#looking at any paper or canvas brings me physical pain

[frostinepac3]

The way I absolutely cannot bring myself to draw anymore is insane 😕

[runwithwolvcs]

You Know I'm No Good - thirty eight

Birthday Boy

Warnings : Smut

Tallulah loved birthdays. Not necessarily her own, but getting to celebrate someone else and make them feel loved and wanted on a day that many dread. The ‘will they remember?’ fear seeping into the back of people's mind as the day looms closer and their friends and family have yet to mention anything about it was a feeling Tallulah felt a lot when she was a kid, mostly due to being an only child. Now, she treats them like the biggest deal of the year, for every person she knows. This being the first big day her and Paul will be sharing together made it extra special. His twenty-seventh birthday. 

She got up earlier than usual, making sure every detail on the painting she slaved over was perfect, before wrapping it in wax paper, before wrapping it in midnight blue wrapping paper.

She had practically raced up the stairs to his bedroom after her mom helped her get the canvas inside, as well as the food her mom had picked up from Lucky’s diner. Winona's contribution to her daughters imprints birthday.

As she stood in the doorway, he was already awake and sitting up, a small smile on his face as he no doubt heard all the commotion.

 “Hi.” she beamed at him, before making her way over and climbing on top of him.

“Happy birthday.” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his lips gently, wary of the amount of body weight she had on his still tender shoulder.

“Do I get a birthday wish?” he asked, squeezing her ass with one hand. They hadn’t done anything remotely physical with each other since just after she had returned from Seattle. She was so busy and with him being hurt, she didn’t want to risk Paul being in any pain. Though he protested, stating he was as resilient as a rock.

“My moms downstairs, your present was heavy.” she mentioned sheepishly, ruining the mood before it had even started, “Though she did bring you food,”

“Mm, you didn’t have to do anything for me, baby.” he said, pressing another kiss to her lips slowly, she could feel the edges of his lips upturned in a smile and she stroked the side of his face lovingly.

“I wanted to. Birthdays are a big deal, especially for an old man like you.” she teased and he pinched her ass in response causing her to giggle and wrap her arms around his neck in a hug, “Come on, early bird gets the worm and all that jazz that you old folk like to say.”

“One more kiss.” he said, grabbing her chin and holding her still as he pressed his warm lips to hers. They moved in tune with each other, her tongue being the one to deepen the kiss, swiping against his bottom lip, begging for more.

Paul was the first to pull away, reminding her,  “Your mom is downstairs.”

She pecked his lips once more before removing herself from him, “You should probably put a tshirt or something on.”

“You don’t want you mom to see me shirtless?” he teased

Tallulah shrugged, “I won’t be able to focus.”

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours. 100% yours.” she said, rummaging through his drawers, tossing him a plain black tee, “You can’t just walk around looking like that and expect me not to want to climb you like a tree.”

He laughed, a boisterous laugh, at her statement before quickly throwing the tee on and scooping her up in his arms, “I love you and your outrageous exaggerations.”

Tallulah smiled up at him, “I love you too.”

Letting her go, they walked hand in hand to the kitchen to find Tallulah's waiting mother, nearly finished setting up the copious amount of food. Pancakes, bacon and eggs galore.

“You make all this, Winona?” Paul asked, though it was evident from the takeout containers, she did not.

“I would like to say I could cook this well, but that is not the case.” Winona harped with a smile.

“It’s from Lucky’s Diner.” Tallulah announced as she grabbed plates and cutlery for the three of them.

“It's a tradition in our family to celebrate in the morning. Start the day off right.” Winona mentioned, and Paul couldn’t help but smile. Clearly fond of the idea that her mother was bringing him in on their traditions.

“I’ll take you to Frankies Cafe one day, the second best diner in all of Seattle. It’s our go-to. Or was.” Tallulah explained before sitting beside him after placing the plates in front of everyone.

“Pancakes as good as Margies?” he asked, remembering the story she had told him a few months back. The first time she had ever spent the night at his place, it was also the first night he could thoroughly indulge in her with no interruptions. Nothing about that day would ever be forgotten in his memory.

She shook her head no, “But they have really good milkshakes.”

“Milkshakes for breakfast?”

“Helps wash down the pancakes.” she shrugged.

The three dug in, Winona asking what he’s been up to with his few days off and how his arm is in general.

“Is Tooloulous still open?” Winona asked the two of them, though Tallulah had no idea what she was talking about. Stealing a piece of bacon off of Paul's plate and placing it on her own, pulling it apart with her fingers and eating it piece by piece.

Paul shook his head no, stretching his arm to rest on her chair, giving her better access to his plate, “They went out of business last year.”

“That was the go-to diner on the rez,” Winona said to her daughter and Paul nodded in agreement.

“The pack used to go there all the time,” Paul added, taking her untouched pancake. 

Tallulah grinned at him, “You should open your present.”

Winona nodded in agreement, “I have never seen my daughter put so  much time and effort into a present before.”

“Mom,” she whined, a pink hue covering her cheeks in embarrassment, “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Tallulah and her mom had only been able to carry the painting to the kitchen before their arms gave out. It was definitely the largest piece Tallulah had done and now she nervously watched Paul delicately peeled the wrapping paper, causing Tallulah to stifle a laugh. She had never seen him so cautious. His eyes lit up in recognition and he looked at her with a soft smile, “Now I see why you needed Embry's help.” 

The lookout where everything fell into place for them would now be a permanent fixture in his home.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I love it.” he said sincerely, pulling her into his side, pecking her lips.

She refrained from frowning at the lack of intimacy he was giving her around her mother, and instead Tallulah looked at her mom with a sheepish look. Hoping she would get the hint.

“Is that my cue to leave?” she teased her daughter, before looking at Paul, “Happy Birthday, Paul.”

“Thank you, and for breakfast as well.” he responded politely, his hand squeezing her hip gently at her growing need to be touched.

-- 

It wasn’t long after Winona left that the two imprints went at each other for the first time in weeks, making up for lost time. It started with Tallulah on her knees and ended with her back pressed to the foggy glass of the shower, begging for a release from the man between her legs.

It was a whirlwind of a day, starting with her family’s tradition and ending with his. The pack’s, at least. They spent the evening at the Uleys, with every member of the pack in attendance. 

Contrary to the last pack event she had attended, Paul never left her side. Always having one hand touching her in some form. He even thanked Embry for his contribution to the gift she had given him, despite his protests a few weeks prior about her spending time with him.

Nothing could ruin this day.

Except for an email from Parsons, informing her they received her portfolio, to which she quickly archived from prying eyes. Not that she thought he would be upset with her for sending it, more so that she didn’t send one to Tacoma, like they discussed.

Now back from the Uleys household, she sat on his bed beside him. A book in front of her that seemed less inviting than it did the night before, when she had started it.

“You okay?” he said, nudging her gently.

“Yeah, I’m great.” she lied, looking up at him.

“You can’t lie to me, I can hear your heartbeat.’

Taking a deep breath, she said, “It’s your birthday. You deserve one day full of nothing but calm happiness, and I’m going to give you that. So enough about me.”

“I’ll ask you again tomorrow then.” he said, not arguing with her, but wrapping his arm around her shoulders, playing with the tips of her hair.

Dread filled her mind, knowing he would indeed ask her tomorrow and she would have to figure out a way to tell him that she had finished her portfolio and sent it to Parsons only.

“You wanted a birthday wish, what do you wish for?” she asked quietly.

“You.” he stated plainly.

“You already have me,” she pointed out with a giggle.

“I wasn’t finished.” a gleam in his eye that reminded her of a kid in a candy store.

“My apologies, birthday boy.” she teased him, 

“Come, my sweetness.” he beckoned, before lifting her up, carrying her bridal style to the bathroom.

Setting her on the edge of the tub, he walked back out of the bathroom before reappearing seconds later, holding a jar of what looked like pink crystals.

He handed it to her, and as he turned on water to fill the bathtub, she read the label, bath crystals, before reading the note written on it in sharpie. 

To: Paul

For you, but mainly for Tal.

Enjoy :)

“Who’d you get this stuff from?” she asked , still looking at the jar filled with bubble bath crystals.

“Kim. She said if I relaxed in a hot bath my arm would heal faster, I don't know how true that is.” he said with a laugh, “She also said you deserved it more than I did.”

“You want to have a bubble bath?” she asked, confused, as she watched him add the crystals in.

“I want us to have a bubble bath.” he grinned at her, before saying, “Come on. Clothes off.”

Tallulah didn’t argue with him, instead, she stripped herself like she was asked and watched him do the same. Eyeing his body like it was the first time she had seen it.

He climbed in first before helping her in, she settled in between his legs, her back against his chest.

“How's your arm?” she asked, tone laced with worry. She couldn’t help it.

“It’s good, Lu, promise. Relax, baby.”

His hands slid up her sides before one headed back to her hip, the other stopping at her breast, palming it softly. She leaned her head back in bliss of his hands on her body, pressing a small kiss to his jaw.

His hand on her hip quickly found its way between her legs, spreading them enough to cup her mound, slipping his middle finger into her with ease. Causing her to bite her lip to suppress a moan.

“I should be the one giving you sexual favours,” she moaned, as he slipped another finger into her.

“Mm, why’s that?” his husky voice whispered in her ear, nipping it lightly.

“It's your birthday.”

“All I want from you, is to hear my name leaving your lips. That's it.” his free hand tweaking her nipple, the mix of pain and pleasure causing her to arch her back away from his chest with a gasp.

“You’re pretty easy to please.” she noted, grinding her hips against his hand, looking for more friction.

Their lips clashing against each other as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, to steady herself as he lifted her up enough to line himself up with her entrance, before easily slipping right into her, a breathy moan leaving her lips. 

“Does that feel good?” he asked before he bit her lip in between his teeth as she ground her hips back and forth on him. She let go of him, facing forward, with her hands on the tub as her legs began to shake.

“Mhmm.” she moaned, “oh, god.”

“That's not my name.” he said smugly, as he slid his hand down her stomach, his index finger hitting its target immediately, slowly rubbing her again.

“Paul.. “ she gasped at the sudden wave of new pleasure, Tallulah's fingers tightening on the edge of the porcelain tub.

“I want you to cum, darling.” he spoke softly into her ear from behind her.

“I'm gonna…” she moaned out, and picked her hips back up and slowly back down, using the edge of the tub to steady herself. The hand he had on her waist, guiding her movements as the water splashed gently around them.

Her fingertips were now white from how hard she was gripping the tub as he pressed her into his hips, hitting the correct spot everytime. The familiar feeling of her core tightening had Tallulah moaning out his name again, gripping him like a vice as she hit her high.

Paul helped her ride it through, using both hands on her waist to keep her bouncing on him as he chased his own high. It wasn’t long before, he nuzzled his face into the crevice of her neck with a low grunt and groan, spilling inside of her.

“Can we just.. stay like this a little longer?” she asked softly, a pink tinge covering her cheeks. The feeling of being full satisfying her more than she would ever admit out loud.

He let out a breathy chuckle, kissing the nape of her neck, “Anything for you, my Lu.”

The pads of his fingertips pressed into her thighs, massaging the already sore muscles. Leaning her head back against his chest, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” his voice quiet, both of them soaking in the rare sense of peace and relaxation together, “and thank you for today. It couldn’t have been better.”

Closing her eyes as she rested her head on his chest, it wasn’t long before she was dozing off to  the sound of his heartbeat and the feeling of his fingers tracing circles on her skin.

Taglist: @cperry0516 , @bhasbhabiessss, @fuzzyfingersandcavier @valeriyakonovalov @alwayshave-faith @emmettcullenswife @kingniazx @sorrow-and-bliss@swidkid @smol-scream

[kickingmywaythrough]

"bleeding/bringing in a new year's mess"

- maya hawke, thérèse

it is strange to think of rebirth. of self in the tide of the time and growing pains. i find myself creating here. perhaps a new habit, or a simple call to the void.

i began my cycle today. though i've never been good at keeping track of when it's last come or searched for any meaning in it, i found something poetic in its arrival today. on new year's eve i am bleeding. i think i am searching for meaning, putting too much stock in my adoration of the song thérèse. though something of this physical connection resonates with me, like the pondering of its hidden meanings in a long essay months ago has manifested my ties with it.

i wrote in that paper-

"Thérèse is a canvas for everyone’s story. The story of growing through the pains, through the expectations, in finding yourself at every age. It is a song and a painting about a girl dreaming of something more. She looks up and traces her ideas and maps on the ceilings. We look to her and do the same."

-and now i find the song has made a sort of canvas of me.

i had a plan this new year's. one of white wine with pomegranate seeds, a book, a candle, clean and warm sheets. and the start of this blog. not much of that happened.

the beginning of today i wanted to go out. anywhere that would have me. but my all of three friends that still live in this area were all gone or busy. and thus came my decision to spend new year's eve in bed. once that plan had cemented itself in my mind, i was content- bed, enjoy the sounds of the storm outside, good music, words read and written. unfortunately the presence of the storm led to power outages and an influx of people in my still-with-electricity house.

i don't care much to explain, nor could i fully sort through my wine-drunk memory, all of what happened. but i find myself tracing my cringe and recoil. truthfully i have found most new year's the past 7 ish years rather exhausting. i have spent too many feeling utter isolated surrounded by neighborhood kids, and my sister's friends, and childhood bullies turned somewhat awkward almost family. (proximity leads to much strange bonds.) i have found that i feel most lonely and horribly self hating around other people. solitude suites me. so while my being alone tonight seemed at first rather disappointing, it would have been the kindest on my spirit and mind. sanctity of self left unsullied had i not felt desperate to fit in. i still find silence hard to accomplish, despite how much suffering i know it would alleviate.

tonight i sat and stared at my sister's open disapproval. she told me to stop speaking, and though her friends would laugh at her humor, i saw she meant what she said. i wanted to recoil from myself, leave my body and be somewhere alone. i looked at her many times tonight and wondered how many half thoughts, left unwritten in the notes app of my phone, would it take to sort us out. untangle our mess of history, so i could make out what lies at its core. i wonder if i would still paint her excuses and find forgiveness if i wasn't so unsure of who we were. she is better at hiding her feelings, i find i can't dissect her mind. i know we wouldn't like or even tolerate each other if not for the fact we are the same genes, and we grew up in the same house - though different home. as i said before- proximity leads to much strange bonds.

as i sit and write and think of renewal. my lining shedding, my bleeding, bringing in a new year's mess. and maybe that's all it is, me bringing in a mess, and unsure of how to clean it. i can't escape myself, despite how hard i try. perhaps i am all i am, even in new year, even in the supposed rebirth and change. i have myself hopelessly stuck in me, no way to get out. i am not the brush, but the canvas. i do not know who is painting.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

You just had to bring the symbol of Victory into this didn't you?!???? Is this some sort of euphemism I should look forward to or!??!?!?????

Yes!! Let me “paint you a picture” (groan)... Also, I sat down to draft my response and it's somehow *gestures at this whole mess* 2300+ words!?? And confession time! I’ve never even SEEN "The Mentalist"! Everything I know about Marcus Pike has come from cute GIFs and the Internet and fanfics… so… I don’t even know what’s going on with me today. But thank you! :D

(This is leaking over from this post if anyone needs to play catch-up)

Paris

Word count: 2300+

Rating: mature, 18+ only

Outline: Marcus Pike x “You” in Paris, reader is an Art History Professor (cis/het female reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: slow burn; cute Marcus Pike; coffee and pastries; kissing and stuff; public-ish sex in the Louvre after hours; spontaneous P/V sex (probably unprotected, idek) we're all adults here, wrap it before YOU tap it!

It’s like, you and sweet Marcus have definitely hit it off and you’re really into each other after that field trip meet-cute and your date, but you haven’t slept together yet. He gets called away for a case, so you wish him good luck and hope that you can see each other again soon.

A few days later it’s spring break and you have a trip to Paris planned to complete some research for your next publication. You email Marcus while you're waiting to board. You let him know that you’re going to be out of town for a few days, but that you hope his case is going well, and maybe when he's back you two can pick up where you left off?

You land in Paris and check your messages, and you see that Marcus has replied to your email. He says he can't share the details of his case, but that he hopes he'll be wrapped up by the end of the week, and that he definitely wants to see you again. He asks about your research trip, so you shoot a quick email back to fill him in on the details.

You get to your hotel and sink into a hot bath with your phone. You open your emails, and your brain tells you that you're just checking to confirm the details of your appointment with your research contact in the morning... but the little uptick in your heart rate tells you that you're actually looking for another reply from Marcus. And it's there. He says that he loves Paris and that your research sounds exciting. He asks where you’re staying? You give him the name of your hotel, and tell him that you haven't stayed there before, but it's cute.

Before the water even gets cold you have another reply, sending the butterflies behind your navel into a tizzy. He says that he's stayed there once or twice and that the café in the lobby has excellent pastries. You smile and let yourself imagine a vacation with Marcus, here in Paris, sharing pain au chocolat over a little table in the café. You refill the tub with hot water and sit daydreaming for so long that your fingers prune up.

You get out of the bath and wrap yourself in a plush robe, and sit on the edge of the bed. You email Marcus back, wishing him a good night and telling him that it's late where you are, but that you promise to try one of the pastries in the morning with your breakfast coffee. By the time you're in your nightgown and ready to sleep he's responded, wishing you sweet dreams and hoping that your research goes well. You smile and reply, "Thanks," and then drift down into pleasant dreams.

The next morning you take yourself to the little lobby café and treat yourself to a café crème and an almond croissant. Marcus was right, and you nearly moan aloud as you wrap your mouth around the flaky pastry. You open your email and send him a picture of your croissant with one bite missing, and you joke that you blame him for ruining you for any other boulangeries you might visit during your trip. By the time you're done with breakfast he's responded with a wink emoji and a quick "Sorry I ruined you," and you desperately want to email him back and boldly ask him to ruin you in other ways. You stop yourself, and your brain can't think of anything appropriate, so you just don't respond and you leave to go to your research appointment.

The day is long, and the dusty archives and a few misfiled papers cause small irritations. But you find a few of the things that you needed, so you call it productive enough. You break at 3 p.m. and decide to start again fresh in the morning. Maybe an early dinner and another scalding hot bubble bath will set you right. You decide that the weather is nice, and that your hotel is close enough that you can stroll back and people watch, disconnect your brain from your work and transition into relaxation mode along the way.

You arrive back at your hotel and go to your room to change. There is a card slipped under your door, the front desk letting you know that you have a delivery of some kind to pick up. You try to remember if any of your colleagues or your boss mentioned that they would send you anything? Is it paperwork? Some kind of file for your research? You decide to shower and change into a nice dress to lift your mood, and then head back out for dinner.

You take the card to the lobby desk and hand it to the desk clerk and he disappears into the back office. When he returns you're surprised to see that he's holding a floral arrangement, not huge or ostentatious, but lovely and cheerful and somehow your favorite color exactly. The clerk sets the vase on the desk. You reach for the card and open it.

"Good luck on your research. -Marcus"

You break into a wide grin and you practically float back to your room. You set the flowers on the room table and open your email to thank him. You send him a photo and an effusive "Thank you!" and a winky kiss emoji. Is that too much? No - if one little emoji scares him off then he's not the guy you thought he was.

He responds within minutes, a quick "You're welcome. Glad they arrived in one piece." and his own winky kiss emoji. Your heart flutters and you reply immediately, "They're really lovely. Thank you for thinking of me."

A moment later his next email pops up: "Can I take you to dinner and pick up where we left off?"

You reply: "Absolutely! I'll let you know as soon as I'm back in town!"

He responds: "No, I meant tonight."

You hesitate, does he want to call you and chat on the phone while you eat dinner? Some kind of video call, like a virtual date? Before you can type your reply, a new message pops up: "I'm actually in Paris. My case is here and I arrived a few days before you did. I didn't want to scare you off or come to your hotel unannounced, but I'm free tonight and I'd love to see you."

You throw your head back and laugh. This is definitely way more fun than eating alone and people-watching. You message back an enthusiastic, "Yes! I'm ready when you are!" and he emails you and says he'll see you in 30 minutes in the lobby. When you get downstairs he's waiting by the front desk, all soft scruff and loosened tie and warm brown eyes, just as you remembered. You smile and hug him, and in that moment you feel like a fairy-tale princess meeting her prince, being swept off your feet in the most romantic city in the world.

You have dinner at a cozy bistro around the corner, Marcus making you bubble with laughter as you talk. He listens to you moan about the missing pieces of your research, your pressing need to track down a letter from one artist to another that was mentioned in an old diary but which hasn't yet surfaced. You're sure it's around the archives somewhere, just waiting for you to piece it together with the rest of your project. Marcus tells you that his case is almost wrapping up, and if you want he can arrange to catch the same flight home as you. You smile and tell him that would be nice.

You finish dinner and he asks if you want to go to the Louvre, and you check the time and say that they're almost closing. Marcus smiles at you and says, "Don't worry about it," and he looks a little mischievous. You tell him you're up for an adventure, and he takes your hand and ushers you into a taxi.

When you arrive he asks the desk staff for someone he knows, and you make a quick run to the restroom. When you return, Marcus has two laminated badges, special access for professionals and visiting staff that allows you to stay for a few hours past closing. You can't believe your luck, being allowed to spend extra time in one of the most special places in the world, not to mention that your escort is the most handsome and charismatic man you've ever met.

You start in the Denon wing and wander through the museum, talking and laughing quietly, enjoying the opportunity to see things that you would normally have to fight hordes of tourists to see. And maybe "enjoy" isn't the right word, because if someone asked you how you were feeling right now, you would say you were "on cloud nine" or "elated" or "floating." It feels like a dream, and you're not sure if you're going to remember all of it later, but you desperately want to, and you're trying so hard to file every sight away into your brain.

When you reach the Mona Lisa, an odd hush falls over you, and you realize it's the first time you've ever seen it without a crowd twenty deep in front of it. Marcus seems to know what you're feeling, because he takes your hand, almost shyly. And he keeps holding it, warming your fingers as the two of you walk on. You stop in front of Delacroix, "Liberty Leading the People," and you tell Marcus that it's the first painting you ever fell in love with, a million years ago in high school during your very first art history class. You look at the painting and he looks at you, and when you finally turn toward him he captures your mouth in a warm, urgent, soft kiss. You can feel your eyes sparkling at him when he pulls away, and you don't say a word, you just smile and hold his hand as you walk through doorways and up and down stairs.

You come around a corner and there it is, probably the most famous statue in the world: the Venus de Milo. She takes your breath away, and then Marcus does, too, stealing a kiss when you least expect it. And you're torn completely in half, unsure if you would rather keep kissing him or just stare at the curves and planes of her body. So you try to do both; you kiss him and keep one eye on the Venus and you start to feel dizzy, like you've overloaded on sugar, but it's just the impossible circumstances that you've found yourself in.

And you break apart from him, and take his hand again, leading him into a corner that's a little more private. You back yourself against a wall and pull him to you by his tie, and you kiss him the way he deserves, with your full attention and precision. Minutes pass slowly, and you only come up for air because you're afraid you're going to faint. Your thigh is blazing hot where Marcus's hand has raked up under your skirt, and the only reason you don't fuck him right there is because of a security camera keeping watch on the alcove.

You tell him that you both should finish your tour and go back to your hotel, and he agrees. You try to keep your mind on the art, and you tell Marcus about how awestruck you were as a student when you learned about the way that sculptors could depict every curve and dimple of a woman's body through the wet drapery technique; the sensuality of the human form made only slightly more modest when viewed through a veil of fabric; the sheer awesome impossibility of marble carved to look like gauze.

You both get lost in the conversation, and you wander up a staircase and around a corner, and there it is: your absolute favorite piece of art, the piece that you have studied and memorized and dreamed about. And you've seen it before: you've been to the Louvre a handful of times, but this time there are no noisy footsteps echoing off the marble, no tourists trying to capture the glory of it with their tiny and unworthy cameras and phones when there are perfectly good books and postcards available in the gift shop... the Nike to end all Nikes, the Winged Victory of Samothrace. You are, quite simply, blown away.

And if it had been a normal weekend walking tour of the sacred Louvre, if you had been there with anyone else... you wouldn't have ended up wedged against the wall of the archway to her left, skirt hiked up as Marcus pounded into you, one of your bare legs hooked over his hip and your arms wrapped around his neck. If it had been any other day or any other time, you would have stopped him before he unzipped his fly and pulled his erection out; you would have had some remaining shred of propriety, of decency. But it wasn't a normal day and he wasn't a normal man, and you really weren't yourself.

You had gotten carried away by the late hour and the thrill of being allowed to wander the empty museum, and if you were being honest, you really wouldn't have wanted to stop it. You wanted to give in to the romance of the city and the priceless treasures on display and the heady conversations with Marcus. You wanted to be exactly where you were, with exactly who he was, doing exactly what you were doing and feeling exactly how you felt as he thrust into you and grunted your name like a chant while you traced the lines of the Nike with your lust-blown eyes.

You didn't make it to the Richlieu wing until a year later, on a sunny Saturday morning with your new husband Marcus.

--- Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

Roll call: please message me if you don't want to be on my "all fics" tag list!

@221bshrlocked @danniburgh @starlightmornings @honestly-shite @spacedilf @anaaaispunk @silverwolf319 @greeneyedblondie44 @maxwell–lord @nicolethered @the-queen-of-fools @driedgreentomatoes @juletheghoul @dihra-vesa @anxiousandboujee

[5uptic]

hey fanfic spotlight again:)

arm candy by amsves (5up/Fundy, general rating, m/m | 300 words)

Summary: The first thing Fundy does after the stream ends is lean over and engulf 5up in his arms.

a chance encounter by mangoedges (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 450 words)

Summary: Who would have thought Apollo would find his soulmate now?

Desecration Smile by AllianettemiE5 (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: No summary.

She said to me, Oh Death / Come close my eyes by Anonymous (Apollo/Steve, general rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: Steve thought the words on his wrist were the coolest thing ever, but they just didn’t make sense. No, really; he even asked 5up–had called him in a possibly drunk state on his twentieth birthday, when a prickling sensation on his arm made him think that he was about to die, 5up, help, and was reminded drily that it was his soulmark, dumbass–and the best his smartest friend (self-proclaimed) could offer was, “Maybe your soulmate’s a poet?” Completely useless. Steve remembered hanging up on him, the click of his mobile cutting off his indignant exclamation. It was only the next day that he looked, properly looked, at his soulmark and tried to make sense of it. Nope. That didn’t work out either; he blamed the hangover. For the longest time ever, he just dismissed it as the universe fucking up. A slash in the middle of a phrase? Ridiculous.

why’d you only call me when you’re high? by LVTO (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1k words)

Summary: “I miss you,” Steve mumbles through the phone, and his voice has that soft, honest tone that it always does when he’s like this. 5up’s heart clenches. It’s these moments that keep him from leaving like he should’ve done four months ago, these soft-spoken truths that time and time again have him believing that maybe, maybe this time will be different. It never is. or 5up receives a phone call and ponders his life.

jealousy, jealousy by planetwitch (5up/Fundy, teen rating, m/m | 1.1k words)

Summary: 5up and Fundy are best friends and have never crossed that line into something more. Until Fundy gets jealous at 5up's constant admiration for a certain 6 foot tall musician.

mimi's menagerie of the miraculous & the mundane by 5280ft (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.1k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: a drabble for the word of the day, every day, for 100 days.

5up & Co. Throw Yarn at a Wall (and more) by WhenTheFogClears (general rating, gen | 1.3k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Hafu neither confirmed nor denied, instead snatching the half unraveled ball of yarn out of his hands forcefully, a cheshire grin finding its way onto her face. Before 5up could clearly decipher the situation, she flung it at him, smacking him directly in the center of his face. or 5up loves throwing yarn at walls, and everyone else quickly picks it up from him. But in different ways.

Inside My Mind by SilverSprinklez10 (5up/Apollo, Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.4k words)

Summary: Soulmates are usually a blessing.  But sometimes, a soulmate connection can feel like a curse.

(2021, 190 x 172 cm, oil on canvas) by 5280ft (5up/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 1.9k words)

Summary: Nobody ever painted anything if they’ve never painted the way 5up closes his eyes when he laughs, how his slender fingers wrap around a new tube of paint, how his smile is all teeth and eye-crinkling. Cabanel’s Fallen Angel has curls, but they aren’t 5up’s, are they? Hyllas, in the nymphs, has fair and delicate hands but 5up’s are prettier, especially when he accidentally squirts paint everywhere and slams his palms on the table and goes “fuck!” Steve cackles until he can’t breathe.

Don't Take Me Tongue-Tied by AoDity, LovelyDayForIt (5up/Sleepy, 5up/Apollo, teen rating, m/m | 2.2k words)

Summary: "Sleepy found the ring by luck, something that matches his lover's graceful beauty that he could still afford. Twisted strands of thin silver with a little shimmering opal in the center, it was perfect." Aka: Sleepy's love for Five brought him heartache. If they try, there's still a chance the two could be happy.

implying that the ferris wheel's your body (and i'd really love admission to it) by homeward_bound (David/Hafu/Steve, mature rating, multi | 2.2k words)

Summary: Steve might be drunk out of his mind, but David's just really hot, okay? [or, steve propositions david, kind of. hafu and dumbdog bear witness to his lapse in judgement.]

mi casa es su casa by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 2.9k words)

Summary: Apollo's soulmate is cautious. Except, apparently, when it comes to coffee. Because, for the fifth time this week, Apollo wakes up to a burnt tongue. It's annoying. He can't really be mad though, because he has given his soulmate so much worse. The occasional burnt tongue is a meager act of penance, comparatively.

I love you too (I love you too) by some_spooky_shit_right_there (5up/Apollo/Steve, general rating, multi | 3.9k words)

Summary: Apollo comes into 5up's coffee shop. He always gets a cup of coffee and either a bagel or a croissant. He always seems tired, and he never comes in on weekends. Steve would really love to find out just who, exactly, he is.

i'm more fool than wise by 5fu (5up/Steve, unrated, m/m | 5.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Steven Suptic is a brilliant crewmate - ask anyone. Okay so don't ask Janet. Or Dk. Or Koji. You know what, don't even ask - it's pretty obvious he is. But when new recruit and stunningly intelligent 5up boards the Crewfu, Steve isn't so sure he can compete. Not that he cares. Totally. Absolutely. On their mission to gather intel on Polus and find out what happened to the previous crew that disappeared from the planet three years earlier, Steve may realize that maybe he was indeed more fool than wise - and maybe it wasn't a bad thing.

i was praying that you and me might end up together by Qupid (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 7.8k words, chaptered WIP)

Summary: Four years at Polus University. Four first weeks of school. Two strangers become two friends, and maybe even something more. Apollo hates being seen, hates having attention drawn to him, hates living in a world that feels like a game where everyone knows the rules except him. Steve thrives on attention, purposefully draws the gaze of everyone in the room, making his own rules as he floats through life. They're a match made in hell, but Apollo finds that when Steve looks at him, gives him nothing but attention, he doesn't mind being seen after all.

Long Journey Home by some_spooky_shit_right_there (Apollo/Steve, teen rating, m/m | 9.6k words)

Summary: Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue Feeling kind of blue, boys, feeling kind of blue Homesick and lonesome and I'm feeling kind of blue I'm on my long journey home

there’s so many ways to say “i love you” and i wouldn’t wanna waste ‘em (on someone who, don’t feel it too) by Dear_MaedaysUnwelcomedGhost (5up/Steve, 5up/Hafu, 5up/Ellum, 5up/Kimi, teen rating, multi | 13k words, chaptered)

Summary: Love was a strange thing, 5up found. It was everywhere. And not in the way it may seem. It wasn’t in the adverts of perfect couples with artificial lighting. It wasn’t in the glittery cards made by factories or the flowers sold at grocery stores. Not in the TV shows made to bring in cash and be thrown out, with couples who don’t have anything to hold onto but brief infatuation and physical attraction. But in the friendly smiles of strangers as they pass by. In a mother cutting fruit up for their child. Running a hand through the hair of your partner, as their eyes flutter close and to sleep. Helping a stranger pick up their dropped papers, asking for nothing in return. In the graffiti on the wall by the alleyway you walk by everyday to get to work. To the goods baked by small independent bakeries. Flowers planted in parks to make it just a little nicer, or the ones growing out of pavement cracks with determination.

Also!

GuardianPuppy‘s this city needs to be destroyed or at least painted in a different color collection.

spaded_ace’s Casino in the Sky collection.

5fu’s among all this pain collection.

FAQ:

Wait what is this: pretty straight to the point! i’ll regularly share crewfu-related fanfictions to this blog :)

How regularly is “regularly”?: great question! LOL. it depends on the flow of fanfics that get uploaded, which i do not have any control over, but i’m looking forward to do this twice a month. after all, it’s only me doing this and i often run on a tight schedule.

What’s the format like?:

[title of fic with link] by [author of the fic with link] ([main pairing(s)], [fic rating: eg, general rating], [relationship: eg, m/m] | [word count in k], [added prompt to specify if it’s complete or not])

Summary: [summary provided by the author. if it doesn’t have a summary, a “No summary” prompt will be put instead]

(What does WIP mean again?): Work In Progress :)

Why are you doing this?: from the beginning, my blog has hosted conversations about RPF (real people fiction) and crewfu pairings. this has evolved into people sending me updates about certain fics in the crewfu tags every now and then, but i wanna take the next step and just do these things myself. after all, i’m already lurking in the tags often to see the fics that get posted. as someone who is both a writer and a reader, i wanna appreciate fanfic writers and help out other people that want to read fanfic and consume more fandom content!

Will it be AO3 only?: well, ao3 has a very helpful tag system that makes finding fics incredibly easy, as well as allowing people with no accounts to like and comment on fics, so that’s the site i will personally look in for fanworks. but if there are any fics you’ve written or liked in any other platforms, such as wattpad, you can always contact me through my inbox (send an ask or a dm!), and i’ll make sure to include for the next fanfic spotlight :)

Does it mean you won’t reply to fic asks anymore?: yeah, i guess. since i’ll be doing the searching myself it seems counterproductive. but if i ever skip a fic or again, it’s in another platform, or you’ve posted/read the fic a while ago and you want to get more traction on it, hit me up and i’ll take it into consideration!

Will you read every single one of the fics on your list?: oh no. again, i run on a tight schedule, and also i have my own taste when it comes to fics. i won’t be reviewing fics or any of the sort, and my intention extends to simply sharing these fics to this page so people will have easier access to them :) that’s where ao3 tagging becomes SUPER useful!!!

So what’s the criteria for the way you’ll sort out the fics in your list?: word count, going from lowest to highest. in case of fics in other platforms, i guess i’ll put them at the top of the list. i’ll also be looking for fairly recent fics, so let me know if you want any old-ish fic to be included.

I see you talking mostly about 5up/Steve and Steve/Apollo. Can I still send/see other crewfu fics?: why yes absolutely! my goal is to push every fic which heavily features regular crewfu characters - 5uptic and supdog just happen to be very popular pairings. so, to give you a list: core 4 (5up, hafu, dk, steve), apollo, aipha, annie, janet, kimi, ellum, koji… you know the drill. it doesn’t have to be centered on a relationship, or about 5up in specific, etc. my only requirement is that any of the previously mentioned members are a central part of the fic or are HEAVILY featured in it (sorry, minecraft fics with 50+ tags who only mention 5up as an afterthought won’t make the cut :/).

Isn’t shipping Bad™?: well, it’s a little more nuanced than that. i will go out of my way to discourage and shame people who often violate CCs’ boundaries by acting like so and so has a crush on this person, or that this and that are Actually Into Each Other or secretly dating. any sort of tinhat bullshit is a big nono (think larries). but i run on the assumption that people who write rpf understand that what they’re doing is simply write a completely fictional story using real life personalities, and understand the boundaries necessary to do it - aka they’re not tinhats, they understand they can’t assume everything about CCs’ thoughts and personalities, they understand that what they’re writing is strictly fiction, they keep these works only in fandom circles, etc. (but again, it’s only one me doing this, so please be kind if i don’t happen to know that this person is Actually a tinhat or whatever).

show fic: NO. (seriously. i don’t feel comfortable putting my ao3 account out there. please respect my privacy on these trying times <3)

I REALLY don’t care about your rpf/fic talk: fair! i’ll be tagging every single one of these posts as “fanfic spotlight”, so just mute the tag using tumblr settings so you’ll never have to look at these! likewise, you can follow the tag if you want to keep up with it, or search it on my blog to look at the other entries you might have missed.

Hey, my fic is here and I don’t feel comfortable with it being shared over here: no problem! let me know as soon as you can and i’ll take it down <3

[holdmyowos]

Doctor (Overhaul x Yandre Female Reader Smut)

Includes: Doctor x patient, unprotected sex, semi-public sex

A/N: this is really kinky shit

Y/N is quirkless in a society of superhumans.

'Been about three days and I'm comin' back

I'm about four minutes from a heart attack

And I think you make me a maniac

But you don't know, oh'

'I'm about to lose my mind You've been gone for so long I'm runnin' out of time I need a doctor, call me a doctor I need a doctor, doctor To bring me back to life'

You stepped into the doctor's office and sat down. It was time for your yearly checkup. You dreaded going to these appointments, but also looked forward to them. The reason? The doctor, Kai Chisaki. He had three stud earrings on each ear, unusual for a doctor. Unlike normal doctors, he did not wear scrubs or a lab coat, but rather an odd jacket lined with purple fur or feathers. You had never gotten close enough to examine it. When you had come in the first time and called him Doctor Chisaki, he said "Please, call me Overhaul." An odd nickname, but you granted his request, nonetheless. You were a simp for his looks and voice, what could you say? Every time you came, you washed right before and dressed in your best clothes for him, hoping he would notice. You had only ever seen him five times since you had no other reason to go to this doctor's office other than for checkups. He was a handsome man with a skinny build and broad shoulders. You did not know very much about him, other than the man was supposedly a convicted felon who had recently escaped jail. The owner of the doctor's office you knew personally, so she told you this much about him. Her business was having trouble, with only nurses to help, desperate for staff. Overhaul was pretty private and secretive. "If he so much as lays a finger on you in a way you feel uncomfortable with, call me and I will fire him immediately, and call the police," your friend had said. You had nodded.

Overhaul came into the waiting room with a plain black mask on, and motioned for you to follow him to one of the rooms. He quickly checked your temperature with a forehead thermometer. His mask really brought out his eyes. "It's (Y/N), right?" He said without looking at your clipboard. A surge of warmth surged through your chest. Had he remembered you? "Yes." You felt a bit embarrassed as you stepped on the scale, knowing that he would probably have to comment about your weight. He said nothing, just writing the number down on the clipboard. "It's just a number. Let's go to the exam room." You used the hand sanitizer and used the sleeve of your coat to shut the door. He nodded in approval. In the room was a painting of blue and red balloons on a large canvas. It was pretty pleasant. He patted the exam table, signaling for you to get on it. The protective paper crinkled under you as you did as he instructed.

At all your other check-ups one of the female nurses had done these things, like calling you back and filling out the paperwork. Your friend must be short on staff again. It was his job to ask you some mental health questions. You had a hard time answering some of the questions. He would ask things like if you ever felt depressed, and if you were straight, and it was pretty weird to be having to admit things like that to a guy you thought was attractive. As he took notes his eyes roamed over your body. You put the thought to the back of your mind, telling yourself it was his job to be sure of his patient's physical health.

"Quirkless, right?" You nodded. "That's good. It's natural to be quirkless. People with quirks have perverted nature, even if they could not help being born into this world." That was an odd thing to say. You wondered if he had a quirk. Noticing your expression, he explained. "That sounded weird. I mean, to explain, I'm allergic to people with quirks. I get bumps on my skin if someone with a quirk touches me. That's why I am always wearing a mask and gloves, even before this coronavirus stuff." You were surprised that he shared that with you. He was usually so mysterious and secretive.

"I need you to take off your mask so I can properly measure your heart rate and breathing." You did as he said. "You have a pretty face under that mask." He thought you were pretty? He placed the blood pressure cuff on your arm and slowly inflated it. You sucked in a sharp breath and deflated it. "You good? It's just a little pressure." You shook your head. "It's too tight." He shrugged, taking out his stethoscope. You leaned back as he positioned himself over you, your breath catching. "What are you doing? Lean forward, I need to hear your heartbeat, and your breathing." You started sweating. This guy would be the end of you. He gently touched the metal to your chest. You tried breathing calmly, but his hands were millimeters away from your breasts. "Hmm. Unusually high heart rate." Damn right it was.You tried calming down, but what he said next made it worse.

"Lay down. I need to inspect your abdomen." His sexy voice made you shiver. The thought of his gloved hands on your stomach made you squeeze the soft leathery surface on the examination table. Why were there no nurses to do this for him? He slowly lifted up your shirt, the cold air sending goosebumps. He prodded at your stomach lightly. The world seemed to slow down. "Any pain of discomfort?" He asked. You shook your head no. You wished he could touch you like that forever. How could you possibly be uncomfortable? You looked up at his face, and his eyes seemed nervous. "I, I um, I am not sure if you are comfortable with doing what comes next."

For all your years of life, you had needed to go to visit the doctor at least twice a year. You knew what came next too. "It's okay, if you don't want to." The next step was touching your privates to make sure they were fine. "Well, I really should. It's required." He hesitantly pulled down your pants and gently groped you. You tried to not think about how much you loved the touch, but warmth started pooling in your underwear. The touches slowly got lower, and as he was pulling his fingers out, one dipped into your head. You gently arched your back up so it would go in deeper. Were you really that depraved that you would want friction from an accidental touch of his? Upon seeing your astounded expression, he backed away from you. "I am so sorry. It was an accident, I swear." You looked at his gloved finger and swallowed hard. Your slick covered the tip of his index finger.

"No, no. It's fine. I asked you to do it." Did he see how you pressed yourself onto him? Was that a test? Was he trying to see if you were as desperate for him as he was for you? You gave up your sense of self-control. He was right there in front of you, the man of your dreams, and he had just touched your pussy. You took his hand and held him closer, licking your slick off his fingers. His eyes flicked around your body, as if not knowing where to look. You took his finger into your mouth and licked it with a long stroke of your tongue. He jerked his hand out of your mouth. His legs started trembling. "This is very unprofessional. I shouldn't. I can't. Don't make me, please. I need this job," he begged. You let out a light chuckle. "But you want to, don't you?" you seductively whispered to him, spreading your legs, and hugging him tight, his face inches from your cleavage. "Damn you. From the second I set my eyes on you, I knew you were trouble." He puts a hand to his head, as if he has a headache. You looked into his eyes as he slowly unwound and fell apart. You pressed him into your chest, and he gave in, letting you do what you wanted, you smiled widely. "That's a good boy." He gripped the exam table. On the verge of tears. Such a strong man coming apart before you. "I needed this job. I can't get caught. But I... I want this. I'm torn." You rubbed his shoulders, comforting him. "It's fine, I'm best friends with your boss. It'll be fine." You needed to help him more. "Besides, If she finds out, we can just kill her!" you say, a bit too enthusiastically. Oops. Oh well. You would not let anything stand in your way of getting him to be all yours, not even your friend.

"Come on, Doctor. Don't be shy," you said, taking off your pants and slipping your underwear down to your thighs, teasing him by playing with the fabric. By the look in his eyes, it was working. He pressed his hands down onto the table with force behind his arms, and the table shifted around you. You cried out in surprise. The table miraculously shifted and blended with a nearby towel to make a bed. What was that? His quirk? What was it? "Interesting. It appears that my quirk has finally come back to me after my arms regenerated. Took it long enough." What did that mean? This man had so many secrets that you had no idea about. He slowly shrugged off his coat, and you remembered how little you knew about this man. Fear filled your heart. Why had he been in jail? He put his coat on the small hook over the door with his tie. He struck a pose as he stroked his fingers through his hair. It was too much."Overhaul, please! I can't stand this much longer. Come here!" He sneered at you. "All in due time, you whiny little slut. I have something to take care of first." He opened the door and shut it behind him. You waited for a few seconds that passed like hours. He put a 'Exam in Progress, Keep Out' sign on the other side and locked the door, closing the blinds and the curtain divider.

"So impatient, baby. Calm down." He took your underwear and slid it off. "I noticed that every time you came here, your outfits got more and more skimpy and over the top. I mean, look at all that cleavage. I don't even have to take off your shirt to see them. That desperate for me?" You nodded shamelessly as he took your top off. "It's all I ever wanted. For you to notice me, Kai." He slapped you. "I told you to call me Overhaul!" He growled at you. "People are sometimes tricky. They very rarely do exactly what you want them to do." His expression changed. "I know you want to do what I want you to do. You know what? You can call me Kai if you want to. I like my name coming from those pretty little lips of yours. Maybe later I'll let you call me master." He took off his gloves and put them in a neat pile on a nearby counter, straddling your naked body. He traced your lips with his pale fingers and you opened your mouth slightly. "I could kill you in a second if I wanted to. That's how powerful my quirk is." You did not doubt him. He slowly took off your last piece of clothing, your bra, slowly unclipping it from your body. He took in the sight of your naked body with an unchanging expression. He was doing all this at such a slow pace, but you wanted to please him as well.

You took his belt into your hands, and he nodded. You fumbled, quickly taking the buckle off and the belt slipped right off with it. You unzipped his pants. You pressed your hand against the tent that had started to form on his underwear. You thought you heard a small moan coming from him, but you could not tell because his thick mask muted his sounds. So sad. You would just need to try some other way, another time. You pulled his pants and underwear down, revealing his member, already covered in pre-cum. "I want you so bad, Kai. You look so... delicious." He slid his fingers up your leg, resting them on the lips of your pussy. "What the fuck does that even mean? Whatever. What I want to know is, why were you so wet when I first touched you?" His fingers squished inside you, and he rubbed his dick against the outside of your pussy, teasing the entrance. "M-master please!" You begged.

As he fucked you senseless, his dick ramming into you, he told the story of his life. Turns out that he had even made a bullet that made quirks stop working. This man was a genius. He was so much more than you expected. "How did I land someone like you?" You sobbed up at him. He shrugged. "Maybe I just needed a therapist, someone to talk to, and I thought this was the best way." You shuddered with tears as he said that. Did he just consider you some fucktoy now that he had regained his quirk? You could not think like that. If he left you, someone had to die. He was making you feel so good right now, so why did it matter what he did later. He dug his nails into your skin on your sides to get leverage to go deeper. "Kai..." you breathed. "That's it. Say my name." You squeezed his cock slightly with your fingers but he slapped them away. He kept thrusting into you anyway. You were surely a sobbing mess. "Thank you so much Kai." He stopped thrusting into you and stopped to feel you clenching around him. He gently pressed his hips so his cock hit you as deep as he could. "Are you ready for me?" He asked. It sounded more like a statement, like no matter what you did or said, it was too late. He thrust in even deeper and dumped his load into you. The force caused you to go over the edge too, cumming against his dick. "Kai!" You screamed, forgetting where you were and that people could hear you if you were too loud. You both stayed in that position until he slowly pulled out of you, breathing heavily.

"Look at how filthy dirty you made me. My fingers and dick need to be cleaned off. Who's going to take care of this?" You took a warm washcloth with soapy water from the sink and rubbed his shaft up and down. "Not like that," he snapped, his angry voice a bit of a moan. "I don't have time for another round. I have other things to do." You wiped each of his fingers individually, so they were all clean. He let out a small sound of approval.

A knock at the door startled you. You and he quickly dressed. "Let's get out of here." Overhaul said to you. Perhaps no one had to die. He turned the bed back into an exam table, and opened the door. "What took you so long? We have other patients that need to be examined too!" Your friend said crossly. The thought of Overhaul touching other girls like that made your blood boil. Perhaps someone did have to die. "Sorry, but I quit," Overhaul said, strolling past her and pulling you along with a gloved hand. She blocked the doorway. "You're not going anywhere out this door." She crossed her arms. Overhaul shoved her aside and blasted a hole through the side of the wall. "Fine, I don't need to go through the door," he snarled. He helped you out of the wall. "I'm calling the police! You broke my property and are kidnapping my friend!" His old boss shouted after him. He just chuckled. "Good luck stopping me, and the new Shie Hassaikai."

The Shie Hassaikai? That was a Yakuza group, right? Your new life seemed to already be filled with excitement. As long as you were with this strong man, what could go wrong?

"I think we need a follow-up appointment, doctor."

"An immediate follow-up. It appears you have a very serious illness that only I can cure."

[whumpingcrow]

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 2

Shiny New Toy

CW: BBU and everything in relation to that, drugs/alcohol, party themes/setting, tattoo whump, creepy whumper, scar mention, noncon/dubcon touching, crying, nightmares, bathing, lady whump, noncon drugging, vomit mention (let me know if I missed anything!)

The first thing that Nicko noticed about his box boy was how nice his skin was. He realized how creepy and serial killer-ish that seemed, but it only stemmed from an artistic place, for the most part he wasn't trying to be creepy. He had ordered him that way, to be as pale and smooth as possible. He did have a couple scars around his wrists, what looked like maybe he’d had too tight shackles or ropes there once, and some on his face, around his mouth. But besides that, he looked brand new, despite being recalled, or whatever. Nicko didn’t particularly enjoy the fact that his boxie was used, but it was so much cheaper that way. And so far, in the week and a half that he’d had him, it didn't seem like it mattered that he'd been sent back.

Nicko wasn’t home when he was delivered, he’d gone out to get new art supplies while Rory sat in his living room to wait for him. She had been coming over a lot, recently, unannounced and for long amounts of time. Nicko hoped she wasn’t wanting to move in with him. It was starting to bother him having to entertain her constantly, but right then he was glad that she had been there. Who knows how long the poor boxie would’ve had to wait in that box out in the snow if she hadn’t been. When Nicko got back, Rory had already given him a shower and gone through Nicko’s closet to get him clothes, and she was combing his wet hair out of his face when Nicko walked in. He looked so terrified, his shoulders high and tense and his eyes huge in restrained panic.

Rory took a liking to the boxie right from the beginning, Nicko suspected they might’ve had some sort of bonding moment when Rory let him out of the box and showered him and gave him clothes. Weirdly enough, Nicko didn’t mind so much. When he first noticed it, he was annoyed and jealous that this frail, falling apart at the seams boxie was getting more attention from his girlfriend than he was. But then he realized it wasn’t that bad, that when Rory came over now and Nicko had enough of her, he could stick her in a room with his box boy and they would keep each other busy.

Three days after he got there, Rory decided he needed a name. Nicko had been working on a piece in the kitchen, some dumb still life painting for class, and Rory walked in, her timid friend trailing closely behind her. He saw Nicko, sitting straight in the chair and putting those vibrant colors onto the huge white canvas, and he shuffled right up to him and sank down to his knees at Nicko's feet. That was another reason Nicko didn’t mind how much Rory liked to play house with the boxie, because they all knew who he was loyal to, they all knew who signed the papers and who was in charge of him. And when he did things like this, like groveling at Nicko’s feet and looking at him with wide, nervous puppy dog eyes, it made Nicko high on power.

“I thought of a good name for him,” Rory announced. Nicko turned to look at her, at how she leaned against the wall lazily, eyes droopy and words slurred. She was high, she was always high and Nicko really hated it. He told her all the time how much he hated it, she just never seemed to care. “What do you think about Giovanni? Gio for short.”

Nicko looked down at his boxie, who was now swaying just a little, looking a little pale. When Nicko’s hand found his wavy brown hair, he closed his eyes tight and pressed against the touch for the split second it was there, then he deflated as it was pulled away. “Giovanni,” Nicko repeated thoughtfully, “Yeah, it’s cute. Suits him.” With that, he lowered his paintbrush and smeared some red onto Gio’s nose, laughing at how shocked he looked. Giovanni looked up at Nicko, saw him laughing, and a tiny grin slipped onto his face. Nicko liked the way red looked against his pale skin.

The first time Nicko tattooed him, Giovanni cried. He didn’t move around or try to stop Nicko or make any sounds, he was perfectly behaved the entire time. Nicko was entranced, the needle was sliding across his skin smoothly, the dark ink looked so striking against his skin, and Giovanni was so good and still, he got lost in the moment. He had been working on it for probably a good two hours before he noticed Gio crying. Nicko didn’t say anything, simply pulled his hands off of him and looked back over his work. Maybe he should have opted for something smaller, and in a less sensitive spot, allow Gio to ease into the stinging pain of the needle before starting this huge, intricate bouquet on his ribcage. It was looking incredible, though, and Nicko had to finish it.

He glanced up at Giovanni, who was staring up at the ceiling with huge tears slipping down the sides of his face and into his hair, his bottom lip trembling as he took in tiny, shaking breaths. Nicko laughed softly at him, drawing Gio’s attention to him. When he realized Nicko was watching him cry, he frantically reached up and swiped away his tears.

“It’s ok,” Nicko said softly, “crying’s normal. I’ve seen grown men sob like babies in these chairs. You’re doing great, Gio. Just keep still, like you’ve been doing.”

Giovanni took a deep breath, then smiled at Nicko through his teary eyes. “O-Ok…”

Nicko felt a certain thrill when he tattooed Giovanni. Something about it was different than getting paid to do one, than having to sit in front of a bossy customer who would whine about it the entire time. Giovanni belonged to Nicko, he didn’t have a say in what markings were put on his body, he just had to shut up and take it. It also felt so much better, physically. Giovanni’s fragile ribs underneath Nicko’s hands, tensing occasionally as he tried not to jolt away from the pain, felt sort of similar to choking Rory when they fucked. He thought it was just because of the placement of his hands, the intimacy of touching someone's bare torso, but then when he was doing a couple on Gio’s arms another day it felt the same. His wrist was frail and breakable in Nicko’s hand and his fingers were twitching when the needle caught a sensitive spot, and Nicko was absolutely obsessed. He knew it wasn’t great to do so many tattoos all in a short period of time, but he couldn’t help himself. He caught himself thinking about it all the time, during class, while he was painting, while he was fucking around with Rory, when he was drunk, he was constantly imagining Giovanni's almost inaudible gasps of pain, the way his brown eyes dulled in fear when the tattoo gun started buzzing loudly, how he bit down on his full bottom lip when it really hurt. He just wanted to do it all the time. Even when he couldn’t take Gio down to the shop, he would lock them away in his room and bring out his own supplies. His were cheaper and older, and that meant it hurt worse, and the few times Nicko used it on him, Giovanni couldn’t help but let out tiny whines and hisses every so often. He looked mortified that he was doing it, when Nicko stopped to look up at him, he would duck his head in apology. Nicko wondered if he used to get in trouble for making noises while he was hurting.

Actually, Nicko wondered a lot of things about Gio’s past. Before he showed up, his biggest question was what had he done to be given up by his old owners? The company had listed him as “refurbished”, because he had done something that went against training and had to go back to go through the process again. Nicko couldn’t imagine him doing anything wrong enough to deserve whatever horrors were held in retraining. Hell, he had sat through about 13 hours worth of tattoos perfectly still and quiet, and he never complained, so it certainly couldn't have been because of his inability to do what his owners wanted him to. And Rory absolutely adored him, he let her play with his hair and smear makeup on his face and even pump him full of whatever drug she was using at the time, and he didn’t protest once. Giovanni was perfect. But maybe at one point he wasn’t, it was just hard for Nicko to imagine that.

After he realized that, he also couldn’t stop thinking about what he had done to become a boxie in the first place. From what he’d read, someone had to do something pretty awful for a judge to even consider that as an alternative punishment, it wasn’t something they gave you for vandalism or trespassing. Again, though, Giovanni was so soft spoken, so timid, so afraid of everything, Nicko didn’t believe he could do anything bad. At least not bad enough to warrant what he’d gone through.

That was only stuff Nicko thought of at night when he couldn’t sleep and he could hear Giovanni whimpering and sniffling to himself from his makeshift bed on Nicko’s floor. Once or twice he debated inviting him up into the bed with him so he’d stop crying, but something always stopped him. He told himself it was because Rory would be mad if she found them in bed together, but he knew that wasn’t the case. So for some reason, he just pretended he didn’t hear it and waited until it stopped. Or fell asleep anyway before it did.

The rest of the time, though, he was thinking about how perfect Giovanni was, and how much he liked having him around.

And then Salem came back and started messing things up.

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

Giovanni was scared of Salem right away, it was hard not to be scared of someone when they march right up with a huge black bag that looks like it would hurt so bad if it was swung hard enough, and start yelling and cussing. It didn't help that he was already freaked out enough because of the loud party that had been going on for three days now and whatever it was that Rory had made him swallow earlier. He didn’t mean to let his fear show, he was planning on just sitting very still and pretending he wasn’t there so he would be left alone, but he was so high he couldn’t help but react just a little. When Rory noticed, she grabbed his face and leaned in close and said “it’s ok, Gio, it’s just Salem, I won’t let him hurt ya.”

He liked Rory a lot. He was really scared of her, too, at first, with her bright blue hair and black powder smudged around her eyes like charcoal. She looked just as scared as he felt, as she looked down at him through the now open wooden crate he was still in, and for some reason that made him feel a little better. She helped him out of the box, held his shoulders to keep him steady when he stood on wobbling knees. Gio allowed her to lead him down the long hallway, walking slowly and patiently next to him so he wouldn’t fall. She sat right outside the bath on her knees and washed him off, her sharp nails dragging through his hair. She laughed at him when he closed his eyes and melted against it. When she was done rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, she leaned back with a sigh.

“My name’s Aurora, by the way. Like the princess.” When she said it, she smiled widely and her cheeks got a little rosy.

“Like the what?” He whispered.

She laughed at him again, this time it was just in disbelief. “The princess? Aurora?” He shook his head a little. “Sleeping Beauty? You don’t know her?”

He had been silent for a long time, thinking really hard, trying to remember. Was he supposed to know her? Was this part of his training? Did he forget? His heart sank the longer she stared at him, he was stupid and forgetful and she was going to send him back to training and he couldn’t go back there, it would kill him if he had to do it one more time.

But then she was reaching over to drain the bath, and standing up and trying to help him to his feet as well. She wrapped a towel around his waist carefully. “It’s ok, no one calls me that anyway. You can call me Rory, ‘kay?”

After that point, she wanted to be around him almost all the time. She liked to mess around with his hair, tug at it and put it into colorful rubber bands. A few times she had put some makeup on him. She told him that Nicko didn’t let her do it on him, even though she thought it was so attractive when men wore makeup. She told Gio it was ok, cause he looked better than Nicko would anyway, told him he was handsome. He liked when she said nice things like that. He didn't believe her, of course, but he still liked it. She would also give him tiny pills and make him breathe in smoke and put powder on his teeth, it all made him feel so strange and distant, more so than usual, anyways. Some of them made him feel so good he never ever wanted it to end, and some of them were so scary he ended the night hunched over the toilet vomiting in pure fear or sobbing in Rory’s comforting arms. He never refused anything she tried to give him, though, he wouldn’t dream of that.

As much as Gio liked Rory, it paled in comparison to how he felt about Nicko. Giovanni liked him so much that it scared him sometimes. He found himself wanting to be next to him always, felt utterly ruined when he wasn’t allowed to be. The way Nicko smiled at him, especially when Giovanni sat down at his feet while he painted, made him feel like screaming. He thought it was incredible what beautiful things Nicko could create with his hands, he often sat close by and watched silently as Nicko worked with thick, bright paints, completely mesmerized. One time, when Rory was gone and it was just Nicko and Gio, he gave him one of the pictures. It was while they were in Nicko’s room, Giovanni was sitting on the floor and watching the snow fall just outside, and suddenly Nicko was waving his hand at him to get his attention.

“Come here, I wanna give you something.” Gio wasted no time scrambling over to him, watching him intently as he ripped a piece of paper out of his sketchbook. Giovanni heard himself gasp when Nicko extended the paper out toward him and he saw it. It was him, Nicko had been drawing him while he was distracted by the snow. Nicko laughed at him, shaking the paper at him pointedly. “Here, take it. It’s for you.”

Giovanni blinked up at him in surprise, then slowly reached forward and took the paper with shaking hands, like he was afraid it was a trick. Once it was in his grip and Nicko had let go, he looked down at it with his breathing shallow. It was beautiful, just like everything Nicko created, and Giovanni felt so lucky, so thankful.

He was always thanking Nicko, even when he shouldn’t be. After the long, miserable sessions where Nicko would press that loud machine against him until Gio wanted to tear himself out of his own skin so he didn’t have to feel the sharp stinging and burning, he would look at the new design Nicko put on him and he would say “thank you” so genuinely, and it always made Nicko smile warmly. The pain was horrible, and Giovanni was so sensitive, he always had been, and he was so embarrassed when he cried, or when they were alone in Nicko’s room and he couldn’t stay silent. At first he was so worried Nicko would be angry with him for making noise while it was happening, but then he told him it was ok, it was normal, and it eased his anxiety a little.

Nicko was good at that, at making Gio less anxious. All it took most of the time was a small amount of reassurance, a simple “it’s ok, don’t worry”, and then he would feel better. Gio only wished that he did it more often, because everything made him nervous and Nicko could help him so easily, if he wanted to. Like when he would wake up from nightmares he wasn’t even able to remember, crying at memories that disappeared once he woke up. If Nicko just sat up for a second and told him it was ok, he would probably feel better instantly. But he decided not to, for whatever reason, and Gio just had to be ok with it. He would be ok with anything Nicko decided to do or not do, if he was being honest. As long as he didn’t get rid of him, as long as he just kept him around, Nicko could do whatever he wanted, and Giovanni would be happy. He did exist for Nicko now, after all, it was purpose to please him or entertain him however he asked, to do everything and anything he could to make him happy. So really, as long as Nicko was happy, so was Giovanni.

The only problem was Giovanni was secretly miserable.

[cyn-00]

Moreid one shot, 22 - "strings"

Another one inspired by season 5, episode 10 "The slave of duty", though with an entirely different focus compared to my other fic based on that same episode (which btw was my FIRST can u believe that)

I'm gonna remind you of a couple things that are important to understand this work (the plot of the episode/case aren't tbh): this is that period in the show where Morgan is taking Hotch's place in leading the team; plus Reid's been recently shot in the knee so he has his cane and everything. The first dialogue is word by word reported from the show and then I go from there ;)

@upsetti0spaghettiii and @rollcreditsyall asked me to tag 'em <3 hope u like it

Read it on AO3

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

"We need fresh eyes..." Rossi mumbled, more as if telling himself than the rest of the team.

Morgan acknowledged the older man's hint and sighed deeply, sinking further in his swivel chair. "A'ight, listen up,"

He continued once everyone's eyes darted up to him almost as quickly as they'd dart up to Hotch - which always lit Spencer up with pride, somehow.

"I want everybody to go back to the hotel and try to get some rest. We're gonna have to pick this up again in the morning."

Prentiss poorly contained a taken aback expression. "Wha- we're giving up?"

Reid was this close to piercing her skull with a laser-glare, because Morgan was RIGHT - how could she not see that they were getting nowhere? But then again: would've looked like he was playing the part of the blindly supportive boyfriend. Which, he never did.

"No." Morgan shot his head up to glance at her; albeit with anything but malice in his eyes. "We're gonna take a break. We have to give the profile at morning roll and none of us has slept since the funeral."

Realization; painted on Emily's features. Now do you see? Reid wanted to ask - he didn't, of course.

"Once Garcia can get us a paper trail, then we can expand our canvas. 'Till then there's really not a lot we can do." Morgan concluded, and silence fell in the room like a heavy blanket, smothering whatever other retort his teammates may raise.

-

Reid waited for the others to exit the room before standing up and making his way around the desk, straining against the searing pang that shot up from his healing knee at the motion.

He settled behind Morgan's chair and let his free arm loosely encircle him from behind, resting his palm on the man's broad, tense chest.

After unnecessarily checking once again that there weren't any nosy officers peeking from outside, he carefully bent down to reach Derek's temple and place a lingering kiss there.

"You did the right thing." he murmured, and immediately felt the other man releasing a breath at his words.

"I know." Derek responded shortly, finally moving from that concerningly petrified position to place his palm over Spencer's hand, pressing more firmly to discourage him from breaking contact.

Spencer allowed his tired eyes to flutter close for a few seconds as he rested his cheek on his boyfriend's head, relying on his trusted cane not to let him fall headlong on the moquette - "who's the idiot that decided putting moquette in a police station conference room was a good idea?", he recalled the comment Derek had whispered to his ear a few hours before, and he recalled thinking that only someone as obsessed with everything furniture-wise as Derek Morgan could notice and care about such a thing as a police station flooring. "Pfft... good luck with washing that if someone spills coffee".

The thought awakened him before it could bring a stupid, unbidden smile to his lips.

Washing. Soap, warm water, shampoo... he needed a well deserved-

"Shower." Derek's voice and the noise of lips briefly smacking on his palm resonated in the genius' half-asleep ears. "Need a shower."

Spencer smiled now. "Me too."

"I know. Could hear you thinkin' about it." Derek left another kiss on Spencer's wrist before gripping on the armrests to stand up, needing him to lift his warm cheek seemingly melting on the top of his head to do so.

"C'mon," he encouraged, turning around to finally take a look at the man's sleepy face.

"Gotta help Goldilocks here shampoo up." he grinned warmly, tilting his head.

Spencer only snorted, because with that damn smile what the hell could he say to the man.

-

Reid sighed deeply as he slumped onto the toilet lid, resting his cane against the tiled wall of the bathroom.

He took off his jacket and pulled his sweater vest over his head, and the second he began maneuvering with his tie, a pair of hands landed over his.

He glanced up slightly annoyed, but gave in to let those hands do the work nonetheless.

"It's the pants I struggle with, not the upper part of my body." he specified for the millionth time - the millionth time he'd found Derek helping him get out of his tie and shirt even though he could do that by himself just fine.

Morgan arched a brow and scoffed, keeping his gaze leveled with the collar of the other man's button-up. "What's in it for me if I don't at least get to undress my boy, uh?"

Spencer contained a smile, ducking his head to look at Derek's hands proceeding to undo the buttons once he'd slid the tie away.

"Not exactly the type of undressing you'd wished for, I'm guessing..." he mumbled sheepishly after a couple seconds.

Derek's eyebrows furrowed now. He said more with those eyebrows of his than he did with his words.

"Any type of undressing you is the type of undressing I wish for..." he trailed off, and Spencer noticed his shirt had magically slid off of his shoulders and was being untucked from his slacks.

Derek's smile grew as his pupils traced from the skinny man's hips up to his chest and laced with his eyes at last.

"It's that I enjoy the view regardless, pretty boy." he added winking, before placing a kiss right over the man's heart.

Spencer didn't say anything. His usual "whatever you say" or the like would only supply him with Derek's eye-roll and another cascade of cheesy praising followed by Spencer's impulse to kiss him and then a few other things which he didn't have the physical strength to engage in, in that moment.

So he settled for thinking those things, lost in his own head while his eyes followed each one of Derek's careful motions that only resulted in layers and layers of clothing peeling off of his body, unable to pinpoint when exactly he had propped up to let the man pull his pants down to his ankles.

The only thing he managed to feel, right after the piercing cold ceramic under his thighs once his slacks were no longer cladding them, was the noise of the brace straps and the sensation of it freeing his leg and then-

"Ouch- Waitwaitwait, Der- wait" he pleaded through gritted teeth, as a twinge of pain awakened him from his pleasant reverie.

"I'm sorry baby, I know this part always hurts like hell" Derek said, and they both knew the 'part' he was referring to was the one where Spencer had to stretch his leg, numb and strained from having it caged in that hellish plastic brace for hours straight.

Spencer nodded and let his boyfriend do the rest - the first couple times he had tried to protest and get through everything on his own, feeling nothing short of a burden and decidedly embarrassed. Now, though, he knew there was no point in arguing, not simply because arguing with Derek when it came to taking care of Spencer was pointless to say the very least; but mostly because Derek was inexplicably good at taking care of him. Doctor Reid could surely brag about his PhDs, but Derek seemed to own every medical training in the world when he had to care for Spencer's pain.

-

The other man rose to his feet for a few seconds, taking the forgotten plastic stool in the corner of the room and placing it in the shower, before starting the water to get it as warm as Spencer liked it. Which meant, 3rd-degree-burn warm.

He returned to kneel in front of the naked genius in his briefs and mismatched socks only, smiling fondly at the sight.

He gently grabbed Spencer's ankles to slip off his socks - it made his toes curl and Derek adored it - and wrapped his strong arms around his boyfriend's skinny torso to pull him up to his bare feet.

Spencer only slightly hissed and grasped onto Derek's shoulders like his life depended on it - which, it kinda did, seeing how the worryingly sharp edge of the marble bathroom counter seemed to be waiting just for the man to wobble under the weight of his recently wounded knee.

Derek hooked his fingers in the elastic band of his boyfriend's underwear and let it fall to the floor so the other could step out of it - just a week ago that same, easy action almost cost Spencer to trip over and smash his skull straight into the sliding glass door of his shower; but Derek pushed that memory away because acting like the overly protective boyfriend wasn't gonna make things any better or easier, anyway.

It's just. Spencer was so fragile. There was no denying that. His brain was worth all their brains added together if not more, but dammit could a bruise stain his fair skin for weeks on end; reason why they'd given up on hickeys a long time ago - at least visible ones - in light of the fact that ever-lasting purple marks weren't exactly a good idea in their line of work.

"Derek, uhm, I'm taking a wild guess your fully clothed self doesn't know how cold it is in this bathroom, but, it's cold." Spencer's complaint brought him out of his head.

He looked down at himself and, indeed, he was fully clothed still.

"Wanna bet that I won't be as cold as you? You just like to whine a lot don't you?" Derek teased, pulling his henley off.

"It would be decidedly stupid of me to bet on such obviousness ? It's granted that you won't feel as cold as me considering that I'm skinnier; muscle heats up the body through metabolism as well as fat which works as an insulating-"

Reid's babbling was cut off by the man's laughter.

"...what? What's so funny?"

"I finally got naked for you and that's still not enough to stop your fact-spewing?"

Derek saw Spencer gulping and scanning him from head to toe.

"...right" he murmured, biting the inside of his cheek.

Morgan brought the other's pink-tinted face back up with his hands, lifting his gaze from where it was lingering on some undefined area very much below his usual approximately 5'8-something horizon line, and placed a kiss between his eyebrows.

"Come on. I ain't gonna risk you getting a cold on top of everything else." he said softly, securing Spencer's waist with two hands from behind to lead him first into the shower.

And thank God that one was an actual shower, instead of that bathtub the two of them barely fit in with a half-unhooked plastic curtain from that crappy motel the team found themselves having to spend a whole 6 days in, just a couple weeks before. And thank God for the stool, also, because helping Spencer through a shower while either standing or sitting on the floor were provenly exhausting techniques for both of them.

Derek eased his boyfriend into said stool and could immediately see him relaxing under the warm water. He dropped on his knees and started untangling the man's matted curls with his fingers - Spencer had confessed that, before Derek, he only used to untangle the knots with a comb after having showered because he didn't have the time or patience to do otherwise, but Morgan had rightfully reminded him that he had not one but two sisters, hence he was so used to observe how carefully their mom routinely brushed and braided their hair when they were little he could repeat the process by heart - so at the end of the day, "I might be bald but I sure know more about curls than you do, pretty boy".

After having managed to loosen maybe a couple of major tangles at most - nothing out of the ordinary - he reached for the shampoo and squeezed a generous amount on his palm, smearing it on both hands before spreading it onto Spencer's mop of hair.

Morgan had always wondered how the hell the kid always smelt so good; the rare times he could perceive something other than the cozy smell of coffee that almost perpetually imbued Spencer's aura. For some unfounded reason, his first guess had been that the source of such sweet smell must've been Spencer's cologne. After a month at most of knowing him, though, the hypothesis that the lanky genius with the crooked tie and that cardigan Morgan couldn't picture as anyone else's but his grandfather's actually wore cologne, was thrown out of the window. So he'd quite confidently settled for option B, which entailed that the scent had to have something to do with the detergent he used for his clothes. Little did he know he would find himself in Reid's bathroom some night after a case, and his eyes would be caught by a plastic, peach-pink bottle of shampoo that, to his "surprise", smelled like...like Spencer. Like something sweet and fruity with a spicy hint of cinnamon. And it's not like Morgan wasn't aware of the notorious, rom-com cliché that the aphrodisiac smell of the person you're hopelessly pining over is more likely due to their shampoo than anything else; it's more that he didn't want to give in the realization that not only Spencer's hair looked good - and, much later on, felt good twirled around his fingers - but on top of that it smelt good. Oh, dammit, my crush's hair smells like heaven which only adds to the fact that he probably fell from there, seeing how it makes him look like a downright ANGEL. Come on. Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan would've preferred without a smidge of doubt to remain unbeknownst of that, for the sake of his poor heart.

Poor heart, indeed, when Spencer started literally purring close-eyed under the soothingly kneading motions of Derek's digits through his hair. There was really no reason to keep on massaging the shampoo on Spencer's scalp for 5 minutes straight, if not that sight.

"Spencer?" he called, failing to contain the urge to lean in and peck at his lips.

"Hmm ?" the dopey man hummed in response.

"Sweetie, don't fall asleep on me here, yeah?"

" 'm trying. But you're not helping." Spencer mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his fingers from the water streaming down his face to open them in slits.

"Ah, so now it's my fault that you get all dreamy when I play with your hair?"

Spencer frowned. "Uhm, yes ?"

The other man chuckled. "Alright. Got the message." he claimed before standing briefly to his feet to grab the sprayer.

"Mmh' no this is even worse..." Spencer mewled when his boyfriend started rinsing his hair with warm water, running his fingers through it to be as thorough as possible.

Derek burst out laughing. "You're unbelievable, I swear to God." he said, making quick work of the rinsing process or else he would've undoubtedly have to drag a passed out, naked Spencer out of the shower.

He put the sprayer back in place and took the shower gel - he had to use the unscented, cheap, exceedingly liquid sample from the hotel - and poured it on his palm.

Spencer held out his hands in a cup-like shape as if waiting for Derek to give him a share of the gel. He looked up at him and arched a brow.

The genius rolled his eyes. "If you don't provide me with something to do I'm gonna seriously fall asleep in here."

Derek nodded and complied. "Lame excuse."

"For what?" the other asked like he didn't know when actually he knew.

"For laying your hands on me?" Derek teased with his 'you can't fool me' tone. "But I ain't complaining, just so we're clear..." he smirked.

After that, Spencer gave up on countering further but his expression didn't waver much; and Derek couldn't even relish in the satisfaction of holding that comment 100% accountable for the flush dyeing Spencer's chest and neck, because it could've very well been mostly due to the steam and hot water.

Both started spreading the gel onto each other's shoulders and necks and torsos, and Morgan wouldn't have managed to tear his gaze away from the skinny man sat in front of him even if he'd purposely tried. Spencer's concentrated expression was the same whether he was solving Schrödinger's equation or he was stirring his coffee with a spoon.

Hazel eyes locked with Derek's after a while, only for a split second before their owner launched himself into his arms; a soapy hand cupping the back of his neck and a warm muzzle burying in his slippery shoulder.

Derek didn't question and simply indulged in the hug, tracing circles with his thumbs on the nubs of Spencer's spine as he let his cheek lean against the top of his head.

"Thank you." a muffled whisper breached through the continuous noise of water thrumming on ceramic and glass and steel surfaces.

"Stop thanking me, kid. I love you." how many times had Morgan found himself saying those exact words, if maybe arranged in different fashions, throughout 5 years of working with Reid? Only difference was that the last bit hadn't always born the meaning it bore now. Almost, though.

After one or two minutes more - Derek couldn't quite gauge, and the fact that Spencer most definitely could brought a slight smile to his lips - Reid let go of the hug; and it was only because being soaked from head to toe blurred out things a little that Morgan couldn't swear the man was a second away from crying.

Reid looked down at his wrinkly finger pads.

"We're wasting an unnecessary amount of water." he said with a small grin curling one edge of his mouth. If Spencer's previous expression rendered almost unreadable by that soaked-head-to-toe situation hadn't been enough to go by, his current tone and the look that went along with it surely were.

However, Morgan didn't mention it, and the couple spent the rest of the shower rinsing the bubbles off of their bodies in soothing quiet.

-

The comfortable quiet kept going unhindered as Derek helped Spencer up and out of the shower, as he wrapped a towel around his bony hips, as Spencer brushed his dripping hair with a wooden comb while watching the standing man put on his sweats and t-shirt. Their exchanges merely fond glances here and hands caressing cheeks there and fingers bumping on skins like silent reminders that they were together in this just as much as in everything else that might come in their way and break them, whether inside or out or both it didn't matter as long as they were Spencer and Derek and Derek and Spencer.

And so together they walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, both pleasantly surprised by how they managed to not let Spencer slip on the steam-coated floor.

In a matter of minutes he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, which wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as sitting on the crappy stool or the toilet lid, much to Spencer's relief.

And Spencer Reid was notoriously not one to count his chickens before they'd hatched, but this time...

"Oh baby...does it still hurt so bad?" Morgan asked with full-on worry creasing his handsome features, at the sight of his boyfriend screwing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw while his leg bounced up and down - the leg not injured, that is. He'd caught Spencer doing that sometimes during work and he'd quickly figured it was his way to cope with pangs.

Spencer simply nodded his head frantically and grabbed both the man's hands to squeeze them in a knuckle-whitening clutch.

His boyfriend's sigh was so deep Spencer didn't need to actually see to picture the rising and falling of his chest as visible to the naked eye.

"I'm gonna get the pills the doctor prescribed you and I don't wanna hear you complain." the man asserted.

The second Reid felt him on the verge of standing up, he squeezed his hands even tighter and made an effort to open his eyes.

"No, nonono I- I took it 2 and a half hours ago I can't take anymore for another hour and a half at least." he protested, shaking his head vigorously and staring pleadingly at him.

Morgan sighed again, and this time Reid could see it.

"Ok, alright, then...did you bring that ointment he gave you?"

Spencer's pupils fidgeted around in thought.

"Yeah. Y- yeah, I- I have that in my bag." he replied, stuttering with the abruptness of his realization.

Derek stood up for real now, fetching said ointment.

He came back a minute later and resumed his kneeling position, squeezing some of the balm on his fingers and warming it up by rubbing his hands. He started massaging it onto his boyfriend's knee, and the heavy mass weighing on his chest was lifted like magic when Spencer's muscles relaxed and his deadly grip on the blankets loosened.

Another 'thank you' was about to escape Spencer's mouth, but then he opted to swallow it and instead relish in the sensation of Derek's thumbs rubbing the slick balm in circles at either side of his wounded kneecap; watching him as though if he didn't keep an eye on him he would disappear.

He didn't know how much time had passed, because that was one of those few occasions he'd allowed himself not to keep count of things - most of those occasions were the ones he spent with Derek - but it must have been quite a while because by the time Derek spoke up again, the pain had melted away and his knee was glistening and warm and his heart was fuzzy and vibrating inside his ribcage.

"Better?" the man asked.

Spencer waited a second for him to raise his gaze from the task at hand and direct it toward his, and for the smile that he knew was coming to actually come, before answering.

When that happened, he said: "Definitely."

And if Derek's grin didn't widen it was just because it couldn't get bigger than half of his face, and because it had to be a crime to smile more brightly than that.

"Alright then. Gonna get cleaned up and then I'll help you with pj's."

Spencer opened his mouth to dismiss his offer but was immediately cut off by a finger raised threateningly at him.

"Nope. I don't wanna hear it, I told you." Derek reprimanded before heading to the bathroom.

-

The few minutes Morgan spent washing his hands and pacing around the room to get the other's t-shirt and flannel pants were enough for the warm and fuzzy feeling to seep out of Reid's skin and be replaced by unsettling thoughts he never enjoyed wallowing in, but especially not in that moment.

It was exactly that same feeling from earlier reoccurring to him, the feeling that if he let Derek out of his sight for a second he would lose him - more specifically Derek would leave him. And of course during work the time they spent apart was much more than the one they spent together, but in a working context it was simply...different. Different in a way Spencer couldn't name. It was when they were alone that the feeling came back to choke him with its evil claws; and it was such a foreign one considering that Reid had spent most of his childhood AND adulthood alone, so one would simply guess he was used to it. Maybe it was exactly that: that he'd got so used to being alone he couldn't help but cling onto the first thing that made him not alone, and if in the beginning that thing had been his team and later on the team stopped being enough and it became Dilaudid, now that thing was Derek, and Derek was more than enough for the time being - Spencer was pretty confident he would be enough for the rest of his life, but what if it weren't mutual ? What if Spencer wasn't enough for Derek - for that matter, how could Spencer be enough for anyone? What if Derek left ?

"-encer? Baby you good in there?"

Then what would the next thing be and would a 'next thing' even exist or should he just settle for being alone all over again, only this time he would know the feeling of NOT being alone - would he ever recover from that?

"Hey, kid, c'mon now,"

Could he forget what it had felt like not being alone and learn to suffice for himself?

"Spencer seriously, talk to me ?"

Could Spencer Reid learn to finally FORGET if forgetting meant surviving?

"Spencer, come on baby you're starting to scare me here."

Reid ultimately managed to snap out of his head and realize Morgan had been trying to pull him out of it all along. He felt a hand cradling his jaw and words reaching his eardrums and his name being called in endless sequence.

He shook his head and gaped for a few seconds.

"Yeah, I'm- I'm here, sorry I- just, I was...thinking, I'm sorry..." he swallowed and jerked his eyes away from Derek's because the look he was giving him was a bit too much.

Morgan released a heavy exhale, as his hand shifted to rest on the back of Reid's head, massaging his nape to ground him again.

"Sorry."

"Don't start. Just tell me what you were thinking."

A grimace of reluctance crinkled Spencer's sweet face. "...do I have to?"

"Yes." Derek asserted. "Puppy-eyes won't work this time."

Spencer bit his lip to contain a lopsided, amused smile.

"Well," he shrugged. "it was worth the shot."

Derek snorted in response, visibly relaxing at having managed to reclaim their usual playful banter.

The other man was grateful that Morgan hadn't pried, instead reaching a hand out beside the spot where Spencer was sitting to grab his fresh pair of briefs. The warm-fuzzy feeling partially found its way back through Spencer's bloodstream at the thought that Derek probably knew by now how he was more likely to talk brake-free and open heartedly when he wasn't being overtly pressured to do so.

-

Derek carefully untucked the towel from around Spencer's hips and rose to a half-standing position to prop him up a few inches from the bed and slide it away from underneath him. He helped the man's long legs inside his underwear and lifted him once again to pull it up; he took the slightly moist towel and used it to ruffle Spencer's hair in the attempt to wipe it dry a little - again: a cold wasn't the greatest idea at the moment - gaining his signature nose scrunch and finally, Spencer started spilling.

"I was thinking about this whole...situation." Reid murmured with a sigh.

Morgan considered his words for a few seconds - uncaring of having probably given the man the impression that he wasn't listening - while minutely un-messing the strands of brunette, damp hair he'd messed up with the towel and adjusting them behind Spencer's ears.

"Meaning?" he asked at last; more to give the man the liberty of elaborating how he wanted than because he hadn't picked up on the 'situation' he was referring to.

"Meaning...you taking on Hotch's role temporarily ?" Spencer supplied, raising his pitch at the end as though it were a question.

"What about it, sweetie?" he urged on gently, stopping his ministrations to rub his hands up and down Spencer's sides affectionately.

"I, uh..." Reid cleared his voice. "I just realized that- well, m- maybe it's that I didn't want to think about it so that's why I'm realizing it only now but, anyway; I realized that if...if Hotch isn't coming back..." he trailed off, looking down at his knees.

Derek took the hint and started moving again, picking Spencer's flannel pants and guiding his feet inside them.

Spencer waited for the lift-and-pull-up part to be over - because it was too draining to do that AND talk simultaneously - before conjuring his train of thought again.

"If Hotch doesn't come back, you'll be the new Unit Chief." Reid said, once he was sitting down.

Morgan hesitated, furrowing his brows in confusion as to why Reid would feel the need to state the obvious.

"Yeah." he simply confirmed.

Spencer visibly refrained from explaining, choosing to spend the next few seconds picking at the worn fabric of his pajama pants - now that he wasn't naked anymore and finally had something to fiddle with - sticking uncomfortably to the layer of ointment covering his knee.

As per usual, Morgan's brain was struggling to keep up with his boyfriend's pondering.

But then it hit him.

"Oh..." Derek dropped his gaze; his confused and apprehensive expression fading away to make space for a melancholic and apologetic one.

"...yeah" Spencer murmured. But then decided that a monosyllabic answer wasn't enough, and opted to unfold his thoughts more clearly.

"It means that...that you'll be our superior- my superior, hence we couldn't...you and I, we, we won't be allowed to..." he gulped. He knew his bottom lip was trembling. He could feel it. But he had to say it, or else the concept would eat him alive.

"...to be together anymore. Right?" Spencer concluded with a quivering voice.

Derek wanted to get back to doing what he was supposed to be doing to give them both some more seconds to digest that, but for some reason he feared that if he'd proceeded to help Spencer in his last piece of clothing, the man would've looked even more vulnerable and small in that saggy t-shirt than he did now that he was bare in any sense of the word in front of him.

So he slowly brushed his hands down Spencer's lap to entangle them with his.

"...unless I choose not to." he mumbled.

The genius' scowling glance shot up.

"What?? No. No, I won't let you do that."

Morgan sighed, tilting his head. "Spencer-"

"No, Derek. I couldn't live with myself knowing that you turned down the greatest job opportunity of your life to stay with me."

And that much was the truest statement Spencer had ever made, even if the only thought of breaking up with Derek made every cell in his body ache and his heart bleed out and his bones shatter like a china cup dropping on a granite floor.

Derek stared at him for a while with flat-out disbelief pasted on his face.

"Spencer," he started, and immediately shook his head, unable to contain a snort. Spencer's frown didn't but intensify at that.

"Kid, look. I know that you'd respect my decision to accept the job. I know it because you're one of the most ambitious and over-achieving people I know and I feel nothing but blessed to have someone like you by my side." he paused. "You inspire me in that sense, you know?"

Spencer didn't answer, but his gaze softened instinctively.

"But it's because I know you respect everything I do that I'd be disappointed to know that you made the exception to NOT support me if I decided to turn down the offer."

The words hit Spencer in a certain spot at the base of his skull, but he couldn't bring himself to be ungrateful for Derek being so honest and blunt about the matter.

So he nodded.

Derek continued, because he wasn't convinced at all that the man had got the message.

"And believe me when I say that the reason why I wouldn't accept it isn't because I pity you or I don't wanna leave 'poor Spencer' alone or whatever." he made the air-quote gesture and untangled a hand from Spencer's to bring it to his cheek.

"It's because to me accepting a title that by the way, I'm not even 100% sure that I want, it's not worth leaving the person I'm in love with."

With that last bit, Derek didn't need to forcibly bring his boyfriend's chin up to meet his eyes - Spencer had instantly done that on his own initiative.

"I would NOT be able to leave you, Spencer. For my sake, not out of pity. I know myself." he whispered, stroking his thumb on the other's cheek.

Spencer kept returning the other's stare for what they both perceived like 30 minutes, in search for the slightest hint of lie in Derek's eyes. Which, obviously, he gladly failed to summon.

So he inched closer and pressed their lips together, because kissing Derek seemed like the easier way to both reply to his confession and stop his bottom lip from trembling with the force of emotion welling up in his eyes.

Derek's mouth went along as his arms encircled his boyfriend's dainty frame to carefully shift him closer, until his body was the only thing keeping him from falling off the mattress. He captured every silky motion of Spencer's tongue with unmatched slowness; as if the more thorough the kiss, the better he could savor the man's unspoken words and enshrine them forever in his mind, only fueling his already unarguable conviction that no, he couldn't let this man slip away like it wasn't him that kept Derek's lungs breathing and his heart pounding and his limbs working.

-

With one last smack of lips Spencer gasped out of the kiss, keeping their foreheads glued together and his eyes shuttered because it was clear now that he didn't need to see the man to know he wouldn't leave, but his skin couldn't do without the feeling of Derek's against it nonetheless.

Slowly, he opened his lids and noticed the pair of pitch-black eyes in front of his were staring at him.

He smiled when he spotted a bright glimmer deep inside them, and was returned with a smile of Derek's own.

"Plus," Morgan's hoarse voice gently poked through the silence, as both his hands rose to cup the other's face.

"I know we shouldn't profile each other and all that, but dad really doesn't know what to do with himself when he's not with us, so my money's on him coming back." he joked.

Spencer burst in the prettiest giggle Derek had ever heard and let his head fall onto the other's shoulder.

"Y-yeah, mine too." he agreed once he'd recomposed himself enough to straighten in his seat again.

"Let's put this t-shirt on and go to sleep, uh?" Derek offered.

The genius nodded, and in a matter of 5 minutes at most, the two were a mess of entangled limbs - both injured and not - instants away from falling asleep; with a few less doubts stinging their hearts and just as many newfound strings keeping them together.

[noctuascion]

Hi! I have a Cryptage prompt, if you're still taking them, because my writing brain appears to be taking the day (week? month? year??) off. Basically crypto feeling insecure about how many adoring fans Mirage has, and not being able to be comfortable with other people telling Mirage that they're "in love" with him. :)

Oh, hello there!! I'm always taking prompts!! And, yeah, I feel that. Lol. I'll gladly take your prompt, though!! Thank you!!!

--

Park didn't belong in the spotlight for a multitude of reasons: he was terse, quiet, preferred his privacy, and was just uncomfortable with it in general. Crypto wasn't meant for the limelight in general—he was to be a mysterious character with little care for interviews and what his fans said about him.

Elliott, however, thrived on the attention, Mirage a prime example of someone made to live with all eyes on him. He was spectacular in the ring and able to charm his adoring public, all bright smiles and dazzling moves. His fans were eager to show their love for Elliott, Park noticed, one afternoon the two were spending together.

Elliott was reading some fan mail whilst Park was busying himself drawing on the trickster's arm, sleeve rolled up and intricate patterns marked along the tanned canvas, flowers and cats occasionally tossed into the mix. Elliott never minded. They always reminded him of really cool tattoos, and he didn't want to get any anytime soon, so he was fine with Park just drawing all over him (even if it was a pain to clean off later).

However, the hacker's curious gaze couldn't help but shift towards the letter currently in hand. It was from some female fan that had been watching Elliott ever since his first year of competing. There were a lot of sweet comments, about how he helped her move on from toxicity in her life, and that his smile was enough to make her a happier woman. He could see Elliott smiling as well; improving someone's life must make him joyful.

But Park didn't miss the confession near the very bottom, the typical "I'm in love with you." Elliott apparently received the phrase a lot—and not just counting the night they got together. For someone like Elliott, love never came easy, despite his desperate attempts to find someone to use all of that love in his heart on, to find someone to dedicate his existence to. Some people could be heartless, treating him like a ticket into a better life, and others abused him emotionally to get what they wanted. He had to grow thicker skin, learn from his mistakes, before he truly sought out someone that made his world worthwhile. Park commended his confidence and bravery. He's never been in relationships before, but leaving toxic ones must take a lot out of one mentally and emotionally.

Still, rereading that letter, the constant praises and adoration, the love for Mirage and everything he does, caused a feeling far too familiar to the man to wash over his mind, normally hectic thoughts beginning to run wild. Park wasn't one for letting insecurities bother him, but it seemed they, like a lot of things, made him feel uneasy, unhappy.

Elliott folded the letter with one hand, setting it aside, before pulling another one from his pile, this time temporarily taking the hacker's canvas away to rip the envelope open, arm returning to its prior stationary position. Again, though Park had tried to focus on drawing, his eyes drifted over the letter, though he wish he hadn't, as this fan appeared to be less shameful with their desires. He's sure, if Elliott peeked at him, he'd be flushed pink.

This time, though, the confession was within the first three paragraphs, third sentence of the second one. "I love you so much. I want to live my life with you," he read, frowning. People clamoring over themselves to be with Elliott—it was almost pitiful, but, then again, he didn't expect much from fans. Even his own can be a bit rowdy, though they appear much more mellow compared to his partner's.

The trickster didn't smile this time, just folding and tossing the letter aside without much change in expression. Another letter was opened up, arm returning to Park (even though he's become far too distracted to even think about drawing right now), and began reading the next one.

Once again, a love confession could be seen in the final paragraph, though it was far more poetic than simply "I'm in love with you." She had taken time writing this, it seemed, pouring her heart out on paper to this complete stranger she only knows via the television.

"Every waking day without seeing you is a strike to my heart. Your smile is radiance, and your very being is joy. My desire for you goes beyond physical, a wish to see within your heart, to let our souls intertwine in a dance for only us to see. I want everything you are, everything you'll ever be."

Elliott's fans really were adoring, if that was anything to go by. Park wasn't jealous by any means—frankly, were he to receive such letters, he can only see himself tearing them up and throwing them out. Elliott would scold him, saying someone put a lot of work into those, and Park would retort with: "They should spend time sending those types of letters to someone whose name they actually know."

That same feeling earlier returned, insecurity gnawing at his heart. Dour expression crossing his visage, his hand released Elliott's, marker pulled away, immediately alerting the other. Curious, the trickster reached out to poke the other's cheek, downcast eyes now moving to meet his own.

"Hey sweetheart, something on your mind?" he asked, hand dropping to place itself on the other's shoulder, an attempt at reassurance.

"… No."

Elliott raised a brow. "So you just look super depressed just 'cause?"

"… Yes."

A soft snort escaped Elliott, tossing the letter aside and moving to wrap an arm around the smaller's shoulders. "You and I know that's bullshit. Come clean and I won't get the information through other means."

The dangerous wiggling of his fingers was enough to tell Park just how he'd "gather information."

"Fine. But promise not to be mad at me…?"

"I don't think I could ever be mad at you, sugar pie. Probably a biological thing."

Park released a breath, head moving to lean on Elliott's shoulder. "I was… reading the letters your fans sent you…"

"… Is… Is that it? 'Cause, if it is, I think we need to have a talk about what makes you feel guilty and why it's dumb."

Park scoffed, though it was more amused than annoyed. "No, that's not it. But… you have a lot of… caring fans."

"Emphasis on 'caring' makes me think you might be meaning a different word entirely."

"They're affectionate… and kind… and they say nice things about you…"

"… Are you… jealous—? Have I not been saying enough nice things about you?"

"No, no, you say enough—probably too much, actually. But, no, I just… I don't think I like your fans saying how much they love you. It makes me think, one day, they'll make you feel more loved than I do…"

Elliott couldn't wipe the shock from his expression, immediately unwrapping his arm from Park's shoulders to place his hands on them instead, turning him so he was now face-to-face. The hacker's gaze had fallen once again, dourly staring at the copious amounts of love letters Elliott received on a daily basis.

In the end, that's all they were to him—just letters. They never amounted to the smile he got to see everyday, the gentle kisses and careful touches, the sweet feeling of his beloved's hands in his own, and nothing could ever amount to the three little words Park so seldom uttered, the way his cheeks would tinge pink and the sheepish tone that replaced his confident, cool one.

He couldn't imagine trading any of that for empty words spoken by fans.

"Hey, angel? Who do you know me as?" he asked.

"… I suppose I know you as Elliott."

"And who do my fans know me as?"

"I… I guess they only know you as Mirage."

"They get to see that persona of me, the fake me."

Elliott's hands began sliding down Park's arms, tracing gently over the smooth skin, feeling the change between real and synthetic skin, before gently grasping his hands in his own.

"They see the smile I wear when I don't want people knowing what I'm feeling. They see me acting cool and confident, and they don't ever see Elliott, the guy who just wants to own a bunch of dogs and has as many insecurities as he does kills in the arena."

Park's hands were raised now, Elliott craning his neck just a bit to press kisses to the knuckles, smiling at the other, who was beginning to look less and less dour and more surprised by the trickster's words.

"You get to see me, Elliott Witt, the guy who drools on your hoodies and accidentally chews on your hair because he thinks it's cotton candy."

That broght forth a laugh from the hacker, trying to pull a hand away from Elliott's to cover it, but the trickster was adamant in seeing his smile, hearing his laugh.

"And I get to see you in all your own dorky glory."

"I'm not dorky. You just bring out the weird in people," Park responded through his fit of giggles, any trace of sadness or insecurity having faded from his visage, only replaced by mirth and joy.

"That, I do." Elliott smiled and leaned in to press a kiss to Park's forehead. "I'd never leave you, pancake. You're the only person on the Frontier who would still love me even after hearing about all my baggage. I'm a mess, but I've never heard you complain."

"Maybe when you're drooling on me."

Elliott smiled, chuckling. "Yeah, you do complain about that a lot."

"But, even if you drool on me, I still… love you."

"And I love you too, darling."

[rocket-remmy]

Shock To Your System|| Luce and Remmy

TIMING: Yesterday evening sometime PARTIES: @divineluce and @whatsin-yourhead  SUMMARY:  Fries and milkshake, with a side of feels. Coming right up.

Setting her brush down, Luce let out a sigh before taking a seat on the stool she’d brought into her shed. With running, going to bars, and sword fighting on the “Do Not Under Any Circumstances Do” list that she’d been given by her doctor, Luce was doing her best to find her artistic muse again. In the wake of Bea’s death, she’d lost some of the creative spark she’d used to have. Her focus had slipped and she’d shelved her various projects in favor of drowning her troubles away or throwing herself into the nearest fight. Now that neither of those options were on the table, she might as well focus on a new medium. Painting. It’d never been her strong suit, but she had to start somewhere. But, just the effort of sitting up, standing, painting, it took a lot out of her. Barely an hour in and she was already winded. With a groan, she threw a tarp over the canvas before forcing herself to head back towards the house. She’d come back to the painting later. As she was about to head inside, she caught sight of someone walking up to the house from beyond the gate. A familiar someone. “Hey.” Luce called out, wincing slightly as the effort jarred her ribs. No yelling. Noted. Walking up to the side gate, she rested her hands against the iron bars. “Hey stranger.”

The weariness of everything was weighing heavily upon Remmy’s shoulders. They just needed one day to themself, one night where they didn’t have to stretch and strain their muscles to the point of breaking. Sure, they healed, but the pain was still there. Lingering. A reminder. Besides, they’d just found out that Luce was in the hospital, and this was more important. Their friends were more important. They wanted, badly, to be with Nell, too, to go see her, see how she was doing, but Jax had warned them to stay far, far away from her. She would know what the collar was, what it meant, and it would be bad for both of them. So, this would do. Carrying freshly made french fries and a shake on the bus and then to the Vural house, where Remmy wondered if Bea was home. But before they could make it too far up the path, a familiar voice caught their attention and they swerved to find the source. “Hey!” they called excitedly. She looked okay, physically, but that didn’t mean everything was fine. Remmy understood that more now than ever. “Are you sure you should be up and about?” they asked, meeting her at the gate. 

At the upbeat pitch of Remmy’s voice, Luce grinned a little. Seemed like they were doing a bit better than the last time she’d seen them. She could still remember how they’d curled up into themself, trying to pull themselves back into the present, out of the memories that had returned to haunt them. Seeing them like this was better. Or… was it? There was something about the way that they carried themself that seemed just a little off. Pushing the thought from her mind, Luce’s eyes fell on the bag and cup in their hands. She could smell fries from Al in the bag. “You didn’t need to bring me shit.” She said, folding her arms across her chest instinctively. But, the motion pressed against her ribs and Luce did her best to hide the spasm of pain. Fuck. Stupid fucking ribs. God. If Blanche hadn’t literally saved her life… “Eh. I’m listening to the doctor. For the most part.” She said, her voice slightly stiff. 

Remmy furrowed their brow and looked down at the food in their hands. “You had said you wanted some,” they mumbled, slumping a little. Had this been a bad idea? They couldn’t be altogether sure, but seeing Luce felt nice. Knowing that she was alright made them feel just a little bit lighter. Even if she winced after folding her arms over her chest. “So, uh-- you never did tell me why you were in the hospital? Or, um-- not why, but like--” they gestured to her with the milkshake, “what you injured.” They came around the gate, prodding it open and holding the food out to her. “And I can’t eat anyway, so I guess you have to accept this now.”

Watching the way they slumped slightly, a slight pang of… something went through Luce. Must have just been her ribs. As Remmy slipped past the gate, holding out the food, she reluctantly took it. The smell of the fries was honestly incredible after days of rice, whole grain toast, and a whole bunch of other tasteless bullshit. “Well, given that you can’t actually eat it… And since it’s already here,” She fished a fry out of the bag and pointed at them with it. “Thanks.” She popped it into her mouth and chewed as she walked towards the side door of the house. “Come on inside.” For once, the summer air felt refreshing against her skin, instead of absolutely miserable. But, one of the downsides of lacking her usual high body temperature? Fucking mosquitos. “I said, magical backlash. We brought back Bea, stuff happened.” She said with an offhand wave of her hand. “We’re all healing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Remmy said, “anytime.” And they meant it. Luce had somehow become important to them, and not just because she was Nell’s sister. Each of them had become something to them outside of each other, it just made it all more connected that they were related. They felt a little sheepish thinking about how they hadn’t realized they’d all been sisters at first. “Thanks for lifting that burden from my hands,” they teased quietly, giving her a grin as she started up towards the house. She seemed to be walking slower than usual, probably a side effect of the magic. They’d brought someone back from the dead, after all, and Remmy knew how much of a strain it was on Morgan just to make sand knives. This? They couldn’t even imagine the consequences. They didn’t want to. Magic was a concept a little beyond them. “No, I mean like-- what effect is that? Is it just like...exhaustion? Physical illness? Broken bones? I’m just not sure how it works, you know? I was just curious. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, though.”

“It’s a lot, but I think I can take it.” Luce said with a wink as she settled down into one of the chairs at the kitchen island. Setting the fries down, she took the milkshake from their hands and took a long sip. She let out a sigh and shook her head. Fuck that was good. Al’s had some good shit. She was twenty-six, a milkshake and fries weren’t going to kill her now. At their question, Luce took another long sip from the styrofoam cup, not wanting to answer them immediately. Of course they weren’t just going to drop it. With a sigh, Luce popped open the lid of the cup and dipped a fry into the slurry of ice cream. “I had a heart attack. Not sure why, exactly, but we think it was because I put too much power into the spell.” She said, thinking back to what Winston had told them, about them feeling overwhelmed, overcharged with magic. Had the excess magic filtered into them? Christ. “Blanche knows CPR though, so she had it handled.” She said, reaching for another small handful of greasy fries.

Remmy watched Luce closely for a moment. The way she settled in the chair, the clothes she was wearing. It was...unusual. Remmy couldn’t really put their finger on it, but something was off about her. It was probably just the strain from everything that had happened over the past month. Bea had died. She’d had to go through that pain. And then Bea’s ghost was around, and then they’d....resurrected her. Remmy couldn’t even begin to comprehend all of that. Let alone what she’d had to do to resurrect her. It was probably weighing her down, and Remmy suddenly found themself wishing they could do something, anything, to lift some of it off. They were about to sit down when Luce dropped the news. “Wait, you-- what!?” they scoffed, nearly falling out of the chair, barely catching themself and hanging onto the side of the table. “Heart-- heart attack? You had a-- shit, Luce! What the hell!? That’s not just a little thing! That’s a lot! A big thing! A ‘I could’ve possibly died’ thing!”

Taking a long sip from the cup, Luce’s eyebrows raised over the styrofoam rim as Remmy nearly fell to the ground. She licked her lips before grabbing another fry, looking in the bag for ketchup. Damn. “It’s fine. Shit happens. I didn’t die,” Technically, “So it’s fine. The person I feel bad for is Blanche in that. She shouldn’t have needed to do that.” Well, Blanche and Nell. And Winston. And Bea. All of them, really. The heart attack had been… terrifying in the moment. The way her lungs had failed, the way the world had just faded away. But, it had been painless. Until she’d woken up in the hospital bed and felt her ribs screaming through the haze of painkillers, she hadn’t been in any pain. Unlike Nell and Bea, who’d both suffered so much pain and disorientation. “But yeah. Heart attack. Broken ribs. A weird burn. That’s it.” She said, grabbing the bottle of ketchup from the fridge.

“Luce…” Remmy started, but stopped. They weren’t really sure what to say. Luce was being so...blase about her heart attack, but Remmy didn’t have much room to speak. They hadn’t talked to anyone really about their death. Or what had happened in the ring. But it felt wrong to just brush it off like this. “That’s not just...regular shit that you get over,” they finally said. “I-- I get that other people were suffering, too, but what you went through is important, too, you know. And big, and scary, and-- just not dying isn’t fine. Trust me,” they slumped into the chair, “I know.”

Shutting the fridge, Luce grabbed the ketchup bottle and poured some out onto the paper bag. Dipping a fry into the sauce, she waved away Remmy’s concern. “It’s not a big deal. Seriously.” She said with a shake of her head, leaning against the counter with a slight wince as her ribs twinged in pain. She dunked a fry into ketchup and held it there for a moment before locking eyes with Remmy. Even though the fire was gone, she could still the smoldering embers of the fire burning within her. She couldn’t harness her magic any more, not right now. But, she could still feel it lingering within her. “It’s really fine. I don’t even remember what happened.” She said before looking away. “I’m here. I’m fine. It doesn’t matter.” She said dismissively and took another long drink from the cup. “Don’t worry about it.”

Remmy huffed a little. “It is a big deal,” they argued, “people don’t just have heart attacks, especially young, healthy people. Even in this town.” They stood up, then, following her over towards the counter. “It’s not fine and I am worried about it!” They weren’t usually this forceful or up front, but they were tired of watching people brush past their pain. Tired of watching people they cared about suffer. “I know you’re upset about it. I may not be the most observant person, but I’m not stupid. I saw how torn up you were about Bea dying, about what happened,” they were quieter now, but still forceful. “So just-- let someone care about you. Even if it’s not as bad as what happened to everyone else, it still happened to you.” And they yanked the cup away from her.

Frowning, Luce’s jaw clenched slightly as she listened to their words. As they closed the gap between the two of them, she couldn’t help the way her eyes flicked over their arms, the curve of their neck. Fuck. Fuck. “You’re not stupid.” She agreed automatically. How could they ever think they were stupid? Even in the few times they’d talked, she could tell that they had an analytical mind, one that was driven towards numbers, towards logic. Even if no one had ever figured that out. Swallowing at their words, she looked away at the clean white decor of Bea’s home, at the flower pots with dying plants still languishing in the dirt on the window sill. “Why does it even matter to you?” She demanded, the food forgotten on the kitchen counter. “I don’t need anyone to look out for me. I don’t need people to care. Not when there’s--” She cut herself off, pursing her lips tightly as she stared at them. “I don’t care.”

“What-- what do you mean why does it matter to me?” Remmy asked, suddenly confused. “It-- it matters to me because you’re my friend? And I care about you?” Was that not obvious? Did Luce not think they were friends? Oh, god, were they not friends? Remmy swallowed again, wanting to take a step back, wanting to fold in on themself-- but they stayed steady, stayed standing. Because they weren’t backing down on this point. “Fine, don’t care. That doesn’t change that I do, and I’m sure Bea does. And Nell, and Blanche. Cause I kinda don’t think it matters if you want people to care about you or look out for you, they do anyway. I do anyway. Because you’re-- because you-- you don’t deserve to be alone. Not in this. Not in anything.”

“We’re not friends.” Luce said automatically. She couldn’t remember how many times she said those words. Women who wanted to be more than just a hookup, clients who tried to be all buddy-buddy with her just because she’d done a couple of their tattoos, regulars at Soul who thought that sitting next to each other at a bar meant something. “We’re just people who fuck, that’s it. That’s all this is.” She said, but for some reason, the words rang hollow. As they continued to speak, Luce glared at the kitchen counter. “I like being alone.” She said, though the words lacked truth. Being in the hospital room with Nell, with the revolving door of her friends coming in and out… Jared, Winston, that kid with the pink hair… And even when people offered to come by… Morgan and Ulfric weren’t her friends. Morgan was just someone who’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, over and over again. And Ulf was her boss. They weren’t friends. She didn’t want friends. She didn’t. “Being alone works for me.” 

Remmy glared at Luce. Like, actually glared. Something they rarely, if ever, did. But she was being stupid and stubborn and they couldn’t help that the words hurt. They actually hurt. They had let themself believe that they were friends and now Luce was saying they weren’t. But she didn’t get to be the only one to decide that. If they had learned anything lately, it was that they got a say in things, too. That their opinion did matter. “You’re a fucking liar,” they finally said, pushing away from the counter. “And you don’t get to decide who I call friend. I’m not you’re friend? Fine. Doesn’t mean I don’t think of you as a friend.” Remmy had always tried so hard in life to make friends, it didn’t always come easy. Real friends were strange to them. People who cared and loved them weren’t a common thing. They’d worked hard to have this life. And now it was being torn apart by a single man with icy eyes and a sharp tongue and they didn’t need people they cared about adding to that. “People who ‘just fuck’ don’t stay the night after panic attacks.”

Glancing up, Luce found herself meeting their gaze, feeling the full weight of their glare. It was full of emotion that she hadn’t seen in them before, never like this. She resisted the urge to look away and forced herself to meet their expression with a cool look. But, their words stung. There was… truth to what they said. “Fine. Do what you want.” She said with a wave of her hand. “Call me whatever you want but we’re--” Her fingers clenched at her side at their words. “That’s different. I’m not…” Luce paused, a slight stab of pain going through her side as she struggled to maintain her cool. “That was different. You did it for me, I did it for you. Equivalent exchange.” She said. “Sometimes shit happens and you just need… someone around. That’s all it was.”

“And why do you think I did it?” Remmy burst, but bit their tongue back. This wasn’t at all how they had thought this would go. This wasn’t at all how they wanted this to go. They just wanted to check up on Luce, because they were worried about her. And they wanted her to know they were there for her. But clearly she didn’t want that right now, even if Remmy knew she needed it. Last time they had forced someone to take their help, it had ended badly. Though Skylar eventually forgave them, Remmy knew that that wasn’t the right thing to do with Luce. Everyone was different. “You can say all you want that you don’t care, Luce,” they said, shaking their head, losing their steam. “But no one’s going to--” but they never got to finish their sentence, because in the next moment, a splitting pain tore through them. From their neck, down their back, all the way to their feet. It settled in the pit of their stomach where a loud, blood-curdling scream built, before finally bursting from their mouth. Their body dropped to the ground, crumpling.

Listening to their words, Luce shook her head. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to deal with having to… feel things. She didn’t didn’t want people to think she was weak and needed to be cared for. She didn’t want pity. “You’re the kind of person who cares--” Her words were cut off when something went wrong. The sound of Remmy’s agonized scream filled the house and for a moment, all she could do was stare in shock. What was happening? What was going on? When they collapsed to the floor, it was as though a spell was broken and Luce found herself scrambling towards Remmy. All thoughts of their previous conversation flew out the window as she tried to figure out what was wrong, what had happened, and what she could possibly do to fix this. Kneeling next to them, she rested a hand against their shoulder. “Remmy-- Remmy. Hey,” She said, pressing her other hand against their cheek. “Rem, what’s happening? What’s going on?”

Remmy spasmed, clawing at the thing around their neck as they felt it pulse electricity through them. The pain that exploded in their stomach made them feel like it was happening again. Like they were being ripped apart again. Remmy screamed. They didn’t even feel Luce at first, not until there was a hand on their cheek and their eyes flew open. They stared up at her for a moment before the panic set in. “Don’t-- don’t touch me--” they snapped, shoving her away. “Don’t touch me!” Scrambled away from her, still twitching from the pain. Crying out quietly whenever a pulse went through them, hands clutched around their stomach. They stared wide-eyed at Luce for a moment before trying to pull themself back up, groaning with effort. “I-- I have to--” slipped, falling back down, legs shaking.

The way Remmy convulsed on the ground, the way their hands flew to the strange necklace around their neck, Luce frowned in confusion. Was it..? Was that thing hurting them? At their words, her hands flew back quickly. “What’s happening, Remmy? What’s going on?” She asked, startled as she watched them attempt to stand again. “You don’t have to do anything, just--” Luce said, reaching towards them once more as they fell to the ground. They were in so much pain, but how? What was going on? As her fingers brushed against their skin, a crackle of electricity buzzed against her skin and she let out a slight gasp as she pulled away. The sensation was almost… familiar. Magic? “What’s the necklace doing to you?” She asked, “Why are you wearing it?”

Remmy thanked god they didn’t have to breathe, because they knew it would be labored and wheezing. Still, their voice stuttered the same way, as if they couldn’t breath. Their stomach dropped when Luce pointed out the collar. She was coming over to them again, her fingers brushing against their skin. They pushed her away again, holding their arm out. Hands shaking. “I-it’s nothing, it’s not--” groaned, wincing with pain again. They needed to make it stop. They wanted it to stop. “It’s nothing. Just-- leave it alone. I have to go.” Stuttered, stumbling back again. Finally, the pulses stopped. Or slowed, at least. Body heavy, they pulled themself up and away from Luce. “I-- I have to--” they turned, heading towards the door. They had to get out of there. Before Luce asked more questions, before she got hurt. They couldn’t let her see them this way. Not anymore.

“Now who’s the fucking liar.” Luce said, though her words lacked their usual bite. Instead, all she felt was concern and worry. Whatever the fuck was going on wasn’t nothing. They had clearly been in a lot of pain. And were still experiencing it, judging by the way they grimaced and groaned. “It’s clearly not nothing. You were just on the ground, screaming. Hey--” As they turned to leave, Luce moved in front of them, positioning herself between them and the door. “Why do you have to leave? You’re not in any state to be going anywhere. What is that thing? What’s it doing to you?” She demanded. 

Remmy stumbled back when Luce stepped in front of them. They could easily push her out of the way, even with their muscles so heavy, but they couldn’t bring themself to harm her in any way, especially when she was already so hurt. They couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep putting people they cared about in harm’s way like this. They’d been an idiot to think they could maintain any sort of normal relationship with this stupid collar on. It hurt everyone around them. It was a danger. They were a danger. Maybe it was best to just cut off all ties. With everyone. As much as it hurt, it’d worked with Morgan, right? But they looked into Luce’s eyes and saw her concern and all they could say was, “Get out of my way. Before I make you.”

Their words rang in her ears and Luce stared at them, trying to read their expression, trying to figure out what was going through their head. But, it was in vain. There was only pain, weariness. Exhaustion. “What? You’re going to hurt me? You wouldn’t do that.” She said, voice calm, despite the fact that she wasn’t entirely sure if her words were true. She’d pushed them, she’d ignored them, she’d treated them… far worse than they deserved. They had every reason to want to hurt her. But, whatever it was that they were going through, it was clearly hurting them. And she… she didn’t care. She told herself that she didn’t care. They just didn’t deserve to be in so much pain.

Remmy steadied themself. This was for the better. This was what they had to do. They’d done it with Morgan and Blanche and Ham and now it was time to move Luce out of the way, too. She couldn’t get hurt from this. Not when she was already going through so much. Her or Nell. They needed to stay away from them. And even if it tore apart their unbeaten heart to think about, they knew they had to do it. Remmy gave Luce one last look, lips pressed firmly together, eyes sharp. “Move,” was all they said.

“No.” Luce replied, matching their gaze with her own. The magic that usually burned and roared within her was still low, still smoldering embers, but she had fire of her own. She wasn’t going to let them go. “Not until you explain. Just-- fucking…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to muddle through her thoughts. She didn’t care. She didn’t care. They just didn’t deserve to suffer without anyone’s help. And she wanted to help. Not because she cared, but because Remmy deserved more than this. “You shouldn’t have to suffer like that.”

This time, Remmy did draw in a breath. Slowly. Clenched their jaw. They could feel a warmth building in the collar again. It was going to happen again soon, wasn’t it? This was their punishment. This was what the collar was for. They’d disobeyed, and now they would pay. Remmy looked at Luce with as much grit as they could, arms trembling. “I guess we don’t always get what we deserve,” they said. They reached out, then, grabbed Luce’s shoulders, and shoved her against the wall, moving past. The collar sparked and they paused, muscles tensing, before it stopped. Once they were in the doorway, they stopped. “Don’t follow me.” 

When they grabbed her by the shoulders, forced her against the wall, a hot stabbing pain filled her side. Luce let out a groan, her broken ribs making their presence very known. The pain medicine couldn’t do anything to prevent her from feeling the fresh waves of pain. Clutching at her side, she leaned heavily against the wall with her shoulder. She struggled to move towards them, but the pain was too much and it was all she could do to just stand. Her breath came in shuddering waves as she stared at them. “Remmy… Don’t do this. Don’t go.” She managed, hoping that they would listen. But, she knew they wouldn’t. Whatever Remmy was going through, they had made it clear that they didn’t want her to have any part in it. 

Remmy felt their heart wrench at the groan of pain from Luce. At the pained way she struggled to stay standing. At the small desperation in her words. Even if she denied it, Remmy could tell she cared about them. And it hurt. It hurt to think she tried to say she didn’t. It hurt to hear her so upset. And it hurt to hear her deny it all. Remmy let go of her and backed out the door way. “I’m just someone you fuck,” they muttered, “that’s it.” And they left her there, finding that walking away was somehow more painful than the collar that was tying them to this fate.

[aradias-crypt]

Sinful Symphonies

“This song again?” You rub your temples, your eye twitching as the sound of heavy metal drones on in your head. It overwhelms the sound of your own music. Setting down your palette, you drop your paintbrush into a jar of solvent before marching to your radio resting on the windowsill of your room.

Lowering the volume, you wait for the music on your other’s “side” to soften. You honestly pity their eardrums if they listen to music this loudly.

Soon, the music stops altogether.

Good.

You crank up your own music to full blast. A smug smile tugs at your lips.

“Hope you like jazz, jerk face.”

Ever since the day you were born, music seemed to stream constantly to you from your other half’s side. Whether it was night or day, music played ceaselessly. When you were young, you’d make a game of playing your favorite records to try and share your tastes with your soulmate, hoping they’d eventually show an interest in the same music.

Their music didn’t change exactly, mostly sticking to classics and rock, but on nights when your room grew uncomfortably quiet, soft music would play and lull you to sleep.

Childhood was fun, full of guessing games and the like, but the tune changed when you reached your teens. As supers made more and more appearances in your life, the music grew darker and twisted, as if the person on the other side was directly affected in some way.

Soon, your game of appeasing your other evolved into a game of bothering them as they did you. Some days you won, some you lost. You blasted ballads and pop songs while they flooded you with death metal and songs you couldn’t decipher. You won the mornings while they won the nights. Mostly when you were preparing to sleep.

At the very least, they didn’t often get hurt. That, you were grateful for. Pain is also shared between soulmates, though the physical wound of the other is only momentary for the partner.

“Still, you have a wicked sense of humor, love.” You sigh, rubbing your eyes as the memory of flesh falling from your face comes to mind. There’s been plenty of times where your body ached from phantom shifting, but the physical wounds always hurt the most. “Making me worry about you when you put yourself in situations like that.”

Perhaps they're a hero or a villain. Its entirely possible. Supers put themselves in harms way all the time. Maybe it wasn’t recklessness but the goodness of their hearts that drove them into danger.

...or they were just a prankster

Either way, they were getting drop kicked to the heavens when you found them.

“Now that I think of it, they have to be pretty old if they’ve been at this since I was born.” You muse to yourself, brushing your hair back as you pick up where you left off on the canvas covered in oil paint before you.

“Maybe I’ll paint you one day.”

——

“Starting off with Dean Martin I see” you adjust the strap of your supply bag to rest more comfortably across your chest. The smooth crooning of the late singer invades your thoughts; its a nice change of pace. “You must be having a good day huh?” Exiting your car, you hum along to the song as you open the trunk of your car to take out your painting.

For your college class, you decide to bring in your painting of the final battle between the Headless Rider and Bright Knight; a super-villain and superhero who later disappeared from the public’s eye. You were pretty damn proud of the piece, seeing how it had taken you weeks to finish.

Entering the liberal and performing arts center, you head for the elevators. On the way you pass by several.. odd looking individuals. They were robots. However, living in a world full of supers means not much phases you anymore.

Shrugging, you continue your journey and makes your way up to the 11th floor. Passing by Mara, one of your classmates, the two of you start up a conversation about the sudden appearance of the Four Horsemen. Mercenaries that arrived from Calamni {a country far to the south}, the Horsemen brought with them a new wave of terror; ranging from riots to bio weapons. They didn't act on their own but would do nearly anything for the right price.

“I’m afraid to go outside at night.. I hear Pestilence is preparing something real nasty. They say she’s the one behind the break in at the CDC.” Mara says, her skin turning ashen at the thought of the pale rider.

”Are you up to date on all your shots?” You respond jokingly, smiling down at the shorter girl.

Mara whines and clutches her sculpture to her chest,”Its not funny, I get sick super easily. And what if my soulmate is in the area of the attack? I don’t want to lose them before I even meet them!”

“I’m sure you and your soulmate will be just fine” You reassuringly state,”Just drink a lot of orange juice and take your vitamins.” You wink playfully.

Your classmate frowns. ”What about you, aren’t you worried about your soulmate?”

“They’ve gone through worse than a little cold. I think they’ll be just fine” They didn’t seem to feel worried, if the transitioning sound to Frank Sinatra was any indication of their mood.

Diverting from your original discussion, you both prepare yourselves for the upcoming critiques.

However, before you can step through the doors to class, a rattling boom shakes you both to the core. You drop to the ground and assess the environment around you.

The floor titters and jolts.

Never a good sign.

“Oh gods please-!” Mara shouts as the ceiling begins to crack and bend.

‘Time to go.’ You think.

Jumping to your feet you yank Mara up, leaving behind your painting as you run to the emergency stairs,”Lets get out of here!”

Mara clutches your sleeve as people fleeing from classrooms bump and push against her. Many head towards the closest stairway while others rush towards the windows in hopes of flagging down help from the outside.

“What if the stairs are blocked!” Mara screams over the sound of mayhem.

You yank open the door and begin your descent,”We’ll burn that bridge when we get there!”

———————————

True to Maras fear, the stairway was blocked in by bent beams and debris.

Still, music comes from your other.

Such lovely music in such a shitty time.

Mara backs away and begins tangling her fingers in her hair,”We have to call the police!”

You mumble,”They won’t get here in time, the building will collapse by then.” Peeking under a leaning beam, you spot a ray of light. A small whistle can be heard from the other side as well.

Wind?

“I think the explosion must’ve caused the rubble to break the wall on the other side.” You back up slightly, flinching as the foundations above you begin to groan.

“We aren’t strong enough to get through, and we’re still on the 7th floor! There’s no way we would survive that fall!”

“Actually..” You whisper nervously,”I am strong enough..”

With a flick of your wrists, gauntlets form around your hands and down to your elbows; encasing them in polished metal.

“H..how-“ Mara sputters, instantly recognizing the emblem on the back of your hands. She presses herself against the wall, glancing at the stairs behind her.

“You’re a Horseman” she squeaks,”the same family as-“

You raise your hands in defense,”Same as the Headless Rider and the Four. Yes, but I promise I mean you no harm.”

Mara laughs incredulously,”You’re trying to make us jump 7 stories, what do you by mean ‘you no harm’?! How do I know that your clan isn’t the one behind this attack?!”

“They may be infuriating but my siblings would never kill me off like this, trust me, we pinky swore as kids. Now, I know this is weird but it’s either jumping or getting crushed to death.” You intercede before she can interrupt,”And I don’t think either of our soulmates would like that very much.”

Gulping down several deep breaths Mara looks past you to the rubble blocking the wall.

”..You can’t just clear the rest of the stairs..?”

“I’m fast but not that fast” The rumbling grows deafening. Even from here, the sounds of screaming can be heard from upstairs. But it too is silenced by the destruction.

You growl,”Choose now Mara!”

“Okay!” Mara whimpers,”Okay! Please, get us out of here.”

Pivoting on your heel, you strike the rubble with gauntlets glowing like a steel forge. Instantly, the cement gives way, turning to dust and leaving only beams that are easily pushed away. Making a clear path to the opening in the wall, you break the edges of the wall to widen the hole further.

As expected, wind whips your face as you loom over the opening. Squinting against the biting breeze, you spot the cause of the explosion at the base of the building.

The robots from before are lugging out bag after bag of artifacts and large containment tubes of delicate articles and manuscripts. Smaller bots stand at the ground level of your current building with armfuls of explosives.

For a moment, you question why they would target your building when it holds nothing of importance. But then you remember the security office on the first floor that has direct phone access to the League of Heroes.

And the other building..

“They were after the restoration sector.” You mutter under your breath,”All this destruction for some silly papers..” Backing up from the opening, you summon the rest of your signature armor to shield your body. Your clan would definitely scold you for revealing herself to a civilian, but you would get even worse if you revealed yourself to the whole school.

“I’m going to jump. Whatever you do, don’t squirm, okay?” Lifting Mara into your arms, you brace yourself to jump.

You weren’t afraid of heights after your training with your siblings, but that didn’t make you fond of the idea of falling.

Mara covers her face with one hand while latching the other around your neck,”Please don’t drop me.”

You walk up the hole,”I don’t know, that sounds pretty tempting.”

“You better not-“ Mara is cut off as you both go plummeting down, her words die in her throat as she screams in terror at the sudden free fall.

On the other hand, you take this moment to look for any sign of the lead villain. Usually when robots are involved, the brains behind the operation is nearby to ensure their plan goes smoothly. But all you could see was a flash of green scaling the second building and what must’ve been a science major panicking below it as you fell.

Poor guy looked like he was losing his shit. You chuckle under your helmet.

Nearing impact, you adjust your grip on Mara to aim your right fist at the ground.

War was the brawler in the family, but that didn’t mean you didn’t pack a punch.

Releasing a wave of violet energy, the force exerted slows the fall just enough to allow you to land with minor injuries. Left with a light sprain and a crick in the neck from Maras grip, you hide behind a bush near the back of the art department.

Mara reluctantly opens her eyes, sighing with relief at the sight of safe and sturdy ground. Looking up at you, she smiles sheepishly,”Thank you ..for helping me.”

You smile under the helmet, the slits for eyes emitting a soft lavender glow.

“You’re welcome. But know that if you tell anyone my secret I will have to kill you.”

“Duly noted.” Mara laughs with a twinge of nerves.

Setting her down gently, you wait for her to regain her balance before pointing to the robots,”I’ll handle them, you get out of here and make sure the school contacts the LoH.”

Mara nods, running to the main campus.

Left alone, you crack your knuckles as you approach the restoration building.

‘I don’t want to set the world on fire’ plays on in your head, a silent requiem for the collapsing building behind you.

Debris passes by you as the floors finally cave in.

Your soulmate gave you numerous injuries.

They could handle yours.

———————

Flug had many fears, mostly two-

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! LOOK AT ME NERD!”

Three. Three fears.

The first being Black Hat, who just recently took Flug on as his chief scientist. He would have been overjoyed were it not for his new masters record with past employees.

Dead, dead, double dead, mutilated horribly, missing, eaten, exsanguinated, excravated, eviscerated, and so on.

No one ever just “quit”. Unless they “quit life” but that decision seemed to be Black Hat’s instead of theirs.

His second fear was still Black Hat, but it mostly was towards the idea of failing him and turning out like the people before him. Flug was durable due to experiments he tested on himself and maybe even some of his heritage.. but he was surely not durable enough to face the incarnation of evil himself and get away unscathed.

His third fear was the woman above him currently frightening the people stuck inside the building she was climbing.

She was his creation, in a way, mixing lizard DNA with a normal human to test hybridization and its affects on the human psyche. While it did give the subject an immunity to most poisons, heightened strength and the ability to climb walls-among other things- her mindset was changed drastically.

He’d have to remember to ask Black Hat just what lizard he gave him for the experiment.

“Hey doc, what are we gonna do with these guys!” Dememcia waves excitedly to the people inside, grinning at the fear in their eyes.

Flug adjusts his goggles,”Leave them I guess? We just need a few more documents and we’ll be done here.” Why a lower class villain would want these papers were beyond him. Based on his research and examinations of security footage, they weren’t very important at all. Maybe this villain just had an odd hobby.

Unlatching herself from the building, Demencia rolls to the ground, landing perfectly on her feet.. Stretching her arms over her head, she counts the hatbots retreating from the structure.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7- hey!” A blast singes the top of her head, burning her hoodie.

Flug turns around and cocks the blaster in his hand,”Who’s there!”

You approach them silently with your gauntlet pointed to Demencia. Activating your vocal distortion box you hiss,”So many bots for a simple college run, eh?”

Demencia smiles menacingly,”Look Flug, a new bug to squish!”

Flug’s squints, doing a quick evaluation of the villain who-! His eyes widen in fear.

”Demencia wait!”

Demencia launches herself with full force, effectively slamming you into the ground with a heavy thud.

Digging your fingers into the hybrids hair, you headbutt her, letting go after hearing a wet crunch of bone.

Demencia jumps away, wiping a trail of blood running from her nose,”Ohhh, I like you~” Her eyes shine with excitement.

“Can’t say the same” You stand and wince at the throbbing pain forming behind your eyes. Unlike your siblings who had a natural buffer to keep them from feeling the affects of their abilities, you inherited drawbacks from your mothers side. The more you fought, the more your body suffered.

Power came at a price.

A sudden blow to your diaphragm knocks the air out of your lungs, causing you to skid back several feet

You allow yourself only a moment to catch your breath.

‘Pitiful’ you think to yourself,’I’ve let myself become soft.’ You look to the girl in front of you, her fist bloody but her grin still plastered on her face.

You weren’t Conquest, or War, or Pestilence, or even Death.

But you weren’t weak.

Your gauntlets begin to glow as your armor shifts. Slamming them together, they morph to form spikes along the knuckles.

Flug calls out again to Demencia who dances in place, unaware of the enemy in front of her drawing closer,”Don’t let her hit you!”

“Aww come on doc, she’s just a poser! Look-“

Demencia is knocked to her knees.

Blast after blast, spikes of energy pierce her body, sending her further into the ground.

Fumbling with his blaster, Flug retrieves a remote from his coat, pressing a bright red button.

“H-Hatbots, attack!”

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 13: The Shadows

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Awakening Ball turns upside-down when Ferals attack. Nadya goes into hiding with new friends... and ends up finding an old one along the way.

[READ IT ON AO3]

When the penthouse door opens in the other room Nadya’s still awake.

She looks at the clock — worries her bottom lip between her teeth as 02:59 changes to 03:00 right on cue. Arches her back to flip her hair over her shoulder and shake it out. Either this will go surprisingly spectacularly or it will be her largest failure to date.

Either way Nadya knows better than to expect anything to go according to plan. Especially something as important as this.

Nature sets the stage for her; flashes an arc of lightning across the sky that gives her a backlight against the large glass wall that serves as Kamilah’s bedroom window… right as Kamilah herself enters the doorway.

The vampire stares in statuesque silence; looks Nadya’s naked body up and down on the smooth canvas of her maroon duvet.

Twenty seconds pass — thunder rumbles in the distance.

“Have you anything to say to accompany your… spontaneous decision?” Kamilah finally asks.

Nadya bears down all her nerves and slides her hand over her midriff.

“I’m tired of waiting?”

It comes out less a declaration and more a question; makes Nadya curse herself mentally when Kamilah’s full lips quirk in amusement.

“Are you telling me, or asking?”

“Telling you.”

“Is that your final answer?”

There’s no hiding the way her flush starts at her cheeks and goes all the way down her body. How her toes curl at half-formed thoughts of what’s to come when she realizes she’s being toyed with.

So she tries again; “I’m tired of waiting, Kamilah.”

Every step the woman takes towards the bed is slow and purposeful agony. Nadya watches her nostrils flare and dares to imagine in the darkness of the room that Kamilah can taste her arousal on the tip of her wicked tongue.

“Such a daring little thing, aren’t you?” Her voice grows husky as she trails two fingertips along Nadya’s prone jaw; follows the movement with her eyes as they travel down her neck, tickle her collarbone, skirt around the curve of her breast. Nadya opens her mouth to respond but the finger over her lips has other plans.

“Speaking requires permission, now. Do you understand?”

Somehow Nadya’s body manages to break out in even more thrills. She nods once and earns a proper smile in reward.

“There will be no crude word choice to act as a symbol,” Kamilah purrs, “should you wish to stop, simply say ‘stop.’ Do you understand?”

Her second nod earns Nadya the press of a finger against her bottom lip; the nail catching on her front teeth as Kamilah slides it along her tongue. Nadya sucks on the digit with eager obedience. Marvels at the sudden black that envelops the eyes of the woman before her that mean only one thing: arousal.

They maintain eye contact like breaking it would kill them both. The room, hot and heavy against the summer night, echoes empty with nothing but the wet noises of Nadya’s desperation to please, to encourage.

She actually whines when Kamilah draws her hand back. Catches herself leaning forward and she has to stop herself, adjust her hips and the pooling lava in her belly. There should be an actual award for the restraint she shows by not moaning the temptress’ name.

Some stuff definitely happens in the interim but Nadya’s brain must have flicked off in between then and now. Her mind has certain priorities and at the moment the largest one is the way Kamilah’s naked body hovers over hers, holds her arms up above her head… the dichotomy between the cold body and its startlingly warm mouth.

“Hnnhgh…” It would be great if Kamilah would shove something in her mouth to erase the temptation of talking — but that would be too easy.

“Remember your place, Nadya.”

Kamilah lowers her attentions in breathless kisses scattered around her middle. Nips with blunted teeth and hot breath that tickles thin dark hairs she wanted to hide but now is glad for — just more of her for Kamilah to bask in.

She drinks from the well of Nadya’s skin like it’s the Nile — haha, punny — and she’s been lost in the desert. And just when she thinks her eyes have gotten used to the darkness, to the faint outline of Kamilah’s seduction, the storm outside blinds her in a flash.

And Kamilah definitely takes the opportunity to surprise her with a kiss somewhere new; somewhere exciting.

Nope, she can’t do it. Can’t stay still or quiet any longer — not when she’s finally getting the thing she wants most in the entire world. Not when she’s finally with the person she wants most in the entire world.

“Kamilah!” Nadya gasps — like a trigger pulled Kamilah is suddenly gone. It makes her whine and writhe upon the silken bed. Turns her grasp on the iron-wrought headboard into white knuckles and sweaty palms.

The world around them is dark — too dark. Nadya squints towards the window but the New York skyline has gone black as the void.

In the distance the clouds part to the light of the full moon. Too far to objectify, too far to bring her comfort. But somehow close enough to bathe Kamilah’s bedroom in an ethereal lunar glow.

Nadya barely stifles her gasp as Kamilah comes into view atop her. Straddling her frame on either side of the bed but easily avoiding touch. Thank god she’s still there.

She peels her hands from above her; reaches out to wreathe her fingers in honey-brown hair.

“There you are…”

The smile with which the vampire looks down at her is soft; affectionate. Doesn’t last long enough when it begins to melt like a glacier into a twisted snarl of ravenous fangs and a predator’s blood-red eyes.

“Here I am.” Croons whatever monster is left in Kamilah’s image; inhabiting her body like a shell.

The air grows cold around them; chills the sweat dripping down her prone body until she’s shaking on the verge of collapse.

Nadya tries to look around, tries to understand, but Kamilah’s hand grasps at her chin on the cusp of painful — holds her gaze upwards.

Something isn’t right. “Kamilah…?”

As Kamilah opens her mouth to speak another hand — pale, masculine, calloused and almost like stone — brushes Nadya’s hair from her forehead.

She tries to scream but the hand moves down to her throat. Makes her watch as a familiar face of impeccable beauty and devastating monstrosity looms down at her just over Kamilah’s shoulder.

“Is my Queen not the most divine?” asks the Man from the Painting. His smile is more than just a vampire’s — every single tooth a pointed fang.

She can’t scream. Not when she watches him—Gaius—kiss Kamilah’s temple above her. Not when his hand presses onto her trachea with ease. Not when both vampires descend in a blur of violence on either side of her neck.

Not when the moonlight grows in the room to illuminate the piles of corpses littered around the bedroom floor.

It’s the kind of nightmare that should send her jumping back to consciousness with a racing heart and those bleary moments trying to make some sort of connection with the physical world.

Maybe she does jump — her heart is definitely racing fast enough — but Nadya knows without a doubt she’s awake. Not only because it was impossible for that to have been anything but a dream, but because the world she wakes up to isn’t all that much better.

No one comes rushing to see if she’s all right. Not just because she doesn’t know anyone — because she does. Looks across the narrow aisle of the coach car where Greer cradles the larger form of his partner in his arms.

Tear tracks in their makeup run down their cheeks. There’s something powdery in Brandon’s hair. Ash — realizes Nadya too late, and her stomach heaves yet again to try and empty itself but there’s nothing left to throw up.

Compared to the rest of the passengers Nadya’s pretty darn okay. Unharmed — if shaken. Intact — if covered in the blood of others. Alive — if struggling to fully grasp that concept.

She’s alive. And that’s better than could be said for Megan.

A figure blocks her view of the boys and she looks up to see a younger girl, probably no more than sixteen, offering her a small bag of snack chips.

She carries the box tucked under her arm. A new sound joins the choir of weeping the train has been chugging along to; the rustle of plastic bags and processed junk being eaten not for enjoyment but for survival.

Nadya takes the bag — gestures silently across the way and the girl gives an understanding nod when she gives her Brandon and Greer’s shares. My condolences, says the misty shimmer of her young eyes. But she moves on to the row behind Nadya. Keeps going. Keeps doing good.

There must have been a group that raided the food cars because after her they just keep coming. Some offer sandwiches; frequently groups of two and three bring around water bottles and tiny paper cups of hot tea.

Near the front of the car Nadya looks to see a couple scouring over a trembling young man. Checking his arms, neck; any exposed skin. They coax him to turn and that’s when Nadya catches sight of his fangs.

“A-Am I clean?” stumbles the vampire when the couple finally pull away. They nod and open the passage door.

“Remember to take only what will get you to tomorrow.” One of them warns. The door closes behind the vampire loudly.

It’s all absolutely awful. The empty seats scream of casualties in a number Nadya doesn’t even want to comprehend right now.

But the sight of people — some vampires, some humans, all people — coming together to try and do what they can… it brings back just a little bit of light in the world.

Everyone exits the train like the beginning of a strange foreign film; both outside of time and within it. Those who wore modern costumes don’t have to worry about standing out but Nadya can’t exactly take the subway in a dress not only half the size of a row of seats but also torn, matted; stained with blood.

“You’ll fit right in,” says the Lily-voice in her head, but she doesn’t even want to risk it.

She wants to go home. Realizes with a strange numbness that she really has no home to go to. She can’t see Nicole being hospitable without Adrian at her back and while the thought of Gerard comforting her with a cup of hot chocolate makes her legs go to jelly it feels wrong. Wrong to just… go there without them.

Nadya has to lean against a nearby column to steady herself as all the terrible horrible what ifs try again to push against the door she’s slammed them behind. She clasps the Clan Sayeed charm between her clammy palms and actually prays.

“Nadya, pet, c’mon — we can’t stay here.”

She looks up and hastily wipes away her tears at the sight of Brandon and Greer approaching hand-in-hand. It feels wrong to cry in front of them. At least she can have hope those she cares about will return.

“Brandon — I —”

He shakes his head and Nadya falls silent. Reaches out with his free hand; she takes it in both of hers and tries not to think about the sight of Megan going grey underneath their touch.

“I know,” he says through a voice thick with pain, “and thank you. But this place is going to be barren soon.”

At a quick glance she sees he’s right; the train is already preparing to depart and the survivors leave in hasty groups. Some head towards the nearby parking complex while others step into cabs and hired cars that pull onto the nearby road in a trail of burning rubber.

“Where will you go?” she asks; contemplates the sobering thought of not being alone by offering them the apartment she isn’t even sure she has keys for any longer.

Brandon pulls his hand away and produces his phone from his breast pocket. Starts typing on the screen furiously. The backlight illuminates his face with an eerie blue glow; makes it easier to see the tears he’s trying desperately not to shed. His hands are shaking. Greer is there to steady them.

“Our flight back overseas isn’t for a few days,” Greer laments, “but while we were in town we were staying with some friends. Group of vampires living on the low — an old flame of… of hers.” He doesn’t say Megan’s name. It’s still too painful.

She wants to warn them of the dangers of staying in the city without Council approval — remembers then that there might not even be a Council anymore.

But it’s enough that they have a place to go. “Good. I’ll stay with you until they can pick you up.”

The couple exchange somber glances. Greer pulls her against him and kisses the top of her head.

“Not happenin’, pet. You’re coming with us.”

“No, no I have somewhere to go.”

“Do you, though?”

He probably doesn’t mean it to sound as harsh as it does but the words sting enough; make Nadya flinch against him. “They’ll come back. They have to.”

“And I hope they do,” Greer clarifies, “but until they do — or don’t — I don’t like the thought of you on your own.”

“I’m a big girl.”

“In a big dress.” Brandon comments quietly. It’s enough to make them all smile even if for a moment.

He pockets his phone. “Alright, she said her boss is on his way.”

“Ooh, good. I could use a bit of eye candy right now.”

There may not be as much heart in the way Greer says it but it eases the tension from everyone’s shoulders.

They wait together inside the midnight ride section of the station. It’s just a couple of plastic chairs and a closed coffee cart but it’s not standing outside and being questioned about what they’re wearing, who they are, or what happened to them.

Nadya’s finding it harder and harder to stay awake. Now that the tumultuous emotions and fear-fueled adrenaline of their escape has passed through her she feels hollow; like a being of exhaustion wearing her face for a mask.

Then she remembers the last look back. The sight of Kamilah wrenching a large executioner’s axe from the grasp of a suit of armor and vanishing into the fray — of Adrian holding two hulking Ferals back by the necks with their grotesque fangs just inches from his face.

And she isn’t tired anymore.

Brandon’s fallen asleep on her shoulder when their ride finally shows. A dirty beaten van with rust creeping up from the undercarriage and ‘NORTHMUN & CO. PLUMBING’ in peeling letters on the side.

It definitely isn’t the scariest thing Nadya’s seen tonight but it sets off all her ‘Single Girl Alone in New York’ alarms and makes her wish she’d just sucked it up and called Gerard.

With a nudge and a soft “c’mon,” she helps Brandon up and together the three leave the stillness of the platform’s purgatory to head out into the big, bad world.

The van’s back door slides open; Greer helps her up and into a crumby leather seat. She moves a tool box and pile of oil-smeared rags onto the cluttered floor to give the boys space.

Only then does Brandon give himself the luxury of a relived sigh. He reaches out and knocks on the small dingy window between them and the front of the van. It slides open and the hand that Brandon takes in his has a strong grip and a strangely familiar voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Brandon.”

Brandon doesn’t acknowledge it. “Thank you for picking us up. I know it’s risky for you to be out like this.”

“Well, you were willing to wait until everyone was gone so…”

Nadya’s still trying to place the voice when the van groans to life and begins its journey towards the city.

“I only got the cliff notes of what happened,” the driver continues, “and I know it’ll be a tough talk to have — but we need to know the level of danger we’re in.”

Whether she can place the voice or not aside — Nadya’s really not a fan of the tone.

“I understand.”

“The sooner the better.”

Brandon looks almost guiltily at Greer. “Well, I was hoping we could rest first…”

“You can rest after. This isn’t just about you.”

“All right, nope.” Nadya manages to stand without immediately falling over into a pile of pipes strapped down to the van floor, holds herself up on a metal hook and smacks her flat palm on the driver’s side wall just beside the window.

She succeeds in startling the driver — but has to hold on when they swerve and straighten out.

“What the hell is your problem,” the man barks, “are you trying to get us killed?!”

“You need to shut up. He just lost his sister, you jerk. So how about you show a little compassion, I don’t think it’ll kill you!”

The van slows to a halt — the traffic signal’s red glow streams into the back. There’s the sound of a seatbelt unbuckling and as Nadya falls back into her little seat the driver half-turns to scorn her.

“Just who the hell do you — think… you are…”

Nadya has to take a second for her eyes to adjust. It’s easier when the light turns green behind the shadow of his head but she’s definitely seen his face before.

Judging by their reactions they recognize each other at the same time.

Jax’s jaw is set in a scowl that twitches his upper lip. She has to push down her surprise and the sudden rush of thoughts but Nadya takes a little pride in how quickly she meets him foot-first with her chin held high.

“Nadya.” He finally exhales, like she asked him or something, though she’s a little surprised he remembers her name after all this time.

“Chill out,” Nadya insists, “and give him some time to breathe.” To grieve.

Whatever else he’s going to say is drowned out by the first car horn that screams behind them. Followed by another, and another. Jax makes his decision and turns around; slams his foot on the gas so hard they jerk and the free-range equipment goes sliding to the back of the van.

At the next red light he stays up front. Does the same at the one after. Whatever argument they’ll get into has apparently been tabled. At least they have the drive to collect their thoughts.

There’s a hand on her knee and Nadya looks over to see Brandon offering her a tired — if relieved — smile. She takes his hand and squeezes.

They’ve been in a tunnel going on ten minutes when Jax finally turns and parks. He hops out of the front seat and there’s a brief second where the part of her that’s started to expect the worst at any given time thinks he’s abandoned them.

Then the back doors click unlocked and all three partygoers look to where Jax stands stoic.

“Come on. Let’s get you guys cleaned up.”

Brandon and Greer must have arrived by the same way of transport because they don’t wait for Jax to lead them down one of the several tunnel entrances they’ve parked beside.

The Clanless vampire offers Nadya a hand to help her down; she doesn’t take it.

But before she can follow her friends there’s a heavy hand holding her back. There’s definitely a part of her that channels Kamilah when she rounds on him with anger.

“Let. me. go.”

Jax’s narrowed eyes roam her up and down until he spots what he’s looking for. Grabs her wrist and holds it up to let Kamilah’s charm catch the floodlights above them.

“Where are your masters?” he practically spits.

She acts without thinking — yanks her hand away and smacks him across the face. Judging by the way he doesn’t flinch and the sting in her palm it definitely hurt her more than him but the satisfaction is worth it.

“My friends are risking their lives for the sake of yours.” Nadya hisses. It makes him growl.

“Bullshit. The Clans don’t give a damn about us.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they’re out there fighting off a hundred Ferals; maybe more. Keeping them from getting to the city — from getting to the likes of you.”

Whatever retort Jax had lined up fades the moment he hears ‘Ferals.’ There’s just the tiniest chip in his bravado and Nadya glimpses justifiable horror before he manages to cover it up.

“A hund… but that’s not possible.”

“Yeah…” and remembering it all wilts her temporary confidence, “they thought that, too.”

When she tries again to head down the same pathway as the others Jax veers her off the course to a different tunnel.

“Where are we going?”

“They know the area. You don’t. This —” a sigh, “—this heads to the Plaza. And it’ll be easier for you to get your bearings so…”

It doesn’t make a whole lick of sense — not what he’s saying, she gets that — but all of this. Down wherever they are. It reminds her of those news clips of abandoned subway tunnels the city didn’t have the funds to refurbish.

Now that she thinks about it, that was a huge point of favor for Senator Vega’s re-election; his initiative to ‘clean up the city’ one tunnel at a time. Nadya, like most people, had let his strange wording go in one ear and out the other. But if that’s truly where they are…

“This is it—isn’t it,” Nadya asks, “this is where the Clanless are hiding out.”

“This is where we’re forced to cower. Where the Clans have forced us to barely live all because they refuse to acknowledge their system is a flawed one.”

Jax corrects her with an edge to his voice and she takes it for what it is — a silent demand to stop asking.

They round a corner and there’s a literal light at the end of the tunnel; dim and yellow in the way old lightbulbs were, accompanied by the smell of those seasonal walnut carts that stopped frequenting the streets in preparation for summer and ice cream.

The tunnel empties out into a bazaar — that’s the only word Nadya knows to compare it to. Not like those in movies filled with hagglers and their livestock trying to sell them under a strange alien sun but all cramped together; ramshackle stalls literally held in place by the skin of their teeth with rusty nails and old wooden planks rotting in some places.

To her left there’s a woman using exposed and collapsing pipes to hang blankets and clothes. Across the excuse for a path, a young duo with tattoos on every inch of skin show a yellowing booklet of designs to a middle-aged man sitting in an old barbershop chair.

The source of the sweet smell, Nadya sniffs to find, is exactly one of those celebratory carts at the end of a corner. The worker wipes sweat from her brow over the hot flames and churns walnuts in sugar and cinnamon in a beat-up wok.

All around her there is life. Life just as vibrant and busy as the streets above them.

“Watch your step.” Jax yanks her back as she goes forward — Nadya catches herself before she trips and falls into a railway gap.

She nods in thanks; still trying to take everything in. “Where are we?”

“An old spaghetti junction for the subway — abandoned after a construction collapse in the Eighties,” Jax points across the market to a crumbled section of the wall and ceiling; marked off with bright yellow police tape that’s been reapplied as many times as it has broken, “It’s served a good purpose. Everyone needs a place to congregate, to chat and meet new people. That’s how it started; just a place to talk. Talking helped some Turned relive their human memories and think of the things that made their life good. Distracted them from the tragedy.

“It kept them grounded; alive. Less chance of Turning Feral that way.”

The word makes her shudder but also see the place in a new light. None of the people around her — which was which, who was who, were they all vampires or were other humans here too? — had a Clan brand. They were all a risk.

Kamilah would be so mad; a thought that actually helps her breathe a little easier.

“I didn’t know there’d been, like, studies done on how that happens.”

“There haven’t. Come on.” Jax doesn’t wait or help her across the rail gap. Nadya struggles to keep up without her dress — and the state of her — getting in everyone’s way.

While they walk he continues; “Ferals are a taboo subject among most vampires. The thing everyone knows about but no one wants to mention. But if we ignore the problem how are we ever gonna find a solution?

“There are myths — pretty much the vampire equivalent of old wives’ tales — about things that can keep a newly Turned from going Feral in the crucial hours after.”

“Like what?”

“Well, blood from a loved one is said to help tether the soul to the body. It’s the first measure we take whenever possible.”

“And the success rate? Did you run trials? What about a control group and a testing group? What if —”

Jax rounds on her quickly. Startles an elderly man nearby but he doesn’t say anything, just huffs and mumbles under his breath. There isn’t even a trace of hunger in his eyes and Nadya comes to the quick conclusion that this guy is probably prone to lashing out.

“They’re people, not experiments! God, that’s the problem with you Clan types. So obsessed with your own wealth and status you don’t realize that a person is still a person even if they don’t have your precious little mark.”

And maybe she had been thinking about it like Adrian once described to her — that awful night she decided to ask about his previous assistant and learned of Adrian’s fight against the Feral problem through modern science over violence — but…

The fact that she can’t find an excuse that doesn’t sound like it was taken straight out of Adrian’s mouth doesn’t do much to affirm her convictions.

Jax takes her silence as a victory. Crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at her smugly.

“I figured you of all people — Clan pet or not — would care about the difference.”

Hands clenching into trembling fists at her sides; before Nadya can say anything Jax gives her his back to approach the woman with her clothes on the knot of pipes overhead.

She’s the kind of old that still looks beautiful; wears her age with grace and commands respect from it. Again Nadya is reminded of Kamilah and, again, her heart aches.

“Well if it isn’t old Mister Matsuo.” She teases; cups his cheek in a wrinkled palm and brushes a smudge of dirt away in a motherly fashion. “If you’re looking to win back your book you’ll have to wait — I can’t just pull away from a good day trading for your gambling problem.”

‘Gambling problem?’ Nadya mouths — has to hide her grin at the flustered way Jax one-arms the woman in a hug.

“Not this time, Evelyn. I was actually hoping for a favor.”

“Ha! Not likely. You owe me, remember?”

Jax huffs. “The favor isn’t mine.”

When they both look her way is when Nadya has her answer; Evelyn has a vampire’s unmistakable grace. She beckons an arthritic finger and gently takes Nadya’s hand.

“Welcome to the Shadow Den, dear,” Evelyn looks down at the blood stain on her abdomen, “I’m sure Jax here wouldn’t leave you hanging if you were hurt, so I’ll give my condolences to your dress.”

The Shadow Den. She keeps that in mind. “T-Thanks.”

“Think you have something her size?” asks Jax with his arms crossed over his chest.

Evelyn coaxes Nadya to turn this way and that; surveys the fabric with a clinical eye by grabbing her skirts and rifling through the folds.

She finally pulls back and tugs off several items from the overhead pipes, then hikes up her own long skirt and toes off a pair of well-loved construction boots. “These ought to do. But I’ll be taking the dress as payment — I think I could make Liv something pretty for her show out of what’s left.”

Before the vampire can grab her dress again Nadya steps back. “You can’t take this,” doesn’t realize she’s said it but she has — “it was a gift.” It might be all I have left. No — stop thinking like that. Oh god, but what if it’s true?

But Evelyn just watches her — watches her with an offering of clothes she doesn’t have to pay for and her own shoes. The woman’s toes wiggle in thick woolen socks on the cement.

So she wraps her arms around her middle and hugs the dress one last time. “Thank you for your kindness. Do you have a place I could, uh…”

“Come back here, dear. Would you like some help?”

“Yes, please.”

Evelyn leads her — helps her hold up all the poof of her dress through the stall’s narrow sides — to a small area walled off with dusty flannel blankets. Closes a dark ocean-themed shower curtain with bleach stains on the hem to give them both some privacy.

She almost asks Evelyn if she could keep the corset. Instead just slips one of the silk ribbons out of its place and wraps it around her charm bracelet tightly. The shirt is a little too big but she cuffs up the sleeves and the opportunity to breathe without whalebone confines is actually heaven.

Part of Nadya expected (hoped, definitely hoped) Jax would be gone when they emerged.

Jax is still there. And he’s not alone.

“Sanderson’s been working his ass off, man. But that doesn’t mean any of those kids are ready for an actual fight —” Maricruz gestures in frustration, her voice weary, “— they’re gonna get slaughtered.”

“You think I don’t know that? Just—have him get on his guys to bulk up weapons. See if anyone’s willing to raid some construction sites for supplies. But they have to look the part, Mari. We’re not having another Lula incident.”

“Yeah, I hear you.”

Her eyes fall on Nadya. Hard-edged just like before, but weary.

Evelyn gently pushes her way passed Nadya with the dress in hand. Starts rifling around for something and smiles at her own genius when she procures fabric shears from a shoe box.

It’s taken her a second but everything sort of clicks, then. “You were Megan’s ex.” She recognizes the grief that flickers and dies — somehow feels a little angry that it isn’t harder; that it doesn’t last longer.

“Brandon, Greer — are they okay?”

“Yeah, they’re resting. Or they better be.” That’s not who she wants to ask about and Mari knows it; lets it hang between them ugly and stifling in the already uncomfortable underground air. “You holding up?”

“No, not really.” At least she’s honest.

“Do you —”

“I want to see her.” Nadya demands, doesn’t let her finish, doesn’t want anymore hospitality or kindness from anyone.

Because seeing Maricruz again after all these months lights a fire inside her that she didn’t even know was still there. She’s done crying, worrying, grieving. Everything has gone to absolute crap in the last twelve hours and if this is where she ends up then fine — so be it — but hell if she’s not going to be this close and not see her.

The longer Mari hesitates the angrier Nadya finds herself. “Now.”

Mari and Jax exchange a look. If he keeps setting his jaw like that he’s going to grind his teeth to dust. “I’ll go to Griff. Meet me back at mine when you can.” Then he’s gone without so much as a goodbye. Behind them Evelyn huffs a laugh, mutters something about youths in a hurry and keeps cutting Nadya’s dress.

“This way.” Mari gives as a reply to the expectant quirk of Nadya’s brow.

She follows side-by-side.

Nadya has only seen giant bank vaults with spinning-wheel locks the size of her dinner table in movies — until now. Thought that ripping them out of their moorings with bits of drywall and anchorings was something only for Hollywood’s penchant for drama — until now.

She’s also definitely never seen this much actual gold in her life — until now.

The middle of the vault floor has been cleared for habitation; bars of precious metals and stacks of what Nadya now recognizes as legal documents, financial records, and auto titles sort of teetering over dangerously. Her fingers itch with that familiar desire to organize and file.

Lily’s done the same thing to the vault as she does to every space she inhabits. There’s a purple picnic blanket underneath her and a discarded pile of snack wrappers waiting to join the big garbage bin in the sky behind her.

Her video games have been replaced by six, no, seven computers. Three laptops and a tablet and three monitors with cables snaking along the floor to towers haphazardly stacked in the vault corner. And don’t even get her started on the accessory keyboards.

Flattened boxes at her sides double as desk space and a crumb-catcher. Nadya spots a neon green water bottle with a crazy straw sticking out. Objectively she knows what it contains but it doesn’t really register.

Without so much as a glance her way Mari abandons Nadya at the entrance to the vault and crouches down behind Lily where her back is turned. There’s a squeal of laughter and Mari dips her head to Lily’s neck, followed by soft moans that make Nadya shift in her borrowed boots.

She watches them with unwelcome bitterness in her heart.

Then there’s whispering, and Mari holds Lily’s shoulders and it takes Nadya a second to realize she’s holding her down. Holding her back.

With her girlfriend’s help Lily slowly stands and turns.

Everything looks the same. She’s even wearing an outfit they bought together — right after Nadya’s first Raines Corp. paycheck, treating themselves to more than just window-shopping for the first time in months — that must have been taken from the apartment when Nadya abandoned it.

Everything looks the same but they meet each other like strangers. Lily’s eyes burn red and Nadya flinches back. There’s a difference between knowing and seeing.

Until she sees the wounded look on Lily’s face; knows that she’s just hurt her best friend in the entire world even though she’s the reason Lily’s like this. — All the messages half-written that she couldn’t muster up the courage to send, never knowing if she would see them at all…

Nadya doesn’t know what to do so she does what she does best. She rambles.

“It’s not something we ever talked about, you know,” she hiccoughs out; feels her throat start to close up and that familiar burn of teary eyes, “like, what we should do if one of us gets hurt — really, really hurt. I know I made you my emergency contact but that was just in case because I didn’t want my mom to have to fly out here, you know? You didn’t have to do it back. But you did.”

Lily nods slowly, whispers; “But I did.”

“Who was I supposed to call, the hospital, your sister? They wouldn’t’ve known what to do. I just kept seeing you laying there and, Lil’, all that blood was…”

“I know you don’t like gore.” She says it like it’s supposed to be a laugh. Nadya isn’t laughing.

“It wasn’t gore! It was my best friend’s life all over the kitchen floor!” And Lily doesn’t know what to say to that; so Nadya keeps going.

“And I was selfish. I was selfish for not wanting to think about a world without you in it. I didn’t even think about what you would want, I was so focused on finding a way to make it all better.”

Through the haze of her unshed tears she watches Lily place her hand over Mari’s; sees her give the older vampire an imploring look and the barest of nods from her.

Then Lily’s across the vault room — her hands are heavy on Nadya’s shoulders but definitely not as heavy as the decision of letting her live or die had been. She thumbs the tears away from Nadya’s cheeks. Clearer, now, she can see Lily holding back her own downpour.

She’d better — together they might accidentally flood the vault.

“I’m not mad, Nadi’. I’ve had time to be mad… and thought about all the time I might have to be mad, too. And it’s just not worth it. You did way more than needed.”

“But I didn’t even think about if you would have wanted… this.”

“Yeah, you did,” Lily gives her a wry smile and a glimpse of fang, “and you knew I would make the single most badass vamp in the whole city, obviously.”

Nadya chokes on her laugh. They take one another’s hands; the cool touch strange but she’s had time to get used to it from others, now. That helps.

Her thought makes her laugh, makes Lily tilt her head curiously.

“Sure,” Nadya teases, “but what do I find? You’re still sitting around on your computer even as a vampire!”

Lily shrugs. “Well… you know what they say. Don’t mess with perfection.”

Their embrace is long enough that Nadya’s pretty sure her arms fall asleep around Lily’s neck. When the squeeze gets a little too tight all she has to do is hold her breath and her newborn vampire best friend backs off; learns the limits of her still-mortal body.

“I missed this.” They both sigh in unison; bring about more soft peals of laughter.

It’s enough. For now — it’s enough.

[suicidalcatz]

DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 11

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2 ; Chapter 3 ; Chapter 4 ; Chapter 5 ; Chapter 6 ; Chapter 7 ; Chapter 8 ; Chapter 9 ; Chapter 10

Masterlist : here

AN : It is wednesday, my dudes! This part and the next ones are like 90% fluff, 10% angst... like bittersweet. You’re still heartbroken but try to keep your friendship with Jake, while doing all of your homework... A lot to handle. Actually I had to cut the chapter in half because it was too long (9-10 pages). I really hope you’ll like this chapter because I liked writing it! Feel free to tell me what you thought of it, send me dms or questions, and thanks for reading me x

Chapitre 11 : Would you cook for me ?

Ignoring Jake's texts or avoiding him was useless. But hanging out with him was a challenge I wasn't ready to handle, never asked for, and yet was pushed into. Pretending I didn't see him when we crossed paths in the hallways, or that I didn't receive any of his texts was petty, there was no point in doing so. I couldn't avoid him without giving him any reason, and I couldn't tell him why I needed some time far away from him either because it meant revealing the truth and 1) I wasn't ready, 2) he'd be the one avoiding me like the black plague if I did. It brought me to the conclusion that I would simply pretend nothing happened at all. Jake hadn't noticed the whole situation anyway, so to him it'd already be like everything was normal, just like it always had been between us. It was the best I could think of. For him, for Josh, for anyone. For me ? Not so much. Of course I was still heartbroken, of course it'd take me some time to get over him, and staying by his side would be like rubbing salt on a wound while demanding for it to heal. But I wouldn't risk to break our group's dynamic for selfish reasons. So I sucked that in, everything. The sadness, and painful pang of my chest every time I saw his face, while repeating myself it was for the best.

That aside, I had some other things coming. For the worst. My useless self got so into self-pity and deprecation that I had totally forgotten about homework... And my drawing teacher would be less than pleased as we were all supposed to hand her five new portraits on Monday. Realization hit me during breakfast with Josh who had slept here, when I saw Mandy pack her things and idly noticing out loud that I wasn't carrying a lot of stuff for once. This. This was the cue. But it was too late now, I thought as I walked down the halls by their side. On our way to the amphitheater we saw Jake, waiting in front of the door for the teacher to come. Other students were here too, chatting and yawning with their backs against the walls or sitting on the floor. Josh looked at me like he wasn't sure if he should greet him but the brunette was the one spotting us, gesturing us to come join him. My eyes were probably still a bit puffy but with the makeup it could pass for lack of sleep. Of course he knew Josh stayed at our place last time, I had made sure the boy texted him, and the jerk had taken this opportunity to ask his brother to bring him all his school supplies, backpack included. Unbelievable.

- Your stuff, said Jake handing Josh his bag.

- Who's the big brother again ?, I jokingly asked with a raised eyebrow.

- He's 5 minutes older, replied Jake.

- You'll never live it down !

We all chatted quietly, and I never felt more conflicted in my entire life. My heart didn't know if it should beat faster or hurt like hell, so it seemed to do both, making me feel weird just by being next to Jake. My body was in total contradiction with itself. I couldn't hold back the smile that crept across my face, but at the same time wouldn't meet Jake in the eye, disguising it by cracking joke after joke while my stress level kept rising the more time passed. My thoughts were running wild. In a few hours the drawing teacher was going to yell at me in front of the whole workshop and I couldn't handle it. I'd surely burst into tears and feel even more ashamed. I'd probably-

- Hey, you alright ?

A soft touch caressed my back and I involuntarily jerked forward, out of its grasp, before realizing and suddenly feeling bashful at my reaction. I could tell Jake was surprised by it but it lasted only a second before his face showed concern.

- Yeah, I just didn't finish my work on time... That witch is gonna murder me and ask the others students to draw a perspective of my corpse I'm sure.

I heard his chuckles before the tutor cut him off, passing by us with the keys in hand to unlock the door, separating the sea of students in half like an artsy Moses. Jake was at the other side when the crowd engulfed through the small door, letting us no choice but to keep our bodies to the walls.

- Do you wanna sit together today ?, asked Jake above the loud stomping noises.

Because of the students between us I couldn't really see his face, but was glad because it meant he couldn't see mine whitening. Josh and Mandy on the other hand were just next to me and clearly witnessed my expression change. To think that a week before I would've been on cloud nine being able to sit next to him for two whole hours... Oh how things could change fast.

We were now the three last people left outside and Jake held the door for us, continuing speaking.

- You guys are always exchanging notes, we should just, ya know ? Sit next to each other and... quietly chat.

As backup to his words, he murmured the last part in a very exaggerated fashion, in a failed attempt to make me smile. I couldn't just say no to him without looking weird because I had no reason to. Even if I knew he wouldn't push the matter, there was no way he wouldn't question it, right ? Josh came to the rescue, playfully elbowing him.

- But then where's the fun in that ? Right girls ?

Both agreeing, we rushed to our usual seats, letting a dumbfounded Jake close the door behind him. In their habitual fashion, Mandy and Josh threw paper balls at each other, while I was for once too focused on the lecture to participate in their shenanigans. I needed to get my mind to focus on something and right now Gilgamesh sounded like a good deal, so I took as many notes as possible. A task proven even more difficult because in the corner of my eye, I could see Jake staring at me.

Saying my drawing teacher killed me was a little bit of an understatement. She scared the shit out of me with her scolding. To be fair, even in a normal mood she was a scary woman. The already quiet   class went completely still and silent when she barked at me, admonishing me with charming names such as « useless », « disappointing » and the timeless « lamentable ». A classic. Truth to be told it hurt much less than I previously anticipated, mainly because I was already half dead inside, with the emotional range of a cactus, and my self-esteem nearly reaching zero. Nothing much to attack, really. Nevertheless, she demanded that I hand her all five portraits plus the five others we had to do this week by the next monday. Meaning I had ten to do in a week. It physically hurt just thinking about it, and I could hear a quiet « oof » escaping some of my classmates' mouths. It's with a huge relieved sigh that I found my bed this afternoon once school was over. This day had been a catastrophe so far, so there was no other thing I wanted to do more than put on my Pjs, put some music on, and slowly work at my desk, thinking Tuesay will be a better day.

Tuesday was not a better day. Wednesday either. All my homework slowly started piling up on my desk to the point where it was starting to be difficult to keep track of it. And sleeping four hours a night wasn't doing my mental health any good. I knew I had two possibilities now ; sleep less but do my work, or skip some classes to work. It was beginning to get ridiculous, skipping classes so I could do my homework. I knew art schools were difficult, awfully so, but like most people I hadn't realized until then, in this very moment, standing in front of my desk completely covered in paint, canvas, my computer, sketches, inks... some brushes had fallen on the floor, staining it in their passage. My laptop was so dirty it wasn't in its original color anymore. There were blotches of paint, ink, and charcoal here and there that I couldn't remove the harder I had tried to, forcing me to give up. At some point I got so tired I put my paintbrush into my cup of tea/coffee, mistaking it with the goblet of water.

- ...Are you alright ?, enquired Mandy on Thursday night.

One look at my face and she had her answer. Bless her soul, she didn't need any more to bring me an energy drink from the fridge.

- I still have five portraits to do. Four pencil ones, and one painting. They all have to be from different angles, and I can't find any models, I complained while throwing my hand in the air in an act of pure desperation.

Mandy knew better than to sit at the edge of my risky desk with her designer clothes, so she leaned on the doorframe, slowly nodding her head in a pensive manner while I kept explaining the situation.

- All week I couldn't find anyone because they all had homework to do, and now most of them are skipping tomorrow's lecture to go home early so nobody's available !

My rommate crossed her arms, thinking hard. I already did almost all my paintings, asking for both her and Josh's help. Both of them were glad to help and even more so to figure on a monochrome painting on a canvas.

- Can you draw the same person multiple times ?, she finally asked.

- Actually... I don't know. I don't think that would be a problem as long as the work is done ?

Hopping on her feet, Mandy lifted an eyebrow before dragging a chair to sit on.

- Let's get into it then, we only have one lecture tomorrow, you can skip it I'll take notes for you.

Having a good night of sleep never felt this good. No. Waking up at 8, slowly realizing everybody was sitting on a lecture except me, and then getting back to sleep was way better. I sketched poor Mandy two times last night but the results were good, and she looked pleased herself. I didn't have time to redo any of these anyway, I still had other work to do. Waking me from my well deserved nap, my phone vibrated under the pillow, the screen blinding me despite the sun peaking through the curtains.

« The boys asked where you were. Told them about the portraits situation. Jake wants to help. Couldn't stop him. »

If the beginning of the text made me smile, the end completely shook me awake, making me sit hurriedly on the bed, rereading the words multiple times. Scratching my face, I quickly glanced at the hour. They were out in a few minutes. My fingers tapped the next message as soon as they could, asking her how and when, while I ran to the showers with my towel, soap and toothbrush in hand. At this hour, and a Friday, they were all available. The other residents were all either drunk as hell and passed out in their room, or in their hometown with their family and friends. The buzzing of my phone vibrating reverberated against the shower walls and it almost got drowned in the sink when I caught it to look at the screen. It was Mandy.

« They kinda invited themselves over to eat. Josh's idea.»

What the hell Joshua we're not your moms ! Throwing my phone to the nearest flat surface, I jumped on some discarded overalls and put on a sweater, wet hair dripping everywhere on the floor, table, but mostly on my clothes, making me sneeze in the process. The whole week I was so overwhelmingly busy with work that not only did my fingers hurt but I didn't have any time to see the Kiszkas let alone think about them since our shared lecture on Monday. I even skipped the Lunch Club in order to get back to the dorms and work on my assignments. Which thankfully saved me a lot of time, but I still had 2 pencil drawings to do and one painting. Once I had put on some makeup, I took a moment to look around me. Our place looked like a dump, no less. Clothes and art furniture were everywhere, the trash was overflowing with empty cup noodles and fast food leftovers, it smelled like perfume and soap mixing with rotten food, paint and cold tobacco. It was terrible, and made me shocked that I even got used to that. A life achievement of some sort. Everything on the floor I put it on a trash bag, running in the stairs to throw everything outside with the others'. My phone vibrated in my pocket, a new notification popping on the screen.

« They bought some stuff at the store, they wanna cook us something. Jake's idea. »

Okay, time to clean the kitchen.

By the time they got here, I looked even more tired than before, owing my guests looks of concern. If was funny, how they put on the exact same face while seeing me. It was like I just mirrored a picture. Their similar features would never cease to amaze me.

- Mama you're very pale.

- Did you not sleep well ?

- I did, don't worry, I dismissed their concern. Had to clean up a bit.

Mandy bit his lip, knowing damn well the place had been a war field when she left. Unaware of anything, the boys put the bags of groceries on the table before apologizing for intruding. We all sat around the table to have a pleasant talk, my friends always making sure I wasn't next to Jake to avoid any brutal peak of awkwardness / sadness. But some habits died hard, I realized when Jake asked if he could have a tour of our dorm. Ignoring glances, I stood up and gestured for him to go first, into the biggest room, were Mandy and I's workshop and beds were. The boy let out a low whistle that flattered me. He looked impressed by everything around him, touching odd looking brushes and browsing illustration books. I knew better this time, and had put his painted portrait under my bed, wrapped in an old sheet. Just as his brother did, he liked to take in his hands everything that came by, caressing it with his fingertips or idly lifting the weight of it in his palms like he was discovering an unknown world. Unmoving, I let Jake do his little tour, watching the street view by the window, sitting on my disheleved bed, jumping slightly to make the mattress bounce like he was testing it before buying.

- So this is where you're gonna paint me, he said, pointing at a chair between my desk and me.

My pale face grew some colors at the thought of it before I nodded quickly, in a childlike way, caressing the wooden chair's back.

- I'll try to be fast so you won't get bored, I assured without looking him in the eye.

It was this moment Josh chose to appear at the corner of the doorframe.

- Jakey we should start cooking or the potatoes will never be ready on time. Come on, doll.

He took me by one of my overalls' straps, pulling me inside the kitchen, making me laugh and pushing my shoulders so I stayed on my seat. Mandy and I gazed at them with awe as they poured us drinks while Jake asked where the spatula was, and Josh was washing the vegetables, already familiar with his surroundings.

In silence, I looked at Jake removing every one of his rings to put it on top of the fridge where no one could kick them, before tying his hair in a tight ponytail. Maybe it was because I only ever saw him with long brown locks framing his face, but he looked even better than usual. If he caught me staring, he didn't adress it, only smiled at me, turning his back to us to help his brother.

- Do you need any help ?, I asked while showing them where the frypans were. You guys are our guests it doesn't seem fair...

Of course the kitchen wasn't a real one, there was only a microwave and some hotplates fixed to a cabinet by the sink. Putting more than one person behind the counter was impossible without bumping into each other, and I could smell the accident from afar when Josh maneuvered the hot water filled pan at the same time Jake opened up a cupboard right above his curly head. Curiously so, probably because they had way more cooking experience than I thought, the boys handled the situation neatly, and Jake was the one preventing me from bumping into his brother.

- Go sit and relax, we've got this, he said while turning me around by the shoulders.

Watching boys make lunch had got to be some sort of ASMR because just watching the muscles of their back move while they were chopping onions and peeling potatoes had some real therapeutic effects on me. We continued chatting together, all the while answering their questions on « Where are the knives ? » and « Where do you keep the salt ? ». Kind of surprised that Josh had the permission of holding a kitchen knife, by the way, this part made me feel the absolute opposite of ASMR but he did a pretty good job, from what I could see. Mandy put on some music on the speakers, argued with Jake over the sound of it as to what was acceptable or not music-wise, and Josh made a show of crying because of the onions, yelling about becoming blind until Jake gently slapped the back of his head. It was all laughs and good conversation, like we've been friends for years, and at the same time I couldn't shake these feelings I had towards Jake. There was something extremely erotic about seeing a dude wearing a dishcloth on his shoulder. Or was it just Jake wearing it really well ?

They refused to tell us what we were eating, muttering to themselves and sometimes asking if we were allergic to this or that, only announcing it while putting the plate on the table, with Josh making grand gestures as usual, using his best waiter voice.

- Crêpes au zucchini accompanied by a fresh salad decorated with feta and its apple slices, ladies.

- Bon appétit, added Jake.

The table was already set because it was the only thing we were allowed to do, so at least the boys could now rest. It looked really good. Way less fancy than what Josh had announced of course but it smelled wonderful, the sweet scent settling in all of our dorm. And the taste, oh Lord. Everything melted in my mouth, the onions they fried were just crispy enough to add something to it, and I learned this day that cheese and apple were really good and refreshing together. A new snack idea I'd keep for my sleepless work nights at the desk. And as dessert, the boys brought beers. Of course.

[dynamic-instability]

In one of my classes we have to write weekly personal narratives about an experience with illness. This week, mine turned into this. It’s probably too personal, and too... immediate?? to turn in to a professor without cutting out a lot of stuff, but not too personal to post online I guess lol

_____________________________

It’s November again.

In 2009 the lights were too bright. Mid-October one morning I woke up to my dad turning on my lights and it was like having to look into the sun while posing for a photo—my eyes wouldn’t stay open, if I forced them to, they couldn’t stay pointed in one direction, they spasmed and hurt. When the light was dimmed, I still saw double. That morning, I showered in the dark, and I remember being scared. They gave me eyedrops that paralyzed my accommodative muscles. In November my pupils were giant discs and I wore reading glasses over sunglasses to look at the computer, and when it was all said and done, the lights were still too bright, and I still saw double.

In 2011 I was tired. There’s fatigue and then there’s fatigue, I learned that Fall. In May of that year I had pulled two all-nighters in a week, and that was the only other time I’d felt this kind of tired, a sensation in about the 30th hour of the second time where it’s like my brain itched. I once saw someone else online describe it as “nausea, but in your head and eyes instead of in your throat and stomach” and that’s the closest anyone else has come to describing it. By November this was happening more and more often. I remember laying down in the corner of the room during a break of Citywide choir and thinking what the hell is wrong with me? I got a cold the next week, and I thought that maybe that was all it was. It wasn’t.

In 2013 I went to the ER for the fifth time in three months of college, and when I wanted to leave before waiting another couple of hours to eventually see a doctor who would tell me once again that they couldn’t do anything to help me, the woman from student life who was there to drive me back to campus made me call my parents on speaker phone and get their permission to leave before she would turn on the car. I had missed more chemistry labs than I could afford to miss without failing, passed out in a voice lesson, was asked by the director to drop out of choir because watching me was distraction when I looked like I was in pain, and if I passed out it would have ruined the concert for everyone. I remember leaving calculus in the mornings mid-class to go to the bathroom and lay on the floor and cry. I remember not being able to lift my hand off the mattress of my dorm room bed. I withdrew from half of my classes on the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and took the Spring semester off.

In 2014 I had made a promise to myself that I would come back to college full time for that Fall semester just to see if I could do it, and then if I couldn’t I would drop out for good. There was one week where I thought that might be happening. Mid-November. The girls in my dorm had made a fort in the lounge out of sheets and blankets and colorful scarves and I remember laying on the couch through the green-filtered light and feeling the world spin and thinking oh god I still can’t do this. The door opened with a rush of cold air and my friends came in with food for me, since I’d been too sick to go to dinner. They sat with me and helped me with chemistry, offered to type up a paper if I dictated it, told jokes and made me laugh. I took an incomplete in one class, but I passed everything else, just barely scraped through, and came back in January.

In 2015 I just wanted to sleep. I passed out in an elevator and heard familiar voices, concerned voices, as I came to, and I stayed there laying motionless for another minute longer, because as long as I wasn’t awake I didn’t have to keep pushing. I wrote whole pages of completely unreadable ochem notes because my hand wasn’t working any better than my brain, and woke up on the floor and was wheeled out on a stretcher crying. It was dark all the time. My cane slipped on wet leaves and I felt my wrist crunch and there it was, one too many missed organic chemistry labs. I couldn’t stand for an entire choir rehearsal because breathing to sing made me lightheaded. I slept for 16 hours a day. The week before Thanksgiving, I called my mother to tell her I had decided to take another hardship withdrawal, and she sighed. I had applied to transfer schools during my much more optimistic Spring semester and Summer, and the week I left was also the week I found out I’d been accepted.

And so okay now it’s 2019, and it’s October and now November again, semester plan again, dark again. My reading is piling up again, feeling overwhelmed again, laying on my kitchen floor again. But here’s the thing—my health is… fine? Midterm week I didn’t sleep, and yes I passed out twice, but no ER. For the past 18 months, I can count on one hand the number of mornings I’ve been unable to get out of bed because of fatigue. My heart still pounds too hard but my head doesn’t swim every time I sit up. I walk the streets of New York City like mobility has never been a problem. I always take the stairs. My brain doesn’t itch until it’s been 30 hours no sleep.

I couldn’t go to class last week. I lay on the floor of my kitchen and stared up at the ceiling and tried to get up, tried to type out an email to my professors, and I couldn’t do it. I was not too tired. I was not too weak. I was not in pain. I could not move. I try to write and try to write and try to write and the words don’t come. I eat instant oatmeal at 9 PM because I haven’t been to the store in a month. I have lost nearly 15 pounds since moving to New York. I clean the stove for two and a half hours but can’t bring myself to take the dead spider off the side of the bathtub. I check the door lock one-two-three times, pace the floor, sit back down. I do not read Austerlitz. I write a Canvas post for Self and Other but it’s nonsense. I do not write a Canvas post for Accounts of Self. I do not write a Canvas post for Applied Writing. I write a Canvas post for Illness and Disability and somehow forget to post it, the one thing I’ve actually done, because I’m too busy feeling sick at everything I haven’t. I shadow a doctor for the clinical witnessing assignment and everything is fine but when I try to write it up I have a panic attack that leaves me sobbing on my couch and the assignment nine days late and counting. It takes me eight hours to write two pages. I watch 18 hours of YouTube video essays discussing drama about creators I don’t even watch and play a stupid game on my phone for an entire weekend until I’ve spent $25+ in a labyrinth of microtransations and every time I close my eyes I see the moving dots.

In November of 2015 I had three overdue essays for Global Literature, and two more due in the next two weeks. More than half were on books I had not read. My pre-lab wasn’t done for organic chemistry, and I wondered for a moment, if I pretended to pass out, if that would be easier. I stayed up until 4 AM laying on my floor and listening to Hamilton. I was sick, that much is true, but when I felt okay I still sat at my computer and could not bring myself to write.

In 2011 I had so many unfinished assignments for my college-level English class that I resigned myself to failing and I went to school the morning of the final class, but I hid in the stairwell by the choir room until I heard the bell, and I never went back to that class.

2009 was the year my dad stopped being able to yell at me for not doing my homework, because no one, including me, could tell whether it was actually my eyes stopping me.

In 2008 I wrote 6 essays in the 5 days of Thanksgiving break because I had not done any work for Intro to Lit all semester. I pulled it off, somehow, even aced the class because of an unusually lenient late work policy, but what I most remember is the sick feeling of dread as I lay on the floor in the living room staring up at the Christmas tree and feeling invisible sand slip through an invisible hourglass and a vice tightening in my chest.

In 2006 I stayed up almost all night writing a paper and crying my eyes out because I couldn’t find the words to explain to anyone why it had been so impossible for me to get the work done, that I wasn’t being lazy or distracted, I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t necessarily reading YA novels or watching TV or IMing my friends instead of working, I could sit and stare at a blank word document for 6 hours straight and still it would not get done. Everyone talked about potential, talked about how smart I was, but a gradebook that is half 100’s and half 0’s still averages out to an F. No one, including me, could explain the discrepancy. The logic of that simple math was not lost on me, the knowledge that turning in half-finished or not very good work was mathematically better than not doing it, but that didn’t mean I could do it. Words failed me when I tried to explain the illogic of my particular suffering.

I didn’t hear the term executive dysfunction until I was in my 20s. In retrospect I was tentatively told at 16 that I had “probably some ADHD and OCD”, but that psychiatrist was someone I’d been sent to by a neurologist because he thought she could fix my eyes, and when she said she couldn’t, I stopped making appointments. After I got sick, physically sick, the lines blurred between what was causing what, to the point where even I have no idea. Two of the Novembers missing here are ones I spent at CC, on the block plan where I only took one class at a time. My physical health arguably improved a little after transferring in January of 2016, but mostly it didn’t, not until Spring of 2018 at least. And you can see that evidence in dropped blocks, concussions from passing out onto hard surfaces, a couple of incompletes taken when viral illnesses (or concussions) compounded my other problems. What the block plan changed was the way things pile up, lessened the struggle of constant task switching between classes. (Admittedly, I also had fewer papers when taking mostly science classes. Writing takes much more energy, and it’s much harder to convince myself it doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth submitting.) At CC nothing ever really reached the level of catastrophe. Some of that is purely the ability to drop a single block, meaning when it was my physical health that was the problem, I didn’t lose a whole semester, just one class, then reset. But I should have realized sooner that the block plan wouldn’t account for the level of improvement if my physical health had really been the only barrier.

So we’re back to now. Grad school. November again. Dark again. Semester plan again. Too much writing again. Crushing dread again. Dysfunction again. Panic attack in the middle of the night increasingly elaborate organizing rituals scream of the subway tracks in my mind can’t stop can’t start can’t breathe can’t move burnout again. This time without the explanation of chronic fatigue to fall back on.

I have my tricks, have actually learned somewhat to cope in the past 18 years. Schedules help, break tasks into pieces that are as small as possible. Mindfulness meditation. Forgive yourself when it’s not perfect. Get started with something easy, set a timer for 20 minutes and only work for those 20 minutes and then let yourself stop if you want to (and surprisingly often, you won’t want to, sometimes that momentum is all it takes). If you work better in the night, work in the night, who cares what society says your sleep schedule should be. When switching tasks, physically get up and move to a different location. Allow yourself to procrastinate on work with other work if that’s what you have to do. Delete the stupid games from your phone. One or two missed assignments are not actually the end of the world, if you let yourself view it as piling up, you won’t be able to get anything done, so if you absolutely have to, just move through and move on.

It’s not a catastrophe, this November. It’s a fight, but it’s not a catastrophe. I read Austerlitz and forgive myself for skimming it. I write a Canvas post and forgive myself when it’s only 500 words and doesn’t make complete sense. I read Toni Morrison and Édouard Louis and classmates’ discussion posts about Deaf culture and identity and remember why this matters in the first place, that it’s not just a series of assignments to overwhelm me, it’s a series of interesting complicated exhausting important thoughts and questions. I get it done. Some of it. Most of it. I let myself sleep. I breathe. I remember to be grateful because I can get out of bed in the mornings and take the stairs. I am okay.

[rattycattyfanfic]

stroke by stroke

Fandom: Once Upon A Time Pairing: Regina/Emma, Alice/Robyn, Regina & Henry, Regina & Zelena Genre: Family/Fluff Rated: T Words: 2,255

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

5 times Regina struggles with her secret penchant for creativity + 1 time she finds her muse.

Read on AO3

this grew out of the plot in the regina rising book, where regina takes art classes for a bit. if you haven't read it, it's not crucial for this, just the inspiration. purely wrote this because art school has been kicking my butt recently and i must live everything through the cathartic distance of fictional characters. enjoy!

warnings: suggestions of childhood abuse, swearing, bit of brief alcohol use.

Once upon a time, Regina paints.

She’s not good, not by a long shot, but she loves it all the same. Loves to paint the horses, the tall, breathing trees and the horizon with its promise of freedom always just out of reach. The thick oils feel luxurious in an unfamiliar way, a far cry from the extravagance of corsets and jewels and feasts. They feel sumptuous, soulful, vibrant as she lays down rich colour, and she delights in it, escapes into the stables through her mind every time she picks up the paintbrush.

Her tutor, Jasper, is handsome and smiles when she masters a new technique or finishes a work, and Regina blushes all the way down to her toes. And therein lies the problem; because mother rarely allows her daughter the distraction of hobbies, let alone friends or boys not specifically approved by her, and she’s eagle-eyed looking for any excuse to put a stop to this. The excuse comes in the form of Jasper hovering at her shoulder, guiding her hand gently and his breath in her ear, and that’s that.

Jasper is ordered to leave, banned from the estate, and mother gets her digs in about Regina's poor painting skill, and the pressure to find an eligible prince to wed heats up. She no longer has time for frivolities between other lessons and dances and tea with suitors, so she gives it up.

When Henry is little, he’s a prolific little artist. He scribbles and scribbles as she works at her desk, and they’re the most beautiful thing Regina’s ever seen. She laughs and kisses his cheek as he proudly holds up his latest masterpiece, and gently takes it from him and puts it up on the fridge with the other favourites, cooing praise all the while.

She remembers, sometimes, well, we can’t all be good at everything, Regina, and feels her stomach twist in humiliation even years later, and promises herself this is another way she will never allow herself to be like her mother.

Seemingly chaotic spirals of waxy colour become slightly messy colouring book pages – delightfully disordered as Henry colours inside the lines as best he can but takes creative liberties: blue Spiderman, green sky, pink dog, all boldly unapologetic like happy children are. “Mommy, help,” he pipes up one day during one of their Saturday Granny's breakfasts, and spreads out his crayons across the table and Regina freezes for a half-second before picking up the red.

She puts the new art up on the fridge with alphabet magnets and puts the old ones carefully into a box. Later, she’s grateful she had the foresight to save everything, because during that awful year she returns to it on the worst nights. After he finds out about the adoption in the worst way possible and gets stuck on fairy tales, Henry demands she takes everything off the fridge in a fit of anger and pre-teen embarrassment, and so those go in the box too. Between snarling fights with his birth mother and shaking panic, Regina spends all too much time gazing over those pages of childish shapes until her vision is swimming and all she can see is a garish blur.

• 

• 

They never pick up their comfortable colouring sessions after everything gets better again. Henry gets too old, too preoccupied with being a hero or the author or college or adventures, and Regina mourns it.

She fills her house with expensive paintings, artisanal prints of mythology, illustrations of plants in an attempt to fill the hole, make it warmer on those nights he’s gone. Her favourite is a huge horse painting that hangs above her fireplace and Regina imagines maybe she would have painted something similar if she’d been allowed the time, the encouragement to learn.

And once, in the Underworld after trying and failing to sleep curled up on one of the couches, she tries. The injured horse from earlier had stuck in her mind, had looked so much like her Rocinante but wasn’t, and the loft is dim, silent but for soft snores of Snow and Charming close by. Beyond a few minutes in the bathroom here and there it’s the closest to privacy Regina has had since they got here.

Enough for her to pick up a scrap of paper and pencil and hunch over the coffee table to draw. Regina tries to remember the arc of her steed’s neck, the angles of his muzzle, the soft fuzz at his chin, and sketches until her hand aches and her eyes grow tired.

It’s bad, but it’s not awful. She feels calmer, in the dark where no one can see her failure, mother long gone. She stares at the dark shapes meant to be his eyes, the glint and it’s off but she feels sixteen again, bringing the outside inside with her. And she feels tired, at last. Slowly, Regina lays back down under the soft blanket and allows herself this small ounce of serenity.

• 

• 

In Seattle, she is Roni and owns a bar and dresses in leather and old denim. She has pain – a failed adoption, an uncaring mother, an absent father, streetwise beyond her years and more loneliness than she knows what to do with, oh yes, she has pain. But the curse has taken away specific old agonies of forced marriage and murdered lovers and a mother who abuses and shames, and she might be relieved if only she knew that she’d forgotten anything.

Roni doesn’t remember never being enough in any way at all, being groomed for marriage and marriage only, denied the simple pleasures of hobbies or friends, and she’s something of a fixer-upper – handy enough to maintain the pub, physical and creative in a way Mayor Mills hadn’t ever been. Not to mention financially fucked. She can’t spare the cash for Regina’s extensive designer wardrobe even if she could stomach the idea of fast fashion.

So she does the next best thing – cuts up her tees, alters the fit with simple stitching, and one day when she has a spare few hours after a relatively slow shift, she picks up a set of cheap paints and goes to town on a jacket sitting in the back of her closet. After hours hunched over the jacket, a couple of cold beers, and a few loud spins of the Ramones, her mind is clear and her body pleasantly tired. The paint dries, and she marvels at her newly personalised jacket, adorned with tasteful flowers, unique to her, and for once, there’s no insecurity.

•

•

When Roni remembers and becomes Regina again, she admires the jacket hanging on the back of her door, trails her fingertips over the paint before finally slipping it on. Her cursed self had surprisingly done quite a good job and it’s hers and she won’t waste a perfectly comfortable jacket. (Zelena comments, one day, nudges her gently when she gets a closer look and sees the slight imperfections of a hand-paint job. “Never knew you had an artistic side, ‘Gina,” and Regina rolls her eyes and snaps a towel playfully after her, says “I don’t,” but has to hide her flushed cheeks.)

Robyn arrives in Seattle, tall and grown now, if a little rougher around the edges – her fault and in hindsight maybe the ticket to Amsterdam she hadn’t even run past Zelena had been a bad idea, much like the spellbook she’d passed on because we all experimented, Zelena. Robyn is brave and kind and funny, though, had never succumbed to the darkness or to vices like they both had even given the chance. She’s doing well, besides being, y’know, cursed, and some evenings, that bright-eyed, wild-haired girl Tilly – Alice – comes to visit and they exchange soft touches and warm smiles. (It reminds Regina painfully of a different blonde lost to her, and she turns her face down and pours out a shot.)

While Robyn dries glasses or wipes down the counter, Alice splits her time gazing at her girlfriend and hunching over a notebook, writing and doodling. Regina had seen over her shoulder once by accident, the pages and pages of loopy handwriting and beautiful drawings of stormy seas and far-off dream-realms (real, if only Alice would make the connection she’s so close to). And when Robyn gets off shift, they sit side by side and Alice explains each drawing with glinting eyes. “What about you? What do you dream about?” Alice asks, and so Robyn picks up a pencil and tentatively tries to illustrate a dreamt childhood filled with magic and mythical beasts.

(The curse breaks and for a short time, they all sit in Roni’s bar aware of what they mean to one another. Robyn smiles softly and says, “I remember when you and mom would colour with me, Aunt Regina,” and slides two pages across the bar counter towards the two witches. Regina’s mouth closes around a silent protest and she smiles too, exchanges a soft look with her sister, and grabs a purple pencil.)

•

•

The realms are united, and everyone is back together. Everything is good.

Regina sucks in a breath as she stands in one of the castle towers, looking over the kingdom. She still has her mansion, but occasionally, she likes to come up here and allow the treetops and winding rivers to clear her mind.

She sits down on a wooden stool near the window, brought up here especially for today. Actually, all of this had been acquired very discretely, just for her today. She could have summoned it, but she’s really trying to not use magic lazily these days and the ritual of gathering everything had been strangely soothing.

In front of her is a wooden easel and a small table laden with paints – oils, like she’d used as a girl, and fluffy brushes and spirit for rinsing. The blank canvas is terribly intimidating, but Regina keeps her breathing steady and reminds herself no one has to see if it turns out bad, this is just for her. To see if she can still, if it’s still as fun as she remembers. She picks up a brush and dips the tip in the pale blue and begins to work.

The time passes easily, and as the hours slip by the sky begins to turn pink, the sun warm and red and all the colours changing too fast to keep working. That’s about the time that the door creaks, and in comes Emma, a small quirk of a smile on her lips and blonde hair tumbling down her back. “How’s it going?” she murmurs, and Regina nods.

“I missed this,” she admits and surveys her work with her bottom lip between her teeth.

The blonde grins, and steps forward, her head tilted – “Can I see?”

Emma is tentative, always careful and considerate in these quiet moments despite her naturally chaotic state, and so Regina nods again, and breathes steadily. Arms wrap around her waist and a cheek rests on her shoulder as the blonde gazes at the painting, and for a long moment Regina is half-expecting disappointment or a stilted falsity.

Emma just makes this dragged out ohh sound though and tightens her embrace. “That’s really good, Regina, you never said you were good,” and Regina flushes deeply and shushes her, would maybe chuck something small and light at her if she wasn’t enjoying this hug so much.

“It’s just – practice,” Regina excuses, and lightly pushes away to spin and take Emma into her own arms, their eyes meeting. “But thank you.” She cups Emma’s jaw and brings her down to kiss her lightly, sweetly, awing all the while at how they finally got here. Her other hand trails down Emma’s cheek, and the woman feels slight wetness and whines, “Reg-ina.”

Regina smirks as Emma rubs at the smudge of wet emerald green on her cheek, only spreading it even more. “I’m so gonna get you for that,” the sheriff says with a childish grin and flicks a brush still covered in purple paint at her lover.

The paint splatters over Regina’s browbone and she gasps and then laughs, “Emma,” as she grabs ineffectually for the brush that Emma holds high above her head. Emma jumps back, bright laughter ringing against the stone walls, and her eyes are bright. Regina’s chest feels light looking at her, lunging for the brush again until she gives up and picks up a brush of her own. Emerald eyes widen and Emma murmurs a warning, backing up and still grinning until she hits the stone wall.

Regina closes in on her, presses against her, and then her sly smirk drops. Her hand closes around Emma’s wrist, pinning it as she leans in and brings their lips together tenderly. The kiss heats up, Emma moaning into her open mouth and flicking her tongue teasingly against red lips, and the brushes drop to the floor with a clatter.

And maybe they’ll regret this little paint fight when it comes time to clean up, but Regina thinks, this is what creativity, art is supposed to be like – serene solace, laughing with her lover over spilt paint, colouring with her son, drawing dreams with her family. They part, their breath huffing warm and unsteady, and she is contemplative, meeting Emma’s eyes and trailing her thumb over the woman’s plump lower lip. She’s beautiful, glowing in the soft sunset. Regina feels good and breathes into the space between them, “I think I know what I want to paint next.”

[themoonandotherslikeit]

The Daughter of a Righteous Man- Chapter 2

*SEQUEL TO THE LOOK IN HER EYES*

After her husband is drug to Hell, Ava Winchester and her brother in law Sam try their best to do right by Dean and raise her daughter, only to find that good intentions aren’t always enough. Loving someone isnt always enough.

Chapter Two, To the Ends of the Earth

Ava

"This is Sams phone, leave me message." Beep.

"Sam it's me." I began. My forehead was pressed against the cold window. It was snowing. It had been two weeks since I'd seen Sam. Two weeks since Dean died. I was still stuck in the hospital. My blood pressure was borderline, and if it got any worse I'd have to be induced. "I know this is hard. Trust me I do, but please come back." My voice was shaking. It took everything in me to keep it together, and I was failing. "Please come home." I hung up the phone and tossed it onto the hospital bed.

Deans ring hung on a chain around my neck, safely between my breasts. Right over my heart.

"You tryin to put a spell on me, Ave?" Dean asked me, as he examined the symbols on his wedding ring.

"Yup. A love spell." I wiggled my eyebrows.

"I knew it!" He pulled me against him.

"I guess you're stuck with me."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on the tip of my nose. "How will I survive a life that horrible?"

"You won't survive." I said simply. "I'm a black widow. I'll eat you for supper."

He raised an eyebrow and grinned widely. "Promise?"

"Dean Winchester!" I gasped, smacking his shoulder.

He shrugged. "You said it, not me."

He ran his fingers down my back, causing me to press against him. "I did."

I met his eyes. Green, with a taste of Tennessee whiskey flooding the center around his iris. "what?" He asked quietly, his breath on my lips.

"I just can't believe I married Dean Winchester."

"I can't believe I ever got married." He grinned widely. "And to a freaking fox."

I felt my cheeks heat up. "Whatever."

"You didn't just marry me because I knocked you up, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "Did you marry me because you knocked me up?"

"Would that be a problem?" He asked mischievously.

He was trying to rile me up. To get my heat boiling. I narrowed my eyes. "We haven't consummated the marriage. I can still get an annulment."

Dean grinned and scooped me up into his arms. "Well let's remedy that." He pressed his lips to my jaw and kissed up to my ear. "I'm not letting you get away that easily, Detective."

I moved away from the window. It had a circle of fog from my breath. It felt ethereal out there. The world was in a blizzard, and I was stuck here inside a sterile bubble.

A swift knock came to the door. "Come in."

A young blonde woman in a stocking cap came thorough the door. She wore dark lipstick and carried a leather bag. "Are you Ava Winchester?"

"That's me." I said, waddling to her. I extended my hand and she took it. "You must be Maggie."

She nodded with a smile. She took off her cap and scarf. Her neck was covered in tattoos that rolled down into her sweater. Her skin was a canvas for the stars.

Maggie was a witch. I had it on good accord that she was very powerful, but she didn't practice dark arts. I needed her help.

"How can I help you, Ava? I can see your aura." She frowned. "It's very muddy. You're not in good physical or mental health. I can see if I can help with that..."

I touched her hand, causing her to stop cold. She met my eyes. "I need help with something else. I hope you can help me."

She looked me over. Her deep mahogany eyes bore sadness. "You have so much pain within you. It's radiating off of you. It isn't good for a child."

"Maggie, please."

"How can I help you?"

I heard she was a powerful witch and a psychic. She claimed to be an empath, and to be able to pick up on people's emotions. I must've been a whirl wind for her. I knew I was a mess. No amount of concealer could hide the circles under my eyes and the constant puffiness they held.

I was experiencing a loss like I never had. My whole family fell through my fingers like water.

I hadn't just lost Dean, but Sam was lost to me too. I was completely alone.

"My husband was taken to Hell. I need him back."

Maggie sat up a little straighter. "I don't think you understand what I do."

"I do. You're a witch. There has to be a way to pull him from Hell. I've tried every contact I can think of... I'm running out of options."

The witch sighed and shook her head. "I can't pull him from Hell. Even if I was willing to try, which I'm not, I couldn't. I don't know of a witch that could. Not even the grand coven could get their fingers into something like that. I'm sorry, Ava. I really am. I see the pain you're in, but once a soul is in Hell it stays. Forever. There is no escape from that."

She wrapped her scarf back around her neck and put her stocking cap over her ears.

"Please." I begged, reaching for her. "I can't live without him."

She took my hand. "You can. I see strength in you. Anyone else wouldn't be able to handle the pain you have. Just hang in there."

"Hang in there?" I asked, pulling my fingers away. "That's all I get? What is the fucking point?" My heart rate leapt on the monitor. "What's the point of any of it if he is dead?"

"Ava, I'm sorry." She said as she buttoned her coat. She took her bag and left my room, once again leaving me alone.

I fell back on to the bed and I wept. Tears flowed out of me like a burst fire hydrant. I cried out in pain. This was nothing compared to what I felt before. The complete loss of hope was devastating. There was no moving on from it.

I glanced up, wiping my eyes and caught sight of the date. December 23rd. I met Dean exactly one year ago. He was with me for less than a year before he died.

Something got me up. I tore the monitors off of me. I slid into my snow boots and wrapped myself in my coat. It didn't close because of my large stomach, but I didn't care. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and walked right out of the hospital into the storm.

"Excuse me mam."

"You're excused." I said, examining my papers. I was working a case and it was troubling me. I couldn't put my finger on it. It was on the tip of my tongue.

"Mam my name is Special Agent Carter. Can I ask you a few questions?"

Agent? Are you fucking kidding me? That's the last thing I need. I shut my folder and turned to him. My annoyance was halted when I saw the man in front of me. He was tall and strong. He has these hypnotizing green eyes, and a matching green tie to boot. His skin was sun kissed, and his hands looked rough. He was young, around my age. He wasn't like any agent I'd ever seen. But still an agent, Ava, get it together. "Special agent, huh? Can I see your badge?"

He handed it to me, our fingers brushing. I examined his badge. He had a pout in his picture. A lip that was begging to be bitten. I swallowed hard. It had been too long. "Agent Carter, you're a little far from home, aren't you?"

"Yes mam." He smiled widely at me, making my heart thud in my chest. I had a feeling he knew he had that effect on women.

"What are you doing in my little town?"

"I'm looking into the suspicious deaths that have happened in this town." He said, leaning closer to me. "I don't suppose you knew anything about that?"

My breath hitched in my throat as I smelled the beer on his lips. Suddenly the attraction melted away, like I had broken his spell. "Why would I?"

"I don't know, mam. That's why I'm asking. Listen, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

I laughed out loud. He was so infuriating! "You feds are so squirrelly. What? You're not used to getting your way. Can't intimidate a girl so you're getting your panties in a bunch." I handed his badge back.

"Listen Miss..."

"That's Detective Langston, to you, agent." I said sliding out my own badge. I couldn't count how many times men underestimated me and my position in the force. I worked my ass off and I wouldn't have some hot shot in a cheap suit under-mind me, no matter how fuckable he was.

"A little young for a detective."

"I could say the same thing about you, agent. I know for a fact my office didn't call you down here. So why does DC have a concern about some missing locals?"

"Listen, sweetheart."

That was the last straw. I exploded. "God, that's just typical. Isn't it? Sweetheart? Listen, you condescending asshat." I stood up and pressed my index finger against his chest. "I want to speak to your supervisor, agent."

"Mam?" The cab driver asked, trying to get my attention. "We are here."

"Thanks." I said, handing him some cash.

"Stay warm out there!" He called after me as I shut the door.

I stepped into the snow. It was unearthly quiet. The cab drove away, leaving me in a blanket of white, staring at a single wooden cross. A pathetic grave marker.

I stepped through the snow, slowly approaching the marker. I stood in front of it and slowly fell to my knees. I pressed my palm to the freezing wood. "Dean." I gasped out. "I'm so sorry I'm late." Hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

Images from him lying dead in my arms, to smiling at me in the bar were flashing along my vision. I tried to focus on his smile, but I felt like I was falling. The images tripping through my mind in a landslide.

I yearned for his hand on my shoulder to ground me. I held tighter on the cross instead.

"Peanut is okay. Although I can't call her that forever."

"Peanut is a real name."

"Maybe I can." I said defeated. The snow was coming down rapidly around me, covering me.

"How am I supposed to do this without you?" I pressed my forehead to the cross. "I came to say goodbye, but I don't think I can. It's not in me... I'm not strong enough."

I closed my eyes and tried to manifest him. I needed to see him one last time. I needed to bring him home to me.

I could see him in my mind, crouching next to me. He would smile and push my hair away from my face. Don't be sad for me sweetheart.

"You know I hate that."

No you don't. You can't hate anything I do.

"I hate that you left me alone."

You're not alone.

My temples pounded. The rough wood from the cross felt softer. My forehead was against his.

"I am alone. You left me."

You have Peanut. You have Sam.

"Sam left me too. Everyone leaves me. Everyone..."

I'm here. I'm always with you.

"I love you." I gasped out, my breath a puff of fog.

I know.

I was dizzy. I didn't feel the cold anymore. It felt nice, like I was in his embrace again. Maybe if I could just sleep I'd feel better. Maybe I'd wake up and this would all be a dream.

Sam

I sped through the storm. I finally checked my messages and there was one from the hospital. Ava left with no warning. I just hoped that when I found her she would be okay. That her baby would be okay.

I've been an idiot. Selfish. As if sending demons back to Hell would make a difference. As if that would help my brother.

I pulled up to Deans grave and flung the door open to the Impala. I jogged to the grave. Through the snow I could see a form laying at the base of his grave. She was covered in a blanket of snow, but even under the white I could see her black curls sprawled out around her.

"Ava!" I shouted, running to her. I pulled her into my arms. "Hey, Ava." Her lips were blue but she was breathing. "Shit!" I picked her up. Even with the pregnancy weight she was light.

I laid her in the back seat and drove to the hospital, fighting against the storm. I was so fucking stupid. I should’ve never left. I had to save her. I had to save them.

—————-

The last hour was a mess. She was warmed up, but the situation had her blood pressure through the roof. She had still been out of it, but her doctor insisted that we deliver. If she wouldn't, they would have to do an emergency C-section. I knew she didn't want that.

I sat next to her bed side, like I had a year ago after her attack. I held her hand and rubbed circles on the back of her hand. Her skin was warm, when only an hour ago I worried she would never warm up again.

She was so much more than just my brothers wife. She was my best friend. I loved her. I didn't want to lose her.

"Sam?"

"Hey." I said, perking up.

"I've been calling you." She complained softly.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"He's gone." Ava's lip trembled, and I pulled her against me. She cried into my chest.

I wrapped my arms around her, and I tried to be strong. To hold her together. "I know." I said, burying my face in her hair.

My brother was dead. It was never supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be Dean and I together. Live together, die together. Dean was gone, and it was so fucking unfair.

"Ava listen to me." I said, taking her face in my hands. "You can't do something like that again."

"I just wanted to say goodbye."

I wiped her tears with my thumbs. "I know. I'm sorry we couldn't do that. I'm sorry that I left. I won't do it again."

"You won't?"

"No, Ave. I'm here. I know I'm not Dean. I don't want to replace him... But if you want me here, I'm here."

She burst into tears again.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" I stumbled over my words. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"You... didn't. I'm happy you're back." She looked down at her belly. "Is my baby okay?"

"She is, but your doctor wants to deliver. I'm sorry Ave."

"No, no, no! She isn't ready." Her breathing started up rapidly and she held onto me.

"Hey, Shh. Stay calm. It's okay. I'm here. I'll be here the whole time." I paused and met her eyes. "Well until you kick me out."

She bit down on her lip and tried to breathe. "Sam Winchester, I will not be kicking you out. I won't ever let you walk out on me again."

—————

Chapter Three, Eleanor Mary Winchester 

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