside so much anymore. He was allergic to grass, according to his mother, but he felt fine now, calm. His new inhaler was sore against his bottom through the thin fabric of his back pocket. His palms were still smarting a little from getting pushed in the hallway at school. He’d landed hard, but he didn’t tell his mom. He already wasn’t allowed to run or dig in the dirt with the other kids, he was too sick. He’d only get shoved again.

But Eddie wasn’t thinking about that now. He thought about today’s lesson.

She told them about soulmates.

Soulmates were like a best friend. They wouldn’t leave you behind. They loved you unconditionally. Everyone had one. They grew in when you were about Eddie’s age, coloring your skin in a way that only one other person could match. Like your adult teeth; just something that happens when you grow up. Kids in his class chattered about their parent’s soulmarks, and how they were colored, how they sometimes looked like shapes or objects. The few that were lucky enough to have their own proudly displayed them, a few even getting in trouble for shedding clothing in order to properly show off.

Eddie did not have his yet.

He thought his mother did. She had a splotchy mark right above her elbow that was usually covered by the sleeves of her dresses and blouses. He asked her about it one day, a long while before that day. She became very upset, and he never brought it up again. Hers was not colorful, though. It was a monochrome grey color, washed out.

Eddie ran his fingers gently, over the soft, unmarked skin of his arm. What would his mark look like? What colors would it be? Would it hurt, like scraping your knee? Would it be like drinking soda, light and funny feeling?

“Eddie, are you- EDWARD, YOU GET OUT OF THAT GRASS THIS MINUTE!” Eddie turned his head to see his mother standing on the porch, plump face flushed with anger. He scrambled to get inside, but she blocked his path with her rotund body.

“What did I tell you about grass? It flares up your allergies. Why aren’t you listening to me.” She sounded very upset, and shame began bubbling up in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m sorry Mama. I don’t want you to be sad.”

“What happens if you get sick, Eddie? You could die, you could get hurt. Then I’ll be all alone.”

Those words rang through Eddie’s head as he lay on his bed later that night. Hot tears of shame dripped out of his eyes, his mother’s anger and upsetness clinging to his insides.

He made a promise to listen to her forever. He didn’t want her to be alone.

-

Eddie went up to his teacher the next day, a question burning bright in his little mind.

“Mrs. Jones, I have a question.”

“Of course, Eddie. What’s the problem?”

“It’s about soul mates. What happens when they aren’t colorful? Everyone says they’re colorful, but my mom’s isn’t.”

She looked around, making sure they couldn’t be overheard.

“Well, soulmarks can go grey when one soulmate dies. It’s really very sad.”

“My dad died.”

“That’s probably why. Don’t worry about it too much, okay? Go play.”

And he shuffled along with the rest of the students, mind heavy. Of course his mother was so protective. Eddie’s dad died when Eddie was only a baby. He was sick.

How terrible it must be to have someone so important die like that. Eddie couldn’t get sick. He wouldn’t.

-

The air had grown a little colder when Eddie made his very first friends.

The air was growing crisp with the feeling of fall. Leaves began to change, leaving behind green newness for burnt oranges and reds.

Eddie sat alone under one of the large oak trees littered throughout the recess yard, a book nestled in his lap. It was a book with pictures, large and colorful. A prince searching far and wide for his soulmate, a beautiful princess with a pretty soul mark. He traced the smooth lines on the page with the tip of his index finger.

Suddenly, his head was knocked back with the force of something hitting it. It fell into his shock wide mouth and fought to get to his eyes. He cautiously raised his hands to his face, trying in vain to wipe the grainy substance off of him. Sand. Of course. He heard sniggers coming from whoever threw it, hot tears starting to spill from his eyes. Sand gritted against his teeth and stuck to his tongue, rattling with every breath. He could feel his throat closing, panic setting in.

He needed his inhaler. He reached to grab it out of his back pocket, but it slipped from his clumsy grasp, clattering on the ground.

But then, he felt a warm hand on his back, and his world changed forever.

“Is this yours?” asked a voice, a little raspy. His inhaler was pushed into his hands, and he nodded thankfully, taking a large puff and feeling it settle against his throat. A pair of hands, probably belonging to the voice, pushed the sand out of his eyes and hair. When Eddie finally opened his eyes, he was staring a Richie Tozier. Richie Tozier who was in trouble for talking all the time for talking and making jokes, and had glasses that took over his whole face. Richie Tozier who had picked up Eddie’s inhaler to help him in his earliest time of need.

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbled.

“Why were those kids mean to you?” Richie asked, barely even acknowledging the gratitude shown to him.

“I dunno. I told them I can’t play because I’m sick. My mom says I can’t run cause I’ll get hurt.”

“You won’t get hurt. That’s stupid.” Richie’s elbows were covered in bandages and he had skinned knees and holes in his jeans. Getting hurt seemed like an inevitability.

“It’s not. And saying stupid isn’t very nice either.”

They regarded each other in silence for a moment, before Richie began laughing. It was a boisterous and howling thing, and it was the lightest and most joyous sound Eddie had ever heard.

“I like you. Do you want to come play with me and Bill?” He extended a finger towards Bill Denbrough, a lanky boy with mousy hair who spoke with an awful stutter. He rose his eyes up toward them, raising a hand and waving a little.

Eddie thought of how his mom told him that the other boys are too rough for him, that he had to keep himself safe. But these boys seemed just fine.

“Okay. My name’s Eddie.”

“I know that Eddie Spaghetti, we’re in the same class remember?”

And he let himself be led into the open embrace of friendship.

-

It was a Monday night. Nearly a week had passed since Eddie met his newfound friends. They played during recess everyday, laughing at Richie’s jokes and digging tunnels in the hard-packed sand of the playground.

Eddie layed in bed, head singing with fond memories. Soulmates were no longer the focus of his little brain; he had all he needed right here. Good friends and his Mama, who fretted over him when he told her about the sand attack. He told her excitedly about his new friends, and she was very quiet. But she couldn’t have been upset. Not when Eddie was so happy.

His back hurt, though. It had been hurting all day, a dull throb right between his shoulder blades, the exact place where Richie had placed his hand as he handed Eddie his inhaler last week. But the pain had become sharper. He didn’t want to worry Mama, but he needed to do something.

Eddie walked carefully down the stairs, socked feet making little noise against the carpeting. His mother laid asleep in her chair, television still washing the room in a blue glow.

“Mama,” he said gently, shaking her awake. “Mama, my back hurts really bad.”

“Where?” she asked, sitting up ramrod straight. “Show me.”

He pointed to his back, right in the middle. She lifted up the back of his shirt, quietly examining the source of his pain. Eddie could barely catch her breathing hitch, before she forced his shirt back down again.

“You must be having an allergic reaction. Or you’ve been playing too much with those other rowdy boys. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow and get you some medicine. Go back to bed.”

And he went.

The next day, his mother told him to swallow a new pill. Oblong, slightly pink in color. It was bitter on his tongue, and he didn’t like it. The back pain went away after a couple of days.

But his Mama told him to keep taking them.

He didn’t want to upset her.

[cosmosogler]

hi i had a bad night

at some point i realized i was awake. not sure if i’d slept before that or not. but then i started coughing uncontrollably and then i threw up. i looked at the clock since i was up anyway. it was 3 am.

i went back to sleep. i had the kind of nightmare where you are trying so hard to wake up and you just can’t and then you are screaming irl and your cat is startled. 

they were gonna get me.

then i didn’t want to get up until 7:55 and then i showered and i was very angry. then i started crying a little bit. i was thinking about a message mom sent me yesterday. she said dad was bummed because he didn’t have anyone to eat thai food with. 

someone has to be angry about this. no one else is going to be angry about it except me. 

no one was angry about craig either. i had to do it myself.

i was really slow about making myself lunch and eating breakfast because i didn’t really want to eat. i remembered today is spaghetti day so i didn’t worry about making a full lunch and just packed some snacks for later in case i got hungry in the afternoon and needed to stay on campus for whatever reason. (i should have stayed longer.)

i biked to campus and took notes during class. i used my new pen, which i bought on saturday, which has four colors! i think it helped me a lot toward keeping the lecture organized in my head. but i also very quickly noticed even more just how erratic the quantum professor is. but classical went very well as far as note taking went. i made sure to summarize the class in the space above the date as well.

after that we went and got spaghetti. we found out harrison is 19. gotta go fast, i guess. after they went back to the department i went over to the counseling center to start group therapy at long last.

i found myself reacting a lot but about 2/3 of the way through the meeting i stopped talking. i was also the only one that the facilitator didn’t ask about how the meeting went. maybe because i was sitting just outside her field of view and i was fidgeting but being quiet. i like everyone well enough. not sure what prompted me to, kind of, get stuck between my thoughts and my mouth. i guess i felt like my comments/questions would have changed the topic of conversation too much and maybe talking about religion was a good idea.

i did bring up that religion comes with a lot of bad memories for me and if i don’t joke about it i start remembering...

well, i start remembering even if i do joke about it. no one’s gonna be upset for me.

i know i don’t have to hold on to anger. i guess that makes it more... meaningful that i do? not sure how to word that. if no one is angry at dad then that means what he did was ok. and it wasn’t. and he never, ever apologized. and if he wants to hold on to the macho act so bad then he can do it over there, by himself, without me.

anyway after that was e&m but i was so burnt out that i just drew snoopy instead of taking notes. it’s going to hurt my grades. there was an in-class activity and i had the right answer right away but then i let my neighbor talk me out of it and i got points off because i changed my answer to the wrong one. we have another test next week. it’s the only thing contributing to our grades. the professor doesn’t take homework.

suzanne wanted to talk to the grader for classical tomorrow because a lot of us are getting points marked off for things we did do. like i wrote down an equation weird and he wrote “don’t do this, do this instead” all over it in huge letters when in the very next line i had done the thing he wanted me to do. but he didn’t see that because he was busy writing his correction over my work. suzanne said it happened to her too. 

i also got points off for saying that the first derivative was 0 but not also saying that the second derivative was also 0 before starting to do actual math. but if the first one is 0 it follows naturally that the second one is 0 because the second one is calculated off the first... my head is spinning.

anyway after that i spent an hour reading an article, and then i did a classical problem all by myself! suzanne gave some input, as in, she told me i didn’t have to do one of the things i was doing and showed me that i could look up the details of the coordinate system i needed online. but i knew how to start the problem right away! i am hoping that’s a good sign. we are going to finish the assignment tomorrow so we can spend the weekend studying and stuff instead of trying to get the homework done for monday when the test is on tuesday. the three hour long test. on tuesday night.

then the e&m test on friday afternoon.

i biked home before the sun went down!!! i made myself dinner and cleaned up the apartment a bit and brushed snoopy and gave her some cookies. and i actually got her to bat at one of her toys once!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i am so proud of her. 

while i was cleaning out her main litter box i stopped by the balcony. the hallway is outdoors so there’s just some balcony/bridge areas that look out over town. i watched the sun set for a little bit. more than 5 minutes but less than 10. it was... interesting.

i recognized intellectually that the sunset was colorful and beautiful, and i really liked how the clouds looked next to the orange-peach sky and the way the hotel down the road was lit up under them. but emotionally i didn’t really... feel anything, i guess. like normally a peaceful moment like that would just be really nice and i would feel something inside. but tonight i was just tired. i did bop along to my music since no one was around but... i dunno it didn’t move me when i knew from memory that it should. i don’t feel anything any more.

it keeps me up at night actually. it bothers me when i am riding my bike and thinking. it bothers me in the shower. it bothers me while i’m eating. 

i try to think of the people i love, and the animals that i love, and i don’t feel anything. i can’t remember what that feels like. to care so much. to “feel for” them. maybe it would be upsetting once the impact settled in if one of them was feeling bad. but thinking about it, thinking about my new classmates, “how would i feel if keegan broke his leg??” i don’t have an answer. “nothing” is all i can think of. i don’t feel anything.

i guess i feel... bad? sometimes? usually when my professor is being passive aggressive or when i’m hungry. 

did i talk about my talk with the professor yesterday... i think a little bit. i talked about how he kept talkin about how bad i did. i wanted to be angry. i wanted to cut him off and tell him that i was actually doing almost everything he accused me of not doing. but i just felt exhausted. i didn’t even feel exhausted. i felt sleepy. i wanted to put my head down on the table and take a nap while he babbled nonstop at me.

i felt like that during the prelim except it was so overpowering that i did actually fall asleep. i passed out. i can’t say “i took a nap” because, like, that technically happened, but it wasn’t normal. i didn’t actually need a nap. but my brain was very insistent that i needed to spend a large chunk of my twelve-hour test asleep. 

but those are my two emotions right now. “nothing” or “bad.” at least when i’m screwing around with my classmates at krishna or whatever i’m not thinking about how i feel. i still feel nothing but it’s not on my mind so i feel a little more comfortable trying to smile instead of automatically laughing every time i mention how bad i feel. 

“i can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not” is kind of a weird comment to make. the answer is “both.” 

at group i really wanted to ask if anyone else ever got called “cute” or “sweet” and how they dealt with knowing that their peers don’t take them as seriously as everyone else. it was at the forefront of my mind for the last third of the meeting. i didn’t bring it up... i’m having my classical midterm before our next meeting. this was just an introductory session so i couldn’t have worked on test anxiety anyway, but... i guess i feel like i should have talked about myself. at the same time i feel like i talked too much. 

instead of grading or doing any more work or anything useful (well, i took care of some tax stuff with mom’s help) i spent some time catching up on all the stuff i’ve bookmarked over the last two weeks. i don’t have a lot of energy this week. i think all my classmates are also dragging their feet just judging from how much time suzanne spends hunched over her desk, taylor spends watching anime, luis spends playing goat simulator, harrison spends riding luis’ skateboard back and forth across the office room, keegan makes himself scarce, rebika just seems kind of lost. 

there’s another grad student that joins us for krishna spaghetti on wednesdays. his name is soham. he’s got a great sense of humor, i’ve loved basically every comment he’s made. he spends a lot of time in his office at the end of the hallway though so i don’t see him a lot.

umm i think that’s it. still feeling kind of rattled about the nightmare. i didn’t describe it because i’m not sure how to. it needs so much context that i’d be here for another hour. it was the kind where i was using every trick in the book to try to get away, everything i’ve learned i can do in dreams over the years, but the monster knew all of them too and just didn’t care what i did. i could walk through a wall and it would still be right there behind me. i could fly away and it would catch me with a fishhook or just come up there and get me itself. i could hide and it would track my scent. i could hole myself up in a bunker and it would unlock the front door and just walk right in. i knew better than to call for help but i was so desperate that i was just screaming and i carried that with me for a moment as i finally woke myself up.

at least this time it wasn’t craig. it was “ambiguous best friend for this dream.” it’s... easier to deal with, in a way, long term.

[reptilerach]

“Rejection”; Chapter Twelve

NOTES: Extra long chapter today to make up for the wait. No swears, and... well, you’ll find out for yourself towards the end of the chapter.  (▰˘◡˘▰) (=ﾟωﾟ)ﾉ

______________________________________________________________                                           

                                             (The next morning…)

You awoke at around 9:30 to the scent of something sweet. Rubbing the crust from around your eyelids and ruffling your hair, you saw Papyrus setting something down on the kitchen table. It appeared to be… spaghetti. You frowned, and sat up straight. The tall skeleton must have saw your sudden movement, as he rushed over to you. He sat down on the floor beside you, booming out a hello.

You covered your ears, wincing from the loud noise. “GOOD MORNING, SLEEPY HEAD!” Papyrus chuckled, and cocked his head to the side. You smiled from his goofiness, and stretched. None of your bones popped, which irritated you, but it didn't last long. “Hey there, Paps.” You yawned mid-sentence, and scratched your shoulders. Papyrus’s happy demeanor faltered for a second, and he fiddled with his gloved thumbs.

“HUMAN, I AM SORRY THAT I MADE YOU CRY LAST NIGHT. I HEATED UP SOME LEFTOVER PASTA TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!” He lowered his head the same a puppy would do when being yelled at, and your brain ached. Oh yeah. I’d completely forgotten. I don’t think I had any dreams last night either; except for one part where I was in the Arctic, freezing, and a warm breeze passed over me to keep me warm. Weird. It felt real...

You reached out a hand, and massaged the innocent skeleton’s skull lovingly. “Oh, Papyrus. I could never stay mad at you!” Papyrus jumped up into the air, and scooped you up into his arms. You braced yourself for the spinning, but instead Papyrus settled back down onto the couch behind you and embraced your body tightly. “THANK YOU, FRIEND (Nickname)! I CANNOT IMAGINE GOING ON WITH MY DAY KNOWING THAT YOU WERE STILL UPSET!”

You felt a tear streak down your cheek at his worry, and squeezed him back hard. “Papyrus, I will always be your friend. Don’t you ever forget that.” You whispered by his face where his ears should be, and felt his cheekbones warm with pure joy. The two of you stayed like that for a moment, until he reached for your blanket and laid it atop your lap. He scooched from out under you, and handed you the remote.

“YOU WAKE UP EARLY COMPARED TO MY BROTHER, (Nickname).” Papyrus mentioned, and an idea occurred to you. “What time do you wake up?” You asked, and Papyrus struck a heroic pose. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WAKE UP AT 6 O'CLOCK SHARP.” Your jaw dropped, and wrinkled your nose. “Why?” You laughed, when his eye sockets bulged slightly.

“DON’T ALL HUMANS WAKE UP AT THE SAME TIME THE GREAT PAPYRUS DOES?” He inquired, and you shook your head. “As you can probably see…” You gestured to yourself, “...that is not true.” You giggled, and Papyrus brought a hand up around his chin. “INTERESTING… FRISK IS AN EARLY RISER LIKE I AM. PERHAPS YOU ARE SPECIAL HUMAN, (Nickname).” You blushed at his compliment (was it a compliment?) and waved a hand at him.

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a night owl.” You shrugged, and Papyrus made a bewildered expression. “I THOUGHT YOU WERE A HUMAN!!” It took you a second to figure out what he meant by that, and when you did, you burst out into laughter. The walls reflected the loud noise, and Papyrus started yelling at you to calm down. “I’M SO CONFUSED!!!” He shouted, and started flailing his arms about like an idiot.

You only laughed harder, and plopped flat onto the floor. Papyrus stopped his crazed running around, and threw you on top of his shoulders. “(Nickname)!! EXPLAIN YOUR RACE!” You wiped a tear, not even minding how strong this guy must have been in order to pick you up so fast like that. “It’s a figure of speech, Paps. I’m a human; when I say I’m a ‘night owl’, that means I like to stay up later than most.”

The skeleton pondered for a moment, and then started chuckling. The rattling of his laughs made you bounce slightly, causing you to wrap your arms around his neck for safety. “OH! THEN MY BROTHER MUST BE AN OWL TOO. HE SELDOM GOES TO HIS ROOM EARLY; MAINLY BECAUSE HE HAS TO READ ME MY BEDTIME STORY.” You recalled how he told Frisk that same bit of information, making you smiled.

“IT’S CALLED-” “-Tales of the Fluffy Bunny?” You finished his sentence for him; he looked up towards you, smiling wide. “HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT, HUMAN?” You flinched, reminding yourself that around Papyrus you had to keep your mouth shut. “U-uh, you told me last night while making dinner! Remember?’

He frowned, and narrowed his eyes at the messed up couch. “HMM… I THINK I DO. BUT, ANYWAYS, LET’S GO EAT THAT DELICIOUS BREAKFAST THAT I HEATED UP JUST FOR YOU!” Papyrus cheered, and took off towards the kitchen. You clung to his scarf, and froze. “Wait, Papyrus-! I’m not gonna fit through the-” Your head clunked painfully against the entryway, and you slipped off of the younger brother’s shoulders.

You fell to the ground hard, and cried out when your spine landed first. You shrunk into the fetal position, and Papyrus spun around quickly. “OH MY GOD!! DEAR (Nickname), ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! I AM SO SORRY!! HOLD ON, LEMME GET SOME HEALING SPAGHETTI-” You cringed at the thought of him pouring spaghetti on you while you mentally screamed in agony. Hair was stuck in your mouth, so you spat it out grossly.

Dear God… I’m about to fall victim to a pasta avalanche. Papyrus came out from the kitchen, and held your breakfast up in the air. He had a fork clutched in the other glove, and you widened your eyes. “HERE YOU GO! THIS SHOULD FIX YOU RIGHT UP!” He fret, and you wrapped your hands around your head, preparing for the attack. Just as you could hear the fork scratching against the plate, a voice called out from above the stairway.

“woah, woah, woah! paps, what are you doing?!”

                                          (About a half hour earlier…)

Sans opened his eye sockets slowly and took in a deep breath from his nasal cavity. A distant noise had disrupted him from his slumber, and it annoyed him greatly. He glared at the clock on his desk across the room, and growled. 9:34. seriously? this is probably the earliest i’ve woken up in a long time. He sat up on his mattress, and cracked his bones tiredly. The loud vibrations bouncing off his door continued, and it almost sounded like...laughter.

Not bothering to get dressed, Sans slipped on his slippers and passed his treadmill. Santa had gotten it for him as a Christmas present a couple of months ago, or whenever the first reset was. He rest a hand on the doorknob, and ignored the dog flying around in his self-sustaining tornado.

The noise was indeed laughter, he confirmed, but it sounded nothing like his brother’s. It was a little deeper, but not much. It made Sans’ hand tremble on the brass, from either anxiety or nerves. The door creaked open, and the noise stopped. He yawned, and scratched his sternum. An emptiness grew inside his ribs at the void of the sudden laughter that made his pulse rise quickly.

He peered over the stairwell, and smiled when he saw Papyrus messing around with someone. Sans squinted, and realized it was (Y/N). He remembered everything that happened the day before, and was shocked how Frisk still hadn’t reset yet. It’d been a few days since the kid moved back in with Toriel, and befriended all the monsters Underground.

A weight fell upon his shoulders from all the information he now has to deal with and try to comprehend that was given to him from the new human yesterday. His grin fell into a frown, and he shut his eyes. (y/n) said that our entire world is a videogame. got it. she also mentioned that she practically knows everything, except for this timeline. she apparently has a very unique soul; one that does not remain the same color or dominant personality trait.

He rubbed his temples frustratingly, but relaxed when he heard Papyrus say something about “breakfast”. Sans opened his eye sockets just as (Y/N) collided with the top part of the doorway to the kitchen; he practically jumped a foot into the air from shock. Sans winced as she hit the ground with an “oomph!”, and curled up into a ball. He waited to see if Papyrus would check for any injuries, pick her up and lay her on the green couch on which she slept, or perhaps even take her hand and-

“OH MY GOD!! DEAR (Nickname), ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! I AM SO SORRY!! HOLD ON, LEMME GET SOME HEALING SPAGHETTI-” Papyrus nearly shrieked, and ran into the room beside him. Sans just watched in confusion from his brother’s choice of action, but made no move to teleport by (Y/N) to make sure she was okay.

However, when he saw how Papyrus was about to dump some “healing spaghetti” onto the wounded human, Sans decided to intervene. “woah, woah, woah! paps, what are you doing?!” Sans shouted, but not so loud that Papyrus would think that he was angry at him again. Sans ran down the stairs, and slid across the carpet next to (Y/N).

He held his hands up in the air, ready to flip the girl and look her over. “I-I WAS JUST PLAYING WITH (Nickname) HERE AND SHE FELL OFF MY SHOULDERS! I THOUGHT THAT SINCE THE PASTA TASTED REALLY GOOD, IT WOULD HEAL HER TOO-” Papyrus stammered, freaking out a little at (Y/N)’s almost unconscious body. Sans grabbed her bicep gently and tugged to see her face.

She laid still, but was groaning under her breath at the welt that was sure to appear on her forehead. Sans sucked in a breath through his teeth upon seeing a large bruise already starting to form above her right eyebrow, and forced himself to remain calm when blood seeped out of the left gash. “paps, use your magic on her.” Sans commanded tenderly, and Papyrus kneeled down across from Sans quickly.

“WHAT SPELL?” He asked, and Sans tripped over his own words. “i-i dunno; the one you used when i broke my finger the other day.” Papyrus nodded, and waved his hands just above her big glasses. Sans wasn’t one for learning healing magic; all his life he was trained to use blue magic, the kinds of spells and summonings for attacks and destruction only.

Meanwhile, on the other hand, Paps was really good at treating illnesses and fixing things. There was no way his magic could rival Toriel’s; she was practically the master of all things medicine and curing. But while Tori was far away from most towns to help sick subjects, Papyrus was always there when someone needed him. He could run very fast, as his legs were practically four feet long, which was an attribute Sans did not have.

Sans was not meant for taking hits, as he had very little HP and a low attack stat, but that didn’t mean he was weak. In fact, Sans was probably the strongest and scariest monster there is in the Underground. He’s right up there next to Asriel Dreemur in his godly form; proving that whenever Chara possesses Frisk and goes through the Genocide route, it’s going to take an insane amount of time and skill in order to beat him.

Sans’ endurance in battle is amazing; most would think that the bigger and bulkier you are, the more of a chance that you’ll win in battle. At least, that’s what the Underground’s mindset was. This is why people always underestimated Sans; because he wasn’t bulky, and he most definitely wasn’t a big bad-ass Boss Monster with a huge reputation. If only people saw what his true capabilities were when he needed to dunk a certain demon wreaking havoc to all monsterkind.

Normally, Sans was a lazy skeleton who enjoyed ketchup and making puns all day. But when you take away his most valued and prized possession, you might as well just give up completely. Because that possession was Papyrus, the only family he has left and the only thing he has to live for whilst dealing with his depression.

After a few silent minutes of Papyrus working away and doing his thing, (Y/N)’s eyelids fluttered open. The blood on her face had evaporated into thin air, and the bruise on her forehead had disappeared back into her tan skin. She also noticed that the pain in her spine had gone away, too. Sans breathed a sigh of relief, and sat back onto his heels. Papyrus wiped the sweat beads that formed on his skull away, and looked down at (Y/N).

She groaned softly, and blinked when she saw the two skeletons above her. “What is it with you two making me hit my forehead on stuff?” She chuckled, and bringing a hand up to her hairline. When she brushed it back, Sans smiled at the genius joke that popped into his mind. “i guess papyrus was getting a little a-head of himself.” Sans smiled when his bro glared and reprimanded him.

“I SWEAR TO ASGORE SANS, IF YOU START WITH THAT NONSENSE I’M DISOWNING YOU.” Papyrus mumbled, and (Y/N) giggled. Sans was glad to see that she was already feeling better. “sorry, i didn’t mean to make that as-gorey as it came out. maybe a less bloody joke will help lighten the mood.” Sans chuckled deeply, and his ribs rattled softly. (Y/N) laughed a little louder, and Papyrus shot up immediately.

“THAT’S IT! YOU ARE NO LONGER RELATED TO ME.” Papyrus stormed out of the living room, taking the plate of spaghetti with him. Sans sighed happily, and turned his attention to the clock above the TV. 10:02. “wow, time sure does fly when you’re making puns.” Sans looked back down to (Y/N), who was trying to sit up.

When she let out a cry, Sans’ smile dropped. “hey, take it easy pal. i know paps’ magic is pretty awesome, but that doesn’t mean you should be making any sudden movements so soon.” She grinned sweetly, and nodded. “I thought the phrase was, ‘time flies when you’re having fun’?” Sans raised his non existent eyebrows, and thought to himself. He shrugged, and winked playfully at her.

“it is, but i don’t think that getting injured is much fun. unless to you it is, which i can respect. a bit masochistic, but i’ll accept it.” He said nonchalantly, and (Y/N) rolled her eyes back. “Touche.” She laughed again, and went quiet. She stared down at her clothes, then brought her attention back up to Sans.

“So...am I just gonna lay here until Papyrus’s magic settles, or…?” Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip. The way she looked at that moment with her all messed up and long eyelashes batting slowly towards him made his soul jump unexpectedly. An idea came to his mind, and he thought it would work fine.

“nah. here, lemme help you over to the couch.” Sans leaned over, and curled his arms under (Y/N)’s back. She gulped, and let out a nervous yelp. Sans stood up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck like she had done to Papyrus’s scarf. “S-S-Sans!! What are you doing?!” Her face turned beet red, and the skeleton chuckled. His own cheekbones released a light blue tint, and his eye flared softly.

As he walked her over to the couch, Papyrus peeked from around the corner and saw what was happening. He saw both of their expressions, and smiled devilishly from his spot in the kitchen. He knew something had been off with Sans ever since (Y/N) arrived, and was sure to talk to him about it later in private.

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Chapter Ten (Where all the chapters before that are.)

Chapter Twenty (Links for Chapters 11 --> 19)

Chapter Thirty (Links for Chapters 21 --> 29)