#no one thinks you’re cool dude you’re the only one who’s deluded enough to fall for your stupid overcompensating chest puffing

[chewwytwee]

It’s so hard to become un-annoyed at unfunny losers so every day in jazz band is a test of my patience, one of these days I’m going to explode

[mypoisonedvine]

Seeing Red | bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x reader (part 7)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

series summary: bucky used to brag that he didn’t have a celebrity crush, or really care about famous people at all, which is what made him the perfect person to start working for a celebrity like yourself.  except, of course, it’s just his luck that he’d fall for you.  

word count: 2.5k

warnings: um just implied smut and fluff and a reference to bdsm I guess?? but it's pretty chill overall

Liked by starkcosmetics and others

y/n.y/l/n okay first of all, it takes an act of god to get a picture of this guy smiling, but it’s always worth it.  he really changed everything for me and I can’t thank him enough for that.  so happy ❤️ 

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caroldanvers 😍😍😍

flowercrowny/n oh my god this is so sweet i’m gonna cry

1 HOUR AGO

He smiled as he stared down at the post you’d made, remembering how much effort you’d put into finding the perfect picture (in your opinion; he thought he looked kinda dopey in it) as well as writing and re-writing your caption.

The speed at which your post gained likes and comments was inconceivable to him; even more impressive was the speed at which gossip rags were picking up the story.  Sure enough, his phone’s alerts to new headlines about you were not only going off like crazy, but had started to include news about himself as well.  

Y/N Y/L/N Shocks With Romantic Instagram Post, Confirms Dating Rumors

You’ll Never Guess Which Hollywood Starlet Is Dating Her Driver

Who is James Barnes?  Everything We Know About Y/N Y/L/N’s New Beau

Skimming one of the articles, he was impressed at how much information they’d managed to get without actually getting anything from you or him.  Born in Brooklyn, disabled Army veteran, worked a list of odd jobs before becoming your driver and bodyguard.  ‘No social media presence, prefers to keep a low profile’ one of them said; you can say that again, Bucky chuckled to himself when he read it.

He found another from People and didn’t particularly appreciate that it spent half the time going through all your past exes and rumored partners (turned out ‘rumored’ is a fancy word for ‘a bunch of fans deluded themselves so hard that it somehow turned into news without any proof necessary’).  But he still smiled when he got to the part that was actually about you and him.

‘The relationship is pretty new but they’re so happy together,’  a source close to the couple reported.  

Close indeed; that statement came from your publicist, who he’d never even meet.  

‘He’s a very private guy and she’s got this huge following, so they’re sort of an odd couple in that way, but she knows her fans are respectful and will let them have their own life outside of the spotlight.’ 

Bucky wasn’t sure that the respectfulness of fans was such a given here, but he hoped you were right.  To be fair, they’d been very sweet on your original post insofar. 

However, when he scrolled to the bottom of the celebrity magazine articles and realized they had their own comments section, he discovered that they were a little less forgiving than the ones on your Instagram.  

Is this the best she thinks she can do?  So sad tbh :(

a military guy…. yikes, she could get any guy she wants and she goes for a murderer. 

He looks like a hobo that found a coupon for a free haircut lol

I don’t buy it, I know she’ll always love Pietro!

Pietro being your former co-star that so many of your fans were convinced was actually your soulmate.  From what he’d heard from you, those speculations had made things so uncomfortable between the two of you that it killed your friendship.  Those were nothing, though, compared to the comments about someone you actually had dated.

she’s obviously not over sam… they were so good together

He’d better watch out for her ex, he still likes tweets about her and they have so much chemistry

Wait, she’s not still with Sam Wilson??  I could’ve sworn they’d been dating for, like, five years.

You were scrolling through your phone with a smile as you walked past where he was sitting on the couch, and he just couldn’t help himself from asking even though he knew it wasn’t the best idea.  “Do I need to worry about this Sam thing?” he blurted out, trying to play it cool and not sound too anxious.  “People are really obsessed with you two…”

“Sam and I…” you sighed, staring off into space for a second.  He made himself anxious imagining what you were thinking about in that moment.  “I haven’t talked to him in… years?  I think it’s just because our relationship was so public that people are still talking about it.  And it had a lot of gossip material— we did a movie together, people thought it was sweet that we got together during production, it was great promotion for the picture… and from the outside, we made a lot of sense for each other.  But he has his own problems.  I loved him, but… he wasn’t ever going to be a one-girl kinda guy.”

“But you’re not just any one girl.  You’re… you know, you,” he emphasized.

“You’ve been reading too many headlines,” you shook your head as you sat down beside him.  “Please don’t turn into one of those guys who thinks of me as a celebrity first.  Before that—” you pointed to your own name where it was bolded on his screen in the trending topics page of Twitter— “was popping up on movie posters and in gossip magazines, it was just my name.  And I’m not perfect.  Not even close.”

Bucky sighed and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him and holding you tightly.  “And before I knew you were famous, or rich, or incredibly talented, I was totally obsessed with you just for who you are.”

“You’re too fucking amazing,” you sighed as you held his face and gave him a gentle kiss— the kind of kiss that instantly melted his heart and banished his worries.  When you pulled back and looked up at him with a smile, it was like everything else just… faded away.  “Don’t read the comments, okay?  None of them matter.”

He smiled and brushed his thumb over your cheek, overwhelmed by not only the softness of your skin but of your spirit as well.  In all his life he’d never been handled so… gently, with so much care.  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he mumbled, not even really realizing he’d said it aloud until you gave him a beaming smile.

“I can’t believe you’re my boyfriend,” you giggled pridefully.

“Seriously?  I can… very easily believe it,” he scoffed.

“I just mean… you’re so…” you searched for the words.  “You’re actually good to me, that’s the thing.  I’m not used to that.”

“You deserve the world,” he assured.  “I’m just gonna keep trying to give you as much of it as I can find.”

He watched his hand trail over your face, down your neck and to your chest where he played with the hem of your t-shirt.

"It's odd to know there are millions of people who are jealous of me,” he admitted quietly, remembering some aggressive comments from some very angry dudes who had apparently also watched your nude scene a few too many times.

"Do you like it?  Do you like how it feels to know you're making them angry every time you touch me?"

"Couldn't care less," he refuted.  "Nobody else matters when I'm touchin' you."

“Do you maybe wanna… touch me a little more about it?” you smirked, opening your legs slightly in invitation.

“Always.”

//

Bucky had, thankfully, not let the newfound fame get to his head.  In fact, he had demanded that the two of you hunker down in the house, since he feared that going out would lead to being recognized.  What he apparently hadn’t anticipated was that that might not be enough.

“Will you get that?” you requested when the gate buzzed, too wrapped up in the book you were reading to answer the intercom.

He hopped up and held down the button to communicate with the gate speaker.  “Who is it?” he asked.

“I’ve got a delivery from Anjappar Chettinad on 23rd?”

Bucky didn’t even reply before hitting the green button and granting access to the driveway.  BEEP BEEP BEEP! you heard the gate signal its opening, and the car pulling around up to the door.  Bucky didn’t open it until there was a knock, greeting the delivery guy with a smile and the necessary cash.

“I’ve got a lamb korma, hyderabadi mutton dum biryani and an order of— woah,” the man suddenly stopped, staring at Bucky’s face.  “Are you—?��

“Hungry?  Yes,” he frowned.

“You’re the guy dating— holy shit, congrats man,” he beamed, smacking Bucky on the shoulder pridefully before leaning in with a mischievous smirk.  “Say, is she a freak or what?”

“She is,” you piped up from the couch, making both men turn their heads; but one was chuckling while the other looked mortified.  “You better not have forgotten my paneer pakora or I’m gonna chain you up and whip you.”

“Uh, I— no, I got it right here,” he promised weakly, handing the bag over to Bucky and starting to dash away before Bucky grabbed his arm, making the smaller man whimper fearfully.

“You forgot the money,” Bucky reminded him gruffly, stuffing the bills into the driver’s front pocket.

Finally, he let go, and the delivery man instantly pulled away, rubbing his arm and looking a bit like a kicked puppy as he went back to his car and drove away.

“You didn’t need to scare him that bad,” Bucky chuckled.

“I could say the same to you!  Grabbing somebody with the metal arm like that will put the fear of God into them pretty fast.”

“I didn’t mean to grab him that hard,” he admitted, examining the prosthetic hand as he came back to the couch with the bag of food, handing it to you while he focused on watching his motorized fingers curl and uncurl.  “I think I need to get this thing recalibrated… it’s been bugging out lately.”

“I dunno, it was working just fine last night,” you smiled, remembering how delightfully cool those fingers felt inside you.

Bucky seemed to miss it entirely, though, as he stared off into space.  “I can’t believe I got… recognized.”

“You’re a star,” you winked.  “And not just with random delivery drivers.  I’ve had a lot of press requests, everybody wants to be the first one to get nice pictures of us together— we’ve had a dozen event invites as a couple.”

“Seriously?!” he scoffed, snapping back to reality slightly enough 

“Yeah, and look what came in same-day mail this morning!”  You leaned over to shuffle through the mail on the side table before finding and handing him a letter in a gold-embossed envelope, watching him read what you knew was inside.

The Hollywood Foreign Press Association extends an invitation to Y/N Y/L/N and James Barnes to the annual Grant Banquet in support of the Young Artists Fund.

“It seems like a good first event for us,” you explained.  “Relatively small and low stakes, it’s for a good cause…”

“Are you sure I’m ready to be, you know… seen?  By people?” 

You scoffed, hardly believing how insecure he could be sometimes.  “You look great, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Will I have to talk to anybody other than you?” he asked, grimacing as if that were a form of brutal torture.

“Probably,” you admitted.

His frown deepened.  “What if I say the wrong thing?”

“I’m not that worried about you,” you smirked.  “You’re a lot better at this stuff than you think you are.”

“I don’t have anything to wear…”

You smirked, a little too proud of yourself, when you remembered the email your publicist had forwarded to you just this morning.  “Hugo Boss will pay you $1500 to wear one of their suits on the carpet.”

“They’ll pay me to wear free clothes?” he repeated with wide eyes.

“Yeah, that’s one of the cooler things about fame,” you laughed.  “I make a grand every time I wear this watch outside!”

“I guess I should send them my measurements then…” he trailed off.  “Any chance I can get in on that watch deal?”

“No, but you can make $50 by getting papped at Jamba Juice.”

He paused for a moment, scratching the back of his neck as he thought.  “Is the smoothie comped?”

“I don’t know.  Do you want me to ask?”

“...kinda…” he admitted with a shy smile.  

“Well, I will, and I’ll RSVP to this invite saying we’ll be there next week,” you decided as you started to open up the food, but Bucky stopped you by reaching for your hands.

“Are we really doing this?” he asked.

“If you want to,” you mitigated.

“Of course I do.  I guess I have to accept that you’re actually willing to be seen with me,” he chuckled.  “It’s just sort of hard to believe.”

You leaned in and kissed him; it was meant to be a casual, reassuring peck but he held you closer and you melted into him, moaning softly at his touch as you started to climb into his lap.

“The food’s gonna get cold,” he reminded you with a mumble against your lips.

Unfortunately, your literal hunger was a bit too strong to ignore, even with the growing intensity of a metaphorical hunger for Bucky.  “Alright,” you relented, getting off of him and returning your attention to the meal on the table.  “Just know that I really, really want to be seen together, in public, just in case anybody missed the news about us already.  I’m not embarrassed by you or afraid you’re going to do something dumb.  I…”

One of those words that can’t be unsaid started to bubble up in your throat and you coughed, banishing the thought.

“I really like you.  I think we have something special.”

He smiled gently, giving you one more kiss on the cheek.  “I think so, too.”

//

Since this was slightly less of a big deal than a premiere or press tour, you had managed to convince your styling team to let you dress yourself, which was why he was laying on the bed and talking to you through the bathroom door while you put on your gown.

“Do you want me to hire a new driver?” you prompted him, voice muffled slightly as he imagined your head covered in the fabric, trying to navigate through the dress.  “I don’t want you to feel… I don’t know, like a servant?”

“A servant?  You’re still paying me,” he reminded you.  “You are still paying me, right?”

“Yes,” you laughed, “but still, I would hate it if you felt like staff.  You’re my boyfriend!”

(His heart still fluttered every time you said it.)

“No new driver,” he decided.  “I can drive just fine, and considering how things went between us… let’s not open the door for anybody else,” he smirked, making you laugh in that way you did when he made a stupid joke but you still liked it somehow.

“Okay, sure, but what about being my bodyguard?  Is that too weird?” you continued.

“God no,” he scoffed, “if anything I’m gonna be better at my job than ever.  As your boyfriend, keeping you safe is my job, but since keeping you safe was already my job… it’s, like, doubled-up now.”

He lost his train of thought when you opened the door.

“How do I look?” you asked as you stepped in and gave him a spin in your new dress.  Your whole body was draped in red silk, with the exception of your back which was almost entirely exposed, as if it were begging him to run his fingers down your spine.

“Like everything I ever wanted,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

And it was so odd that you questioned his desire to drive you, because those moments where he could steer with one hand and rest the other on your thigh, when he could catch a glimpse of you looking out the window at the city rolling by, when he got to listen to you ramble about something to kill the time during a drive; those were his favorite moments, and he wouldn’t trade them for anything.

After a relatively brief trip, you arrived at the venue, and all of a sudden he was doing what he’d fantasized about more than he’d like to admit: escorting you down a red carpet.  It was almost overwhelming— yelling, chattering, reporters speaking into camera, flashes going off in every direction—

“Hey,” you whispered, bringing your hand up to his cheek and instantly taking all his attention.

“Hey,” he returned.

“Just follow my lead,” you instructed.

“That was the plan.”

[stimstriders]

the one where he's not popular

davekat - high school au

Player, charismatic, funny, outgoing, hot, desirable, popular.

Dave Strider is unmatchably full of character and coolness, except that he’s not. That’s online, on a computer screen, thousands of miles away from him in three directions and only three directions. Over a chat client Dave likes to think that he oozes cool from every pore if only to distract from the fact that it’s obvious he doesn’t.

His friends might be onto his game a little bit but that’s all clouded by the miles and miles of distance between the four of them. They could very well all be perfectly aware of just how uncool he is (I mean, look at their conversations) but there’s a hella thick layer of plausible deniability bundling him up like a safety blanket. They don’t see him every day, they only know what he shows them, he’s been wrong before about people’s impression of him.

That last bit of criteria in equal parts unnerves Dave and comfort him because yeah, he may be hella bad at reading people (especially through the internet,) but it stirs the whole situation in the unreliable narrator’s shitty brain. My friends all hate me and think I’m annoying here, I’m just thinking that because my brain is fucking weird there, I could be excusing them actually hating me with my shitty brain but in reality they really, really do hate me there.

Damn, when did this all get spun from “uncool” to “hate?”

Either way Dave shakes the thought from his head like he’s whipping a pesky gnat away from buzzing in his ear. There are some ways he could alleviate these concerns in a, like, healthy manner. But most of them get swept under the rug and he settles into familiar albeit anxious passivity all over again.

Dave Strider isn’t classic cool, isn’t popular, and honestly isn’t even often noticed. That’s probably a good thing for a multitude of reasons, ranging from the sunglasses he wears when he’s allowed all the way to his general physical state. Bruises that would be harder to hide if he had more contact than just brushing up against people in the halls, the way he scarfs down gross school meals like nobody’s fucking business because he’s probably, definitely not going to get a meal even half that substantial at home. Much less as fattening or having any significant nutrition. The jury’s still out on whether or not school food actually satisfies his super necessary food-pyramid (or whatever they’re using now) needs, but it’s a better bet than the shit he eats at home.

It’s probably good that he isn’t popular. Which is a huge stroke of fucking luck.

Not like he just struck unpopularity as a fluke and he’s really a super cool guy or anything, but he clearly remembers when arguably the most popular kid at their school rolled his ass into this institutional hellhole in the middle of the spring semester freshman year. Hell, he still sees him fucking daily and even has a few classes with him, plus the same lunch period. It’s not a small school or anything, but they run into eachother a whole fucking lot.

Day one, Karkat had just moved to Texas from Washington State (why was completely beyond him) and had absolutely no one, just like Dave. Karkat had planted his ass at Dave’s reject lunch table for about a week before scooting out to a more respectable one.

Dave's overly chatty, make no mistake, but... not publicly. Yeah, it'd be nice to have someone to talk to outside of his phone and his computer, but that's a whole lot of reaching out and extending himself that's just all kinds of not cool.

Needless to say, they didn't say shit to eachother in the first week or so that they sat together. For the most part they just pretended the other wasn't there. It's always been that way, it's kind of their thing, Dave likes to think. They're pretty comfortable with eachother, right? Like silent bros, silently acknowledging their broship from a respectable, silent distance.

Nah. 'Cause with Karkat's real friends he's talkative as hell. Even with the people he doesn't like he shouts up a storm or rambles on about something to keep the air free of awkward silence. Karkat's just treating him like everyone treats him with a few more sideways glances.

Dave isn't so broken up about it. Karkat isn't even the cool kind of popular with Daddy's money and shitty high school parties pumped full of alcohol. Karkat's the kind of popular that has him flush with project partners and people to get him in trouble for talking too much. The kind of popular where it's easy for him to rope two or three people per class period into after school events, student council meetings, book fair organization, debate team spots...

Karkat's the nerdy, uncool kind of popular that has him flittering from clique to clique without a second thought because to him, cliques are a myth.

Dave sees them. Sees the sports kids and the camo-decked red-necks, the hipster druggies and the trailer-trash druggies, the theater kids and the band kids, the Advanced Placement kids and the weebs.

And then he and Karkat, who are outliers in completely different ways. Karkat, who can sit with everyone. Dave, who's cool enough to have his own table.

Don't get him wrong: he's not bitter about it. Honestly, he's above all of that grouped up trash. Yeah, sometimes he thinks about how it'd be neat to be able to bounce between the hipsters and the trailer-trash, (he'd probably fit in just fine with both,) nabbing a joint or a cigarette when he could, but he didn't need it. Especially when the cell-phone ban got lifted and he was free to kick up at the back of the cafeteria and shoot the shit with John, Rose, and Jade looking properly fucking insouciant.

School was just a better place to be at than home, and if he made a habit of not going to school it might get Bro in legal trouble. He went to school sick, bruised, tired, mentally vacant - and saved the off days for when he really needed them.

Today’s a combo day: bruised and tired. Approaching the bus stop, Dave’s already thinking on walking right past as he thumbs the contact-case in his pocket. A big factor here is that he hasn’t put his contacts in yet and he’ll probably have to be late to first period in order to slip away and put them in.

Karkat shuffles up to the bus stop next to Dave and boy does he look like shit. He’s slumped over, eyes half-closed, dark circles bruising up under his eyes and a deep furrow to his thick eyebrows. Dave shifts his hands in his pockets, giving the other boy a quick once-over before looking back to the cars passing on the city road in front of them.

A few minutes pass before he looks back, thumbing the pause button on his music app. “You look like shit, dude,” are probably the first words he’s ever said to this guy.

Nah, they had a project together at the beginning of sophomore year for some bullshit class. Geometry? Karkat’s shit at math, probably one of the only non-advanced classes he has.

Karkat squints back at Dave, and if possible the deep-set furrow in his brows only squishes deeper. It takes some effort to swallow back the laugh bubbling up his throat in response to that. “Gee, thanks for your completely fucking unasked for opinion. That sure is the one thing I needed to hear at 6 o’clock in the morning on a fucking Monday. What a fantastic way to start my week!”

At that Dave does actually snicker. “No one looks good this early on a Monday,” he points out, “you know, except me.”

“You look like shit, too, dick-for-brains. Don’t delude yourself. I shudder to imagine what’s under those tacky glasses you insist on wearing before the sun’s even properly up.”

Time for a curve-ball. “Let’s go down to 19th street.”

Karkat is satisfyingly shocked. Dark brown eyes widen and thick eyebrows smooth out long enough to lift comically high. His lips part into a little ‘o’ and damn do they look weirdly girly with how full and soft they look.

Wait. Dave mentally shakes himself back into awareness. Curve-ball rebound, damn.

For once Karkat doesn’t even seem like he knows how to respond at first. After a few more seconds of being stunned, he manages. “Are you asking me to skip school with you? I’m competing for valedictorian, I can’t just miss school for no reason.”

Dave pulls his earbuds from his ears and winds them around his phone before sliding it back into his pocket over his contact case. “You can more than afford it, dude, don’t bullshit the king of bullshit. You clearly feel like crap, that’s more than enough reason to say screw it for one day and skip out. Plus you, like, never miss school.” Hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder, Dave leans over to press the cross signal on the pole beside them. 

“We’re gonna get caught,” Karkat cautions as the signal blinks green and Dave leads the way across. As Karkat jogs up beside him to fall into pace with his long strides, Dave’s chest shivers with a foreign tremble of relief.

“Nah, I’ve done this before. Nobody outside of school gives a shit who you are or what you’re doing.” They hit sidewalk and swing right, starting down toward Yale. “You think everybody knows you’re skipping, but plenty’a kids could be out for plenty’a reasons. We could be college kids for all they know. Nobody assumes you’re not doing what you’re supposed to and nobody asks. As long as you stay away from the school.”

They lapse into silence and Dave bumps his shoulder into Karkat’s every time he tenses when someone walks too close or a car drives by too slow. When they come up on 19th street Dave pulls his camera from his bag and loops the strap around his neck, grinning when Karkat sidles a few steps away from him suspiciously.

“Chill out. You should be all about my delinquent ass whipping out some school work while we’re misbehaving, shouldn’t you?”

“Keep your fucking voice down?” Karkat stage-whispers. Or maybe that’s him actually whispering. Fuck, that would be gold. “And who the hell refers to themselves as a delinquent outside of anime? You’re not some fucking hentai trope.”

“Dude, did you just say hentai? You- you know that’s not synonymous, right?”

Dave leads them into a coffee place, Karkat’s complaining shifting topics to the heavy scent of smoke lingering in the cafe from the cigar bar next door. They order coffee and Dave buys them both breakfast before Karkat can shoulder him aside to pay for himself. Karkat makes fun of him for taking a few pictures of their mugs and Dave babbles over his embarrassment. 

They hit the record store and Karkat’s ribbing intensifies until Dave gets some revenge in a hole in the wall bookstore that they slip into. Both of them walk away with a reasonable haul and banter their way to an arcade down the street. 

Guitar Hero and a shitty DDR rip-off eat up some time. Dave really tries not to seem like he’s showing off or anything, but even stiff from ten layers of bruises he does better than Karkat’s willing to loosen up for. They turn up about even in the racing games, if only because Dave intentionally spins out and turns it into a game of bumper cars.

Karkat laughs a lot. It’s really nice.

They end up in a cramped ice-cream shop with Karkat still struggling to shove an ugly rainbow teddy-bear in his bag alongside all his school shit and the books he bought earlier. Dave picked it out for irony’s sake as a blaring wow, look how gay it is joke, but once Karkat started expressing that he genuinely liked it he... lightened up.

“I had a really good time today,” Karkat is mumbling around a spoonful of Chai Tea Coconut ice cream - (seriously, what the fuck) - his cheeks flushed up, and it takes everything Dave has in him not to lift up the camera hanging around his neck.

Tuesday, Karkat smiles at him from across the aisle on the bus. He’s already two thirds of the way through one of the shitty romance novels he picked up on their trip. At lunch he sits down at Dave’s VIP table followed by three other people and Dave swallows down his discomfort, keeping his eyes locked down on his phone until Karkat starts elbowing him and asking his opinion about shit.

Wednesday, repeat. Thursday, repeat.

This might’ve been a big mistake.

[anamelesstraveler]

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A McHaleinski fanfic with a Scerek focus. Rated E.

Part 2 | 11,538 words

There’s a never-ending list of things that Derek regrets in his life. Offering the Bite to a group of emotionally unstable teenagers, not putting Peter back into his grave immediately after he crawled out, anything involving Kate Argent. Now he can add taking advice from Stiles Stilinski to the list.

Go track down the witch with Scott, he said. Commune with your Alpha on the hunt, he said. Finally grow a spine and ask him out, he said.

Never again. Because now there’s a child staring at him. A cherubic-faced child is frowning at him from the spot where Scott once stood.

This story includes de-aged Scott, pining Derek, established Sterek, established Sciles, polyamory, open relationship, insecure Derek/Scott/Stiles, and angst with a happy ending.

Part 2

--------------------1---------------------

One question is all it takes for Derek’s world to shatter. Again.

He’d started hoping life was done throwing these painful curveballs at him.

And yet Scott is standing before him, sixteen and angry and stuck inside his own life-altering tragedy. His expression is something Derek now only sees in his nightmares, jaw clenched and eyes steely. But there’s real fear in his heartbeat and in his scent. It invades Derek through his senses and through their bond, until Derek’s just as ready to panic as Scott is. Already, Scott’s fangs are dropping, his eyes flickering red.

“Why am I-- what’s going on?” His eyes dart around the room, pausing on the rune circle at his feet. On Deaton. On Stiles.

“Okay,” Stiles announces, taking a careful step closer. His hands are held in front of him, palms out. “The short version: It’s 2014. You’re nineteen. But you had a run-in with a witch and got turned into a kid. We tried fixing it, but this happened.”

“I’m… I’m what? What?” His chest heaves, fangs sliding up over his lips. And Derek can feel it - feel how far out of control Scott’s going. For a Beta, it’s bad. For an Alpha - that’s a disaster.

“Scott--” Derek tries.

“NO!” It’s just shy of a roar, and it hits Derek with all the force of a brick wall. He can’t hide his shudder - the way his Alpha’s revulsion makes his skin crawl.

“Scott.” It’s Deaton that steps in, voice smooth and calming, drawing Scott’s attention. “Stiles is correct. You’ve spent the past few days as a seven-year-old. We were trying to reverse the enchantment, but it didn’t go quite to plan. But right now, I need you to take deep breaths, alright? Focus on your anchor. Do you remember what your anchor is, Scott?”

“A-Allison.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles go tense. It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone. It shouldn’t.

He reaches out to grab for Stiles’ hand. The flicker of movement draws Scott out of his careful focus, anger snapping through his expression at the sight of Derek alone. But he doesn’t lose control again. It’s… a small comfort.

“Then why are you here?” Scott growls at him. “Did you do this? Did you… get some witch to turn me into a kid?!”

‘For fuck’s sake--’ The exact reason why he and sixteen-year-old Scott argued so often comes flooding back to him. He glares at Scott, at this boy who is so good but so infuriating. “I did not,” he snarls, “babysit your seven-year-old ass for four days for this.”

That throws the teenager off guard. “You--” A strangled sound leaves his mouth, and he turns to Stiles instead. “You left me with him? Why?!”

“Come on, dude,” Stiles exclaims, “don’t give me The Eyes! You were with him when you got turned into a kid, buddy. He brought you back and we all hung out and babysat you until Deaton was ready.”

“Why?”

Derek knows what Stiles is going to say even before he opens his mouth. It’s in the twist of his mouth - in the flick of his long fingers as he gestures. It’s all snark and Derek shuts his eyes and waits for the inevitable fallout. “Why wouldn’t I let my boyfriend hang out with us?”

The room goes quiet. Scott has stopped breathing. Derek makes a slow countdown from ten, and gets to three before the young Alpha finally speaks. “You’re dating him?” There’s a shrill note of disbelief that makes Derek wince.

“Yyeaaah,” Stiles drawls. “It’s pretty cool. I mean, he’s a jerk sometimes, but we can all agree that I’m a class-A jerk. So it balances out.”

“What… What about Lydia?”

“Lydia? Dude, never became a thing. We’re friends now, so hey, that’s cool. But the Grand Lydia Martin Ten-Year Plan? Didn’t pan out. She’s dating one of my dad’s deputies now, actually. It’s cool. I kinda like where I am.” Even though he says it flippantly, Stiles’ eyes are narrowed into sharp focus. There’s no one who knows Scott better - at this age, at any age. And Derek can only hope that means he’ll circumvent a meltdown and not do something stupid.

“How-- but you-- you hate him! You want him dead. You tell me that all the time that you wish--”

“Hey, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here--”

“What did you do to him?” He’s rounded on Derek again, eyes snapping fire.

“What,” he deadpans.

“Hey!” Stiles takes a step between them, actually snapping his fingers to draw Scott’s attention. “Are you saying I couldn’t get Derek on my own? Because that hurts, Scott. I’m utterly wounded, here! And I’ll have you know that I managed to get both of you.”

And that manages to derail Scott. His expression twists in confusion, his mouth going slack. But nothing comes out.

“That’s right,” Stiles continues. “Both of you. Separately, but at the same time. There’s scheduled individual date nights and hang out nights with everyone and you and Derek get time to go commiserate over dating me. It’s a whole thing and it’s pretty awesome.”

Scott… doesn’t seem to think so. In fact, the longer Stiles speaks, the more anger and revulsion clouds the teen’s expression. And Derek, Derek can’t keep quiet any longer. He can’t stand by while Scott treats their relationship like this - or treats Stiles and Scott’s relationship like this. “You have a problem with that?” He doesn’t hear the scathing challenge in his own voice until Stiles shoots him a warning glance. But the damage is already done.

Scott clenches his jaw. “Yeah I do! Everything’s gotten worse since you got here.” His voice raises sharply. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to leave my friends alone! There’s no way I’d ever be okay with you and Stiles! I don’t know what you did to make me think-- there’s no way I’d ever want you-- there isn’t!”

It doesn’t matter how Scott plans to finish that thought. He doesn’t have to. Derek can hear it all as well as if he’s said it aloud and it’s…

It’s everything Derek already knew. But after everything it still…

“Derek,” Stiles calls from much further away.

He blinks, realizing he’s backed away from them. His chest feels tight, like something has closed around his pounding heart. It… doesn’t actually feel that different from being stabbed through the chest with a metal pipe - a memory that isn’t going to fade any time soon. The helplessness, the feeling like he can’t get his lungs to fully expand, it’s the same.

Derek shakes his head before Stiles can say anything this time, and continues to back towards the door. Turning makes his head swim, and Derek isn’t sure if he’s going to lose control, or break.

But whatever it is, he doesn’t want it to happen here. Not here, in front of them.

He manages to leave the clinic at a walk - to not break into a run until he crosses the street and into the treeline. And then he matches the pounding of his feet to the pounding of his heart, and doesn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

--------------------2---------------------

His feet carry him deep into the Preserve. Derek doesn’t know how long he runs, or what direction he’s going in. He just runs until his mind goes blank; until there’s nothing but the burn in his legs and in his lungs. When he finally slows to a stop, it’s in a clearing overlooking the shallow end of the gorge. The stream trickles through, toppling over the sudden dip and down, down into a small pool. It’s a place Derek recognizes, but hasn’t dared to even think about for years.

Derek spent many a day here with his family, in all seasons. The clearing is secluded, isolated from the trails and tucked away into the gorge. His Pack would come out here to camp, to swim, to spend the entire afternoon with the kids chasing each other through the forest. They’d come here to shed their human skins or just to bask on the warm stones as the sun came down from between the trees.

He hasn’t come here since even before the fire. Not since Paige. And he’s never told anyone about this place, either. There’s never been a reason to. This place doesn’t hold the same kind of meaning to anyone in his new Pack. Cora didn’t stay long enough to even warrant a trip out. And the idea of coming here with Peter still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

So this place, it’s Derek’s now. And Derek’s alone. Which is just as well, now that the house is gone. This is the only place Derek can feel the connection to his family.

He treks down into the gorge, letting his feet remember the overgrown footpaths. He sinks to the base of a tree at the bottom, huddling between the roots. The instant Derek catches his breath, his thoughts begin swirling all over again. Not even the echo of the gentle falls can drown them out, and there’s nothing to stop Derek from being pulled under. Because he was right: Scott can never be with him.

How could he, when Scott - the sixteen-year-old boy he is currently - is the living proof of every reason they’d never be together? Things between them have been getting steadily better ever since Derek gave up the Alpha spark. But how can Derek ever expect anything when that is their starting point? How could he ever have deluded himself into thinking he could make up for everything he’s done?

How can Scott - at any age - even forgive him, much less love him?

The idea that maybe Scott hasn’t forgiven him sends his heart racing all over again; a painful, fluttering thud against his ribs. His skin feels hot, not unlike shifting. A new wave of fear slams into him, so powerful that his claws shoot out against his palms before he even realizes it’s happened. He knocks his head back against the tree, hard enough his head swims with the pain. It puts him back in control of the shift, at the very least. And then it’s all Derek can do to concentrate on his breathing - on not spiraling into an anxiety attack right there in the middle of the Preserve. The urge to shift into the Wolf prickles against his flesh, but the thought of what he might do without human inhibitions is enough to resist it. The last thing he needs is to go running back to Scott as the Wolf and make this worse.

Things don’t get better the longer Derek sits, huddled in the shadow of the tree. He feels cast adrift, his anchor suddenly snatched from his hands. Fighting the shift, fighting panic is a slow, dwindling defeat. Eventually he forces himself to his feet once more, leaving the only remaining place that should bring him peace, but instead only offers sorrow and bitter guilt. Derek has a destination in mind this time, however. It’s what he concentrates on each step, rather than replaying the scene at the clinic over and over again.

It’s not until he’s made his way through the town proper and up the stairs of the apartment building that he lets the guilt slow his pace. He finds himself standing quietly before the door to apartment 3A, the strength to knock gone. He shouldn’t be here. The last thing he needs to do is try to assuage his guilt by going to someone else he’s hurt.

Derek doesn’t have the chance to convince himself to walk away. The door swings open, and Boyd is standing on the other side.

He doesn’t say anything, not even a hello, just takes in the - undoubtedly pathetic - picture Derek makes on his doorstep. Derek tenses as Boyd leans forward and reaches out. But his hand only clasps around the back of his neck, and pulls him over threshold.

There aren’t enough words, in any language, to describe how grateful he is. But Boyd doesn’t seem to mind, just hauls him into the entryway and shuts the door behind them. Erica wanders out of the living area, brows drawn into a worried arch. Erica’s without make-up today, her hair thrown into a messy bun. She’s wearing clothes meant for a day in. They both are, actually. Boyd’s in a soft tank top and sweatpants, and Erica’s wearing gym shorts and one of Boyd’s t-shirts. The apartment smells like caramel popcorn and comfort.

He’s interrupted something.

“I can--” he tries to backpedal.

Erica doesn’t give him the chance. “Don’t even think about it, wolfman.” She marches up to him, shorter now that she’s not in heels, but no less intimidating because of it. He leans back instinctively as Erica crowds into his space, but she stops him with hands cupping his jaw. “Come on,” she urges, drawing him towards the living room.

“I--”

Her eyes flash Beta gold. “No, Derek. You’re not interrupting anything.”

“...Okay.”

Boyd’s hand stays at his neck, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure to soothe the tense line of his back. “Whatever you need, Derek,” he says, “take it.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Erica echoes, as if both of them can sense how Derek’s buzzing just beneath his skin. Maybe they can.

Derek casts his gaze downward, uncertain. But he can’t deny how much he needs to shift. How much he needs to shed his more human compulsions right now. “Just… don’t let me leave.”

“We won’t,” they promise in tandem. Derek only leaves them once they’ve led him from the foyer, trying not to think about how pathetic he must look slinking into their bathroom. He doesn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror, just looks down and away as he hastily undresses, and folds his clothes neatly. Becoming the Wolf is normally like cool water down his spine, fluid and soothing. Today it’s all dull pain and a burning tug as the Wolf all but bursts out of him. It’s so dizzying that it leaves him swaying on four paws, disoriented.

The pain is a full body ache in this form. All he wants is to go to his Alpha, to go belly up and beg for forgiveness, for recognition, for acceptance. Derek whines, low and sorrowful, pacing up and down the length of the bathroom until he gets a handle on the impulse. The anxiety is manageable now, at least.

He noses out of the bathroom to find Boyd and Erica have moved back to the couch. They’re sitting at opposite ends, which Derek is sure wasn’t how they’d been situated before he got here. But there’s a space between them, just big enough for one werewolf. Erica pats the space between them. “Come up here, big bad.”

Any other day, she would get a growl for that pet name. But all Derek does is whine softly and pad over to them. He hops up between them, carefully maneuvering his lupine body on the old sofa until he finds a comfortable position with his muzzle resting on Boyd’s thigh. He stretches out until his lower half presses up against Erica’s, making her laugh gently.

“Ready for an Indiana Jones marathon?” Erica asks him.

He only huffs in reply. Boyd lays a hand between his ears, fingers absently stroking down his fur until Derek melts under the touch. He just listens as they turn their movie back on, letting their touches and their presence soothe him.

He doesn’t deserve them.

A quiet whine leaves him.

“Hey.” Erica leans over him, the line of her body pressing against his, and presses a kiss to his head. “I don’t know what happened, but we’ve got you. Okay, Derek?”

They have him. He’s safe here, with Pack. It’s that thought that comforts him, letting him doze off between his Packmates.

[Continue on AO3]

[lupienne]

Here’s Negan 13

Lup’s ramblings. I’ve been really lax on rambling about the comics and Here’s Negan, but I’d like to start again. :) Woe is you. Spoilers under the cut.

So, an indeterminate amount of time from leaving the hotel, Dwight tries to stop the group to rest for the night. Negan, however, says no, and that they should continue on a few more miles from the hotel to be safe. Sherry agrees with him.

That night, Dwight shows his furthering insecurity. “So I’m not the leader anymore?”

Sherry yells at him and tells him to quit feeling threatened, just because Negan (or anyone) pointed out a better option. She also ridicules the idea of there being a ‘leader’. LOL You just wait, honey.

Maybe this is one reason why Sherry flipped out in the last issue of TWD. Maybe she hates the idea of authority? And if there is authority, she wants to be at the top of it? Ie: she didn’t want Rick ‘controlling’ her group. IE: When Negan actually becomes a leader, she ‘climbs the ladder’ as close to him as she can get. She might be under Negan’s authority but she’s only one step under kind of thing. I don’t know... I do hope we get some kind of insight to Sherry’s fatal breakdown though...

Heh. I don���t know if Sherry and Negan did the nasty yet, but I like how we slowly are seeing Dwight’s resentment grow. He brings Negan into the group and then this guy slowly starts gaining the respect of the group. They’re listening to him over Dwight. And he probably suspects Sherry might have eyes on Negan too...

The next panel shows Negan and Dwight. Negan: ‘Not safe here. We should move on.” Dwight says: “Yeah. Agreed. I’ll have everyone pack up.” To me, I get the vibe Dwight is deluding himself that he still has some authority over this group. Yeah, agreed, he says...as if he’s just listening to a suggestion from an underling. ‘I’ll have everyone pack up.’ Still presuming he’s in charge. I have a feeling whenever Negan really puts his foot down and pulls a ‘Ricktatorship’ move, it’s going to be a real kick in the face to Dwight.

The group’s in a store, all stocking up on winter gear. Now, a couple of issues ago, Negan was commenting how they could maybe stay the winter at the old motel. And now it’s getting colder again, so I’m going to guess Negan has been with the group since the previous winter?

The leather coat is acquired! It’s hanging on the back of a chair XD It’s funny that me and others thought the bat and the coat might have been artifacts from Negan’s home or something... and both of them were just picked up randomly. XD

Dwight asks what Negan did before. Negan was a bad motherfucking gym teacher, hell yeah! We knew that. Can people stop saying he was a used car salesman too? Like even his wiki says that, and it was a fucking Kirkman joke.

“I was a bad motherfucker. And by bad motherfucker...I mean gym teacher. You care for the kids, you bark orders at them to keep them from getting fat...they may cry a little, but it’s for their own fucking good, y’know?’ XD

Oh great... Coach Neegs made someone cry again... lol.

Ok, so in my 8th grade, there was a gym teacher/coach named Mr V. I never had him for gym (thank fucking old gods and new!) But I had this guy for study hall. On the wall in his room was this handwritten poster that said: Mike V: Stud. (He was not a stud. Believe me.) Ok, so study hall was supposed to be quiet, but of course everyone would whisper and talk to their friends. Well, I talked to mine too on occasion but for some reason when I did I would get this epic evil eye from Coach V. Like, death glare. Totally unwarranted! Then one day he just screams my last name (blanked for internet creeper reasons): F****Y!! GET YOUR ASS UP HERE! And I go up and he’s just full-out yelling at me: ‘I”M TIRED OF YOUR FUCKING BULLSHIT, F***Y!’ It was like being in bootcamp... hahahaha! I don’t even think I was scared because it was just so fucking over-the-top.

So he banned me from his study hall and made me go to this other teacher’s instead.. hhahahha. (But then me and my friends came up with this awesome idea to ask to be excused from our study halls to go to the library... and then we just met each other there. So suck it, Coach V!)

And dude, that’s is probably exactly the kind of epic asshole gym teacher/coach Negan would have been...

Anyway, enough with that boring-as-shit trip down my memory lane.

So Dwight then asks Negan if they should spend the night there. Ohh yeah, Dwighty-boy, I think you’re learning who’s the top dick around here.

It looks like in the background is that military truck thing the Saviors ride around in, but I imagine those things are abandoned all over the place.

A group of people suddenly strolls up towards Negan and Dwight. Our smiley Savior greets them and says there’s enough for everyone (I guess they’re at some shopping center)

The leader of the group, some scruffy freckly asshat points a gun at smexy, smiling Negan. Not cool dude, not cool. I’m going to call him McScruff from now until his inevitable death. Negan thinks it’s funny that McScruff is afraid of them. They've got all their teeth and they’re alive and they still have eyeballs firmly entrenched in their heads (ie: they aren’t zombies) Neegs... didn’t you hear the tagline: Fight the dead, fear the living?

Ok, I know who McScruff reminds me of. A genderbent Andrea. LOL

McScruff questions Negan’s trustworthiness.

Listen, asshole. I greeted you with a smile and you pointed a fucking gun at me.

Sounds like the customers at my job. Greet ‘em with a smile... they respond with a grunt and the stink eye of the century.

Negan says they have guns too, but they don’t aim them at the living. Well, his outlook on that sure changed in the AOW era. LOL When he was yelling at Rick for using guns on the dead when guns should be saved for the far less prevalent, but much more dangerous: the living.

McScruff declares his hard-on for Negan and apparently they join up with Neeg’s group.

So... the last page. Wahhh.

Negan approves of the growing group. He thinks they can go back now and clear the hotel or find an even better place to live. I noticed he’s carrying Lucille around. No wire on her yet and I doubt he’s named her. It makes me wonder about the beginning of Here’s Negan...where he’s all alone wrapping the bat while snow falls... Is he going to part ways with the group temporarily at some point? Are they all going to die (except for Tara, John, Sherry and Dwight of course)?

McScruff’s group is around a fire, but Negan notices one of the girls looks cold. It looks like it possibly might be Amber, but there's no confirmation yet. Our gentleman Negan offers his coat while he goes to find a blanket. Amber flinches and Negan reassures he doesn’t bite (and he doesn’t even work a sex joke in there? For shame. In fact, he doesn’t mention dicks at all this issue!)

McScruff has a nasty smirk on his face as he watches Negan. ‘You like what you see? You want to try the merchandise, you just let me know. Trust me, man...it’s a whole new world now. Anything goes.” Yeah yeah, you just want to see Negan whip his swinging dick out, McScruff. I know your fucking game. I see you eyeing Negan’s non-existent ass.

The issue ends with Negan invoking his murder face... lol

And fuck... because I really wanted to see McScruff get a knife shoved up his dickhole.

Anyway, I’m going to guess McScruff is going to be Negan’s first human kill because I have a feeling he hasn’t actually killed another living human yet, or he’s going to be the first to feel the burn of the Iron. Wohoo. Either works for me. ;) 

*sigh* So I’m still waiting for... sex scene with Sherry, hopefully a glimpse of little Negan (lol...right...), the first Ironing, and seeing how the whole Negan wife thing started. I really hope it doesn’t go the show route >< UGH. I’m hoping comic Negan stays untainted by that TV crap. So far, so good...

Ok...so that was this issue and thus ends my boring rambles. :)

[panticwritten]

Breaking Furnace - Death Sentence Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Away

Table of contents! All of my writing!

And we’re back with Death Sentence. Everyone is having an absolutely terrible time.

(I’ve had to change quite a bit of formatting to post this on tumblr. If you want to read this chapter with its original formatting, you can do so HERE.)

Remember that this is a daydream taking place in the Escape From Furnace universe, so keep that in mind if you haven’t read EFF.

Word count: 2207

Content warnings for this chapter:

More death threats

Memory loss

Actual brainwashing

Feel free to message me if I’m missing any.

Chapter two comes up on January 19th at 7pm PST.

If you like what I do here, maybe consider buying me a Ko-fi! I love being able to put so much out for free, but this would be a great way to show support and also see cool new content!

♥️♥️♥️C♥️♥️♥️

I was doing something.

I think I was mad. Weird thought, but it rises out of the abyss of my memory when I push hard enough. Nothing follows, just the knowledge that I was mad.

A voice echoes, too distant for me to really hear. It registers as almost familiar, but even that slips away. I don’t…

What was I doing?

I only realize my face is there when it scrunches. I don’t know why thinking makes that happen, but there it is. The thought almost falls away again, but the fact that my face remains scrunched up keeps the echo of the realization around.

If I have a face, then I should be able to—

My eyes flick open.

Red light colors the starry smears of sleep. I have to buffer for a few seconds before I remember that red light is bad. Something stirs in my chest at that, but I can’t, uh. I can’t get myself to care enough.

My gaze slides to the side and the fear absolutely wakes me up this time.

I don’t know his name, but I recognize him. Him, that’s what I was mad about. He wants to kill me. Or. Or. Or no, he wants to kill someone else.

His smile spreads in slow motion. Wait, was the smile already there? I don’t know what’s real, and my head won’t stop spinning.

“Still fighting?”

My hands snap up and pull against some kind of bindings without my permission. The memory fits into a slot that I can think about a step behind my body.

Cross.

Cross wants to destroy Sawyer.

I try to summon the horror I know I should feel at that, but it doesn’t come. The whispering, tired hush of whatever has me so tired keeps everything muted. Even that spike of fear my first sight of Cross gave me has crumbled into mild irritation at being woken.

“I’d thought my warning would be incentive enough to keep you in check,” Cross continues, recapturing my attention. “But you just won’t let go.”

“Blue.” I realize distantly that that’s a little vague, but I can’t bring myself to specify. It’s hard to wrap my mouth around these words, but I think I get it out with a minimum of slurs. “Makes me forget to forget.”

I blink, and he teleports closer to my bed. Or maybe I lost a little time. With how tired I am, I wouldn’t be surprised. He leans a little closer now that I’m present again and doesn’t give away just how long I drifted off for. His eyes narrow a fraction, and I miss the grin the second it’s replaced by a bland and calculating look.

I don’t like this guy at all.

“Interesting.” He straightens up and studies the bags of nectar hung at my bedside. “I have several questions for you.”

I groan and try to wiggle away. Obviously, I don’t get anywhere because I’m on a cot and my wrists are bound. Cross sighs.

“You may rest when you’ve answered them all,” he assures me. I sag with relief, and the smile has returned to his voice if not his actual face. “Good. Why keep fighting if you don’t remember what you fight for?”

I try to shrug, but between my unfortunate captive state and being drugged to hell and back I have some trouble with it. “Never said that. Forgetting your—you said warning but obvious threat, my dude—’s not the same as forgetting the whys and the… uh.”

Somewhere in there, my eyes closed and I don’t even know what I’m saying. Ugh, what’s the point in this? He could ask me when I wake up all the way. An uneasiness builds in my gut at the mere thought of the point of these questions, but—

Cross snaps his fingers and I startle awake.

“Focus. Why are you still fighting the nectar?”

The complacency of the blue nectar smothers the spark of irritation the same way it did the fear. But I know it was there, and that’s all I really need. I turn my head away from him with a grunt.

He reaches through the nectar connection—confirmation that, yes, this is nectar and, yes, he can get in my head like that—to urge me on. It’s much more compelling than anything he could actually say, so I flop my head back around to face him. My stomach twists, but I honestly can’t see any reason not to give him what he wants if he’ll let me go back to sleep in return.

“They wouldn’t want me to give up just because you said so,” I mutter.

“Perry?” he asks sharply.

I hum an assent. “And Jay would kill me, wouldn’t they? Can’t let them think I didn’t try.”

He says something, quiet enough I think he might be done with me. I close my eyes, but a sharp clap rouses me before I can even try to sleep. I blink bleary eyes at Cross, who glares daggers at me.

“Pay attention.”

“‘S your fault, though.” I sigh and do my best to wave airily at him with my wrist bound to the cot. “What do you want?”

I bite my tongue to keep from asking why he hasn’t killed me yet. He might actually do that, so I’d better not.

“Do you remember your name?”  

“Of course,” I answer automatically. When I try to find it in my head, though, it doesn’t rise up so readily. “Or, uh. No. Shut up.”

That same ‘you’re doing something wrong’ feeling returns, but Cross’s voice demands my attention. He doesn’t get on my case about closing my eyes this time, so I give him the courtesy of actually listening to him.

“Who were you traveling with?”

“Sawyer and Dominic.” Something pangs in my chest and I stop. “Something happened to them, didn’t it?”

“Anyone else?” he cuts in.

I frown and try to remember.

“Donovan and Simon.” I pause and it takes me a second to dredge the rest of them up. It isn’t hard to rattle them off once I do, though. “Alex, Zee, Kevin, and, gross, Gary. I think we had some constructs and—oh.”

I raise my head and open my eyes to find Cross watching me. The blue galaxies floating in the large syringe he holds aren’t enough to distract me. Not from this.

“Gamzee. Dominic died to kill him.” I try to make eye contact with him, but my eyes only slide away as always. “My name is Connor Sawyer.”

My head drops back down and I stare into the terrible red light. I know he’s going to put me under again. The blue nectar must be wearing off, though the hollow feeling in my gut might try to convince me otherwise. I don’t long for sleep quite so much anymore.

I hope I remember this the next time I wake up. Maybe I won’t be so eager to answer his questions if I remember how much this new nectar can twist my motivations.

“Disappointing results,” Cross declares. “The screening room, then, when your eyes recover from the first surgery.”

My whole body seizes, the speed at which the horror races up my spine is too much of a shock after the dullness of the blue nectar. Silver eyes. Cotton coverings. Soon, he’ll turn me into one of his soldiers and there’s little I can do about it.

My last thought is a wish to go home, as the nectar drains both my fear and all of my will to fight.

~-S-~

“It was reckless.”

I remain silent and take a long drink of water. I doubt my punishment will be an easy one. Anything I say now will probably just make it worse, so I keep my head down rather than look back at him.

“The inmates escaped under your watch. You ignored a direct order. Your flight put the compound in danger.” He uses the nectar to speak beneath his words while he paces the office behind me. Your actions make me wonder what your true intentions are.

I freeze.

“I am left with the question of just how far you have fallen.” Did you allow them to leave?

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” I hiss, then smother any further argument under another drink. Why would I go after them if I had let them escape?

It is possible you intended to join them. He rounds the desk and glares down at me. “If I believed that, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”

There’s a burst of static, and I barely manage to suppress a flinch. The presence behind me has returned, possibly at the worst time imaginable. If it weren’t for the cup in my hand, I doubt I would be able to keep my nails from digging into the flesh of both palms.

“If you think I’m such a risk, why am I still alive?” I growl into the metal. I want them dead, Cross. I’d rather that than have them get away again.

“Cross—”

“Father is under the impression you can still be saved,” he says with a wave at the rotary phone on his desk. You have always been a liar. I am not so deluded as to believe you’ve changed that much. What are you hiding from me?

Nothing I can’t handle! I slam the cup on the desk and rise to my feet. “It wouldn’t be the first time you disobeyed his orders. If I’m such a traitor, kill me now!”

“—always—”

“Do not tempt me.” He steps closer, close enough I wouldn’t have time to escape if he were to try. That arrogance again. Tell me.

I can’t. “If I’m a liability and I can’t see it, it would be the only way to make sure I don’t ruin Dr. Furnace’s work.”

“—lies.”

He rams so violently against the nectar wall in my mind that I can’t hear what he says. Only my inability to breathe actually tells me he has me by my throat. The static grows stronger, too much to bear.

I pushed too far.

The static cuts out and I crumple to the floor with a hand clutched to my throat. I stare at the uneven cut of the floor, the red dust on Cross’s shoes.

The static returns, softer now, and a weight lands on my shoulder. “What do you remember from your time away?” it asks in an overlapped murmur.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” Cross demands. He pulls me to my feet by my shirt and drags me out of the room. I just shake my head, to which he snarls. “Screening room. Three days. Stay away from the escaped inmates.”

“Of course.” I lower my head and follow easily enough he releases my arm.

A few seconds ago, I thought he was going to kill me, and now I get the mercy of a few days in the screening room? I don’t know where this is coming from, but it’s not what I expected from Cross. I shouldn’t risk him changing his mind.

As we approach, when I see the door to the screening room, dread settles in my gut. My heart stutters, and I stop dead in the middle of the hall. I can’t explain it, the sudden fear, but it leaves me frozen.

Cross opens the door up ahead and glances back, surprise raising his brows when he sees me. I know I need to start walking. I deserve this, and the screening room isn’t a terrible punishment. I scream at myself to move, but my body won’t respond.

Cross says something, but I don’t hear.

“Everything will be fine.”

The fear disappears, the unexplained panic, and I start as if coming out of a trance. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. The presence, back again so soon, seems to grasp my hand and lead me forward.

“You’re // always fine, remember?”

Cross studies me as I approach. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know what his gaze holds as I avert my eyes.

I’ve already taken a seat in front of the screen when the door closes and drops the room into darkness. Cross is talking, something about the hole, something about my work. I nod numbly and stare at the blank screen.

My wrists are strapped to the arms of the chair, my eyes pinned, my head fixed forward. Cross works with an IV for a moment, hooking it into my arm. The projector is running, a clip of wartime destruction filling my blurred vision.

I’m already slipping into the effects of the nectar when the hold on my hand grows tighter. I hear myself call out to Cross when the door opens behind me.

“W͜ar͡d͏e̕n.” I don’t hear his response, and I only hear myself through the fog of film and nectar. “You̧ b̧a͢st͟a̧r̵d̀—fuck—we'́l͢l͢ w͘in̕. I̵n ̨t͢h̴ę ͢ènd,́ we ̡wiļl ̨w͞įn.”

The words slip away, blurring together as the videos on the screen burrow into me. They become everything, the only thing I know until even the prison is a distant memory.