#okay let's close the chapter of this going back to the real world book

[ryllen]

obscure event that confirms yuu is well x x

[daytaker]

Could you do headcanons with the MC that's constantly napping and sleeping but somehow can keep up with whatever is going on? Just imagine them sleep talking coherent replies in a conversation during a meeting or doing the dishes with their eyes closed and lightly snoring

The Brothers React to Functional Sleeping MC

If it wasn't for Belphie, this would have confused them all a lot more.

Considering Belphegor's constant napping and occasional conversation contributions through sleep-talk, they are much less surprised by this tendency of MC's than the vast majority of people would be. It's just a natural part of life that some people are capable of sleeping and carrying out day to day activities at the same time.

Right?

(Individual brothers below the cut.)

Lucifer finds it annoying, sure, but at least you're slow-moving. What he really fears is the MC whose intense energy shatters any semblance of peace in this house. At the end of the day, though, he's not doing anything for you that he wasn't already doing for Belphie, so it's an inconvenience he can live with.

Mammon can't tell when you're actually asleep. He's convinced that you fake it a lot, since that's something Belphie is known to do when he'd rather not participate in a conversation. So he's always suspicious when you're able to complete tasks and move around while ostensibly asleep. He tries to catch you off guard and prove that you're not really sleeping, but he's never able to do it. Still, he hates that he can never let his own guard down as far as what he says when you're sleeping nearby, since there's a 50/50 chance you'll somehow absorb what he's saying and remember it in your waking life.

Levi thinks it's cute; at least, at first he does. It's a common trope in slice-of-life anime, having super cute sleepy characters. At the same time, it's a little frustrating, because you tend to just nod off whenever he tries to talk to you for any extended length of time, and he isn't going to play the game where he keeps talking just because you might actually be absorbing what he's saying! If you aren't interested enough to stay awake, he'll just stop bothering you! Hmph.

Satan finds it kind of funny, mostly because of how his brothers react to it. Mammon acting suspicious and nervous, Levi getting his feelings hurt, Asmo fawning over you, and Beel carrying you to and from RAD like luggage. He doesn't have a tremendous amount of interest in you, exactly, but you provide some real entertainment, so he appreciates that. Plus, and big shocker here: did you know cats nap a lot? You gain points in his book for this resemblance you bear to nature's most magnificent creatures.

Asmo thinks it's just precious to watch the human sleep at the table, or at their desk, or on the floor in the library, or on the toilet, or at breakfast, or at dinner, or... Mmm, are you okay, sweetie? You need to work on your sleep schedule. If you're having trouble sleeping at night, you should just come visit him! He has all sorts of ideas for how you could wear yourself out at night so you'll be refreshed during the day! :)

Beel is a little thrown off at first, because in some ways it's like Belphie never left. You'll recall that when MC first arrives in the Devildom, the other brothers besides Lucifer think Belphie is in the human world as an exchange student. So Beel wonders if maybe there was some sort of equivalent exchange shenanigans going on. They sent up a sleepy demon, so maybe that meant a sleepy human had to come down? It's very comforting, at any rate. He makes himself your unofficial guardian, carrying you out of situations where it's not safe to just lie down and sleep, or guiding you back inside after you sleepwalk out of the House of Lamentation.

Belphie is convinced he's met his soulmate, and honestly, maybe he's right. I can only imagine that you're mellow as fuck, probably got over any hard feelings from Chapter 16, and you're fast friends with Belphie now. You nap together all the time. Belphie even shares his secret hiding places with you.

Sometimes you and Belphie have full conversations in your sleep, to the amazement and amusement of the other brothers.

MC: Hungry... Go out 'n eat... Belphie: Snnn.... Jus' stay here... Kitchen... MC: Burgers... Belphie: Too cold to walk... MC: Lazy... Belphie: No, you... MC: Wear a hat... Belphie: Fine... MC: ...Hell's Kitchen in twenty... Belphie: Hmm... *Both stand up and sleepwalk to the door.* Mammon: They're not actually asleep, right? MC: *walks directly into a wall, grumbles about traffic, then continues* Mammon: ....Right?

This is the rare MC that I'd pair with Belphie. Normally I'm a little wary about how that would pan out, but if their relationship is built on mutual sleepiness and shared hiding spots to nap, well. Love is love.

[posallys]

okay so i'm in the process of rereading pjo and i just got to botl and i want to talk about my girl annabeth. i feel like a good majority of the fandom mischaracterization of annabeth comes from botl, specifically because she was rude to rachel throughout the book, and then everyone just assumed that because she wasn't nice to rachel she must be a bitch inherently, on top of being this fucking emotionless shell of a person, which is wild to me because i don't know how her being rude to one (1) girl automatically discredits everything she's done in the past three books. i feel like it stems from a complete misunderstanding of why she was rude to rachel. let's make this clear: she wasn't rude to rachel because rachel was a potential love interest; she was rude to rachel because she was scared.

everyone she's ever loved has been taken from her in some way: her mom being absent because she's a goddess and not really wanting anything to do with annabeth; her feeling like her dad and stepmom didn't want her around (losing her real family); thalia, her found sister, sacrificing her life to save annabeth, and then leaving her again to join the hunters; luke betraying the camp, but more importantly betraying annabeth on a much deeper level because he was her only family. he promised her that he would be there for her, no matter what, and then he leaves her, just like everyone else. even grover left her, in a way, because he went out to search for pan and wasn't around. the only close person who hasn't left her at the point of botl? percy.

but she knows about the prophecy at that point, so she's spent the better part of three years resigning herself to the fact that her best friend is going to die when he turns sixteen and there's absolutely nothing she can do to stop that. she's spent the better part of three years trying not to fall in love with him because it would only hurt worse when the time comes. if i had to bet on it, the reason she was thinking about joining the hunters in ttc is because if she isn't around him (and also can't because she's a hunter), she won't become more attached to him than she already is. if she separated herself from him, it would hurt less. except here's the thing: by that point, she couldn't make herself do that. she couldn't make herself willingly give up percy yet, because it might not have been him. if i had to guess, when thalia came back, annabeth stopped worrying about percy dying---just for a little while---because she thought that thalia was going to be the child of the prophecy after all. so when thalia became a hunter, she was mentally prepared to lose thalia again. but that means that every fear she had about percy being the prophecy kid before thalia came back to life resurfaced full force, and now suddenly annabeth has a year and a half left with him when she thought that she might have longer. so despite the thought of her joining the hunters to prevent herself from getting too attached, she hadn't metnally come to the point where she was ready to give up the small hope that he would live.

which bring us now to botl. like i said, i'm just now rereading the book (and i'm only on chapter 1 but i started thinking about annabeth and here i am). annabeth is mean to rachel because she's terrified of losing percy too soon. sure, at this point she knows the prophecy is his, she knows come next summer she probably won't have him anymore---but that's just it: next summer. she's preparing herself to lose him in a year, not immediately. so when someone comes along that presents a way for her to lose percy, of course she gets scared, and she gets defensive about it. it's not even the fact that rachel was a potential love interest, it's more so the fact that rachel was a mortal, and not part of their world. if percy was with rachel, there's a good chance he'd try to leave the magical world behind, and, more importantly, leave annabeth behind, which she wasn't ready for yet.

hell, that's exactly what ended up happening in the beginning of tlo! annabeth wasn't upset because he was spending time with rachel, she was upset because he was spending time in the mortal world rather than her world and, in her mind because of all of her past experiences being abandoned, that translates to "percy is leaving her," and it was way earlier than she thought, and she wasn't ready. so what does she do? she tries to protect herself. she puts walls up and tries to act cold and distant because she's coming to terms with the fact that she's already lost him. she's already lost him.

and like, was she jealous of the fact that rachel was a love interest? probably, yeah. but i think it's also just important to know that there's something way deeper to it. annabeth isn't being a bitch for the sake of being a bitch, and she's not just jealous of rachel because she was a girl that liked percy. she was upset because he was getting further and further away right in front of her. he was leaving way quicker than she was prepared for, so a lot of the stuff she said to rachel came from a place of fear of losing percy, and anger at rachel for trying to pull him into the mortal world, effectively leaving her behind and adding another person to the list of people she loves that have left her.

[cecilysass]

Pause (4/11)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 4: The Clothes I Died In

Scully sleeps exceptionally well in Mulder’s mysterious new bed.

So well that by the time she wakes up and sits up, bright white fingers of light are reaching across the room. Each finger is shot through with the glitter of swirling dust motes. This room needs to be cleaned, and badly.

Lifting her head and looking over the laundry and books scattered across the room, she finds herself again looking for the woman’s green sweater, the one lying on his bed yesterday. She wonders what Mulder did with it. It had vanished last night after he changed the sheets, and she imagines he must have stuffed it hastily into some drawer. Why did he hide it? Who does the sweater belong to?

She closes her eyes again. Mulder’s bed is comfortable. His sheets are soft and high quality, probably very expensive. It seems a significant step up from sleeping on the couch, and she can’t help but wonder what would have caused such a change. Cracking her eyes open, Scully trails her fingers over the smooth gray pillowcase.

Last night, before sleeping, she had burrowed her nose into the pillow experimentally after all. His distinctive scent wasn’t there; the sheets he’d put on the bed were too clean. She had simply turned over, feeling needy and ashamed.

His clock says 9:36, rather late for her usual sleep habits, at least in her apparently out-of-date memory. She leans her head back and forth side to side to stretch her neck and listens for a moment for any sounds in the rest of the apartment, but it seems quiet.

She contemplates getting up and taking a shower, but she’s discouraged by not having any clean clothes to change into. Right now she is wearing an old faded Quantico tee of Mulder’s, but she isn’t sure how many more items of clean clothing she can find in his apartment, much less those that can be sensibly worn by her.

She flops back down onto the pillow, closing her eyes again for a moment. As long as she stays here, she doesn’t have to go out there and face the reality of the situation. She doesn’t even know how to talk to a Mulder who doesn’t think she’s Scully. Or to encounter a world that has accumulated three additional years she can’t remember.

From his living room she hears the distant sound of a knock at the door. Scully sits up like a shot.

She hears the metallic clicks of Mulder unlocking and unlatching.

Who could it be? Who would he be letting in? She feels the sense of nauseating vertigo again, a little knife’s edge of fear that he might have betrayed her and called someone to take her away, to apprehend her as an impostor. She doesn’t hear anything clearly right away, and then she hears voices, speaking quietly.

“…very confused, very upset. The memory gap I told you about. But no, I don’t think she’s lying.” Mulder’s voice, hushed.

“Well, I want to see her. Right now. I’ll know if it’s her.”

It’s a whisper, but Scully recognizes it. Her mother’s voice. She clenches the comforter tightly, trying to hold back her full reaction. She wants to hear what they say.

“Maggie— I just don’t want you to… you have to remember this is very possibly not real. A convincing illusion. I don’t want it to be… painful.”

“I’m not a delicate flower, Fox.”

“I know, I know. It’s just it’s… so goddamn…” His voice drops down into a mumble and Scully can’t hear.

“Oh Fox,” her mother’s voice says, intense. “You aren’t a delicate flower either. You’re going to be okay, no matter what, you understand?”

More mumbling. “… And it will be just like it starts all over… I just don’t know if I can…” His voice is so broken.

“No. Nonsense.” Maggie says something else quietly that Scully can’t hear.

“She doesn’t know…” His voice drops away again. “…nothing about that last year, nothing about—”

“I understand, Fox.”

“…not really her.”

“You need to let me see her.”

Scully is already scrambling out of bed, sick with anxiety. She looks around for her jeans from yesterday to pull on under Mulder’s tee-shirt, and is just pulling them on when she hears him knock on the bedroom door.

“Hey,” he says through the door. “Are you awake? Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” she says, rapidly finger combing her hair, although she’s never before worried about looking especially polished with theses two people closest to her in the world.

He steps in the door, closing it behind him, and she notices that although he has on his pajamas pants and a tee-shirt, it doesn’t look like he’s slept much at all since last night. His face looks more haggard, not less, and the eggplant-colored half moons under his eyes more pronounced.

His eyes fall on her clothes. His jaw sets.

“What?” she says, looking down. “Oh, I borrowed your shirt. I had nothing to sleep in.”

“I noticed,” he says shortly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, taken aback by his reaction. “I don’t have any clothes.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s fine.” He rubs the back of his neck with a low sigh. “Your mom is already here. I called her this morning—I thought it better be me that broke the news. It’s kind of a shock. She’s eager to see you. Are you ready to talk to her?”

Scully nods, her forehead creased. She crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

He regards her. “You’re nervous.”

“Of course,” Scully replies pointedly, her voice lowered. “I want her to believe it’s me. It will hurt if she doesn’t.”

Her eyes land on his face in time to see the shadow move over his features, and she regrets saying it. She doesn’t understand the full story yet, why he is so convinced she is dead. But she can hear the raw suffering in his voice as he talks to her mom. Whatever he has been through, maybe she should tread more carefully.

“Yeah,” he says with no expression. “Well, let’s go see what she says.”

Every muscle in Scully’s body tenses as she comes out of Mulder’s bedroom. Her mother sits straight and expectantly on the edge of his couch, and hops up right away when Scully walks out.

“Mom,” Scully says, her voice very small.

Her mother’s hair has more streaks of gray. She wears silver earrings Scully has never seen before, but the silver locket around her neck is recognizable: it’s one Scully bought her a few years back for Christmas.

Maggie Scully’s hand is clasped tight over her mouth, her knuckles white. Her eyes are saucer wide, fixed on Scully’s face.

“Hi, Mom,” Scully tries again, stepping forward.

Her mother makes a stifled sound. She’d told Mulder she wasn’t a delicate flower, but she looks fragile, like she is made of fine bone china.

“I know you’re shocked,” Scully says. She wants to come across as calm, as certain, but her smarting eyes are already betraying her. “I just can’t explain any of this rationally, except to say I’m somehow here. Alive.” She wipes the beginning of tears away impatiently.

Maggie, her hand still pressed over her mouth, takes a step towards her, her eyes now rapidly moving up and down Scully’s body as though she is taking in every detail.

In the background Mulder paces back and forth like an animal in a cage.

“It’s just hard to prove I’m myself,” Scully continues, her voice unnaturally high. “Do you want to ask me any questions? I can answer questions about when I was little if you want. About San Diego. About Charlie. About Melissa.”

Maggie removes her hand from her mouth now and blinks, her eyes wet.

“Please ask me anything,” Scully says. “I want to show you that I’m—”

She stops when Maggie reaches out and touches her shoulder, her fingers making contact through the fabric of Mulder’s tee shirt.

“It’s all right,” her mother says. Her voice is gentle. “It’s all right.”

Fear chills Scully. “What do you mean, Mom?”

“I see you, Dana,” her mother says. “I know it’s you.”

Her arms stretch outwards, and she folds Scully into a compressed embrace, so tight Scully can barely breathe. At first Scully is too shocked to let herself relax, still too taut with anxiety. But then she feels her muscles relaxing, her body sinking into her mother’ familiar arms.

This shouldn’t feel so good, Scully thinks. It’s so simple, the most basic of human interactions. Being known.

“Oh Mom,” Scully whispers. “Oh thank God.”

“That’s my line,” Maggie says, laughing a little, her voice muffled in Scully’s hair. “It’s a miracle. That’s the only possible explanation.” She pulls back to look at Scully again, pushing strands of hair away from her daughter’s face, her eyes wet.

“I hate not understanding what’s happened,” Scully tells her in frustration.

Her mother smiles rapturously at her, cupping her face in her hands, holding her cheeks so firmly she will probably leave handprints.

“I’m sure you do,” Maggie says, her voice thick. “But — we've thought for all this time that we’d lost you. This is just so wonderful. It’s … unbelievable.”

Scully remembers, then, about Mulder, who is now standing in the doorway to the room watching, gripping the door frame above with his hands, his expression tense and tight.

He sees her looking at him, and he smiles a small, closed-lip smile.

“Unbelievable,” he repeats. His tone of voice gives very little away.

***

Scully doesn’t observe it out loud, but she notices that Maggie stands at Mulder’s stove making scrambled eggs as though she has done it many times. She has brought the ingredients for breakfast with her, correctly assuming he will have nothing, but she sets to work in his kitchen like it is second nature.

In Scully’s memory, her mother has been to Mulder’s apartment maybe 2-3 times for visits of very limited duration — to pick Scully up when she was sick, to drop off something Scully needed before a trip out of town. Maggie has never, in her recollection, been in his kitchen.

Mulder and her mother have seemingly become much closer since her supposed death. That idea unnerves Scully, and she isn’t sure why.

“You cleaned up, Fox,” Maggie had exclaimed as she started setting out ingredients. “All the dishes are washed.”

Mulder, sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands, had looked up and given Scully, standing in the kitchen doorway, a quick, significant look.

“I washed them last night,” she’d admitted to her mother, strangely guilty. “I was anxious and needed something to occupy myself.”

“Must have been quite a job,” Maggie had said in wonder. “But it looks so much tidier.”

“Yeah,” Mulder had said. “It does.” He rose to join Scully and Maggie in the kitchen, barely looking at her as he walked past. He’d eyed the counters of the kitchen warily, like it was a room that had been ransacked.

Now, as Maggie euphorically updates Scully on family news while moving around making toast and frying bacon, Mulder and Scully watch her, standing awkwardly side by side with cups of coffee in their hands.

“Tara has been talking about bringing Matty and the baby out here for a visit,” Maggie says, lifting slices of bacon from the pan to a plate covered with a paper towel. “I wonder if now they would consider coming sooner rather than later. I know they’ll be over the moon when they hear you’re back.”

Scully hears something that sounds like a tiny sigh coming from Mulder. It stokes a hot flare of anger in her. It’s one thing for him not to accept that it’s her; it’s another for him to begrudge her mother’s acceptance, her family’s joy.

Maggie doesn’t seem to hear him at all. “Do you mind cheese in your eggs, Fox? I know Dana likes it.”

“Cheese sounds good,” Mulder says dully.

“Bill might be able to get some leave and come, too,” Maggie continues, pushing the spatula around the pan. “It would be so good for him if he could. You have to understand—it was just so hard on him. The funeral, I mean.”

“Hard on Bill?” Scully says, more disbelief than she intends.

“Yes,” Maggie says. “Oh, he didn’t behave very well. Very poorly, in fact.” She turns and her eyes briefly fall on Mulder, who is looking intently away, his face stone. “But it was hard on your brother.”

Scully nods slowly, absorbing that information. There are so many questions she wants to ask here that she hardly knows where to start. There is so much that is strange about this. But it seems logical to start in the most obvious place.

“How did I die? What were the circumstances?”

She senses an uncomfortable shift in Mulder’s body adjacent to her. Her mother is facing away, dividing scrambled eggs between three plates, each crowned with buttered toast and several slices of bacon. No one responds for a moment.

Maggie turns around with heaping plates, handing one to Scully and one to Mulder.

“Let’s sit and discuss it,” Maggie says.

Sitting at Mulder’s dining room table requires pushing aside some of his piles of mail and papers, but they manage to clear a place for their plates. Mulder sits across from Scully and Maggie sits next to her with her own plate and cup of coffee.

Maggie’s eyes flash up expectantly to Mulder’s, holding a few seconds. He just stares back, his face a closed door.

Maggie turns to Scully, squeezes her arm.

“It was a Friday,” Maggie says, after a moment. “You had taken off work that morning. We had breakfast together, the two of us. Bagels at my house. We went to get our toenails done. A pedicure. We—we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and we were catching up…on everything. It was nice.”

Her mother’s voice is calm, but Scully notices that her hand, as she lifts her coffee cup to take a sip, is shaking slightly. She doesn’t even want to look at Mulder across the table. In her peripheral vision she sees his head angled downward.

“You were leaving my house to drive over here. You and Fox… had somewhere to be in the afternoon.” Maggie’s voice wavers a little now, too. “You were worried about being back in time.”

Abruptly, Mulder stands up, his chair scooting back with a screech.

“Fox,” Maggie says soothingly. “Fox, it’s okay. She’s right here. Eat breakfast.”

“Your car was hit,” Mulder says gruffly. “By a driver who had started the weekend early and ran a red light.”

“And you’re sure it was—” Scully begins.

“It was your car.” Mulder’s voice is short. He sounds almost angry. “There was a body to ID. It wasn’t especially recognizable, but … you had on the clothes you’d been wearing. Your cross necklace.”

Scully hasn’t thought of her necklace. She reaches up to feel for it around her neck, but she feels only bare skin. “I’m not wearing my necklace now,” she whispers. She’s troubled by this realization, that she hasn’t noticed her necklace’s absence.

“Yep. I noticed that,” Mulder says flatly. He sits back down, picking up the piece of toast and taking a determined bite.

“So possibly someone was faking her death, Fox?” Maggie asks. “Wanting you to think she was dead? Trying to convince you with the necklace?”

If that is true, thinks Scully, then where have I been since? Who kidnapped me? Who has been keeping me? Why have they returned me now? What has become of my memory?

Mulder shrugs a shoulder, taking another bite of toast. “I guess that’s a possibility,” he says. “But something more messed up than that is happening here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her clothes.” He swallows his mouthful. “She showed up yesterday in the same clothes.”

“The same clothes as what?” Scully says sharply.

“The pink tee-shirt, the jeans. The sandals,” Mulder says. He slows down his bites, looking down at his plate. “It’s what you were wearing that morning. When you went out with your mom. When I went to ID you.”

Scully puts down her fork. “Oh.” She looks at her lap, at the jeans she is wearing. She imagines Mulder going to identify her body, the body that wasn’t especially recognizable. That idea makes her want to throw up. “The clothes I died in.”

“You didn’t die,” Maggie says firmly. “You’re here.”

“Wearing the same clothes,” she says. “After a year has passed. That’s disturbing—like someone is intentionally sending a message.”

She isn’t sure why she keeps looking up at Mulder when she knows it will be painful. His coldness is like a small, sharp knife continually rooting into her side.

“Exactly,” he says.

“You think I could be a clone? Like the Samanthas?” Scully says, somehow keeping her voice steady and professional. “That’s your theory?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don't really have a theory. But something is wrong here—with this situation, with you.”

Another little rotation of the knife. Scully wills her face not to react.

“Fox,” her mother says, her voice very soft and pleading. “Fox.”

“Why does your memory stop in 1998?“ He seems to be lost in thought. “That seems significant. If someone were trying to … recreate Scully for whatever purpose. Why wouldn’t they recreate her memory until closer to the day she died?”

Maggie’s lips purse, and she sips her coffee with a tiny scowl. Scully can tell she doesn’t like this doubt being cast on the reality of her daughter’s miracle resurrection. Mulder doesn’t notice, staring at his food pensively.

“What happened immediately after I was stung by the bee?” Scully asks.

Mulder looks startled. “You were infected by a virus. Kidnapped. Taken to Antarctica. I found you there in an alien craft, gave you the vaccine, we escaped before it flew off.”

Scully frowns, overwhelmed by the epic, unbelievable scale of this story. By the casual way he describes the drastic steps he took to save her. She glances at her mother, who seems unperturbed. Perhaps she’s heard this whole elaborate tale before.

“Wait.” He tilts his head. “But that could be it. That’s when they last had easy access to you. They could have had an opportunity to tap into your memories then. They could have extracted them somehow— made some kind of back up, which they could… reinstall into another model.”

The twist of the little dagger again and again, deeper and deeper. The volume of her heart increases, until she hears it thumping in her ears like she is in active danger, like the dagger could hit her heart.

“Fox,” protests Maggie again, more firmly this time.

“That could be why you only remember up until that moment,” he continues. “It’s all of Scully’s memories they had access to.”

Her hurt makes her feel venomous. Mean-spirited. “Or maybe,” she says in a careful tone, “it was a decoy Dana Scully you rescued from Antarctica. Maybe it has been a clone of me with you these past few years, and I’m actually the original.”

Those words find their target. Direct hit. His face twitches, then shuts down all reaction again, but she can see a crease in between his eyes. She knows he is seriously considering the possibility of what she’s said, and that he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all.

“In any case, I’ll go home with my mom after breakfast, Mulder,” Scully says frostily. “I think it would be best. It obviously bothers you to have me here.”

He looks up, and she sees something like surprise and sadness in those familiar green eyes. As though he hasn’t really realized how horribly he is behaving. That quickly hardens into resignation.

“I don’t think you can do that.” He rubs his temples with his thumbs. “We don’t understand enough here. You could be… there could be something dangerous at play here. I think you should stay here for the time being. And limit going out.”

Scully again feels tears spring to her eyes. “Am I under guard?”

“No,” he says. “Nothing like that. This is about being careful until we understand more.”

“And how exactly will we understand more?“

“We’ll run a DNA test. It won’t tell us much if you’re a clone, but maybe there are other genetic indications we can look for. We can have the rental car checked out.”

Scully nods bitterly. She doesn’t like the idea of being a prisoner in Mulder’s apartment, having to come face to face with his painful aloofness. But at very least she needs him as a partner, as an ally in looking for answers.

“Was there anything else on you yesterday that might give us more information? In your pockets? On your body? Anything that could be construed as a message?” Mulder asks.

She shakes her head. “I had my keys with me. Were those found on my body?”

Mulder and Maggie exchange looks. “As a matter of fact, no,” Mulder says. “We were told they were lost with the car.”

“I had no holster, no ID,” she says.

“You weren’t armed when you left that day,” Mulder says. “You had the day off. You had a purse, but it was returned to us.”

“I do have a cut on my left hand. I suppose it could be some kind of defensive wound, although it’s in an awkward location.” She extends her hand to show him the thin red line.

Mulder, sitting across from her, squints at the cut. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s on the inside of your hand, closest to you. Hard to view it as a defensive wound.”

Suddenly Maggie’s hand clamps over her wrist. With wide eyes she lifts Scully’s hand closer to her face to examine it. “It’s a cut from a bread knife,” she says softly.

“How could you know that, Mom?”

“Because I saw you do it.” Maggie shakes her head disbelievingly, still staring at the hand. “I swear I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“That morning, the morning you died, you were cutting your bagel at my house, holding it with your left hand and slicing with your right. We were talking, and you cut yourself. It bled… you told me bagel cutting injuries were surprisingly common in emergency rooms.”

Scully pulls her hand back to look at it with her pathologist’s eyes. It is in the right place for a bagel slicing injury, and it is the right size to have been produced by a bread knife.

“But it can’t be the same cut,” Scully says. “After a year? Anything that minor would have healed long ago. That’s not possible.”

Mulder doesn’t move, staring at her hand.

“Let me see your toenails,” Maggie says sharply. “Show me.”

Scully withdraws her feet from under Mulder’s table to the floor in front of her mother, sitting next to her.

“I noticed before that they’re painted some kind of pink,” Scully says. “It’s not something I feel like I would pick out.”

“The color is Ballet Slipper,” her mother whispers. She leans down and touches Scully’s foot lightly with her fingertip. “You did pick it out. You picked the color out for both of us when we got our toenails done that morning at the spa. It matches your shirt. And our toenails matched… but mine are long gone, of course.”

“You’re sure it’s the same color?” Scully says.

“I’m sure,” Maggie says. “I had ample time to contemplate it after you died.”

Scully feels her stomach become unsettled again—thinking of her mother looking at her pale pink toenails, remembering her dead daughter and their matching pedicures. And yet her daughter isn’t dead, and my pedicure is apparently still perfectly preserved a year later.

Her own hands begin to creep over her jeans, her face, her hair, as though she could somehow feel by touch what was true and authentic about her own body. “I don’t understand,” she says. “How could these things be unchanged after so long?”

When she looks to Mulder, he has locked eyes with her mother with an intense expression on his face she doesn’t understand.

“Fox,” her mother says urgently. “You have to—"

“No.” His voice is low and absolute. “No.”

Scully watches her mother’s mouth set into a line. She knows the look well. Whatever they’re talking about, Maggie has made her decision.

“You get some time,” her mother says. “But then …” She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll give you some time, Fox. But this is not all up to you.”

Scully’s eyes bounce back and forth between them. “Time for what?”

They don’t answer, still holding one another’s stare.

“What’s not up to him?” Scully says, her voice rising.

Maggie looks at her, new lines visible around her eyes. Her face transforms quickly into a smile. “Time to accept you being who you obviously are,” she says. “It’s not up to him to decide.”

“I’m trying,” Mulder says creakily, his eyes still on Maggie.

Scully takes a slow breath. Something is off here. And she hates it. She hates the feeling that there is important information she doesn’t know—that there are secrets her mother and Mulder, of all people, would conspire to keep from her. Her mood, already bleak, sours further.

“Oh Dana,” her mother says. She rises from her chair and puts her arms around Scully again, holding Scully’s head tight to her. “Please don’t worry about any of this too much. The important thing is that you’re here with us again. Try to focus on that.”

“I know, Mom,” Scully says, her cheek pressed against her mother’s abdomen. She doesn’t say what she is thinking, which is that she herself wasn’t aware of being gone at all, so being back isn’t the same giant relief for her that it is for her mother.

Her mom releases her to gaze at her face again. “We’ll convince Fox. You’ll see.”

Mulder says nothing, moodily pushing his eggs around with his fork.

“He’s been through a lot,” whispers Maggie, like he’s not right there, like he can’t hear her. “It’s natural he is going to be hesitant.”

Again Scully has mutinous, angry thoughts: You’ve been through a lot, too, Mom, and you had no trouble accepting me. And Mulder is someone who routinely accepts killer cockroaches and reincarnation and murder motivated by astrological phenomena.

“I’m sure,” Scully says coolly, looking down at her own plate. She decides to change the subject to something more practical. “Mom, do you know if I have any clothes left anywhere? I have nothing to change into.”

“I’m afraid we gave away most of your things,” Maggie says, distraught. “I may have a few boxes left. But I could also pick you up a few things from the store today. Would that be helpful?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Scully says. “Just basics. Something to sleep in, a few changes of clothes, underwear. I could use basic toiletries, too.”

“I’ll go right after we do breakfast dishes. Size 4, right?” her mother says. “32B?”

Scully’s eyes flash to Mulder again, instinctively self-conscious about announcing her bra size in front of him. But he doesn’t react to hearing it at all or even seem to process what she’s said. He stares at his plate, still idly moving his fork back and forth.

“Well,” Scully says. She lowers her voice to speak to her mother. “I think I’ve been gaining a bit in my more recent life, because these jeans are slightly small. Maybe size up everything a little, or look for something loose-fitting.”

She’s unprepared for the awkward silence that follows that seemingly benign statement. Maggie just blinks at her, then clears her throat. “Oh,” she says. “Of course, Dana. I think I can handle that.”

Across the table Mulder is now looking up, his eyes like burning coals. He tosses back and forth in his seat.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he announces suddenly.

Scully watches in astonishment as he stands abruptly, his chair scraping backwards. He clomps across the apartment, picks up his keys, and walks out the door without another word.

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 26: Discord

Gather around everyone and I'll tell you a tale. It's a tale of my reactions to someone else telling me a different story in book form. Many book form, to be technical. And I already know the story, so my reactions will be very spoilery for all the books. Every book. If that's gonna be a problem, plug your ears or something I guess.

This chapter has a harp icon because it's Thom time! I'm as happy as Rand is to see him.

Rand, I may have been too hasty in leaving Stedding Shangtai the way I did. When I do go home, I may be in a great deal of trouble.

Not sure why you couldn't just lie about being a young Ogier from Saldaea or something, Loial. You all can't keep that close a set of tabs on each other. Or is the unbearded look a dead giveaway?

When they came pounding through the common room, Rand winked at the innkeeper, then laughed at his startled look. Let him think I’m off to play his bloody Great Game. Let him think what he wants. Thom’s alive.

What is it about needing to keep a low profile in inns that makes Rand so reckless? First Baerlon and his channeling sickness, now this when he doesn't even have that excuse.

The innkeeper was a woman with hair as white as Thom’s, and sharp eyes that studied Loial as well as Rand.

Innkeeper size, and therefore loyalty, uncertain.

The slender woman sitting cross-legged on the bed with her skirts tucked under her was keeping six colored balls spinning in a wheel between her hands.

Dena meanwhile has to be small so that Jordan can fit her into the fridge more easily.

“I have never heard of a woman gleeman,” Loial said.

And this frankly makes Dena's fridging all the more exhausting. Why are there no gleegals anyway? Surely there'd be a good source: women who go to the Tower to become Aes Sedai and then get put out again when it's clear they're not worthy but who don't want to go back home now that they've tasted the world. Especially since this world seems to be pretty low on sex work, you'd think that gals who don't have much else in the realm of prospects would pick up the job.

But also, it's infuriating that Dena is intro'd in this way and then killed off and then we never have any other woman who tries to take up the mantle later. One can hardly blame Thom for being in a hurry to pick up a lady apprentice given what happens to Dena and the events of the next few months, but by the time he ended up in Ebou Dar it should have been going again. It's a wasted opportunity.

They hang a scrap of painted canvas behind them, supposed to make the audience believe these fools are in Matuchin Hall, or the high passes of the Mountains of Dhoom. I make the listener see every banner, smell every battle, feel every emotion. I make them believe they are Gaidal Cain. Seaghan will have his hall torn down around his ears if he puts this lot on to follow me.

And here's another apparent revolution in the world's culture that doesn't seem to go anywhere. Theater exists; there's a play held in Andor much later, but apparently Gleemen will stay the preferred style for now. I suppose after the circus it's probably for the best we didn't pick up a subplot of players.

“She listens to a tale once—once only, mind!—and she has it right, not just the words, but every nuance, every rhythm. She has a fine hand on the harp, and she played the flute better the first time she picked it up than you ever did.”

Yes yes, we all know she's too pure for this sinful Earth.

She’ll be court-bard to a king or a queen before she’s done.

Okay but for real Thom, there's only so many monarchs in the world and I doubt many more nobles besides their immediate subordinates could afford court-bards so what are all the women in the world who aren't mind-bogglingly talented supposed to do in the performance arts? They can't all just give up their dreams and move on. Why are they absent?

“Your clumsy sheepherder’s fingers were never meant for the harp.”

There is something very sad in Rand not being meant for the sophisticated forms of art (and science) that he'd really rather be a part of than conquering.

There is even a lord in the city has what he claims is the Horn locked up inside his manor. He says it’s a treasure handed down in his House since the Breaking.

You know, I'm willing to believe that this lord really does have a 3,500 year old horn in his basement. Obviously not a magic one, but still. Stranger things have happened.

“Moiraine says it’s the Horn,” Rand said. Thom’s mirth was cut short.

Thom takes Moiraine as gospel even now.

“I don’t suppose you are talking about simply riding to Shienar and handing the Horn to—who?—the King? Why Shienar? The legends all tie the Horn to Illian.”

I suppose this must be one of those myths that grew in the telling. That or there was some confusion with a Foretelling and the sea that the Horn gets tossed into is off of Illian's coast.

“Thom,” he said at last, “are there any books that have The Karaethon Cycle in them?” Easier to call it that than the Prophecies of the Dragon. “In the great libraries,” Thom said slowly. “Any number of translations, and even in the Old Tongue, here and there.”

Thom of course has to answer slowly because Rand's question has given him a heart attack and he needs to take deep breaths. This might well be one of the more terrifying moments of Thom's life, having a young boy taken from his home on suspicion of channeling asking about the Prophecies while waving the sign of their imminent fulfillment around. Or at least this would be the case if Thom was taking it at all seriously (he's not, not yet).

For a moment, Rand could only gape at him, and when he could speak, his voice was unsteady. “The sword makes five. Hilt, scabbard, and blade.” He turned his hand down on the table, hiding the brand on his palm. For the first time since Selene’s salve had done its work, he could feel it. Not hurting, but he knew it was there.

Moiraine of course thought she was fulfilling prophecy but as Rand points out the coat counts for nothing, though funnily enough the sword and the coat are echoes of the later, true markings: the sword setting Rand on his path away from home and the coat being Moiraine naming him among the candidates as the real deal.

Thom's got to be happy Rand's denying it though.

I suspect Aes Sedai would want to make events fit the Prophecies as closely as they can. Dying somewhere in the Blasted Lands would be a high price to pay for going along with them.

Thom's a very kind mentor for actually telling Rand straight out what the price of being the Dragon is and suggesting that if he's just doing it for the Aes Sedai that it's time to do something.

“Then why ask about the Prophecies? Why send the Ogier out of the room?”

One of the problems of being an expert player of the Great Game is that when a novice shows up and starts blundering around, you're going to mistake his idiotic moves for strategic ones. Thom correctly identifies Rand's got an ulterior motive for his behavior and skips right past the obvious, simple, and true answer in favor of a conspiracy theory.

“I’ve learned a few things since we parted, Thom. They will come for whoever blows the Horn, even a Darkfriend.”

I'm not sure you've learned that at all Rand, and I suppose we should have taken Thom not knowing that detail as warning enough that it wasn't true.

“Owyn held it off almost three years. He never hurt anyone. He didn’t use the Power unless he had to, and then only to help his village. He. . . .” Thom threw up his hands.

The taint on saidin was an absolutely masterful counterstroke if you think about it. The perfect way for the divisive paranoia of the Shadow to worm its way into the minds of Light aligned individuals. Thom knows that Owyn was a danger to society but he still tries to make excuses out of love.

If Moiraine’s let you go, then you are well out of it.

While Rand outplays Thom through naivety, Moiraine outflanks him legitimately.

“A clean break is best, boy. If you’re always coming around, even if you never mention it, I won’t be able to get the Horn out of my head. And I won’t be tangled in it. I won’t.”

A cruel move by Thom, but one can hardly blame an old man for trying to refuse the call. One can blame the Wheel for how refusing the call plays out for him though.

Ruefully, he realized he was considering whether to tell Zera the truth or let her continue thinking as she did. All it takes is to think about the Great Game, and I start playing it.

Politics as a whole are a rather infectious way of corrupting the Light too, and the fools do it to themselves. It's no wonder part of Rand's coming is resetting the whole damn board on the players.

Coat or no coat, Rand was still only a shepherd. If he had been more, if he had been what Thom once suspected—a man who could channel—neither Moiraine nor any other Aes Sedai would ever have let him walk away ungentled.

Frankly, I think Thom's very much hiding in denial here like Rand does. He has to know that the facts don't add up in any way that's good but he pretends he can send Rand away and not have to worry about it.

Ah well. We have to part ways here too. See you next chapter!

[yourmomni]

Crush-1

Word count: 2k

Summary: y/n is just trying to get through life and university without making any humanly contact with other people minus her bestfriends and her protective sister but what happened when the soccer captain falls head over heels for her and develops a crush on her

Jake soccer x femreader

A/n: chapter 2 🥰

The library was extra quiet today making it easier to study and grab any books I wanted. Some may call me an overachiever but I just like to get things done and correct the first time so if that means studying until the late am's and not having a social life then so be it.

"Y/N I've been looking for you everywhere, come on the place closes at 8." I pushed my glasses up " Okay okay one more page." My sister snatched the book from me then closed it. " no more pages now let's go." She grabbed my arm dragging me out of my seat. My sister Amilla was the spitting image of our mother with her soft brown skin, a mole under her eye and her almond shaped eyes. The only difference was the under strands of her hair being dyed a now faded pink.

It was your sophomore year in college and your sister's senior year in university. She dragged you out of the library with your protest falling on deaf ears. She finally let you go as you both continued walking with your tote bag hanging over your shoulder. "You could've at least let me put my books away." I grumbled she shrugged me off and we cut across the grass. "Sorry it's just I want a good seat and I wanna try their new drink in the menu."

You smiled to yourself knowing her real reason for wanting to go to the Cafe. " yeah sure it's totally not because of the new barista that works there." She faltered a little but went back to her same pace. " I have no idea who you're talking about." I caught up to her. " yes you do what his name again Jay." She pushed me away but not before smiling. "Stopppp." I giggled. In my eyes Amilla was the most beautifulest person in the world to me. She could blink once and all the men in the world would fall to their knees and worship her.But she never gave them the day until Jay

On our breaks before class started we usually would get pick me up from the Cafe across campus that was a hot spot for all the other students as well. Me and Amilla were walking to our usual table when we notice it needed to be clean off

" oh let me go find someone to clean that off for you ladies." The older lady who owned the Cafe said we thanked her. " hey I'm gonna go order our drinks." I said leaving her alone. She nodded and went on her phone. " Sorry for the mess." " oh it's fine." She looked up from her phone and was met with a handsome boy whipping down her table. Not the normal guy who usually did. He had black hair and it was parted through the middle and two hoop earrings in his ear. Handsome was a understatement. He finished cleaning and turned towards her his breath hitched but he caught himself before she noticed.

"Hi, you must be new." He nodded "yeah new." She smiled at him. " I mean yes I'm new today is my first day." Amilla reached her hand out " well nice to meet you I'm Amilla ." He went for her hand but immediately retracted it back, wiping it on his apron. " I'm sorry, before this I was baking in the back with my hands all dirty. I wouldn't wanna get you all messy." He rambled on. " I'm Jay by the way." I nodded. God he was cute. I mentally slapped myself

Amilla remembered what mom said " men are the devil in disguise waiting to ruin your life and take everything you've worked for." maybe she was being a little dramatic after your parents divorce but she always raised us to be independent and never depend on anyone else

"Jay I need you back here." " Coming." He yelled back. " I um gotta go ill see you around." He walked away disappearing in the back." Yeah totally later." The smile wouldn't disappear from her face. " who was that." I asked, raising my eyebrows. She took her drink. " Just the new guy, his name is jay."

Amilla shoved my shoulder when I reminded her of the time she and Jay met. " Okay I admit he is kinda cute-" I squealed" but that doesn't mean anything. It's normal to find people attractive." I scoffed. "Yeah but not for you." As I was talking to her I had a weird feeling someone was staring at me. But I shrugged it off. I was never the type of girl to get compliments from guys or have them drool over me. I always kept to myself socializing only when needed. Despite all that I still had friends but they always were the complete opposite of me. Outgoing party people while I just enjoyed reading and staying In all day. No one was interested in me or so I thought

" Wow." Jake said stopping in his tracks watching the prettiest girl walk past he admired her side profile and gasped when she turned her head to face him without looking at him. " Hey bro, who is that?" He tapped Heeseung's chest. Heesueng looked up from his phone. " Who Amilla?" Jake shook his head. " no the girl beside her." " That's Y/n her little sister." Jake smirked. " Y/n." He started walking towards her " hey woah woah." Heeseung grabbed his arm. " Where are you going? We have class."

"I'm going to go talk to her." He said removing his hand. "Jake be careful not many people talk to her and I heard her sister is really protective ." Jake looked towards the gìrl again. if he was in a cartoon hearts would have been flying above his head " what is she going to do kill me." Heeseung sighed and jake jogged off before heesung could interject again

Your sister was telling you how much she needed coffee when a boy stood in front of you blocking your way. " Hi." He said look at us. " um hi can we help you." The tone in my sister's voice turned dark causing me to get a little nervous.``yes you can actually." He looked at me and I jumped a little. " Hi My name is Jake." He extended his hand out to me and I just stared at it

My sister was watching me in confusion. I took his hand and shook it." Nice to meet you I'm Y/n." He smiled " yeah I know." My eyes widened " you know who I am." Now I was the one confused and my sister was watching us in amusement. " Yes I've been watching you for some time you read in the bleachers while I have practice." I heard my sister scoff and she got in front of me.

"Yeah she's not interested." I looked at her in shock. " I'm not?" He raised his eyebrows `` I don't understand." "Well I do." She started walking towards him now I was completely behind her " You don't know my sister nor have you seen her around. She spends most of her time in the library or in her dorm, she doesn't have any friends-" I interrupted " I have Jeno." " He doesn't count. Anyways" she is closer to him " I know boys like you. Boys who think it's funny to mess with the quiet girl , you mess with their heads making them targets for your little '' fan girls'' to push around and abuse making them feel bad about themselves. It's pathetic and under my watch you will not do it to my sister come on y/n." She grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the boy I looked back at him to see him waving with a sad smile and I waves back

" Aw he was cute." I pouted and she dragged me all the way to the Cafe in silence ordering our drinks and sitting down " why wouldn't you let me talk to jake." I stirred my tea " because he's a fuckboy who wants nothing but to ruin you." I frowned. "He seemed nice. And I do read on the bleachers during soccer. Maybe he has really seen me." My sister groaned " Y/n open your eyes Jake's-" " What about sim jake." Jeno slide in beside me pushing me to the side." Hello Jeno, how nice of you to show up." I said, rolling my eyes at him. Jeno smiled widely, making me push his face away. `` he was trying to talk to y/n."" he what, when." He asked frantically, shaking my arm. Just then Amillas' order came and Jay sat it down in front of her. " Here Milla, I hope you enjoy it. I made it just the way you like it, extra sweet." He winked and walked away. I squealed, " I made it extra sweet just like you." Jeno copied his voice and I giggled

" did he call you Milla." She was smiling hard trying to look away from me " You do like him." She shushed me tossing a napkin at me " Okay fine maybe just a little though." Jeno shrugged. " He's on the soccer team with me, he's pretty cool, he hangs out with the captain mostly . Speaking of the captain, why were you talking about jake." Amilla rolled her eyes " He tried picking up your bestfriend that's what happened and I shut him down immediately." Jeno gasped ." Why the hell would you do that he's nice." I looked at her." Because she thinks I can't take care of myself." You can't." She bluntly replied I looked at her and gasped " what yes I can right Jeno." He looked away from me like he was reading the back of my cup. I slapped his shoulder." Y/n you can barely cook, I have to remind you to go to sleep most night because you stay up studying till the late nights and you get lost everywhere you go." I crossed my arms. " I get confused sometimes." She sighed " I'm just looking out for you, you've never had a boyfriend before-" " yes I have" "Jeno doesn't count." I pouted " it was like for 4 days and you both couldn't stand each other." I silently agreed with her but jeno stayed silent.

"Just give him a chance please." Amilla didn't even look at her sister's pleading face; she immediately declined it ." Not gonna happen."

After lunch at the Cafe I said bye to my sister and walked to my last class of the day while she went home to finish her paper. I took my glasses off and put them in the case dropping them in my tote.

"HEY WATCH OUT." I turned around one second and the next I was on the ground with something heavy on top of me." Ow." I groaned. " shit shit shit y/n I'm so sorry." Jake was looking down at me frantic. He quickly got up and grabbed my hand. " Are you ok?" I dusted my skirt off and noticed my knee was bleeding." Yeah I'm fine just a scratch." He started putting everything back into my bag while rambling on about how sorry he was.

With him on the ground I finally got a better look at him and his features. He was handsome, really handsome. " Your Australian right." I mentally slapped myself, talking to people is not my strong suit. He smiled up at me. " Yeah I'm an international student here but I'm korean so that's why they put me in the korean dorms." I nodded silently proud of my self for starting a conversation. " soooo um I heard that your on the soccer team well you kind of told me and other people told me also." I rambled on he nodded. " So you've been talking about to other people about me, it's good to know I left a good impression on you. I thought I messed up." He stood up handing me my bag. I thanked him. " Yeah sorry about my sister she's really-" "protective." He finished. I nodded. "Yeah but I thought you were sweet." He smiled " oh really." I looked away at him so he wouldn't see me smile.

" Yeah not many people talk to me especially to flirt." I looked back at him and he was looking at me with so much endearment. "I-i-." I couldn’t figure out the words to say with him staring at me like that. No one has ever looked at me the way he was.." your the most beautiful girl I've ever seen." He blurted out I didn't know how to react but jake seemed shocked at his words." I mean…..wait what am I saying… I didn't mean that well I did mean that you are beautiful." My brain was overflowing with signals to run and get away from this hazard as fast as I could. I've never experienced a feeling like this. My stomach started bubbling and I felt light. Was this what having a crush feels like.

Jake continued to ramble on and didn't stop until I told him too "I get it it's okay." He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and started fiddling with his fingers. If his friends could see him now. THE Jake Sim stuttering in front of a girl. That was rare. He was known for his handsome features and charming personality which meant that every girl at the university had a crush on him. "I think you're pretty handsome yourself." He smiled. The noon clock ringed bringing me back to reality "oh nooo I'm late for lecture." I pulled my phone out to check if the clock was maybe going too fast. " you have psych right I'll walk you I'm going the same way I have bio in the building over I'm late for class aswell." I nodded and we walked together. We started talking about the soccer team and their next game. "I didn't know you liked soccer have you gone to any games." I nodded, smiling." Yeah my best friend jeno is on the team.

He bit the inside of his cheek. " Wait your friends with jeno." He looked concerned." Yeah since we were kids." We made it to my class and I bowed. " thank you for walking me to class." He bowed to me." Thank you for letting me and I'm sorry about your leg." I looked down at the dry blood on my knee. " it's okay I have a first aide in my tote." I rambled in my tote and noticed my glasses broke. "Dang it." I pulled them out watching the arm fall off and looking at the shattered lens. " I'll buy you new ones." He winced expecting them with me." No it's fine I can just call my dad to tell him-" he took them out of my hand and shoved them in his pocket. "no it's okay plus gives me an excuse to see you again." He bit his lip smiling at me. " oh you want to see me again? Well okay then." I felt like my legs were going to give out

"Okay well bye." He waved and I waved back " bye." I turned around and entered my class later than I've ever had. Jake watched her walk into the classroom smiling to himself. He was skipping in his head like a little boy and walked back to the boys who were still kicking around the soccer ball on the grass. " hyung where did you go?" Sunoo asked adding jake back into the game by sending him the ball. " Sunoo didn't you see he was talking to a girl." Sunghoon said wiggling his eyebrows at jake. " well he sorta ran into her he was just being polite." Jake went behind sunghoon and kicked the ball between his legs causing him to falter a little. " Or he was getting himself a date for the party coming up." Jay kicked the ball causing it to intercept. Jake walked to heeseung putting his arm around him. " I already told you guys I'm not going to that party and plus y/n not like those other girls I talked to in the past she's sweet and caring." The boys ohhhed " oh so her names is y/n huh." Jay poked . " I have class with her she sits in the front, she's really smart." Sunoo picked up the ball running to where the boys were circled

" Yeah she is… I was thinking about asking her on a date." They gasped. " Jake Sim going on a date Woah." Jake felt his ears turn read as he continued to tell his plan to his brothers. " Go for it dude." Heeseung said, patting him on the shoulder. " All non classes end at 3 so you can wait for her then drop the question." Jake beamed today would be jake sim history. The first time jake will ask a girl out and actually care if she says no.

[snackara]

The Prince and the Star

Chapter One: Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there was a girl in a far away kingdom known as Rosas. Rosas was a peaceful and prosperous kingdom, with people from many walks of life living their. Everyone was happy. But one day, a terrible monster came to the kingdom. It tore apart the kingdom and forced all who inhabited it to flee. Many knights tried to slay the monster, but none prevailed.

The girl saw the destruction, and was devastated. One night, she looked to the sky, and made a desperate plea. “Oh please,” she cried, “if anyone can hear me, any god or higher power, help me and my people. Help us fight this beast and vanquish it once and for all.” And to her surprise, someone answer- a star from the sky itself. “Gather your closest companions,” it said. “Bring them to me, and I will bless all of you with the powers necessary to slay the monster and save your home.”

The girl did as the star told, bringing six of her friends to the star. It gave each of them mighty powers, from the strength of ten men, to the sharpest wits, and to the girl, he gave her the ability to use magic like none before had seen. “Now go and save your kingdom.” It said before flying back to the sky. The seven marched towards the monster, their heads held high. They fought for three days and three nights, but at long last, they defeated the monster. The kingdom praised and thanked them for what they had done, and each of the six friends became respected nobles. As for the girl, she became the queen, and ruled over Rosas with kindness and wisdom for many years.

Antonio tilted his head as his grandfather finished the story. “Is that a real story?” He asked from his seat on the balcony.

“Why of course it is.” Abuelito said with a chuckle. “As far as I know, anyways.” He leaned back in his own chair, closing the book he had been reading from.

“Why of course it is.” Abuelito said with a chuckle. “As far as I know,

Antonio looked up at the sky dotted with stars. The young boy got up and walked over to the railing, gripping it with his small hands as he looked up in awe. “So if I make a wish on a star, I can make anything happen?”

“Yes, of course.” Abuelito said. “As long as you use the gifts they give you wisely.”

“Why don’t they just make the wish come true?” Antonio asked. “Why didn’t the star just kill the monster itself instead of making the girl and her friends do it?”

Abuelito didn’t immediately answer the question, pondering it in his chair for a few moments. “Not everything can be done with a snap of your fingers, I believe. That’s just not how the world works, unfortunately. You have to find that little spark inside you and use it to do what’s right.”

Antonio nodded “I think I get it.” He smiled, looking up at the sky. “I would use my spark for good things. I would fight a hundred monsters, or make sure no one was ever sad again, or-or make sure no one ever went hungry.”

Abuelito sighed and stood up after a long pause, and rested his hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “Antonio listen to me.” The boy looked up at his grandfather, blinking. “Never give your spark up to your mother, okay? I sense you have a strong one in you that you can use for great things. You can be the catalyst to change things when no one else is willing to do so. But you have to hold onto that spark. No matter what. Understand?”

Antonio stared up at his grandfather with wide eyes and nodded. “I understand.”

Abuelito relaxed. “Good. Just remember: happiness has to be fought for. Like in the story. Now, let’s get you to bed before your mother finds us and throws a fit. She always hates me telling you that story.”

Antonio quickly grabbed the book and ran into the room behind them- his bedroom- and quickly put it back on a low shelf. Then he jumped into his bed, laying down. Abuelito smiled and pulled the covers over his grandson and walked towards the door. “Goodnight, little prince.”

“Goodnight,” Antonio called back, watching his grandfather go. Silently, he waited for his grandfather’s footsteps to fade before jumping out of bed and running back to the balcony. He looked up at the night sky again, resting his chin on the railing.

He sighed. What could he wish on? He didn’t want anything, to tell the truth. He was a prince. His mother gave him anything he wanted within reason. He thought for a minute, before finally coming up with an idea. He clasped his hands together, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wish for someone to love me. Not like my friends or my mother do. I want someone to love me for me, like Abuelito.” He stared up at the stars, watching them twinkle and sparkle against the inky night sky. “Please?”

(Wooo I’m actually doing this. This is going to be one of two projects I’ll be working on for a little while. The others gonna be a Skyrim fic going through the civil war and main quest line. That will have be little heavier with its topics so this should be a nice breather. So yeah, lots of fun stuff to come!

I don’t have anything particular to say about this chapter to be honest. Abuelito’s really only a minor character in this entire AU, and Antonio is a lot more interesting when he’s older. With the story Abuelo tells, I just thought it would be nice for it to be a nod to the original movie.)

EDIT: PFFFFT WHY DID TUMBLR MARK THIS AS MATURE?!

[skzhocomments]

Mafia Book #2 - PART II - The Withered Rose - Chapter 4 - Ghost from the past

Story masterlist - please consult it for the summary of the story, trigger warnings etc.

General masterlist

PART I - The Black Iris

---

Wattpad | AO3

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

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PART II - The Withered Rose

Chapter 4 - Ghost from the past

chapter word count: ~3k words

~third person POV~

The flight lasts a few hours, but it barely feels like enough time for Emilia. In a timespan of a day, she had to pack her whole life away and hop on a plane, back to the one place she hoped to never see again.

It takes 15 hours to get from her house in Italy to the Stray Kids’ mansion. Barely enough to put her thoughts in order, to stop the trembling in her hands that comes and goes whenever she realises she’s going to meet Chris.

Chris.

She glances out the small round window and focuses on the clouds under her. They are puffy, with a slight shade of pastel pink from the sunrays, and they remind her of cotton candy. The thought makes her smile, only she doesn’t do it on the outside.

Her mind and body feel disconnected, aside from the slight trembling, and she is unable to hear the spoken words between Minho, Iris and Wooyoung. She hears distant laughs sometimes and wonders how Wooyoung managed to get this comfortable with the two in just shy of a day. 

The only thing that brings her to the real world is Ivy’s cries every now and then. She inevitably gets bored, tired and stiff, and starts screaming her lungs out just as she did when she was still a baby.

To everyone else, her cries might be annoying, but to Emilia, they do the exact opposite. They calm her. It gives her something to do; a reason to not think about the mansion, Stray Kids or Chris.

Ivy doesn’t understand much. Sure, she knows they’re going to live somewhere far away, and she notices her mother’s reluctance about this trip, but she’s excited, nonetheless. Uncle and aunt are doing a great job in hyping her up.

~

Stray Kids’ mansion is the same as she remembers. Nothing’s changed at all. The gardens are evergreen, the door looks the same, and the inside of it, too. She doesn’t want to take that first step to actually enter the house, but she doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

The mansion is filled with child’s laughter as Wooyoung picks Ivy up and kisses her cheeks, and Emilia hugs herself. It feels cold.

“Chris is probably in his office, so… let’s go upstairs.” Minho says, carefully watching Emilia. The woman’s expression stays neutral as she nods and follows him, with Wooyoung, Ivy and Iris closely behind her.

It feels like their formation is strategic. Stuck in-between Lee Know and Iris, there is no chance for the three of them to escape. Not like Emilia believed she could escape. She’s already lost the battle as soon as Iris stepped into her flower shop back in Italy.

“I’ll go in first… talk to him a bit, and then I’ll ask you to come in, okay?” Minho asks with his hand on a handle, and as soon as Emilia nods, he knocks two times.

“Come in.” Chris answers quickly, and hearing his voice, Emilia’s blood runs cold. This is really happening. She must really face him after years of running away.

She wonders how much he’s changed in the past years; being here feels familiar and oddly comforting, because, fuck, even his voice is just as she’s remembered.

She couldn’t ever forget it, even if she’s tried desperately many times, because as soon as she stops thinking about him for a while, he’d pop up in one of her dreams and stir her awake, and she’d wake up breathless, breaking out in cold sweat.

The dreams are often happy ones, where they are both happily living in Italy, raising Ivy together, making love and kissing under the sun’s rays; and seldom nightmares, memories where his gun is pointed at her forehead, where his expression is as cold as ice, or simply inventions of her mind, where he mercilessly murders her, stabs her in cold blood or shoots her repeatedly; where he finds her in Italy and gets revenge on her, killing Ivy and Wooyoung in front of her eyes. Those are the worst.

Still, she waits patiently in front of the door, her breathing becoming ragged, while Iris and Wooyoung are carrying out a pointless conversation. Ivy gets impatient and asks what they are doing, but a few moments later, Minho opens the door and asks her to step in.

~

“Hi. Oh, you’re here too.” Minho speaks in a quiet voice, eyeing the two men in the room.

“Welcome back.” Jeongin says briefly, and Minho answers with a nod of his head.

“Back already? Honeymoon’s over a bit earlier, I see.” Chris greets Lee Know as soon as he comes inside, barely raising his eyes from the laptop on his desk.

“There were some unforeseen circumstances.”

“Yeah?” Chris shuts the laptop’s screen down and carefully watches Minho. “What’s up? Something wrong with the trade that we don’t already know about?”

“No… it’s completely unrelated.”

“Mhm.” Chris nods while tapping an index finger against the desk’s dark brown surface. “Then?”

“It’s… something else. Uhm…” He glances again at I.N and is met with an uninterested demeanour. “Iris and I were in this small town in Italy, and… God, I don’t even know how to say this. You know what? I’ll stop beating around the bush.” With that, Lee Know turns around and opens the door.

“Come… all of you.”

Chris stands confused at his desk, not understanding Minho’s eerie behaviour. He exchanges a look with Jeongin, who simply shrugs, and waits. It is unlike Minho to be so careful with his words, so whatever is behind that door – or rather, whoever – must be incredibly important.

Emilia takes a deep breath in and steps through the door, her gaze stuck on Chris, and his wide eyes stuck right back on hers. It is as if time stood still, and the world stopped spinning as the two of them fought a silent battle with their eyes. As if no time at all has passed since they used to make love on the very desk Chris stands up from, hastily running towards Emilia and kneeling down at her feet grabbing her hands in his and kissing them over and over again.

“Emilia… is this really you?” He cries out.

He cries.

For the first time since that night almost 4 years ago, Chris starts crying in front of Minho and Jeongin. Only this time, it is not due to him being utterly powerless, but due to the extreme heavy weight that disappeared from inside his chest at the sight of the love of his life.

“You… but… how?” He stands up again and lets go of her hands, grabbing her face instead and scanning every centimetre of it. Sure enough, every part of her face looks exactly like he remembers. It is her, no doubt.

She averts her gaze and clenches her fists, and her eyes meet Jeongin’s briefly. A sense of shame overwhelms her, and she decides against making sense of the darkness in his eyes. They still hold compassion for her, at least, even if she is uncertain if there is any love left for her in them.

What Minho said was true, they all changed.

“You lied to me.” Chris states accusatory, but surprisingly calmly, in Jeongin’s direction. The fox eyed man doesn’t say anything in response.

Chris is quick to turn his attention back to Emilia, who still stands silent. It feels as if her mouth is glued shut, but she quickly comes to her senses when Chris releases her and looks bewildered at his carbon copy.

Ivy lets out a small giggle in Wooyoung’s arms and Chris instinctively raises a hand to touch her brown curls, when all the rage in Emilia’s heart bursts out.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” She says, almost in a whisper, and smacks his hand away, moving in front of her protectively.

“Mommy, hug!” Ivy says, trying to wiggle out of Wooyoung’s grasp.

“Oh my fucking God…” Chris whispers in return and looks at Emilia again. “What is this? We have a-”

“No. We don’t have shit. She is my daughter, so don’t you dare lay a single dirty hand on her.”

“Emilia… can we talk? Please.” He replies calmly, but it’s hard for him to keep his composure.

Iris notices his body language immediately: Chris looks tense, and he’s been fidgeting since they stepped in the room, and he’s been breathing faster and faster. Still, he seems to be using some of her calming techniques, as he hasn’t lost his cool, nor has he erupted in any fits of anger or distress.

So far, so good.

Emilia ignores Chris’ pleadings and starts walking towards I.N instead, who opens his arms and embraces her tightly.

She still smells the same, a comforting thought to Jeongin.

“I am so sorry. I had to…” She starts as soon as she’s in his arms, but he just squeezes her tighter.

“I’m so happy to see you again.” He replies. “We have a lot of catching up to do. I tried looking for you, but you didn’t want to be found, did you?”

“No… was it you, in that mountain town three years ago?”

“Mhm. One of my men almost found you, but as always, you were one step ahead.”

“Thought my note would’ve made it clear that I don’t want to be found.”

“Did you think I’d just let you be after a mere ‘I’m sorry’, knowing what state you were in when you left?”

“I hoped you would.” She says and moves away from his grasp. Jeongin chuckles briefly. He knew Emilia did this intentionally to avoid Chris’ request, to test the waters and check how much she could get away with.

And now she knows, for Chris doesn’t say anything; he just waits for them to finish their greetings, and then looks at her expectedly.

Emilia walks back to the door and grabs Ivy from Wooyoung, getting out of the room. In the doorframe, she turns to Chris once more and looks him dead in the eyes.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

~

She walks down the corridor directly into her old room, which looks exactly like it did when she left. Not that she spent that much time in it for her to feel any nostalgia. Her days were spent away on the training field, and her nights always ended up with her tangled up in Chan’s sheets.

“Hey, can you bring me her suitcase?” She asks Wooyoung as she places Ivy down the bed. She figures her daughter is tired, so she soothes her a bit until Wooyoung returns with her clothes, and then they change her together.

“How does it feel to be back?” Wooyoung asks quietly as Ivy drifts off to dreamland.

“Weird. Unbelievable. Abnormal.”

“Damn. Not an ounce of happy feelings.”

“Did you enjoy making new friends at least?” Emilia asks mockingly.

“Come on, what was I supposed to do? Follow your example and sulk the whole way here? If I have to live with them from now on, I should at least give them a chance.”

“Well, you don’t have to do anything. You can walk right through that door and no one would give a flying fuck!” Emilia raises her voice a bit, before realising Ivy might wake up, so she breathes in deeply and tries to control her emotions.

“Like hell I’m leaving my daughter behind.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah. In case you didn’t know, she’s my daughter as much as she’s yours. I’m daddy.”

“Ew, I don’t want to hear those words come out of your mouth.” Emilia shudders and they both chuckle slightly.

“Anyway, my point is-”

“I know. I’m sorry, you’re right. Ivy loves you, and you’re the only dad she’s ever known. I’m really happy you decided to stick by us.”

Wooyoung looks away and nods briefly.

“I wanna go get some fresh air.”

“No worries, I got her.” Wooyoung replies, looking fondly at Ivy.

~

The gardens are, like everything else, just as she remembers. It’s like time stopped moving in this mansion; the only missing thing being the loud bickering that used to always be present wherever the members decided to hang out.

Emilia didn’t see anyone else in the house, and the gardens seem to be empty as well. She keeps walking around the once familiar paths, breathing in the scent of roses, and heads to the one place in the garden she used to spend so much time in.

On the way, she spots a familiar figure walking around leisurely and whistling. She contemplates saying something, but instead simply watches the man. Jisung looks good, and hasn't aged a day since she’s last seen him.

He turns his head in her direction and all the colour drains from his cheeks. He lets out the loudest shriek, to the point where Emilia has to cover her ears, and runs away as quickly as his feet can handle it.

Tsk, so much so for being in a mafia. Emilia scoffs with a small chuckle and keeps on walking.

The greenhouse is still beautiful from the outside: well-kept, carefully painted in subtle golden hues, with plants all around the glass walls to still give the impression that there is nothing else but greenery inside of it.

After rummaging through her front left pocket for a bit, Emilia finally finds the small key she’s taken care of so carefully. She was never one to be so attached to her belongings, but there are two things she’s desperately clung to these past years: San’s polaroid picture – reminder of a past long gone and out of reach, of a time when she was carelessly smiling alongside her best friend; and this golden key.

It’s always been painful to look at it after she’s left, because not only did it bring her bad memories and pain, but it also brought her happiness to remember all the time spent here with the love of her life and her other best friends.

Now, she twists the golden key into the lock, making a mental note to return it to Hyunjin later, and steps inside the greenhouse.

Some paintings are unveiled, and she takes her time observing them, thinking of what these may be, and of who painted them. She stops in front of a tree and tries to make sense of it, when she gets distracted by the sound of the door opening.

“Nice painting, huh?” Iris asks with a slight smile.

“What, did Chris send you to spy on me? Psychoanalyse me? See if I somehow have it in me to forgive him?” Emilia mocks.

“No, Chris doesn’t know I’m here.” She shrugs.

“So, is this yours, or are there more new members I’m unaware of?” She points to the tree.

“Yeah, that’s mine.”

“It’s the therapy tree.” Emilia chuckles amused. “What a load of crap. Do you really want me to believe you didn’t conveniently draw every single detail to manipulate everyone into trusting you?”

“Sharp.” Iris grins.

“Tsk.”

“So, how does it feel to be back home? Any nostalgia creeping in? Any long-lost feelings after seeing Chris after so much time?”

“Don’t make me laugh. I loved Chris, and our relationship was fun while it lasted, but I placed highly unrealistic expectations on him, and I didn’t know anything about him after all. It was fun while it lasted, but now, there’s nothing left.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aww, man. Wish I had one of those pretty things on my thighs.” Emilia ignores Iris’ question and points to her holster. “Would make everything more interesting if I had a gun pointed at you, don’t you think?”

“Well, that’s gonna have to wait, I’m afraid. I don’t think anyone here trusts you with any weapons.”

“That’s too bad.” Emilia shrugs. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, most of them are away on missions, except for Han, whom I assume you’ve seen.”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?” Emilia laughs, briefly remembering the small interaction with Jisung and the way he shrieked.

“He was soooo convinced he’s seen a ghost, poor dude. Ran up to me almost crying and screaming that we have to leave the mansion now!”

“No way!”

“Yeah, and that’s not all! He was convinced there’s either a spirit haunting these grounds, or that he’s going crazy, and he wanted us to schedule a therapy appointment immediately!”

They both burst out laughing.

“Honestly, that’s such a Han thing to do. He hasn’t changed one bit.” Emilia wipes away the small tears formed in the corners of her eyes from laughter.

“Hey, I’m sorry we had to bring you back with us-”

“Yeah, that was really uncool of you.” Emilia scolds.

“-however, you and Ivy are safe here. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“Safe? Safe?! Don’t make me laugh. There’s nowhere safe for us, mafia people. We must always be steps ahead in front of our enemies unless we want to be 6 feet under. We are never safe, Iris. Don’t get confused, and don’t let your guard down.”

“What the fuck-” A perplexed Hyunjin exclaims from the doorframe.

He feels like a breath of fresh air for Emilia, and he’s different. He has red hair now, and it suits him well.

“You came back from the dead, I see.” Hyunjin breaks out into a large smile and starts walking towards Emilia. “Come here.”

He embraces her tight and he’s happy. He’s genuinely happy to see her, and his heart is still beating fast from the initial shock and surprise.

“Hyunjinnie, I needed to come back and return something to you.” Emilia rummages through her pockets again and takes out the key.

As she does so, the small polaroid picture falls out, and Iris is quick to bend down to pick it up and hand it back to her.

“Thanks.” She smiles and places the picture back in her pocket, then hands out her hand and opens her palm to reveal the small golden key to Hyunjin. “I believe I don’t need it anymore.”

Hyunjin shakes his head and covers her hand with his, but instead of grabbing the key, he closes back her palm into a fist.

“That’s yours. Come here whenever you feel like it, Emi. That key will always be yours. Welcome back.”

They both smile at each other while Iris analyses the interaction. Sure, she’s heard many times about how they all came to get along, but seeing it happen right in front of her eyes feels unreal. Emilia truly is loved by everyone in this mansion, one way or another, and even though she claimed she hated everyone, it’s crystal clear that she also loves them with all her heart right back.

~

Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: all we want is more

Been working on this Sam/Deanna fic and figured I'd post the first half. I'm a sex scene and denouement away from finishing but -- hey, it's wincest wednesday and let's get some writing out there.

title: all we want is more pairing: Sam/always-a-girl Deanna rating: explicit length: 16k (chapter 1; full fic will likely be ~35k)

summary: Sam and Deanna have never been good at boundaries.

(read on AO3)

When Sam slams his way back in, muscling through the cheap Kwikset that sits sloppy in the hollow-core and then making sure the screen door bangs satisfyingly behind him, it's a disappointment to find the house empty. He heels the door closed, turns the slack lock. It smells musty inside, the way it always does—this is a particularly skanky rental—but the nose-wrinkling shock after he gets back from school is worse than usual. Dad's gone, of course, but the bathroom's also all shadow and the bedroom's dark and, when he drops his backpack by their pile of clothes and clicks the light on, it's… okay, yeah. He deflates a little. He'd been pissed off all day, even through third period English where he was working on his project with Noelle Cooper, who was in the running for nicest girls he'd ever met, and he'd been short with Mr. Trainor in AP Stats even though he actually loved stats, and he'd gritted his teeth through a crappy lunch and ignored his group in World History, all because he was marshalling his arguments and drawing down battle lines. If this school had a forensics club he'd be the star. All that righteous anger that'd foamed its way up to a thundercloud kind of dissipates, standing in an empty house with nowhere for it to go, and he's just left in the slow turn of the ceiling fan, the bare bulb shining too bright, and as he looks around the bedroom all the piss and vinegar just kinda tastes like the shit it is, because… okay, maybe—maybe—he's not completely in the right, here, and maybe his sister had a point. He chews his lip. He hates it when Deanna's right.

The argument was stupid. They always are. Dad's been gone for three weeks of a planned four, and Deanna actually got a job this time, which wasn't the usual but had become more common as Dad started leaving them alone for longer and longer stretches. At twenty she'd developed an impressive resume of an eleventh grade education, three waitressing gigs, a stint at a garage that ended quickly when she'd had to feed the manager his balls for what he'd said into her ear on her second shift, and as many cash-under-the-table quicky jobs as she could get with a winning smile and her wits. Sam got to hear most of the details because the defense of needing to do homework wasn't enough to stop Dee talking his ear off while she vented a day working some crap job and bitching that she wasn't out doing some real work with Dad—and Sam gets, he isn't actually an idiot, that she's worried about Dad and that she's guilty for staying behind and that she doesn't know what to do with herself when both those things are true. He reads books, he watches movies; he gets more than Deanna thinks. Doesn't stop it from being incredibly annoying when she spills all that bitching over onto him, and then because bitching doesn't do anything she starts nagging, like she's not just his sister but his mom—she's working, can't he clean up after himself; she's cooking, can't he do the dishes; she's the only one earning money around here, can't he help?

The bedroom's really—a disaster. They've each got their twin mattresses, shoved against the walls on either side of the room, and it's not like Deanna's side is pristine but Sam's is… he's not sure he noticed it was getting that bad. When was the last time they did laundry? In the kitchen he looks to see if there's still Kool-Aid in the pitcher, and there is, but all the cups are dirty, jumbled in with the mugs in the sink, and—when Dad's here they take turns, regimented, no matter if Deanna's got work or if Sam's got homework—even Dad takes his turn, and Sam can say a lot about his dad but shirking duty's not one Sam can really lay on him—or at least, not this kind of duty, and thinking about it that way's got a weird curdling kind of acid lacing its way through Sam's gut, because—he's mad, but. He's not an asshole. He's—almost certain he's not an asshole. Right?

Four o'clock on a Friday. He has homework. He has all those arguments he put together. Most of them boiling down, if he plays them back, to how life isn't fair. He hugs the cold pitcher against his stomach, looking at the full sink. When he goes to put it back there's a takeout box on the top shelf he didn't notice that says, scrawled in dark pen that bites into the styrofoam, EAT ME. New since that morning. He cracks the lid and finds: club sandwich, pale steak fries, wilty greyish broccoli. The kind of thing Dee would never order. He takes a deep breath and closes the fridge. Okay. Okay.

The rental is from some old lady. Sam didn't meet her but watched Dad talk to her through the windshield while whatever deal got done. Lemon-faced broad, is what Deanna called her, leaning in confidence over the back of the bench seat while Sam tried to pretend he was reading, but the house she was letting them rent for cash was more-or-less furnished, a couch and a TV and plates and a weird carpeted cover on the toilet lid, and in the closet by the kitchen there's stuff people could use to clean. Not that it's been used, much. Sam's never had a lot of opportunity in his life to practice this stuff—the only good thing about motels is that someone else is paid to clean them—but, hey. He reads, he's watched movies. Mrs. Doubtfire had that whole vacuuming scene. It can't be that hard.

*

By nine o'clock Sam's exhausted. The kitchen alone took an hour. The vacuum bag burst, and that's when Sam learned that vacuums took bags, and that's also when Sam learned how to replace one, and got completely covered in a silty fine dust that he thinks might still be in his lungs when he's fifty. He took a break to eat the sandwich and fries and broccoli, all cold and needing salt but if this house has one thing, it's salt, and he was ravenous like he usually only is after a long afternoon of training with Dad clapping his hands, making them go faster and faster. Bathroom was freaking gross, and the trashcan stunk bad from what he realized only too late was tampons in little mummy-wraps of TP, and then he kind of gagged but—blood's blood, right, and it's not like he hasn't seen his share. Tired or not, though—that was the whole point, wasn't it, so: the bedroom, smelling like weeks of undone laundry, and he opens the window on the back wall and—gets to work.

The second good thing about this house: it's only two narrow streets inside the cramped neighborhood, so it's a five-minute walk to the laundromat out on the main road, in the middle of the strip mall between a nail salon and a donut shop. 24-hours with an attendant who barely looks up when Sam comes in dragging two army duffles full of everything he could stuff into the bags, and a machine that spits out quarters in exchange for the crumpled bills in his pocket, and no one else in here, because it's a Friday night, and who's sad enough to be doing the laundry on a Friday night?

He takes over the folding tables in the middle of the silent machines and gets to work. This he has done, because Deanna's given him the rundown: separate whites from colors, jeans & jackets from soft stuff that might get torn, check pockets for money & tissues & bullets. He starts the sheets first, glad at least that Deanna's not doing this—he doesn't need any commentary about crusty cotton, thanks very much—and then it's unzipping both bags, making three horrible piles. Blood on the sleeve of Deanna's blue canvas jacket. Sam's favorite jeans with mud ground into the knees from the fight he got into at school, the other day, which he still hasn’t told Dee about, because he hates the expression she gets when someone's commented on the hot chick who picks him up after school sometimes and wants to know how much she charges. Not the first time, anyway; probably not the last.

He finishes with his own duffle and turns to Deanna's, upending it completely. T-shirts, camisoles, underwear of all kinds. Bras, that he untangles and attaches the hook & eyes, like she showed him, so they won't catch on everything else. Rolled up jeans, and the wad of flannel shirts he'd scooped up from the dirty pile and shoved in, and then, rolling out of a plastic bag like the one Sam uses for his dirty shorts, a plastic clamshell-style box, and when he picks it up he takes a second, tired and staring, before he realizes what he's looking at, and then he drops it with a huge clatter onto the linoleum, loud enough to be heard over the rattling washer, making the attendant glance up over her book, uninterested. "Sorry," Sam says, and she returns to the paperback, and Sam stares at the thing by his feet. Lurid pink against the speckled yellow-grey floor. Absolutely zero way to mistake it for anything but—what it is.

The bell on the door jingles—some lady, backing in with a huge basket in her arms—and Sam stoops quickly and picks up the box and throws it into Dee's duffle. His face is so hot his cheeks are prickling. He wipes his hand over his mouth—is briefly revolted, because he—he touched it, and now he's touching—but the new customer's noticed him, and she smiles briefly in that way people do when they're in the same space and never plan to speak, and he's got to be normal, because this is—normal. He's doing laundry. He shoves loads two and three into their washers and drags the bags off the table so the new lady can do her own sorting, and he decamps to the chairs on the far side of the room from the attendant booth, more or less hidden, where he can see the TV in the corner playing a silent version of The Mask, and he points his face at the TV and watches Jim Carrey make goofy faces and he's being very very calm and casual because he's just a person, doing his laundry, and he's watching a movie that's pretty funny, and he's not thinking about his sister's dildo, tucked into the bag between his feet. At all. Just watch him.

*

Past midnight, when he's walking home. Slight cool breeze that feels good. He keeps flushing, on and off. Over the waiting for the wash cycle and then switching everything over to the dryers and then the hour plus of waiting for that he'd gone through various stages. Gross-out obviously first. But—he did know that Deanna went out with guys, and he'd seen her with guys even, although never—never all the way. But when that dude who'd run the desk at the last motel had had her backed up against the counter with his hand on her ass and his mouth tucked up close under her ear when Sam came in to get a soda from the machine—when Deanna had seen Sam walk in and grabbed the guy's shoulders, warning, and then when a beat passed and she relaxed and was squirming and laughing lightly and saying, hey, Sammy, get me a Crush, would you? I'll get back to the room in a minute—it's not like Sam didn't know what was going on. He reads. He's seen movies. He's seen those kind of movies, too. He's lived with his sister his entire life and he had sex ed at like five different schools now. He jerks off. He does get it. He just didn't expect—it was always kind of—academic. Theory versus practice. But now—

The Impala's parked in front of the house when he turns the corner to their street. Shit. He fumbles for his keys in the porch-light but it turns out not to matter: the door flings open, and Deanna says, "Oh my god, Sammy!"

Sam hefts the bag he'd dropped over his shoulder. "It's Sam," he says, as calmly as he can, and walks in through the clean living room back toward their bedroom with every no-big-deal bone in his body.

It smells better in here, at least. He dumps the bags onto the clean and empty carpet between the mattresses and slings the sack with their sheets on top. Eruption of Fresh Breeze as he drags out the wad of cotton, still warm. Two top sheets, two pillowcases, two of the thin filler blankets they stole from motels a five years and who knows how many miles ago, and he's splitting them between the two halves of the room when there's an ostentatious throat-clearing behind him, and he bites his lip hard, and turns around with the blankets still in his arms, and Deanna's leaning in the doorway, giving him a look like he's some alien species she's never seen before.

"So," she says.

Sam shrugs. "So?"

She raises her eyebrows, looking exaggeratedly around the bedroom. He hasn't seen her since this morning, since he slammed the door the first time, and she looks—like she always does, pretty much. Messy ponytail, a lot of eyeliner, purple plaid shirt tied up under her boobs because she says it gets better tips at the bar, and if anyone would know it's her. She's holding a beer, dangling lazy against her thigh, and she taps a nail against the glass one-two-three times before she meets Sam's eyes again, squinting a little. "Did you get replaced by a pod-person?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "No."

"Shapeshifter? Some kind of, I don't know, djinn wish freak where the dishes get done but I'm gonna get all my blood sucked out before Monday?"

Sam drops her green blanket on her bed, flush crawling from his throat to his ears. "No."

"Okay, cool," Deanna says, and then when Sam looks up at her she's smiling, crooked, in that way where she's kind of sweet and kind of sorry and kind of making fun of him, all at once. That smile where she's just—his sister, annoying and comforting in equal measure. "You ate, right?" He nods, thinking: eat me. Deanna's smile angles, making a dimple peek into one cheek, and she tips her head. "Bet you could eat again, huh?"

Sam's stomach twinges. Dee and Dad say he's going through a growth spurt; the only way he notices is that he's starving, half the time. "I guess," he says, shrugging.

Deanna rolls her eyes but she's not mad. "He guesses," she says, and comes forward, and grabs Sam's wrist while he's trying to shake out a pillowcase, warm, tugging. "C'mon, short stuff. Walt sent me home with the manager meal. Might as well make sure it goes to a good cause."

In short order he's pushed down at the kitchen table, another styrofoam box in front of him. Burger, more fries. He takes the burger—he is hungry—but swivels the box her way, and she sits across from him, eating fries one at a time, the corners of her mouth tipped soft. Easier than he's seen her since Dad left. The burger's cold but it's not the first time he's had a cold burger; he wolfs it down, avoiding her eyes, and she finishes her beer and then gets up and brings back two, uncapped, pushing the other right in front of him.

He wipes the back of his mouth with his wrist. "Dee," he says, careful.

"You earned it," she says, and holds out her bottle, neck first. Not like he gets to drink with them much but he knows this part—he clinks the necks together, clumsy, and drinks at the same time as her. Bitter and kind of gross as always, but she smiles at him again when she lowers her bottle. "Hell. Who even knew the carpet was that color?"

The argument's completely dissolved. Maybe she won; Sam doesn't care at this point. "I'm not sure old lady Franken remembers it's this color," he says, and Deanna sniggers, and takes another sip of her beer, and then leans over the table and tucks her hand into his hair and kisses him on the forehead, so abrupt that Sam just freezes and lets it happen, even if he's been too old for her to do that kind of thing since—well, since—forever. The amulet he gave her swings forward between them, gleaming.

Dee tugs his hair, just slightly, at the nape of his neck. "Thanks, Sammy," she says, quiet, and it's the apology they won't say out loud, soft between them. She touches his jaw, quick, and straightens up, and says, "Bar was extra greasy today, somehow. I'm taking a shower. Don't drink the rest of the beer without me, huh?"

"As if," Sam says, and she ruffles his hair back—this time he does duck out of the way, scoffing—and then she disappears into the bathroom, and he's left with the last few bites of burger and this warm feeling all through him, from his belly all the way up to the flush in his cheeks, because—Deanna's annoying, frustrating, too demanding and too invasive and too much, all the time, but—ever since he can remember, this is how it's been. When she's happy, and when she's proud of him, and there's this answer in his chest. Like it's a Michigan winter and he's freezing to death, but then he gets into the Impala and the heater's on full and he holds his hands up to the vents and there's that prickling, tingling thaw that means—home safe.

He makes the beds, as much as possible. Cases on each of their pillows, thin blankets smoothed somewhat into place. They're lucky it's April, and luckier that they're in Louisville and not Bismarck; mostly it's Sam who's lucky, because he doesn't exactly mind camping in the cold but Deanna bitches absolutely nonstop, out loud if they're alone and under her breath if Dad's nearby or, somehow, Sam's convinced, using some kind of psychic brain powers when Dad's right there with them so that even if she's not saying anything out loud Sam can hear every single thought she's having about cold toes or fingers or freezing my frickin' tits off. How would that even work, Sam has said, and she's just huddled closer to the fire and flat-out pouted. It's sort of cute. In a deeply annoying way.

He's unpacking their duffle bags when the shower turns off. He thought she'd be slower. The tile in here's even kinda white now! comes echoing through the mostly-closed door and around the corner into the bedroom, and she sounds genuinely delighted. Sam bites his lip, setting his stack of jeans next to the pile of his folded shirts. He's worked his way around to her side of the room and is making more stacks—her jeans and cut-off shorts, her jackets, the more complicated pile of her tops—when she leans into the bedroom, and he looks up to find her—towel wrapped around under her armpits, legs bare and gleaming, wet hair clipped behind her head, amulet cord shiny-black around her neck. "Dude, you aren't careful, I'm gonna get used to this," she says, crooked smile firmly in place. "It's gonna turn into the adventures of rockin' Deanna Winchester and her butler baby bro."

"Fat chance," Sam says, which does come out a little thin when he's laying out her clean bras on the freshly vacuumed carpet. She raises her eyebrows, looking between the clothes piles and his face, grin getting bigger, and Sam shrugs. "It stunk in here, okay? I do have a nose that works."

"Well, we know who the culprit was there," she says, and disappears for a second—back, before he's finished pairing her boot-socks—and hands him his discarded beer from the kitchen, and crouches down next to him, smiling soft at the clean clothes. "So, full-service Sammy—" ignoring Sam's scoff— "Are there any clean pjs in here, or do I gotta sleep in my altogether?"

"Ew," Sam says, firmly, and Deanna wrinkles her nose at him, making fun. He hands the beer back, ignoring in his turn how she promptly steals a swallow, and unzips her bag further. Not like she's got a fancy matched set like people in movies; she mostly sleeps in Sam's old D.A.R.E. shirt he got in middle school that would've fit a linebacker better than an eleven year-old, and a pair of Dad's old boxer briefs, which Sam finds honestly weird but Dee claims they're the softest things ever and, well, Sam has now folded them, and they're… pretty soft. But still. They're past the pile of her folded underwear, which he hands out to her, and under the—oh. Right.

He doesn't look up when he pulls out the plastic bag with the dildo. "Here," he says, holding the clothes over to his left where she's crouched. She doesn't move and he waggles them. "C'mon. I don't need to see any more naked sister than I have already."

To his credit, he manages to sound like he mostly has his crap together. Dee pulls the pjs out of his hand, slowly. He wraps the plastic bag more securely around the clamshell box and tucks it into a space between her boots and her jeans, and with that her duffle's pretty much empty, other than the little zip-bag with her tampons and pads and condoms. Like Dad taught them, he rolls the duffle up into a tight burrito that can get tucked neatly in with everything else, and with that he's done. House is clean.

"Okay," Deanna mutters. "Awkward."

Sam's mostly been able to ignore how hot his cheeks feel. He shrugs, standing up, and Deanna stays hunched there on the ground, her arms folded over her chest holding onto her pajamas and holding the towel in place, grimacing. "Not like it's nothing I haven't seen," Sam says.

Deanna frowns at him. "You're fifteen."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Sixteen," he says. "In, like. Three weeks. Come on, I know what a dildo is. Didn't you call that last werewolf one? He got super mad, too."

Furious, actually, enough to charge like an idiot out of cover at the pretty girl mocking him, bait dancing out in the open, which meant that Dad, waiting with Sam behind the cover of the trees, could shoot him in the heart. The blood spatter hit Dee's face and she spat it out right onto the corpse, and called him something else Sam couldn't hear.

"That was pretty funny," Deanna says, now. Her ears are pink. "Still. Didn't mean for you to, um. You know."

"Maybe now you won't ask me to do laundry," Sam says, and makes his tone all sweet and hopeful like a little kid.

Deanna makes a really strange face, hesitating, and Sam can't hold onto it before he starts sniggering. She stands up, finally, rolling her eyes. "Dork," she says. Blushing, still, which is pretty rare for his sister, but at least she's not freaking out. "Fine. Grown-up Sammy, knows all about dildos. Guess that means I don't need to give you the advanced sex talk, huh?"

"Can't be any worse than the last one you gave me," Sam says, which on second thought might be the last time he was this embarrassed, and she snorts, her eyes drifting down, away. Still pink. All scrubbed clean like this she looks different—no eyeliner, her skin shining soft. Freckles all over her cheekbones and nose and her curved-in shoulders. A loop of hair's curling at her neck and Sam reaches out, tugs it—not hard, but enough that she blinks, looks up at him. "No big deal. Swear."

She looks up into his eyes. Her lower lip sucks in and drags out slow through her teeth, shining wet. Something warm curls in Sam's gut and swoops high up into his chest and then plummets straight down. He catches his breath. "No biggie," Deanna says, while Sam's still trying to reorient himself, and she gives him a one-sided smile. She turns back toward the bathroom, says over her shoulder, "Hey, I think they're playing Evil Dead on the movie channel tonight. You make the popcorn and I'll braid your hair."

"Ha," Sam says, watching her bare leg disappear around the corner, and he holds his knuckles to his cheek, feels how hot it is. The bag sits on the floor, inert. He stares at it, thinking—stuff he shouldn't be thinking—and then reaches up and yanks the chain so the bare bulb winks out. He's left in the dark, the fan turning slowly overhead.

*

They sleep in on Saturdays. Meaning, mostly, Deanna sleeps in on Saturdays, because as far as Sam can tell, given the opportunity, she goes into a coma. In the quiet of the house Sam does most of his homework. Sophomores at this school do geometry for some reason and it's kiddie stuff but it means he can blast through the assigned problems for Monday and Tuesday and the extra credit, too, before he gets through his first cup of coffee; world history is going over the creation and spread of Christianity, and he has to fill out a worksheet on important dates and leaders in the Roman Empire at the turn from BC to AD; in health they're studying the reproductive system, and again this is stuff he pretty much already knows, but it's at least kinda interesting to see how the egg cell is about the size of the period at the end of the sentence. He's put his fingernail there, comparing, when Deanna wanders out of the bedroom, yawning. 10:30, according to Sam's watch. Not even close to her record.

"Hey, short stuff," she says, blurry. Makes a happy noise when she finds the coffee made. Sam's filling out another worksheet—the bilateral conduits between ovary and uterus are called fallopian tubes, he writes carefully—when she wraps an arm loosely around his neck, a kiss mushed against his hair. A boob squishes against his shoulder. "Hm. Nerd o'clock?"

Sam goes tch, barely paying attention. He's nearly done with this page, and then it's just the chapters they've got to read for English.

"Ooh, sexy," Dee says. She taps her nail on the cross-section of the female body in the textbook, on the breast diagram with its layers of nipple and fat and milk ducts neatly labeled. "No shame, but c'mon, porn at the table? Rude, Sammy."

"Dude," Sam says, lifting his head, and she snickers and lets him go, slumping into the chair across the table. Her bun's all messed up from sleep, crust still at the corners of her eyes. Holding the weird chipped mug that says KENSUCKY in both hands under her chin, apparently trying to inhale caffeine through the steam. Kinda gross but all soft and relaxed. Not a bad way to start a Saturday. "You got a shift today?"

She groans, takes a slurpy sip from the mug. Wrinkles her nose. "Blah," she says, sticking out her tongue. Sam rolls his eyes. If she refuses to put milk in that's her own problem. "Four to close, same as yesterday." Sam checks his watch again and she raises her eyebrows. "That work for your schedule, boss?"

"I have to meet Noelle at the library at two."

Deanna actually focuses, finally. "Noelle?"

"From English," Sam says. At the continued blank look he sighs. "She's my partner for the Shakespeare project. I told you about that."

"Oh, right," Deanna says, dragging it out. Her mouth curves, in that way that broadcasts to space that Sam's about to be made fun of. "No-elle."

Sam waves his hand. "Okay, get it out."

"No, no," Deanna says, grinning. "I think it's great that the two of you are so focused on your education." Like a dirty word. She slurps at her coffee again, annoyingly loud while making big eyes at Sam over the rim, and splutter-snorts at whatever expression Sam makes. "Relax, dweebus. I'll give you a ride over there. Walt's been on my ass about being late, though, so if the hot Shakespearean action keeps going past like 3:30 you gotta find your own way home."

"Thank you, Deanna," Sam says, perfectly polite, and she mouths it back at him purely to be annoying.

Quiet then, though. She drinks her coffee; he fills out his worksheet. She eats a bowl of cereal and watches whatever's coming through on the rabbit-ears—Seinfeld rerun, sounds like—and Sam reads another fifty pages of The Age of Innocence, and he's bored to death but they're going to have essay questions on it next week, so. She gets up to wash dishes—not such an imposition now that it's just two mugs and two cereal bowls—and touches Sam's shoulder as she goes, just—checking in, basically, clearly not even thinking about it on her way to the sink, but it's a soft little warm thing that goes through Sam's t-shirt and through his skin down into his chest, because Dee just—she really has been pissed off, this last week, and he didn't realize until last night how much she doesn't touch him, when she's mad. He didn't know how much he missed it.

Dee goes out to mess around with the Impala, doing… whatever it is she does when she's got time to kill and an engine under her hands, and Sam ends up finishing the book for English. The writing isn't his favorite but he got caught up in the plot. It's… depressing, to say the least. All these people, doing what they're expected to, and all of them worse off for it.

He vents this to Deanna, sitting on the toilet while she's doing her make-up for work. Newland's a coward and Ellen got cold feet and May's boring and why didn't any of them just—do what they wanted?

Deanna finishes her eyeliner, leaning back to look at the effect. "But didn't New-guy knock up May?" She catches his eye in the mirror; he shrugs, already seeing the point she's going to make but still annoyed at the fictional idiots. "I don't know. I mean, it sucks, but—you gotta do what you gotta do. It was like medieval times or whatever, right, so it's not like anyone was being smart about babies."

"It wasn't medieval times," Sam says, and Deanna shrugs, in her turn. She ties up her hair, like she usually does on civilian days: ponytail, bangs falling around her face that she tucks behind her ears. He watches her swipe on a layer of lip gloss, feeling mulish. "Seriously. All he had to do was—go talk to Ellen, sack up."

That gets him raised eyebrows in the mirror. Like Dee isn't gross or cussing or whatever, all the time. She smacks her lips, makes an O of them, staring down her reflection. "Sounds to me like he sacked up, but it was for the kid, not some random broad," she says, but like she's barely paying attention. "You wouldn't like him any better if he were some deadbeat dad."

She goes all heavy-lidded at herself, makes kissy-face. Model-pretty, his sister. Smart, too—sometimes, Sam thinks. Rarely. Another look, backwards in the mirror, lips parted and her face set like she's in one of those Calvin Klein perfume ads, sexy for no reason. "Good?" she says, breathy.

She's wearing the thin dark green henley unbuttoned as far as it'll go, her amulet resting in the split and the inside curves of her black bra showing on either side of it, and those jeans that sit so low on her hips that there's two inches of creamy-white stomach peeking out, her silver ring heavy on her thumb and those little silver studs in her ears and her face just—her face. All she ever needs. "If you're into that kind of thing," Sam says, dismissive.

All the model-sexy collapses and she snorts, grinning. "You're such a sweetheart," she says, and swivels away from the mirror, smacking her hands against her hips. "So—are we going, or what?"

"Or what," Sam says, outraged, sitting up straight. "I was waiting for you—"

Deanna drops him right in front of the library, a minute to two. "Phone charged?" she says. Sam sighs, gathering his backpack. "Yeah, yeah. I'm going to the Checker, and then I'm gonna swing by the discount mart for some groceries—you want anything? It's gotta sit in the car."

"Just no more peanut butter," Sam says. Pleads, more like. He's eaten his weight Peter Pan this past month.

"Starving kids in Ethiopia or wherever would kill for that peanut butter, you know," Deanna says, but she just swats his hip. "Go on. Miss Noelle ain't gonna wait forever."

Sam sighs, again, but Dee's checking the wing mirror to pull out, not paying attention, and so he piles out onto the sidewalk, swinging his backpack over his shoulder, engaging with the normal world. "Make sure she's really into it before you try for second base, tiger," Deanna says, leaning over the bench seat, and Sam says, "Oh my god, leave already," and slams the door, and Dee grins wide at him with her tongue between her teeth before the engine throttles up and the car leaps away, too fast through the sedate Saturday afternoon parking lot, making too much noise, just too—everything. He watches it go, face hot, and then closes his eyes and tips his chin up, feeling the springy breeze and remembering that—okay, there are people in the world who are not his family, who are totally normal, and one of them is—oh, waving, through the glass doors of the library, and Sam packs everything that is weird and Winchester down and away and waves back, trotting along the sidewalk and up the steps to meet Noelle, who smiles at him broad and then shy, and Sam can do this. Sam's good at this.

*

When she comes to pick Noelle up, Mrs. Cooper offers to give Sam a ride home, too. She has a blue minivan, with a little boy strapped into a carseat on the middle bench, giving Sam a sticky and curious look while Noelle stows her bag. "No, thank you, ma'am," Sam says. Actually-polite, not the voice he used on Dee earlier. "My mom's on her way."

"All right, sugar," Mrs. Cooper says, and Noelle waves from the passenger seat as they move sedately out into the neighborhood. Mrs. Cooper has a faded bumper sticker that says her child is an Honors Student at Jefferson County Middle. Sam tries to imagine the Impala with something like that and snorts out loud, then feels bad for it, even if no one's around to hear, or even know what he's thinking. Mrs. Cooper seems nice. Noelle's nice. It's all just—nice.

He gets to the basically-a-dive where Deanna works at half-past six. Marv's, says the flickery neon sign, though Sam has no idea who Marv is, and it's the kind of place that has windows but they're made of block glass, impossible to see through, and the door has iron security bars over the front. Not somewhere the Coopers visit, probably.

About half-full, when Sam comes through the door. In about a quarter second he takes in: jukebox playing Styx, yuck; cigarette smoke in the air; a couple guys playing darts, laughing loud, already kind of drunk, hopefully won't be a problem. Deanna's behind the bar, leaning on her elbows, talking to two guys, smiling like she's really interested, but she catches Sam's eye for a split second and tips her head toward the back. He goes where he's pointed: the tiny two-seater booth right by the kitchen doors, where he's already spent hours doing homework even if Dee's only had the job three weeks. Marv's is a pit but it's better than being home alone. Sometimes.

He's deep in his fresh-from-the-library copy of Helter Skelter when there's a tickly-shivery drag of fingers at the back of his neck, rucking his hair up, and he jumps. "Great situational awareness, kiddo," Deanna says, while he shudders, and sets a Coke in front of him. She drops down into the other side of the booth, raising her eyebrows. "You and books. Seriously, I think a ghoul could've snacked on your innards just now."

"If a ghoul's in the bar then we've got bigger problems," Sam says, and she huffs. She looks back out over the bar, eyes going from table to table. Like there's actually a ghoul, and not just people drinking the daylight away. "You still working until midnight?"

"Unless a handsome prince comes and steals me away," she says. Her eyes slide sidelong to him. "You got a chariot out there you haven't told me about?"

"Not yet," Sam says.

She smiles at him, and then the door opens again—another two guys, biker-looking, who probably will appreciate flirty service from a pretty girl, and who hopefully will tip well, since that's the whole point of this stupid gig. Deanna bites the tip of her tongue and takes a deep breath, and stands up. "I'll get Carlos to make you something—what, sandwich, burger?"

"Chicken strips?" Sam says, and she nods and says, "Don't disappear into the book, Poindexter," and then she's behind the bar again, smiling warm and wide at the two new guys, and in a gap between songs on the jukebox Sam hears her say, "Hey, fellas," sweet as pie, and they smile back at her like it's a compulsion, because that's what Dee does to guys. It's only Sam, he's pretty sure, who knows the difference between the smile these guys are getting and the one he just got. It's a subtle difference, but—it's different.

He has his dinner, and tucked into the back here he does get to watch the bar, between sections of his book. Deanna's good at this, like she's good at practically everything: engines and crossbows and classic rock and figuring out what Dad wants before he even says it, and sometimes before he thinks it, as far as Sam can tell. Seems like that last skill extends to here. Saturday night and it gets busier, although no one looks to steal Sam's table. Wendy the waitress comes in for her shift, but Sam can see that it's Dee the guys want to talk to, who they wait for, whose attention they drink up, as much as the beer. Sam goes to doctor the jukebox at one point, slotting in his quarters for the Led Zeppelin songs he's heard least if he can't get anything actually from this decade, and when he turns around Deanna's at one of the four-tops in the middle of the room, the yellow-and-blue beer sign neon shining bright on her hair, and she's leaning on the back of one guy's chair while another one's telling some joke, from their faces—Deanna laughs, on cue, bright over the music—and Sam can see, through the tables, how the guy's hand is curled around the inside of her thigh, his thumb sliding up the inseam of her jeans while she leans in, close, and that weird thing swoops through his gut again. Queasy and hot, in what ratio he can't decide.

It's a long night, torn between bored and tense. Walt appears from the back where he does nothing, as far as Sam can tell, and frowns at Sam, but Deanna catches his attention and asks some question about the POS Sam can't hear and Walt's face melts into soppy butter. It's honestly embarrassing. A minute of that and Deanna has to move off to get refills for the biker guys at the bar, and Walt pats her hip when she goes. Her hip, not her ass. It makes a difference, but how much of one Sam doesn't know.

Kitchen closes at eleven; last call at half past; and by midnight there are just a few guys that have to be ushered out. When Wendy closes and locks the front door Deanna bends over and buries her head in her folded arms on the bartop. Sam closes his book—he's nearly done, just from trying his best not to pay attention to the customers, no matter what Dee said—and brings his cup up to the bar himself. "Thanks, sweetie," Wendy says—she's like thirty, Sam wishes she wouldn't talk to him like he's her kid—and then she says, to Dee, "Thought Ty was gonna try to order off-menu by the end, there. Might've gotten you a big tip." Kinda smirky, the way she says it, though Sam doesn't know why.

Deanna levers upright, unfolding like a push-up, and gives Wendy the same kind of smile she was giving the guys, earlier. "Walt's going to need help with inventory," she says. Her mouth tips, fake-sorry. "I was gonna stay, but my kid brother's here, you know, and Walt said I better get him home safe." Wendy's expression goes kind of still, kind of murderous, but Deanna just lifts a shoulder and then says, "Got your bag, Sammy?" and when he nods she says, sweet, "Have a great night, 'kay?"

Outside it's cool but not cold, butts ashed all over the sidewalk. "Bitch," Deanna mutters, while the neon OPEN sign flickers out over the not-really-a-window. Sam's smart enough not to say anything. Dee takes a deep, deep breath, blows it slow with her chin tipped up at the night sky. Not a lot of stars, in the city. Sam rocks back on his heels, thumbs hooked into his backpack straps. Kinda smells like pee out here. There are worse places to wait.

Finally, Deanna: "Okay," she says, and tips her head toward him. "You ate, right?" He nods. "Okay," she says, again, and shrugs both shoulders, like she's dropping a bag she's not carrying. "Let's roll."

Tapedeck comes on super loud—the Stones, which isn't as bad as it could be—but Deanna cranks it down, letting them drive in relative quiet back out to the dumpy neighborhood with their rental. "Your project go okay?" she says, and it's kind of absent but she's also actually asking, so Sam says, "Yeah, we're doing this like—compare and contrast thing, Romeo and Juliet vs Hamlet," and Deanna gives him this sidelong look across the bench seat and says, "Isn't that the one where those teenagers bang and kill each other?" and Sam opens his mouth, not quite sure how to correct everything wrong with that question, before they pass under a streetlight and he sees that Deanna's got one of those teasing dimples tucked up into her cheek. "Pretty much," Sam says, instead, and Dee laughs, softly. "Hot stuff," she says. At a stoplight with no one else around for apparent miles she tugs the tie out her hair, and it falls in a wavy mass over her shoulder, and she makes this little noise like that's a weight come down, too. Sam sucks the inside of his cheek, watching her, not trying to pretend he isn't. Her wrist, loose and soft on top of the steering wheel. He wants to put her in some other life. Like that's an option.

At home—rather, back at the rental house—she tugs her boots off in the bedroom and then, glancing at Sam, tucks them into the line of her neatly-laid out clothes. She peels her henley over her head and tosses it into the corner—a new dirty clothes pile, but at least it's fresh instead of moldering weeks old—and pulls the D.A.R.E. shirt on, and while Sam's sitting on his mattress, pulling off his sneakers, she undoes her belt and shucks her jeans off, right there, so Sam gets a flash of purple underwear before the shirt falls down around her hips and there's just a mile of white thigh. "I want an entire chocolate cake," she says, peeling off one sock at a time. "Like. Triple layer, fudge frosting, those fancy, you know, rosette things. That and a fork."

"Um," Sam says. She drags her hands through her hair, cracking her neck side to side. "I think there are M&Ms you didn't eat in the kitchen?"

Deanna snorts. "That'll work," she says, and then squints at him, one-eyed. "You going to bed?"

Sam shrugs. She looks tired-but-not, loose and on edge. "You staying up?"

"Well, yeah," she says, like it's obvious. Smile spooling out, somewhere between the smile Sam usually gets and the ones those guys at the bar do. "I got these M&Ms to crush, I hear. If there's no cake."

Late night TV always sucks. They end up on the movie channel, like always, and it's—ugh, that terrible Street Fighter movie, but Dee throws down the controller and grins and says, "Perfect," and darts over to the kitchen quick and returns with: yes, the family-size bag of M&Ms, but also two beers, one of which is for Sam, again. He takes it, feeling weird—since when is he included in the list of grown-ups in the family?—but then Dee plops down into her corner of the couch and tucks her toes under Sam's thigh, and tugs the candy bag closer to her telling Sam that if he wanted some, he should've been smart enough to buy his own, and that feels more normal. He leans his elbow on his side of the couch and Deanna slouches into hers, bare legs gleaming in the TV-light. Van Damme is so bad in this movie. "Bite your tongue," Deanna says, wiggling her cold toes under his thigh, and Sam sighs, and drinks his beer, getting slowly used to the taste, and ignores Dee while she wrangles her bra off under his shirt and drapes it over the couch back, smooth black satin gleaming in the TV-light. He sort of watches the movie but mostly he listens to Deanna's commentary, and how Raul Julia is the best, and if they hit the arcade she bets she could beat his ass with Chun Li, and he's kinda warm and kinda nervous and kinda bored and kinda glad, all at once, but even with all that he does fall asleep at some point before the movie's over, because he wakes up when Dee's pulling the empty bottle out of his hand, careful and quiet. The TV's off. He hears her feet pad away, over the carpet, and then she's back, tucking something—his coat—around his shoulders, like a blanket.

He keeps his eyes closed, keeps his breathing soft. He gets to feel her swipe his bangs back, tucking his hair behind his ear, and then there's her fingers on his jaw, and then—a kiss, very soft, against his cheekbone. Her lips are warm. When he falls back asleep he dreams they're in the car, sleeping together in the backseat—the bench magically big enough to hold both of them end to end and side by side, like it hasn't been since Sam was like eight years old—and he's spooned around her, his arm over her waist and his nose in her hair, and her ass round and soft pressed up against him. His hand goes between her legs and feels that hard ridge of denim inseam, prickling painful against his fingers like it's the edge of a saw, or rose thorns, and it hurts but he keeps dragging his fingers up, light gleaming all over the back of the seat electric blue-and-yellow and making it so that when she turns her head, and stares at him, he can see the exact look on her face, but when he jolts awake in the pre-dawn light, breathing hard and sitting up straight and pushing a hand against his aching dick, he can't remember what the expression was.

*

Deanna wakes up when her phone rings. Sam's lying on his back with his arms folded over his face, breathing in and out very evenly, and gets to hear the whole thing. A muffled fuck and then the fabricky scramble through her discarded jeans, and then the phone flipping open, and then: "Dad?"

Who else would it be, Sam thinks.

His hair's wet and sogging out the pillow but he doesn't want to move. It was a very long and very hot shower and he scrubbed clean until his skin and hair squeaked. That didn't make anything go away but at least he couldn't smell beery cigarette smoke on his skin anymore. Not nothing. He turns his head and past the shadow of his arm Deanna's sitting up on her mattress, bare legs tucked beneath her, shoulders curved up around the phone like a girl from a movie whispering to her crush. The morning's coming through the blinds in clear white, striping her thigh, all the way to where Sam's shirt is rucked over her hip and her underwear's showing, alternate lines of dark and vivid purple. Creamy skin above that.

"Yeah, of course," Deanna says, while Sam's closing his eyes very tight. Weird purple bursts against the inside of the lids. Can't escape, apparently. "You need—?"

She's cut off. Little affirmative sounds while she listens. Sam takes another one of those deep breaths but jerking off in the shower apparently wasn't enough from how everything south of his navel seems to be on high alert. He folds his arms over his ribs instead, thinking tactically—he's got the blanket over his waist but if Dee goes to the bathroom he can change from his pajama shorts to his jeans, and maybe go for a walk or something, or read the Manson book to calm down, or—something—and when he looks again Deanna's shifted around, too, her back to the wall, her knees pulled up, shadows between them. Her lower lip sucked between her teeth. "Yeah," she says, soft. "'Kay. Be safe."

The phone's closed against the angle of her jaw, and she holds it there with her knuckles against her lips for a little while, eyes low, playing with her amulet with the other hand. "So?" Sam says, like he's not having an alternate crisis.

Her eyelashes dip, and then she leans forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Another week." She shrugs, like what can you do, except when has Deanna ever been casual about Dad gone on a solo job for weeks on end. An answering sourness crawls down Sam's throat to his stomach—that what if that's there whenever Dad's gone, but then again it happens when Dad's here, too. At least it takes care of the other problem, and as soon as Sam realizes there's a weird horrible mix of relief and shame that dumps over his head, like a prank bucket of shitty paint.

Luckily Deanna can't see it: she takes a deep breath and leans forward, her knees spreading out in a butterfly, grinning. "Means we still get to pick what to watch at night, huh?"

"You're joking," Sam says. If she wants to pretend to be casual, Sam can too. "I never get to pick."

"Aww," Deanna coos. "Little brother problems. I think they got a column for that in Highlights for Kids, you should write in."

Sam throws his pillow at her and she catches it, sniggering. More real than the grin before. "All right, whatever," she says, and unfolds from the mattress, stretching tall with the pillow held high overhead—Sam cuts his eyes away, in self-defense—and then hops the six inches down to the carpet, sighing. "Day off. Let's get some work done, huh?"

*

Bar's closed on Sunday. Marv's religious. Go figure. "I was gonna do laundry today," Deanna says, making the coffee, and she sends a sidelong conspiratorial glance over her shoulder, and Sam feels himself flush, collarbones to hairline. Luckily she's focused on grounds and filter and fishing her KENSUCKY mug out of the drainer, so he doesn't get ragged on for it. Deanna would be happier if he did the housework stuff more often; he's not sure he can take the intensity of her gratitude. It's just embarrassing, aside from everything else.

He's sent to get the groceries out of the trunk from Dee's trip yesterday: bread, ramen, condensed tomato soup, rice, strawberry jelly, 24-pack of beer, canned green beans. He holds up a can while she's sipping her coffee, raising his eyebrows, and she shrugs. "You said no peanut butter," she says, and, well. Sam did say that. Breakfast is generic-brand Eggos that she pops into the toaster and that get smeared with jelly, and she leans against the couch eating hers while watching the local news, watching with a professional eye for anything officially weird—nothing; as far as Sam can tell nothing interesting has ever happened in Louisville, ever—and Sam watches her. Her knee turns in, her thigh flexing. Toes painted blue. She sucks jelly off her thumb, eyes heavy on the TV, and Sam—oh, goddamn it. He sits up very straight at the table, tries the trick a kid at the last high school taught him: flexing his thighs, hard and quick, trying to redirect bloodflow. Sometimes he wishes he was born a girl. At least then it wouldn't be so obvious.

"Ugh," Dee says. Sam's eyes fly open but she's just shaking her head at the television, going to commercial. "Seriously, they can't get one cattle mutilation?"

"Super lame," Sam says. Kind of breathy. Deanna doesn't seem to notice. She scratches her thigh, absent, and drains the last of her coffee, and sighs. Tongue swipe along her bottom lip. Jeez-us.

"Guess we don't have a choice," she says, and tips her head at Sam. Pursed lips, apologetic. "You know what that means."

"What does it mean?" Sam says, and she wrinkles her nose, and he does get it, finally. "Aw, no—"

"Aw, yes," Deanna says, and ruffles his hair back on her way to the sink. "C'mon, kiddo, I don't like it any more than you do."

"So we could not, right?" Sam tries.

Obviously not: Deanna shakes her head, rinsing her mug. "Meet at the car in ten, soldier," she says, while he bangs his head against the table. "And if you're not in the bathroom in thirty seconds then I've got dibs."

He gets up, goes. Isn't shy about slamming the bathroom door when he does. In the mirror his hair's all screwed up and he's pink in the face and he's scowling. "Shut up," he says, to his reflection, and hustles.

*

Sam doesn't actually mind PT. He likes running, which is super lame after all the years of bitching about it—and there is absolutely zero chance he'll ever admit to Dad that he does—but there's something kind of satisfying about getting to the end of five miles and feeling that blood-rush through every part of his body, thighs humming and lungs working hard and his head clear.

That Deanna hates it is icing on the cake. "Can't the monsters just run to me," she pants, hands on her knees.

"Don't you wanna be the one doing the chasing instead of being chased?" Sam says, stretching his quads.

Deanna gives him a baleful look through her hair. He grins at her and she gives him the finger.

They're out in the woods, since Deanna drove them way out past the edge of the city. Better for the next part, but also good practice. They spend a lot more time sprinting at midnight between tree-trunks and leaping over rabbit-holes than they do on nice smooth high school tracks. Sweat's sticking Sam's shirt to his back but it's a pretty spring day, new leaves all over the trees and wildflowers coming up, white and yellow and pink.

"Ugh," Dee says, while Sam's feeling relatively at peace with the world. She redoes her ponytail, higher and tighter, although the choppy layers around her face don't quite make it. What passes for her PT gear are cut-off denim shorts, a grey camisole with a bloodstain making it unsuitable for the public (though it's not her own blood, which she insists counts for something), and a bright blue sports bra that she cusses at every time she wrestles herself into it. Better than bouncing, she says, and Sam figures he's got to believe it. She tucks her amulet behind the line of the bra and nods, and then says, "Okay," and levels a look at Sam. "Come at me, punk."

"Wait—" Sam says, backing up a step. "I thought we were shooting. Aren't we shooting?"

"Can do that too," Deanna says. She starts to move to the side, gearing up to circle him, and he rotates to face her, hands up. "But your grapple's kinda sloppy. Gotta keep you ship-shape."

Her eyes are tracking the important points—his hands, his feet, how his torso's turned—all the stuff they've used in wrestling, practically as far back as Sam can remember—but he hasn't often been this alarmed, not like now, all the sunny springtime peace of the run draining out to leave him nearly panicked. "This is dumb," he tries, continuing to back up, letting her pace him backwards.

"This is important," Deanna says, patient, like they haven't had the same argument fifty times. "Anyway, it's for me as much as you. You don't want me to be ship-shape, too?"

"Cute," Sam says, and Deanna smiles at him—really smiles, not one of those mocking sugary ones—and he catches his breath and says, "Dee," not knowing how he's gonna get out of it, and then his back hits a tree, his head clonking back against the bark, and she says, "Gotcha," and darts in.

He blocks the first punch, takes the second to the ribs. "Fuck!" he says, shoving, and she dances back, grinning at him, her boots kicking up the leaf-litter and moving easy over the uneven ground.

"Gotta think fast, little brother," she says, and hops in to aim a shot at his face—he ducks, and slaps her side as hard as he can with an open hand—connects, and she lets out this quick little noise, but that left him open for another punch to the chest, her knuckles right on his breastbone, pushing the breath out of him. He slaps at her again, wild, and she leans back and then dives right back in, making him block at shoulder and waist and jaw, dancing quick, light on her feet even in the clunky boots, making him work for it.

They don't swing as hard as they can but they don't pull back much. Dee's faster, Sam's stronger; Dee's better, but Sam's not bad, and they block each other's hits way more than they actually connect. When they started doing this Sam was nine and Dee was thirteen, and it didn't seem fair at all because she was like a foot taller than him, bigger and older and better at everything, but Dad said that was the point: making Sam catch up, grow up, get strong, and giving Deanna the chance to practice with someone who wouldn't really hurt her, especially then.

With all these years of practice they know each other's tells, even if they're also supposed to practice hiding those. Sam lands another slap on her hip and takes a soft-ish punch to the gut as punishment; she lunges for his leg and he catches her arm and uses her momentum to throw her around, stumbling back through the loam, panting. He could've gotten her there and didn't. They both know it—she frowns at him, chest heaving, and comes around to his left, circling, hands held loose and ready. Coming up on the end—if they're not going to really hurt each other, there's usually just the one end—and Sam knows where the trees are in the clearing now, avoids getting boxed in, waiting.

Deanna charges, aiming for his shoulder. He braces—and then, no, her eyes dart down—he swivels on his right leg, reaches for her forearm when she goes to grab his knee—pulls her in, close, and she cusses even as he yanks her around, stumbling, and shoves her chest-first into the nearest trunk, using his weight and height, her arm twisted behind her back between them, his chest and hips and legs crushed up against hers, stilling her, subduing.

"I win," he says, panting.

"Shit." Burst out, bitten. She strains, flexing and pushing back, but he's got thirty pounds on her and once they're grappled there's no way. Her arm twists in his grip but he keeps her still, fingers tight, making sure she gets it. Her head drops against the bark, a long sigh gusting out, her shoulder slumping soft, and that's when Sam feels past the adrenaline rush the warm-soft length of her body, her vanilla shampoo and the sweat at the back of her neck rising in his head, his hips pressed up against her ass, his stolen-from-school gym shorts thin, making him—

He steps back, hot-faced. God, is he—he glances down but not yet—not yet, and he crouches in the dirt, folding his arms over his knees, still breathing hard. Like that's why.

"Telegraphed that feint," Deanna says. She turns against the trunk, leaning her head back. Sweaty, flush high in her cheeks and ears and down her throat, disappearing into the blue bra. She puts her wrist to her forehead, puffing out a deep breath. "You're getting faster." Not even a compliment, just stating facts. Like she always does when they're really working. He sniffs, shrugging, and she leans forward, putting her hands on her knees again, squinting at him. "If it was a dirty fight I woulda got you, though. Left your nuts wide open."

"Thanks for not hitting me in the nuts," Sam says, dry, and she raises her eyebrows, like, try me.

Breeze swirls into the clearing, cool on the back of his neck, his bare arms. Deanna closes her eyes against it, lips parting in pleasure. Sam's gut wobbles but—he's calmed down, mostly, and he can stand up without embarrassing himself. "So," he says. Like it's no big deal. "Can we go home?"

"I got a case of empty cans in the trunk that need to get full of holes," she says. "You won the fight. So what? I'm gonna kick your ass at target practice." He makes a rude sound and she smiles, loose, and then finally opens her eyes and looks right at him—heavy, warm, like—yesterday in the bathroom mirror but real, this time, her lashes dark with sweat and her skin flushed and her chest rising in a deep breath, and he—he—

"C'mon, pipsqueak," she says, tipping her head back to where they parked the car. "I'll even let you choose, handgun or rifle."

"Thanks a lot," he says, as sarcastic as he can, and she grins and pushes away from the tree and brushes past him, fake elbowing like a dick but really just soft-warm, close, and he follows, forced to think the calmest, plainest thoughts he can, focusing on what's around: running water in the creek, and birdsong, and trees casting dappled shadows across the trail, and not at all the way her hips move, nor the freckled soft skin of her shoulders, nor the way he thinks he could fit his hands around her waist, hold her in place, and she'd turn her head and look up at him over her shoulder and she'd say—he can't imagine. In the image her mouth opens and no words exist.

*

They make it back to the rental house in the late afternoon. Shooting—yes, Deanna cored more cans than Sam, about which she crowed like an idiot—but also swinging by the post office box across town Dad had rented before he left, and stopping for gas, and then using one of those do-it-yourself carwashes, where Sam gets roped into helping, although he doesn't know why when Dee's always popping up behind him to re-do whatever sidepanel he's just finished. Not even trying to be bossy; she's just obsessive, even if she keeps making Miyagi wax-off jokes and waggling her eyebrows like she's funny. Sam determinedly doesn't laugh.

Sweaty and sore and yet kind of glad, all told, when they pile through the door. This is the kind of day Sam's never minded: working, with his family, but safe. Deanna groans, pulling her boots off, and says, "Oh my god, I have like a thousand dibs on first shower," and so Sam's left to sit in the bedroom, stripping off his sneakers and socks and sweaty shorts, sitting in his t-shirt and boxers, listening to her sing very very off-key—Long Black Road already sounds weird an octave higher—and then he sits on his mattress with his arms around his knees and feels all the good ache in his thighs and forearms and the sore spot where the rifle kicked back during shooting practice, and then he blinks and sees that what he's looking at is the plastic bag with its clamshell box, tucked next to where she tossed her boots, and this weird heat corkscrews down from his heart to his balls, quick as dropping a coin down a well, and he—licks his lips, swallows. Listens to the water hissing down.

Deanna comes out in her towel, again—amulet still on, like it always is, although her hair's loose, dripping down her back. "Your turn, stinky," she says, and Sam passes her like it's nothing, says, "Hope you left some hot water," and she says, "Can't rush the finer things, Sammy," and Sam strips and climbs into the tub and puts his head directly under the spray, taking that first rush of luke-cold before it goes hot, drowning. Like it helps. It smells like her in here: vanilla shampoo, peachy soap. He scrubs his hair back from his face and breathes wet under the spray and when he reaches down he's already hard, has been, needing—god. To get his head straight.

Not the first time. Not the last, given his track record. From furtive schoolyard magazine-sharing and pilfered late-night cable and the way they watched Basic Instinct and Dee paused it at that exact second and said, oh yeah, that's the stuff, and laughed fizzingly at Sam while he turned red and she pushed him over on their shared bed and mushed his head under the pillow, smothering him in heat and soft and warm girl-smell, pussy behind his eyes—god, yeah, he's got the mental images, enough to get him there. The shower's hot and deafening and his head goes blank except for that, imagining without context, just—soft boobs and the soft white curve of tummy between the navel and the too-low rise of jeans. The pink wet split, and what he imagines it'd be like to sink two fingers in, or to make like the too-tan guys with too-white teeth who get their heads between spread thighs and make the girls make those sounds—except, no, not exaggerated like that, because even if Sam hasn't done it he knows girls don't scream, that way, because he's got his sister and he's heard her, in her bed that's so often less than a yard from his. He's laid awake in the night listening to the wet rhythmic squishing that hardly rocks the other mattress and heard, too, the puffs of breath through her nose, the way he can tell that her bottom lip's bitten between her teeth, the way she makes that little tiny caught whining noise when she's getting close, the way he'll be hard as a tire iron with his arms folded under the pillow, trying his absolute damnedest to pretend he's asleep, and his eyes wide open in the dark of a motel room lit only by the green numbers on the clock radio to see the way the shape of her legs spread under the shiny polyester comforter and then the way her hips lift under the shiny lump of it and then the sound, a tiny grunt through her nose, the slick pumping squish going still, and then—his favorite part—this long sigh, like she's been holding up a weight and finally gets to let it down, her knees splaying wide-out and flat, the barest tiniest shine of light on her lip as she lets it out of her teeth, the heave of her chest where the blanket's rucked down, the way her head turns, toward him—

When he gets out of the shower she's dressed, kind of. Dad's boxers and a freshly-washed grey camisole. Hair loose and drying wavy over her shoulders, although she swipes it all over to one side, leaning over the stove, peering into their battered single pot. "Hungry?" she says, and then immediately snorts and says, "Dumb question."

"Ha," Sam says. The radio's on, the crappy local rock station that has way too many ads, but they play Metallica and AC/DC sometimes and Deanna says that's enough for her. "What are you making?"

"Oh, Sammy," Deanna says—leaning on the counter, smiling at him sidelong. Not hot, like she is for the guys at the bar, but something else. Sam's gut aches. "That'd spoil the surprise."

"Wouldn't want that," Sam says, trying for cool and somehow kind of landing on it, and Deanna winks at him. Winks. He takes a deep breath, and passes behind her to go to the fridge, and gets out two beers, and cracks them both. He hands one to Dee and bumps the cans together before she can object. "Try not to give us food poisoning, huh?"

Deanna lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing. Smiles, slow. "No promises," she says, and when they take a drink at the same time, her eyes stay steady on Sam.

*

"So," Deanna says, drawing it out slow, lips a plush teasing O. Sam raises his eyebrows, like, so what? Dee raises her eyebrows back, making fun of him. "So: Noelle." Sam groans and Deanna grins wide at him, leans forward. "Don't front, little brother. C'mon, spill. You make much ado about her nothing?"

"That doesn't even make sense," Sam says, but it's without much strength, and Deanna sticks her tongue out at him, still grinning.

So it's been a couple of beers, and then another one to make up for the pretty weird dinner—tomato rice soup with green beans stirred in is not something that's going to end up on fancy restaurant menus, put it that way—and they're sprawled on either end of the couch, the TV on the news in case there's anything Dee would have to care about but silent, the radio still playing—the top 40 now, and Sam got to see Deanna bounce around lip syncing to how she didn't want no scrubs, which he groaned and rolled his eyes through but to be honest was actually pretty funny—and his head's kind of swimmy, kind of heavy, his cheeks hot and his fingertips cold, although maybe that's because he's holding his—fourth?—can of Milwaukee's absolute best, pretending like everything's cool. Everything is cool. Four beers in he can't imagine how they'd be otherwise.

"Hellooo," Deanna sings. He blinks at her. "Ground control to Major Sammy? You in there?"

"Yes," Sam says. Dignified. Maybe. "Where else would I be?"

Deanna looks like she thinks something is very funny. Never a good sign. She leans forward, her elbow on the back of the couch, her knees spreading out. "N-O-E-L," she says. "Let me hear it. She cute?"

"She spells it with two Ls," Sam says, which makes Dee wrinkle her nose. "And—I don't know. I guess."

"You guess." She whaps his knee and then grabs his shin, waggling his leg back and forth. "Dude, you are a hot-blooded American male. You can do better than guess. Unless—" She squints at him, assessing. "Are you gay? Or—wait, your junk works, right?"

"Yes!" Sam says, and then, hastily— "No!" Dee snorts, taking a sip of her beer, and while she's mopping foam off her chin he wraps his arms around his knees, annoyed. "You suck."

"When they ask nice," Deanna says, and then pauses, her tongue pressed up against the back of her front teeth. Shining, pink. Sam looks at that and then away, at the TV. Weather this week will stay warm. Rain on Thursday. The weather guy has stupid gelled helmet hair. A soft warm grip on Sam's ankle, low. "Hey, Sammy."

Warm, and a little wet from the beer. It races up the nerves from Sam's ankle to his heart and then back south to his nuts, confusing, worrying. Good. "Noelle's cute," Sam says. He licks his lips. "Smart. She's on the volleyball team."

"Selling girl scout cookies, too, I bet," Deanna says. Her thumb skims up the inside of Sam's ankle, where there's that dip. Kinda ticklish, kinda not. "Didn't ask about her test grades, dweeb. What's she look like?"

Sam shrugs. "Tall? I guess. For a girl. Blondish hair. Skinny, kind of."

"She got good tits?"

When Sam turns his head Dee's really watching him. He chews on his bottom lip. She's still got her arm laid out along the back of the couch, holding her beer loose in long fingers, and her other hand around his ankle, scooched forward so she can reach—cleavage made even when she's not wearing a bra, the amulet he gave her spilling off-angled over the pressed-up white curve. Her eyes dark and kind of hard to see in just the TV-light, with the sun down and them not turning on any other lamps. He shrugs again, and then nods. Yeah, Noelle's boobs are okay.

"Yeah?" Deanna says. The tip of her tongue touches the center of her bottom lip. Shine. "What about her ass?"

"It's okay," Sam says. His voice sounds weird.

"You kiss her?" Deanna says, and then without waiting: "No, huh. But you want to, huh? Maybe after the library. Or before volleyball, with the uniform on, you dog."

Sam's never known why guys who want to have sex are called dogs. Deanna's thumb is working in little circles on the inside of his ankle and the skin there feels like it's on freaking fire. "You kiss Walt?" he says.

Her thumb stops. "Walt?"

Like it's the dumbest thing ever. Sam unfolds enough to take a drink from his can. Warm now, bitter, but it's something to do with his hands. "I think he wants to kiss you."

"Oh, you think," Deanna says, sarcastic. Sam takes another gulp, too quick, and has to stop himself from coughing like a dork. While his eyes water Deanna lets go of his ankle—a cold spot there that he regrets immediately—and leans over to the table, grabbing a can from the box, cracking it fresh. "Walt wants me to blow him under the desk in the manager's office. Good thing we're gonna be out of here before he works up the balls to ask."

She says it like, no big deal. Like, duh. Deanna drains the last of her previous can and drops it into the pile they're making on the carpet, and then leans back with the new beer tucked between her thighs, making a damp condensation spot on the thin grey fabric of the shorts. Sam drains his beer, too, and gets another, too, although he leaves his empty upright at least so it doesn't spill drops on the carpet. It takes some concentration; his balance is a little weird.

"Shit, we made a mess, huh?" Deanna says, while Sam leans doubled over his own knees, setting up all the cans like bowling pins. "Ruining all your hard work."

"Don't want you to get mad at me again," Sam says, which is kinda supposed to be making fun of her but he also kinda means it. All the cans upright and he flops back onto the couch, full beer resting on his stomach. "Plus, like. You've been all—nice. I didn't know vacuuming would get me all these perks." He lifts the beer in a little toast before he takes a sip. One of Deanna's cheeks sucks in before she toasts him back, takes a swallow too. Sam smiles at her, feeling weirdly light in his chest, even if things are just super—weird. "I get anything else if I keep doing all the laundry? Gonna let me drive?"

"In your dreams," Deanna says, immediately.

"What about… let me pick the music?"

"You know the rules, dingus." She lets her right foot drop off the couch, thigh stretching out long, wide. "I'll keep you fed. Consider yourself lucky, punk. But…" Smiling at him, crooked and small. Beer still between her legs. "That really was cool, man. I know I was bitching and all, but. I didn't really expect you to do anything."

Sometimes that's the kind of thing that makes him feel like a baby, getting a pat on the head. This time it's—different. Sam feels heat rising up in the center of his cheeks. "Homework doesn't take that long," he says. "Figured you were right, I could manage the laundry or whatever too."

"Wait, wait," Deanna says, eyes opening wide, "I was right?" Sam rolls his eyes and flicks a drop of beer at her, which she promptly returns with interest, and when he's wiping scattered foam off his cheek, grinning, she says, "Sounds like a deal to me," and then, in a different voice—"Although if you're gonna be in my stuff, guess I ought to find a different hiding spot, huh?"

Half a second to remember what she means and then the heat in his cheeks flames up over his whole body. Lurid pink. Big? Even two days gone he can't quite remember. "No big deal, remember? Where else would you keep it, anyway—glovebox?"

She snorts. "Get pulled over and hand that out to the cop with the license and reg? Yeah, guess not."

"Where'd you even get it?"

"You never heard of a sex store?" Deanna says, tipping her head. "Thought you were all grown-up now. Give me that beer back, Kid Icarus—"

He pulls it back out of her mimed grab and she ends up leaning forward toward him again, his drawn-up feet practically tucked up between her spread legs. That half-circle of damp is still there on the cotton, high up on her thigh. "I meant where. Or like—when, I guess."

"Back in Houston. So—what, four, five months ago?" She shrugs, rests her beer on his knee like it's a cupholder. "You really haven't done laundry in a while, huh."

"So, you…" She raises her eyebrows at him like a dare. He swigs his beer, clears his throat. His fingertips are cold. "I don't know. It's kinda weird. Like, when the girls at school talk sometimes, it's like—they talk like it hurts, or something. Like they just do it because their boyfriends want to."

This from Jackie Martinette and Laura Kennedy, who had a full whispered gossip session on the subject in study hall while Sam tried desperately to pretend like he was on another planet. Bad enough to spring wood at home in bed while Deanna walked around in her underwear after a shower; truly mortifying at school when any second he'd have to get up and walk to second period biology.

"You think girls aren't getting anything out of it?" Sam lifts a shoulder, really not sure. In porn sometimes they shriek. He doesn't associate much good with shrieking. Deanna smiles at him, sort of patronizing but also warm, friendly. Like she's sharing good news. "Sammy, if you know what you're doing it's all kinds of good. When you're hot for it and it's go time?" She makes this low purry sound, deep in her throat, her eyes half-lidded.

Sam swallows. "Go time?" He's amazed his voice doesn't sound weird.

"Girls get horny just like guys, you know," Deanna says. She licks her lips, shining flushed. The TV bursts blue-yellow color over her cheeks, the rise of her chest as she takes a deep breath. "Harder to tell, I guess. But if it's go time a girl should be so wet you just slide right in, you know? Even if you didn't eat her out first. I mean, that's how it works with me."

Sam's so hard he's dizzy. He drains his beer, lets it slide down to the pile on the carpet, hooks his hands around his own ankles, keeping his knees together so she can't see. "What do you think about?" he says. The air's thin, hot. Deanna blinks at him, slow. "When you're—using it. Like—guys, or…?"

"Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise," Deanna says, and Sam laughs, not expecting to. She grins at him and her face is pink, too. "Yeah, guys. But not even like—specific guys. Just… what feels good, you know? When a guy holds my tits right—not squeezing hard, but just…" She tucks her beer up against her crotch and cups one boob, pushing it up high and full through her camisole, fingers splayed wide, her thumb brushing over her nipple where Sam can see it hard and poking through the cotton. Her other breast curving plush, that nipple also round and tight, and Sam reaches out and copies her, sliding his palm up her ribs and feeling the sudden rise of them and spidering his fingers wide over the soft heaviness, shifting to hold it up high to match, his thumb glancing over the nipple and it's—oh, rigid as a bullet but giving somehow too, tilting under how he sweeps back and forth, swollen hot. Her cleavage looks incredible, the amulet squished between both boobs like she's wearing a push-up bra, the cord disappearing between them. He imagines very suddenly licking there, swiping up with his tongue in the dark shadow like he's imagined licking a girl's pussy, except he'd keep going, lick up into the hollow of her throat, lick up over her chin and push his tongue into her mouth and see what that was like, see how it tasted, and he's thinking that, rolling her nipple over and over under his thumb, when he sees that her lips are parted and she's staring at him, chest heaving, and he's—god, he wants to kiss her. He wants to very badly.

"Like that?" he says, thin. She nods, quick. He holds his ankle very tightly with the other hand. "What—what else? Do you think about."

The tip of her tongue touches the center of her top lip. Sam's balls lurch. Deanna's eyelids dip but don't close, and she says, "A guy fingering me. But not like most guys do it. Stabbing in like they're trying to buttonmash in Street Fighter. There was this dude in Buffalo—he got me off over the top of my jeans, just rubbing right, steady. Got me so wet it soaked through. Thought I was gonna marry him."

The can of beer's right there, on the y-front of the old boxer-briefs. Sam's breathing through his mouth, lips drying. "You fuck him?"

Deanna's ears are dark red. "Yeah," she says. A breath. "In the bar bathroom, over the sink. That's a good one, when I'm using the dildo. I was so wet. Just thinking about it—swear to god, like someone turned on a faucet in my pussy, Sammy."

He pushes forward and she grabs the beer can, holds it right there for some reason, so it doesn't spill when Sam crams his fingers between the lukewarm wet tin and the cotton, curving over—soft too, warm too, hot as he pushes his fingers down, when she spreads her thigh wider and her hips tip forward, crushing his hand between the couch cushion and her pussy and the cotton that, fuck, is wet, sticky, and he pushes his fingers up, where it gives, and—and—

"Sammy," she whispers, and he looks up and he's, oh, squeezing her tit hard, hard enough that when he startles and lets go there's a ghost-white impression of his fingers above the line of fabric that floods red right away, and he takes in a breath to say—nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind, but it doesn't matter because she grabs his wrist and pushes his fingers right up against her tit again, and then drops the beer over the side of the couch, letting it thunk to the carpet, glugging, and curves her hand over his hand between her legs, pressing it harder against herself, groaning, a sound he's only heard in the dark.

His head's thick, like oxygen's not getting in. Her hips grind in and he presses up hard, with the heel of his hand and his fingertips, and she shudders so maybe it's good. He pulls at the neck of the camisole and it yanks to one side but Dee shakes her head, shifts—Sam yanks his hand away, but she only pushes forward, up on her knees—still holding his fingers up against her pussy—and then reaches down and pulls the camisole off over her head, entirely, so she's bare from the waist up except for her amulet, her tits white and full, her nipples blushy red, the skin around them drawn up tight. He grips one in just the way she showed him and drags his thumb around the bare skin, rolling the nipple without the barrier of cotton, and she makes this tiny little noise high in her throat, like she can't help it, so hot that Sam leans forward and slurps the nipple into his mouth so she'll make it again.

"Fuck," she says, the f drawn out like she didn't mean to. Her hand on his head while he mouths at her boob, licking and then opening his mouth wide and sucking hard, so she hisses and grips his hair tight, and so he learns to roll it under his tongue, suckling, like a popsicle he wants to last. Her thighs clamp around his wrist and then open, and he rubs her whole crotch front to back, not knowing what's best, from the y-front down to where she's sticky and all the way to her ass, squeezing where she's soft there, too, pulling her in except his knees are in the way. He squirms, pretzeled up tight like he is, and Deanna kneels up high so he can unfold and then his legs are between her thighs. She grabs his wrist again and that's fine, he lets her push and get his palm seated on the hard ridge of bone, his fingers squishing around in the wet cotton where she's so soft, riding the seam of the boxers back and forth, finding where—oh shit—yeah, where he can push, a gap, which must really be her pussy, where the dildo goes, where that guy from Buffalo was, where Sam could—

She grips his hair, pulls his mouth away from her tit. He comes off gasping. Flickery light from the TV but it's dark, dark, blood pulled up into the skin from how he was working there. Her hand goes to his jaw, her thumb sliding over his mouth—wet—smelling like… He licks and it tastes like—salt. Salt and something tangy, what's heavy in the air, stronger than the smell of the beer spilling onto the carpet and how he feels drenched in sweat, this—incredible thing, addictive, better than anything. A flex, against his buried fingertips, where she's soaked, and he finally looks up to see her staring at him, at his mouth. Her thumb drags over his lip again and he leans in to her other, paler tit, slurps the nipple in and cups his hand hard over her pussy and wraps his arm around her waist, holding her warm and close, drunk. His head swims but it doesn't matter—she keeps hold of his hair, keeping him up against her chest, and covers his hand on her pussy, pressing in this rhythm that's easy to follow, clutching hard and grinding and rolling her hips into his fingers, her breath fast and hot and puffing over his ear, everything between them getting sweaty, tense, her grip over his hand hurting almost and he'd worry about hurting her except clearly that's not an issue. He drags his teeth over her boob, sucking hard on the squishy softness, his tongue exploring the tight wrinkled rim around the nipple, and squeezes her ass with his free hand, and his wrist hurts so he flexes his forearm, grips the front ridge of bone over her pussy with his thumb, and Deanna jerks against him, curves in, holds his hand hard and still up against herself, and she's totally silent and even her breath is held and he lets go of her tit and looks up and she's staring at him open-mouthed. He rubs his fingertips against her crotch, squeezing through the boxers, and it's only then that she makes a little sound, jerked out of her belly, and she bends down—he blinks, not sure—but she just sinks down to his shoulder, her lips spread wide on the side of his neck, her breath heaving out of her like she just finished a five-mile run.

Her thighs spread over his. Their hands caught together, cupped wet. Sam's nuts hurt he's so hard and he doesn't know what to do. He wants her nipple back in his mouth, wants to put his mouth on her pussy and taste that tangy smell right at the source, wants to crawl behind the couch and jerk off with his fist between his teeth, fast and hard as he possibly can. Wants—

Her hand, on his crotch, through his shorts. He jerks, whole-body, like when Dee was showing him how to replace an outlet a few rental houses ago and they didn't bother with flipping the breaker. His boner's popping stupid-obvious so it's easy for her to grip it with her whole hand and it feels—god!—warm, even through the double-layer of the polyester and his cotton boxers, and firm, squeezing hard at first and then feeling the shape, from the base to the head. "Jeez," she murmurs, and he squeezes his eyes closed, every part of his body feeling shivery, strange, oversensitized. "When'd that happen?"

"What?" he manages. She smells so good he can't stand it—wants to hide, wants to disappear, wants to grip her ass and drag her down and rub off against her like he used to against the mattress, when he was a kid and didn't know how to jerk off right, only she'd be so soft, sweet, wet—

"You got a big dick," Deanna says, soft, her head dipping down, her cheek against Sam's cheek. "Fuck, that's—thick. All grown up, huh?"

He shakes his head, confused, and she laughs very softly but not mean, not like she can laugh, and says, "God—" and pushes his chest, bears him back down against the arm of the couch, and he goes because he doesn't know what else to do and he puts his hand over his mouth—oh oh oh the hand that was on her pussy, his fingers sliding wet, and he sucks them in, bites his own skin, tasting, the smell and tang clutching up his throat and his foggy head. Deanna groans for some reason and pushes up his shirt, her fingers skimming over his belly, on the sparse hair that's started to trail down from his navel, and she—lifts off his legs, her weight and heat disappearing, and he opens his eyes to find the world gone all smeary, dark still but the light from the TV splintering weird and wet across the ceiling, and when he looks down she's on her knees between his knees, her fingers cupping his balls through his shorts, squeezing the shaft, and she bends down like she's going to—her mouth open, like she's going to—and Sam's toes curl and his thighs spasm and he comes, hips jerking up into her grip, creaming up the inside of his shorts, pulsing, shocked.

His heart thuds in his throat. He breathes hard around his fingers, still in his mouth, and drags them out finally, curling wet and pruny against his chin. Deanna lets go, eyes at first pinned there at his crotch and then flicking up at him dark and wide-startled, her lips an O. Sam blinks at her and pulls one of his knees up, in, and somehow that makes her flinch, and she sits up high, back on her heels, arms folding over her chest and hiding her tits, her eyes still big, going all over his face.

Deanna laughs. Again. High and breathy, fake. Still not mean but—"Man, couple beers and we're crazy, huh?" she says, brittle and fast, and Sam digs his heels into the couch and scooches away, as far as he can, his back pressed all the way against the couch arm, his brain feeling like it's sloshing in acid. Deanna smiles at him, wide and with a lot of teeth, and swivels and stands, kicking a beer can, stooping quick to pick up her camisole, tugging it over her head, yanking it back into place. Sam blinks and wet runs down his cheek so he has to scrub the back of his hand over it, smearing. "Guess we really are hard-up," Deanna's saying, while Sam folds back over his own knees, stomach doing a slow horrible somersault. "Gotta work on your game, get that Noelle girl to go for it sometime."

"Dee," Sam says, but it's barely voiced, and Deanna shakes her head and rolls right on, walking off to the kitchen like it's nothing, saying, "Anyway—we screwed up the carpet—better get something for that before the beer soaks in—"

Sam's gonna hurl. He—oh, he really is—and he unfolds off the couch and his legs stagger but he makes it the half-dozen steps to the bathroom, to his knees, stomach lurching, eyes burning. Dinner and beer and everything else. He shudders, clutching the sides of the bowl in the dark. Sits there, miserable, for…

Faint touch to his back. He makes a weird sound, spits. Reaches up and flushes, and sits back on his knees, and his face is sweaty, hot, and Deanna's not in the bathroom with him but there's a cup on the side of the sink with water in it. He swishes the taste out of his mouth, spits again, drains the rest. When he gathers his brain together and stands back up he sways and there's—sticky wet in his shorts, cold and sludgy, and he leans his shoulder into the doorway and sees that Dee's cleaned up the beer cans and there's a towel on the carpet by the couch. He gets more water in the kitchen, drinks it down in cool stomach-filling swallows that make his gut slosh but in a way where he doesn't feel like it's gonna chuck up again, and when he goes to the bedroom—she's on her mattress, lying on her side, blanket tugged up to her shoulder. He stands between the two beds for a second, uncertain, until she turns over, her back to the room. "Go to bed, drunkie," she says, quiet in the dark, and he licks his lips and crawls onto his own mattress on his stomach, folding his arms under his pillow, staring across at her until the dragging sloshing tide in his head pulls him down, undertow sucking at his whole body, drowning.

In the morning her bed is empty. Sam's head hurts like someone took a sledgehammer to it in the middle of the night. His boxers stick crusty against his pubes. He takes a shower, nauseated and aching and wondering if it's possible to be poisoned by five beers. Coffee already made—he drinks a cup and then pours a second, miserable, and then the front door opens and Deanna's standing there, fully dressed and eyes wide and bright, and she says, "Rise and shine, wonderboy," like a chirpy bird, and then, "C'mon, I'll drive you to school," and Sam says, "I feel like crap," and she says, "That’s what happens when you drink with the big dogs, but no excuses, come on," and so he puts on sneakers and gets his backpack and loads himself into the passenger side of the Impala and slumps against the window while she drives, the two of them not talking, the radio on low to morning shock-jock crap. Wondering if this is what it's always going to be. This sick dragging awful, at the base of his skull and in his gut, making the morning into something that has to be endured, like every single day from this one to when he's dead will be—this. The Impala pulls up smooth to the drop-off area, muscling ahead of a champagne-colored sedan, and Sam sighs, and goes to open the door, and Deanna says, "Hang on."

He looks at her straight-on. First time, really, all morning, the humiliation feeling like it's coming off him like radiation, like if they had an EMF meter for it the thing would be shrieking. She looks like she always does. Part of the problem. Deanna's cheek sucks in and she looks in the rear-view, and then she meets his eyes, and her expression is—Sam doesn't know. She looks into his eyes and then at his mouth, and then at his hand on the door for some reason, and then she shakes her head, and touches her own lips, and then grips the steering wheel tight with both hands. "Knock 'em dead, Sammy," she says, looking out at the road.

First period, study hall. He drops his bag under the desk and drops his head onto his folded arms. The bell ringing hurts. Laura Kennedy and Jackie Martinette start whispering behind him, about the date Jackie went on this weekend, and he folds his arms over his head, shuts it out. He feels like he took a beating from a werewolf, but that's not the worst part. For some reason the thing that keeps repeating in his head, and what lasts all day, through English where he ignores Noelle and through AP Stats where he doesn't answer a single question and through the lunch he doesn't eat and through World History, staring through the review slides for final exams coming up in a few weeks, is how Dee laughed. High, and weird, and like she'd done something horribly embarrassing, like there was no way to live it down and so you just had to laugh, because what other choice did you have?

When he gets home the living room smells like stale beer. Deanna's not there. In the fridge, a styrofoam box with spaghetti and meatballs and no note, and he eats it by himself and does his homework and goes to bed alone, and she's not there the next morning, and she's not there the next afternoon when he gets home, either, and it's not until Wednesday morning that he wakes up and she's sitting crosslegged on the mattress across the room from him in the clear morning light and she says, before he's even registered that she's really there and what it means, "Dad's coming home."

He blinks muzzily and sits up and she's looking at him with her fingers knotted in her lap, her lips red and her eyes red, too, and then she gets up and walks out of the room. He watches her go, robbed of any other option.

[mareenavee]

The Other Half

Hello hello another prompt fill! This one is for Heart(h)fire!

@changelingsandothernonsense gave me some caveats for this one:

Okay, Athis's POV, 1st person. He's going to pop the question. What's going through his head?

So of course, this is World Canon (and contains spoilers for that one.) It occurs just before the events of Chapter 6.

Title song inspo: Northern Wind by City and Color:

You're the northern wind Sending shivers down my spine You're like fallen leaves In an autumn night You're the lullaby That's singing me to sleep You are the other half You're like a missing piece

Without further ado~

The Other Half

19th of Heartfire 4E 201

Curse the Nords for their height. Especially curse this one, for thinking himself so very clever, hanging the Amulet of Mara he’d purchased above my head like it was some kind of joke. Well, joke’s on him—I was headed down toward Riften to buy a real one for myself, anyway. But he knew that. I’d told him. And, though I didn’t want to admit it, the entirety of Jorrvaskr knew where my head was at. But curse Farkas, nevertheless.

Though it was playing exactly into his hands, I leapt for the thing, twisting the copper chain through my fingers so he would have no choice but to let go, or it would break. The room exploded into a cacophony of laughter. Once I had the amulet, I left in a huff and let him and the others cackle and chortle like the fools they were.

“Come on, Athis! We were just messing with you!” Farkas called. His voice, as usual, echoed through the long hallway of the sleeping quarters. When I didn’t respond—because it didn’t require more of my time—his thought concluded with the opening of a bottle of mead and a giant sigh.

“I give him two weeks, if that,” Ria said, her voice sharp and laced with a challenge.

“Nah. Six or eight days at most. He’s smitten,” Farkas laughed. “Plus it’s Nyenna.”

The sentence cut off before I could parse what exactly that last bit was supposed to mean, but it wasn’t worth it to turn around and find out. In spite of myself, I grinned and slipped the chain over my head. This amulet was the real deal. The warm, soft buzz of its enchantment felt strange on my skin as I settled it under my tunic. It was different from the enchantments on Nyenna’s armor or the shock of her own magic. This one felt somehow…comforting. Hers felt more like an invitation to fight, but such things seemed practical for battlemages.

My back cracked as I settled down on my bed. It was just a spare straw mattress tossed on the floor in the last remaining corner—I’d let Nyenna take my old spot. She needed the shelf and nightstand for the sheer amount of books Farengar had her hauling around at any given time. The relative quiet of the empty sleeping quarters lulled my thoughts into some semblance of order as I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the wall, listening to the fading chatter of my friends in the other room. -> read the rest on AO3.

[smaptain-smerica]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: {Y/n} Was at the top of her class at the Red Room Academy. Sought after for her expertise in the field by Dr. Zola, who purchased the widow for his Hydra Program. {y/n} Excelled quickly, and began teaching the new recruits using her previously taught skills. All was well until a James Barnes entered the program. His presence turned the entirety of the Hydra program on its head. Rules, hearts and trust broken time and time again.

Maturity: This book is rated mature for graphic descriptions of violence, foul language, and sexual content that may be sensitive to readers under the age of 18.

a/n: This story was originally posted on wattpad and will be updated there first. Follow there for quicker updates! https://www.wattpad.com/user/smaptin-smerica

Master List

Chapter 30

The trip to Sam's house was a short one. The main difference I noticed in the world was the style of house change. But other than that, the small town looked simple. I was grateful there wasn't a huge sensory overload with it.

It was nearing 1 am when we quietly slipped in the door of the house. Sam made sure to open and close the door with dramatic quiet. Unfortunately, it was pointless because a living room lamp flipped on and a black woman in a nightgown and bonnet was sitting in an arm chair. "Do you know what time it is?" She demanded.

I shifted to my toes to whisper into Bucky's ear; "sister?"

"Yep." He responded curtly, not taking his eyes off of Sam.

"Sarah, I told you we wouldn't be back until later." Sam tried to reason with his sibling. Unfortunately, her momma bear instincts kicked in.

"The police said someone attacked you!"

"Not me, Bucky!" Sam quickly flipped the script and pointed a thumb back at us. Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"And you bring a weapon covered stranger into my home? Is this who attacked you?" Sarah gestured her hand towards me and threw me a look. I felt the heat rise to my face in embarrassment. I looked down at the floor, wanting my eyes to be anywhere but on Sarah or Sam.

Bucky's hand traveled to the small of my back for comfort. He gave me a gentle scratch while Sam and Sarah excused themselves from the room to go talk. My feet moved on their own it seemed, turning on heel and exiting out the front door with Bucky calling after me.

"Y/n, please wait."

"I shouldn't be here." I shouted back, continuing to walk into the yard near a tree with a tire swing.

"Y/n, it's okay. Sarah is just tired. It's only for a night."

I stopped, turning around to face him completely. I couldn't help the tears forming in my eyes as the weight of my situation crashed down on me. The small front yard was illuminated by the full moon overhead, casting a white glow across Bucky's face. 

"No I mean I shouldn't be here at all! I spent all those years killing innocent people and now 60 years later I somehow get a second chance? I am the least deserving person of that. 60 fucking years and it feels like I took a 10 minute nap! Zola should have put that bullet through my head instead-"

"Y/n!" Bucky was closer to me than I thought. My vision was blurred by my emotions that I didn't notice him right in front of me. His hands grabbed my wrists to stop them from frantically flailing. I met his blue eyes that now looked grey in the moonlight. Tears brimmed the bottoms of them as he looked at me with a passionate intensity.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. His hands moved from my hands to either side of my face which forced me to look at him. I could read every raw and real emotion that he was feeling. "I'm sorry this happened to you. And I wish I could change it."

His voice was hardly above a whisper, broken and full of emotions. I felt a quiver in my lip begin as the emotions finally became too much to hold in. I let my head fall onto his chest as waterfalls of tears silently slid down my cheeks. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoed in my head and helped calm me. Bucky simply hugged me back, stroking one hand comfortingly over the back of my head.

"Hey buck!" Sam called into the yard from the front door. Thankfully we were far enough away that he most likely couldn't see that the both of us had been crying. "You guys are good, come on." He encouraged.

Bucky and I looked at each other. He gave me a gentle smile before bringing his hands up to my face and wiping the tears away with his thumbs. I gave him a pitiful attempt at a smile before taking his hand and heading back into the house.

"Unfortunately, I only have the couches to give you. But, tomorrow is Saturday so Sarah is making waffles for breakfast so we can talk more about our next course of action then." Sam talked a little nervously, his eyes darting between both Bucky and I.

"Sounds good. Thanks Sam." Bucky thanked his friend with a smile and then looked over at me. I looked between the two men and then back down at myself. I was still wearing a black tactical suit.

"You don't have a T-shirt I could borrow, do you?" I asked before looking back up at Sam. His mouth spread into a wide, crooked grin before he nodded.

"Yeah, I'll get you some shorts too." He offered before quickly making his way down the hallway.

Once I received my clothes for the night, I settled into the uncomfortable couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. I laid as still as a board, my fingers gently tapping together as an anxious tick. I couldn't sleep. How could I sleep? I was just asleep for nearly 60 years. Do people know about me? What I did? Is there any record of me anywhere? They said Hydra and the red room were disbanded, was I in those files they recovered?

"Y/n?" Bucky's gentle voice brought me out of my mental trance. I looked over at him and he was looking at me from where he laid on the couch. "Are you going to sleep?" He asked.

I adverted my eyes, returning them to the ceiling and simply replying. "No."

I heard him shift his weight around and the blanket over him rustle. I looked over at Bucky to see him rotating to the side. He pulled the blanket up and patted the empty space he created. "Come here."

I listened to him. For me it felt like a short amount of time had passed. He had been through and seen so much since I last saw him. I wondered if those feelings were still there for him or if they had fizzled out. Him offering to lay next to me gave me a little hope. I got up from my spot and slithered into the covers. It was a small fit, but the feeling of his arm slipping around my waist and up my shirt gave me goosebumps. His warm hand gently scratched the bare skin on my lower back and he looked down at me with a gentle smile.

My eyes traveled around his face. The new age lines, the short hair, he looked exactly the same yet so different. I furrowed my eyebrows together once I saw the scratch mark on his cheek. I brought my hand up to his face, gently brushing my thumb underneath it. "Did I do that?"

Bucky nodded in response. "Matches the one you gave me on my forehead."

I let out a chuckle, thinking about the fond memory. My eyes self consciously went to that side of his forehead where there wasn't even a scar. My eyes returned to his blue ones and confusion washed over me. "How do you remember that?"

Bucky smiled a little bit at my realization. "I remember everything."

Shock fell over me. I couldn't find the words to say quite yet. How? When?

"Some things are a little fuzzy still," Bucky continued, taking everything I was thinking and answering. "But everything with you, I remember clearly."

I felt a relief wash over me. I was so happy for him. He was able to remember everything. His friends, his life before, he was able to remember who he was. I remembered him being so distraught about it before. "That's incredible." I smiled widely and genuinely.

Bucky smiled down at me. His hand traveled further up my side and his fingers skipped over the indent in my skin from the metal rod. He quickly retracted his hand, bringing it now against my back and pulled me closer to him. "I also remember falling in love with that beautiful smile. Twice."

I could feel the heat press up my face and into a wide smile as I looked at him in the dimly lit space. My heart dropped as I remembered the moments before I got put into cryostasis. My mouth turned down in memory of my red haired friend. "Do you remember Caroline?" I asked quietly, the words barley escaping my lips.

Bucky's face dropped as he looked between both of my eyes for a point of focus. He nodded grimly. "I do." He finally answered with equal quiet.

"Why?" It was a question I was wondering the moment before I was frozen in time. I knew it wasn't the real him I knew, but I at least thought he would have fought it.

"I was brainwashed and programmed with trigger words to completely take over my free will." He explained to me. Bucky brought his hand up to my face and gently stroked his fingers through my hair, securely tucking strands behind my ear. "Whoever spoke those words had me firmly under their command. I couldn't do anything to stop it."

I frowned. I still vividly remembered everything he had gone through in the time I knew him yet he continued to go through so much worse when I left. "Bucky..."

"But," he stopped me from continuing my thought. "The place we're going, Wakanda, they helped me. Rehabilitated me and made me better. Now, the words don't work. Nobody can control me." He smiled at me fondly for a moment before continuing.

"You're going to love it there. I thought about that often while I was there. You would've loved it there. It's beautiful, from the people to the landscape and the technology. All of it is amazing."

I smiled at the way he explained it to me. Even after all this time he still thought about me. I was surprised he even remembered me. "Well, I'm here now." I whispered.

"You're here now." Bucky whispered in astonishment. "And I cannot believe it." His hand gripped my face now and I couldn't take my eyes off of him. This all felt like a dream, a fantastic dream that I was terrified of waking up from. I hoped that if I didn't go to sleep that I would continue to live in this moment. I was terrified to face what the world has become. I was also terrified that I might relive the past if I closed my eyes. Then I would wake up back in the hydra encampment.

Bucky pulled me into his chest and the steady sound of his heartbeat entered my mind. It echoed on the empty corners and lulled my eyes closed. I felt his breathing change, the intermittent twitches of his muscles letting me know he had fallen asleep.

I slowly went to sleep too. Hoping and praying that I woke up exactly where I was.

~~~

My mind was slowly being drawn from sleep by muffled voices in my ears. I expected myself to wake up and be in a lab, but the warmth next to me was confusing. I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling, only to see two wide eyed boys looking down at me.

"Hi." I croaked out.

"Hi." The older boy said with a slight crack in his voice.

"AJ, Cass, leave them alone!" Sarah snapped from the kitchen. The two boys hurried quietly out the front door and shut it behind them. The door shut rather loudly, waking Bucky with a start.

With wide eyes he scanned the area for a moment, before finally resting upon me. "Good morning." His rough voice left his throat.

"Good morning." I replied, shifting to sit up on the couch. I stretched my aching joints up into the air, a few cracks escaping.

"Breakfast is ready." Sarah called into the house, taking off her apron and walking towards the door with a smile at the two of us.

"Did you sleep?" Bucky's question drew my focus to where he was, shifting his weight around to sit next to me.

"For a little while, yes."

"Good." While rubbing his eyes, I noticed a necklace around his neck that I hadn't seen before. Maybe it got untucked sometime in the night. I reached over to grab one of the dog tags.

"James Buchanan Barnes." I said aloud, running my fingers along the raised metal on the tag.

Bucky chuckled while never taking his eyes off me. "Careful, or you'll start to sound like my mother." He joked.

I hummed a laugh in response, finally letting go of the tags. "From when you were in the army?" I asked.

Bucky nodded as an answer.

Through the front door burst two flashes of children, laughing wildly and sprinting for the kitchen. They nearly collided with Sam who had just exited the hallway. "Woah watch it!" Sam scolded them.

Sarah came through the door after them, nearly doubling over and out of breath. "I'll get you two... later..." she said in between breaths.

I finally rose to my feet, Bucky following suit after me. We made our way to the kitchen and fixed ourselves plates of food. Well, Bucky made mine for me, making sure I got every topping I wanted.

AJ and Cass, who I learned were Sarah children, had already finished and went outside to play. That left the adults inside to talk. Sarah kept herself busy by washing the dishes, but I could tell she wanted to know what was going on.

"So, I got in contact with Agent Ross, he is getting clearance from T'challa and Shuri for an aircraft to pick us up. But, we'd have to go to New York first."

"Perfect. We can stay at my place until we leave." Bucky offered.

"Sounds great." Sam added.

It wasn't until I listened to the two of them talk that I actually had no idea where I was. I assumed America, but which state? Where at in the state? Somewhere south, obviously close to the water.

"What are you thinking about?" Bucky asked, nudging me so I escaped my thoughts.

"Yeah, sorry. I just don't know where we are." I admitted, looking between the two of them.

"Oh, Louisiana." Sam confirmed.

"Okay," I nodded. "And where is New York?"

"Um, north east. About a days travel by car. Unless we take a plane." Bucky explained.

"Can your arm make it through a metal detector to get on the plane?" Sam asked.

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, seeming to think about it for a moment.

"Regardless," I drew the conversation back on topic. "I say we leave right away. I don't want to waste any time to figure out what's wrong with me."

Bucky put a hand on my knee and gave me a gentle squeeze. "Alright, we leave right away then." Bucky then turned his attention back to Sam with a serious tone. "Don't feel obligated to come. If you have other things going on-"

"Are you kidding?" Sam interrupted. "We're going back to Wakanda, my calendar is clear."

Next Chapter

[a-strange-inkling]

Just having wayyyy too much fun with Mood Boards for Vecna’s Bride a WIP fic based on @roxymorondraws original concept and beautiful art. Hope to have the first chapter up soon.

Snippet:

She waited alone in the house for him to come back, trying to look out the shuddered windows where a milky white light bled through the seam. He closed and locked them all before he left.

“There’s going to be a storm.” He had said. “You’ll be safe, just stay inside.”

He had said a lot of things, actually.

That he had to leave, but he would be back very soon. That she couldn’t go outside, not even in the yard. Especially not the woods.

She couldn’t remember why… but he had been so angry.

“Never go into the woods, my love, it’s not safe there.”

She didn’t want to make him angry. Not again.

But, oh, she’s wandered the house several times now and while it was beautiful, it was empty.

When he was gone, it was only her.

She was all alone.

Peering out into the small sliver of light. She couldn’t hear a storm coming.

But then, she couldn’t make out much of the outside world. There was just the drive and some trees.

Trees… Leaves… A picnic table…

That’s right. When she was in the woods, there had been a picnic table.

He had been so mad.

Chrissy…

She blinked, that voice wasn't hers. Nor his. It was someone else’s. A man? A boy? Was there someone else here? Were they dangerous? Was that why he told her to stay inside?

Maybe she should hide, lock herself in her room like Henry had told her to do if there were ever any strangers.

But, she wasn’t scared.

She was alone and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

She glanced around, looking for the source. “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello? How do you know my name?”

Chrissy… can you hear me?

“Yes.” she replied softly in confusion, realizing they were outside, beyond the front door. “But, you shouldn’t be here, wherever you are.”

Henry would be so angry.

Chrissy, please, wake up! It’s me, it’s Eddie.

Eddie…

The name warmed her flesh with familiarity.

Thoughtlessly, she took a few steps forward.

The house shook a little, the crystal glasses shaking against one another in the cabinet. Playing a chaotic little song.

She stopped.

Chrissy, c’mon, wake up! Please wake up!

Wake up? She wasn’t asleep.

…Was she?

The lights began to flicker and the house groaned.

Alright, now she was a little scared.

“I’m not asleep!” she cried out. “I can’t wake up if I’m not asleep!”

I know you’re still in there, Chrissy, come back to me, please! Please, come back!

Come back? To where? To whom?

“I can’t.” she whispered desperately, feeling tears run down her face. He couldn’t hear her. “I can’t leave.”

It’s not real, sweetheart, wherever you are it’s not real. Okay? I need you to snap out of it. C’mon!

She looked down at her hands, her manicured nails, her wedding ring. Tentatively she rubbed her fingers together.

Not real.

Come back.

Wake up.

…How did she get here?

She let out a startled gasp as the house shook more violently, a few of the glasses falling and shattering to the ground. Books and knick-knacks tumbled to the floor.

Sinking to the floor, she covered her head with her arms.

A crack broke through the south wall up the stairwell, it bent and stretched climbing up the house.

Chrissy, wake up! Wake up, Chrissy!

She closed her eyes. Henry was angry she had gone to the woods. But she had wanted to go there. She had really wanted to go. She was looking for someone. In the woods there had been a picnic table.

A picnic table… someone met her there once…

Eddie.

Her eyes snapped open.

Eddie.

Glancing around as if for the first time, she took in the beautiful Victorian house deteriorating before her eyes.

It was not real.

Anger squeezed at her heart. He’d locked her away again.

She had to get out.

[teaandfiction-28]

I'm so excited for this, honestly want to choose all of them but for now, could you please write something with Smut 8?

Can't wait to read it 💙💙

Knew I could count on you for the smut @acdassenza - a girl after my own heart!! 💛 Really hope you enjoy.

—————————

Prompt: “Why don’t you put that mouth to better use?”

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Plenty of smut, very brief mention of attempted rape [18+ only].

Timeline: For those of you following the stories, this one shot is set between Chapters 14 and 15 of Perfect Storm. For those who haven’t read the books yet (I totally recommend you do!), for a bit of context, Hank and Kate are together but they are yet to tell the rest of the unit.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Hank simply lifted both eyebrows, his tongue tracing along his teeth just as it always did when he was making an effort to reign in his infamous temper. He could feel both Antonio and Alvin’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head and he knew that both of them were silently wondering how he was going to handle such a blatant show of disrespect. 

“You’re just going to let that prick walk?” She seethed, her bright hazel eyes alight with a fiery rage as she stared him down, the air between them crackling with tension. 

She knew just as well as he did that, in this job, sometimes you had to do things you didn’t want to do. And, unfortunately, this was one of those times. The order to release the perverted scumbag currently in their custody had come from the very top, all because his father was wealthy and was fortunate enough the have both the Mayor and the Chief of Police on speed dial. It wasn’t like he relished the idea of letting an attempted rapist skate away without a care in the world but his hands were tied. 

He held her gaze for a few more beats before turning towards Alvin and Antonio.

“You give us a minute?” 

His tone was low with a lethal lilt that rooted Antonio to the spot for a few moments longer than he should have but he eventually succumbed to Alvin’s not-so-gentle prodding and reluctantly left Hank’s office, casting a concerned glance at Kate over his shoulder as he passed. She was still breathing heavy with barely suppressed anger when she heard the door close behind her with a quiet click, indicating that they were now very much alone. 

Hank turned his eyes back to her face but, instead of his usually warm russet orbs, they were a deep shade of umber, making it almost impossible to differentiate the pupil from the iris. 

That was the very second Kate knew she’d fucked up. Royally. 

They’d been sleeping together for a few months and, aside from the gigantic cock-up with Kevin and his CI, they been very much on the same page...until now. 

“You think it’s okay to talk to me like that in front of my subordinates?” He said quietly, the muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch with barely suppressed anger.

“I-”

She had barely opened her mouth to respond when he slammed a fist onto his desk, hard enough to topple both his nameplate and the single picture frame and the sudden movement succeeded in startling Kate into silence. 

“If the next words out of your mouth are anything but ‘no Sarg’, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

The only silver lining was that it had been Alvin and Antonio bearing witness to the verbal assault she had aimed his way. If she had pulled that stunt in front of any of the others, he wouldn’t have had a choice but to give her yet another written warning which would have resulted in formal disciplinary action. Action that could potentially see her removed from the unit and, as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t a viable option. Not only did it give him peace of mind to have her close, she was a first-class detective and there was no way he was going to give her up to Vice or the Gang Unit without a fight. 

“You know...” He muttered, slowly pushing to his feet and rounding his desk. “...one of these days your smart mouth is going to get you into hot water, you know that?” 

The sound of the lock sliding into place had Kate swallowing thickly, her eyes trained on the blinds behind his desk. She didn’t need to turn around to know that he was slowly advancing on her like a predator stalking its prey. His scent invaded her senses long before his lips touched the base of her neck, the familiar earthy aroma mixed with a hint of citrus and leather that she had come to associate with him permeating the air around her. 

Nuzzling his face into the soft patch of skin behind her ear, he grasped her by the waist and spun her to face him, instantly seizing her lips with his in a hard, savage kiss. Two sets of hands moved at a frenetic pace, touching, grabbing and pulling at whatever they could reach in an effort to draw the other closer. 

Not one to be outdone by his aggressive ministrations, Kate sucked his lower lip into her mouth, laving it with her tongue before biting down sharply; not hard enough to draw blood but certainly hard enough to leave the abused flesh swollen and tender. Gripping the fabric of his navy button-up in both fists, Kate pushed him around his desk until she was able to shove him back down into his chair and drop to her knees before him. 

“This what you want Sarg?” She murmured, glancing up at him through thick lashes as she ran her palms over his denim-clad thighs. “You want me to obey you, is that it?”

His response died on his tongue when she swiftly unbuckled his belt and, with deft fingers, popped the button on his jeans and tugged the zipper down, immediately dipping a hand into his boxers to draw out his rock hard length. 

“Here’s an idea.” He growled, fisting her wavy locks into a makeshift ponytail. “Why don’t you put that mouth to better use, hmm?”

All of her previous anger seemed to dissipate when she peered up the length of his body to find the man she had taken to her bed almost every night for the past few months staring intently back at her, emerging from behind the tough exterior that he presented to the rest of the world. 

“Who knew you were full of such good ideas?” She muttered with a saucy wink, grasping his length in her soft palm and, with perfectly pursed lips, she blew a stream of cool air over the tip of his cock, barely containing her smug grin when his hips instinctively jerked towards her in search of sweet friction. 

Hank’s eyes almost disappeared into the back of his head when she took the wide crest of him into the molten cavern of her mouth, her tongue tracking over each of the prominent veins in turn. She bought him to the edge embarrassingly quickly and, as he began to throb and pulse in her mouth, she fluttered her tongue just beneath the swollen tip and he spilled himself into her mouth with a quiet grunt of satisfaction, his hips arching into small, jerky thrusts until she had swallowed everything he had to offer. 

She eventually drew his slowly-softening length from her mouth, her tongue swiping over her lower lip as she tucked him back into his jeans with a surprising amount of gentleness given how their encounter had started. He reached out and helped her to her feet, tugging her down for a long, passionate kiss, suddenly entirely unwilling to let her go. 

“We’ll talk about this again later.” He said quietly, brushing a stray curl away from her face tenderly when they eventually parted. 

“Yes sir.” 

With a final peck to his lips, she slowly moved towards the door, waiting until  Hank was done righting his clothing before she slipped back the lock and moved into the bullpen. All conversations stopped mid-flow and six pairs of eyes darted between her and Hank who was hovering in the doorway, his stern expression a million miles from the look of pure ecstasy he had worn not minutes earlier.

"Everybody back to work. I want all of your reports on my desk before you leave.” 

Just as he was about the close the door, he caught Alvin’s quirked eyebrow from across the room and, as he took a large bite of his half-eaten banana with a wry grin, Hank had a sinking feeling that his best friend knew exactly what he had been up to behind closed doors. 

[skylarmoon71]

Eobard Thawne- (Flash) AU Chapter 3

“She just attacked him?”

Joe was being filled in on all that transpired while he was carrying out his mayoral duties.

You were seated in the med bay with a pair of meta cuffs on your hands. After the fight, you hadn’t put up much of a resistance. Not even when Caitlin had vibed your mind to search for some explanation. But with no luck. They were all a little scared right now. Barry played with the ring on his finger, his suit retracted a while ago.

Eobard woke up with a terrible headache, but otherwise okay.

They were all conversing in the cortex as they watched you through the glass doors.

“She seems pretty convinced that I’m the enemy. She said that I killed Barry’s parents. That we’ve been enemies for decades. “

“Crazy isn’t it?” Iris intervenes.

“According to all my tests she’s perfectly healthy. There isn’t anything to indicate that she’s been exposed to foreign agents that could have caused the delusions. Her brain activity is normal.” Iris adds.

The information just leaves them with more questions.

Eobard’s brows are furrowed.

“What if she isn’t hallucinating, what if it’s all real?” His statement draws in all their interests.

“The way she reacted to me, all what she said, it’s almost like she’s lived in an alternate reality. An alternate universe.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

“You don’t mean..”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Dr. Wells used to dominate in this field of science before he retired and decided to teach. I’ve read all of his books and he speculates about other worlds. With all the crazy things we see, would another world be that far fetched. “

Barry shakes his head.

“I guess not. “

They’d been through so many crazy meta and situations, this should be easy.

The ringing of Cisco’s phone pulled his attention. “I have to get back to the precinct.” Cisco states.

“That’s alright, we’ll keep you updated. “

“If anything changes just call me.” Cisco sent one last look in your direction before he was heading out of the cortex.

“I should probably get going.” If the mayor was gone too long of course suspicion would arise.

“Please if anything changes.”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Joe looked reluctant to leave. They all understood why.

Now it was just Iris, Barry, Eobard and Caitlin. None of them were sure what course of action was necessary.

“I feel bad for cuffing her.” Iris says looking down at the clipboard in her hand.

“We didn’t exactly have a choice. She was punching the crap out of Eobard.”

“I was letting her win. “ He brushed off. Barry just smirked.

“Whatever you say. Either way, we can’t have her running around beating the crap out of people she thinks are her enemies. I was lucky to grab her when I did. She was moving crazy fast. How is she so powerful so quickly? It took Eobard months to figure out that lightning throw technique. She did it with ease.”

Iris nods.

“That’s another reason why Eobard’s theory might not be so impossible. This is so interesting.” Barry could already tell that Iris was to go full on scientist.

“Alright doctor, before you get pulled in we should all talk to her.”

“Maybe it’s better if Eobard stays outside.” Caitlin intervenes.

“He’ll be fine. She’s cuffed.” Barry waved off. He was already walking in your direction, and they followed behind.

The doors open upon their entrance, closing behind them. Your gaze drifted over lazily. You looked like you were still trying to absorb all the information. For the most part you gave no reaction. But the second Eobard was inside, your body tensed. You straightened in the chair, ready for a fight it would seem.

“Relax, we just want to talk.” Eobard spoke. Your jaw was still clenched.

“The second I’m free I’m going to drive your face into the pavement.” You hissed.

Eobard grimaced at the mental image.

“I must have been an absolute menace for her to hate so much.”

It was a bit disheartening.

“This is worse than when Barry told us he was stuck in that musical.” You grumble. Eobard raises a brow, but doesn’t comment.

“Just so I’m following, in your reality. We’re enemies.”

“Exactly.”

“And you hate me?”

“Detest, abhor!”

Your eyes are not the least bit welcoming. Barry chuckles from the side. Earning a nudge from Caitlin

“Come on you have to admit this is crazy especially since Eobard has a cru-’

“Crucial need to solve this case.” Eobard’s stare moves to Barry, silencing him.

To get to the bottom of this, they needed more answers.

“It’s just so unusual. He’s a hero in this reality, but it sounds like he’s a villain in yours.” Iris says.

Eobard and hero should not be placed in the same sentence.

“I know you think I’m an enemy. There’s nothing I can say that would give you a peace of mine. So why don’t we try to evaluate. Maybe if you tell us the changes in your reality, it might help us understand how you ended up in ours. “

Your expression didn’t change. Not at all. You just sat upright, glare still pointed at Eobard.

“Where I’m from, you’re called the Reverse Flash. You killed Barry’s parents, created the explosion in the particle accelerator which killed Caitlin’s fiance. Tried to kill Barry multiple times. Triggered a second minor particle accelerator explosion that gave me my powers, then tried to kill me. Actually killed Cisco. But because the timelines changed, he survived. Is there anything else you need to know?”

They were startled by the information. The silence was deafening. Barry is the one that broke the clearly tense air.

“Wow, you’re an asshole in her reality, Eobard.” Caitlin smacked his hand, and Iris just sighed at their antics.

“I can’t believe that another version of me is a killer.” Eobard muttered.

You didn’t want to believe that this version was acting so humane.

“This is some trick right. You might have them all confused, but somehow you meddled with the timeline and now you’re playing them all like puppets. I know you Eobard. A hero, that’s laughable. This whole timeline is a joke. You’re a murder. A coward and a disgusting monster!!” You jump out of the chair, and Barry gets between you.

“That’s enough. You need to stop acting like a child.”

Your face falls.

“B-But Barry he-”

“He’s trying to help you. We all are. From the moment you got here you’ve done nothing but act irrationally. You say he’s an enemy in your reality and we believe you. We’re trying to solve this, but we can’t do that if you keep yelling threats at our friend. Eobard is part of this team. This family.”

You couldn’t believe this.

“I-I’m your family…”

“No you’re not. You’re just some version of our friend.”

If it was possible to hear a heart shatter, you were positive they would have all heard it. The minute those words leave his mouth, Barry looks apologetic.

“(Y/N) listen. I didn’t mean it like that it’s just you-”

He touches your shoulder, and you shrug it off. Turning your back, you lift your cuffed hands, climbing onto the bed as you turn your back to them. You lay down, and no one says a word.

“(Y/N).” You don’t respond to Barry’s call.

They all get the message. Iris pulls the cover up to your shoulder.

“I’ll be back with some food.” You can hear their footsteps echo as they exit. Eobard is the last one to turn away and leave.

“I hope you’re happy. You..won..” 

He can practically hear the tears in your tone. Against his better judgment, he turns back in your direction. When the rest of them spot what he’s doing they are about to advise against it.

Eobard slides the key out of his pocket, and takes your wrists gently. He frees you from the cuffs, and you can only stare. The fresh tears on your cheeks. The sight breaks his heart.

“Hit me. If that’ll make you feel better then hit me. There’s not much I can do to convince you that I’m not that evil speedster that you know. So if punching me will elevate even a bit of your pain then I’ll gladly be your punching bag. “ 

He opens his arms.

“Hit me. As many times as you want. I won’t fight back.”

You just stare.

How can this man, blond hair, green eyes hold so much care towards you.

As you look at him, you can’t find it in yourself to attack. He just stands there, waiting.

You just look down at the floor, gripping the edge of the bed. The tears come cascading down before you can stop them. Your shoulders shake, and Eobard’s hands lower as he watches your devastated state.

“I…don’t know what I’m supposed to do..” You cry.

It’s raw and real. You can’t hold back. Because the whole point of this was to spare Barry so he could have a life without Eobard. Maybe you’ve done just that. Maybe Barry and the other’s are off in that other reality surviving. Living life while you’re stuck here where nothing makes sense. You just feel so lost and broken. You are alone here. Just like you’ve been all your life.

Eobard can’t seem to stop himself. He moves closer, and pulls you into a hug. He knows that the outcome of this situation won’t end well. You’ll probably punch him in the gut or smack him around again. But he can’t help it.

“I’ll do everything in my power to help you (Y/N). You’re a part of us. You’re a part of this team. Our family.”

He waits for you to fire some attack, but to his surprise, he receives no resistance. You actually hold on. It could be due to your emotional state. You just bury your face into his chest and break down.

Eobard holds on tight.

[hufflepuffplums]

A Meeting To Another World

summary: Michael takes you to his world and in the first few minutes leaves you alone, in his home

warnings: mention of earthquakes, and other deaths(but other than that it should be fine)

Authors note: Chapter 2! Sorry this took a while! I really did want this to be a weekly thing but I got busy with my new job. And boy, do new jobs take a lot out of you.

Michael let you collect a few items from the ruins of your apartment, he helped of course. The items you took were some clothes, books, a couple movies and shows, a painting, little figures, a bottle of perfume, and stuffed animals. Michael couldn't help but let a smile slip when he saw you holding a stuffed animal that didn't fit in your suitcase. You also changed, finally feeling insecure about being half naked in front of a man you didn't know.

"Is that all you want to bring?" Michael asked. He was standing where he was when you first saw him. Where everything changed. His vacant expression graced his face again. Everything about him screamed mystery, something you had to get used to.

"That's all that wasn't broken," you told him. Everything else you wanted was smashed, cracked, or hidden under the wreckage. 

"Just so you know once you come with me, you can never come back. I only have enough power to make it here and back once. Are you positive you still want to come with me?" Michael explained. He seemed nervous, hiding it terribly.

You surveyed the aftermath of the earthquake, taking in what happened here. The urge to cry was strong, but you suppressed the need to. Your old life was over, even if you still had your friends. You would never be truly happy without your family. They were everything to you. Your family was one of the only things holding you together. It sounds stupid, but it was true. But now they were gone, and not coming back this time.

"I'm positive. I want to go with you," you said looking back at him. Walking closer, taking your suitcase in a tight grip, the stuffed animal that was in your arms on top of the suitcase now. Just a while ago you were in the shower waiting for your family to come home to watch Lord of the Rings again. Now you were standing on an unsteady ground with, what should be, a fictional character to go with them to their world. 

"Okay," he said, unsure if you were going to change your mind mid spell. Once Michael was sure, he took your hands in his gently. His eyes closed and held your hands tighter, beginning the spell that got him here. A soft glow was coming from your connected hands, and the air around them stilled. It was like particles of light covered your hands and started to surround you two. The particles around you began to spin clockwise and your senses felt like they were blurring together. Nothing felt real at that moment. You watched the world break away, baffled. It felt like you were going to float away, but Michael kept you grounded. A dribble of crimson blood trickled out of his nose and he started to shake a little, holding onto you tighter.

The world around you came back like puzzle pieces, fitting together perfectly. Your feet touched the ground and the light faded. Michael opened his eyes slowly, looking tired. Out of nowhere you reached out and wiped the blood from his nose on your sleeve. This shocked Michael, flinching slightly when you wiped his face.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have done that," you said, letting go of his hand that you still held. His hand chased yours but then retracted. 'Interesting'

"It's alright," he said, looking away. "Your room is upstairs, first door to the right, the bathroom is a door down. I have to go somewhere right now, but you can explore the house if you so desire. Don't go into the room at the back, that's my room. I'll be back shortly," he said, he left out the front door. Leaving you alone.

You stayed where you were for a while. You were in the hallway of a modern looking house, there were no pictures on the wall, and at the end of the hall led to the kitchen. The other way led to the front door, an arch to where you assume is the living room and some stairs. You grabbed your suitcase and went up the stairs. 

Your room was slightly bare but had some clothes your size in the wardrobe, surprisingly. The bedsheets were black and the blanket was dark purple. A desk was by the window and had a good quality computer with a lamp near it. It looked like a big collage bedroom you'd see in a movie.

Once you got settled and opened the wardrobe again so you could find a shirt, since yours had Michael's now dried blood on the sleeve. The tops in the wardrobe were your taste, maybe more like how you wanted to dress. You opted for a dark blue long-sleeved shirt with a dark gray tank top underneath because the top was too low for your liking. It matched your dark colored jeans well. The tops were soft on your skin and looked a little expensive, was this version of you rich?

It was weird to be here, this girl used to live here. Not you. It's like you replaced her, No. You DID replace her. You are nothing more than a new toy because the other one was broken. You shook off the thought and went downstairs to the kitchen. Hunger taking over your form.

The wood flooring was cold under your bare feet and the house was light without needing the lights on, but you turned them on anyways. 'What to make? Real question, what do I want?' Looking in the cupboards you decided to make stir fry. Chopping up some the veggies and adding spices when and if needed. The butter melted in the pan over the vegetables and made it smell better. Tasting it you thought it needed more garlic and chopped away not looking where you chopped thinking of all the times your sister made stir fry. She knew exactly how to make it taste like heaven without needing to think. Remorse hit you before the knife missed and sliced your finger deep.

"Crap!" You exclaimed. Cradling your finger in your grasp. Taking a look, it was bad. It gushed a little, and dripped on the floor a bit.

Of course that's when Michael entered the house. You haphazardly turned off the stove and moved it off the burner before the food burned, taking paper towel to clean up the blood everywhere before he walked into the room.

Michael hummed in delight smelling the food, entering the kitchen not seeing you yet because of the island you hid behind cleaning up the rest of your blood up.

Michael could smell the blood. "Did something happen when I was gone?" He asked innocently. 'Shoot! What do I do?'

"Uh, no. Just dropped a piece of carrot, I'm making stir fry if you want any?" You said, putting the blood drenched paper towel in the garbage under the sink. You got up covering your bloody finger behind you.

Michael wasn't convinced, but went along with your lie anyway. He walked over as you tried to hide your finger from him. He was a foot away, looking down at you. "Are you sure?" He asked, he knew. He had to know, but you kept lying.

"Yup, just finishing up in here. Why don't you just go into the dining room and I'll dish out the food," you said, looking down, unable to meet his eyes. 

"Ok," that's all he said as he walked away. You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Only until he walked around some counters and sat down staring at you. He took off his blood red gloves, his head resting in the palm of his hand. This amused him. "Well?" He said, still looking at you. 'Of course the dining room was connected to the kitchen, how did I not see that?'

"Um, well I.. Uh I need t-" you started before he interrupted you.

"Stop lying. I know you cut yourself. Let me see it," he sighed, done with your lying. You walked over your finger still tightly gripped by your other hand.

"It's not that bad.." You mumbled.

"What did I say about lying?" He said, not amused anymore. You looked away embarrassed at your attempts and showed him your finger. He gently grabbed your hand, you noticed he seemed to always touch you as if you were fragile. "Looks pretty deep, almost to the bone. Yet it looks like it doesn't hurt too much, does it?" He said, turning your hand for any other marks, brow quirked. He looked up at you to listen to your answer.

"It does just a little," you said, looking down at your feet. You hissed as the wound burned all of a sudden. The blood that came from it on your hand went slowly back into your veins. Then the skin knit itself back into place as if nothing happened.

Michael stared into your eyes the whole time, watching your reaction, studying you. You intrigued him, something about you was different from her. Except the obvious of course.

"Better?" He inquired. 

"Yes, thank you," you said before you looked down again. You washed your hands before dishing out the stir fry. Eating inn silence, maybe a bit of small talk, but not a lot. You went to bed after washing your dishes. Stripping out of your clothes and into a baggy shirt to sleep in. Falling asleep was hard, all you could think about was what happened today. Working, showering, meeting Michael, the earthquake, and the death of your family. It was too much. What confused you was how friendly you were with Michael. You didn't want to be a replacement, but at the same time you didn't want to be alone. You cried finally, letting out your pain. All that troubled you. Crying yourself to sleep.

********

Your dreams tormented you, they were all of your family dying over and over. They died in different ways, until the dream was of the earthquake. You were watching from afar, unable to do anything. Your mother, sister, and step father walked through the door taking off their shoes and locked the door when the earthquake happened. You cried out to them, but no sound came out. The roof cracked, all of them looking up holding each other, then they looked at you before the roof caved in. Someone called your name, but no one was there. They called a couple more times before you woke up and saw Michael. He was on top of you, arms holding your shoulders, shaking you gently to stay awake.

"I'm sorry for waking you, but you were screaming. Calling for your family, and crying a lot. Are you okay?" He told and asked you. He looked worried, his hair was slightly messy and his eyes searching yours to know if you were okay. He was distressed, you could see it. Like he really cared about you. His hand stroked your cheek, and then it stayed there patiently waiting for your answer.

You let out a sob, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you. He let you, pulling you in his arms. Your chests touching and hearts in sync. He held you as you cried, while also trying not to crush you. You cried for all the deaths you saw in your dreams, it traumatized you. He told you that he was there and that nothing was going to hurt you, kissing your forehead once. He reassured you with his sweet words of different things every time.

 When you calmed down he tried to pull away but you tightened your grip on his neck. He sighed knowing you wouldn't let go before taking you in his arms and flipping you two so that you were resting on his chest. He let you hold onto him, gently stroking you back. You felt yourself drifting off again, soothed by Michael's embrace and presence. The last thing you heard was a sob and the form underneath you shake a little before sleep washed over you.

[plutoscosmoss]

Fire Inside ➸ c.9

Warnings: This series includes themes of violence, death, smut, childbirth and childbirth complications (if I forgot to mention any please let me know)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x OC

{Series Masterlist}

Previous Chapter

Chapter 9: A Visit From an Acquaintance 

Renvas eyes widened once she heard the lone wolf. She knew it was about her, who else could it refer to? Aemond looked from his sister to the Stark girl. Once making eye contact Renva sprung into action, “She passed out due to stress probably. Hold her up for a moment,” Renva spoke to Aemond. Their first speaking since that day in the training grounds. Once Aemond held her up, Renva loosed her corset, allowing blood flow and air to easily move. “Now lay her flat on her back on the floor.” Aemond did as instructed. Once on the floor Renva put her ear to the Princesses nose, feeling air flow and hearing her low breathing she knew she would be okay. 

Turning towards the handmaidens who stood idle in the room not knowing what to do since the Princess never passed out before. “I need a cool cloth, the coldest water you can get.” The maids rushed out of the room at Lady Renva’s request. 

“How do you know how to do all of this?” Aemond asked, turning towards her and looking her over with his one eye. “Growing up, my personal handmaiden Ms. Kaila, would faint from time to time. Maesters said that it was due to the stress of watching over my brothers and I when my father couldn’t. However I don’t think that was the actual reason.” Revna spoke while brushing the hair out of Helena’s face.

“What do you think the real reason is?” Aemond asked, remembering his mothers orders to befriend the girl for a potential marriage to bind House Stark to the Hightowers specifically. “She was a fighter, always going against the males in Winterfell, the only man she ever respected was my father. She was the one who introduced me to fighting secretly.” Renva spoke of the women with a smile upon her face. “She wasn’t one to stress out easily. Kaila did however confide in me one evening, she said she was sick, it wasn’t contagious or else she would have left Winterfell in a heartbeat. But it was something that would take her from this world earlier than she had thought.” Renva finished her tale and glanced at Aemond, he was about to speak when the doors slammed open again. The maids came back with Queen Alicent at their tails. 

“What happened to my daughter?” Alicent asked no one specifically. “She fainted, your grace, she spoke a dream and then just collapsed.” Renva said, taking the cold cloth’s from one of the maids and placing one on her forehead and one on the back of her neck. Helena stirred and started mumbling the dream again. “Renva helped me make her comfortable until she woke up.” Aemond said standing to his mother to console her and distract her from his sister's mumblings. A side of him that Renva never saw before, she knew Alicent was closest to her middle children rather than the oldest and youngest. Although she never saw Aemond reciprocate any feelings of love or concern until today. “I graciously thank you Renva.” Alicent spoke with a tear in her eye as she went over to her daughter who slowly opened her eyes. 

“I will leave you all then, if you need me I will be in my chambers after I return a book to the library.” Renva excused herself and let what of the family was there be in solitude. 

—---

Renva was not interrupted for the rest of the night. She wondered where Jace was, she hadn’t seen him all day. She wondered if everything was okay with the Velaryon boys. Glancing out of the window in her room she stared at the Weirwood tree. A tree that they also had in Winterfell, she would sit there for hours and read until it grew too dark to see anything without candle light. 

Looking under the tree she spotted Signe. She was fast asleep, close enough so if Renva needed help she could be there but far enough to still feel the freedom she had in the North. Renva wondered if it was a good idea to keep her in the Red Keep with her or if she would have been happier going back to Winterfell with Nika. Hearing a soft knock upon her door, she responded with “Come in.” Turning to see who would enter the room she was shocked to see Princess Rhaenys. “Your grace, to what do I owe the honor?” Renva spoke and bowed to the older Princess. 

“Please rise child. I have come to speak to you about some accusations that have been made about my grandchildren.” Renva was confused. Why would Rhaenys speak to her about such things? “I mean no offense you grace, but why are you talking to me about this?” Renva said, speaking of her confusion. “Because when my good brother comes tomorrow there shall be a petition on the succession of Driftmark. To secure my houses protection, I will be offering Princess Rhaenyra a proposal. Two actually.” Rhaenys said. Renva knew where this was going. Any logical woman would, and she didn’t blame Princess Rhaenys for it at all. 

“I’m guessing it is with Princess Rhaenyra’s eldest children and Laenas children? And for that to work you would like me to step back from Prince Jacaerys.” Renva said, connecting the dots and looking at Rhaenys. “You are a smart girl. You will survive here-” Rhaenys said and was about to leave when Renva cut her off. “I didn’t say that I would, If the time comes, I won’t fight for Jace. But I won’t hurt him either.” Renva said and gestured for Princess Rhaenys to leave her chambers. 

“You remind me of my daughter. You will do great things.” With that Princess Rhaenys left and Renva was alone with her thoughts again. 

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

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